Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After lunch, Hawkins High always felt hollow. The noise left a draft, like the halls had forgotten what to do with silence.

Reese had arrived in this quaint town a couple of months ago, right as the trees gave their final burst of green and the marigolds withered down into slumber for the autumn, as old men often do.

She’d only been a senior for a month. Met people. Enough to nod to. One real friend. Robin Buckley: sweet, sarcastic, destined for somewhere bigger than this.

From behind her, someone shrieked with laughter. Reese turned to look: a group of three, a couple of girls, and a guy. He’d just tried to pick one of them up, and now the trio was babbling on with chortles and commentary about a moment she wasn’t a part of.

She smiled at the girl who caught her eye.
Not just a polite smile, the kind you give to break tension, but something smaller. Warmer. A little open. The kind that said That sounded funny—I’m not judging you. I’m just watching. Thinking about saying something but... oh.

She wasn’t smiling back. Not in a rude way, just like she hadn’t meant to make eye contact in the first place. She was already laughing with her friends again.

Reese turned her head back around, taking in the way the hallway was streaked with sunlight and floor wax. She stepped into the more secluded stretch at the end of the senior hall where her locker waited, and twisted the dial.
Three turns clockwise, stopping at twenty. Left past the zero to twenty-five once, then looping back. Twenty, twenty-five, twenty. So simple, the lock-makers must’ve thought. Nobody would guess it.

Her locker creaked open like a small portal. Books stared back at her in judgmental little rows:
Advanced Geometry, Second Edition.
HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
A bruised copy of The Scarlet Letter.
Her Bible, NIV, cracked at the spine.
Six notebooks.
One pencil pouch. 

On the inside of the door hung a patchwork of her own making: My Little Pony and sparkly butterfly stickers. A unicorn magnet. A notecard with Psalm 139 carefully penned in fine blue ink. A newspaper clipping from her old hometown in Monterey, California—an article about a baby dolphin born at the local aquarium.

She remembered the small things about California. The way it felt to see a palm tree rise out of the haze on a long drive back home—tall and becoming, like a steeple. 

To Hawkins they came. Her father, her mother, her younger brother Eamon. Her dad had joked they were like reverse pioneers.
“Inheritors,” Reese had added helpfully.

That felt eerily accurate now. Inheritors. Walking into a town already laced with its own small-town folklore, stories of missing people, chemical spills, mall fires. They hadn’t started the narrative. Just showed up partway through.

Still, she thought, it’s never too late to add something to the story.

And it helped that she had longed, secretly, for something quieter.

She reached for The Scarlet Letter, tucking it on top of her notebook and pencil pouch. The locker door clicked shut behind her.

And when she turned, there he was again.

Tall, though not in a way that filled the hall. His hair was the color of wet oak leaves, tangled as if it had argued with him and won. Walked around with a swagger in his step like he couldn't care less about... anything.

His reputation had preceded him, even with her short time at Hawkins. People whispered: freak. Burnout. Druggie. The double-repeat senior who played the “cult” game.

But the world painted people in red Xs all the time. Reese had learned that. And she had seen real danger before. Her father had been a fire chief back in Monterey. She knew the types of fires that burned slow, the ones that didn’t always look like flames.

Eddie Munson?
He struck her more like a feral puppy with a mean bark than any kind of monster.

She passed him, her books tucked in the crook of her arm.
He glanced at her, expression unreadable.
She smiled. Quiet. Closed-mouth. Warm. It reached her eyes.

He didn’t smile back.

Just looked for a second too long, then dipped his head and walked past her, pocket chain clinking with him.

The clatter of dice filled the corners of the drama room like static. It wasn’t much. Peeling paint, an old stage curtain bunched up like a sleeping dragon in one corner. But for Eddie Munson, this was sacred ground.

The Hellfire Club’s Friday night campaign meeting had begun in the usual way: sarcastic banter, half-eaten chips, and Dustin trying to evangelize a new person into playing Dungeons & Dragons like his life depended on it.

Today, the target wasn’t even in the room.

“I’m telling you,” Dustin said, arms flailing like a prophet mid-sermon, “we need to invite her. She’d actually get it. Like—character sheets, lore, voices—”

He cupped his hands dramatically. “She does the voices, I heard her doing this little Elvish thing for Robin in Spanish class, and it was freakin’ sick.”

Across the table, Mike snorted. “Yeah, man, we get it. You have a holy obsession.”

Lucas raised his eyebrows over his Coke. “Wait, the new girl? Reese?” He looked at Dustin like he was either onto something… or about to crash and burn. “I dunno, man. She seems cool. But are you sure she’d be into this kind of thing?”

“Dustin, blink twice if you’ve been bewitched,” Gareth added solemnly, sipping from his juice box like it was wine in a crystal goblet.

Kevin, never one to show enthusiasm for anything but dice damage and chocolate milk, raised his Yoo-hoo mid-sip. “So the porcelain-hippie-church-chick’s gonna roll up to Hellfire and slay orcs between Bible studies? That’s what you’re telling us?”

Jeff smirked. “And why, pray tell, do you think that makes her campaign material? Besides the fact that you talk about her like she’s Galadriel with a Lisa Frank binder.”

Eddie hadn’t said much yet. He sat sprawled across his folding chair like a wolf in flannel armor, rings glinting under the flickering fluorescent lights. But at that, he sighed—dramatically, of course—and leaned back.

“Alright—alright." he squawked. "Let’s slow our roll here before we summon an Ashen Rider.”

He reached for a stray D20 and rolled it across the tabletop with two fingers. It clicked, clicked, stopped.

“You’re all drooling like she’s gonna—what?—float in here and baptize us in Mountain Dew or something.”

Dustin’s brow furrowed. “I’m not saying she’s gonna convert us, dude. I’m saying she’d like it. She gets story. She asks questions that are, like… existential.”

Eddie raised a brow. “Right. Existential—but with cross-stitch and communion wafers.”

Jeff, cracking a grin lined with braces: “Just say you think she’s hot and you’re scared.”

Eddie pointed a twizzler like a deflated wand. “Okay, one, rude. Two, have you seen her? That girl looks like she floats when she walks. Like a ghost who listens to Hendrix.”

Lucas muttered under his breath, “You’ve definitely written that down in your notebook somewhere.”

Eddie pointed at him. “I'm not gonna dignify that with a response.”

“So what I’m hearing is…” Gareth tilted his head, mock-psychiatrist mode activated. “You’re intimidated.”

“I’m realistic,” Eddie countered, leaning forward now. His fingers steepled, rings clicking together. “Girls like that? They don’t roll dice with greaseballs like us. They’re off lighting candles and drawing… tragic angel crap. They don’t want to hang out in a dimmly lit classroom with six unwashed dudes and an overgrown nerd who quotes Ozzy instead of scripture.”

Jeff raised his brows. “You literally wrote in a barmaid last week who didn’t fit the tavern at all. And then you got pissy when Gareth tried to romance her.”

“Yeah—yeah—” Eddie stammered in quick punches. “Because that’s fiction. This is reality. He paused, letting the silence hang like a curtain. “And in reality? Girl who looks like she was painted by moonlight probably doesn’t wanna roll initiative against a gelatinous cube.”

Mike raised his eyebrows. “What if she does, though?"

The table quieted. All eyes on Eddie. Even Dustin held his breath, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it out loud.

Lucas grinned and leaned back. “I say let her try. Worst case? She hates it and never comes back. Best case? Dustin stops ranting about her every lunch period.”

“Hey,” Dustin said, looking wounded. “I’m enthusiastic.”

“You’re obsessed,” Lucas replied. “Big difference.” Dustin narowed his eyes and shot a scorned look at Lucas.

Eddie didn’t respond right away. The die was still under his hand.Then, with a mix of exasperated squawk and metalhead enthusiasm, cranked up another notch,

"FINE-fine. IF she does her own character sheet. And doesn’t cry if I kill her character in the first round, maybe—maybe... she gets a shot.” He jabbed a ringed finger toward Dustin. “But you’re inviting her.”

Dustin fist-pumped like he’d just leveled up in real life. “Yes! Yes. I knew you had a soft spot.”

“Not a soft spot,” Eddie grumbled, already reaching for his drink. “It’s just good campaign strategy. She’s probably got celestial warlock energy.”

Kevin glanced up, deadpan. “You just want to hear her say your name in that little whisper voice she has.”

Eddie pointed again. “You keep that up, Kev, and I’ll name the next goblin after you and feed it to a manticore.”

Laughter broke the tension, and the table shifted into noise again—snacks, dice rolls, trash talk. But Eddie sat back for a moment, letting the others talk over each other.

And for just a beat, he let himself imagine it.
Not the gelatinous cube.
Not the campaign.
Just her.
At the table.

Smiling that quiet, mysterious little smile.
Painted by moonlight.

The bell rang in the late morning of Monday with its usual abrupt finality, cutting through conjugations and chalk dust as students flooded into the halls—backpacks slung, sneakers squeaking, conversations half-finished and echoing off the linoleum.

Reese stepped out of Spanish, notebook and dictionary tucked neatly in the crook of her arms. Her mind was still halfway inside a translation exercise about parables. Psalm-like, almost. The kind of language that felt older than the room it was taught in.

She didn’t make it more than a few steps before—

“Hey! Hey, Reese—wait up a sec!”

She turned, and her hair swung with her, pale and heavy, a curtain that brushed the line of her hips. Dustin Henderson was weaving through the crowd like a determined salmon upstream. He sidestepped a taller sophomore with the ease of a practiced hallway sprinter, cheeks flushed and curls bouncing as he caught up beside her.

“Hi. Uh—hi again,” he panted, but grinned like this wasn’t peculiar at all. 

Reese blinked at him, amused. “Dustin Henderson,” she said in that soft, formal way she had—like she’d just greeted a knight returning from battle. 

Dustin visibly lit up. If he’d been holding a sword, he might’ve raised it in triumph. “So. I know this is kinda random, but I’ve got a question. A very serious, life-altering question.” He leaned forward, eyebrows high. “Y'ever play D&D?”

Her smile curled as she tilted her head. “Like… Dungeons and Dragons? Can't say I have. Isn’t that the one where you walk inside a storybook, only the story talks back?"

“Okay first of all, yes. That—exactly that. But it’s way cooler than I can explain in the middle of the hallway while some Sophomore is trying to elbow me for no reason—” He cast a theatrical scowl over his shoulder.

“Anyway, it’s a story, yeah, but with rules. And dice. And you build a whole person from scratch. Or like, an elf. Or a half-orc. Or a bard with a tragic past and a magic lute. Whatever you want.”

They reached her locker, and he pivoted to stand in front of it, walking backwards now like he had no regard for where his feet landed.

“We’ve got this campaign,” he added, voice lowering a little. “It’s ongoing. Very elite. Very intense. Lotta guys. No girls. Which—I know. Tragic.” He gave her a meaningful look. “But you’d get it. The stories. The characters. The ethics of it. There’s even a class called Cleric—they literally heal people with holy magic. You’d love it.” 

He tilted his head, hopeful. “So… would you maybe wanna come? Just to sit in. Or play. Or both. No pressure. But also a little pressure. 'Cause I think you’d be awesome.”

Reese raised one pale brow, her mouth twitching at the corners in mock concern. “Dice rolling?” she asked solemnly. “Doesn’t that count as gambling?”

Dustin’s eyes widened in horror. “Okay—no! No, no, no—totally not gambling, I swear!” He waved his hands like he was trying to swat away a theological fire. “It’s not like—money or poker or whatever. It’s more like… probability-based storytelling. You roll to see if your character does something awesome or—uh—falls into a pit trap and gets eaten.”

His voice dropped, more earnest now. “I mean, yeah, it’s nerd stuff. But it’s also kinda… deep. Like, sacrifice and courage and moral dilemmas and all this mythology. Honestly, half the time it feels more like a novel you’re writing together.” Beat. “...with snacks.” Another beat. “So. Are we off the hook for the gambling charge?”

Reese chuckled and ducked her head, loading her books into the locker that opened with a familiar creak. Her stickers greeted her alongside the verse and unicorn magnet. 

“I’m kidding, Dustin,” she said gently. “I play Yahtzee all the time after youth night at church. Dice rolling isn’t a sin.”

She turned toward him, full-bodied now, the kind of attention she didn’t offer lightly.

“Sure. I’ll come play Dungeons and Dragons with you.” She smiled.

Dustin let out a dramatic full-body sigh and slumped against the locker like he’d just been spared eternal damnation.

“Oh, thank God. I was this close to writing a persuasive essay called ‘Why D&D Is Not Demonic: A Thesis in Fourteen Parts.’” He sprang upright, his grin stretching wide. “…Wait. Really? You’ll come? Like—for real for real?”

He spun in place, fist-pumped, then quickly stopped when a teacher poked her head out of a nearby classroom. He cleared his throat.

“Okay. Okay. Yeah. You’re gonna need a character sheet—but I can help with that. Or Eddie can—or no—not that. I could lend you one of my beginner manuals tomorrow, and you could figure it out." He eyed her with sudden gravity, as if divining her spiritual class alignment. “Hmm. I’m sensing… healer vibes. Maybe Cleric. Or Druid. Or—wait—Warlock with, like, a really weird backstory and tragic poetry. Honestly, sky’s the limit.”

He brightened again, as if the campaign had just gained its most powerful player.

“We meet in the drama room after school on Fridays. There’ll be snacks. And shouting. And Eddie being weird. But mostly? It’s the best part of the week.”

And with that, he took a few steps back, still facing her.

“See you Friday, Reese Halverson,” he said, mirroring her greeting, slipping his hands into his pockets. “This campaign just got a lot cooler.”

Then promptly spun around and walked into the edge of a locker.

Reese laughed under her breath, shaking her head as she closed the locker. She lingered a moment in the wake of his energy.

Dustin was endearingly enigmatic. In the way that being completely yourself was cool. She liked that about him.

And Eddie Munson…
Well.
She’d always smiled at him. Always sensed there was more under the surface.

But she’d never quite had the strength.

Yet.

She glanced down at her sketchbook. A new page, blank and waiting.

Maybe her character would be an elf. A Cleric. Soft-spoken but strong.
She scribbled a name in the margin:

Lady Fluttershy.
A character, a chance. A way of stepping into the story.

Chapter Text

The late October light glimmered through Family Video’s dusty window.

A synth line from MTV drifted out of the corner TV, spacey and strange, and it almost helped the otherworldly mood Reese was trying to conjure.

She sat cross-legged on the gray-green carpet, back against the counter, sketchbook propped on her knees. Dustin’s beginner’s guide lay open beside her, a sticky note sticking out like a banner: THINK ABOUT SPELL SLOTS with a doodled grin.

She had paused just a few minutes ago from the stat work, and now doodled Lady Fluttershy in the margins of the paper. Adorned with long robes, a Celtic cross pendant, and silver staff with butterfly wings. 

“Please tell me-” Robin’s voice came from somewhere behind the counter, “that your elf has a cooler name than Lady Fluttershy.”

Reese smiled faintly, lips catching on her braces. Her pencil moved across the page. “That is her name.”

Robin popped her head over the counter like a curious lemur. “No. No way. You cannot walk into Hellfire tomorrow with a character named 'Lady Fluttershy.' They're literally going to eat you alive."

"Names only matter if you don’t carry them well. I think she’ll be just fine.” She replied easily.

Robin blinked. “So… like a pastel monk?”

“She’s a cleric,” Reese said softly, tapping the book beside her. “Healing, wisdom, protective spells. Gentle but radiant.”

There was a beat of silence.

From the front desk, Steve held up a VHS. “Sounds like nun-meets-butterfly-priestess. Or something. I don’t know. You guys live in a weird dimension.”

Robin snorted, “You’re picturing the butterfly thing as a tattoo, aren’t you?”
Steve blinked, “I mean... maybe. Depends where it is.”
Robin groaned, “You are so predictable.”
Reese chuckled, shading the folds of the robe with a soft flick of her pencil.

Robin walked around the counter and crouched next to her. “Okay, but real talk: are you actually gonna play tomorrow? With the full Munson ensemble?”

Reese nodded once. “Dustin invited me.”

“Yeah, that tracks. He’s been talkin' about you like you’re the next chosen one.” Steve added in, half listening.

“That’s a little ironic,” Reese murmured, tilting her head. “She is a chosen one. That’s what a cleric is, technically.”

Robin blinked. “Okay, you might actually be good at this.”

Steve called over, “So wait, are you nervous? I feel like most people would be nervous to sit in on whatever nerd-ritual Eddie’s running.”

There was a long pause. Reese shaded in the curve of the staff handle.

“A little,” she answered truthfully. “But it’s just a story. Like a fairytale. And I like those. Even the mildly creepy ones.”

Robin gave her a sideways glance. “Eddie does too. Especially when he gets to yell them while standing on tables.”

Reese smiled quietly. “Then maybe I’ll bring balance to the force.”

“That’s the wrong nerd franchise,” Steve called.

“She knows,” Robin shot back.

Lighting flickered against the dark walls of the drama room. No fluorescent hum tonight—none of that hornet-buzz that drilled into your brain if you let it. Instead, a couple of lamps in the corners. Candles too, flickering like props stolen from somebody’s mom. Green and red stage lights glowed faint in the rafters, making the whole room look more like a séance than a club meeting.

Gareth balanced a half-full soda can on a tower of rulebooks. Jeff rolled dice like he was trying to conjure Vegas odds. Kevin muttered about spell slots, pages flipping with the aggression of a tax auditor.

Eddie sat behind the DM screen, already in posture. One leg draped over the arm of his throne-like chair, pencil tucked behind his ear, rings catching the firelight like they had their own stories to tell.

He heard the creak of the door but didn’t bother to look up right away. Probably Mike or Lucas, late with Cheez-Its and a half-baked excuse.

But then the room went still.

Eddie looked up.

And there she was.

The new girl.

Reese paused in the doorway, hand curled around a navy folder with a unicorn leaping over a rainbow moon. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t hover like most kids did before stepping into Hellfire. Just walked forward, calm as anything, like she’d already decided she belonged here.

She wore a dark denim skirt that brushed her calves, a dusty teal sweater with a little flower embroidered at the chest. Lace cuffs. Deliberate. Not loud, but not apologizing either. Her hair caught the candlelight, pale as moonlight, falling past her waist. She carried herself like someone who’d counted the cost of walking in here and found it worth it.

The room noticed.

Snack bags stilled. Dice stopped rolling. Even Gareth’s soda can sat steady.

Eddie blinked. His mouth opened, shut again.

She met his eyes. Same as in the hallway. Calm. Not eager. Just there.

Like she belonged.

From the corner, Dustin lit up like he’d just pulled Excalibur from the stone. “Guys, this is Reese,” he announced, practically vibrating. “She’s gonna play with us today.”

The table shifted all at once. Jeff blinked. Gareth sat upright. Kevin muttered something that definitely wasn’t English.

Eddie found his voice, though it came out dry, too casual. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

He leaned back farther in his chair, one white sneaker hooked on the table’s edge. Classic cool-guy posture. But his eyes didn’t leave her. Eventually, he stood and sauntered toward the doorway.

“You bring a character sheet, Moonlight?” He nodded at her folder like it was a chore to acknowledge, but he did it anyway.

She grinned wide, braces flashing. “Yes, siree.”

Eddie blinked. Siree. Jesus. And the braces—yeah, that tracked. Took her from untouchable phantom to actual seventeen-year-old girl in about two seconds flat. Which, somehow, made her ten times more dangerous.

She held out a hand. Pale. Delicate. A silver ring catching the light, the kind that looked inherited, not bought. “Sir Dustin Henderson of the Spanish II room informed me it was crucial.”

Eddie stared a second too long before muttering, “Ah. So she does voices?”

It wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t sarcastic. Just surprise, like something had knocked him sideways.

He didn’t glance at the guys for backup. Just looked at her. His gaze flicked to the corner of her rainbow-moon-unicorn, where a slip of paper poked out of the top a little: Lady Fluttershy.

He took her hand carefully, like it might dissolve if he wasn’t. Warm, callused fingers against cool skin.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t giggle. Just tilted her head like she was filing the moment away.

“Lady Fluttershy, I presume?” he said, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. His voice dropped lower than he meant it to. Theatrical, sure, but brushed with reverence.

He let go and motioned toward the table. “Welcome to Hellfire. That’s Gareth—drummer, will betray you if the dice tell him to. Kevin—bout as socially savvy as a a roadie at a cotillion. Jeff—self acclaimed 'normie'—jocks'll say otherwise. Mike—fireballs solve ninety percent of his problems. Lucas—voice of reason, occasional archer, only guy here with actual upper-body strength.”

She gave a nod, almost a half-curtsy. “Pleased to meet you,” she said softly.

Eddie turned back like nothing had rattled him. “To be clear,” he added, “she’s a cleric. Which means she can heal you… or pray while you bleed out. Up to her.”

That got Gareth to snort.

Kevin muttered, “Cool.”

Lucas squinted at the folder. “Is that… Lisa Frank?”

“Yeah,” she said easily. “You like her work?”

"I have a little sister," he muttered, as if confessing to a war wound.

She slipped into the seat between Dustin and Gareth, skirt fanning neat, folder set down with ceremonial care. Calm on the surface, but Eddie swore he could feel a hum beneath it, like she’d tightened some unseen string by stepping into the room.

Even Kevin looked up when she tucked a pale strand of hair behind her ear.

Dustin hovered proudly. “She made the coolest character sheet. Colored symbols, a vow—” He turned to her, practically begging. “Do you wanna introduce her? Read the backstory?”

She smiled faintly, smoothing her skirt. “Well. I suppose I must.”

And then she shifted—just slightly—and began.

“I am Lady Fluttershy of the Silver Bloom Grove.”

Her voice had cadence, soft but ringing, like wind moving through cathedral branches. Eddie found himself leaning forward before he realized it, dice still in his hand but forgotten. Dustin straightened like a proud manager. Even Gareth grinned.

“Cleric of the Evangel Light, keeper of the healing arts, and sworn defender of the voiceless.
I carry the sigil of the Dawnfather, who speaks through silence and mends what should have broken.
I have walked through shadows and valleys, yes, but I have not let them stain me.
And I have come here now… seeking companions whose hearts are still worth guarding.”

The hush that followed wasn’t silence—it was reverence. Rare in this room.

Eddie pressed a finger against his lip, squinting like he was recalibrating the whole damn campaign in real time. She’d brought it. No shouting. No theatrics. Just intent. Faith.

“…Okay,” he muttered finally, a smirk edging his mouth.

He flipped through the DM binder, pages whispering like a door opening. “Silver Bloom Grove now exists in the northern reaches of Greyvale. Haunted forest. Blessed ground. I’ll make it matter.”

He glanced up, caught her eyes. Nodded once. Not approval—more like a promise.

“And welcome to the party, Lady Fluttershy. May your god have mercy. Because the rest of us sure won’t.”

The room erupted.

Clapping. Hollering. Twizzlers tossed across the table. Mike high-fived Dustin so hard it echoed. Even Kevin cracked a smile.

And Eddie?

Eddie just watched her. Watched the way her folder slid neatly aside, the way her hair shimmered pale-gold even in the candlelight, the way she’d walked into his domain and changed the whole room without raising her voice.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like the weirdest person here.

Just the luckiest.

The campaign had shifted.

One second, the party was knee-deep in a cursed lockbox; the next, a pack of greasy highway bandits stumbled onto the scene. Jeff already had his blade out. Gareth was halfway into rage mode.

And then—softly, without raising her voice—

Reese leaned forward. “I cast Summon Spirit Guardian. The wraith from our first encounter.”

The table froze.

Even the candles seemed to hesitate.

Eddie squinted from behind the screen. “You’re telling me Lady Fluttershy calls down a ten-foot spectral wraith… just to make three hill pirates piss themselves?”

She didn’t blink. Just tapped the table with two fingertips. “Roll for it.”

The die bounced. Landed.

Nineteen.

Jeff whooped, soda almost flying. Gareth laughed and dropped face-first into his sleeve.

And Eddie?

He stared at the number like it had betrayed him. “…Nineteen,” he repeated, slow. Reverent. Like the word itself had weight.

He shuffled through notes with exaggerated solemnity, slapped a page down like a verdict. “Lady Fluttershy summons a ten-foot wraith of silver light—wings like a stormcloud, eyes like judgment day—and these three greasy looters?” He paused. Grinned. “They absolutely soil themselves. One cries. One faints. One trips over a goat cart. It’s pathetic. It’s glorious. It’s canon.”

The room erupted. Dustin cheered. Mike grinned. Kevin, deadpan as ever, declared, “New party leader. Sorry, man. Rules are rules.”

“She didn’t even swing a sword,” Mike said, half in awe. “She traumatized them.”

Eddie leaned back, watching her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear like she hadn’t just tilted his whole campaign sideways. Calm. Graceful. Untouchable. Which only made her more dangerous.

The others were already hollering about loot and XP, but Eddie hadn’t moved. Elbow on the table, chin in his hand, he kept watching.

Not the dice. Not the folder.

Her.

Like he’d been waiting for her character to walk into the story all along.

Eddie tapped his pencil against the screen, muttering under his breath, half to himself: “Guess the real monster wasn’t in the woods after all.”

She heard him. Smiled—just enough. A die slid across the table toward him. Reese leaned in to return it, her fingers brushing his—cool, precise, unhurried. Barely a touch, but it rippled through him like feedback off a guitar amp.

A blink. Short-circuit.

Nobody else noticed. But Eddie did. Like two wires finally humming on the same frequency.

And then she answered, voice low and certain: “Woods are for bears and robins and lichen. The real monsters… they live under your bed.”

The table carried on—dice rolling, pages flipping, Gareth cracking some joke—but Eddie stilled.

That hit different. Not just clever. True. Like she’d been somewhere. Like she knew.

He leaned in—not cocky, not for show. Just curious. Hungry for her answer. “What do they look like?”

Reese hesitated. A beat. Long enough to count. The others leaned too, caught in the moment like it was a movie. She finally spoke. “Nothing you can see. That’s the scary part.” Then she curled her fingers like claws, mock-spooky. “Your imagination fills in the blanks…” The boys laughed. But Eddie didn’t. Not at first. He caught the pause, the flicker of something real before she masked it in theatrics. He didn’t push. Just noticed. Filed it away. When she gave him the cover story, he let her keep it. Whatever the truth was, it stayed tucked under unicorns and lace cuffs and butterfly staffs.

Before it could linger, Dustin shattered the mood like glass. “Okay, but seriously—can we keep the silver wraith as an NPC? Like, permanent? A mascot?”

Gareth, still buzzing, added, “We nearly died in a tavern fire last week, and she shows up once and becomes a legend?”

Jeff shook his head in mock defeat. “We’re side characters now. I’m fine with it.”

The table tipped back into joyful noise.

And Reese?

She just smiled, tucked the die near her sheet, and watched the chaos bloom.

Eddie tapped the table twice, calling the room back under his rule. He glanced sideways at Reese before speaking, voice playful, but quieter.

“All right, Fellowship of the Humbled—let’s call it. Our cleric just rewrote the narrative, and I need to go rethink three plot arcs and my worldview.” He folded the DM screen shut like it was the end of an act.

He pushed back his chair, twizzlers hanging from his mouth, grin sharp and easy. “Lady Fluttershy, you’re officially one of us.” He chuckled. “...God help you.”

The night wrapped in a storm of laughter, crinkled chip bags, dice scattered like shrapnel. Reese fit in better than she had any right to—didn’t hog attention, didn’t vanish either. She just… existed in rhythm. Spoke when she meant it. Listened like it mattered.

At one point, she and Dustin went on a tear about My Little Pony and The Last Unicorn, gesturing like philosophers at a symposium while the rest of the guys stared like they were watching an alien broadcast.

Eventually the herd thinned. Gareth fist-bumped her. Mike called, “See you next week, Lady Fluttershy,” like it was already tradition. Jeff bowed. Even Kevin cracked a smile.

Reese stayed behind, collecting her things. Flower-print canvas bag slung over one shoulder, hair catching what little light the room still had. She wasn’t avoiding him. Just… letting him have the first move in his kingdom.

Eddie shuffled dice into stacks he didn’t care about, pretending not to notice her still there. The fluorescents hummed, candles snuffed, shadows stretched long across the stage.

He glanced up. She hadn’t left. Denim skirt brushing her calves. Bag printed with cacti and hummingbirds. Moonlight hair. Not performing. Just standing.

He broke first. “Y’know…” He cleared his throat, muttered like the words embarrassed him. “You didn’t actually have to be good at it. You could’ve just sat there, giggled at Dustin’s commentary, and no one would’ve blamed you.”

Finally he looked at her, really looked. “But instead you walk in, drop a full saint-warrior manifesto, and traumatize three pirates.” His grin tilted, half curious, half baffled. “…Why?”

Reese tucked a lock behind her ear. Smiled, shy but steady. “Why do anything halfway?”

That stopped him. Dead. Not what he’d expected. Not some cutesy, self-deprecating dodge. Just… true.

He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, that tracks.”

He set a die down, suddenly careful about it. “Most people I meet are either trying waaay too hard or... not at all. You don’t fit either column.” His tone shifted, grounded. “Honestly? You were the last person I thought would walk into Hellfire.”

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing sideways—not quite embarrassed, but caught off guard by the truth of his own words.

She lifted her bag higher on her shoulder, smile soft. “Well… secret is, I do try. But not ‘cause I’m proving something. ‘Cause I want to.” She stepped closer, voice dropping. “Why draw something sloppy? Why pray only when you’re tired? Why live like that?” Her eyes flicked up. “If your soul’s not in it… what’s the point?”

Eddie froze again. Blinked. She laughed at herself, brushing it off: “Gosh, I sound pretentious, don’t I?”

He shook his head, a huff of real laughter slipping out. “Nah. You’re just… a trip, Halverson.” His voice dropped lower, almost to himself. “You talk like you’re narrating a book I haven’t read.” He caught her eyes again, steady. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”

He tilted his head, studying. “…You always been like that?”

Her smile curved. “Walk me to my car and I’ll tell you?”

Eddie blinked, then grinned—slow, crooked, something warm catching behind his ribs. “Well now, Lady Fluttershy… if that’s not a quest hook, I don’t know what is.”

He snagged his jacket and fell into step beside her. The empty parking lot yawned ahead, volleyball echoes long gone, dusk laying heavy.

When the Firebird came into view, he nearly tripped. “Wait—you drive a Firebird?” He laughed, nervous and impressed at once. “Okay. I’m officially terrified of you.”

She smiled, a little smug but hiding it. “‘73 Formula 400. My dad’s baby. Family heirloom. Taught me to change the oil and spare and everything.” She raised her eyebrows with sarcastic flair. 

Eddie whistled low, real admiration this time. “Damn. You really are a unicorn. Most girls won’t get anywhere near a dipstick.”

“No,” She chuckled, her cheeks getting a little red even in the dark. “Can’t be that strange. Pretty sure it’s just a protective dad thing… I was forced to learn it whether I wanted to or not,” She smiled, looking at him, looking at the car.

By the time they reached the car, he was circling it like a worshipper at an altar. “This isn’t just a car. This is a creature. Like she’d insult your masculinity and then run you over.” He shot her a look. “…Kinda like her owner, huh?”

Reese leaned against the door, hip brushing metal. “Who, me? I'm not much of an ego bruiser. Sometimes I just… don’t laugh.”

Eddie snorted so hard it startled him. “Oh God, you’ve been hiding teeth this whole time.” He shook his head, grinning wide. “Dangerous.”

He trailed his rings across the hood, mirroring her posture. “Guess it makes sense. Being quiet makes you invisible… but sometimes it makes you the only one who actually sees.”

A crooked grin tugged at his mouth. “Trust me, I know—being loud just slaps a target on your back. Gets all the eyes on you. But doesn’t mean anyone’s actually listening.”

He nodded to himself, then looked at her again. “Hell of a character arc.”
A beat. Softer. “…Glad you came tonight.”

Her expression shifted, warm still, but thoughtful. Like it didn't scare her one bit to call it out.

“Then why didn’t you invite me sooner? I smile at you. In the halls. I'm not exactly trying to be invisible.”

Eddie went still. Blindsided. “…Yeah. I know.”He swallowed.

“I noticed. Every time.”
His thumb traced the Firebird’s roof like an anchor.

“Just didn’t think someone like you would wanna sit at our table. Or like... not tuck her tail between her legs and run the other way the second I tried to talk to her."

When he looked back, his eyes were steady.

“…But you showed up anyway. Unicorns, hymns, braces, the whole thing, ‘n’ didn’t hide it like you were scared we'd give you crap or whatever."

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, unsure if he wanted to say it, but realized he didn't have much to lose.

"And I’m glad I was wrong.”

Reese nodded once, the motion small but certain. “I’m glad too, Eddie…”

She hesitated, her voice suddenly softer. “So… are you gonna… utterly ignore me in the hallways again? Pretend I don’t exist?”

Her mouth twisted slightly. “Is this… the last time we speak?”

Eddie flinched. Visibly. Her words had reached in and found something unguarded. He stood straighter, no longer leaning. Not defensive, just present, as if this suddenly mattered more than he thought it would.

“No… I’m not gonna ignore you.” He swallowed. “I wouldn’t've have ignored you. Not really. I just… didn’t know how to talk to you without sounding like a freak. Or an idiot. Or both.”

His voice softened again, grounded. “But if you’re asking me if this is the last time we talk?”

He stepped a little closer. Not enough to push. Just enough that it was intentional. “No, Cleric. This isn’t the last time. Not even close.”

He tilted his head, a grin beginning to bloom. “Besides. I still haven’t asked what Lady Fluttershy thinks about mosh pits.”
The line was playful, but the invitation beneath it was real.

Reese opened her mouth wider, breaking into a wide grin. “Mosh pits? Are you telling me that Dio patch on your back isn’t just ‘cause it has pretty colors?”

Eddie laughed, real and loud, head tipping back. “Ohhh, that how it is?”

He pointed at her, grinning. “You roll higher than my crew one time and now you’re dragging Dio?” He dropped his hands in surrender, still smiling. “Okay, Cleric. You’re too powerful.”

He stepped back, both hands raised in surrender, a grin spreading slow as dusk.

Then, quieter, truer: “But nah. It’s not just colors. Guy taught me how to scream like it meant something.” His eyes flicked to her again. “Kind of like what you did tonight. Just… softer.”

She smiled, and softly repeated the words to herself, like she hadn’t considered such a thing. “Screaming like it means something...”

She placed a hand over her heart in genuine reverence. And then, with a deep curtsy, like she'd forgotten she was in a parking lot:

“Love to stay, but this cleric’s bedtime is nine. You’ve kept me much too long. If I don’t get to bed, Mr. Pony and Mr. Hare are filing complaints.”

Eddie watched her with something between awe and surrender. It was like she never broke character, or maybe she never even had to get in to character in the first place.

The way she curtsied. Fully. Like she meant it.

He clutched his chest with exaggerated pain.

“You wound me, Lady Fluttershy. Off to consort with stuffed nobility while I’m left to loiter with common goblins.”

But he bowed in return, hand sweeping gallantly toward the cracked pavement. “May your dreams be filled with celestial dice and repentant dragons, Lady Fluttershy.”

But softer, just for her: “Get home safe, Reese.”

He didn’t move toward her. Didn’t push the moment. Just lifted two fingers near his temple, a little salute, just for her.

“And tell Mr. Pony I said thanks… for letting you come slay monsters with us.”

Reese nodded, stepping close enough to pat his arm just above the elbow, just once, light as breath.

She smiled again, this time wide and unapologetic, her braces catching in the parking lot lights like starlight on scaffolding. 

There they were again. Those silver little nodules. Someone still growing into her power. Someone becoming.

“You too, Eddie.”

And with that, she climbed into the Pontiac. The engine roared, a sleeping beast stirred awake. She revved it twice while in park—eyes wide, eyebrows lifted, making a comically horrified face while breaking into a head-shimmy and then a laugh he couldn’t hear through the glass, like she was letting him in a joke that he didn’t quite understand but was happy to know about anyway.

He didn’t wave.

Just stood there.

Watching.

Watching as she disappeared down the quiet road like something from a different story altogether.

he turned back to his van, the pavement looking a while lot more interesting than it was. The canoeing binder felt heavier than it was.  

“…Cleric’s gonna wreck me, ” he muttered. 

His nose itched, and when he went to wipe it, he could have sworn his sleeve still smelled faintly of something sweet.
And it sure as hell wasn't his Irish Spring.

Chapter Text

The front door creaked open like it always did—no matter how carefully she turned the knob or how slow she moved, that hinge gave her away every time.

A soft lamp glowed in the living room. The TV was off, but the VCR clock blinked 9:06 in pale green digits, the only sound the low hum of appliances and the faint tick of the thermostat. Her mom was curled on the floral couch in her robe, paperback folded over her knee, mug of tea raised in her hand, like she was halfway between deciding if she should sip it or set it back down on the coaster. She didn’t look up right away. Just turned a page and said, without missing a beat—

“You’re a little late for ‘just a game,’ sweetie.”

Reese felt the smile start to bloom before she could stop it, the slow, traitorous kind that tried to hide behind her cheeks but gave itself away at the corners of her mouth. She stepped inside and tugged off her boots, as if that might downplay anything.

“It was fine,” she said, casually. Or tried to.

But her mom had already looked up. The book was lowered now. She was watching Reese with a kind of amused softness, like she wasn’t going to press, but had already read the real ending.

“Oh, yeah?” her mom said lightly, leaning her elbow against the armrest. “And that smile’s just… unrelated?”

Reese turned toward the kitchen, trying to shake it off, like the warm rush in her chest wasn’t still echoing. “Yes,” she agreed as if the question weren't rhetorical, but even she didn’t believe it.

The kitchen light was still on. Reese drifted toward it, toward the calm familiarity of a space where the tile always felt a little cool underfoot and the air still held the faint trace of dish soap and chamomile tea. Her mom followed after a moment, opening a cupboard and pulling out the graham crackers but not taking any, saying nothing more.

They stood like that for a beat. The fridge hummed. 

“I made them laugh,” Reese revealed, finally. Her voice wasn’t proud exactly. More like someone trying to say something aloud so it would stay real once it left her.

Her mom didn’t say anything at first—just turned a little, listening in that way she always did. Fully, without interruption.

“Like… truly laugh,” Reese added. “I didn’t know I could do that. With people like them.”

Her mom smiled a little and leaned her back against the counter.

“You mean people who see the same stars you do?” she asked softly.

Reese looked at the dark of the window, forcing down a groan. She knew her mom meant well, so she said nothing. Didn’t change that fact that it felt like sometimes she still talked to her like she was a ten-year-old. 

Reese crunched gently on a cracker she hadn’t realized she’d taken. She smiled again, slower this time. Smaller.

“I guess,” she settled on.

It wasn't exactly the point she was tending, but the social dynamics of it all felt too complicated to explain.

“It just felt… easy. Like I didn’t have to translate or buffer myself.”

There was a pause. Then her mom reached out and tucked a strand of Reese’s hair behind her ear, a gesture that belonged more to memory than to the present, a habit carried over from pigtail days. Her fingers were still warm from the mug she’d set down, and her chartreuse eyes were kind—like a hidden bed of moss in some forgotten wood, so rare and tender you’d ache to lie down and let it hold you.

“You don’t have to explain it,” she said. “I can tell it meant something.”

Reese’s mouth twisted like she might deflect it, but the effort faded fast.

“I didn’t say it did,” she tried to sound stern—but her smile gave her away.

“You didn’t have to,” her mom answered with a weak smile.

Reese let out a breath that almost became a laugh. She stepped back and grabbed the graham cracker sleeve off the counter and filled a glass under the sink’s stream.

“I’m calling Robin,” she said.

Her mom was already turning out the kitchen light.

“Give her my best.” She planted a soft kiss to Reese's temple.

“Yes, Mama. Love you.”

And then Reese padded down the hall, which was dim and quiet behind her. The whole house felt wrapped in cotton, soft, safe, familiar. Like she could exhale now. Like she could tuck this night away where it wouldn’t disappear.

She didn’t say his name.

But she was already halfway to dialing the only person who’d understand why she wanted to scream into her pillow about the way his eyes caught the candle light when he smiled.

Reese pushed open her bedroom door with her shoulder, careful not to let the graham cracker sleeve slip from under her arm or spill her water. The knob clicked shut behind her, and just like that, the rest of the house slipped away—muffled into carpet and old wood and the steady creak of the floorboard by the window.

She slung her bag to the ground and crept through the dark, searching for her nightstand like the blind mice's fourth. When her fingers finally clicked the lamp on, soft orange light pooled across the floorboards and climbed halfway up the walls, casting long shadows from the boxes she still hadn’t unpacked.

Two months in, and it still looked like a paused game of house.

The Persian rug in the center—scuffed but rich with jewel tones. It made the room feel older. Like a librarian had decided to roost inside a teen girl’s quarters.

Her bed, tucked beneath the sloped ceiling, sat on a white curlicue wooden frame like something out of a fairy tale. The quilt was like an Easter egg hunt in a berry patch, pink and purple and white—stitched with butterflies and caterpillars and bunnies with soft, smiling faces. Juvenile, maybe. But hers.

At the head of the bed, nestled between a flower-embroidered throw pillow and the dip where she always curled her legs, sat a pony, a hare, a kitten, and their senior, a little worn bear. Not decorations. Company.

Above them, a faded Jesus portrait looked down with soft eyes and over-glittered tones. It was the same image she'd seen a hundred times, but here? It didn’t feel mass-produced. It felt… whispered. Meant.

She stepped over a box that still had “SCHOOL SUPPLIES? SWEATERS? BOOKS?” scrawled in Sharpie across the top—and elected not to notice the way her dad had underlined it twice. Nearby, The Last Unicorn poster rolled up against the wall, its curled corners still waiting for a frame she hadn’t bought yet. She kept meaning to. But there was something kind of poetic about it standing like that. Not quite finished. Not quite put away.

Her bookshelf stood steady in the corner—filled to the edges. Harper Lee. Ray Bradbury. J.D. Salinger. Thick devotionals inherited from her mom’s own girlhood, spines creased and underlined like paths already walked. The books didn’t feel shelved. They felt witnessed.

Then her eyes landed on it—again. A white brassiere half-draped over the hamper like it had passed out mid-somersault that she always seemed to forget to fully tuck away. She grabbed it quickly, stuffing it down with a swift motion that was more reflex than shame. Not scandalized, nobody was there to blush about it. But maybe if she moved swiftly she'd manage to remember not to leave it on display.

And of course, there he was.

Pinned to the wall at eye-level beside the bookshelf, still unframed and glossy. Matt Dillon as Dally Winston. Cigarette tucked behind his ear. Leather jacket. Arms crossed like he could win a staring contest with God—smug and a little ridiculous

She loved that he was looking at her books. Like even he had to respect her taste in literature.

She stood for a moment, toes curling into the rug, graham crackers calling to her from the nightstand. Everything in the room was softly humming with night. Bugs—stitched ones—on the quilt. A plant thriving in the corner despite the climate shock. A small pile of laundry waiting for its drawer. And Friday moonlight through the windowpane, like it had come to check on her.

She exhaled—slow, silent.

Then padded toward the corded rotary phone by her bed.

It was time to call Robin.

Because someone needed to hear about the way he looked at her.

And how her hand was still warm where their fingers had touched by accident. Except maybe not accident. Except maybe…

She flopped onto the bed, phone cord already coiled around her wrist.

Time to scream into her pillow. Quietly. Like a lady.

The phone rang twice before Robin picked up, voice casual but crackling slightly through the line.

“Family Video—Robin Buckley speaking. We’ve got NeverEnding Story in stock and—shocker—absolutely no patience for your nonsense."

Reese snorted softly, already curling onto her side, cheek pressed into her quilt. “Hi.”

Robin dropped the act instantly. “Hi.”

There was a pause, but not the awkward kind. The familiar kind. The kind with popcorn ceilings and warm quilts and the low hum of the house exhaling around her.

“So…” Robin started gently. “How’d it go?”

Reese let out a breath, twisting the phone cord around her finger.
“It was... good.”

“Good?” Robin echoed, skeptical. “That’s it? That’s all I get after sending you into the Dungeon of Hormonal Doom?”

Reese laughed. “I’m thinking!”

Robin waited, but not quietly.

“Did he say anything? Did you say anything? Did anyone cry or propose or duel to the death?”

Reese rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. “No duels. No proposals. Just...” She hesitated. “He walked me to my car.”

A beat of silence.

“Oh my God, he walked you to your car!? That’s like—Hawkins High engagement. You’re practically betrothed.

Reese just groaned, pulling a pillow over her face.

“What? I’m sorry, but that’s, like, peak romance in this town. You think Jason Carver’s ever walked a girl to her car without talking about himself the whole way?”

Reese peeked out from under the pillow, cheeks red but smiling.

“I just… I didn’t expect to like him so much.”

Robin was quiet a second, gentle now. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I thought he’d maybe tolerate me. But he wasn’t trying to be cool or win me over or anything. He was just... himself. He’s actually funny. Like, clever-funny. Not just ‘I worship Megadeath’ funny.”

Robin snorted. "He’s, like… a metalhead with a secret theater-kid soul. You know I’m right.”

“Exactly!” Reese smiled at the ceiling. “He makes you feel like you’re in on the bit, y’know?”

“Oh, you’re in, alright.”

Reese buried her face again. “Stop.”

Robin grinned through the phone. “You sound like someone who met Jesus and his weird metalhead cousin all in one night.”

Reese laughed. “That’s... scarily accurate.”

“Of course it’s accurate. Certified fact. And another fact?” Robin continued breezily. “You have a big. Fat. crush on Eddie Munson.”

“I do not have a crush,” Reese said defensively.

“Suuure,” Robin drawled, then dropped into a breathy, dreamy tone—half Alice in Wonderland, half deranged romantic. “You just wanna, like… etch the sound of his voice into your brain forever, bask in the radioactive glow of his smile, and let him walk you to your car every single night until you’re both eighty and still arguing about Dio.”

Reese groaned again, trying to bury her face into the mattress, but all she really managed to do was nuzzle her quilt.

Robin grinned into the receiver, but her voice softened just a bit. “It was good, though?”

Reese nodded, forgetting Robin couldn’t see her. “Yeah,” she said. Then again, a little quieter. “Yeah. It was... It was really good. All of it." She meant it. Then, nearly casually, "Lady Fluttershy totally made three priates pee themselves."

There was a stillness between them. Not silence—just a calm, where words weren’t immediately necessary. Reese’s fingers toyed with the phone cord again, and her heel rubbed small lazy circles into the mattress.

Robin’s voice came back warm and wry. “Really moving up in the world, huh?”

They both burst out laughing.

The laughter faded into something smaller, cozier. Two girls, one line, one night, the shared softness of something beginning.

Chapter Text

By Monday lunch, three days later, the cafeteria had settled into its sluggish hum.

Not quite a buzz—Mondays never deserved that. Just trays clattering, ketchup packets stomped on by dares, and the fluorescents humming above, casting their dull haze over the whole scene.

Reese walked beside Robin, sketch book hugged to her side like a holy text, lunch sack tucked under one arm. They were headed for their usual perch by the window just outside the cafeteria doors, where they could talk without shouting and watch the school’s sagging flag twitch in the wind.

Normally, they avoided the cafeteria entirely. But today Robin had left her trumpet in the band room, and for reasons known only to her, it suddenly had to be retrieved right now—by cutting straight through the lunch hall. Reese couldn’t quite tell if Robin had forgotten on accident… or on purpose.

As they passed the Hellfire table, Reese gave a small, genuine nod to the group. Not the polite kind. The real kind. The kind that said: I see you. I remember.

Then her eyes met Eddie’s.

And she smiled.

Warm, quiet, a sunrise-of-a-smile that had slipped out the night he walked her to her Firebird. The kind of smile that didn’t beg for attention—it meant it.

Eddie, mid-sentence, forgot what he was saying.

He froze with his mouth still half open, one hand caught in a gesticulation he didn’t finish. Somewhere in his brain, someone was probably still debating mimic chest logic, but Eddie? He wasn't hearing it.

He was looking at Reese.

And that smile. Soft, slow, like stained glass catching morning light.

Then Robin leaned in and murmured something—something too quiet to catch but not too subtle to miss.

Reese went scarlet.

From the hollow of her throat to the tops of her ears, color bloomed in one gorgeous, unhideable wave. She nudged Robin’s arm with an incredulous little shove, eyebrows raised in genuine scandal, lips twitching into a smile she couldn't contain if she tried.

Robin looked smug. Reese looked like she was trying to stay composed and failing gloriously.

And they walked on—grinning, elbowing, already in mid-laugh by the time they reached the hallway.

Eddie blinked, finally. Dragged a hand down his face like it might clear his brain.

“Dude,” Jeff muttered from across the table, snorting into his milk. “You just short-circuited in real time.”

Eddie didn’t respond. Not at first.

Then:

“Shut up.”

But he said it with a grin.

And maybe—just maybe—he was still a little pink in the ears too.

The girls settled into their usual spot, a broad windowsill by the south-facing corridor, the kind of place students only used when they wanted to talk, not just eat.

Robin swung her legs up onto the ledge like she owned it, immediately unwrapping a PB&J. Reese slid down beside her, pulling her knees in and folding them together and to the right, with practiced grace, setting her lunch bag and sketchbook at her feet like old friends taking a breather.

For a second, neither of them said anything. The hallway buzzed faintly behind them—doors slamming, distant overhead announcements, the low thrum of Monday moving on.

Reese opened her sandwich slowly, picking at the crusts. Usually she tore right in. Today, she didn’t.

She was still smiling. Staring up at the acoustic ceiling like it held answers in its dimples.

Robin tore a bite off her sandwich, watching her out of the corner of her eye.

Then, casually:
“Okay so… when exactly do I have to start calling you Mrs. Munson?”

Reese let out a choked laugh through her nose. “Oh my gosh,” she shook her head, eyes wide and mouth pursed, as if she were still afraid of being discovered, “Robin, seriously?”

“What?!” Robin asked, voice all fake-innocent and wide-eyed. “I’m just saying. I mean, you smiled. He paused mid. Sentence. There was eye contact. There was blushing. You elbowed me like a Victorian governess trying to keep decorum. This is textbook.”

Reese tried to deflect—she always did—but she was already biting her lip, trying not to give Robin an inch.

“I smiled,” she insisted. “That’s not, like, a binding vow of eternal matrimony.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “No, but that smile?” She pointed with her sandwich. “That smile? That was a sonnet. A Jane Austen chapter. The soft prelude before someone gets stabbed in a duel.”

Reese couldn’t stop laughing now. It bubbled up from somewhere near her ribs and spilled out ungracefully.

“I don’t have a crush,” she said, mostly to her sandwich. “I don’t. I just…”

Robin waited.

“I just like his voice,” Reese said finally, soft and distant and matter-of-fact. “And his brain. And the way he says things like he’s pulling my leg but secretly means them. And how he actually asks questions, which I didn’t expect. And how he listened when I said stuff about the story, like it actually mattered.”

She paused.

“…And, okay, his face isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

Robin blinked. “That’s a full-on crush, my friend.”

“I do NOT like Eddie Munson.”

Robin grinned. “You do. And I, for one, cannot wait to watch this happen.”

They both laughed again, quietly and unfiltered, in that way girls laugh when they’re letting themselves be soft together. Reese took a real bite of her sandwich then, finally letting herself relax.

Outside, the wind fluttered in the flag like someone was listening.

Inside, Reese was still glowing a little. And trying very hard not to. Her chest fluttered. All she could think about was the first sentence he’d spoken to her, the way he’d called her Moonlight. He was talking about the unicorn folder. But that didn’t stop her from pretending it meant something more.

 Eddie Munson, huh? 

Maybe. 

Just maybe.

But that ‘maybe’ was a dot on the horizon line that was shrinking more and more with every passing interaction.

The bell rang as a mercy.

A half-second of silence, then the flood: students spilling into the halls with the chaos of a tipped-over snow globe. Doors flung open, sneakers scuffed linoleum, conversations burst like firecrackers down the corridor. Everything still smelled vaguely of tater tots and chocolate milk from lunch. The Monday afternoon current was sluggish but loud—backpacks slung low, books thumping under arms, laughter rising in snorts and shouts.

Reese stepped into it, blinking against the noise, her history textbook hugged tight to her chest. Robin was still mid-rant beside her—something about either the ethical crisis of The Scarlet Letter or the way the U.S. school system had tricked them all into thinking math was real. It was hard to tell. She was making hand gestures. There may have been a reference to the sins of mankind.

And then—

There he was.

Leaning against the locker bank three doors down from hers, as if gravity had dropped him there by accident. Eddie Munson.

Denim vest. Leather jacket. Thumbs hooked in his belt loops. Ringed knuckles. His hair looked too good for a Monday, and his eyes—those quicksilver, twitch-of-a-smirk eyes—were already locked on her like he hadn’t meant to look up, but oh no, look at that, too late now.

His head tilted just slightly. Like he’d been waiting. Like he was trying to look like he hadn’t been waiting.

Robin clocked it in half a second flat. She glanced from him to Reese and back again, a grin blooming the way it did when she hit her favorite plot point on page eight.

“Look,” Robin nodded toward him. "Locker two-thirteen. Intentions unclear. Hair? Tragically perfect.”

Reese elbowed her gently, cheeks already warming.

Robin didn’t stop.

“Go get your plot twist, Lady F.”

Reese rolled her eyes playfully, softly, as Robin peeled off down the hallway, whistling something that sounded suspiciously like a wedding march.

Reese didn’t turn her head to look at him. Didn’t rush. She just walked—calm, composed, the quiet confidence of someone claiming space that already belonged to her. Calm. Collected. A girl going to her locker.

The overhead fluorescents caught in her hair, white-gold and loose, and for a moment it looked like something spun, something delicate. Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just watched as she stepped into that little patch of hallway like it was her own private stage and didn’t care if anyone was watching.

She didn’t glance his way. Just reached for the dial.

Twenty.

Twenty-five.

Twenty again.

Click—tink.

The locker door swung open. He took a slow step closer, just enough to register, not enough to crowd.

That’s when she spoke. “So…” Reese murmured, voice all casual mischief as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Come to exile me from Hellfire for the mutiny of stealing your thunder? Or are you stalking me?”

She didn’t look at him when she said it. She smiled at her books. Like it wasn’t for him, exactly. Like it was hers, and if he wanted it, he had to earn it.

Eddie let out a quiet huff of a laugh, half amusement, half disbelief, and leaned one shoulder against the locker beside hers as though he just happened to end up there. Like he wasn’t absolutely calculating how not to seem like he’d been standing there five full minutes rehearsing cool things to say.

He tilted his head. Just a little.

“Can’t a guy loiter near a pretty girl’s locker without getting accused of light stalking?” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

Reese’s gaze froze, just for a moment, on the edge of her history notebook.

Pretty.

She could feel the word ping around in her ribcage like a stray canary, fluttering and whistling and stirring up everything soft inside her. Her ears burned. Her breath caught.
But she didn't meet his eye.

She just reached up and brushed the little Rarity sticker on her locker door, smoothing down the curling corner with deliberate calm. As if falling apart had never even occurred to her.

“It—Well, that depends,” she managed, still facing forward. Her voice came out breezy, but she could feel her cheeks betray her, warmth blooming like a secret garden. She didn't comment on his plaudit. Couldn't.
“They might start a revolution against you, Munson. Maybe even vouch for me to replace you. Especially that Dustin. You sure you want that kind of threat at your campaign?”

She dared one glance—sideways, fleeting—before looking away again. She couldn’t hold it. Not with her pulse skittering. His dark eyes and her flushed cheeks set the moment alight in ladybug colors—red and black, fragile and bright.

He wore the grin he saved for bad ideas that worked. The eyes stayed honest.
“Worried? Nah. You’re flattering me, Moonlight.”

“And if I was tailing you," He said, leaning in, slight enough she might've imagined it. I’d have a notebook labeled Cleric of the Moonlight and three homebrew spells to match. That voice? That’s not youth-group talk.”

Eddie tapped the edge of her locker with one ringed finger, like he was sealing the sentence.

"No, I just uh..." He trailed off, looking at her a little too long. Cleared his throat. Adopted a solemn tone he absolutely didn’t earn. “As representative of the Hellfire Review Board: you passed.” The grin snuck back. “You gonna, uh, pass by again Friday?”

That last word landed softer than the rest—an afterthought, almost. But the grin he gave her afterward didn’t quite match the tone. It was lopsided. A little nervous. Trying not to hope too hard, but very clearly hoping anyway.

His honesty landed closer than she expected. She felt it in the flicker of her eyes, the widening she didn’t catch until it was already given away. She was no good at poker.

Eddie clocked it. Didn’t comment. Just tucked it away, neat as a secret note passed under the table.

And then, she glanced up at him, expression smiling sweetly like she wasn't digging into him. “Have you gone soft, Munson? " She tilted her head, maybe to get a better glance, maybe to hide her smile. "You really wanna invite me back to the boys’ club?” And then she let herself smile, fully—just slightly delayed, like she was letting the humor bloom slowly, secondhand, like a sunflower.

Eddie chuckled, like he was rolling advantage on letting a Bible study princess into the lair. For him, the dice were already loaded. The guys might squawk, but let’s be real—wouldn’t take much convincing. Be character development. Teach ‘em how to function in the wild whenever an actual girl shows up at the table.

“I mean... yeah,” he replied plainly. “We were getting real cozy with Eau de Locker Room and Despair.” He stepped back just a touch, casual, like giving her the floor was part of the act. “You showing up brought… balance.”

Then, he shrugged lightly, his tone sharpened just a degree, still teasing, still theatrical, but more armor around it.

“C’mon. You’ve already got half the table eating outta your hand. One more week and Dustin’s gonna be burning your name into his dice bag with a soldering iron.”

“Oh, please,” Reese looked at the orange and white linoleum beneath her. “He’s too busy going on about that girlfriend of his—Suzie, this. Suzie that. Blah blah blah blah Suzie.” She chuckled, remembering all the times he’d taken the chance to bring her up during Spanish. 

Eddie actually laughed, head tipping back, the kind of unfiltered sound that slipped out when someone hit you square in the funny bone without trying. “Okay, wow. First of all, brutal. Poor Henderson’s out here wanting to be a gentleman, and you’re roasting him like a festival hog.”

Then, continuing, he emulated the boy, putting on a high-pitched squeak and pointing a single digit to the sky dramatically, “Suzie helped me rewire my radio with nothing but a pencil and—”

Reese cut his bit short with a laugh, loud, uncontained, bubbling up like a soda can someone shook too hard. It bounced off the lockers, sharper than he expected.

And then—braces. The brackets flashed when the light caught them, and for a second, he just blinked. He’d half forgotten they were even there. The way she usually talked—low, careful, like she was afraid to take up too much air—didn’t exactly scream orthodontia. But when she laughed like that? Yeah, there they were.

Armor down. Wires out.
Seventeen, right in front of him.

Not some ethereal saint gliding through Hawkins High, just a girl. A little messy, a little dorky, steel strapped to her teeth like battle gear.

And somehow, that hit harder than the whole moonlight-mystic routine.

Eddie blinked, lips twitching into a smirk. He leaned in half an inch—not close enough to crowd, just enough that his voice dropped a notch. Lower. Mellow. Like a secret folded inside a joke.

“And me?” he added, trying to sound offhand. “Maybe I just like watching someone who plays like she actually gives a damn.” Then he coughed lightly into his fist like he’d surprised himself. One beat later, the grin returned, crooked and safe and a little devil-may-care.

“So what do you say, Moonlight? You coming back Friday? Or am I gonna have to raid the church bulletin board and post a ‘Missing Cleric’ flyer?”

He drummed his ringed fingers once against the metal frame beside her locker, backing off just enough to feign nonchalance—shoulders lose, head tilted, eyes still a little too hopeful for someone pretending he didn’t care.

Reese let her chuckle taper off, but the smile lingered—soft, involuntary. For a breath, she just looked at him. No quip, no deflection. Just saw him.

The way his fringe had been pushed back slightly, revealing his left eyebrow. It was slanted slightly higher than the right—more arched, like it had spent years doing the heavy lifting of disbelief and amusement. A faint crease above it gave away the habit, a little furrow worn in like a well-read page. His eyes looked darker under the harsh fluorescents, almost black, catching only the barest rim of light. Not cold. Just deep, like ink that hadn’t finished sinking into parchment.

Her gaze dropped, just barely, to the compact patch of stubble he’d missed on his chin, surrounding a small, healing nick. Like the thorn wall guarding sleeping Aurora. Not a full oversight, just a soft defiance of the razor. Like his face had its own opinion. 

But that’s what made it beautiful.

She caught herself staring too long—at the raised brow, the stubborn patch of stubble. And the way his mouth twitched, like maybe he’d noticed her noticing.

Her mouth twisted into a wry smile, and she blinked and attempted to face the locker again to answer, but couldn’t. So she stared at him over her left shoulder. 

She could’ve just said yes. But something about the way he was looking at her, like maybe he was taking in all of her features just as he had, made her feel like she ought to try something more.

“Consider my presence notarized,” was what she decided. She cringed internally as it materialzied into soundwaves. Notarized presence? What was she a lawyer? Before she could spiral further, he grinned.

Not a mocking grin—though it was crooked, a little lopsided, as always—but something quieter than usual. Pleased. A joke wrapped in ribbon—that’s what her words felt like in his hands.

He tipped his head slightly, curls shifting, and let the silence hang for a beat before leaning in just enough to be conspiratorial. “Alright, Chancelor. I’ll pencil you in with the other select few.”

Then, with a faint lift of his brows,  “Though I gotta say—if you start showing up with a briefcase and calling me ‘Your Honor,’ I’m revoking your membership and burning Lady Fluttershy’s sheet myself.”

All she could do was grin. One moment, she had wondered if he was going to raise that brow or even pretend like she hadn’t said it— but no. He’d doubled down. He’d made it stranger. And it was perfect.

He rocked his shoulder back and forth on the locker beside hers now, clearly not in a rush to go. He reached out, arm moving in front of her to the inner door of her locker. She could smell the old leather of his sleeve and the way tobacco clung to it. One of his ringed fingers tapped idly against the thin, light beige metal, just beneath her sticker of Rarity, as though he was drawing a sigil only he understood. Or maybe to check if the sticker would blink at him. He didn’t comment on it, though, just replied,  “Glad you’re coming back, Halverson.”

His gaze flicked briefly to hers again, and this time, he didn’t bother to hide it—the real thing beneath the grin. A flicker of something quiet. Warmth, maybe. Gratitude, barely veiled beneath the usual bravado. Then, like catching himself mid-sincerity:

“Besides, if you didn’t show, I’d have to convince Gareth to play the healer, and trust me—you don’t want to see that man ‘soothe the wounded.’ He uses his barbarian voice. It’s awful.”

With that, he eased off her locker, sparing one last glance—not just at her, but at the Rarity sticker too, like it said something he almost understood. Then back to her, smirk tilting into something gentler.

“Don’t be late. Pretty sure your pony runs a tight schedule,” he said, already stepping away.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
The chain on his pocket jingled once, a soft punctuation mark.
And just before turning the corner, he reached up and slapped the low ceiling beam overhead with a flat thwack, like signing a name to the end of a sentence.

The trailer was dark by the time he kicked the door shut behind him, one hand still stuffed in his jacket pocket, the other skimming against the wall so he didn't trip in the dim lighting. Band practice had been a disaster. He didn't want to think about it.

Wayne was gone. Night shift at the plant. The only sound was the muffled hum of the fridge and the clink of his keys as he tossed them onto the table.

He didn’t turn the overhead on. Didn’t need to. The glow from the stove’s night-light was enough. Yellow. Quiet. Eerie. 

He peeled off his jacket on the way to his room and let it slump by the door. Then his rings. Then his jeans; the belt clinked loose, metal against metal, and the leather hissed as it slipped through the loops—familiar, unceremonious. Like muscle memory.

The room smelled like cigarettes, something he’d forgotten to wash, and aftershave that tried too hard to cover it.

Eddie rubbed a hand over his face, one of his nail beds tender from where he’d bitten it off and torn it too close to the quick. He wasn’t a nail-biter. Just couldn’t be bothered to rummage for the trimmer. 

He dropped onto the mattress sideways and didn’t bother with the blanket. Just sprawled.

For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling, the water stain declining to tell him what to think. So he waited for his thoughts to do what they always did—scatter like leaves, pick apart the day, settle on the campaign, or Corroded Coffin, or what to say next time to that guy who called his guitar a toy.

But they didn’t.

They didn’t move at all.

Because she was still there.

That stupid, beautiful line she’d dropped like she wasn’t even trying to be funny: “Consider my presence notarized.”

Eddie let out the softest of huffs through his nose—half-laugh, half-exhale—and shook his head once against the frumpy pillow.

Notarized.
Who the hell says that?
She did. With that dumb pony sticker behind her, and that lock of hair falling across her cheek like she’d walked out of some black-and-white French movie. She’d said it and then winced, like she knew it was weird and lobbed it anyway. Like she thought maybe he’d laugh in her face.
He didn’t. He couldn’t.
Hell, he’d been replaying it like a cassette jammed on repeat ever since.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. The ceiling looked the same. But he didn’t feel likewise.

Four days.

He’d known her four days.

He knew how many stickers, magnets, and clippings lined the inside of her locker. The cadence of her laugh when she tried not to show all of it, how her pale eyes went glassy when she was reading someone too closely, and how her hands always hovered for a second before tucking her hair behind her ear. Hands that, every time they’d accidentally brushed his, were cool and soft—like fine china that had never once seen the likes of Castle Munson. He grimaced at himself. Christ, Munson. Write a ballad why don’t you.

He knew she saw him. Today. Just for a second.

And it paralyzed him a little.

Not some overblown guitar-solo-in-the-rain kind of paralyzation. A quieter one. A fault line shifted beneath his ribs and stayed there.

It just wasn’t the way she looked—well maybe part of it, no denying that. But it was more the way she looked at him.

No pity. No performance.

Just… Reese.

He couldn’t shake it.
The way she looked at him. Not like he was a freak show or some sideshow act. Not pity. Not performance. Just her. Whisper-girl with stardust vocabulary and braces flashing like secret armor. Cleric with a spine.
He hadn’t realized how starved he was for someone to look at him like that.

And now she was coming back Friday.

She chose to come back.

To sit with him and the guys and roll dice and pretend to cast spells like it meant something. She chose it. Chose him, in some stupid, tiny way. And maybe that was all it’d ever be.

But right now?

Right now, it was enough to make his chest ache in a way he was afraid to name.

Eddie curled onto his side, arm wedged under the pillow. He swore he could smell her. Which was impossible—they’d never hugged, and his room smelled more like ashtray than Eden. And any clothing he’d worn around her was at the foot of the mattress. It was memory. He’d practically memorized her smell like some creep; spring and roses and some imaginary meadow no one else could see. What a sap. Spiraling over hallucinated shampoo.

His eyes slipped closed.

And for the fourth time in four nights, the last thing on his mind wasn’t a riff or a monster stat block or the campaign finale.

It was her.

Her voice.

Notarized

And he didn’t accept it yet, not out loud, not even to himself.

But he was already halfway gone.

Chapter Text

The drama room buzzed with the warm, erratic energy that only Friday night could summon.

 The faint scent of old paint and dusty velvet curtains hung in the air, mingling with something distinct—chips, teenage boy, and anticipation. No candles today. Mrs. Wheeler had found out about the stunt Mike had pulled last week and demanded her candles stay on Maple Street. Dice were already scattered across the scarred table, awaiting the game to begin. Rulebooks opened to dog-eared pages. Someone was slurping too loud. And Kevin, as usual, was holding court with all the grace of a jester who’d been given a microphone he didn’t deserve.

“I’m just saying,” he declared around a mouthful of pretzels, voice slightly nasal from the salt, “what if she’s not coming back? Like, what if we scared her off?”

“You didn’t scare her off,” Dustin said immediately, eyes rolling like he’d rehearsed this rebuttal. “She’s coming. Eddie said she was. Reese Halverson doesn’t flake. She’s probably… staring at a tree or blessing her dice or something.”

Mike snorted, flicking a die between his fingers. “Honestly? I didn’t think I’d like playing with a girl. No offense. But she’s actually… kinda cool. Like if Emily Dickinson and Merlin had a daughter.”

Garett squinted at him. Kevin stopped mid-crunch.

“What?” Mike said, deadpan. “I grew up with Will.”

Jeff grinned and began rearranging his figurines with the kind of concentration usually reserved for bomb defusal or miniature golf. “She’s definitely cooler than us . If she doesn’t come back, I vote we just cancel the campaign out of shame.”

Kevin snorted again. “Pfft. If she does come back, one of you should ask her out.”

He nudged Gareth with an elbow. “You should do it, man. You’ve got that whole moody quiet thing goin’ for you. Chicks eat that up.”

Garett stiffened—just slightly. Enough that someone paying attention might catch it. He tossed a D8 across the table with unnecessary force and muttered,

 “...Nah. She’s… not really my type.”

He landed on it like he’d found his point halfway through speaking.

Eddie caught the glance that followed—quick, almost involuntary. Gareth’s eyes twitched toward him, barely a beat, before dropping again like nothing had happened.

But it had. 

Eddie didn’t move. One Reebok propped on the table, fingers idly worrying the corner of his DM screen. On the surface, he looked checked out. But inside, the gears were turning. Gareth’s glance. Reese’s smile. The room felt strung too tight—like even the chips might snap.

Kevin, blissfully unaware of anything deeper than his snack cravings, leaned back in his chair again.

“What are you, gay?”

Dustin scrunched his nose, already halfway irritated. “Okay, first off? That was lame in like… twelve dimensions.” He grabbed a die from the table and chucked it across at Kevin.

“And second—don’t talk initiative when you’re still rolling Nat 1s on perception.”

Kevin blinked, clearly confused. “What?”

“Exactly.” Dustin muttered, already reaching for his can of Tab.

Mike let out a snort.

Gareth didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Dustin hadn’t defended him directly. But he’d cut the thread. Just enough for things to move on.

And Eddie? Eddie clocked all of it. Quietly. His thumb brushed the corner of his map, eyes flicking once to Gareth—then back down.

Because Dustin didn’t know what he’d just done.

But Eddie did.

And somewhere behind it all—
Reese. Her voice still echoing faintly in his head from last week. The way she’d smiled. The way she’d meant it.

He thrummed the tab of his can, and said passively, “Let’s keep the hormones and high school hierarchy out of the initiative order, yeah?”

And right then—
The door clicked open.

In she came, windblown, cheeks flushed from cold or hurry or both. Her plaid skirt swished with each step like it had a rhythm of its own. She looked breathless, windblown… but still unmistakably herself. Composed, but carrying a glow like the outside air hadn’t quite let her go.

“Gee, sorry guys, ” she said, barely halfway across the room, “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting—”

The words tumbled out unpolished, apologetic, but not frazzled. She was still catching her breath, still half in whatever world she'd come from. Everyone at the table had turned to look, but for a second, no one said a thing. Like they'd all been interrupted mid-sentence by something just a little enchanted. She gasped for breath but tried to quiet it. She accidentally brushed Lucas’s shoulder with her bag as she passed, and whispered a quick “sorry ” to him as she continued to her seat.

“There was this—barn owl,” she continued, wide-eyed, almost like she needed them to believe her. “It was— the tree by the lot. Just… sitting there. Y’never… See those—” she cut herself off with a small gesture, fingers flicking through the air like she’d waved the thought away—too much to explain, or maybe beside the point now.

Eddie hadn’t moved. His fingers were still curled around a D20 mid-spin. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it until the click of plastic stopped, held motionless in his palm.

She really had been staring at a tree.

When Dustin said that earlier, it’d sounded like a joke. Something sweet and weird, maybe exaggerated for effect. But no. She’d been late because she saw an owl. A real one. Like she’d stepped out of a storybook and paused on the way back in.

She slipped into the seat beside Dustin, still holding her folder like it might explain her lateness for her. She nodded once toward Eddie—polite, soft, and somehow still full of that quiet, unmistakable gravity: you see me, and I see you.

He gave her the smallest nod back. Just enough.

Dustin had already leaned toward her.

“Wait— barn owl? In broad daylight?!”

“Was it hunting?” Mike asked, skeptical but intrigued.

Jeff grinned. “Tell me you cast ‘Animal Friendship.’”

Kevin muttered around a mouthful of pretzels, “Okay but like… was the owl real or Druid real?”

That broke the spell.

Eddie finally leaned forward, dragging his attention back to the present, the map, the game. He set his can down with a soft clack. Cleared his throat like he was resettling into character—but the warmth in his voice betrayed him.

“You’re late, Halverson,” he said, “Party morale was dangerously low.”

Then, quieter. Not quite teasing. Something gentler nested in the spaces between.

“…But I guess we can forgive you. Assuming you turned it into a carrier owl.”

The boys laughed.

Reese just smiled, her fingers already reaching for her pencil. The game hadn’t even started yet, but the story—whatever strange shape it was taking—was already well underway.

Eddie swept a hand toward the map like a magician unveiling the final act. His whole body changed—shoulders squaring, voice dropping, slightly croaky like he had spent fourty years trenching through mud and living off of pottage. His eyes alight with a gleam that belonged onstage or in the pages of a very old book.

“The village of Valehollow is under siege by smoke and sorcery,” he intoned. “Our heroes stand at the edge of the forest, battered but breathing. Behind them, the shadows curl. Ahead, the townsfolk panic—bolting toward the cliffs like lemmings with a death wish. ”

He paused for effect, then tipped his head toward Reese, his voice curling into something drier.

“Unless, of course … someone decides to conjure a ten-foot spectral goose. Dealer’s choice.”

The table chuckled.

Dustin leaned toward her with the kind of wide-eyed certainty only a freshman with good instincts could have.
“You’re so gonna roll another nat twenty. I feel it.”

Reese smiled, but it wasn’t cocky. She tucked her hair behind one ear, and tried to ignore the way her sock was slipping inside her boot. She rolled up the sleeve of her ink sweater like it might make her luck stronger, and picked up her dice.

Her eyes flicked to Eddie’s—just briefly—and for a moment, there was no map, no campaign, no drama room. Just the space between them, stilled like the hush before a first note.

Then she rolled.

The die clicked across the table.

And landed on a sixteen.

Jeff let out a whoop, “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, baby!”

Dustin grinned, braces gleaming. “Told ya.”

Eddie let out a low chuckle and rubbed a thumb across the edge of his DM screen like he was smoothing out the grin tugging at his mouth. Then he leaned forward, voice slipping into character—rich, a little theatrical, but soft around the edges.

“Lady Fluttershy steps forward—staff in hand, voice steady, presence quiet but absolute.”
He glanced at her, just for a beat.
“She speaks peace, not command. And somehow, they listen.”

There was a pause. Not of hesitation—just a breath held in reverence.

“The townsfolk—still trembling—don’t run. Not yet.”

She shifted, aiming to cross her legs with quiet triumph—only to accidentally kick Mike under the table. She stilled, cheeks flushing. Not enough to apologize out loud, but enough that if he’d looked up, he’d know it wasn’t on purpose.

The table was a battlefield, and not just on the map.

Tokens stood scattered around a crumbling village square, the paper beneath them smudged with pencil and thumbprints. Smoke coiled from the ruined temple at the north end, drawn in faint gray ink that blurred where someone had smeared it. Two hellhounds barred the alleyway. The Black Knight, faceless and massive, held the high ground.

Dustin stared at the scene like it might shift if he looked hard enough.

Dustin muttered a string of curses under his breath—barely audible, but frantic enough to register. “I don’t know what to do! ” His breath hitched somewhere between panic and logic, like he was trying to outthink a fire with a water gun.

“Dude, do something!” Lucas snapped, half-rising from his seat.

“Shut up Lucas.” Dustin muttered, eyes locked on the board.

 “Don’t be a pussy, just cast something!”

Dustin jerked back like he’d been slapped. “SHUT UP Lucas! I’m thinking—”

“You’re just sitting there!”

“And YOU’RE NOT HELPING!” He raved. This was by far the most worked up she’d seen Dustin. She bit back a laugh.

The air sparked with heat—adrenaline, boyish bravado, and the intensity of a campaign moment gone real. Jeff leaned forward. Mike made a noise, frustrated and anxious. Kevin had gone unusually still.

But Eddie?

Eddie just watched.

Not the map. Not the hellhounds. Not even the bickering. He watched her.

Reese hadn’t moved.

She wasn’t shrinking or retreating or awkwardly trying to disappear into the floor. Just… sitting there, hands folded on her lap, eyes tracing the field like a general waiting for her turn. Her cheeks were redder than usual. She bit back a smile—not gleeful, but sheepish, almost like she was the one who’d been caught swearing.

But still.

Still, something in him twisted.

He cleared his throat—not loud, but enough. The kind of sound that shifts a room’s gravity.

“All right, all right.” Eddie said half-annoyed, half-playful, like slipping a blade back into its sheath. “Enough. This is Vallehollow. Not a locker room. If anyone’s gonna die in the next sixty seconds, it’s gonna be fictional.”

The table quieted.

Dustin stared down at his sheet.

Then—sudden, almost desperate—“I cast Grease! Under the hounds. Try to trip ‘em up before they charge.”

He rolled.

The die clattered.

Eddie leaned forward, checking.

“…They slip,” he said, grin returning like a tide. “One skids sideways into the wall. The other eats cobblestone. Nicely done.”

Dustin exhaled like he’d just escaped a landslide.

Eddie looked up, eyes flicking to Reese—and something in him caught. Like her name carried more weight now, like he needed to say it right.

“Lady Fluttershy,” he said, voice rich and steady… “one of your companions bleeds. Your allies are spent. Your god is listening.”

He tapped the table once.

“Make it count.”

Reese tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes sweeping the battlefield with delicate precision. One hellhound still writhed in Dustin’s magical slick—gnashing teeth and claws flailing—while the other regained its footing, smoke leaking from its maw like a warning.

She glanced once at Dustin’s character—bloodied, breathing hard, clinging to consciousness by a thread.

“I cast Cure Wounds ,” she said softly, steadying the die in her palm. “On our brave bard, who tried to drown the hounds in bacon grease.”

Dustin grinned faintly.

She tossed the die.

It bounced once. Twice.

Landed.

Two.

Not enough.

The table didn’t erupt. Just a beat of silence. A few sighs. Reese blinked, then glanced down like she could will it into being something higher. But it was still a two.

There was a pause.

Eddie leaned forward theatrically, one elbow on the table, the other hand pressed to his chest like a preacher on the verge of an altar call.

“Oooooh,” he cried, drawing it out with an impish wince. “Lady Fluttershy has… displeased her god.”

He flipped to her page with mock solemnity. “The heavens stir. And instead of healing light, your hands summon… boils. Festering, hissing, pustulent boils. ” 

Jeff let out a loud, dejected groan. “Come on!”

Dustin slumped sideways in his chair, wheezing. “I’m BOILING over here—”

“Rats,” Reese murmured with an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head.

“Not rats. Plague. There’s a difference.” Kevin said, monotonous and deadpan.

Reese’s eyes fluttered up across the table as she looked up from her character sheet, deadpan but droll. “Well. Old Testament behaviors call for Old Testament consequences.”

Mike actually laughed. A real one. “Guess your god’s got a thing for biblical punishments.”

Eddie snorted. “Careful. Next she’ll cast locusts. ”

Without missing a beat, Reese folded her hands neatly in front of her and replied, tone cool and faintly instructional: “Only if they skip the pupa stage. I don’t have the patience for complete metamorphosis.”

Lucas blinked. “What stage?”

Mike scrunched his nose. “Why does that word sound... gross?”

Dustin, already half out of his chair: “Wait. Locusts don’t have a pupa stage?”

Reese nodded, calmly. “They’re hemimetabolous. It’s egg, then nymph. No cocoon. Just progressively angrier teenagers.”

Jeff wheezed, nearly falling backward. “Oh my God. That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.”

Dustin was snorting. Kevin was giggling. Even Mike had gone red with laughter, muttering something about insect puberty. And Reese—Reese had just dropped a locust fact like it was the punchline to a joke only she could fully understand.

Eddie didn’t laugh right away.

He just looked at her.

There was that sharp, familiar jolt again—like someone striking a flint behind his ribs. She was laughing, but it was soft. Contained. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her sleeve like she needed something to hold onto. Her eyes had crinkled at the corners, light and unbothered.

God, he wanted to bottle that.

Instead, he tapped the eraser of his pencil twice against the edge of the table, the corners of his mouth twitching with something half-amused, half-awestruck. Then, as if he were muttering a spell to himself—something no one else was supposed to hear—he said it, looking at the table, under his breath.

“Arwen vanimelda, namárië.”

He didn’t expect her to understand. It was just a flourish. A throwaway joke for no one. Nerd-code for: you’re insane and brilliant and I don’t even know what to do with that. Some half-remembered Elvish line from the appendix of a book he’d read a dozen times too many, whispered like a benediction he didn’t know how to give in plain English.

But across the table, something changed.

She stilled—mid-laugh, mid-movement, mid-breath.

Just… stilled.

Her smile faded, not with confusion, but with something heavier. Slower. Her eyes were wide now, and impossibly focused, like someone trying to steady themselves through a tremor.

And she was looking at him.

Not through him. Not past him. At him.

Like the words had unraveled some secret string inside her, and now she didn’t know how to knit it back together.

Eddie’s smirk faltered.

He opened his mouth to make some follow-up quip—anything to break the sudden weight in the air—but it caught. Because she was still staring. Quietly. Almost reverently.

The kind of silence that felt holy.

Reese blinked once. Then again. Her lips parted just slightly, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Didn’t gush.

She just sat there, stunned.

Because she knew exactly what he’d said.
Exactly where it came from.
Exactly who had said it and why.

Arwen, Beautiful beloved. Farewell.

She knew that was what Aragorn had called Arwen in the last light of the world.
And Eddie—Eddie had just said it to her.
As a joke. A nod.
Or maybe not a joke at all.

She turned slowly back to her character sheet, the page trembling faintly beneath her hand. Her voice, when it came, was soft and distracted. She cleared it gently. “Um… whose turn is it?”

But her stomach was still somewhere on the floor or halfway across Hawkins.

And at the head of the table, diagonally left of her, Eddie was staring too—eyes narrowed now, curiosity sharp behind his lashes.

Because she got it.

Shit. Of course she did. 

And most of him was embarrassed. But a sliver of him, as silver and small and crescent-shaped as the moon outside, was happy she had.

And neither of them said a word.

But in the quiet that followed, it was suddenly very, very clear:

They were no longer just playing some stupid game on Fridays.

They were reading from the same book.

And neither of them had realized until now.
But oh… they knew it by heart.

Chapter Text

The first sound was a chair leg grating back from the table.

Then another. The clatter of dice gathered into velvet pouches or zippered into pencil cases. A chip bag rustled—half-eaten, rolled, forgotten. Someone muttered something about critical fails and cafeteria food. Someone else laughed too hard, probably just grateful for the tension breaking.

No one said anything about the moment that had just passed. Maybe they didn’t know what they’d seen. Or maybe they did, and didn’t want to touch it. Not yet.

Kevin clapped Dustin on the back. Mike launched into a debate about whether mimic chests could be benches and if those counted as furniture. Gareth twirled a pencil like a drumstick, then slipped out the door without fanfare. One by one, the others filtered away—hoodies on, dice bags jingling, voices overlapping again like nothing sacred had just happened.

Dustin lingered the longest. As he passed, his shoulder brushed Reese’s—casual, not careless. He gave her a grin. Good game, it said, like he wasn’t already rewinding every move she made.

And then he was gone.

The silence folded in, soft and total.

Reese exhaled slowly. Her hands moved on instinct, reaching for her hat, the soft cream one with the slouched crown. She’d made it herself. The stitches were uneven. A little too loose in spots. But it was still a hat.

She tugged it down over her ears, tucking loose strands of pale hair beneath it. Her hair never really cooperated. Not completely.

By his chair, Eddie hadn’t moved much. Still there. Not pacing. Not posing. Just there. Waiting. Like a breath held too long.

She looked over.

He tilted his head—barely. A silent question: Need a walk?

She didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Just smiled—small at first, lips closed. Then a glint of metal caught the light. A flash of braces like a secret she didn’t mean to show.

That was enough.

He slung his jacket over one shoulder and stepped into stride beside her. The door clicked shut behind them.

Outside, the air bit sharp, clean, and cold, the kind that slipped under every layer. Leaves skittered across the pavement like small, startled animals. The sky was bruised violet, the stars only just beginning to appear. The moon hung low and crooked, a silver comma in the dark. Eddie hunched into his jacket as they walked. His voice came quieter now, stripped of its usual performance.

"Do you always wear that?" He asked. "The hat. Or just on mystical Friday nights?" He cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck. Already regretting asking. “I just figured you’d be, I don’t know… immune to the cold or something.”

It was a dumb thing to say. But it said everything he hadn’t dared to: that she felt untouchable. Like gravity didn’t work the same way on her.

Reese let out a soft chuckle, her breath just barely fogging in front of her.

“No… not often. I made it a few months ago and just hadn’t worn it.” A shrug. “Figured tonight I should.” She tugged at the brim slightly. “Also… California blood,” she added, waving a hand in explanation.

He glanced over, catching the way the yarn brushed her temple, the way her hand moved like she was half-apologizing for needing warmth. “Ah,” he said. “The California blood affliction. Tragic.”

He adjusted the back of his collar—not because it needed adjusting, but because it gave his hands something to do. “Explains why you flinch every time a breeze exists. One gust of October wind and you’re bundled like you’re prepping for a mission to Antarctica.”

His tone was teasing. Gentle. The kind meant to walk beside someone, not in front.

They passed the sidewalk near the old oak tree. Eddie glanced up toward its branches, then back to her. “…That story earlier. The owl.”

He didn’t push. Just left the space open.

Reese smiled to herself and let her nostrils warm as she breathed out.

“Y’never really saw them in California. Not where I lived. Too loud. Too many streetlights. Even in the suburbs.”

She didn’t say too much concrete, not enough quiet , but it was in the pause. “But here…”

Her voice softened, “It was beautiful. Just sitting there like it owned the place. A king on his throne.”

She scratched her ear over her hat, the wool tickling her skin. The knit shifted gently. “There’s a lot of beautiful things in Hawkins we didn’t have in California.” The words felt like a confession. She quickly looked away, needing to stare at literally anything but his face after she’d said that.

She turned her gaze toward the bare tree by the road—the one where the owl had been.

“Wisdom. Intuition. Secrets,” she murmured.

Then, with a small, self-conscious laugh:

“Supposedly. Kinda on the nose, huh?”

She glanced at him.

Eddie was still. Not looking at the tree. Looking at her. Brows drawn—not in confusion or judgment, but concentration. Like he was reading something he didn’t want to mispronounce.

And what she’d said… it was still circling. Beautiful things. Secrets. Intuition.

They started walking again, Reese realizing how far behind they’d fallen.

“They mate for life, you know,” she said, glancing back as they reached her car.

“Most birds do.”

She didn’t reach for her keys. Just set her bag on the hood like last week.

“The males bring the females little rodents during courtship.”

She laughed—quiet and dorky—as the picture formed: a little owl in an apron, greeting her mate who had a critter in his claw.

That was all she could do. The idea had made more sense in her head. She looked at him again.

His eyes—deep brown, wide, round, and a little glassy; full of something—met hers.

“You kinda look like one,” she blurted, then immediately winced—half a second too late to take it back.

It was a compliment. But weird. Not her normal weird. Not safe, weird. Weird like… her heart had jumped the gun.

Eddie blinked. Then his grin spread, slow and unhurried. Like it had snuck up on him too.

"Oh yeah?" he said, tilting his head in a slow, exaggerated arc. Owl-like.

"Nocturnal tendencies. A little haunted. Always screechin’ about somethin’." He paused. "Guess that makes you a mouse, huh?"

Reese blinked. “What?”

“Yeah. That tracks.” His voice was quieter now, like he'd finally put something together he'd been building for some time. "Quiet. Skittish. Elusive." He gave her a sideways glance, something reverent flickering behind the grin. "Unreasonably cute."

“You’re saying I’m a rodent?” she asked, cocking a brow.

He grinned. “I’m saying if I’m a D20, you’re the dice tray.”

Reese giggled and rolled her eyes. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the girl who knew the word ‘locust pupa’ and ‘hemi-metabite’”

“Hemimetabolous. And it was a callback. Symbolism.”

“Yeah? What’s it symbolize?”

She thought for a second, before quickly shifting the question. “Maybe I’m the owl,” she offered suddenly, “and you’re the mouse?”

Eddie gave her a look. “Nah. Doesn’t work.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged, smirking a little. “You don’t hunt things. You tuck ‘em in.” Then blinked. “I mean—not that I’m trying to eat you or anything—”

“Ew.”

“—or hunt you—”

“Stop.”

“It was supposed to be poetic,” he said, hands up. “Not creepy.”

She laughed in disbelief, color blooming over her nose and cheeks like blood on snow.

And then he said it—so casually it nearly knocked her over:

"Church Mouse. That’s you. Like… you’re from a kids’ book. And have secret teaparties and eat muffin crumbs and talk to birds and sh—” He faltered. “Stuff,” he corrected quickly, like the word had been swapped midair.
Reese noticed. Of course she did. But she didn’t tease him for it.
She just looked at him like he’d given her something sacred.

"But not the scared-y kind that runs away from the cat. The kind that. Well. Lives in a church."

She wanted to bury her face in her sweater.

He laughed softly, leaning toward her without meaning to.

Then:

"You’re kind of… terrifying, you know that?" His voice was different now. Unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with nerves. "In a good way. Like... if sunbeams had teeth."

Reese’s smile faltered. Just barely. And the question—the one she’d been trying to bury, to be patient with—rose too quickly to stop.

It felt sudden. Urgent. Electric. Like lightning hit the pavement, and she was standing barefoot in the sparks.

She grinned. Giddy.

"That why you haven’t asked me out yet? You’re terrified?"

He blinked. Once. Hard. Stared at her. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again with a dry laugh.

"Okay. First of all— ouch ."

Then, shaking his head: "Second—what the hell, Halverson?"

His voice was light, but behind it, something had cracked open.

"You can’t just… drop that," he muttered. "Sayin’ stuff like that. Lookin’ like that."

He took a step closer. The kind of closeness that made things real.

"And I was… workin’ up to it. Like a normal person. With a plan. Kind of."

A beat. Then:

"You really wanna know why I haven’t asked?"

She didn’t speak. Just nodded. Once.

He let out a breath through his nose, planting his hands on his hips like he was bracing for something.

"’Cause I didn’t wanna mess it up," he said. "And because you’re…"

He scratched the corner of his jaw, words suddenly too big for his mouth.

"You’re different. Not in a bad way. Just—makes a guy think twice."

A wince.

"That sounded better in my head."

He didn’t back off. Let the moment breathe.

Then, without fanfare, a crooked smile like jam on warm toast, sweet and a little red and spread too fast to control:

"So… can I take you out sometime?"

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blush. She couldn’t—already too flushed. 

And then—God help her—she stuck out one elbow like a bad vaudeville act and declared:

“Most coitenly!”

It was unmistakably Curly. Nasal. Overcommitted. Awful.

She realized it immediately. Eyes wide. Hand flying halfway to her face.

But it was too late.

Eddie’s laugh exploded, sharp, sudden, helpless. He bent forward, bracing himself against her car.

" Jesus Christ, Halverson," he gasped. "That’s your yes?"

She groaned, burying her eyes behind little closed fists.

“I— panicked!”

“No, no. You’re on record now. That was an irrefutable Three Stooges impression.”

She let out a squeaky, half-whine, “Nooo.”

“No one’s ever done that before,” he said, grinning like he couldn’t stop.

She unfurled her fists, just a little, peaking through the holes like they were goggles. “I can do a really bad Moe, too.”

“Oh, I believe you. And I sincerely hope you never show me.”

But he didn’t stop smiling. Not even when her hat slipped sideways against her hair, and he reached up to fix it without thinking. Not even when the quiet came back and settled around them. 

He quickly realized what he was doing and finished the movement with a pull of the brim over her eyes. Like he could mask the sudden tenderness with teasing. She let out a quick, protesting ‘hey’  and fixed it without another word.

He just watched her.

At first, there was only a flicker—barely a smile. Just the hint of something behind her eyes, like she was bracing for mockery but couldn’t help the way her lips began to curve.

And then it bloomed. Not all at once—but slowly, like the petals of something rare, unfolding in real time.

Eddie forgot how to breathe.

 A smile that stuttered into being—shy, unsure, as if it snuck out before she could decide if it was safe. Her eyes dropped for a second. Lashes swept down like even they were bashful. And when she looked up again, she was glowing.

Soft, pink-cheeked. The metal of her mouth glinted faintly under the stars. Joy bleeding through the cracks of her composure like moonlight slipping through the seams of a handmade curtain

It wasn’t just pretty. It was honest.

Like the realest thing he’d felt in years had just landed in front of him. Wrapped in yarn. And braces. And radiance.

The wind stirred again—gentle, but enough to make her shiver where it snuck through the small gaps in her sweater. Reese tucked her chin down, still flushed, still smiling. The giddiness was starting to mellow into something quieter now—something that sat low and warm in her chest, like a secret she didn’t mind keeping.

She stepped around to the passenger side and unzipped the outer pouch of her bag.

“Hang on,” she murmured, rooting around. “I have… I think—yeah.”

She pulled out a spiral notebook—lined paper, the corner slightly bent from being shoved in with everything else. There was a faded sticker peeling at the edge, a horse wearing sunglasses, and as she flipped through the pages, in big black ink:

“Daddy has farts up his sleeve. He also has lots of burps. He can control them just like me!”

Eddie squinted. “Uh. Should I ask?”

Reese let out a giggle, shaking her head. “It’s a one-liner from my brother. Eamon. He made me promise to write it down so I wouldn’t forget.”

Eddie blinked. “How old is he?”

“Nine,” she said, grinning.

“Oh. Yeah, okay. That makes a lot of sense.”

He chuckled, eyes still on the notebook. “Kid’s got talent,” Eddie said, still eyeing the notebook. “Might steal that line for our next demo. Corroded Coffin could use more burps.”

She flipped to a clean page. Her handwriting was small and slanted, but neat enough. The kind of writing that made teachers forgive a late assignment. She scribbled down the number, hesitated, then—of course—drew a tiny owl. Just the face. Wide eyes. A slightly crooked beak. The outline of the face was more heart-shaped than it needed to be. It was intentional, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to notice.

She folded it once, then again, and held it out.

“In case you ever need my stats,” she said, her voice still light, still breath-warmed. “Off the battlefield.”

He murmured a soft ‘thanks’ before studying the notebook closer. “Figures—you’d have something for handing out your number or acing a pop quiz at a moment’s notice.”

She shook her head softly and then responded, “No. It’s for weird little thoughts. Most of it doesn’t make sense unless you’re me. Last page says, ‘Baby tomatoes or cherry tomatoes?’”

Eddie blinked again. Then squinted at her, like she’d just spoken in code.
“That’s not even a question,” he muttered—but he was smiling now, slow and baffled. He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe her.

“You’re a real trip, Halverson.”

Reese glanced up. Her smile curled slightly, almost shy.

“You said that last week.”

Eddie blinked. Then laughed under his breath, quietly, a little thrown.

“Did I?”

“Mm-hmm.” She looked down at her boots, scuffed the toe gently against the pavement. “After you asked why I played DND like that.”

“Huh.” His voice softened. “Guess I meant it both times.”

“Of course it is,” he said, grinning now as he took the slip of paper from her hand. His fingers brushed hers—barely—and lingered half a second longer than they needed to.

He looked down at the folded square. Ran a thumb over it. The little owl was staring back at him like it knew something he didn’t.

“You know, most people just write ten digits and call it a day, right?”

He looked at the owl again, then at her. “But you—you turn it into a whole… Reese thing. And I’ve only known you like… a week.”

Reese reached up to pull a stray hair that had caught her mouth in the wind. “Creation took six days,” she murmured. “The whole cosmos… wrapped up before you even sat down for Sunday dinner.”

He just looked at her, quiet and still, like he was seeing something he didn’t want to interrupt.

The wind tugged at her sleeve. Her hair caught the light, strands lit up like wheat under a streetlamp. And she wasn’t trying to be deep. That was the thing. She just was.

He blinked once. Twice.

“Okay,” he said, voice low now. “Well… now I have to make the next six days count.”

He tucked the paper into his jacket pocket—slowly, carefully. Like it might crumble if he wasn’t gentle, like if he blinked too hard, he'd wake up in his bed.

And when his hand dropped away, the smile that followed wasn’t wide or loud. It was the kind of smile you wear when something has already started changing you.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Reese looked at the car door. Checked the time on her wrist.

“I should… probably go. My mom—”

“Yeah,” Eddie said quickly. “Yeah, of course. Get home safe.”

He stepped back. Hands in his pockets now. Shoulders hunched against the chill.

Reese opened the door, then paused—one hand on the frame.

Her voice was softer this time. Not uncertain, just… full.

“I had fun tonight.”

Eddie gave a half-laugh, almost under his breath. “Yeah. Me too. Like, an unreasonable amount.”

She smiled again, her braces glinting under the streetlight. Then slid into the car, pulled the door shut, and started the engine.

Eddie stood there until her taillights disappeared around the corner.

Then pulled out the slip of paper again.

Read the number. Traced the owl with his thumb. The air felt colder with her gone now, even though she had been freezing herself.

And smiled like a guy who’d just found the last piece of a map he didn’t know he’d been trying to draw.

The porch light was still on when Reese pulled into the driveway.

Not the dim automatic one— the light. The one by the door, left on deliberately, by someone waiting.

She turned off the ignition, exhaled into the quiet.

Inside the car, the slip of notebook paper sat nestled in the smallest zipper pouch. She hadn’t looked at it since, but her fingers kept brushing it. Like her body didn’t want to forget.

She stepped out, the concrete of the driveway firm beneath her boots. The night air was colder here, more open without the school buildings to break the wind. She adjusted her sweater as she climbed the front steps.

The door was unlocked.

Of course it was.

She opened it gently and stepped inside.

The house smelled like clean laundry and the faintest trace of woodsmoke. Familiar. Safe.

And there—at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the grain, sleeves pushed up—sat her father.

Still in flannel. Still in boots. Still built like he could lift a tree with one arm and mean it.

His head turned slightly as the door shut behind her, looking up from his crossword. The overhead light caught the silver just starting to show at his temples.

He didn’t stand. Didn’t ask anything right away.

Just looked at her with those same cool, pale eyes she saw in the mirror every morning.

“Hey, Reesy,” he said softly. “You’re a little late.”

“I know.”

She set her keys on the hook. Toed off her boots.

“I would’ve called, but it all just… I forgot.”

His mouth curved, blonde mustache quirking with it. Not a smile. Just understanding.

“I figured.”

He leaned back slightly in the chair. The wood creaked under his weight.

“You okay?”

She nodded. Then paused. Her fingers curled slightly against the banister post.

“There’s… a boy.”

He blinked. Once. Then stilled.

“Oh,” he said.

Not like he was alarmed. Just noted.

Reese stepped into the kitchen slowly, cardigan sleeves pulled down over her hands.

“He walked me to my car tonight.”

Her voice was soft. Barely above the hum of the fridge.

“And?”

She looked down at the table. Then up at him again.

“And I like him. And I think he likes me. He’s—different.”

There was a quiet. Not awkward. Just full.

Then, he nodded. Once.

“You told your mama yet?”

Reese shook her head.

“I wanted to tell you first.”

His eyes softened. Just a fraction. Enough to register.

“Well. That’s something.”

He picked up his empty beer bottle. Turned it slowly in his hands.

“You got a name for this fella?”

“Eddie Munson.”

A pause.

Then, her father’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“The one with the hair?” Reese chuckled to herself, her eyes crinkling as she shook her head. Gosh, they really were in a small town now, huh?

And she responded, short and surprised. “Yes. The one with the hair.”

He gave a low chuckle. Then sobered, gently.

“He good to you?”

Reese nodded. “So far, yeah.”

“You feel safe around him?”

Another nod. This one steadier.

“He listens. Like… really listens.”

Her father’s jaw shifted slightly. Not tension. Just thought.

“That’s rare.”

“I know.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her.

“Your mama taught you to be kind,” he said quietly. “But don’t go forgetting what I told you, alright?”

Reese tilted her head.

“You get in a place where someone doesn’t respect you, don’t care what they say or how they look at you, don’t wait to get stranded. You get up and go. Y’hear me?”

She nodded. It stirred something in her gut. Not fear exactly, just a longing. A prayer. Please, God, don’t let that be what happens here.

“And if you do get stuck—if you ever do—don’t waste time being proud. Call home. I’ll come get you.”

A breath caught somewhere in her throat.

“I know, Daddy.”

He stood slowly. The chair scraped gently back against the floor. And when he wrapped her up in his arms, she felt the strength in them, not forceful, not rough. Just steady. Like a mountain doesn’t need to do anything to be there.

She buried her face in his shoulder. He’d always been tall. Well. Something like that didn't change. He’d towered over her as a child, and now he still did, as he stood in the dimly lit kitchen. Reese’s cheek brushed against his chest. She could hear his heart. Thup-thunk thup-thunk. Slow. Certain.

“I like him,” she whispered. “I really, really like him.”

“I know,” he said. “I can tell.”

She pulled back after a long moment. Wiped her face with her sleeve.

“I think I’m gonna pray about it.”

“You already did, didn’t you?”

Reese gave him a crooked smile.

“Yeah.”

“Atta girl. No such thing as too much prayer. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

He ruffled her hair, kissed the top of her head, and turned toward the hallway.

“I’m hittin' the hay. Don’t stay up too long, alright?”

“Okay. Night, Daddy.”

“Night, Reesy.”

And then he was gone—footsteps creaking gently down the hall.

Reese lingered in the kitchen a little longer, knuckles bracing herself on the table. Lit by the soft hum of the overhead light, heart still full. Then padded to her room in socks, her mind already replaying every second of the walk, the laugh, the folded slip of paper. Her fingers itched for her pen.

And for the first time in a long time, the word beginning didn’t feel like a metaphor.
It felt like home. Like the word behold.

Chapter Text

Reese’s triceps were burning.

Not from anything impressive. No daring rescue or gym class dramatics. Just… the braid.

The third attempt.

She gritted her teeth, arms lifted again at that awful angle, trying to fish the stubborn section of hair back into its twist. The bobby pin she'd wedged in for stability had already slipped, now lying at the edge of the vanity like a fallen soldier. She eyed it with quiet betrayal, as if it had given up before she did. Her wrists ached. Her arms were quivering. One more pass. One more pass. Just hold still—

She nearly gave up—tears already prickling, fingers half-shaking from the effort. But then it held. At last.

The knot was tied. Her hair was up. And though her hands still trembled faintly, she felt like she'd won a quiet battle no one else would ever see.

All’s well that ends well.

She leaned forward, resting her fingers on the dresser for balance. The mirror in front of her was smudged with fingerprints and ringed with clutter: pale hair ties, a chipped bottle of rosewater toner, her Sunday perfume. Around the edges, tucked into the frame, were pieces of her old life she’d recently unboxed and adorned her room with—sun-bleached clippings and paper-thin memories still holding on.

A four-leaf clover, pressed flat from a roadside stop last summer.

A playbill from a school musical she hadn’t even auditioned for.

And a curling photo strip—black and white, slightly yellowed—of her and Lois Arcilla.

In the second frame, Lois’s head was tipped all the way back, laughing at something Reese couldn’t remember. A sneeze? A hiccup? A joke? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that laugh. That wild, holy joy that never apologized for itself.

Reese looked at the photo for a long time.

She missed her.

Not just the easy friendship or the late-night drives or the way Lois knew every harmony to every hymnal without even trying. She missed the steadiness. The way Lois could be gentle and unmovable all at once—how her faith didn’t sway with the wind. How she reminded Reese, without ever meaning to, that forgiveness could be quiet and still made of steel.

Reese checked her watch.

4:55.

Drat.

She spritzed her perfume—just once— then waved her wrists through the cloud, patting them together and to her neck, the way her mom taught her. The scent clung to the inside of her wrists. Rose. Tea. And something almost… sun-warmed. Almost vanilla, but not as heavy. Like nectar. Or an orchard blooming beside a river.

She looked back to the mirror. Smoothed the hem of her soft pink sweater. Her embroidered kittens peeked out like they were whispering secrets from the hemline. She dabbed her lips once more with the coral-stained tissue and practiced the smile. Not too big. Not fake. Not too—

“Hi,” she tried. “Thanks for driving out here.”

Then groaned. “He’s not a taxi, Reese.”

She tried again. “So… how was the drive, Munson?”

She pulled a face. “This is so lame. You’re not interviewing him for the paper.”

Another try: “Hey, Ed, how’s it goin’?”

She stopped and had to hold back a laugh of pure embarrassment.  “I sound like I'm auditioning for 'Oliver!'” She buried her face in her hands and groaned into her palms.

And that’s when she heard it.

A giggle.

Reese froze.

Snapped around.

Standing in the doorway—already leaning against the frame like he’d been there for a while—was Eamon. All nine years of him. Blonde, scruffy, scrappy. Wearing mismatched socks and a smug grin that said he knew exactly what he’d walked in on.

“Ohhh Eeeeeeeddddie,” he swooned, clasping his hands to his chest with an exaggerated blink. “I looooooove you soooo much. Will you be my boyyyyfriend?”

“EAMON!” she shrieked, grabbing her purse from the bed. “I told you stay OUT.”

Eamon just snickered, utterly unbothered. “You’re talking to yourself.”

“I was— collecting myself.” she snapped, as she marched toward him.

“For your boyyyyyfriend?” he grinned.

She lunged at him, but he quickly ducked backwards into the hall. She didn’t stop walking until she’d cornered him near the linen closet.

With a smirk, she reached out, hooked a wet finger into his ear— “Gahh! Reese!” —and administered a swift, righteous wet willy.

Eamon screamed like a banshee, only for Reese to urge him to ‘shhh!' 

She leaned in, still grinning, a smile like bitter fig wine, and dropped her voice to a whisper.

“You leave Eddie alone,” she warned. “Or he’s gonna tell the gremlins to get you. Tonight.”

Eamon blinked. “The nice ones?”

Reese raised both brows. “The evil ones.”

Eamon went stiff. Then bolted.

“Mommy!!” he wailed, socked feet slapping down the hallway.

Reese just shook her head, wiped her finger on a tissue from her bag, and turned toward the front of the house.

5:01.

Just enough time to fix her braid four the fourth time in the hall mirror.

The bathroom mirror gave him a once-over, and Eddie gave it one right back—mutual disdain.

The collar of his band shirt was doing something weird—folded on one side, refusing to sit right. He adjusted it. Then again. Then gave up and threw his flannel over it to hide the whole situation. Less distressed than usual. No holes. No mysterious stains.

He caught a faint whiff of aftershave at the collarbone—faint, but there. Just enough to notice. That, plus the freshly washed hair, plus the fact that he was wearing a shirt that hadn’t been used as a tourniquet in the last year…

Yeah. He was trying.

He thought about throwing the leather on top. Just for balance. Just to say, See? Still me. Still a guy who steals street signs and eats cold waffles standing in the kitchen.

But then he thought about Reese. The way she looked at things. Like gentleness wasn’t some endangered animal but a real part of the world. She made him feel… hopeful. Which was disgusting. And confusing. And kind of hot.

Fine. He was a sap. A full-blown, cream-puff, guitar-strumming fool.

But he was still bringing the vest. He hadn’t gone that soft.

But Wayne would say he was overdoing it.

He ran a hand through his hair for what felt like the twentieth time, fluffing the curls where they flattened weird. He’d washed it. Air-dried it. Tried to ignore it. But now, five minutes before he had to leave, it looked like a half-crushed halo. No fixing it now.

He leaned closer to the mirror. Checked his teeth. Checked his eyes.

“Well don’chu look like you’re ‘bout to meet the president,” came a voice from behind him.

Eddie flicked his eyes toward the reflection—and turned.

Wayne stood in the doorway, arms crossed. It was Sunday, which meant no work uniform. Just jeans and an old tee. His face unreadable, as always, though the corners twitched with quiet amusement—like he’d been standing there a while, watching the spiral.

Eddie straightened. “No I don’t.”

Wayne lifted a brow. Said nothing.

“I’m just…” Eddie rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t wanna smell like cigarettes. Or look like one.”

Wayne nodded once, like that made sense.

Then: “You takin’ the van?”

“Was gonna.”

Another nod.

Then Wayne’s eyes narrowed—just slightly.

“What?” Eddie asked.

Wayne tilted his head. “This girl. She a good girl?”

Eddie blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s...”
“She’s just… different. In a good way. Like—soft, but not fake. Real kind. Real sharp.” He shrugged. “Talks weird. Makes me think too much. I dunno.”

Wayne didn’t answer. Just watched him.

Then, evenly: “She love her daddy?”

Eddie nodded. “Oh yeah.” A half-smile tugged at his mouth. “Probably still in her church clothes.”

That got the tiniest twitch from Wayne. Approval, maybe.

He stepped over to the pegboard by the back door and pulled down a set of keys.

Held them out.

“Take the truck.”

Eddie blinked. “Seriously?”

Wayne nodded.

Eddie took them—both hands, like they might disappear. “You sure? What if you need—”

“Don’t need it.” Wayne scratched at his beard. “You’re tryin’ to make a good impression, son. So make it.”

Eddie stared for a second. Quietly: “Thanks.”

Wayne shrugged like it was nothing. But Eddie knew better.

He turned to go, then paused. “Hey—can I take some of that firewood you stacked out back?”

Wayne gave him a look—Boy, what kind of date is this—but nodded.

Eddie loaded the bundle he’d prepped earlier: blankets, foil-wrapped food, peanut butter saltines, other assortments in Tupperware. His heart was beating fast now—not with stage fright. With don’t-screw-this-up.

The truck waited in the drive. A little dusty. Solid. Honest. A hell of a step up from the rust-bucket chariot he usually arrived in.

He climbed in. Hands on the wheel. Checked the mirror one last time.

And drove.

The sky was mauve now—like someone had blown too hard on a watercolor. October stretched long and cold across the trees. A few brave stars peeked through the fading light like steady little heralds, blinking over the roofs of Hawkins.

Wayne’s truck idled at the curb.

Inside: two wool blankets folded with care. A brown paper bag sat on the seat beside him—slightly over-crisp grilled cheese, peanut butter saltines, cinnamon toast still warm in foil. Not fancy. Just honest.

Eddie held a single daisy between his fingers.

Not a bouquet. Just one. Long-stemmed, uneven. Like it had been plucked from somebody’s yard on the way over.

Which, well—yeah.

He didn’t walk up right away.

Just stood at the edge of the short driveway, hands twitching, staring at the door like it might talk back.

This wasn’t some gig-night makeout behind the gym. Wasn’t a dare from a bored girl. Wasn’t one of those in-between flings that pretended not to be pity until they ended it with “bad timing.”

This was Reese Halverson.

The girl who said owls mate for life.

And he had… cinnamon toast.

Eddie rolled his shoulders. Shook out the nerves. Dragged a hand through his curls, letting them go wild this time.

The rings on his fingers caught the porch light as he moved—little starbursts, guiding him forward.

He walked toward the door.

One step at a time.

Like they were gonna remember how he walked them.

He raised his knuckles.

Three soft raps.

A beat.

Another.

Then—movement inside. Footsteps. A whisper of fabric. Someone came to the door.

And Eddie stood still, breath tight, holding the daisy and a little bit of hope.

And there she was.

A painting.

A hymn.

Something from the kind of story you weren’t sure if you dreamed or read aloud once in a whisper.

Her hair was pulled back just a little, braided across the crown like a circlet—simple, careful, and quietly lovely. The kind of thing most people wouldn’t notice. But of course he did. Of course he would.

Her sweater looked soft—the same warm color as her cheeks, with tiny embroidered kittens curled along the hem like they were hiding from the cold. Beneath it, a pale dress—cream, maybe—dotted with little pink flowers, the kind you pressed between Bible pages and forgot until Easter.

Her cheeks were flushed a warm, uncertain orange—not quite peach, not quite rose. Just a little different than her usual glow. Even from the porch he could smell her—something floral, yeah, but older too. Like honey warmed on a windowsill. Like springwater sealed in a mason jar and tucked in the back of the fridge. She didn’t smell like perfume. She smelled like a memory.

She looked like the kind of girl who came to the edge of your field to pick wildflowers, and you just stood there in your busted-up boots—muddy and dumbstruck—watching.

And never telling her to stop.

And all Eddie Munson could say was:

“…Holy hell, Reese.”

His eyes went wide the second the words left his mouth. “I mean—uh—holy crap. Sorry, I just—”

He shoved the daisy forward like it might bail him out. “This is for you. It’s not much, but… it survived the journey.”

The smile that tugged at his mouth was sheepish, slightly crooked—like something he hadn’t used in a while.

To think. This was the same guy who barely looked her way in the hall two weeks ago.

Reese smiled—slow, a little stunned, like her body hadn’t quite caught up to her heart. Her fingers reached out and accepted the flower like he’d handed her a sparrow,

“Thank you,” she murmured, soft as breath. He didn’t know if she meant the flower or the words.

Probably both.

She lifted it to her nose—not to smell it, but to see it. Her brows drew in slightly, thoughtful.

“Bellis perennis," she said. “They don’t really have a scent. But they’re good for tea.” Then her eyes met his again, steady this time, voice clear: “They mean purity. Innocence. New beginnings.”

Eddie blinked. Then let out a low breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That… tracks.”

She looked like something you’d try to write down and never get right. And here she was, standing in the doorway. Looking at him like he was the strange one.

He squinted at her, cocking his head. “How do you even… know that? About bugs. And tea. And flowers.”

Reese tilted slightly against the doorframe. Shrugged. Her fingers ghosted the edge of her purse like she was grounding herself.

“I read a lot. And I grew up outside more than in.”

She smiled up at him then—bright but wry—like he wasn’t allowed to keep looking at his shoes anymore.

“But don’t ask me to name a single Megadeth album,” she added. “Or explain how a Dungeon Master doesn’t get lost in all those rules.”

Eddie let out a bark of laughter. “That’s ‘cause we make half of ‘em up.”

That made her laugh—real and wide, a flash of metal catching the porchlight. Her braces, gleamed like a secret. Like a dare.

“Well,” she said, still giggling, “then I guess we’re both experts.”

For a second, the world paused.

The porchlight buzzed faintly above them. The stars blinked overhead like steady little pulse points. The air between them felt folded. Quiet. Like the part of a record just before the chorus.

Reese shifted slightly, then turned toward the door. She hesitated.

Then leaned in.

Her voice was soft. Warm. Just a little shy. “Do you… wanna come in to meet them? Just for a second?”

And then—closer still, breath brushing the collar of his flannel—she whispered, like it was a shared conspiracy:

“Unfortunately, you don’t really have a choice on the matter.”

That did him in.

She smelled like something soft and sweet again—like sweet bread and the snow you made into ice cream when you were ten. And he forgot, for a second, how to breathe.

Reese leaned back, smiling—not smug, but knowing. Like she’d just played the perfect move in some quiet game only she could see.

Then she reached for him—not his hand, but his wrist. Fingers curling there, gentle but sure. Thumb brushing the pulse beneath his skin.

God.

He wanted it to be his hand.

“Come on,” she said softly.

And she led him inside.

The door creaked open.

And it was like stepping into another world.

Not fancy. Not overdone. Just warm. Really warm. Not just from the heat of the oven or the faint bubble of chili on the stove—but something else. Something older. Something rooted.

The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread and sun-warmed laundry. A breeze of rosemary from the windowsill. A hymn, maybe hummed long ago, still seemed to cling to the walls.

Eddie stepped inside like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Knitted throws hung over the back of the couch. Hymnal pages were tacked across an archway with clothespins on a bit of twine. There were crosses—not too many. Just enough to feel seen. But not judged.

Then, the photograph.

Framed near the door like a memory that never left.

Reese—maybe fourteen. A soft smile, crooked and unbraced like she hadn’t learned how to pose yet. A blonde boy—Eamon, probably six at the time—grinning wide like he hadn’t yet learned what grief was.

And between them: a girl.

Brown hair. Like her mother. A big, toothy grin. Like she was about to make a silly face at the camera, but it had clicked before she could.

Eddie blinked. Felt a hush around it. Didn’t ask.

Because you didn’t ask.

And then movement.

The boy from the photo—now a little older—blonde like his sister, lying belly-down on the living room rug, pushing a toy dump truck along a path only he could see.

And Reese said it—gently, reverently, like it mattered.

“Mama, Daddy—this is Eddie Munson.”

And Eddie stood straighter than he had in his entire life.

Her mother stepped forward first.

Late thirties, maybe. Hair in a braid down her back, mousy brown but glowing a little in the warm light. Green eyes—not like Reese’s, but kind. Darker and warmer, but only the literal sense. She had a softness—but not weakness. No, this was a woman who had carried things. The kind of woman who could hold your face when you cried and still remember to set the timer on the oven.

She extended her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” she said, smiling like she meant it. “Thank you for picking her up. I hope she wasn’t giving you too much trouble on the doorstep.”

Her hand was warm. Soft, like she’d never held anything cruel in it. Or maybe she did all the time, but only for the purpose of turning it into something kind.

Eddie blinked. Panicked for half a second. Then recovered.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “She, uh—she stepped out like a dream. Like, honest to God. A dream with embroidered kittens.”

Her mother laughed. A small, startled sound. Not mocking. Just surprised.

Then came the father.

Taller than expected. Broad-shouldered. Callused hands. A green flannel shirt tucked into worn jeans. Eddie almost chuckled in his head. They were a real flannel-dotting Brady Bunch, huh?  

No beard—just a tidy mustache, trimmed above the corners of the mouth. He was the kind of man who could carry a log in one arm and a child in the other without flinching.

He crossed the room in three easy steps and extended his hand. His grip was firm. Not testing. Not posturing. Just… steady.

Eddie shook it.

Met his eyes.

Gray, like Reese’s. But older. Weathered. A little less forgiving. He could feel them pass over him once. His hair. His Iron Maiden shirt. His dark jeans. Gripping the rings on his fingers. Not judgement, not fully at least. The kind with purpose. He didn't squint or raise a brow.

“You know, son,” he said evenly, “my daughter doesn’t bring boys by often.”

He paused.

“And I don’t say that for your ego’s sake. Just so you know the weight of it.”

Eddie nodded. Swallowed.

Mr. Halverson continued, voice calm as a leveled beam:

“She’s thoughtful. Careful. Doesn’t waste her time or her heart. So I’ll ask once, and I expect a man’s answer.”

The house fell quiet. Even the chili on the stove seemed to hush.

“What are your intentions with my daughter?”

Eddie opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Swallowed once. Hard.

His throat felt dry. His hand still faintly buzzed from the grip of Mr. Halverson’s. He could hear the dump truck’s creaky wheels rolling behind him. Could feel Reese standing close, just behind his shoulder. Her presence like a quiet weight, anchoring him.

And then he looked up.

Met the man’s eyes. Reese’s eyes. Well. Technically the opposite—he’d called dibs first.

He snapped his thoughts back: Get your head in the game Munson. This isn’t a joke. 

And spoke.

“I’m not gonna pretend I’ve got it all figured out, Sir.” Eddie said, voice low but steady. “I don’t come from… this. From homes like this. From people who look out for each other just ‘cause they should.”

He took a breath.

“But I know what it’s like to want something good. And to be scared of messing it up. And your daughter—Reese—she’s… she’s good. Like, honest-to-God good. Not just nice, not just pretty. She’s… she listens. She makes things quieter. Clearer. She notices the kinds of things most people don’t even realize they’ve forgotten to see.”

Reese’s cheeks glowed as she glanced at the ground, hoping the sudden sting at her eyes might wick away before it revealed her. She hadn’t expected that—not at all. And thank heaven she stood behind him.

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, glanced down at his sneakers, then back up again.

“So I guess my intentions are… to not mess this up. To take it slow. To be worthy of the fact that she even looked at me twice.”

A beat.

“And if it ever stopped being good for her—even if she didn’t know it—I’d let her go. No guilt. No games. ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to be the reason somethin’ that bright ever dimmed.”

He stopped.

Let it hang there.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just… waited.

Like a man who meant every word.

Mr. Halverson stood there for a long beat after Eddie finished—silent, unreadable.

The only sound was the soft bubble-bubble of chili from the kitchen. And the plastic-y creak of Eamon’s dump truck wheels creaking back and forth across the rug like some ancient warning bell. God, someone needed to get that kid some WD-40.

Mr. Halverson didn’t nod.

Didn’t give a relieved sigh.

Didn’t do anything to make this easy.

He just kept looking at Eddie—eyes like pale slate, steady and level, like he was reading through the words straight down to the floorboards beneath them.

Then, finally:

“Edward…”
His voice wasn’t rough. Just plain. Grounded. Eddie blinked at the sound of it— Edward. It wasn’t how people said his name when they were mad. It was how they said it when they meant business. Like Mr. Halverson was addressing someone older. Someone who ought to rise to the occasion.

“You talk like a man,” he said, finally. “I can respect that.”

He shifted his weight a little. Crossed his arms—not like a threat, just… like someone turning something over in his mind.

“I won’t pretend I don’t wish you were a man of the Faith,” he said quietly. “That you read the Word. That when my daughter prays, the man beside her knows what it means to say ‘amen.’”

Another pause—this one heavier. Not judgment, but something closer to… longing. Sadness, maybe. Loss.

“But I raised Reesy to listen to the Lord,” he went on. “And I trust she does. So I won’t get in the way of her judgment.”

Then he stepped forward—not close enough to make Eddie flinch, but enough for the space between them to matter.

“She sees something in you,” Mr. Halverson said. “So I’ll be watching too.”

And there it was—a flicker in his eyes. Just a trace of something dry and sharp. Not cruel. Not performative.

Just truth.

“That don’t mean I’m gonna kill ya. Just means I’m a father. And she’s my baby girl.”

Another breath. This one slower.

“Be good to her. And be real with her. She’s got enough depth for both of you.” He looked at Reese,  his eyes softening a little.

He started to turn away.

Then glanced back.

“And you keep that Dio patch in check under my roof.”

Eddie’s stomach dropped a little. He glanced down—forgotten he was even wearing the vest with the patch that took up the entirety of his back.

But before he could apologize—

Mr. Halverson added, dry as dust:
“Because this is a Boston house.”

A beat. Then the tiniest smile tugged at the corner of his mustache. Mr. Halverson’s eyes lingered one second longer. Then he stepped back.

Eddie stood there for a second, eyebrows halfway up his forehead. Then let out a short breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“Boston,” he muttered under his breath. “Huh.”

He shook his head, still a little stunned, and turned back to where Reese had been standing the whole time, hands folded gently in front of her, twisting the silver ring on her finger, watching like she wasn’t going to interrupt the moment even if it killed her.

She gave him a look. A hopeful smirk, warm. Lightly amused.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded, still recovering. “Yeah. I think I just got… spiritually hazed. But yeah.”

They were nearly to the door when Eddie felt it again—
That invisible tether between them.
Her hand, not quite touching his this time, just hovering. Like a whisper. A memory of the way her fingers had curled around his wrist minutes ago. Still steady. Still grounding. Like she didn’t need to reach for him to steady him anymore—just being near was enough.

Then—
The faint rumble of plastic wheels across a rug.

Eddie glanced down.

Eamon had followed.
The little blonde figure rolled into view at the edge of the hall, clutching his dump truck like it held national secrets. He stared up at Eddie—eyes scanning upward, slow and methodical. The hair. The vest. The rings. All of it.

He tilted his head.

He looked like he couldn’t quite decide if Eddie was a vampire… or a rockstar.
Maybe both.

And then, in a voice so sincere it nearly knocked Eddie sideways:
“Are you her boyfriend?”

Eddie’s mouth opened—no sound, just sheer panic.

But before anything could fall out—

“We’re going on a date,” Reese said breezily, already reaching out to ruffle her brother’s straw-blond hair. “That okay with you, Cupid?”

Eamon blinked once. Nodded like it was a matter of national approval.
Then turned back toward his truck.

“See you later,” Reese called as she stepped out onto the porch. “Love you. And stay outta my room.”

“Fine,” came the monotone reply. “I already read your diary anyway.”

Reese froze.
Pivoted halfway back through the doorway.

“You what —”

Eamon shrugged one shoulder, nonchalant. Still gripping the truck.
“And yous wanna kiiissss Eh—”

SLAM.

Reese shut the door before Eamon could get the full sentence out.

The air outside hit like a benediction.

Eddie stood there for a second, blinking—like he’d been hit by a warm gust of something holy. A stunned half-smile curved at the corner of his mouth.

He cleared his throat, his voice low and too innocent to be real.

“So uh… what was that about wanting to kiss someone?”

Reese made a noise—somewhere between a groan and a whimper—and walked a few steps ahead, cheeks flaming.

“Shut up, ” she muttered, but he could hear the grin buried in it.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

He was already trailing after her.

She nodded toward the truck. “That yours?”

“Borrowed,” he said, eyes still fixed on her. “I was gonna take the van, but… Uncle Wayne said I should make a good impression. So.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Truck it is.”

Reese’s gaze flicked to the brown paper bag visible through the window. “Is that food?”

“Technically.”

She laughed—soft and sudden, like leaves rustling just before they let go.

“Then I’m sold.”

Eddie smiled. Really smiled. Then walked around to open the passenger door, letting it creak wide before her.

She climbed in, smoothed her skirt, and settled back with a quiet kind of grace.

As he rounded the front and dropped into the driver’s seat, he shot her a look, playful and curious.

“So… Boston, huh?”

Reese smirked. “You liked that , didn’t you?”

“Oh, I’ll be unpacking that one for weeks, Halverson. Boston?” He shook his head, mock-affronted. “Your dad gives a whole ‘what-are-your-intentions’ speech like he’s about to exile me from the kingdom, then drops More Than a Feeling like it’s doctrine.”

She laughed and tugged her dress a little over her knees. “He can be intense.”

Eddie glanced over—she didn’t sound defensive. Just… matter-of-fact.

“He means well,” she said, softer now.
“He used to be the fire chief. Back in Monterey. Beach town. Small, not like Hawkins though. ‘Bout a hundred miles south of San Francisco.”

“What changed?” Eddie asked, easing onto the main road.

She hesitated. Not awkwardly. Just… deliberately.

Reese tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the trees blur past the window.

“The fires never got colder,” she said. “And he didn’t want us to burn with him.”

Eddie glanced at her. She wasn’t being dramatic—just distilled. Like there was a novel’s worth of story behind that one line.

“So,” she went on, “He got offered a job in Parks and Rec here. Mama didn't wanna come at first but... she came around when she saw how bad daddy wanted to. Y'know. Move somewhere as far away from California as possible. In spirit, anyway.”

“Hawkins,” Eddie muttered. “Yeah. That tracks.” He paused. “You like it here?”

He expected a no. Maybe even a God, no. Because Hawkins was, well… Hawkins.

But she surprised him.

“I actually do,” she said. “Not all of it. But some. How quiet it is. The way the air smells like wood sometimes. And… you see cows.”

Eddie laughed—short and startled. “You like cows?”

“I like seeing them,” she replied with a little shrug. “You had to drive a while to see cows back home. They weren’t just… hanging out every few blocks.”

That pulled another laugh from him—this one sharper, more real.

Of course she liked the cows.
Of course.

She turned slightly in her seat, her chin tipped toward the windshield.

“I miss hearing the ocean. But… the stars make up for it. That’s my favorite part, stars,” she said. Her voice had gone soft again, like she wasn’t quite talking to him.

“You can see all sorts out here. It… makes me think of God. Like little pinpricks. Like Heaven’s leaking through.”

Eddie looked over at her. And for a second—just a breath—everything in his chest went still.

Then she glanced at him.

Her eyes caught the dash lights just enough to shine.

“Even if they’re technically just… space farts.”

He blinked. “Space—what?”

“Space farts,” she said solemnly. “Big balls of hot gas. Burning light-years away.”

And then she giggled. Not a laugh—a full-blown, shoulders-lifting, nose-wrinkling giggle.

Like a ten-year-old who knew exactly how ridiculous she was.

And Eddie—God help him—had to grip the steering wheel tighter to stop himself from pulling over and kissing her right then and there.

Instead, he forced his eyes forward and muttered, “You’re ridiculous.”

Reese beamed. “You like it.”

“I hate how much I like it.”

She leaned a little closer, whispering with mock-reverence: “Space farts.”

Eddie shook his head, grinning despite himself.

This girl.

This girl.

Was going to wreck him.

And he was already grateful for it.

Chapter Text

They were still laughing when the truck rolled up to the next red light.

The kind of laugh you try to smother and can’t—Reese ducked her chin like she was suddenly embarrassed by her own joke, Eddie shook his head like he couldn’t believe her. Like, God, this girl.

Then, slowly, the quiet settled in again.

Not heavy. Just that soft kind of quiet that follows something easy and light. The engine hummed beneath them. The Black Sabbath tape in the silence between songs. Faint clinks rose from the pavement under Wayne’s old tires.

Eddie tapped the brake. Brought them to a smooth stop.

That’s when it happened.

A pickup slid up beside them on the passenger side.

Not fast.
Not loud.
Just… there.
Like a shadow crossing the edge of a fairy tale. The kind that doesn’t roar in with horns and fire—but creeps in soft, like fog. Like a wolf pretending to be a man.

Reese didn’t look.
Didn’t need to.

He felt it before he even turned his head. The shift in her.

Like a thread pulled tight. Like a page creasing in the middle of a story.

Her shoulders drew in just slightly, folding like wings, unsure whether to take flight. Her fingers tightened on the paper bag in her lap. Her eyes—pinned straight ahead, lashes still. No blink. No breath.

He looked.

Men. Older. Late twenties, maybe.
Indianapolis Indians cap. Scruff. Faded camo jackets with Coors logos.

They didn’t say anything.
That was what made it worse.

They just sat there, bathed in the red wash of the streetlight like it was a warning flare.
Not moving. Not smiling. Just… watching.

Their eyes moved slowly across the window, lazy and deliberate. Not like they were seeing a girl. Just sizing up something behind glass. Like hunters, waiting for the right twitch.

The kind of red that didn’t blink. The kind that hung too long.
The kind you’d see outside the witch’s house, right before the woods swallowed you whole.

Eddie’s jaw ticked once.

He looked away.

Turned the volume knob up one notch—barely audible. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to draw a line. This cab is ours. The quick-paced thrums of Paranoid warbled out in the cab, and though it did nothing to slow Reese’s heartbeat, it did help her focus on something else.

Then, eyes still ahead, voice low:

“You alright?”

Reese gave a small nod. But not one that convinced him.

“I’m…” she started. Her voice caught. She cleared her throat. Then tried again, soft and practiced. “I’m sort of used to it. I think they just want a reaction, so… I try not to give ‘em one.”

He didn’t say anything right away.

Just flexed his fingers once on the steering wheel. Not a fist. Just a twitch. Her voice—how steady she kept it. Like she was already trying to make him feel better. That was the part that gutted him.

He glanced over.

She still hadn’t looked at the truck. Wasn’t going to.

Quiet now, not casual, he murmured. “They better hope I don’t give ‘em one.”
It wasn’t a threat exactly. Just a leak of something tight and raw—like a string pulled too hard under his ribs.

He shifted in his seat. Rested his elbow on the windowsill. Jaw tense, but breath even.

“You shouldn’t have to be used to that.” He said it quickly, without flair. Like he was talking about a busted amp that needed fixing. 

The light turned green.

He didn’t floor it. Just eased forward. Smooth. Measured. Purposeful.

The pickup turned right, and they continued straight. 

It wasn’t until they were a few blocks out that Eddie spoke again.

“I meant it, y’know.”

Beat.

“I’m not gonna just let stuff like that slide.”

He paused. Took a slow breath in.

“I just… hate the idea of anybody lookin’ at you and thinkin’ they’ve got the right to.”

That’s when she reached over.

Light, just a brush—her fingers against the back of his hand, then resting there like a bookmark. Like she was pausing what was hurting.

“I know. Thank you.” Her voice was soft. Real. Like they’d been dating for years, and she knew exactly the kind of man he was. “I’m okay. Really. Let’s forget them.”

She leaned in just slightly, her shoulder tilting toward his.

“You’re the one on the actual date with me, right?” Then—smirking—“If it’s worth anything.”

Eddie glanced at her, then down at her fingers still grazing his.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s worth something.”

And he meant it like a vow.

By the time they pulled up, the last trace of daylight had bled out into the hills. The sky above was bruised violet and coal blue, swallowing the last edges of the horizon.

Reese stepped out of the truck with a soft clunk of boots on gravel, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dark. The clearing stretched ahead, wide and quiet, framed by the spindly silhouettes of half-bare trees, their limbs etched black against the cooling sky.

Eddie hopped out beside her, a bundle of firewood slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. She’d offered to carry it, of course—he’d declined, of course—so she took the bag of food instead, its contents thumping softly against her thigh as they walked. The gravel crunched beneath their steps.

It smelled like October. Cold bark, brittle grass, and the faintest thread of woodsmoke riding the wind from somewhere far off. Reese’s breath showed in soft, ghostly puffs, and she tugged her sleeves down over her palms.

Eddie walked just ahead—his silhouette loose-limbed and sure, hair catching faint twinkles of light from the truck as it cooled behind them. His voice broke the quiet with that familiar, theatrical drawl that meant he was probably grinning.

He realized then that she hadn’t asked where they were going. Not once. Did she really… trust him that much already? That thought did something weird to his chest, so he reached for a distraction.

“In case you’re wondering—if I led you straight into a horror movie setup,” he called over his shoulder, “I want it on record that you invited me into your house first.”

He paused to kick a branch out of the path and waited for her to catch up.

“You sure you’re not gonna, like… Report me to your youth pastor for cavorting in the woods with the town heathen?”

The tease was light, but under it—something uncertain. Testing the boundary between joke and truth.

But Reese didn’t take the bait. Didn’t deflect or tease him back. Her voice, when it came, was softer than usual. Intentional.

“Is that… self-imposed? Or was it inflicted?” she asked. “The nickname.”

Eddie stopped mid-step, the firewood shifting slightly on his shoulder. Inflicted. It hit differently in the dark.

He dropped the bundle beside the old fire pit, crouching to arrange the kindling. Rings flashing faintly in the firelight, he brushed the dirt from his palms—maybe more than he needed to. But her voice still lingered.

“Inflicted,” he said, low. Not a whisper, but close.

She didn’t fill the silence. Just let it stretch. Light. Attentive. Like the woods might be listening, too.

“Started around sixth grade,” he said, setting twigs beneath the logs with deliberate care. “First, it was just ‘freak.’ Then ‘Satanist freak.’ Then I leaned into it. Figured if they were gonna throw me to the wolves, might as well wear a pelt.”

He struck a match. Shielded it with his hand. The flare lit his face in gold for a moment before settling to a steady glow.

“…But it’s not the name that stuck that matters,” he added, glancing up at her. “It’s who still says it like it means something.”

 Reese stood a few feet away, wrapped in moon and starlight. The braid across her crown caught the pale light like threadwork. She didn’t move closer. Just folded her arms gently across her stomach and looked at him, not studying. Just seeing.

Finally, she spoke.

“That’s… cruel. I’m sorry.” She nudged a pebble with the toe of her boot. “People criticize what they don’t understand. Doesn’t make it right, but it makes it easier to be graceful.”

A pause.

Then, light but sincere:
“You can’t help being mad,” Reese said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “We’re all a little mad. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

Eddie gave her a look—eyebrows raised, lips twitching. “That so?”

She nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Cheshire Cat said that. Or I suppose, Lewis Carroll. Either way—it always stuck with me.” She glanced at him now, more thoughtful. “I think names matter. But tone matters more.”

She stepped around to the log beside him, settling down with care, smoothing her dress beneath her. The moonlight touched her face —cool, soft, respectful.

“And for the record?” she added, her voice softer now, “You’re not a heathen.”

Eddie let out a quiet breath of disbelief, one brow lifting.
“No?” 

 She shook her head. “No.”

Then, after a beat, she laughed—soft and a little startled by it, like the thought had slipped out before she could decide whether to keep it. There was something bashful in the sound, but brave too. Like she knew it might land awkwardly and said it anyway.

“D’you wanna know the first thing I wrote about you in my diary?”

That stopped him.

For the first time since crouching by the fire, Eddie looked up—really looked. He didn’t grin. Didn’t nod. Just met her eyes like she’d struck a match straight under his ribs.

She had a diary. That wasn’t just something her little brother teased her about—she really had one. And he was in it. Not just tonight. From before. She’d written about him.

Eddie’s breath caught somewhere behind his teeth.

The thought flared through him like a fuse, sparking fast, darting into every dim corner he’d tried not to hope in. What had she said? What else might she have written? Would she write about tonight —about him showing up with one daisy and a bundle of firewood like some half-lost troubadour from the hills?

Reese shifted, tucking her hands beneath her thighs like she was anchoring herself.

“I said…” she began, voice lilting and low, “you looked more like a feral puppy than anything dangerous.” She winced a little, mid-sentence—an almost comical grimace.

“Not to, um, completely destroy your self-image or anything, but… yeah.”

The fire cracked gently in the silence that followed.

Eddie didn’t say anything right away. Just let the words settle, like ash on his shoulders.

Then, slow and slightly dazed, he leaned back on his palms and gave a short, stunned laugh. One hand dragged down his face.

“A feral puppy, ” he echoed, squinting at her. “Christ.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling now. Not his usual grin—the cocky, showman one. This was something quieter. Unarmored. The kind of smile that bloomed when someone saw right through you and liked you more because of it, not despite it.

“Well,” he muttered, his voice half-laughing, half-resigned. “Guess I’ll cancel the ‘dangerous lone wolf’ act. That’s out the window.”

Reese laughed again—clear this time, unguarded. It scattered like birds into the trees, and Eddie had the thought, uninvited but absolute, that he’d give anything to be in her diary again tomorrow.

He glanced over, his voice lower now. Thoughtful. His weight shifted as he eased down onto the blanket beside her.

“What made you see me like that?” he asked. “I mean… why not just see trouble and walk the other way? You’re a good girl. But not the kind that chases danger just to prove something.”

Reese didn’t answer right away.

She exhaled long, like it had been waiting somewhere deeper than her lungs, and lowered her eyes to the fire.

“Because I was forgiven for every evil, disobedient thing I ever did.”

Eddie stilled.

The flames danced softly in her hair, catching on the braid like a crown. Her hands rested quietly in her lap, folded like a prayer. He’d expected something else—maybe a shrug, or a line about her parents. But she’d answered plainly. Without flinching.

“When Jesus was crucified,” she said slowly, “people mocked Him. Laughed. Spit. Struck Him.”

She paused, her voice steady but stripped bare.

“That’s me in that crowd. That’s who I am without Him. A mocker. A scorner. Someone who knew better… and still chose wrong.”

Her tone didn’t beg for pity. It wasn’t dramatic. Just honest. Like she wasn’t trying to convince him of anything—just naming something sacred.

“But He forgave me anyway,” she said. “He lived like that. Knowing people wouldn’t understand. That they’d twist what He said. Hate Him for being gentle. And He still… turned the other cheek. Asked for mercy while they were murdering Him. Not for Himself—for them. ‘Forgive them, Father… for they know not what they do.’”

Her voice caught slightly on the words, but she kept going.

“And for me?” she added quietly. “That’s hard. When guys leer. When people make lazy, mean comments. Even if I don’t react, it gets to me.”

She looked at him now, fully—her gaze lit more by conviction than flame.

“But it’s how you respond that matters.”

Then, soft again, but certain:

“If Jesus forgave me—for every selfish, foolish, ugly thing I’ve done… and still will—why wouldn’t I try to offer that back?”

Eddie didn’t speak.

He just watched her. The way her words hung between them like embers—small, glowing, impossibly real.

“He never asked for perfection,” she murmured. “He just wants honesty. He wants us to come to Him in the mess. In the middle of it. And even then… especially then… He still wants us.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was holy.

Eddie leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. The fire lit the angles of his face—jaw, cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. He stared into the flames for a long while, brow furrowed in thought.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it.

“…That’s not what I expected you to say.”

He let out a breath through his nose. Rubbed the back of his neck like he needed the motion to ground him.

“I always thought religion was just… guilt trips. Rules. Propaganda. People wagging their fingers while hiding their own mess. And God—” he paused, brow tightening, “—just some cosmic judge. Letting people rot. Letting us kill each other.”

He glanced sideways, still squinting like it didn’t quite add up.

“But the way you talk about Him…” he said slowly, “it sounds like… love. Like, He knows you’ll screw up. And still wants you anyway.”

A beat passed.

Then, quieter—almost like it slipped out before he could stop it:

“…Is that why you still smile at guys like me? Even when we don’t deserve it?”

Not teasing. Not self-deprecating. Just… wondering.

Like maybe, for the first time, he was starting to believe she saw something in him worth loving.

Then—almost whispered, in a tone he probably hadn’t used since he was a kid:

“You ever think maybe God sends people like you… for people like me?”

Reese didn’t answer right away.

Not with words.

She smiled—small, radiant, real. No performance. No politeness. Just the kind of smile that could warm a house if it had walls.

Her lashes dropped for a second, blinking back something full.

Then, eyes still on the fire, she said:

“I think that’s the whole point.”

She picked up a slender twig and rolled it between her fingers. Not nervously—just thoughtfully. Like she was turning something with roots over in her hands.

“I think we’re all just walking each other home,” she said. “Some of us just forget where we’re going, sometimes. That’s why God gives us people. So we don’t forget.”

The fire cracked. Sparks lifted into the dark like stars escaping gravity.

Eddie looked at her— really looked. Not for answers. Not for perfection.

Just Reese.

And maybe, for the first time, the quiet between them felt like a place to stay.

And for a long moment, he didn’t speak at all.

He just let the silence stretch loose and warm like a blanket, stitched from something ancient and kind. Something that didn’t need words.

The fire crackled gently. October had chased the bugs away weeks ago, leaving the air clean and still, scented faintly with bark and smoke and the sweet tang of toasted bread. Reese’s stomach gave a quiet protest beneath her sweater. She pressed her hand to it instinctively, letting out a sheepish little laugh through her nose. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“I don’t know about you…” she murmured, glancing at him with a sly tilt of her head, “but I’m starving.”

Eddie huffed—a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. Relief loosened his shoulders, though the quiet from before still clung to him like the smoke curling through the treetops.

“Thought you’d never say it,” he grinned, pushing himself up to fetch the paper bag beside the blanket. “I was trying to be polite—y’know, first date manners—but I’m one breath away from gnawing off my own arm.”

He dropped back beside her with theatrical flair, unfolding their little feast like a magician revealing treasure. Cinnamon sugar toast wrapped in foil. Grilled cheese halves flattened lovingly in tin. Saltines sandwiched around fat smears of peanut butter.

“Behold,” Eddie announced, hands wide. “The delicacies of Castle Munson. Five-star cuisine direct from the exotic wilds of my trailer park childhood.”

He looked up at her, eyes firelit and glinting with mischief. “Julia Child, eat your heart out.”

With a flourish, he offered her the cinnamon toast—both hands, crooked smile.

“Sweet things first, right?”

Reese looked scandalized.

“ No way ,” she gasped, eyebrows lifting like he’d suggested something criminal. “Who raised you? You’ll ruin your appetite. Veggies, then protein, then carbs. That’s how you avoid the classic blunders.”

Eddie reared back in mock horror, clutching his chest.

“Oh my God ,” he whispered, devastated. “You’re one of those.”

He slumped onto one elbow with a groan, shaking his head like the world had let him down.

“What’s next? No licking the spoon? No eating straight from the pan? Do you alphabetize your spice rack, too?”

There was no bite in it. Just warmth. Wonder. The kind of teasing reserved for people you want to stay a long time.

He looked at her like she was a comet—rare, inexplicable, and brighter than she realized.

Then he sat back up and poked at the grilled cheese like it might broker a truce.

“Alright, alright. Veggies, protein, carbs.” His brow arched, devilish. “But I gotta warn you—unless peanut butter counts as a vegetable, we’re kinda screwed.”

He leaned in a little, voice dipping lower, mock-grave. “And just so we’re clear? The classic blunder is starting a land war in Asia. Everybody knows that.”

Reese’s face lit like the fire had leapt straight into her chest.

“Inconceivable!” she cried in the same breath that he'd finished speaking, laughing with her whole body.

Eddie threw his head back and let out a bark of pure joy, clutching his heart like she’d just struck him dead with happiness.

“Oh my God,” he gasped, breathless, “I could kiss you.”

And then he froze—just for a second. Just long enough to realize he’d meant it.

His eyes snapped to hers, wide and startled. Not with regret.

Just… wonder. Longing. Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—but now that it was out there, he didn’t want to take it back.

He cleared his throat, eyes dropping fast to the toast in his lap.

“Not—I mean—I won’t. Obviously. Not unless you, like… want it or something.”

His voice dipped again. Softer now. Embarrassed. The edge of a laugh at the corner of his mouth, tugging shyly as he stared at the burnt crust like it held the secrets of the universe.

But the truth had already slipped loose.

And Reese… she didn’t flinch.

She hadn’t planned on kissing him. Not right now. Maybe not even tonight. But her heart didn’t feel rushed. It felt ready.

So she leaned in—careful, sure—and pressed a single kiss to his left cheek. One second. Maybe two. Just enough time for the world to tilt slightly off its axis.

His skin was warm from the fire. Not soft exactly, not like her mom’s or Eamon’s. A little hollow. A little stubbly. Like her father’s, maybe. But somehow… wholly Eddie.

Then she eased back to her spot, unwrapped her grilled cheese like nothing had happened, and took a small, tidy bite.

Tried not to choke on the grin fighting its way up her face.

Eddie didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

The kiss hit like a power outage—cut everything out for a beat. The fire. The wind. His own thoughts. All of it.

And then—slowly—like the tape of his brain started playing again:

“…Okay,” he breathed.

He didn’t look at her. Let her chew. Let her pretend, if she wanted to, that nothing monumental had just happened.

He swallowed hard, though there was nothing in his mouth. Just the moment. Lodged in his chest.

And in that second, with his whole heart worn loose and unhidden, he looked like every version of himself at once.

The dork. The dreamer. The boy who never thought someone like her would kiss someone like him, even just a little.

Reese, still chewing, glanced down at her sandwich. Her brows lifted.

“Mmmm,” she said with a little grin. “How’d you know I like it a little burnt?”

Eddie blinked.

Then grinned.

“Lucky guess.”

And the two of them—tucked side by side by the fire, under stars just beginning to wake—ate like they’d known each other a thousand years.

After a few bites, Eddie reached back into the paper bag and pulled out a saltine sandwich, balancing it between his fingers like it was something sacred.

He turned to offer it—

—But Reese gasped, bright and delighted.

“Oh my gosh! ” she beamed, eyes going wide. “These were my favorite when I was little!”

She took one without hesitation, biting in like she couldn’t wait another moment.

“I haven’t had these in years, ” she said around a chew. “My mom used to make a whole sleeve of them for my sister and me. When we’d go on our wilderness treks.”

Her smile deepened—nostalgic and whole.

“We had these woods behind our grandparents’ house. Thought we were explorers. Pioneers. We wore bandanas. Stole my dad's fancy compass. Lost it. Twice. Saltines and peanut butter were our rations.”

Eddie had been watching her, transfixed by the sunlight of her joy.

But slowly, her smile began to quiet. Not sad exactly—just distant. Like something once bright was blinking out behind her eyes.

“That was…” she murmured, “a long time ago. Feels like it.”

His grin faded with hers.

“Yeah?” he asked gently, leaning in. One elbow on his knee, cracker still resting forgotten in his hand. “What were they like? The treks, I mean.”

There was no teasing in it. No posturing or punchline waiting in the wings.

Just a boy sitting still beside the fire, blinking softly through the kind of silence that tells you what someone didn’t grow up with. No sister at his heels. No peanut butter in a backpack. No summer wind rushed past his ears while dreams stuck to his skin like sweat.

But he could feel it now—clearly. Achefully. The way she’d lived it.

“You and your sister,” he said, after a moment. “Out there with peanut butter and… bandanas. Sounds like something you remember with your whole soul.”

He tried for a smile—lopsided and quiet, warm at the corners. “Or like… the start of a really wholesome horror movie.”

That made her laugh, but only faintly. The sound folded in on itself. Her gaze dropped to her lap, fingers absently tracing the foil crease of her sandwich. Whatever memory she’d wandered into, it had pulled her somewhere deeper.

“It was great,” she said finally. Her voice caught just behind the words. “She was always my little adventure buddy. Always the one asking if I was sure I knew where we were going.”

She hesitated. The kind of pause that felt like a foot over a cliff edge.

Then her eyes lifted—just barely—and flicked away again just as fast.

Eddie caught it. The shimmer. The way her posture dipped like the air had thickened around her.

He didn’t push.

“Hey,” he said gently, the word barely brushing the air. “You don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to…”

He shrugged with one shoulder, casual, not wanting to spook the moment.

“I got ears. Don’t use ’em for much outside of metal and goblin impressions. Might as well let you borrow ’em.”

And without waiting, he reached into the bag again and held out a cracker like an offering. A crooked, silly little act of staying.

“Refill your rations, Cleric.”

It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t distraction.

It was presence.

Reese took the cracker with quiet fingers. Brushed under one eye with the back of her sleeve. Then sat with the silence a second longer before speaking.

“She was four years younger than me. My little shadow. But honestly… more like mama in miniature. Sweet on the outside, but so bossy when it counted. Brave in a way I wasn’t.”

Her voice warmed briefly as she said it, but the warmth came with weight.

“Muirgen,” she said. “That was her name. Think Morgan le Fay, but… Irish. Murr-ghen. It’s from this old legend—an Irish mermaid-saint. She was a mortal once, until the waves turned her into something more.”

She let the name sit between them for a while. Not explaining it away. Just letting it exist.

Then she swallowed. A quiet breath out.

“She drowned. Two summers ago. At the beach.”

She looked at him then. Just for a second. And there was no way to miss the look in her eyes.

Eddie’s heart dropped clean out of his chest.

“She was only ten.”

He stilled, not from discomfort. From knowing he was being handed something delicate.

“…Reese,” he said softly. Her name like a steady hand.

He didn’t fill the silence. Let it settle like ash. Let her choose what came next.

“Ten,” he echoed, almost to himself. “That’s… that’s not fair. That’s not how it’s supposed to go.”

He dropped his gaze, absently scuffing his boot into the dirt. Then looked back at her. Steady now.

“I didn’t know her. But the way you talk about her…”

He shook his head a little. Like that ache behind his eyes was trying to surface.

“She must’ve been one hell of a light.”

His voice dropped quieter, but never shaky.

“And I get it now. Why you don’t halfway anything? Why you stare at owls even when it makes you late, and carry the quiet like it’s something sacred.”

He paused. Just long enough for it to land.

“She probably did that too, huh?”

There was a hush.

Then he sat up a little straighter, hands loose between his knees.

“Your dad… he’s not wrong to be protective. I think I’d be the same way.”

That stayed in the air a moment, tender and unpretending.

“But I want you to know something.”

He looked at her then, really looked. Not like she was breakable. Not like she was a fairytale. Just… her.

“I don’t see you as some prize. Or a story to tell. Or something I’m trying to win.”

His voice snagged just slightly, but he didn’t let it stop him.

“I see you as someone who matters.”

He let out a slow breath, letting it settle. Letting it be.

“And if your dad’s whole deal is making sure I’m… okay. That I deserve you? Then yeah. That makes sense. He’s not wrong. He’s just doing what Muirgen probably would’ve done too.”

Then—without overthinking—he lifted his cracker and bumped it lightly against hers.

“To the ones who still show up,” he said, soft and certain. “Even when it hurts.”

Reese’s brow pinched gently—but not from sorrow.

“She was… a lot like you, actually,” she said. “You two would’ve gotten along great. She’d have been twelve this winter.”

Her thumb rubbed slow circles into her palm, the gesture absent but rhythmic.

“But… the Lord took her. We weren’t ready, but she was.”

She turned her face toward him, and in the firelight her eyes looked like something candlelit and deep. “Mama says Jesus was just too excited to see her. Couldn’t wait another day. Says now she’s swimming around with wings.”

Eddie didn’t answer at first. His throat clenched too tight.

All the things he could say— I’m sorry, that’s awful, that’s beautiful —they all felt small. Incomplete.

So he didn’t say them.

He just nodded. Once. Slow. Letting the image land: a brave little girl swimming through heaven, kicking up ripples in the clouds.

“…I bet she’s got the whole place laughing already,” he said at last.

And he meant it.

Not a guess.

A knowing.

Then Eddie turned his gaze to Reese.

“You ever think… maybe she still tags along sometimes?” he asked. His voice was light, but not careless. “Not in a creepy haunted way—just, like… keeping an eye on you. Giggling when you trip. Nudging your elbow when someone cute’s trying to talk to you.”

His mouth curved into a smile, small, mischievous, crinkling warm at the corners.

“Might explain a few things,” he said, nudging a little closer. “Like how a guy like me ended up on a blanket with someone like you, under a sky like this.”

He plucked a blade of grass near his knee, twirled it slowly between his fingers, then blew it into the night with a soft puff of breath.

“…She sounds like she was a piece of magic,” he said, almost like a realization. Then, quieter—almost to himself: “Guess it runs in the family.”

He didn’t try to soften the silence. Didn’t change the subject. Just let the quiet land gently between them, like something sacred.

Reese gave a small laugh, fond and low. “There’s not really a scripture that covers that,” she said. “But I could see her charming her way into tagging along. Just enough to visit.”

She leaned back on one palm, cracker still resting in her lap.

“I don’t really feel her. Not the way people say. I feel the Holy Spirit. But sometimes… when I want to ignore people or just be tired and selfish… I think of her face. And I wonder—what if she’s watching? I still lead with kindness. I just try not to let people walk completely over me anymore.”

Eddie nodded slowly. She wasn’t asking for comfort, so he didn’t offer it. He just listened—eyes soft, quiet catching in his breath.

Reese reached into the bag and pulled out another saltine. Thumb brushing its edge. Then—like she was gently adding something too shy to say outright, but too true not to—she said:

“I think the other reason my dad’s so protective is… you’re sorta the first to come around.”

Eddie blinked. His expression twitched—confused, then curious, then softening into something more careful.

“The first guy in Hawkins?” he asked gently. “Or the first guy with a Hellfire shirt and a rap sheet?”

She smiled, barely.

“No,” she said. “I mean… the first. Ever.”

That caught him full in the chest.

He sat up straighter, the joke gone. His brow furrowed.

“Wait, like…” He gestured vaguely with the cracker in his hand. “Ever ever ?”

Reese nodded once, still looking at the fire.

“I mean, I’ve had crushes. One boy held my hand once. But it didn’t go anywhere.”

He blinked, trying to catch up. “How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

A long pause. Then Eddie let out a stunned breath and fell slowly back onto his palms again, eyes wide.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Not dismissive—more like disbelief. Like someone had handed him something fragile and irreplaceable without a warning.

“You’re serious?” he asked again, gentler now. “Nobody’s ever taken you out before? Not even some church kid with too much cologne and a youth group guitar?”

She shook her head, still calm. Still honest.

Eddie ran a hand through his hair, laughing low and stunned. “That’s... that’s wild.”

He let it sit for a second, then looked back at her—really looked. Firelight traced the curve of her cheek, the crease at the corner of her eye, the softness she wasn’t trying to hide.

“…So you’re not weirded out?” she asked finally, voice small but steady. “That you’re the first?”

Eddie shook his head once. Certain. No hesitation.

“…No,” he said. “Not weirded out.”

He rubbed the seam of his jeans with his thumb, thinking—but not because he was stuck. Just because he wanted to mean what he said.

“If anything…”

His voice softened, but his eyes never wavered.

“It makes sense.”

His hand settled on the blanket near hers—not quite touching, but close enough that she could, if she wanted.

“You’re the kind of girl people don’t get to date,” he said. “They just… notice. Admire. From far away. You’re real, but it’s like the rest of the world hasn’t figured out how to handle that yet.”

Reese looked at him then—really looked—and he held her gaze.

“So yeah. I guess I’m the first,” he said. “But that doesn’t freak me out.”

He smiled then. Lopsided and boyish and impossibly sure.

“’Cause it means you picked me. That’s gotta count for something.”

Then he leaned back on his palms again and tipped his chin up toward the stars. A low whistle left his lips.

“Besides,” he added, glancing at her with that sparkle again, “if this is what a first date looks like with you…”

His grin deepened.

“I can’t even imagine what the third one’s like.”

And when he looked at her again—really looked—it wasn’t with awe or nerves or disbelief anymore.

It was just him.

Unshiny. Unafraid.

Grateful.

And finally— finally —at peace.

And when he finally looked at her again, it wasn’t with pity or pressure or smugness.

He saw her, not like a prize, not like a mystery. Just her. Bright and real and full of choices. And she’d chosen him.

“…Damn, Halverson,” he said, his voice low and steady. “No pressure or anything.”

But the way he smiled afterward—slow, sheepish, made it clear: there was no pressure except the kind he quietly put on himself. Because now he understood how much this night meant to her. And he was going to carry it like something holy.

Reese chuckled, the sound light as a leaf skimming the surface of a creek. It caught in the firelight, warm and unhurried, and tugged at the corners of her mouth until it bloomed into a real smile.

“Well,” she said gently, nudging his knee with hers, “that’s enough poetic tragedy from me.”

Her voice was calm, but curious, head tilting just a little like she was trying to glimpse something hidden beneath the surface. “How about you? What’s your family like?”

Eddie exhaled slowly, like the breath had been sitting on a shelf for years.

The fire snapped softly between them, and its glow painted gold into the slope of his cheek, but his gaze had dropped to his knees. There was a moment—barely a beat—where he could’ve dodged. Tossed a joke. Said something about being raised by wolves or cassette tapes. But the way she’d asked it—simple, sincere, like she wanted him, not just the highlights—unlocked a little door somewhere in his chest.

He scratched behind his ear, his voice quieter now.

“I, uh… I live with my uncle. Wayne. Just us. Been that way since grade school.”

His tone was even, but not detached. Just careful. Like he was walking barefoot over something old.

“My old man’s in prison. Long sentence. Nothing worth revisiting.” He gave a small shrug, casual on the outside. “And my mom…” His throat hitched, barely. “She died when I was six. Cancer.”

No punchline. No smirk. Just plain-spoken fact.

He sniffed once—short and sharp—and wiped the back of his hand across his nose like he was brushing away a thought. Not crying. Just clearing space.

“Don’t remember much about her,” he added, with a faint twitch of a smile. “Not much to holler over.”

He leaned forward, elbow to knee, and picked up a thin twig from the edge of the blanket. His fingers played with the frayed end as he spoke.

“Wayne’s solid, though. Works nights. Doesn’t talk much, but he’s never not been there. Gave me his room when I moved in. Sleeps on the foldout in the den.”

The twig cracked between his fingers. He dropped it into the fire and watched it curl into ash.

“Taught me to drive. Patch jeans. Make Spaghettios four different ways.”

His mouth lifted at one corner—wry and a little fond.

“So… yeah. That’s the Munson legacy.”

Reese didn’t say anything right away. She didn’t need to. She looked at him like someone who had stumbled across a holy thing in the woods. Not with pity. But wonder.

Eddie let the hush stretch out between them. Then huffed a breath, soft through his nose. Not bitter. Just... tired in a familiar way.

“I used to think people like me were born with holes in the floor where things should’ve been,” he murmured. “Like bedtime stories. Normal holidays. A dad who stuck around longer than the scent of cigarette smoke.”

He shook his head once. The wind stirred the trees around them, and the leaves whispered something ancient overhead.

“But then… someone like you shows up. With your little Sunday dress and your cardigan with kittens stitched along the hem. And a brain full of Scripture and song lyrics and facts about flower folklore.”

He turned to her, finally meeting her eyes. His voice was quieter now. And truer.

“And that kind of quiet… the kind that stays? Doesn’t run when things get heavy?”

His mouth quirked again—this time not in deflection, but in awe.

“Starts making me wonder if maybe those holes weren’t just empty. Maybe they were waiting for the right kind of light to shine through.”

The words hung between them like fog catching sunlight.

Reese didn’t break the spell. She just reached for him again, as natural as a heartbeat.

Her fingers slipped softly over the back of his hand, cool and sure, like she’d done it a hundred times in her dreams and only now remembered how. Her thumb brushed along the ridge of his wrist, right where the pulse lived.

Eddie froze—not out of fear. Out of respect. His heart lurched, slow and sharp, like it was turning toward something true.

Because she was touching him, not by accident. Not because she had to.

But because she chose to.

And everything inside him stilled, like snow falling inside a cathedral.

Her touch wasn’t electric. It was sacred. Like she was tracing his name in a language older than speech. Like he was being remembered by someone who never forgot him.

The firelight flickered against her cheeks, catching in her lashes. But it was her expression that undid him—tender, unwavering. Not scared of the weight he carried. Not turned off by it either.

Just... present.

“That’s so awful,” she said softly, almost like she didn’t want to scare the truth back into hiding. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

The words weren’t elaborate. But the way she said them—like she meant them for every version of him, past and present—made something shift under his ribs. A door unlocked. A lock unwound.

She didn’t rush to add anything. Just pressed her thumb gently over the place where his pulse ticked, as if to say: you’re here. You matter. You’re still good.

Then she tilted her head, a smile edging in again. It wasn’t pitying. It was playful, bright as it was serious.

“But I think you ended up okay. Not perfect. Perfect’s boring. If you were another Jason, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

She stuck out her tongue just barely, like she was telling off a cartoon villain in a second-grade lunchroom.

Eddie snorted—actually snorted—and shook his head with a grin that bent crooked at the corner.

“You mean you’re not into jocks with lifted trucks and love football more than their girlfriends?”

His brow arched, but his tone had dropped lower—warm, steady, sure. The kind of voice that didn't feel like armor anymore.

“But really… thanks.” He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. “That—uh. That means something, comin’ from you. You don’t say things unless you mean ’em. I noticed that.”

He glanced down at where her hand was still holding his.

“You’re… real,” he said. “In a town full of cardboard cutouts.”

Then his smirk tilted back in with a familiar glint. “And hey, if perfect’s boring, then I guess I’m safe.”

He waggled his eyebrows dramatically.

Reese’s giggle bubbled up again, bright and ringing like a bell tower in a small enchanted town. The kind of laugh that lingered in the air, even after it was gone.

Eddie grinned.

God, he could’ve listened to that forever.

Her gaze fluttered toward the paper bag near his feet.
“Dessert time?” she asked, sing-song voice, like a skipping stone across still water.

Eddie lit up like she’d offered him front-row seats to a Sabbath tour.

“Oh- hoh ,” he grinned, lunging for the bag with the sacred urgency of a knight retrieving enchanted treasure. “You don’t even know.”

With theatrical care, he unwrapped a second foil parcel, the scent of cinnamon sugar wafting out like it had been blessed by childhood itself. Inside: two slices of cinnamon toast—golden at the edges, slightly wilted from warmth, still faintly crisp in spots where the foil had curled. It smelled like old kitchens and mornings with no school. It smelled like something holy.

He handed her the one with the heavier dusting of sugar, with no hesitation. Reese blinked at the offering, then took it delicately, like it might vanish if she breathed too hard.

They bit in at the same time. The toast was no longer crunchy, not really. But the softness made it better somehow, like it had been resting in the memory of something sweeter.

“There it is,” Eddie said around a bite. “Childhood on bread.”

He chewed dramatically, shut his eyes, and wiped at imaginary tears with the back of his hand.

“Takes me right back. Ten years old. Wayne’s check’s late, fridge is basically a haunted house, and boom—cinnamon toast. Five-star.”

He looked at her—not just to see if she liked it. But to see if she understood it. The story beneath the sugar. The way he was handing her something private, something pressed between years. Not just toast. But a thread from the life he rarely let anyone reach for.

Reese chewed thoughtfully. Her lips parted in a soft little smile, the kind that didn’t need to be loud to mean something. She wiped a bit of sugar from her cheek with the back of her hand and turned toward him.

“Did that happen a lot growing up?” she asked, gently. Not probing. Just wanting to know.

Eddie shrugged—not defensive. Just plainspoken.

“Yeah. More than it didn’t.”

He shifted his weight back, propped one elbow behind him in the blanket, and Reeboks dug into the cold ground like he was anchoring himself to it.

“There were weeks where dinner was whatever Wayne could sneak out the back of Benny’s diner without catching hell. Nights, the lights got cut ‘cause we had to pick between heat and electricity. And more than once, he’d tell me he already ate—when I knew he hadn’t touched a thing.”

He paused, gaze drifting toward her for a second before glancing away again. Like part of him wasn’t sure how much she wanted to know—or if hearing it would change what she saw.

“But…” he rubbed his thumb along the edge of the foil. “I never felt unloved. Or alone. He didn’t always have enough, but he always showed up.”

He gave a crooked little smile, something private curling at the edge of it. “Even if that meant passing out in his work boots.”

This time, when he looked at her, he held her gaze. Steady.

“Wasn’t fancy. But it was real.”

A silence settled then. Not awkward—just soft. Like the world had pulled a blanket up around the two of them.

Then his mouth tilted upward, slowly.

“Like cinnamon toast for dinner.”

Reese smiled at that, small and warm, like candlelight behind stained glass.

“I won’t pretend I know what that’s like,” she said softly. “That’s… heavy. No kid should have to carry that.”

She hesitated, not for lack of words, but to choose them right.

“It’s good you had your Uncle, though. He sounds like an honorable man.”

Then, with quiet certainty, she added, “I can see where you get it from.”

Eddie smiled—but it was bashful. Honest in a way that felt like bare skin. “Honorable” wasn’t a word people threw at him without a punchline tacked on. He tugged absently at a loose thread in the knee of his jeans, not brushing her off, just grounding himself.

“Yeah. Wayne’s good people,” he said. “Too good for the hand life dealt him.”

Then, without warning, something developed behind his eyes, like a Polaroid bleeding into something intelligible. Not anger. Not shame. Just that quiet, familiar twitch of doubt—the one that always showed up when someone was too kind . Maybe she meant it. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe he was just trying too hard to read tea leaves again.

“You don’t have to pretend, y’know,” he said, voice low but not unkind. He looked at her again, brow furrowing slightly. Not like a challenge—more like a check-in. “I’m not… expecting you to get it. Just talkin’. That okay?”

He didn’t shrink away, but he braced—just a little. Like maybe this was the part where the warmth would wear off. Where she’d fold her hands in her lap and smile politely, and start drifting away.

But Reese only shook her head, her smile small but real.

“Pretending’s for D&D,” she said. “I might not get it. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try. ”

She looked at him, all clear-eyed sincerity and twilight grace. Then added, almost like an afterthought, but not: “Just like you with God, y’know?”

Eddie exhaled. A breath that stuttered and nearly turned into a laugh but didn’t. Just hovered in the air between them—something sacred and a little stunned.

He blinked once.

Then again.

Because somehow, she’d done it again—hit some hidden truth in him he didn’t even know had a name. Like she kept finding all the places he’d buried the wires, and instead of tripping over them, she just... listened.

And maybe he was never going to figure her out.

But maybe that was the point.

“Touché, Cleric.” His smile deepened, soft and lopsided. There was something behind it now, open, almost boyish. “Guess we’re both trying to speak a language that’s not native, huh?”

He leaned back on his palms, eyes drifting up to where the stars had started to prick through the dark like quiet revelations. The wind moved the trees like a breath. The fire cracked low between them, slow and steady.

“Just… promise me one thing,” he said after a moment, turning his head slightly. His voice had gone quieter. Not heavy—just real. “If I ever talk too much, or say the wrong thing, or—y’know—make a joke at the worst time, just tell me. I can take it. I’d rather get called out than shut out.”

The smile that followed was self-deprecating, but not self-hating. Vulnerable humor, the kind he used to pad the corners of something truer.

He nudged her knee gently with his.
“Besides,” he added, mock-wincing, “you’re scary enough to keep me in line.”

Reese chuckled, then turned her gaze from the stars to him, expression softening, half-shadowed in firelight, the starlight catching in her eyes like they’d been made for it.

“Deal,” she said. Then, softer:
“But… just so you know—”

Her voice dropped a step. Low. Sure. The way she only spoke when she meant it.

“I hope you never stop talking.”

She rocked her knee toward his, bumping it with a quiet nudge of affection.

And the way she looked at him just then—open, steady, lit like something sacred—made Eddie’s chest go tight in the best kind of way. Not all at once. But slow. Like light through stained glass.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at her.

And stayed.

Eddie blinked. Once. Then again.

For a second, it looked like he might say something cocky— Baby deer, huh? —the corner of his mouth twitching like it wanted to rise into a smirk. But it didn’t. Not this time.

Because Reese wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t poking for a laugh or trying to throw him off balance like so many others had. She was telling the truth.

And that undid him more than any joke ever could.

He ducked his head, rubbed the back of his neck like he could trap the heat there before it reached his ears.

His voice came out rougher. Lower. Almost wondering.

“You ever think maybe you see too much?”

He looked up again. Not down. Not away.
Letting her see him—really see him—for the first time in years.

“All the stuff people try to hide?”

His tone wasn’t accusing. Just stunned. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him before that someone might notice what he didn’t say.

“You’re right,” he said, quieter now. Like the words cost him something. “I do try to be tough. Loud. The whole freak thing. Thought if I made enough noise, no one’d look close enough to see what was actually going on.”

A beat.

“But you?” A breath. “You look once and see it all.”

He let out a soft exhale through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just the sound something makes when it lands deeper than expected.

“Can’t decide if that’s your superpower… or your curse.”

Then—half-smile, crooked:

“Either way, I’m toast.”

Reese laughed—bright and sudden, caught off guard. “Was that an intentional pun? Because you’re starting to outdo me with your wit.”

Eddie grinned—really grinned. Wide and unguarded, like a kid who just pulled off a magic trick.

“Ohhh no. Don’t say that. I’ll get cocky.” He flashed her a lazy smile, but it didn’t cover the softness underneath.

She smiled back, slower this time. Lingering. Her eyes searched his face, not in a way that demanded anything. Just seeing him.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she glanced at his lips.

And then back up again.

And just as Eddie’s breath caught, his eyes flickered close, and he parted his lips, just barely as the air seemed to hold itself still.

And she leaned in—

And laid her head gently on his shoulder.

It wasn’t a kiss.
It wasn’t even a touch that asked for anything.
Just presence.
Warm. Real. Close.

Eddie froze for half a second—thrown, maybe a little disappointed—but then something softer moved through him like a tide. He exhaled through his nose, let his shoulders drop, and leaned into her weight just enough.

His voice came low. The kind of low meant only for firelight and the space between two people.

“You’re trouble, Church Mouse.”

Then, smirking faintly as he tried to sneak a peek down at her:

“The best kind.”

He didn’t move his arm. Didn’t fill the silence with more. Just let her be there.

Like maybe she’d always belonged there.

The fire crackled low. The night held its breath.
And for once, Eddie Munson didn’t feel like he had to perform.

He just felt safe.

Reese giggled softly, voice muffled against the shoulder of his jacket.

“Who, me? Trouble? A good little Christian girl?” she teased, sing-song. “Think you're projecting, Munson.”

Eddie’s grin widened at that—the way she said Munson like it was a nickname now. Like something shared. Even if it hadn't been the first time she'd called him that.

He glanced down at her, just able to see the crown of her head where the firelight painted gold between the strands.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, slipping into that stage voice he used behind the DM screen. “You show up in a sweater embroidered with kittens and quote Lewis Carroll, and I’m supposed to believe that's not a setup?” 

He leaned in just slightly, dropped his voice to a conspiratorial murmur—half whisper, half dare.

“You’re not trouble because you’re loud, Reese.”

A pause. Then softer.

“You’re trouble because I keep wanting to know what you’re gonna say next.”

And just like that, he leaned back. Like he hadn’t said something that could unravel him if he let it.

But he had.

Reese sighed—exasperated, but fond—and let herself fall fully onto her back, gaze tilted toward the stars.

“Which one’s your favorite?” she asked.
Not ' do you have one? ' Just which.
Because Reese Halverson didn’t ask half-questions.

Eddie shifted beside her, one elbow propped lazily in the dirt. He tilted his head back and scanned the sky with mock-serious concentration, brows knitting like she’d asked him to solve a math problem in ancient Greek.

“That one,” he said finally, pointing vaguely upward. “The one that looks like it’s moving.”

She turned her head toward him, eyes glinting. “That’s a plane.”

Eddie huffed a breath through his nose and grinned. “Yeah, well. Still my favorite. It’s the one going somewhere.”

He meant it as a joke, mostly. But something in his voice softened at the end. The smile stayed, but a little lower now. Like a secret only the stars were meant to hear.

A beat passed. Then:

“If I had to pick a real one,” he added, quieter, “it’d be that bright one. Kinda low on the horizon. Feels like it’s barely hanging on. Like it shouldn’t even be there, but it’s the first one I always see.”

He swallowed.
“Feels like me, I guess.”

Reese turned her head slowly to look at him, her gaze gentler than the firelight.

“That’s Venus,” she said softly. “You can almost always see it at dusk or dawn. Technically a planet.” A teasing glint: “But I’ll let it slide. This time.”

Eddie grinned. Let it settle. Let it warm the parts of him that didn’t always feel real.

He glanced at her, then back up at the sky.
“What about you? Which one’s yours?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just kept her eyes on the stars, voice lowering like a story being lifted out of an old attic box.

“Rigel,” she said. “It’s Orion’s right foot.”

She rolled gently onto her side to face him, and suddenly he realized how close they were. Close enough her breath stirred the air near his shoulder. Close enough he could see the shimmer of firelight on her lashes.

She pointed upward, searching again. He barely managed to look up—he couldn’t stop looking at her.

“One time,” she said, “my dad took us camping. Told us we could each pick a star to keep—just ours.”

Her mouth quirked into a soft smile.

“Muirgen chose Venus. Figures. Eamon picked Sirius. The big red gas giant.” A pause. “I chose Rigel.”

Her voice quieted. Honest now.

“’Cause he’s sort of in the background. You don’t always see him at first glance—you have to look for him. But once you do…”

She hesitated, gaze fixed somewhere far off.

“You can’t take your eyes off him.”

A longer beat.

“He’s blue-white,” she added, with a teasing edge now. “A.K.A. mega hot.”

She gazed toward him. Then down. Then back up again.

“Sort of like you…”

Eddie turned his head toward her slowly, all the air leaving his lungs like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The smirk that pulled at his mouth wasn’t cocky—it wasn’t even amused.

Like she’d said something sacred without even knowing.

She blinked fast, suddenly aware of what she’d said. “ Wait —not like that. I mean, you are —but I meant the searching part, not the—ugh, never mind,” she said, chuckling, worn out from the fluster.

But Eddie didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.

He just let the moment stretch like warm taffy, let her fluster and stammer and fill the space with her voice. Then, quietly, like he didn’t want to break the spell:

“You see me, huh?”

He was still smiling, soft and crooked, but his eyes had gone deeper. Ache behind them. Like he wanted to believe her. Like part of him already did—and didn’t know what to do with that kind of grace.

“I don’t usually get that,” he said, glancing skyward again. “People don’t really bother to look long enough. Not past the leather and the noise.”

A pause.

“But you? You looked.”

He rolled onto his side to face her fully now, the blanket rustling beneath them, stars blinking overhead like tiny patient fairies.

“Kinda feels like… you always were.”

He didn’t kiss her.

But God, he wanted to.
And she knew it.

Reese smiled sweetly then, soft and a little coy, eyes glowing like starlight. She propped her head on one hand, wrist tucked against her cheek.

“Well, they should,” she whispered. Just barely loud enough for him to hear.
“They’d be starstruck to see what they discover.”

Eddie’s breath caught.

Not dramatically. Not in some sudden gasp. Just… quietly.
Like his chest had noticed before his brain did.

Her voice had been so soft he almost wondered if he’d imagined it.

But he hadn’t. Because she was looking at him now with that sly, serene little smile—like she’d just hidden a secret inside the sentence and handed it to him to keep.

He exhaled gently—half laugh, half wonder.
“You really do talk like a fantasy novel,” he murmured.
“And somehow it doesn’t sound ridiculous when you say it.”

He leaned in—not quite brushing her nose, but close enough to feel the hum of her breath.
Rose. Vanilla. Something warm and old, like honey and hearth smoke. It wrapped around him and made his thoughts go fuzzy at the edges.

And because he was Eddie.
And because she was Reese.
And because the whole world had gone still but for the thrum of something sacred between them—

He smiled.
Soft. Warm. Real.

“Then I guess I’ll take my chances. As the freak. With the fantasy.”

She didn’t move in.

But she didn’t pull away.

And that was everything.

“I think that’s a good idea—taking chances,” she said, feather-light.

Eddie’s heart thudded once. Sharp. Clean.

She wasn’t pulling away.

And the look in her eyes—that calm certainty, like she’d already made peace with this long before it ever happened—hit him square in the chest.

His voice dropped, nearly a whisper.
“Yeah? You think so?”

His gaze flicked down to her lips, then back to her eyes.
Just once.
He wasn’t assuming. Wasn’t pushing.

Just asking.

“Think you might wanna take one… on me?”

Her eyes didn’t flinch.
Her smile didn’t falter.

“I think I already am.”

He froze—not because he didn’t believe her.

But because he did .

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, do you?” he said, voice barely audible now.

But she did.
Not in a cruel way.
Just in the way someone does when they really see a person—
and choose them anyway.

He leaned in again.
Slower this time.

And kissed her.

Not like he was claiming something.

But like he was saying, thank you.

Like he was home.

Her lips were warm.
And sweet.
And a little too puckered, but they softened after a moment, mirroring his.

He could feel the tiny catch of her braces and had to bite back a smile.

Reese felt frozen in time. Her heart thudded so hard it nearly shook her still, and her pulse swished in her ears and her lips and her fingertips. He tasted like cinnamon sugar and cigarettes.

She realized how rigid she was.
No… he didn’t make her feel scared.

So she softened.

Breathed.

Relaxed into the kiss as best she could, bringing a shy hand to rest lightly on his elbow.

And just like that, the kiss parted with a quiet click.

Reese instinctively lifted a hand to wipe the moisture from her lip—but paused, worried it might offend him.

Instead, he reached up.
Callused thumb brushing gently across her lower lip, drying it for her.

It moved under the light press of his touch like putty.

It was all so much, all she could do was let out a quiet giggle, and a soft “wow,” mostly to herself. Mostly. 

Eddie caught it, but didn’t say anything, just held her a little tighter. Like if maybe she could the way he squeezed her face a little, she’d know, yeah. I felt that too.

Reese let out a long breath, dazed and glowing, her hand still resting lightly on his arm.

Then—too soon—she murmured, “What time is it?”

Eddie groaned like he’d just been stabbed. He fished the watch from his jacket pocket and squinted.

“Eight-forty-two.”

She sighed. He dropped his head back to the blanket.

“ Nooo ,” he whined dramatically. “You turn into a pumpkin at nine, don’t you?”

Reese gave a rueful laugh. “Cursed life.”

He rolled onto his back beside her and stared up at the stars, lips parted like he might ask her to stay—just a little longer. But he didn’t.

Instead, his pinky found hers. Barely brushing.

They lay there in the quiet a moment longer, their hands not quite laced. The fire crackled low beside them. Overhead, the stars blinked like they were watching something sacred.

Eddie exhaled softly. “I don’t want this night to end.”

Reese turned her head slightly, meeting his eyes in the dark.

“I know,” she whispered. “But it was a good one… wasn’t it?”

She said it like a promise. Like a memory already held safe.

Eddie nodded, just once.

And slowly, the two of them sat up, stars above them, the embered hush of goodbye ahead.

Chapter Text

Slowly, the two of them sat up, stars above them, the embered hush of goodbye ahead.

Reese sighed; she echoed his disappointment. “No. I don’t turn into a pumpkin at nine,” she said, standing and brushing dirt from her skirt, “I just got a dad who might be waiting with a shotgun.”

The life drained from Eddie’s face.

“Kidding!” she added quickly. Then, after a beat: “It’s… actually an axe.”

Then, without missing a beat, she swung an invisible one toward his stomach with eerie precision. “All work and no play makes Eddie a dullll boy.”

Eddie blinked. Once. Twice.

Then she leant forward, elbows on his knees,  staring at her like she’d just confessed to speaking fluent Morse code in her sleep.

“You…” He pointed. “You know The Shining?”

“Well… no. Not really.” She tilted her head, feigning mystery. “But my dad quotes it a lot. Usually, when he’s splitting wood. Or trying to knock Eamon back in line.”

“Terrifying.” He got to his feet with a creaky groan, swatting off pine needles from his jeans and shoulders. “Fair warning, though…” He jerked his thumb toward the fire pit. “I’m not fireproof.”

Reese tilted her head, curious.

“I once lit my sleeve on fire trying to toast a Pop-Tart.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded solemnly. “Gas burner. Middle school. It was stupid. But, y’know… hunger waits for no man.”

She tried not to smile as she stood, brushing her dress and folding the blanket.

“I don’t know much about firemen,” he continued, “but if your dad’s half as intense with an axe as he is with a handshake…” He trailed off, then gave a helpless little shrug. “I oughta get you home, huh? I don’t really wanna die tonight.”

A beat.

“‘Cause then I couldn’t take you out again.”  

Reese tried to think of a clever response. Something that would show she felt likewise in an equally clever manner. But no such thing came from her mouth. She reached for her hair to smooth a lock out, and gazed up at him with a smile she tried to hide, “Yeah…” She sighed.

They walked a few quiet steps toward the path. It was darker now, especially with the fire left behind—flickering its last in a dull, pathetic orange. Eddie had stomped it out. Questionably. Her father would’ve been disgraced, but she let it slide.

Then, casually—almost too casually—Reese asked, “What flavor was it?”

Eddie stopped like he’d hit a tripwire.

“What?”

She looked at him, innocent. “The Pop-Tart.”

He narrowed his eyes, stunned into a grin. “That’s the part you remembered?”

“You brought it up.”

“Cherry,” he said firmly, casting a sidelong smile at her. “Obviously.” He said like it was the only variation that ought to bother existing.

She snapped her head toward him, scandalized.

 “What?! No way. Cherry doesn't even taste like… real. It’s just— red sweetness. Blueberry at least tries to taste like fruit.”

Eddie reeled back like she’d slapped him in the face. “Okay, wow. Bold words for someone who just admitted she’s loyal to cough syrup in pastry form.”

“What are you even talking about?! Cherry is the most stereotypical cough syrup flavor!” A smile crested anyway, never mind the betrayal ringing through her voice. 

He motioned again, more emphatically this time. “Cherry has a certain… Not everyone gets it, ‘kay?. No mystery. It’s the classic flavor. You know what you’re getting. Every time.”

Reese raised a brow. “Right. Because predictability is your thing now?”
She tilted her head, voice all mock-sweet. “If I’d known Eddie Munson was loyal to the most boring flavor on the shelf, I’d’ve worn beige and talked about the weather all—”

“Eddie Munson’s taste in Pop-Tarts,” he cut in, hand raised like a judge, “is vastly different from women. Don’t mix it up, Moonlight.”

She had to bite back a laugh. His referring to himself in the third person brought a glint to her eye—something playful and warm.

She snorted. “So you’re telling me you’re loyal to the most disgusting flavor just because it’s… tradition ?”

“Watch it.” He turned to her, tone mock-serious, though even in the pale moonlight, she could see the smile that tugged at his mouth.

She shook her head and stepped ahead. “Blueberry’s got depth. Layers.”

“It has like… two.”

“No. Four. Five if you count sprinkles. Pastry, filling, pastry, icing,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers like it was gospel.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Shook his head like she was absolutely hopeless.

She grinned, triumphant. “Don’t come for blueberry unless you’re ready to duel, Munson.”

“Oh yeah?” he teased. “That a threat?” And with that, he bent at the knees and started to lurch toward her.

She shrieked with joy and tried to side-step away from him, only for her cry of 

“No! I juUUHSSs—”
Her protest disintegrated into a garbled yelp as her foot caught on something—root, stone, gravity, who knew—and she pitched forward.

But before the earth could claim her, his hand found her arm.
Fast. Sure. Like he’d always known how to catch falling girls in the dark.

His grip locked tight around her forearm—rough, but steady. It burned a little against her skin, but it was better than falling into the mud.

“Woah —woah—gotcha, princess,” he said, heart in his throat, the tension in his voice barely hidden.

She froze, blinking, chest rising against his.

She could hear his breath. Feel the pine needles beneath her shoes.

And in her chest, the word princess echoed like it meant something it shouldn’t.

Thank God for the dark, because her face was on fire.

He hoisted her back to her feet with surprising gentleness, his other hand finding the small of her back for balance. For a second, they stood like that—her breath catching up to her, her pulse jumping behind her ears.

But the heat in her cheeks wasn’t the only kind of burning. Her knee flared—sharp and hot—and she flinched without meaning to.

She reached down.
Wet. Warm. Sticky.

“Dang,” she muttered, wincing.

“What?” His voice sharpened—still quiet, but immediate.

“Just—scraped my knee. Must’ve caught a branch or something.”

He crouched before she could stop him, a swift, practiced motion, and flicked his lighter with a soft chk.

The flame bloomed small and gold, casting a flicker across her leg.
A thin mess of crimson ichor gleamed at the surface— her dress had smeared it a little, giving the illusion it was worse than it looked. Nothing deep, just enough to sting.

“Jesus, Reese,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Sorry— I didn't me to— Y'allright?”

Reese laughed—soft, embarrassed, but real.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “Used to it. I play outside with my brother all the time.”

Her name sounded different when he said it. Like it belonged to him for just a second.

Without asking, he gently cupped the back of her knee and drew her leg forward so he could see better. The gesture was careful. Steady. Didn’t ask permission, but didn’t need it. His touch tickled a little, but she ignored it. Mostly.

He glanced up at her, grinning just enough to soften the edges of concern. The firelight danced in his lashes before he let the flame die, his face vanishing back into shadow.

“What was that about me not being ready to duel?”

Then—before she could answer—he leaned in just slightly and pressed the softest, quickest kiss to the side of her scraped knee.

A blink of warmth. Nothing dramatic.

He stood like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just completely short-circuited her brain.

She said nothing. Couldn’t have, really. Her mouth worked uselessly for a second before she gave up and just stared at him.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Y’know. For luck.”

Reese didn’t answer. Not right away.
But she saw the way his head dipped in a small, silent nod.
Like he was memorizing that, too.

Then came the rustle of movement—jeans brushing against undergrowth, boots shifting on gravel—as he stepped back toward the path.
And she tried to ignore how his hand, warm and steady, stayed at the small of her back the whole way out.

He saw her smile, just barely in the dark. Faint enough that if he told himself he hadn’t, he’d believe it.

And yet, it settled something in him.

The adrenaline. The echo of firelight behind his eyes. Her laugh.

Not a beginning—no.
More like another quiet thread woven into something he’d already started to know.

Maybe it was when she told him “coitnely.”
Or when he stood in front of her father, spine straight, saying his intentions were good.
Maybe it was when she quoted Lewis Carroll and told him being crazy wasn’t a flaw.
Or maybe it went back further than he’d ever admit.
To that first smile she gave him—the one she never took back. Not even when he didn’t know how to return it.
Hell, maybe he’d felt this way his whole life. Before he’d even known she existed.
Because now Reese Halverson was walking next to him.
And his hand was on her back.
And she wasn’t flinching.
He didn’t know what kind of world that made this possible— But it sure as hell wasn’t the one he thought he lived in.

He didn’t know what this was yet.

Not exactly.

Only that it wasn’t going anywhere.

The trees thinned, and the gravel underfoot grew louder. Eddie’s left hand remained on her; the other held the empty paper bag, its crumpled foil rustled quietly in the dark.

The truck waited under the hush of trees, silvered by starlight, a little rusty, a little dented. Perfect.

Just as Reese reached the passenger side, he stepped forward without a word and pulled the door open for her.

She looked at him as she clambered in, and he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out:

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over tonight.”

There was no edge to it. No attempt to make it funny or casual. Just the truth.

Reese met his gaze, steady as ever. “Good,” she said. “You better not.”

And just like that, the world shifted under his boots.

He could’ve sworn the air went still for a second, like even the trees were listening.

All he could do was stare at her, wrecked in a way that felt holy.

Then, trying to find breath again, he pulled himself back behind that familiar grin. Almost.

He raised two fingers in a little salute, the gesture quiet and knightly. “Buckle up, forest maiden. You’ve got a reputation to uphold. Can’t have the Fire Chief wondering why his daughter’s out past curfew with some tragic bard.”

She did as he said, and clicked the belt across the blanket cradled in her lap.

But before he could close the door,

“No,” she said softly. “You’re not a bard.”
Eddie blinked, halfway to a smirk.
She tilted her head. “You’re more like a… knight. A chaotic-good one. A rebel.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that. Not really.
Just stood there for a second, rocked quiet by the way she said it.
Like it wasn’t a joke. Like it was true.

Only once she was settled did he close the door, circle the front of the truck, and climb in on the driver’s side.

As he flipped up the sun visor from when it had been down earlier, his mouth twitched into the faintest smile.
“Yeah?” he murmured, almost to himself. “A Rebel Knight…”

And for the first time in a long time, the title didn’t feel borrowed.
It felt like something he might actually grow into.

They pulled up to the Halverson residence at 8:56. Four minutes to spare.

They walked slower than they needed to. Neither of them said it out loud, but they both felt it—how every step toward the porch was another tick of the clock winding down. They’d see each other at school tomorrow. But somehow that only made it worse. 

The porch light was on. It glowed ochre against the quiet October night, casting long, warm shadows. The smell of chili still lingered faintly in the air, like the house itself was waiting for her to return.

Eddie walked her up to the door, his hands shoved into his jean pockets now, not fidgety, just contained. Like they were full, and he couldn’t risk dropping anything.

He glanced over at her once they stopped on the welcome mat. She just stood there, and looked at him, lit up. Glowed like some porcelain doll. Like a candle still flickered in the shape of her smile.

One again, he was struck with the realization: she chose this. Him. Freak. Burnout. Reformed juvenile delinquent. All of it.

His voice came quieter now, like it didn’t want to startle the air. “So, uh…” He nodded toward the door with his chin, eyes warm. “Do I get graded on tonight? Or is this more of a pass/fail kinda deal?”

A beat.

Then, genuinely this time:
“I had a really good time with you, Reese.”

No nickname. Just her’s. Like it mattered. It did.

She laughed softly, stooping just slightly to lift her cream dress a little to reveal her knee, which had now dried to rust. “I think once I convince them the flesh wound was self-inflicted, you’ll be fine.” 

She took a small step closer. Looked up at him with wide eyes, full of stars, or maybe porchlight. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. She was just beautiful.

“I had a really great time, too, Eddie.”

That look—those eyes. He’d kissed her already. Had her close. Felt her smile against his skin.

The porch light flickered in her pupils, and for a second, it was like the whole sky had condensed itself up and pooled behind her irises.

His heart gave a dumb little lurch.

He tried to smirk, tried to keep it light—tried.

“Well, y’know… if a girl’s willing to bleed for you on the first date…”

But the joke died halfway through, because she was right there and she’d said she had a great time, and it wasn’t polite or obligatory—it was real.

He lifted one hand, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it, and tucked that same strand of hair gently back behind her ear, careful, like if he moved too fast, she’d vanish.

His voice dipped, low and honest.
“Can I… kiss you goodnight?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just gave the softest “yes” he’d ever heard.

So he leaned in—unrushed—and brushed the softest kiss just by the corner of her mouth. On purpose. He wanted to kiss her square, but something about the sacredness of the moment made it feel like he only deserved a corner.

Chaste. But lingering enough to say: I like you. I really, really like you.

He pulled back, still close, eyes crinkling in a closed smile—

And then Reese looked down at her boots and chuckled, flustered.

Eddie, on instinct, glanced down toward the narrow window that framed the door—and froze.

Eamon.

Eyes wide. Tongue flattened against the pane in a full-on smush, leaving wet streaks like a dog. He didn’t blink. He just kept going.

Reese followed Eddie’s gaze and turned subtly.

Her whole face drained of color.

“Oh my—” She whipped her gaze between Eddie and her brother. “Eamon! What—what are you—?!”

He was unrelenting.

Eddie blinked once. Twice.

“…Is that… is he licking the window?”

Then Eddie let out the softest, breath-snorted wheeze, doubling over slightly with a hand on his knee like someone had hit him with psychic damage.

“Oh my God. I think he’s trying to give me a demo...”

Reese covered her face with both hands.

“Eddie… oh gosh, I am SO sorry—I told him to leave you be—”

“Don’t apologize,” he laughed, straightening up, eyes flicking from her to the goblin behind the glass. “That might be the best thing I’ve ever seen. I mean—date night and performance art? This house delivers. ”

She made a face at the glass, and the blonde scamp scurried off.

A faint smile pulled at her lips despite herself. “I told him earlier you’d sic the evil gremlins on him if he didn’t quit.”

That earned a full, body-wracking laugh from Eddie—genuine and bright.

“Oh man,” he wheezed. “I knew I shoulda brought the puppet theatre.”

He looked at her again, a grin that eased into something softer. His voice lowered, just for her.

“But seriously. Thank you. For tonight.”

He stepped back a little now, giving her space, even if every part of him wanted to stay right where he was.

“Tell your brother he just signed off on five more smooches,” he called lightly, backing down the path. 

Then, hand to his heart, mock-solemn:
“And I’ll be dreaming of sugar toast and window goblins.”

One last grin. “Night, Reese.”

She smiled, eyes still warm. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

He waited until she disappeared inside, porch light flicking off behind her like the close of some enchanted chapter. Then he shifted the truck into reverse and pulled away, the road stretching ahead like a quest he never knew he’d been given.

He didn’t know the exact turns the story might take. But for once, he was certain of the heroine.

Chapter Text

The morning sun poured itself across the Hawkins High parking lot like honey—thick and slow and golden.

 Trees had turned the color of rust and cider, their branches swayed in the soft October wind, waving summer goodbye. The air was brisk enough to nip at bare knees, but not wintry. Not yet.

Students moved in scattered clusters, some still half-asleep and shuffling, others already laughing too loudly about things that wouldn’t matter by lunch. Amid the chaos, Reese and Robin walked together at their own rhythm—half a beat off from the rest of the world. It wasn’t rebellion. Just... a different tune.

Robin’s purple bag swung against her hip as she leaned over to bump Reese with an elbow. Her grin was already too wide.

“So what you’re telling me is... the Hellfire Club’s very own Court Jester showed up in Wayne’s truck like a reformed outlaw?”

Reese ducked her head, the smile creeping up before she could stop it. She tugged at the sleeve of her sweater—butter-yellow, soft at the edges like a faded rose pressed too long in a book.

“I mean… yeah. Basically.”

Robin gasped like it was breaking news.

“You two are like—some kinda long-haired power couple. Like... if Lady Guinevere and Monty Python had a baby.”

Reese paused, tilted her head. “I’m concerned how that’d work biologically, since they’re, y’know, a group—”

“Stop stalling. I want the dirty deets.”

Reese laughed—quiet but bright. Like a bell muffled by the clouds.

“He kissed me,” she said, like it still echoed on her lips.

Robin stopped walking mid-stride and spun toward her.

“He WHAT? ”

Reese didn’t flinch. Her cheeks were blooming pink, like she didn’t care if the world tilted sideways, so long as it didn’t spill.

“Twice,” she said, softer now as if the cashmere rose around her arms had said it.

They were only a few steps from the front doors when a voice rang out behind them—too casual, too close.

“Morning, Halverson.”

Reese stiffened before she even registered the name. It wasn’t what he said. It was how he said it. The kind of voice that smiles with its incisors first.

She turned halfway, already knowing.

Andy Clayton. Jason Carver’s favorite shadow.

He was walking toward them with that lazy-jawed smirk he always wore when there was a girl within earshot. The kind that said he was used to people laughing at things that weren’t funny. The kind that said he’d never been told no often enough.

“Rockin’ Robin,” he added, like he was tossing scraps to a dog to keep it quiet.

Reese barely had time to react before his hand reached out—too familiar—and hooked a lock of her hair between two fingers. A gentle tug. Over in a second, but still enough to make her head hitch back a little, like a reflex she didn’t consent to.

It didn’t hurt. Not really. But she almost wished it had—something sharp, something clean, something she could shake off. Instead, it left her with that slow, stomach-sinking weight that started behind her ribs and dropped all the way to her feet. A heaviness that said something had been taken, even if she couldn't name what.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say.

Robin’s hand was suddenly at her elbow, firm and steady.

Andy leaned in just enough for her to smell the cheap aftershave and cafeteria hashbrowns clinging to his breath.

“Don’t tell me you keep all that hair down every day?”

The words coiled, slick, and smirking. They weren’t violent. They weren’t even loud. But they curled under her skin like they were looking for a way in.

Reese blinked. Once.

She didn’t know what he meant, not exactly—but she knew she didn’t like the way it felt in her ears. Like her name had been dragged through something slick and mocking. Like a line had been crossed, she hadn’t drawn.

Robin stepped forward, shoulders squaring. “Walk away, Andy.”

Her voice was flat. Final.

Andy chuckled low in his throat and shrugged, like he’d been joking the whole time. Like they were the weird ones.

“Hey,” he said, backing off with palms up. “Just bein’ neighborly.”

He disappeared into the crowd just as easily as he’d come—like a ripple in dirty water.

Reese didn’t speak until they were inside. Even then, her voice felt like it belonged to someone smaller.

“That was weird… right?”

Robin’s lips pressed together, jaw tight. “Yeah,” she said. “And I don’t think it’s the last time he’s gonna try something.”

Reese didn’t answer. She was still thinking about the way her hair had moved in his fingers.
Like it hadn’t belonged to her at all.

The moment passed, but it clung. Even after Andy disappeared inside, and Reese, with no choice, did too. Even after Robin’s presence at her side had steadied into quiet again.

She was still thinking about the way her hair had moved in his fingers.

Like it hadn’t belonged to her at all.

Like in that old Grimm tale—

Rapunzel’s hair wasn’t hers either, not really. It was the rope they climbed to reach her. The thing that let them in. The thing they pulled.

Reese had always thought of her hair as a kind of softness.

Something free. Feminine.

She used to beg her daddy to read her Rapunzel every night—two months straight, easy. Back then, it was just a story about a girl with hair so long it could carry her away.

But now?

Now that she was about Rapunzel’s age—

Something clicked.

It didn’t feel like freedom anymore. 

It felt… claimable.

A ladder someone else had decided to climb.

And still—

She wasn’t going to cut it.

Just because someone tried to taint something didn’t mean she had to punish herself for it.

That was the thing no one told you about being a girl that Reese was starting to realize.

Sometimes you had to carry both:

What something meant to you,

And what the world might try to turn it into.

They didn’t talk much on the way to their lockers.

Robin gave her arm a small squeeze before peeling off toward algebra. Reese turned alone into the current of students.

Her fingers fumbled a bit at the latch. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear—absentmindedly, but not without memory—and unloaded her books into her locker, with it the well-worn copy of The NeverEnding Story. The edges of the cover had gone soft from handling, and there was a creased receipt sticking out like a bookmark. She hesitated with it in her hands, thumb brushing the corner.

“Careful with that one.” The voice came from just beside her—low, amused. “That book’s cursed, y’know.”

She turned. Eddie had leaned casually against the locker beside hers, arms crossed. He was back in his leather and denim, the flannel from the weeknd folded, or, who was she kidding, balled up somewhere in his room.

She blinked, then smiled back—small, involuntary.

“You read The NeverEnding Story ?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” He gave a mock-somber nod. “It’s got bats. Wolves. Doom. Very educational.”

“This is my third time reading it.”

“So you do know it’s cursed.”

A pause, light but charged. He tilted his head, studying her a little more carefully now.

“Y'okay?” he asked, voice lower. Gentle, like he was trying not to scare the answer away.

Reese hesitated.

“Yeah. Just… tired. Long morning.”

“Well.” He shifted his weight and shrugged. “If it gets too long, I can always shout Moonchild down the hall like a freak.”

She let out a real laugh—soft, startled, grateful.

“Please don’t.”

“Too late. I’m already winding up.”

They lingered for a moment longer than necessary. Then the bell rang, breaking the quiet spell between them. Reese slid the book into her arms along with her sketchbook and pencil pouch, and gave him one smile before turning toward class.

Eddie watched her go. His smile lingered, but his posture didn’t relax.

Gym was a joke. He used to skip all the time.

But he’d started showing up. Just in case.

Couldn’t risk detention—not when weekends might mean her.

The shower hissed in the center of the locker room like a warning. Steam curled upward in tired spirals, clinging to the cracked ceiling tiles and making the overhead fluorescents bleed orange. The floor was slick with run-off and the faint smell of mildew, sweat, and that cheap blue body wash the school always bought in bulk.

Eddie stood just outside the worst of it, his shoulders hunched slightly forward, head tilted back, hair damp from the stray droplets, but trying to keep it dry. He was working soap through his pits halfheartedly, just enough to rinse away the gym class grit. Chalk dust clung to the creases of his fingers—leftover from climbing rope or pretending to.

His eyes stayed shut.
You don’t talk.
You face forward. Eyes up. Don’t look down. Don’t look around.

 It’s code.
Unspoken, but carved into the walls like initials.

The water was too hot, the air too thick, and the soap was inching too close to his right eye—but he didn’t move. Not much. Just stood there, he blinked even though his eyes were already sealed. Like if he stayed quiet long enough, the world might forget he was ever in it.

He didn’t like this room. Never had.

Too many boys trying to out-man one another.
Too many bodies. Too many eyes pretending not to see.

Water slapped tile somewhere behind him. Another student muttered something and left. The noise receded, and for a moment it was just him and the hiss of the pipes, the stink of wet cotton, and the pulse in his own throat.

He thought, for a moment, about her laugh that morning. The way it had surprised him. Light and real. He wished it would echo the way everything else in this room did.

It didn’t.

The scuff of a foot on tile cut through the hiss of the water.

Andy Clayton slid into the circle—not beside Eddie, but diagonally, just close enough to be heard over the spray. That was the thing with guys like Andy.  They never stood right next to you. They hovered just far enough to make it feel like coincidence. Always close enough to be plausible, never close enough to be blamed. Like you couldn’t say he was trying to get under your skin, even when he already was.

One hand moved lazily over his chest, then under his arm, then lower—scrubbing his groin with the kind of casual confidence that only comes from never once being embarrassed in your life. 

“Yo, Munson.”

Eddie didn’t answer. Just twitched—a flicker at the jawline, a slight shift in his shoulder. One eye cracked open, then squeezed shut again. Like he could unsee Andy’s voice if he tried hard enough.

“You hang around that Reese chick, right?”

Eddie’s gut did something unpleasant.

“Blondie. Big eyes. Always wearin’ grandma skirts.”

He didn’t like that sentence for about a million reasons.
First: He was naked.
Second: Andy was naked.
Third: They were talking about Reese.
Fourth, and maybe worst: Andy had noticed it. Andy had noticed her. Her skirts. Her eyes. The way she looked.”

Eddie hated that.

He hated that Andy said her name like it wasn’t hers. Like it was available for anyone to use. He hated that the steam suddenly felt thicker, hotter, like it was trying to choke something down before it could crawl up Eddie’s throat.

His fists didn’t clench. Not yet. But his whole body was listening now.

Andy lathered shampoo through his hair one-handed, like he had all the time in the world. His voice came easy—too easy.

“She taken? Was thinkin’ about askin’ her out.”

That got a reaction.

Eddie didn’t speak. Didn’t even turn.
But his spine pulled straighter, just enough to shift the line of his shoulders under the spray. Like something old in him had just sat up.

The water hissed between them, steady and indifferent.

Still no words.
Still no eye contact.
Because what was he supposed to say?

What was she?

His girl? His girlfriend? 

They’d had one date. One perfect, burning night.
She’d let him kiss her. Twice. She’d laughed at his jokes and touched his wrist, and looked at him like he was something more than a rumor.

But he wasn’t about to claim her like a prize.
Not unless she told him to.

So he said nothing.

But his silence was a different kind of loud.

Andy kept going, voice still easy, still oily with fake charm.

“Carver says don’t bother—says she’d probably quote the whole book’a Proverbs ‘fore lettin’ a guy get to second base.”

He chuckled—low, ugly, pleased with himself. Like he thought it was clever. Like he thought it was funny.

The sound crawled across the steam and landed square against Eddie’s back.

The water, already too hot, suddenly felt like it was boiling over his shoulders. Like it knew something had been said that shouldn’t have been. That something sacred had been named wrong.

He didn’t move.

But something inside him did.

Not a crack—a shift.
Like a blade turning in its scabbard.

“But I dunno,” Andy said, voice low and smug. “I think a little confidence and a boring drive-in movie’d get that engine purrin’, if you know what I mean.”

He raised one hand and made a slow, circular rub against the air with his palm—like he was buffing out a spot on a car hood.
The motion lingered. Intentional. Too slow to be innocent.

Something stupid. Teenage. Awful.

Eddie didn’t turn.
But he stepped forward—right into the spray.
The sudden burst of hot water slammed against his chest and shoulders, washing the soap from his skin in one heavy sheet. His hair hung limp, dripping into his eyes now, but he didn’t flinch.

He just stood there, spine straight, water running down his face like it didn’t matter. Then, quietly—barely above the hiss of the pipes—he spoke.

“She’s not available.”

No bite. No snarl. Just a fact, dropped into the heat between them like a hammer.

And maybe it wasn’t entirely true.
They hadn’t defined anything.
It had been one date. One incredible, impossible date.
But Eddie knew Reese would never—not with someone like Andy. Not after what he’d said. Not even if she were single. Not even if he were the last guy in town.

That was enough.

Andy paused, blinking once like he hadn’t expected pushback. Then he chuckled, testing the edge like a kid poking a hot stove.

“What, like officially?” He looked away at someone else and glanced back at Eddie, a sick smirk creeping onto his stupid face. “Didn’t think daddy’d let that slide.”

The way he said it—like he’d known her since she was five, like he had the right to quote her—made Eddie’s stomach turn.

He let the silence stretch just long enough to make the air uncomfortable. Then—

“She’s not available to guys like you.”

Still calm. Still not looking at him.
But there was a blade in it now, honed and gleaming beneath the quiet.

Eddie shifted slightly, water streaming from his brow. His voice dropped again—low, final. Andy hadn’t spoken, either dumb struck or swallowing that rage-inducing grin of his.

“Word of advice, Clayton…”

A pause. A breath. “If you're gonna talk about girls like engines—”

Another pause. “Make sure you’re not the one drivin’ a rusted-out junker.”

That was the one that landed.

Andy scoffed, more out of habit than confidence.
He slapped the water valve shut with too much force, muttering as he turned away—

“Geez. Touchy, huh?”

He grabbed his towel and stalked off without waiting for an answer.

Eddie didn’t move.

He stayed there, steam clinging to him like a second skin, the hiss of the water the only sound left that didn’t make him sick.

His eyes shut again, but this time it wasn’t about avoiding anyone’s gaze.

And his chest, which had been pulled tight the entire time, finally rose, then fell.
A little slower now.

The bell rang two periods later, sweeping through the low murmur of the hall like a broom pushing dust into corners.

Reese slid into her desk in Spanish, still feeling the echo of the morning. The lock on her locker had stuck. Her hair had frizzed at the crown. And the back of her mind kept reaching for something she couldn’t quite name—like the ghost of a tune she hadn’t realized was playing. She twisted the ring on her finger once, then let her hands still on the desk.

The book he’d apparently read—that was still circling in her mind.

And then—quietly, uninvited—came the word: Her boyfriend.

She blinked. Not out of panic—just surprise. It wasn’t wrong, exactly. Nothing had been said aloud, but it’d felt understood—natural. Like the kind of thing that didn’t need declaring. Even if it had only been one date.

Still.
That word… boyfriend.
It was a good word. A careful one.
She didn’t want to use it too early—not because it wasn’t true, but because it might cheapen what it was still becoming.

She wanted to know what he called her when no one else was listening.

“¡Hola, clase!” Señora Ferrell’s voice sang-songed from the front of the room, her acrylic earrings already swaying with energy. She clapped her hands in rhythm, trying to herd the room like a reluctant flock of sheep.

“Hola, señora,” Reese echoed with the class—flat, mournful, like a funeral procession. The spiral snapped. She let it.

“¡Buenos días!”

“Buenos días.” Came the collective groan.

Reese bit back a smile. It was the same every day. It didn’t matter that it was a Spanish II class and no one really knew how to conjugate anything beyond "me gusta corn dogs". Señora Ferrell was a true believer. And today, that meant...

“Ahora, practiquemos nuestras habilidades de actuación.”  Now, let’s practice our skills of— she didn’t recognize that word, maybe accusation? No, that couldn’t be right.

A few kids slumped lower in their chairs.

“¡Vamos a jugar a ‘Verdad o Mentira’!”
We’re going to play ‘Truth or Lie’!

A groan rippled across the room like wind through a field of corn chips.

“Busquen un compañero…”
Find a partner…

She glanced over the rim of her glasses at the back row.

“Sí, eso significa que tú también, Thomás.”
Yes… you too, Thomas.

“Bien. Así que si tienen alguna pregunta, ¡pregúntenla!”
Okay. So if you have any questions, ask them!

Reese reached toward her small stack of materials for the class, pulling her pen and notebook toward her, quietly reminding herself for the hundredth time not to say estoy caliente when the classroom got stuffy. Dustin was already halfway through uncapping his marker.

“Shotgun Reese!” he yelled, like he was calling dibs on a chocolate milk or the front seat to heaven.

Dustin pointed a triumphant finger across the room. His backpack thudded as it hit the floor, and he practically launched himself into the seat beside her, all elbows and chaos and grinning braced teeth.

Robin, who had only just reached for the chair on Reese’s other side, narrowed her eyes in theatrical betrayal.

“Rude,” she said flatly, loud enough for half the classroom to hear.

Reese laughed as she flipped open her notebook to a clean sheet. She didn’t mind. Not really. Dustin had that way of bursting into a moment and making it feel like it had always been his idea to be there.

She seemed lighter today—the knot behind her ribs loosening, the morning’s static clearing. Her hair was still a little soft-looking from the night before, like it hadn’t decided whether it wanted to hold a wave or let go. And in the corner of her open page, someone—probably her—had sketched a daisy with slightly uneven petals and a smiley face at the center.

Dustin glanced down at the doodle.“Nice flower. Looks like it knows secrets. Maybe blackmail-level ones.” Dustin tapped the back of his pen against his worksheet like a drumroll and cleared his throat with flair. 

“Okay. Reese.”
“Tú… te gusta la juega de Dungeons y Dragons?”

He delivered it like a line from a telenovela—terrible grammar, maximum drama.

Reese bit back a smile—half grateful, half still echoing that word from before.

“Sí, Dustin. Es verdad. Me gusta la juega de Dungeons y Dragons.”

She said it with the same tone one might use to profess love under moonlight. The verb was wrong. The article was worse. But he grinned like he’d just nailed the SATs.

Then Reese leaned forward, tilting her page toward him.

“Okay, my turn.”
“Dustin… es verdad o es mentira… que tú… siempre llevas ese gorro?”
(True or false—you always wear that hat?)

She pointed at the iconic baseball cap perched above his curls.

Gorro? Gordo? Llevas sounded like llevar. Carry… fat… uh? Do I carry fat people? Sure. Close enough.

He squinted at her, clearly fighting the urge to laugh.
“¿A… veces?” he tried, dragging the vowel out. “Yo no. intentar? Pero…”
He glanced sideways.
“Tal vez a mi gato cuenta??”

Reese burst out laughing—quietly, behind her hand, but enough to make her shoulders shake.

She’d asked if he always wore that hat. He’d basically said, 'I don’t try… unless my cat counts?'

“You know what I asked, right? I was talking about your hat,” She tapped the brim, sending a light knocking sound around his ears.

Dustin grinned widely and let out a relieved laugh. 

“Okay,” he said, casually tapping his pen to his worksheet. “Es mi turno, ¿sí?” (My turn, right?)

He cleared his throat, dragging out each syllable like it hurt to say.

“Reese… es verdad que… Tú… su vas a un cita este ayer?” Reese froze. Immediately. It was butchered. Truly criminal Spanish. But the meaning was unmistakable.

“Reese, is it true… You.. your—possesive— going to a date this yesterday?

Her Spanish fled the scene faster than her composure, and she quickly, too quickly, shot back,

 “What? I—no. I mean. What? No. How did you—Did he—? Or—never mind. Es mentira. Sí. Mentira.”

“Aha,” he said. “ That sounded like a yes.”

Reese gaped. “It did not. ”

“It so did.” He pointed his pen at her like a smug DA on Perry Mason reruns. “You said ‘no’ like five times. But also like… flustered no. Which means yes.”

She glared. “Mentira.”

“Right. A lie. Believable. Super convincing,” he said, nodding way too hard.

And then—quietly, behind the grin—his brain started spinning.

Wait. Reese went on a date.

Reese Halverson. Who looked like she belonged in Rivendell and brought a Bible to school and blushed when you said anything stronger than “damn”.

Who could she even go on a date with?

Eddie?

…Eddie.

He blinked again.

Oh my God. Did Eddie go on a date with Reese and not tell him?!

Worse —

What if it wasn’t Eddie?!

His pencil froze halfway to the paper.

This required investigation. Immediate. Thorough. Possibly involving Steve.

The trailer smelled like Folgers. And cigarettes, but that one never changed.

Late afternoon light slanted through the blinds in orange bars, dust floating like particles in a lava lamp. In the back room, the old radiator clicked. The TV was off—unusual for this hour—but neither of them had turned it on.

Wayne poured the last of the coffee into a dented thermos, the glass pot clinking softly against the vessel.

Eddie sat at the kitchen table with a D&D manual open in front of him—his favorite one, the one with the corner taped where it had split. He hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes.

He scratched at a frayed spot on his jeans with his thumb. Didn’t realize he was doing it. Didn’t realize he was holding his breath either.

Wayne didn’t turn around when he spoke. “Lose a saving throw or somethin’?”

Eddie didn’t look up from the book he wasn’t reading. “Nah,” he said, voice flat. “Just... tired.”

Wayne hummed low in his throat—noncommittal, but not unkind. He screwed the lid onto the thermos, the metal scraping against itself in that specific, tinny way. Lit a cigarette. Let the first drag hang in the air like punctuation.

Then nothing. No follow-up. No questions. Just the quiet burn of tobacco and the sound of Eddie fidgeting with a bent corner of the page.

But the silence didn’t stay neutral.

It stretched. Hung long enough to start tugging at Eddie’s nerves like loose threads. Wayne had left the door cracked on purpose, just wide enough for guilt or confession to squeeze through—whichever came first.

Eddie’s finger stopped twitching at the page.

"...You ever look at someone and just... know the world’s gonna eat ‘em alive if you don’t do somethin’?”

Wayne didn’t answer right away. He took a long drag instead, let the smoke drift toward the window. Watched it curl.

“Plenty of folks’d say that about you,” he said, finally. Even. Not disagreeing. Just stating a fact.

Eddie let out a short breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. Bitter at the edges.

“Yeah, well... I’m used to it. I’ve got armor.”

He tapped the corner of the manual once, then again. Like the words might arrange themselves into answers if he kept them moving.

“But her?” He shook his head. “She’s good. Like, actual good. And I don’t mean just sweet or polite or whatever people say when they mean ‘boring.’ I mean she’s... clean. Untouched.”

He winced a little—half-cringing at himself.

“Not like that. Well, I mean. I mean, like... she still thinks people can be better. She prays, man. And not just b’fore bed. Like it does somethin’. Like it means somethin’.”

Wayne didn’t answer right away. He just reached over, stubbed out his cigarette, and sat—slow, steady—into the creaking chair across from Eddie.

The thermos sat between them. Still steaming. He leaned forward, forearms braced on the edge of the table, eyes lined but sharp. That steel-blue look that didn’t cut—it stripped things down. No bluff, no bull. Just Wayne Munson’s own kind of gospel.

He let it settle before speaking. “Sounds like you care.”

Eddie didn’t look up. Not right away. His finger traced the edge of the manual like it might fray if he kept at it.

“I do,” he said finally. Soft. “I mean—More than I thought I could.” He paused. The sunlight shifted on the table, catching the edge of the spine. 

“This is the first time in my life where being a man has really... mattered.” 

The words sat there. Raw. No theatrics. Just truth. Unshaved and a little hoarse at the edges.

Wayne didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. Just looked at him like he’d been waiting to hear that exact sentence since Eddie was twelve years old.

Then he said it. 

Simple. Final. Not macho. Not tender. Just clean.

“Then be a man.”

And somehow it wasn’t pressure. It wasn’t a challenge or some old-fashioned creed. It was an invitation. A truth passed down like a wrench in a father’s garage—used, stained, still solid.

Eddie looked up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t crack a joke. Just watched the last rays of light drag across the laminate and nodded—slow, like he was nodding to something deeper than Wayne. Like something in him had shifted. Clicked into place.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Wayne stood with a quiet grunt, shrugging on his faded work jacket like armor he’d worn a thousand times.

The chair creaked behind him. Boots scuffed against the linoleum.

He paused at the door—just long enough for Eddie to register the shift in air.

Then, over his shoulder, low and sure:

“She picked you, didn’t she?”

A beat.

“That’s a start.”

The door shut with a soft click. Not final, but firm.

Eddie didn’t move.

The trailer felt different now. Not emptier. Just... quieter.

He stared down at the open manual, the pages warped slightly at the corners from old coffee spills and thumb-smudged notes. For once, the stats didn’t mean much. The numbers blurred.

And for the first time in a long time, Eddie Munson wasn’t thinking about battle maps or backstories.

He was thinking about vows.

Not the kind you roll for.

The kind you keep.

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Hello?”

Just her voice, soft and sunlit and slightly out of breath, was enough to loosen something tight in his chest. Eddie leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor beside the receiver. The D&D manual lay forgotten on the table. And all the noise in his head—Andy, the locker room, the gnawing junk from third period—quieted.

She didn’t ask why he called. Just started talking.

About her day.
About the hair pull—"didn’t even hurt, I just didn’t expect it, y’know?"
About Spanish class.

She laughed—full-bodied, unfiltered—right into his ear, recounting how Dustin had misunderstood her question and basically confessed to trying to wear his cat as a hat. Eddie could hear her laughing so hard she had to catch her breath.

And that—that was the part that lodged in his ribs like a splinter. That she could be here, now—laughing about cats and bad grammar like nothing had happened, while some jackass was making gestures about her body in a moldy high school shower like she was a vending machine instead of a person.

But then—
Something snagged in his mind.

The hair pull.

His laughter stopped mid-breath.

“…Reese. Wait. What?”

Her smile softened through the line, like she was trying to tuck it away. “Oh—it was fine. I mean. It didn’t hurt. Just… caught me off guard.”

He sat up straighter, knuckles going still against the cord. “Who?”

There was a pause. Not hesitation, just reluctance. “Andy. But it’s not like—he didn’t do anything. He was just being gross. Y’know. Trying to get a reaction. If you ignore them, they go away.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just listened. To her breathing. To the faint hum of the kitchen behind her. And then:

“Baby, why didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t even register the word until it was already out. Didn’t pull it back, either.

He heard a small breath. Quick. Like a sound someone makes when something lands deeper than they meant to let it.

“I just... I don't know I didn’t wanna make a big deal of it,” she said finally. “It felt… dumb. I don’t know. He wasn’t mean, just… creepy. But I’m okay.”

Eddie nodded slowly, even though she couldn’t see it. His voice stayed soft. “I believe you. I do. But it’s not dumb.”

 “I just wanna know,” he said. “Even the little stuff. I don’t want you carrying that on your own.”

Reese didn’t answer right away. But when she did, it wasn’t words—it was a breath, long and steady. And he knew she heard him. Really heard him.

And he didn’t tell her about Andy. She'd had enough of him. And it wasn't anything that'd benefit. He just listened. Let the sound of her breathing wash over him like it could scrub the whole day clean.

Then, a shift.

“…Are we okay?” she asked. Not nervous. Just soft. The kind of soft that sounded like a thread unspooling.

It broke him just a little. He wished he could’ve been there. Just to hold her face when he said it. But he wasn't. So Eddie's voice was warm and sure when he said it. “Yeah, Moonlight. We’re okay.”

She let out a quiet exhale. “Okay. Good.” and then she sighed into the receiver. There was a long pause before she spoke again.

“Dustin might be onto us,” she said, voice lowering into a teasing lilt. “‘Cause of Spanish, I mean. He asked if I ‘was going to a date this yesterday.’ I sort of… panicked.” She laughed again. “He looked at me like he was solving a mystery... Like he was gonna bring out a corkboard and red string.”

Eddie chuckled. “Well, if anyone’s gonna Sherlock it…”

“Yeah,” she sighed, content. “I give it a week.”

She paused. A clatter in the background. Then: “Mama just called for dinner.”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Not sure. But it smells like pot roast. I saw the crockpot on the counter when I got home.”

He winced playfully. “Woof. Good luck.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it. “Garett’s mom made pot roast once. It tasted like burnt rubber.”

Reese giggled. “Well, Mama’s a good cook. You’ll have to come over for dinner sometime.”

His hand tightened around the cord. “Yeah?” he said quietly. “I’d like that.”

There was a soft hum of silence. Not awkward—just full. Like neither of them wanted to hang up.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Well…” she trailed off. 

“See you tomorrow?” He tried.

A breath. A flicker of static. “Eddie…?”

He sat up straighter, heartbeat ticking just a little louder in his ears. “Yeah, Mouse?”

“I…”

Dead air. He waited.

Then, gently: “Should we? I mean… do you think we should wait? To tell people?” She paused. “Not that I wanna be a secret. I just… I don’t know. It’s kind of fun, though. Being the only ones who know. For now.”

A beat. Then his smile curled slowly and warmly against the receiver, like it lived behind his teeth.

“Yeah,” he said. “For now.”

He could hear her smile too, somehow—like the sound lit the air between them.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Bye, Eddie. I’ll… see you tomorrow." And she was quiet, but only for a second, before she added,

"Do your homework.”

She hung up before he could answer.

He stayed there for a long time, still holding the receiver to his ear, like maybe if he didn’t move, he could keep the echo of her voice a little longer.

And maybe he didn’t do his homework.

But he’d already memorized the only line that mattered.

Chapter Text

Lunch at Hawkins High was a daily cacophony of chaos.

Trays smacked tabletops. Chip bags popped like firecrackers. Sneakers squeaked on linoleum. A textbook hit the floor somewhere in the melee, its thud swallowed by vending machines and teenage voices.

But just outside the epicenter, in the narrow alcove by the west-facing window, Robin Buckley and Reese Halverson had carved out their own quiet corner. Their unofficial perch. Close enough that teachers didn’t question them, far enough that it felt like a different world. A softer one.

The Indiana light had been dull and gray that day, the kind that blurred the edges of everything. Like a photo left in your wallet through saltwater. Warped and water-stained by the sacriments of the sea, yet somehow it felt truer that way. It caught on the salt-streaked concrete outside the glass and cast a cold glow over the beige lockers. Fall hadn’t reached its fire-colored peak yet, but the air had that unmistakable October density—like the year was curling inward for warmth.

Robin sat cross-legged on the windowsill, peeling the crusts off her peanut butter and jelly sandwich with surgical precision. Reese was perched on the bench’s edge and unwrapped a ham sandwich from wax paper. She glanced at the note stuck beside it—a slip of lined paper in her mother’s unmistakable handwriting:

“Don’t forget your hat, your smile, and that I love you! —Mama Bird”

Reese smiled to herself and folded the note carefully, like it were something sacred. She tucked it into the front pocket of her Trapper Keeper.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Robin said. She didn’t look up. “What if we ditched this whole stuffy town and joined a roller derby league in Indianapolis?”

Reese bit into her sandwich, trying to chew around a laugh. “I’d last five minutes. I have the coordination of a dolphin on a trampoline.”

“Yeah,” Robin laughed, but then nodded, dead serious. “But you’ve got team spirit. And suppressed spunk. Those count for something.”

She gestured lazily with a peanut-butter-glued sandwich triangle, squinting at Reese. “You’ve got, uh—”

Robin tapped her own cheek. “May’naise.” She said it fast, barely audible, like skipping a syllable could spare Reese’s pride.

Reese groaned, swallowing quickly and wiping at her face with a napkin. “Oh gosh. Gross. Why d’s’it always hafta get on my face when she makes me sandwiches?”

Robin grinned. “Because I eat like a nervous raccoon and somehow stay pristine. You, meanwhile, are the human embodiment of ‘oops.’”

They laughed together—quiet, warm, familiar. Behind them, a plastic straw cracked under someone’s heel. The rest of the school faded to white noise.

Robin was mid-bite, talking through peanut butter. “Soooo… when ya gonna see that knight-in-rusted-armor of yours again?”

Reese chewed longer than necessary. The bread stuck to the roof of her mouth and in between her braces, but that was only part of it. 

“I’m… not sure. He hasn’t asked yet.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Assuming he’s gonna…” she reached for her napkins to wipe her fingers, even though there wasn’t anything on them.

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Is that doubt I hear, my friend?”

Reese smiled, small and nervous. “I mean… I dunno. What if he thinks I’m like… boring? Sure, he’ll play D&D with me or— take me out once just to see what it’s like. But…” Her voice dropped. “Don’t bad boys usually like... bad girls?”

She leaned forward and gently tapped her forehead against the cool glass—just once. It made a soft, hollow thunk, like a bird hitting a window. A faint, cloudy smudge bloomed where her skin had touched the pane—oil and doubt and October air all pressed into one.

She sat back quickly. She didn’t apologize, but the chagrin was in her expression and the way she fervently moved to wipe it away with her sleeve.

Robin let out a scoffing laugh, nearly choking on her sandwich. “Okay. First of all? You’ve got it completely backwards. Bad boys always have the hots for good girls. It’s, like, hardwired into their chain-link DNA or whatever. It’s textbook.”

Reese cracked a bashful smile and attempted to bite it back. Eddie? Having the ‘hots’ for her? She could feel the blush crawling behind her ears.

Robin leaned in, wiping her hands on a napkin with theatrical flair. “Second? The way you’ve been gushin’ about him, he doesn’t exactly seem like Mr. Danger. I mean, come on. The knee kiss? The corner-of-the-mouth kiss? The romantic firelight under the stars?”

She waved her crust at Reese like it were a magic wand. “Didn't he literally call you baby on the phone last night? 'cause that’s not Dally Winston. That’s… Hector and Andromache."

Reese shot her a look but couldn’t quite suppress the smile bleeding onto her face. Robin had lost her mind over the Matt Dylon poster tacked by her bookshelf. Much to Reese’s dismay—and secret delight.

Then, tentatively, "Yeah... well. It was like an accidental baby."

"You do realize that only proves my point more, right?" Robin raised a brow. 

Reese shook her head and bit back a smile. Robin was right. But something about the moment made her not want to admit it. Like if she agreed with her, the clouds would open up and strike him down, making her words in vain.

“Who’s that anyway?” Reese asked, crumpling her sandwich wrapper and reaching for her apple slices. “Hector.”

Robin grinned. “The Iliad. Ancient Greek heartbreak. He was this war hero, and she was his wife, and before he rode out to die in battle, he stopped to hold her. And their baby. Just stood there and memorized their faces.”

Reese stared at her apple slices. They’d gone from pristine celadon to a browned sort of bloom, soft around the edges, exposed too long. Mushy.

Robin shrugged, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “I’m just saying. Sounds more like that than, y’know, greaser-boy-lights-your-cigarette-while-you-skip-class.”

Reese looked down at her sandwich again, quieter now. “Yeah… yeah, I guess so. I hope so.” She dug her nail into her apple, piercing the pale flesh.

“So when d’you think you’re gonna find your rusty knight?”

Robin didn’t answer right away.

She never really talked about boys—not beyond the usual teasing about Steve or Dustin, and even that felt like something completely different. Reese didn’t want to push. Robin didn’t have to have a crush. But still… she cared. She just didn’t want to make everything about herself.

Robin’s shoulders hitched—barely. She smoothed it over fast, but Reese caught it. “Uh… emphasis on rusty. Boys here suck.”

Reese tilted her head, faux-innocent, voice just sweet enough to be suspicious. “Even Steve?”

Robin gasped theatrically. “How dare you. Steve Harrington is like—like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Loyal? Sure. Loveable? Sometimes. An idiot? Totally. But you don’t date the Scarecrow. You feed him Tostitos and let him… crash on your couch.” She gestured vaguely in the air with a polished-chipped hand. 

Reese giggled and reached up to fish a piece of apple skin from her bracket. “Fair.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment—Robin stacked her discarded crusts into little bricks, Reese absently traced the edge of her binder. The light through the west-facing window had gone soft and milky, catching in the fringe of Reese’s cornflower corduroy skirt. Behind them, a group of freshmen erupted into loud mocking laughter. Robin gave them a withering look that could have peeled paint.

Reese smiled. “I like this, y’know. Us. Sitting here.”

Robin’s expression softened. “Me too. I mean, no offense to your rebel-rust knight, but I like having y’here. Feels like—”

“Home base,” Reese finished gently.

Robin nodded. “Exactly.”

Reese looked sideways at her, chewing slowly. Robin hesitated, then said it like it didn’t matter—but Reese could tell it did. “I mean… ’til you get bored of me and ditch me for Hellfire.”

Reese frowned and shook her head mid-chew, swallowing fast. “No way. Are you crazy? You’re like… way cooler than all of ‘em put together. But… more than that—”

She smiled, soft and sincere. “You’re a robin. Means renewal and hope. You’re my good luck charm.”

Robin let out a dry laugh, but there was a flicker in her eyes that looked almost startled. Reese caught it.

“Seriously,” Reese insisted, nudging the toe of Robin’s Converse with her russet-toned boot. “You’re awesome. I’d be stupid to ditch ya,” she smirked, then added, “Rockin’ Robin.”

Robin groaned and dropped her crust brick. “Ugh, no. I swear if I ever see Andy Clayton again—”

“—you’ll what?” Reese teased.

“I’ll force-feed him peanut butter until he chokes on his own BO.”

They both broke into laughter. The window glass fogged faintly from their breath. Outside, a dry leaf skated across the concrete like it had somewhere to be.

The final bell had rung ten minutes ago, but the school still hummed with aftershock.

The front steps of Hawkins High were half-damp from where the afternoon had tried to rain, but never quite committed. The sky overhead looked like notebook paper that’d been crumpled, stuffed under a science book, and forgotten for three weeks—creased, stained, and way past pretending to be blue.

Locker doors slammed behind him—somebody shouted something about a missing Walkman. From somewhere near the track field, laughter echoed, tangled with the distant thump-thump-thud of someone practicing free throws. A car door slammed. Another. Then a too-loud stereo started blaring Billy Idol, half-eaten by rolled-up windows and bad wiring.

Dustin Henderson hit the last step with a soft sneaker clunk. His backpack was half-zipped, and a rogue spiral notebook flapping slightly from the gap. His cap was tugged low against the wind, and he had no particular destination in mind. Just heading to Mike’s, probably.

But halfway down the path, he glanced toward the student lot—

And stopped.

He saw her first.

She leaned against her red Firebird, elbow tucked just inside the strap of her canvas bag. Her shirt was pink—soft and sort of crinkly-looking, like the Valentine cards you made in second grade and gave to your mom, the ones with the little paper doilies glued on. A blue skirt brushed her knees, and she had those same boots on she always wore, like they were part of her armor or something.

She looked like… not a teacher, exactly. But maybe the kind of teacher you remembered. The one who never yelled, even when everyone deserved it. The one who made the classroom smell like apple juice and construction paper. The kind of person who made the world feel slower. Easier.

He didn’t know why, but seeing her there—so still, so okay with just being still—made something in his chest unclench.

Her hair usually looked more golden—like, classic gold. But with that soft pink shirt underneath, it kinda shifted. Almost strawberry-blonde now. Like sunshine through peach tea or something.

One boot rested against the side panel, toe angled out. Casual. Composed. Her head was tilted up slightly. Not dramatically, not with wide-eyed adoration or movie-scene grandeur. Just—soft. Her smile barely touched her mouth, but it was there. Quiet. Real. The kind you didn’t waste on just anyone.

That’s when he also noticed the figure in front of her.

Eddie.

He could tell, even with his back to Dustin. He wasn’t exactly hard to miss. Well. Neither of them were, especially not together.

Eddie’s shoulders hunched slightly against the wind, hair a little messier than it had been at lunch. One hand tucked into his jeans pocket. The other gestured as he spoke, slow and easy, like he was building a story and watching how it landed.

It wasn’t dramatic. No hand on the car. No pressed-up closeness. No fingers twirling in hair. But Dustin knew Eddie’s body language better than most kids knew their locker combinations. That slight lean forward? That half-shrug Eddie did when he was pretending to be chill but was very much not chill? That lazy shuffle of one sneaker—his left one—which meant he was buying time?

Classic. Munson. Courtship. Posture.

Dustin squinted.

Then—Reese spoke.

He didn’t hear her, of course. She was too far away, and the parking lot was its usual end-of-day mess: engines revving, bass thudding, someone yelling about forgetting their math book.

But he saw her lips move—just a few words. Three or four, maybe.

You gonna miss me?

That’s what it looked like.

Dustin narrowed his eyes.

Okay, wait.
That looked like—
Did she say—?
No. No way.
But also… maybe?

Could’ve been. You miss PE? Or even You wanna mess with me?

Honestly, it was a crapshoot. Dustin wasn’t a lip-reader. Not unless it was a movie with subtitles and a lot of dramatic close-ups. Still, the way she said it—soft and kind of tilted like she was half teasing, half nervously serious—and the way she smiled after?

That was clear as day. 

 And Eddie—he did the thing with his shoulders.
The stupid “I’m totally not melting right now” posture.

That wasn’t nothing.
That was something.

This wasn’t conclusive, but they were officially in pattern-detection territory now.

He started walking again, but slower. Eyes narrowed. Brain spinning.

I need to bring this up with Steve.
Steve knows girls. And he’d been in the same room as Reese. And Robin.
Robin is my golden ticket. She saw everything. And they were like… girls.
Girls talk about that stuff.

Alright, Henderson. Time to start thinking smart.

He yanked his backpack strap tighter, the movement decisive. His hat tilted forward like a detective adjusting his fedora.
Cue his theme music—probably Knight Rider in his head.

Reese’s bedroom still held the hush of late afternoon. The October sun had begun its slow descent behind the neighbor’s garage—low and dreamy, and hazy behind clouds, like the big pumpkins that would soon gather on every porch. It cast muddled amber beams through her lace curtains, painting soft grids across the floorboards and her bedspread.

A breeze stirred the branch outside, still peppered with yellow leaves. Down the hall, a dish clinked. Somewhere, the dryer buzzed and reset. She wasn’t really listening.

Her geometry textbook lay open in her lap, her legs folded criss-cross at the foot of her quilt. Pages fluttered under a weight of half-scribbled notes, the margins packed with arrows, stars, and question marks. Her eraser was a tragic little nub now, its shreds dusted into the folds of the blanket like little pigs on a farmer’s field of snow-sprinkled flowers.

She was supposed to be proving that a triangle was isosceles.
But she was almost ready to prove that geometry was evil.

Reese sighed and raked her fingers through her hair, untangling the frizz at the crown.

Her gaze drifted upward to the thin wooden frame above her bed. Jesus, soft-eyed and gently radiant, mystic, gazed back in that familiar, forgiving way. The classic portrait—seen in a thousand thrift stores and Sunday school rooms—had hung over her bed since she was little.

It was the first thing she’d put up when they moved here.
The first thing that made this room hers.

She stared for a long moment. Then, slowly, she closed the geometry book and pushed it aside.

She didn’t kneel.
Just shifted forward, grounding herself at the edge of the mattress. She folded her arms on the white wooden bedframe and rested her chin there—like she was leaning across the booth at some sleepy all-night diner, talking to an old friend.

“Hey,” she whispered.

A beat.

“Today was… good. Robin made me laugh at lunch. She’s been peeling her crusts off like she’s building a tiny bread wall lately. And Dustin’s giving me this look during Spanish like he’s solved a murder. Which probably means he’ll crack it by the campaign this Friday.”

She smiled faintly, tugging at a loose thread on her rosey blouse.

“Geometry’s awful. In case You didn’t already know that. Sorry—I know You made numbers, but… that one’s kinda on You.”

She smiled at the joke, and exhaled, long and low, and her voice softened into something smaller. Her brows knitted together.

“I saw him again. Eddie. He walked me to my car.”

Her fingers pressed into the white paint of the wooden bedframe. Her voice started to shake—not with tears, but with effort.

“I know what I feel. I do. And I know you know, too." She let out a sigh.

"I feel safe with him. I feel like… he sees me. Like I can let him see me. And I know he’s not—he’s not where I am with You. But he’s kind. And he listens. And he tries. And," She paused searching for the right words,

"When I’m near him, I feel this quiet. Like maybe I don’t have to be scared. Like I don’t have to keep the peace all the time. Even when I tell myself that maybe I'm crazy or something, and he'd rather date someone of his... caliber." She chuckled a little now at the thought.

"But the truth is, God, deep down, I don't think I believe that. I keep thinking of the night we had. How he listened when I talked about Muirgen. How he listened when I talked about You.”

She blinked, hard. A neighbor pushed open a garage door somewhere nearby. 

“But... I told You I want to follow You first. And I meant it.”

A whisper, barely audible:

“I still mean it.”

She swallowed. Her voice cracked—just a little.

“So what do I do, Lord? Every part of me wants this. But I don’t know if I can have two things at once. I don’t know if it’s right to want something that doesn’t lead straight to You. I don’t want to put him first. But I don’t want to lose this either.”

A pause.

“I just… I wanna listen. I’ll do what You want. I will. But please—if I’m wrong, make it clear. And if I’m not…”

A deep breath.

“…show me how to carry both. So I don’t drop You along the way.”

She closed her eyes.

The room went quiet again—just the soft tick of the wall clock and the rustle of wind against the pane.

A voice called from the kitchen:

“Time for dinner, sweetie!”

She smiled softly, eyes still closed.

Her mama hadn’t used her full name as usual—but it hung there anyway.
Like a memory.
One she wasn’t quite ready to share.

Not yet.

The Wheeler basement held a very specific kind of glow, half lamp-lit, half memory-lit. The kind of place that smelled like boys who hadn’t started wearing deodorant on purpose yet. Like dryer lint and comic book ink. A place that absorbed sound just enough to feel safe, but still carried the occasional creak of the floorboards above like ghost footsteps from Karen or Nancy.

Lucas was spinning a pencil against the heel of his palm, eyes half on the math worksheet he absolutely wasn’t going to finish. His excuse for coming over had technically been “homework,” but everyone knew that was just code for snacks and whatever VHS Mike had pulled from the family cabinet.

Mike himself was perched cross-legged on the carpet, back hunched, fiddling with a battery-powered handheld game that beeped softly every so often. There was a blanket slumped over the arm of the couch, one end dipped into a laundry basket like it had given up halfway through transforming into a fort.

Somewhere, the furnace kicked on with a groan and a hiss.

A half-empty can of Tab fizzed quietly on the cluttered coffee table. An open bag of Doritos sat between them like a peace offering. The room smelled like popcorn oil, dust, and the cracked spine of a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Faintly metallic, faintly nostalgic. Like time had thickened in here. Like it was always 5:47 p.m. in the fall.

The kind of place where you didn’t need to say much. Where boys could just… exist. But Dustin—cap pushed low over his curls, backpack still half-on like he hadn’t fully committed to staying or going—was not in a just-exist mood.

He was watching the other two, but not really. Something had clicked earlier. Something about the way Reese had smiled. The kind of smile that wasn’t meant for just anybody.

And now? He had a theory.

Lucas groaned, flopping sideways into the worn armchair like gravity had betrayed him. “I just don’t get it, man. Max tells me to leave her alone, but then gets mad when I do. I just… don’t know what she wants anymore. She says she doesn’t want to talk—but then acts like… I’m supposed to read her mind.”

He threw a pencil at the ceiling. It bounced off a tile with a soft thup and landed in the bowl of M&Ms, where it would probably stay until the apocalypse.

Still cross-legged on the floor, Mike tossed the Game & Watch aside, dug elbow-deep into the half-stale Doritos, and crunched without looking up,

“Why don’t you just ask Reese? Hellfire’s got the upper hand now. She probably gets, like… girl-brain rules or whatever.

That was all Dustin needed.

He straightened slightly, the brim of his cap catching the yellow lamplight like a beacon. “Speaking of Reese…”

Lucas groaned again, but this time with a grin. He pointed dramatically. “Here we go.”

Mike rolled his eyes and shoved another handful of chips into his mouth, already bracing for a theory.

“No, seriously!” Dustin said, shifting forward in his seat, knees knocking the underside of the table. “Don’t you guys think she’s… kinda cool?”

Mike didn’t look up from the Dorito he was licking. “I mean. Sure. But she's like… a senior. And you’re still dating Suzie from Utah, dude. Or did the Mormon parents banish you from reaching her via radio?”

Dustin rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “It’s not like that. I’m just saying—I think something’s going on. She totally flipped out—like Reese flip out—when I jokingly asked if she went on a date during Spanish.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow and slid his worksheet away with the back of his hand.

“With who? Michael J. Fox?”

Mike perked up instantly. “Oooh, or like… that guy from Chariots of Fire. You know. Sensitive piano face.” He tried to make said face. Badly.

Lucas cut in, “Or Jesus.”

Mike snickered but tried to conceal it through pursed lips. 

“No, you idiots.” Dustin interjected harshly. “Eddie.”

That shut them up. For a second.

Mike tilted his head slightly like he was trying to hear a distant radio station. “Huh.”

Lucas scrunched his nose. “I mean… I guess? Isn’t she, like… way outta his league, though?”

Dustin shot Lucas a shrewd look. “What does that even mean? Have you two nimrods actually talked to her? She’s a total nerd. Like us. Like Eddie! He literally spoke Elvish last week, and she got it. I don’t know what he said, but it definitely wasn’t her character stats.”

“…Well,” Mike muttered, frowning like he was trying to forget it and failing.

“I’m telling you,” Dustin went on, gaining steam now, “they’re like…banana and peanut butter, okay? You wouldn’t think they’d go together, but then you mash ’em up and it’s like boom. Perfect. The banana’s all soft and sweet, and then the peanut butter’s bold and... nutty. It works.”

Lucas squinted. “Who’s who in this metaphor?”

“Reese is the banana,” Dustin said flatly. “Duh.”

Mike snorted. “You’ve put way too much thought into this.”

“Tell me you don’t see it.”

They both looked at each other. Then, in unison:

“We don’t see it.”

Dustin groaned in betrayal like they’d just kicked over the Holy Grail. He flopped back onto the couch like a dying starfish, fingers in his hair. “Oh my God. You’re all blind. Blind as goblins. Just wait—when it comes out, I’m not saying anything. I’ll just be sitting here, being right.”

Lucas leaned forward. “Wait. Are goblins blind?”

Dustin didn’t even hesitate. “Emotionally, yes.”

Somewhere, the floorboard creaked above them. Someone choked on a Dorito.

And the basement, full of crumbs and comic books and the faint scent of Cool Ranch, returned to its natural state of argument, laughter, and the warm buzz of a mystery still just out of reach. Maybe upstairs. Maybe in the parking lot. Maybe already happening.

Chapter Text

It was the kind of Thursday afternoon that looked like it belonged in a school brochure: crisp blue sky, leaves crunching under Converse, a faint haze of cigarette smoke drifting from two rows over.

Nothing out of place. Nothing curious.

Unless you were looking for it.

And Dustin Henderson was.

The bell rang like a starter pistol. Doors burst open like a ruptured dam in unison, and the assembled body of Hawkins High spilled out into the rays of October.

He booked it. Barreled down the front steps two at a time, nearly collided with a marching band kid, tossed out a half-hearted “sorry!” and made a beeline for the burgundy BMW idling across the street like a getaway car.

Steve didn’t even have time to flinch.

The passenger door flew open. Dustin flung himself inside like he was dodging sniper fire, and slammed it shut behind him as he crouched low and started to yank binoculars from his backpack.

“Get down! They’ll see you!” he hissed.

“Wha— Who?! What’s going on??”

Dustin had already adjusted the focus like a seasoned war correspondent. “Shut up. She’s coming. And he’s gonna walk her. I’m calling it.”

“Henderson, who the hell are you talking about?”

“Eddie and Reese! ” Dustin cried with the kind of urgency that made you think the Russians were back.

“Oh. That’s great.” Steve remarked sarcastically, as all concern lifted from his voice. 

“Here I was thinking you wanted to hang out. But nope—turns out I’m just here to spy on your new best friend and his girlfriend—or whatever.” He rushed out the last words of the sentence like he couldn’t even be bothered to enunciate.  

Steve dragged a hand down his face, getting more annoyed by the second. “Really? You brought your binoculars?” 

When Dustin didn’t answer, too focused on his surveillance of the front, he continued,

“Okay, wait—why exactly are we doing this today? Like, what made today the day we stalk them?”

“It’s not stalking,” Dustin snapped. “It’s a test of hypothesis.”

“Right. Of course. Science.” Steve folded his arms. “What’s the hypothesis, exactly? That your Dungeon Master’s got a thing for Marcia Brady?”

Dustin replied, getting impatient himself. “Out of sheer curiosity, I asked Reese if she was free after school. She asked for a ‘raincheck.’ Then I asked Eddie.”

“And?”

“He said he was busy,” Dustin punctuated the last word like it was code for something illicit. “They’re never busy. Not like that. The stars are aligned, Steve, I’m telling you.”

Steve looked at him like he’d just coughed up a hairball. “…Has it occurred to you that maybe they just—don’t wanna hang out with a freshman?”

“Yes,” Dustin replied. “But also not the point. 'Cause—look.”

The binoculars went still. Across the lot, Reese stepped out into the sunlight like the opening of a musical. She wore a lavender dress with white polka dots, sleeves that puffed a little at the shoulders. It looked like something her mom made, or pulled from a box labeled “Easter '78.” She didn’t seem to care that it was fall. She didn’t seem to care about anything but the boy walking toward her.

Eddie pushed off the railing where he’d been leaning, the sun catching on the mess of metal rings across his fingers. He said something. She smiled.

Steve tilted his head. “Geez. Look at ‘er face. That’s like... a real smile. I don’t even get that face from Robin when I buy her curly fries.”

Dustin didn’t answer. Not out loud. He tracked every movement through the glass as if he were calling a covert op.

“Yeah, so he’s walking her to her car? Big deal. I don't get why I need to be here for your 'scientific discovery,'” Steve grumbled.

“You said you wanted to hang out,” Dustin replied defensively. He peered up at his friend from his ridiculous sprawl, head tilted awkwardly against the window like a soldier behind enemy lines.

“Yeah, like, get food. Not sign up for espionage.”

Dustin raised his head over the window, scoping the main entrance. His voice dropped into a low, serious mutter.

“Goldilocks has exited the building. Repeat: Goldilocks is on the move.”

“I don’t believe this. This is ridiculous,” Steve muttered to the scene outside the windshield, or maybe his own reflection in it. 

“You said you wanted to know what was going on with Eddie and Reese!” Dustin insisted.

“No. No, no, no—I did not say that. You said they were ‘definitely dating,’ and I said maybe they’re just messing around or whatever.”

“Well,” Dustin breathed, binoculars still covering his eyes as he adjusted the focus again, “Congratulations. You’re now part of Operation PBB. ”

Steve blinked. “PBB?”

“Peanutbutterbanana,” Dustin said, fast and serious. “Don’t ask. Just watch. Here comes Batwing. ”

“Batwing? God, what is this, some sort of third-grade code club?”

“Shut up! They’re right there— look! He’s walking her to her car. Just like every other day this week! ”

“Henderson... You’ve seriously been watching them every day?”

Dustin pretended not to hear the question. 

Across the lot, Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets. Reese reached for her keys. They laughed at something, something small. She touched his arm, just for a second, then slipped into her Firebird. The engine coughed, then settled. Eddie lifted his hand in a lazy half-wave. Not a flourish. Just... there. The Firebird pulled away.

Dustin lowered the binoculars.

“...Follow that car.”

Steve blinked. “What? No. Are you crazy? ”

“Steve.”

“Absolutely not. That’s stalking.”

“It’s not stalking. It’s tracking. There’s a difference.”

“No, there’s not!” Steve snapped, already half-turning the wheel despite himself. “God, I’ve talked to her, like… three times? She’s gonna think I’m some creep with a mustache and a panel van.”

“You don’t have a mustache.”

“Henderson. You’re killing me. ”

“I swear I’ll buy you a pizza.”

“You’re not gonna buy me a pizza.”

“I might buy you a pizza.”

“You won’t.”

“It’s the principle, Steve! Just drive!!”

Steve groaned, but his foot was already easing onto the gas.

“This is so messed up.” He muttered to his reflection in the windshield once more.

The BMW rolled forward, and it trailed the Firebird with a half-hearted attempt at being inconspicuous.

They followed her for three turns past downtown, through a stoplight, down a neighborhood with tidy yards and cracked sidewalks. Reese pulled into a modest single-story ranch style with a worn-wood porch and a crooked mailbox that looked like it had been hammered together by a dad and a third grader. 

The BMW idled for a moment, and Steve shifted into neutral. And sighed. Loudly.

Then, per Dustin’s demand, he cut the engine when she disappeared inside. 

They were parked diagonally across the street, nose half-in a shady patch under a maple tree. Twenty minutes passed.

Dustin had kept his binoculars trained on the front door like he was expecting enemy movement. Steve had leaned against the window, tapping the wheel with one hand and regretting most of his high school choices.

“Y’know… she's probably doing something boring, right? Like eating a snack or doing homework?” Steve muttered. “Not making out with your Dungeon Master.”

“Shhh.”

“I’m serious. I’ve got places to be.”

“You don’t have places to be,” Dustin said without looking away.

“Okay, fine, but I could. I could make places. Productive places. Not sitting outside Robin’s friend’s house like I’m about to repo her bike.”

Steve reached for the ignition.

The key barely turned when—

“LOOK! LOOKLOOKLOOKLOOK—THERE HE IS! I TOLD YOU!”

Dustin’s voice cracked like he was being mugged.

Steve startled so hard he nearly hit the horn.

Across the street, the familiar shape of Eddie’s Chevy rolled into view, crawling to a stop in front of the Halversons’ house. The engine stayed on as Reese pushed open the front door.

 “Huh,” Steve said, leaning forward. “She changed.”

“Is that a good thing?” Dustin asked, hopeful.

“For your theory? Not really.”

Steve squinted. Reese was now in jeans, wide at the ankles, like something his mom would've worn, and a pink crewneck sweater. She rushed down her front yard to his van, not out of tardiness, but excitement and familiarity.

“That’s a ‘hang out with your friend’ outfit,” Steve confirmed. “Not a date outfit.”

“Maybe they’re going, like… roller skating or something?” Dustin tried, desperation rising.

Steve shot him a look so flat it could’ve been sanded.

“Henderson. Munson would date you before he set foot in a roller rink.”

Dustin opened his mouth, closed it, and went back to squinting through his binoculars.

“Plus, she ran to the van,” Steve continued. “Girls don’t run on dates. That’s like, code for ‘I’m just stoked to leave the house and not trying to impress him. ’” 

“Just 'cause girls don’t sprint to your dates doesn’t mean it’s not romantic,” Dustin snapped.

Steve shook his head in dismissal.

The bell over the thrift store door jingled like it had a head cold.

Inside, the air was a warm swirl of mothballs, worn denim, dust, and the faint, almost pleasant scent of old leather. It didn’t smell bad, just... sleepy. Familiar. Like a closet someone had lived in for decades and loved every square inch of.

Reese blinked against the strange lighting; some bulbs overhead were bright white, buzzing faintly, while others glowed yellow like softened candlelight. It gave the whole place a lopsided, dreamlike feeling. Like she'd stepped into a half-forgotten memory.

“Oh man,” Eddie breathed behind her, already veering toward a cracked milk crate filled with vinyls. “If I find a bootleg Sabbath in here, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

She smiled as she drifted away from him, her fingers brushing along a rack of thin, faded flannel. Most of it was too big for her. Not her style, really. But she lingered anyway—her thumb caught on a black and gray sleeve like she wasn’t thinking of anyone in particular.

Then she stumbled upon it. It was tucked between two shoulder-padded disasters on the rack. A pale buttercream gown with long, puffed sleeves and a square neckline trimmed in soft lace. The fabric was whisper-thin, patterned with tiny faded flowers like something out of a pressed book page.

The waist was empire-cut, cinched just under the bust with a band of delicate crochet lace, and the skirt flowed in gathered folds all the way to the floor, ending in a soft ruffle. It looked like it had been sewn for a girl who wrote love letters by candlelight and got caught in the rain a lot. She recognized it instantly as a Gunne Sax.

Reese held it up with both hands and tried not to fall in love.

It wasn’t trendy. It wasn’t practical. It looked like it had wandered out of a Victorian dollhouse or an old wedding photo.

It was something only she would have thought was beautiful.

“What in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s ghost is that?” Eddie called from the vinyl crates, voice full of mischief.

Reese half-turned toward him, holding the dress like a shield. Her cheeks were already warming as she laughed softly.

“It’s kind of pretty, right?” she said. “Like something you might wear in a Shakespeare play.”

“If I saw you wearing that on stage, I’d forget my lines and probably get stabbed by Macbeth.”

She laughed at his dramatics and smiled.

She didn’t put it back. Instead, she drifted toward the mirror near the back corner, the kind with scuffed edges and a little gold sticker at the bottom that read “Smile!” Instead, she slipped the dress over her clothes, just to see. Held her breath.

It didn’t fit perfectly. Her pink sweater peeked through the square neckline, breaking the mysticism of it. It wasn’t cool. But it felt like her—the Reese that lived somewhere outside the locker-lined hallways and cafeteria noise. The her that still lived in bedtime stories and hymnals and half-dreamed fairy tales.

“Okay, yeah,” Eddie said behind her, voice lower now. “That’s… weirdly perfect on you.”

She turned slightly. “Weirdly?”

“You look like—” He paused. Fumbled. “Like the prototype cover for Stairway to Heaven or something. Y’know, before they went with the Hermit. ’Cause otherwise no one would’ve listened to the music—they’d just be staring at you.”

Reese's breath caught, halfway between flattery and astonishment by how quickly he'd thought of that.

"So... like a siren? Does that make you the sailor?" 

Eddie grinned ear to ear, “Arrr, I knew I’d be dashed ter bits on the rocks the minute I laid eyes on ye, milady,” he drawled, all gravel and dramatics. “No map coulda led me ter a treasure like ye.”
He gestured wildly, then dropped his voice to a stage whisper:
“—that’s you, in case that wasn’t clear.”

She just couldn't stop the giggle that escaped her mouth in surprise, but it stilled after a moment. She couldn't tell whether she wanted to laugh or fawn. He was the biggest nerd she’d ever met—but you’d never guess it, just by looking.

They parted again, she continued to browse through the winter clothes, while he wandered off somewhere out of her sight.

Eventually, she meandered back toward him, the prairie dress folded carefully over one arm, her fingers brushed absently along a row of mismatched coffee mugs. The thrift store seemed even quieter back here—just the faint buzz of fluorescent lighting and the occasional creak of a warped floorboard.

Eddie was crouched in front of a low shelf near the housewares, turning something over in his hands.

“Are you…” she squinted, tilting her head, “planning to spruce up your kitchen?”

He looked up, grinning like he’d been caught with contraband.

In his hands was a ceramic chicken, the kind of thing old ladies kept sugar in. It had a bright red comb, and the paint was chipped along the wing.

“My mom had a couple of these,” he said, not quite looking at her now. “Whole army of ’em above the fridge. I used to stare at them when I was little. Wanted to play with ’em like toys. But she never let me. Said they were ‘for looking.’”

He paused, turned the chicken over once, then set it gently back on the shelf.

“I dunno,” he added. “It’s stupid.”

Reese didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward and looked at the little chicken like it might tell her something.

Then, softly—

“It’s not.”

Eddie glanced at her sideways. Said nothing. But his smile shifted—just a little.

As he moved on to the next aisle, Reese lingered. Her eye caught on something nestled between a set of coasters and a broken kaleidoscope. A tiny figurine, a toy Gremlin, hunched and wide-eyed, ears flared out like satellite dishes. It looked like it had been part of a Happy Meal or a cereal box prize. It was ridiculous.

Eamon would love it.

The diner's door creaked as they walked in, trailed by a gust of cold air and a thin swirl of road dust.

“Smoking,” Dustin insisted before the waitress could ask, his voice low but urgent.

Steve narrowed his eyes, "You know this isn’t Watergate, right? You’re risking tar pit stench to see if they split a milkshake.”

“It’s called being stealthy,” Dustin hissed through his braces, already half-shielding his face with the laminated menu he'd helped himself to. 

The hostess raised one eyebrow like she’d heard every word and had judged them accordingly. But she didn’t say anything. Just led them to a booth near the back with an ashtray already on the table and cracked red vinyl seats. The view through the window gave them a straight line to the opposite side of the diner—where Eddie and Reese had slid into a booth of their own just moments before.

Steve leaned his elbow on the table and rested his hand near his brow, glancing away; a meager attempt at concealing his identity. He finally muttered,

“This is so messed up.”

Dustin leaned forward, eyes trained like a kid waiting for a magician to slip up. “Okay, okay,” he whispered. “She’s smiling again. See that? That’s like the fourth time she’s laughed since they left the thrift store.”

Steve glanced over but didn’t crane his neck. “Maybe he’s just funny.”

“No, dude. You didn’t see the dress.”

Steve looked at him. “Which dress?”

"The one she bought. ”

“You saw her buy it?”

“Yeah. She folded it over her arm and carried it to the register like it was a baby or something. It was white. Long sleeves. Lace.” He leaned in, voice dropping lower. “...I think it was a wedding dress.”

Steve blinked, his brows knitting together, mouth agape,

“What?!” Completely baffled that this was the hill Henderson was choosing to die on.

“Think about it. White. Dress. You don’t just buy a dress like that unless you’re thinking long-term.”

Steve shook his head. “No. Nope. That’s crazy. It was probably for church. Or... I dunno. Something weird. Bible camp. A dance or something.”

“I’m just saying,” Dustin went on, voice climbing, “Suzie’s Mormon and she’s got this cousin who got married at seventeen. They do that. It’s like—Biblical or something. I mean, Reese isn’t Mormon, but she like... might be on the same frequency.”

“...Look, man, I don’t know. But it’s not a wedding dress. Even if they’re in love, they’re not crazy.”

“You didn’t see it.”

“Neither did you. You were watching like a creep from the paperback section.”

Dustin crossed his arms. “It had lace sleeves, Steve. Lace.”

Steve couldn't even manage an expression, all he could do was stare at the kid blankly.

“I swear to God, Henderson—if you make me an accessory to your preteen spy ring again, I’m ditching you in the woods and letting Dart’s long-lost cousins finish the job.”

Dustin didn’t flinch. Steve just didn’t see the vision.

He was too busy watching Reese laugh again, her hand folded on the table next to Eddie’s.

The roadside diner looked like it hadn’t seen a deep clean since ’78. A flickering neon OPEN sign buzzed in the window—except the N was out, so it just said OPE.
Reese huffed a quiet laugh. How Midwest could you get?

Inside, the vinyl booths were the color of ketchup packets and sun-faded Valentines. The air smelled like fryer grease and lemon Pledge, like someone had tried to tidy up, but only in the ways that didn’t matter.

Eddie was in heaven.

Their server, an older woman with teased bangs and a name tag that read Dottie, had just dropped off two chipped white plates. Reese’s was piled high: cheeseburger, extra pickles, crinkle-cut fries, glistening with salt. Eddie’s was simpler. Hamburger. Plain. Ketchup and mustard only.

Reese blinked at it.

“That’s it?” she asked, eyes wide like he’d just committed some kind of culinary crime.

Eddie shrugged, biting into it. “What? It’s a classic.”

“No tomato, no lettuce, no... flavor?” She leaned forward on her elbows, mock-offended. “You eat like a pilgrim.”

Then, with a glint in his eye:
“Me, the pilgrim? You’re the one out here lookin’ like you just walked off the Mayflower with that dress you bought.”

Reese narrowed her eyes in mock offense, sipping her Orange Slice.

“I’m serious,” he went on, gesturing broadly like he was pitching a commercial. “Y'know, I think I saw a sale at The Colonial Gap—25% off bonnets. You wanna swing by after this? Or does Mama need you home to churn butter?”

She nearly choked on her soda, laughing. “Shut up. You don't deserve to steal my fries."

"Oh? Like how... You stole the land from the Indians?"  he raised his eyebrows, reaching for one of her fries anyway. “Besides. I'm paying. If anything, you stole my fries.” He nicked one off her plate with zero shame. 

She was being roasted alive; she could barely keep up, but secretly she loved it.

"Well, you— Just... silence, you."

He grinned, chewing happily. “Easy there, Columbus. Try and stop me.”

Their laughter melted into something warmer, quieter. Outside, the parking lot was all golden light and long shadows, headlights sweeping past every so often like stage spotlights. It felt like a pocket of time, sealed off from the rest of the world. 

More than halfway through the meal, deep in conversation about how salty the fries were, Reese leaned back in the booth, still clutching her soda. “Wanna hear something gross?”

Eddie licked salt off his thumb. “Always.”

She gave him a look— you asked for it —then launched in.

“When Eamon was six, he told me he liked the way his socks tasted.”

Eddie stopped mid-chew. “...Come again?”

“No, seriously. Like, after wearing them.”

She was already laughing at the memory. “He said they were, and I quote, ‘salty but kinda cozy.’ And then he winked. He winked, Eddie. I don’t know if he was trying to gross me out or if he meant it.” She wore a wide smile, her braces gleamed in the fluorescent light, and her cheeks were rosy with joy and disgust.

Eddie paused a beat and looked up, his mouth twisted mid-chew. Deadpan. “That kid’s either going to prison or getting his own cooking show.”

Reese choked on a giggle.
“What—”

“Next up on Little Chefs: Salt-Crusted Sock Fillets by Eamon Halverson.”

“Stop.” She barely got it out, already breathless with laughter.

“Sous vide that sucker in a rainboot, baby.”

Snrrrk—

It hit mid-sip.
The Orange Slice fizzed out of her nose with a snort and a splatter, foam bubbling down her chin as she gasped, wheezed, and fumbled for a napkin—still caught in a full-body laugh.
Her face turned cherry red. Her hands were covered in soda and drool. Her burger had taken collateral damage.

Eddie just stared—
blinking once, twice—
and then howled.

“Oh my God, Halverson,” was all he could manage, nearly face-planting the table.

“Ow ! Ow—it’s—it’s in my sinuses!” She was crying now, or maybe laughing. He couldn't quite tell. Her face in her hands, one sticky wrist flinging toward him blindly as if to swat the air into submission. The people in surrounding booths were starting to stare, but Eddie didn't care. All he could look at was her. 

He fumbled for a napkin, still laughing so hard he nearly missed the holder. He passed her a few sheets, then sat back, watching her try to mop up the sticky chaos. Her sweater was fine, miraculously, but her tray was a battlefield. She looked completely wrecked.

And still—beautiful.

Not just in the usual glowy, dreamy way. She was always that. But now? Layered on top of it was absurdity, and it made his chest pull tight and his ribs feel a size too small.

“You’re not real, Reese,” he sighed, breathless from laughing.

She peeked up at him over the napkin, still pink from laughing. She added meekly, mouth covered with a napkin, “Neither are your tastebuds.”

Eddie smirked. And then, softer—almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud:

“Seriously... you’re ridiculous.” He paused. “I love it.”

And he meant every word.

At 6:57 PM, Steve’s BMW idled diagonally across from the Halverson residence again. The orange sky had cooled into a hush of lavender.

Dustin’s binoculars had fogged slightly at the edges, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t spoken in a full thirty seconds, an Olympic feat, and was still glued to the window, elbows wedged against the glovebox.

Across the road, the van door swung shut behind them. Eddie’s sneakers hit the pavement first as he lazily hopped out of his van like he had not a care in the world. Reese followed, half-laughing, half-shielding her face from the last of the porch light like she was still recovering from the Orang Slice incident. Her hair bounced slightly as she walked. Her brown paper bag was clutched in one hand.

Dustin exhaled like it pained him. “God, I wish we could’ve heard what he said to make her laugh like that. That was like—did you see the spray radius?”

Steve leaned forward, resting both arms on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” he said low. “I saw it.”

They watched as Eddie walked her up the driveway to the door, slow and quiet.

“Okay,” Steve muttered. “Maybe they’re not dating-dating. But they definitely like each other.”

Dustin didn’t answer. He was still watching.

Steve’s voice softened. “She’s a total klutz, man. And he looks at her like she’s Madonna. 'N' she looks at Munson like... like he's a goddamn Romeo.”

Dustin, still peering through the fogged lenses, let out a tiny breath. “I told you.”

Steve turned to look at him, just for a second. Not smirking. Not teasing. Just… surprised. Maybe even a little impressed.

Then they both went quiet again.

Evening had settled over the Halversons’ place.
The porch light was warm and golden, casting long shadows across the steps. The neighbor’s cat slinked across the yard. No crickets, just the skitter of leaves across the road. Reese’s thrift bag rustled faintly in her grip.

They stood on her front porch, Eddies' hands in his jacket pockets, smiling like he was already halfway to laughing.

“Y’know,” Reese said, hugging the paper bag closer to her chest, “Fair warning, Lady Fluttershy is ready for whatever you're gonna throw her way tomorrow.”

Eddie arched a brow. “You’re barely level three, Halverson. Try me.”

“That sounds like a dare,” she warned.

“It was.”

She lunged forward, poking at his sides with her free hand.

He flinched, not dramatically, but enough to betray himself, and caught her wrists before she could do it again. His fingers wrapped gently around her forearms, holding them to her sides.

She stilled.
Their laughter caught, hovering somewhere between breath and grin.

“Are you ticklish?” she asked, eyes lighting up like she’d uncovered state secrets. Her voice dipped into awe. “Oh gosh. You are.” She sang the last word.

Eddie didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His smile went crooked. Softer now. He didn’t let go of her arms—but didn’t hold them tight, either. Just enough to anchor her.

For a moment, they didn’t speak.
No shyness. No awkwardness.
Just stillness.

Porch light cast golden halos on her pink cheeks. The thrift bag rustled gently against her jeans. His thumbs brushed lightly against her wrists, like he hadn’t even noticed he was doing it.

Eddie stepped closer.
He slid his hands up her arms, slow and careful, like she might shatter if he rushed. Then he cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing just in front of her ears, fingers slipping into her hair and settling on the nape of her neck.

She didn’t breathe.
And then—
He kissed her.

Not tentative. Not unsure.

Slow, yes. But certain. Certain in the way his thumbs pressed lightly into her cheeks like they belonged there. Certain in the way he leaned in, like gravity had chosen for him.

It wasn’t showy. It didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t perform for anyone.

But it was real.
And warm. And new.
And it said: I see you. I know you. I want to know more.

When they parted, Reese blinked like she was surfacing from underwater.

“Oh,” she breathed. Her voice had gone so small.

Eddie tilted his head as he teased her lightly, his thumb still grazing her cheek. “That good?”

She tried to find the words, but she didn't think there was a word in earthly vocabulary to express quite what she was feeling.

“I…”

Without warning, he dropped one hand to her waist—
and squirmed his fingers right into her side.

Reese shrieked. Actually shrieked.
She recoiled like he’d zapped her.

“YOU—!” she gasped, reeling back and smacking him square in the shoulder with the thrift store bag.

“Ow! Hey—!” Eddie laughed, doubling over in mock injury. “That’s a hand-me-down cotton blend, Halverson! Lethal stuff!”

“You betrayed me—” she whined, all the drama in the world in her voice.

“Life is pain, highness,” he mocked, eyes shining like he’d just rolled a natural twenty.

“Hey! You can’t just quote Cary Ewles at me after you tickled me!”

“You started it. ”

“Oh, you’re so mature.” She giggled, “Remind me—dinosaurs or trucks for your fifth birthday?”

His laughter settled. Softened.

“Neither,” he said, quieter now. “You know what I want. ”

She stilled, eyes went wide—not with fear, but with surprise at how suddenly suave he’d gone.

The porch light carved gold across her cheekbone. The thrift bag slipped a little in her hand. 

“What?” It barely made it past her lips. Not because she hadn’t heard him. But because she had. It was clarification, she needed to be sure—needed to hear it again. Needed him to mean it the way she hoped he did.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t smirk.

Just shrugged, hands sinking into his pockets.

“To keep doing this.”

He nodded toward her. The porch. The stars above like witnesses.

“You. Me. Not… wondering. Just knowing.”

She didn’t answer right away.
Then—
A smile. Certain. She tried to keep it small, but it widened, betraying her. 

“I’d like that,” she said.

He rocked back on his heels, visibly relieved. “Cool. Good. Great.”

Then, with a lopsided grin:
“But for the record—dinosaurs. Way cooler than trucks.”

She laughed—that soft, full-body kind that always knocked the wind out of him.

“Oh? Gonna wear your little stegosaurus party hat and everything?”

“Obviously. Maybe even get one of those cupcakes shaped like a volcano.”

“With plastic lava and cavemen that are wildly historically inaccurate?” She grinned, shaking her head. “You’re feral.”

“And you’re stuck with me now,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You tamed this puppy.”

Then—without warning—he tipped his head back and howled. Full-throated. Gleeful. Unapologetic.

Reese gasped through a burst of laughter, half horrified, half enchanted, trying to shush him but to no avail.

Down the street, a dog barked. Then another—answering back with a long, lonely awooo.

That did it. She doubled over, laughter tumbling out of her.
Eddie howled—with laughter this time—nearly in tears.

There was no recovering. Nothing to say. Nothing that could be said over the sound of their joy.

And somewhere, not too far off, another kind of howl broke loose—sharper, higher-pitched, and unmistakably smug.

The sound of a freshman who’d just been proven right.

Chapter Text

The air in the hallway between fifth and sixth period had that post-lunch drowsiness to it; slightly stale, too warm, and full of drifting echoes. 

A few locker doors banged closed in the distance. Shoes squeaked against the waxy linoleum. Somewhere down the hall, the janitor’s cart clicked along like a mechanical beetle, slow and steady.

Reese stood at her locker, head bowed, hair spilling over one shoulder as she traded her AP Lit folder for her History textbook. The sleeves of her ice-blue cardigan were pushed to her elbows, every button fastened with care, each one like a tiny rabbit, peeking its glossy nose from a burrow. Her fingers moved with practiced rhythm, calm, unhurried, sure.

Beside her, Eddie leaned against the neighboring locker, one sneaker propped behind him, arms crossed, grinning like he knew secrets the rest of the world had to earn.

“You missed it,” he said, voice low and conspiratorial. “I got glue in my hair during Shop. Again.”

She didn’t look up, just murmured, “Again? You need a hairnet or somethin'?”

“Wayne said if I come home one more time smelling like industrial cement, he’s gonna shave my head while I sleep. Swear to God.”

Now she looked over, mouth twitching. “He won’t.”

“He will. He was polishing the clippers this morning like he was gettin’ ready to draft me.”

Reese laughed quietly, pressing the textbook to her chest like it might steady her. “Poor Eddie. Betrayed by the man who raised him.”

“I’m telling you. It’s gonna be biblical.”

She tilted her head. “Like Samson?”

“I was thinking more... Cain and Abel, but sure. Let’s go with the hair one.”

Reese gave a delighted smile and turned back to her locker. “Well, if you show up bald next week, I’ll still go out with you.”

“Thanks. I’ll be the shiny-headed Dungeon Master of your dreams.”

Reese just looked at him, amusement flickering behind her lashes.

“You’re like… if a comment learned to play DND,” she murmured, but it was warm, delighted.

Eddie’s grin widened. He liked that about her, the way she spoke with her whole face. Like she was always halfway between teasing and awe.

Eddie laughed low under his breath, the sound catching in his throat like it surprised him. She stepped sideways to shut her locker, her shoulder brushing his lightly, casual, but not quite. Not anymore.

Something about it all felt sharper today. Louder. Like the world had been turned up just a notch. The way she smiled at him, quick, sideways, like they were sharing a secret. The way his own grin didn’t quite fade, even when he wasn’t trying.

They didn’t say anything about it. They didn’t have to.

But then, footsteps echoed from farther down the hall. Laughter, too low, easy. Familiar in the worst way.

Because what’s a peaceful afternoon without Hawkins High’s favorite golden boy and his shadow?

Jason Carver and Andy Clayton.

Eddie didn’t move. Just kept his weight against the lockers and watched them out of the corner of his eye. Jason wore that usual letterman calm, hands tucked into its pockets, saying something Eddie couldn’t hear. Andy, meanwhile, was strutting beside him with a smirk and that stupid hat like he’d just thought of something clever and couldn't wait to ruin someone’s day with it.

They passed. Almost. Andy slowed.

“Aw, wouldja look at that ,” he said, gaze flicking between them. “Beauty and the Freak.”

Reese froze.

It was subtle, just the faintest stiffening of her spine. Her fingers tightened around her book, but her expression didn’t change. Not right away.

Eddie straightened, just a little. The words hit like they always did, sharp-edged and stupid. Freak. Like a reflex. Like a reflex he almost gave into. His mouth opened, something acidic already bubbling on his tongue—

But then he saw her.

She wasn’t looking at Andy. She was looking at him.

Not scared or pitying. Just steady. Watchful. Like she could see the flinch inside him before he even showed it.

And that look—God, that look—kept him grounded.

He didn’t need to swing. Didn’t need to spit fire just to prove he could. Not with her standing there. Not when she’d chosen to be seen with him in broad daylight, history book and all.

Andy let out a low chuckle and kept walking, but Jason slowed a half step beside him. His mouth was set in a tight line, irritated, not furious, and he didn’t even glance back as he spoke.

“Seriously?” he muttered, voice low, just to Andy. “Beauty and the Freak? What are you, twelve?”

He said it like Andy had just farted in church or cursed in front of someone’s mom.

Jason gave a single, small shake of his head and added, under his breath: “Maybe try not sounding desperate next time.”

Andy scoffed. “Like you don't call him that all the time.”

Jason's gaze hardened just barely. “Yeah. When he’s acting like one. Not when he’s just standing by some girl’s locker.”

The words weren’t warm. But they weren’t cruel either. Just clipped, like he was correcting someone on the rules of polite society.

Andy rolled his eyes. “It was a joke.”

Jason didn’t stop walking. “Then try making it funny.”

Then he picked up his pace again, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his letterman jacket like he hadn’t just handed out a verdict.

Andy lingered half a second longer, turning back to smirk directly at Eddie from a few feet down the hall. A smirk that said: Oh. You’re into her. That’s why she’s “off-limits.” Game on.

 Then he caught up to Jason.

The echo of their footsteps faded down the hall.

For a moment, there was only silence—charged and too loud.

Reese exhaled. Shifted her textbook to her chest and held it too tightly, like it might give her some weight. Her eyes stayed on Eddie, blinking once. Eddie's eyes were still fixed on their shrinking figures, staring daggers down the hall.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Eddie turned. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened.

Reese gave him a crooked, tired smile. Rolled her eyes—not at him, but at the world. “That's—don’t listen to them. It's not true. You're not a freak. You're just not like them. 'N' they don't know what to do with it.”

He wanted to say something. Anything. But the warning bell rang—shrill and final.

Reese winced. “Look—I’ve gotta go. History. But…” she tilted her head, eyes warming again. “I’ll see you tonight, right? Hellfire?”

Eddie nodded, then glanced quickly around the hallway. Everyone else was already filing into classrooms. No one nearby. Just them.

So he leaned in fast and kissed her cheek—quick and light, like a stolen thing.

Her face smelled like lotion and apples. Her skin was soft and warm and sweet in a way that had nothing to do with perfume.

“Hey!” she laughed, mock-offended, swatting gently at him as she backed away, grinning.

Eddie grinned too. Couldn’t help it.

And then she was gone—disappearing around the corner, hair glimmering behind her.

He stood there for a moment longer, one hand still in the air where it had touched her shoulder. Then he lowered it, exhaled through his nose, and turned toward sixth period.

His smile stayed. But the heat behind his eyes did too.

The drama room still smelled faintly like old hairspray from the last school play, but the room had been rearranged and overtaken by something far more sacred: dice towers, battered character sheets, and three half-empty bags of miscellaneous chips, all orbiting the center like moons around a grungy, grail-shaped map of the Forgotten Realms.

Eddie stood at the helm, theatrically flipping through the campaign notes he didn’t really need. His voice dropped into something low and ominous, the kind of voice that suggested bloodshed or taxes.

“…and with the skeletal prince banished to the Salted Wastes, your party finds a brief window to rest. But beware—your enemies have long memories… and longer swords.”

A pause. Then, chips crunched.

Reese sat near the end of the table beside Mike and Kevin, quietly adjusting her dice like they needed to be in exactly the right constellation before she’d roll. She hadn’t said much yet—just offered Gareth a shy smile when he passed her a pencil and gently corrected Dustin on a spell modifier like it was no big deal.

And Dustin, in return, had been practically vibrating in his seat.

“Hey, Reese,” he said casually, tossing a d6 between his fingers. “D'you know if Eddie prefers orange or grape Slice?”

Reese hesitated. “...Um. Not sure. Seems like more of a grape guy to me, though.” She flashed him a playful grin, amused by whatever his antics might be. 

“Oh really? You don’t think… He’d be more… innn to orange?” He drew out the in as if it held some sort of secret code that Reese hadn't picked up yet.

Reese tightened her brow, and her smile became more incredulous. What was he—wait... Could he—? No. No, that was too absurd. He was just being weird. Or maybe Eddie—?

“I don’t know, Dustin,” was all she could manage.

Dustin nodded, unsatisfied. “Just checking.”

Eddie squinted at him. “If you’re offering, Henderson, I’m more of a six-pack man myself.”

But Dustin just glanced at him and shook his head quickly, dismissing the thought altogether. The game flowed back into play. 

Eddie turned back to his notes, his narration voice seeping in,  “Alright. Back to the matter at hand. You’ve made camp at the edge of the Valehollow—tents staked, fires lit, Kevin’s warlock is snoring like a dying horse. The moon’s high, the air’s still, and the watch rotation falls to... Lady Fluttershy.”

Reese glanced up, surprised.
“Oh. Right. I—uh—take first watch. I’m still keyed up from battle.”

“Noted,” Eddie said, scribbling. “You climb a ridge just west of camp. It’s quiet. Your owl familiar circles once and settles in the nearby brush. Roll perception.”

Reese cradled the die in her hands, then opened them slowly—like setting a dove free. The d20 scattered across the table with a quiet clatter.
“Fifteen.”

Eddie gave a sly nod.
“With eyes like moonlit daggers, Lady Fluttershy sees the faintest flicker—movement in the trees. Not a monster. Not a threat. Just a figure. Watching. ”
He let the words hang for a second. Then he snapped his fingers. “Dustin. You’re up. What’s Sildur doing?”

Dustin blinked. “Huh? Oh—yeah. Um. Sildur’s, uh… examining his spell components. Yknow. Making sure the… eyeballs are… fresh.”

Mike groaned. “Lame.” 

Lucas rolled his eyes. “You’re the worst necromancer we’ve ever had.”

 “Untrue,” Jeff said. “Remember Dougie?”  The older guys shuddered in agreement.

Eddie leaned on his elbows. “Cool. Your turn ends. Mike, go.”

“I move my rogue to the treeline,” Mike said, already rolling. “Seventeen to stealth.”

“You vanish,” Eddie intoned. “Like a rumor in the tavern.”

Mike snorted. “That’s not even how rumors work.”

Lucas: “He’s saying you’re forgettable, dude.”

Reese smiled quietly, her hand half-covering her mouth.

And just when the dice were rolling again and the party was back in rhythm—

“Hey, Eddie?” Dustin asked, feigning nonchalance. “How’s your shoulder?”

Eddie looked up from his notes. “My… shoulder?”

Dustin nodded earnestly. “Yeah. It seemed… tender earlier. Like maybe it got... hit.”

Eddie blinked, brows scrunched together. “Uh. It’s fine?”

“Huh.” Dustin leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. “Okay. And your lips?”

Silence.

Kevin dropped his can of soda. Luckily, it was empty—so nothing grave or sticky happened.
Mike squinted. Jeff’s eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead.

Lucas tilted his head. “Dude. Are you trying to flirt with… the Dungeon Master?”

“What?! No,” Dustin scoffed. “Just—checking on his well-being.”

Eddie gave him a long look, deadpan. “...Do I need to be worried about this line of questioning, Henderson?”

Dustin shrugged. “Not unless there’s something you’re hiding.”

Mike muttered, “You need help, man.”

The table laughed, but Dustin wasn’t finished.

He leaned over toward Reese, eyes narrowing like he was lining up a final strike.

“Okay, okay—but Reese. Let’s say, just—hypothetically…” He said it with so much flair, even Kevin leaned in.

“If I were to ask you out. Like out-out. Would you say yes? Or do you…” his eyes flicked straight to Eddie, “already have a boyfriend?”

Silence.

Then:

“What?!” Mike half stood from his chair.

“DUUUUUDE,” Kevin yelled.

Jeff choked on his soda. “Henderson, are you makin' moves on a senior?”

Lucas just stared at him, jaw slack, eyebrows halfway to heaven—like through all the years of demogorgons and girls with superpowers, somehow this was the most ridiculous thing he’d witnessed.
“You’re insane. What about Suzie?!” he cried.

And Reese? She now knew exactly what he was trying to do. That little dork.

Oh, he totally got it. And now? Now there was no hiding it.

Her hands dropped to her lap, fingers knotting quietly. She looked down, biting the inside of her cheek, trying not to smile. But it didn’t work. Her whole face lit up like she’d been holding something under her tongue for weeks and it had finally slipped free.

She glanced up through her lashes over at Eddie—playful, questioning, and just a little shy.

Do we tell them?

Eddie was already watching her, grinning like he’d rolled a natural twenty on perception.

Jeff squinted. “Wait. Wait—are you guys…?”

Mike dropped back into his chair slowly, blinking. “No way. No way.”

Even Lucas looked unsure now.

Gareth, at the far end of the table, didn’t say a word. He just rolled a die between his fingers and stared at the map.

Eddie took his time.

Then, with a smirk aimed squarely at Dustin:
“She’s got a boyfriend, Henderson. Better luck next time.”

Dustin let out a sound like he’d just won the D&D equivalent of the Super Bowl. He jumped to his feet, fists in the air.

“I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT, THE WHOLLLLE TIME!”

He spun once and pointed around the room like a mad prophet.

“You were wrong—” at Lucas.
“You were wrong—” at Mike.
“Steve was so wrong. And he never admits it, but I was RIGHT!”

He threw his arms back and looked skyward. “God, this is the best day of my life.”

“Sit down,” Lucas scolded like a disgraced mother, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Mike grumbled. “You’re a genius. ”

Kevin leaned over to Reese, grinning. “So does that mean... you’re off the market or…?”

Reese just laughed, her face still pink. She cupped her cheeks in her hands, elbows on the table, and gave him a shy nod.

Gareth didn’t look up.

Eddie didn’t miss it—but he didn’t let go of the warmth buzzing under his skin either. Because even in all the noise and chaos, there was something quiet humming between him and Reese.

Something unshakable.

She looked over at him again, and he mouthed, You okay?

She nodded. You?

He shrugged. Always.

The October cold had settled in for real by the time they stepped out into the parking lot. The sun was long gone, leaving behind that deep Indiana dark—the kind that buzzed in your ears from how quiet it was. A few overhead lamps hummed lazily, casting soft cones of light across cracked asphalt. Most of the cars were gone. Only a few headlights blinked in the distance as the last stragglers pulled away.

Reese tugged her sherpa-lined denim jacket tighter over her cardigan, shoulders lifting up toward her ears. Her teeth chattered as she giggled.

“Oh dear,” she said, voice bright but shaky.

Eddie blinked and cursed under his breath. “Ah shit—I’m such a dick.”
He was already shrugging off his leather jacket, thrusting it around her shoulders like instinct. “Here. Sorry. I didn’t even—God, you’re freezing.” He chuckled with the last line, running his palms up and down her arms in an attempt to warm her.

She laughed again, shaking her head as she slipped her arms through the sleeves, even while rolling her eyes at him. The jacket swallowed her.

It was funny—usually, Eddie made an effort to clean up his language around her. She never asked him to. He just did. Maybe it was something in her face, the kind that made people instinctively rinse out their words like soap on Sunday.

But right then, he hadn't bothered.
Because she was cold.
And for once, protecting her warmth seemed more urgent than protecting her ears.

“What?” he asked, brow lifted.

“Nothing,” she said, biting her lip, cheeks flushed more from the cold than anything. She looked up at him with a starry kind of wonder. “It’s just… hard to believe sometimes.”

He tilted his head.

“I mean—like a month ago, you didn’t even know what my voice sounded like. And now you’re…” she gestured loosely to the jacket, “…throwing leather over my shoulders like it’s 1955.” 

She let out a short giggle, “I just—I love it. That’s all.”

Eddie chuckled, bashful in that boyish, shoulder-hunching kind of way. “C'mon, Ms. Sentimental. Let’s get you to your chariot.”

“Firebird ,” she corrected, mock-prim.

“My apologies.” He looped an arm gently around her and steered them toward her car.

They didn’t talk much as they walked—just the quiet crunch of their footsteps and the rustle of Reese’s hair against the collar of his jacket. A door slammed shut somewhere far off, but it didn’t touch them here.

They stopped beside her car. The chrome badge on the hood glinted faintly under the streetlight.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Reese looked out across the empty lot. “People are gonna start talkin' now, hm?”

Eddie leaned back against the Firebird, hands tucked in his pockets. He studied her face for a long while.

Not just the way the firebird’s headlights caught the sheen in her hair, but the little things. Things he hadn’t let himself memorize until now.

There was a faint freckle just beneath her left eye—or, her right eye. Just the size of a pen tip. Like a tiny marker someone had painted there on purpose, the only imperfection on skin so smooth it looked unreal up close. Her lips always gave her away before her voice did. When she was about to make a joke, they tugged slightly more to the right. But when she was confused—or doubting something—they’d tip left instead, like punctuation trying to find its place in the sentence. He didn’t think anyone else in Hawkins noticed that.

Maybe they weren’t supposed to.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. He thought about asking You ready for it? or You sure you wanna do this? But he didn’t. She didn’t need prompting. She knew.

Reese nodded slowly, like understanding had suddenly shifted into place. “People are gonna say things. About you. About me.”

He shrugged, not flippant—just calm. Certain. “Let ’em.”

A breath. The wind picked up, tugging gently on her hair.

She turned to him. “Yeah. Let ’em.”

She blinked up at him, dazed in that quiet way she got sometimes, like she was still catching up to the moment. Carefully, she slipped off his jacket and folded it over his shoulder.

“Thanks for the rental,” she giggled. Then, almost offhand—but not quite—“Looks better on you, though.”

The second it was out, her eyes widened slightly, like she hadn’t meant to sound so smooth.

Eddie blinked. Grinned. “Easy there, Casanova.”

Color rose to her cheeks, but she laughed anyway.

“Night, Mouse,” he said, softer now.

“Goodnight, Ed.”

And then she was inside, and the door shut with a quiet click, and Eddie stood there a second longer than necessary—watching her in the glow of the dash light, heart full of something not easily named.

Somewhere across the lot, a gust of wind lifted a handful of leaves, swirling them in the yellow spill of a streetlight.

Eddie watched them drift and scatter, then looked back at the girl in the car—like maybe the world was rearranging itself on purpose.

The trailer was quiet when he got in. Wayne was working the night shift, as always.

Eddie flicked on the lamp by the couch, dropped his dice bag onto the table, and sat. He didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t put on music.

He just sat there.

Thinking.

About locker hallways and boys with smirks and the way Reese had smiled when he said, “Let ‘em.” About the way she’d looked up at him under that jacket like he was somebody worth trusting.

He ran his fingers along the lapel, still faintly warm from her. Brought it to his face without thinking.

Flowers. Tea. Vanilla—or maybe honey, he could never quite decipher it. Her.

Eddie let out a slow breath, dragging the jacket over his head like a kid in a sheet-ghost costume. Then he sank into the cushions, wrapped in the weight of it—soft, warm, and hers.

It smelled like something he’d never had and already couldn’t let go of.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep like that.

But the jacket stayed on.

Chapter Text

To Reese, the chapel sat like a sigh at the edge of town, white clapboard softened by time, its steeple narrow and unsure against the morning sky.

Someone had once planted petunias in the flowerbeds out front, but autumn had swallowed them whole. Now all that remained was dirt, brittle stems, and a sun-faded sign that barked: REPENT, in all-caps, the black letters peeling like judgment flaking off the bones.

Reese slowed as they passed it on the way in. She didn’t say anything. She never did.

Every Sunday, Reese wished it said something else. Just once. Something kinder. A verse, maybe. Even just: Come inside.

REPENT felt like a barked order. Like a slap on the wrist before the door had even opened.

She let it go.

We all have our weak points, she reminded herself, smoothing her pink tulip-toned skirt of her dress as her dad turned the engine off. Pastor Enochs wasn’t a cruel man. Just a tired one. The kind who preferred a hard truth over a soft welcome. Reese had learned, eventually, not to take it personally.

The quiet kaleidoscope of morning light spilled from the stained glass, rubies, citrines, half-faded sapphires, onto the carpeted steps. It made everything feel older. Holier. She liked that part. The light.

She always had.

Reese stood between her mom and Eamon. The choir sang a familiar hymn, Come Thou Fount, and she mouthed the words more than sang them, letting them settle in her chest. When she worried more about sounding good, she got lightheaded, and it became more about her than God.

 When the song ended, they all sat down in unison and began talking about updates. Beside her, Eamon bounced one leg, then the other, then both, until Mama leaned over Reese and placed a firm hand on his knee.

He stilled. For two seconds. Then turned and whispered, “Is it time yet?”

Mrs. Halverson gave him a look. One that meant soon. He sighed and tilted his head back so far that Reese thought he might fall off the pew entirely. A few moments later, when the Sunday School group was dismissed, he leapt to his feet like he’d been rescued from drowning.

Reese smoothed the skirt of her gingham dress again, even though it didn’t need smoothing. Her palms ran down the pleats almost nervously. She glanced at the Carvers. A row of white collars and golden hair, still and polished like communion plates. Reese knew they weren’t thinking about her. But something about how they sat felt like they were claiming something she hadn’t meant to take.

They’d always gone here. First Baptist. That was known. Jason’s parents were on three different committees. His mother led the women’s ministry; his father sometimes filled in for the adult Sunday class when the pastor was out.

Technically, she was still the newcomer. Her family had only started coming since August. So in a way, it was their church first. But now, sitting here in the same pew they always did, folding into the same rhythms and verses, she felt that shift, that subtle current of belonging. Or maybe of tension. Like two stories trying to share the same page.

And now, she supposed, they’d have to.

Reese’s gaze lingered on the wooden cross above the choir loft. No crucifix, Jesus had risen, after all, but beneath the beams hung a small plaque. Consummatum est, it read, etched deep into the grain. Latin, for It is finished.

She tilted her head slightly. Technically, Jesus had said Tetelestai. Greek. But it was a nice thought that they’d tried.

She closed her eyes.

Her hands folded gently in her lap, fingers brushing over one another, quiet and rhythmic. The bustle of the sanctuary dimmed behind her shut eyelids—the shifting hymnals, the coughs and creaks, the click of heels heading to the back. She prayed, not with dramatic fervor, but with steady attention. For peace. For wisdom. For her heart to stay soft.

The sermon had started by the time she opened her notebook, the same slim one she’d carried since August. Its cover was dotted with doodles on the cover and a few tiny ones in the margins—stars, flourishes, one angry cat face Eamon had added when she wasn’t looking.

She jotted as she listened. The pastor’s voice was calm, measured, but the message felt oddly sharp today, like it had been placed on her pew instead of the pulpit.

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you, falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of Me…”

She paused mid-sentence, pencil tip hovering above the page.

“Turn the other cheek,” he said, “doesn’t mean roll over. It means remain unshakable in your mercy. In your confidence. In your trust in the Lord our God, even when others may twist the truth.”

Her eyes flicked toward the Carvers again.

Then back to the notebook.

She wrote slowly, underlining her own words twice:
Mercy doesn't mean weakness.

The last point in the sermon landed somewhere deep in her chest: forgiveness without conditions, love without fear, peace without proof. It made her think of Eddie. Not because he’d hurt her, but because the world might not stop trying to.

The final amen had barely faded when Eamon darted ahead, bounding toward the narthex like the sanctuary doors might vanish if he didn’t reach them in time. Mr. Halverson followed at a steadier pace, one hand resting lightly on his Bible, the other clasped behind his wife’s back. As they walked into the parking lot, he drifted ahead, leaving the girls to themselves.

Reese hung back with her mom, the rhythm of her heels quieter now against the worn pavement. Outside, sunlight spilled through the narrow stained-glass panels, casting pink and gold across the rows of dark wood pews.

As they reached the car, her mom reached over and gently adjusted the hair Reese had pinned back that morning, tucking a stray lock, smoothing the side with familiar fingers.

“You should invite that Eddie boy of yours over for dinner tonight,” her mom said lightly, like she was suggesting they stop for ice cream after church. Simple. Inevitable.
“He looks like he hasn’t had a real meal in a while.”

Reese nearly stumbled, cheeks blooming pink. “Mama!”
But her mom just gave her a little smile, lips twitching like she knew exactly what kind of fluster that would cause.

It was the kind of look that said I know you better than you think. Always have.

 “Well?” she said, voice soft but teasing. “You gonna call him or not?”

The kitchen still smelled faintly of toasted bread and raw carrots. Reese had rinsed her lunch plate, stacked it beside the sink, and padded barefoot into the hallway between the kitchen and den, where the phone hung mounted on the floral-papered wall.

The rotary cord was already tangled. She smoothed it out absently as she dialed, fingers steady. She had a phone in her room. She could’ve called him there. But somehow... the quiet out here felt truer. Less private, maybe, but more honest.

Eight. One. Two...

Her heel tapped a silent rhythm against the floor. In the living room, Eamon was flat on his back under the coffee table, loudly narrating a made-up war between his green army men and the jelly beans he’d smuggled home from church.

The line clicked. Someone picked up.

“Hullo?”

Not Eddie.

The voice was deeper—rough-edged, lived-in. Enough to make her straighten slightly.

“Oh! Um—hi,” she said, polite but startled. “This is… Reese Halverson. Is… Is Eddie there?”

A pause.

Wayne hadn’t been expecting that. He’d braced for a telemarketer. Or a wrong number. Not some soft-spoken girl with vowels like sunlight.

“Oh. Uh—yeah, yeah, he’s, uh… he’s right here,” he said, voice shifting lighter. Reese heard the muffled call:

“Ed! Phone. Your girl.”

She smiled into the line, blushing faintly. Your girl. She wondered what Eddie had told him. If he’d said anything at all. If maybe it was just that obvious.

There was a shuffle. Muffled murmuring. Then the line shifted again—

“Hey,”

His voice—warmer, younger—folded into her ear like a worn-in blanket.

“Hey,” she sighed. The relief was immediate.

A small silence passed.

“Was that… Wayne?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, amused. “Think he thought you were a sales call. Sounded real stressed.”

She laughed, quiet and sweet, twirling the cord between her fingers.

“So how you doin’, Moonlight?” he asked, the nickname smooth and familiar.

“Good,” she said. “Church was good.”

And it was. Mostly. But her heart jittered with the question that pounded in her chest, the way it sometimes did before something big. Something real.

A beat passed. Then:

“Are you… d’you have plans? For dinner tonight?”

There was a pause.

A long one.

Just long enough to make her half regret asking.

Then:

“Reese,” he said, completely deadpan. “I’ve never had dinner plans in my life outside of hotdogs and Chef Boyardee.”

She giggled, warm and relieved.

“Well... would you… Maybe wanna come over, then?”

Another pause. But this one was soft, like he was smiling too wide to answer right away.

“I mean... yeah,” he said. “If it’s okay. I don’t gotta dress up or anything, right? Nobody’s expecting slacks and a tie?”

Reese laughed. “No. Just… I don’t know. Shower or something. And maybe don’t talk about Satan.”

Eddie snorted. “You say that now…”

“You’ll be fine, ya big baby,” she said, light and teasing.

He gasped. “Why d’you only call me that when you’re ribbing me?”

She grinned. “I didn’t say babies are a bad thing. They’re cute. Funny.”

“Loud. Smelly. Cry all the time.” He continued the list.

“Hey!” She laughed again—but something faltered in her smile. Just slightly.

She brushed it off.

“Okay, but... should I tell Mama you’re coming? Around six?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, his voice softer now. “Yeah, Mouse. You tell ’er I’m comin’.”

A quiet beat passed.

They exchanged soft goodbyes. The line clicked into stillness.

Reese stood there for a moment longer, hand resting lightly on the receiver, the phone cord coiled around her wrist like a bracelet.

Smelly and loud and cry all the time.

It wasn’t mean. He was just teasing. But for some reason, it snagged.

She wasn’t even sure why.

But it made her wonder—just a little—what Eddie thought about babies. About family. About someday.

She shook her head, trying to smile it away.

It’s just dinner, she told herself.

Don’t go building cradle songs in your head.

But the wondering didn’t quite leave.

Wayne’s truck rumbled to a stop in front of the Halverson house, tires crunching softly over the textured cement. The sun had dipped just low enough to spill gold across the porch, casting long, dappled shadows through the trees. The air smelled faintly of rotten leaves and something baking—maybe biscuits or cornbread, something warm and home-shaped.

Eddie cut the engine and stared at the house a second longer than he meant to.

He’d worn black jeans—no holes, and clean—and a dark flannel over a faded, relatively tame Metallica shirt. His rings were tucked away in the glove box. He’d even tried brushing his hair, though a few curls still did whatever they wanted near his ears. Good enough.

Before he could knock, the front door opened.

“Eddie! You made it,” Mrs. Halverson said with a bright, natural smile, stepping out onto the porch like they’d known each other for years. She pulled him into a firm, familiar half-hug and kissed his cheek without a hint of hesitation.

He blinked, caught completely off guard.

“Uh—yeah. Hi. I, uh… brought my face and everything,” he mumbled, one hand hovering near her back before falling uselessly to his side.

There was no question where Reese got her enthusiastic warmth from.

Mrs. Halverson laughed, already turning back inside. “Well, don’t just stand there, sweetheart. Come on in.”

Eddie stepped across the threshold and into something that didn’t feel like just a house; it felt like a place that meant something to the people who lived in it.

Framed photographs lined the hallway: Reese and Muirgen as little girls in matching Easter dresses, a candid of Mr. Halverson kneeling beside a burnt-out campfire with soot on his cheek, a photo of Christmas morning mid-chaos—wrapping paper everywhere and joy practically visible in the blur.

The furniture was old but sturdy. The walls were soft in color, worn in places where doors had been pushed open too quickly with excitement or moving furniture had caressed them. Something savory hung in the air—rosemary? Butter? It smelled like welcome.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been here—he’d stepped in briefly during their first date. But now?

Now it felt different.

Now it felt like he was being let into someone’s real life.

“Hi," Reese said, voice soft but sure, from the far end of the hallway.

She padded into the hallway, barefoot, the sound of her steps quiet against the worn hardwood. She was wearing a lavender dress—cottony, soft-looking, something easy in the way it moved. It wrapped at the waist and hit just above the knee, sleeves brushing her arms midway down. Not fancy. Not stiff. It looked like something you’d wear when you didn’t plan on leaving home.

It clung in certain places—not on purpose, just from the way things settled when they were worn often.

She looked… soft. Like home. Like herself.

She wasn’t in her boots now. He realized this was the first time he’d seen her without them. She was maybe an inch shorter this way. Not petite, though. Not with legs like that.

Probably got ’em from her dad, Eddie thought. Some real-life Norse god stomping around in a green flannel like he’d been born with an axe in his hand, even if he worked in government now.

She stepped close. Not too close. But close enough to feel the shape of her breath.

Then—tiptoes.

Just a little. Just enough to lean in and whisper near his ear, so close it made the back of his neck prickle:

“You should take your shoes off.”

Then she stepped back down like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just scrambled his whole nervous system. Gave him that sheepish little smile, the one that made him feel about fifteen kinds of undone.

Eddie looked at her a little dumbstruck for a second, then bent down and slipped off his Reeboks without a word. His socks were white—or had been, once. They were still functional. If a little tragic.

Reese glanced down and smiled, but didn’t say a thing. Just tucked the image away, like she was writing a story about them behind her eyes.

“Your house smells like—like if a hug had a scent,” Eddie said, looking toward Mrs. Halverson.

She laughed softly, pulling a baking dish from the oven with a faded oven mitt still on one hand.

“Well, that’s about the nicest thing anyone’s said all week.”

Then, with a little head tilt:

“Go wash up, hon. Reese, can you show him the bathroom?”

Reese nodded, brushing her hands on her skirt. “C’mon.”

Eddie trailed behind her, taking in every homey, lived-in detail, a framed embroidery of “Halverson,” a school photo of Eamon in a wrinkled button-down, tie askew, grinning like someone had said ‘smile bigger’ and he’d taken it as a personal dare.

Reese stopped just outside the bathroom door, hand resting on the frame. “Here ya go.”

He turned toward her to say thanks, but before he could, she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t long. But it wasn’t just a peck either.

Her hand brushed lightly against his flannel. For a breath or two, it felt like time folded in on itself.

He barely had time to lift his hand to her waist—just enough to steady her—before she pulled back. Their lips clicked softly as they parted. Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes bright.

“Hu—Halverson,” he said, voice catching somewhere between his ribs and his throat. “Where’d that come from?”

She shrugged, shy and a little breathless herself.

“I’m just… glad you made it.”

He stared at her for a second longer, then smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Then he ducked into the bathroom.

It was clearly a shared space.

One towel, pale green and haphazard—probably Eamon’s. Another hung neatly beside it, soft white with a faded floral print. Definitely Reese’s.

Toothpaste crusted at the sink’s edge. A stack of Archie comics sat beside a devotional with a fabric bookmark poking out like a tongue.

The mirror was mostly clean, except for one glittery sticker of a kitten that read “JESUS LOVES ME-OW”, and a Garfield comic taped beside it.

God. What was this? A cat shrine?

Eddie chuckled to himself and shook his head. He reached for the bar of soap.

The table wasn’t big. Little scuffed. Lived-in, like everything else here. The chairs matched. The dishes didn’t. One placemat had a juice ring. The sweet tea was already half gone, like somebody’d been waiting to top him off.

Fried chicken. Green beans with slivered almonds. Mashed potatoes in a pumpkin-shaped bowl with a chip on the rim. It smelled ridiculous—in the best way. He’d prepped himself to take polite bites and do the smile-through-it thing. But this?

Mr. Halverson cleared his throat. “Let’s say grace.”

Hands moved. A soft chain around the table. Reese’s fingers slid into his, small, cool, steady, like a china doll, and yeah, his first thought was: finally, a sanctioned excuse. He could’ve lived in that half-second.

His other hand got claimed by Eamon, cold, sticky, questionably clean. He thought back for a moment to the things he used his hands for at that age—and grimaced.

Mr. Halverson began. Simple thanks over food and day and company. Something snagged in Eddie’s chest.

It wasn’t just Mr. Halverson’s earlier questions popping back up. It was something else.

Am I actually the kinda kind guy who can sit here and do this? Hold her hand while she talks to God? Someone who’s smoked more than he’s thought about heaven and run from cops more than he’s run to church?

For a stupid heartbeat, he almost blurted I’m sorry across the table to a God he wasn’t even sure was listening.

“Amen.” Voices echoed. Hands let go. The spell snapped.

Nah.
He wasn’t that guy.

Reese could believe; he believed she believed. But him? That’d be crazier than sitting here at all with a girl like her.

So he reached for a thigh. First bite and his eyes just about rolled back. Seasoned right, crisp skin, steam curling up like it had been waiting just for him. So much for polite bites.

This was the kind of meal that made you forget you weren’t from here.

He reached for another thigh like he was trying not to look too desperate, but the minute his fingers hit the serving tongs, Eamon fired off his first shot.

“So…” Eamon squinted at him over the mashed potatoes, cheeks stuffed with biscuit. “Do you really know how to summon the gremlins?”

Eddie laughed. “Uh… what?”

“Y’know. Like in the movie.” Eamon leaned in, conspiratorial. “Reese said you could.”

Eddie glanced over at Reese.

She was staring down at her lap, face half-hidden behind her hand, shoulders trembling with barely-contained laughter. Her other hand gripped the edge of her napkin like it might help hold her together.

Across the table, Mrs. Halverson let out a quiet breath, equal parts exasperated and amused.

Eddie paused, then grinned. “Kid, if I did know how to summon gremlins, y’think I’d still be wearin’ socks like these?”

He wiggled one foot under the table. “Pretty sure they’d’ve eaten me alive by now.”

That did it.

Reese let out a bright little laugh, quick, involuntary, like it had snuck out before she could stop it, then clamped her napkin over her mouth, eyes wide with delight.

Mrs. Halverson smiled.

Eamon, undeterred, squinted at Eddie’s arm next. “Is that a real tattoo?” he asked, pointing toward the edge of Eddie’s rolled sleeve. “Are those your pets?”

Eddie froze mid-fork-lift like someone had just called roll in Hell.

“Ahh…” He scratched the back of his neck, giving the bats on his arm a quick glare like they’d tattled. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s real.”

He looked up and caught the unmistakable flick of Mr. Halverson’s gaze shifting toward him across the table. Not harsh. Just… observant. Mid-bite, his eyes paused on Eddie’s forearm. Took it in.

Eddie shifted slightly, nudging his sleeve down without making a show of it. He wasn’t ashamed, not exactly, but he hadn’t planned on airing his whole deal during Sunday dinner, either.

Mrs. Halverson didn’t say anything, but Eddie caught the soft lift at the corners of her mouth. Not like she’d seen Reese bring boys around before—she hadn’t—but like she’d lived long enough to tell when a young man was fumbling for the right reasons.

Across the table, Eamon was still chewing and scheming, the gears clearly still turning behind his wide-eyed stare. He swallowed a big bite of biscuit, leaned forward on his elbows like a tiny detective, and said with conviction:

“If I get a tattoo, I want a truck. Or a vampire.” He angled his head at Eddie like he’d just said tuna to a kitten.

Eddie blinked. “Ambitious.”

He smirked, one corner of his mouth tilting up.
“But maybe wait till you’re ten.”

Mrs. Halverson gave a soft, tired sort of smile in Eddie’s direction, the kind you offer someone who's just indulged your child without complaint. She reached over to nudge Eamon’s plate slightly toward him and said, gently but clearly, “Eamon, eat your dinner, sweetie.”

Eamon obliged. For about one full bite.

Then he turned again, this time squinting like he was trying to crack a case.

“ So…” he repeated slowly, the words a little wet around the edges, “are you allergic to garlic… or is it just ‘cause you don’t like it?”

A piece of meat was wedged in his cheek like a wad of dip.

“Eamon,” Mrs. Halverson said, a little sharper this time but still composed, “leave Eddie be and eat your chicken.”

Eamon started to open his mouth again, probably to argue, or shift to another line of questioning, but before he could get a syllable out, Mr. Halverson cut in.

His tone was calm. Not raised. Not angry. Just… final.

“Eamon,” he said, not even looking up from his plate, “your mama worked hard cookin’ that. If she has to ask again, you’re writing out chicken and beans twenty times before bed.”

There was a pause.

Eamon’s fork stopped midair like someone had hit the brakes. His eyes flicked from his dad’s plate to his own.

“Yes, Daddy,” he muttered. And resumed eating.

Eddie blinked.

No yelling. No belt. No guilt-trip sermon. Just… “Yes, Daddy.” And the kid actually shut up.

Eddie blinked.

Damn. So that works?

He looked from Eamon to Mr. Halverson, who was now buttering a roll like it was just another Sunday, and then back to Reese, who hadn’t said a word through the whole thing. Just offered him a quiet look like yep, this is just how it goes.

Conversation picked back up after a moment. Mrs. Halverson mentioned something about the harvest festival coming up, how she still hadn’t found enough volunteers for the hay maze. Reese added a quiet comment about the face painting booth, and Eamon chimed in with a very serious offer to “handle the pie judging.”

Eddie was halfway through his second helping of mashed potatoes when Mr. Halverson set his fork down with a quiet clink.

“So,” he said, not unkind, but direct. “Goin’ on twenty, huh?”

Eddie straightened up a bit and wiped his palm on his napkin, quietly, so it didn’t look like nerves. “Yes, sir. Next month.”

Mr. Halverson nodded slowly. “Still in school?”

There it was. Eddie felt it in his chest first, that flutter of old defensiveness, but he pushed it down.

“Uh… yes, sir. That’s right.”

Mr. Halverson didn’t raise an eyebrow, didn’t lean in. Just took a sip of tea, then asked, plain and even:

“Mind if I ask what happened?”

Eddie glanced down for half a second, then shrugged, slow, unguarded.

“I messed up,” he said, simply. “Couple times. Got in my own way. Thought I’d already flunked out of the rest of my life.”

A beat.

“But… I’m tryin’ to do better now.”

He glanced toward Reese, who wasn’t saying anything, just gently folding the edge of her napkin, and then back at her father.

“She—uh—makes that easier.”

The table was quiet for a moment. Not awkward, not tense. Just still.

Mr. Halverson studied him, eyes steady, unreadable.

Then he gave a slow nod and reached again for the sweet tea pitcher.

Reese flashed him a soft smile, one that was both parts sentiment and ‘good answer’.

The last of the chicken had been picked over, the tea pitcher drained, and Eamon’s plate looked like a battlefield of mashed potato craters and crumbed biscuit wreckage.

Reese started gathering plates without being asked, slipping into motion the way she always did, calm and capable, but her mother glanced over with a soft shake of her head.

“Hey, it’s okay. Go hang out. I’ve got this.”

“But Mama—”

Mrs. Halverson was already stacking dishes with that quiet, practiced rhythm that said she’d rather do it herself than supervise someone else. She smiled without looking up.

“Really. Go. You’ve got company.”

Reese hesitated, then gave a small nod and set the plate she was holding back down on the table.

Eamon, already halfway out of his chair, piped up, “Eddie, wanna see my room? I got dinosaur stickers and a magnifying glass that makes ants look huge.”

He didn’t wait for a response, he was already in motion, arms swinging at his sides like he was leading an expedition.

Eddie blinked, amused. “How could I possibly say no to that?”

They disappeared down the hall, Eamon narrating every step like a tour guide hopped up on lemonade. Reese followed, trailing a few steps behind, watching as her little brother pointed out his glow-in-the-dark stars and his “shark rock” that might actually just be concrete.

After a few minutes, Eamon clearly running out of things to show him, Eddie remarked,

“Okay, but now I wanna see your room.” 

Reese blinked. “My room?”

Then turned to Eddie, a little smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “That so?”

“Hey,” Eddie shrugged, grinning. “Equal representation.”

So she led him back down the hallway, barefoot on carpet, pale lavender dress trailing just slightly at just above the backs of her knees. The house creaked gently around them, the good kind of creaking, the kind that said this place has held people for a long time.

She opened the door and stepped aside to let him in.

Eddie stepped in slowly, eyes doing a sweep without meaning to, soft walls, narrow window, a vanity with what looked like dried flowers, and enough earrings to stock a small fair booth. A shelf full of paperbacks, mostly neat but with a couple of dog-eared corners. Ceramic cat on the dresser. Of course.

And, barely visible, half of a pale pink bra peeked out from a slightly ajar drawer in the dresser.

He caught it the same second she did.

“Oh gosh—sorry, ” she muttered quickly, practically hopping across the room in two swift steps to tuck it away.

She said it to him, but mostly to herself, her fingers clumsily folding the cup inward like it had betrayed her.

Eddie didn’t say anything. He thought about saying something dumb and crass like ‘ Hey, not something you have to be sorry for,’ but he didn’t. 

He looked around again. Slower this time.

Because yeah. This wasn’t just a room anymore.

It was her room.

And now he was in it.

And he was here.

Eddie didn’t notice it right away.

The Last Unicorn poster caught his eye first, hung just above her bed, curling at the corners, its pastel colors sun-faded and sweet. Soft, strange, and kind of sacred, in that dreamy little-girl way that still somehow fit her.

He smiled at it, almost fond.

Then he turned his head and stopped.

Tucked between the bookshelf and the far wall, just barely in sight, was a different kind of relic. Smaller. Glossy. A poster barely bigger than a magazine page, taped up like she’d maybe hoped no one would see it but hadn’t wanted to let it go, either.

Matt Dillon.

Leaning against a brick wall in a leather jacket, mouth crooked into that not-quite-smile, like he’d just dared someone to break his heart so he’d have an excuse to break something back.

Eddie blinked. Then pointed, like he was spotting a ghost.

“Holy sh—” He caught himself this time “Shirtless greasers.” She had to cover her mouth to keep herself from barking out a laugh at the word choice. 

“Reese. You got Dally Winston in your room ?!” he continued.

He didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t even pretend to play it cool. He crossed the floor like he was chasing a vision.

Reese whipped around. “That’s—it’s old!” she said, moving to stand in front of it. “I just liked the movie.”

“Oh, sure.” He slowed his steps, half-circling her like a shark with manners. “You’ve lived here how long—a month? And this made the cut?”

“I didn’t even… think about it,” she stammered, crouching suddenly on the foot rest by her vanity she had been using as a chair. “It’s just… I don’t know. I’ve had it a few years.”

Eddie didn’t buy it for a second. He grinned and nudged past her, eyes on the poster. “He does kinda look like me, though, right? If I were... less cool.”

Reese looked up, biting her lip, quietly, “That was my first thought when I saw you.”

He turned, slower this time.

That got him. Somewhere soft.

He blinked. “Is that… why you keep it up?”

She gave the smallest shrug. Didn’t look at him when she said it.

“I don’t have a picture of you.”

The words were simple. But they landed hard.

Eddie didn’t speak. Just lowered himself onto the edge of the bed across from her, legs spread, elbows on knees like he needed the posture to hold still. His eyes moved, slow, careful, across the room.

The little vanity by the window. The mirror taped with snapshots, Reese as a toddler in overalls holding a cat with no awareness of her grip. Her mom braiding her hair. Eamon with a sparkler. A blurry shot of Reese laughing with some girl Eddie didn’t recognize.

He wasn’t in any of them.

Not yet.

He watched Reese as she wandered back to the window, fingers absently gathering a lock of hair to braid. She moved like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Or maybe like her body remembered what to do when she was nervous.

Outside, the light was starting to shift, late evening gold, just enough light to catch the edges of the curtains and make the whole room glow.

Eddie hadn’t moved. Just sat there watching her, not in that movie-star way. Just the way someone watches something when they want to understand.

Then she said, quietly:

“I’m sorta nervous for art tomorrow.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

She nodded, gazing out the window. “We’re starting figure drawing.”

A beat.

“Nude references. From photo sheets.”

That got his attention. His knee, which had been bouncing, stilled.

“Oh.”

There was a pause. And then, even quieter:

“It’s just… weird to see… penises.”

She said the word like it might trigger a trapdoor in the floor.

Eddie stared. Not shocked, but caught off guard by how she said it. Like she wasn’t scandalized, just overwhelmed. Eddie was oddly… charmed, in the weirdest way.
Not only had she gone for the full medical term, no euphemism, no “down there,” no silly little weiner or dumb locker room slang, she’d meant it. Said it plain, like she was trying to pass some invisible honesty test.

No giggles. No coy look. Just the truth, straight-up.
It was so her it hurt a little.
And that ache settled right behind his ribs, somewhere warm.

He leaned forward a little, brow creasing. “You’re nervous… about looking at ‘em?”

Reese nodded, fast. “I know it’s art. I do. It’s not like I think it’s bad or anything, it’s just—it’s awkward. You just sit there. Drawing it. And nobody says anything. And it’s just… there.”

Eddie dragged a hand down his face.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Only you could talk about junk like it’s some ancient cursed relic.”

Reese let out a strangled laugh, face turning red as she covered it with both hands. “I’m being serious.”

“I know,” he said, still laughing, but quieter now. “That’s what kills me. You are.”

He reached out, touched her knee gently. “I love that this is the kind of thing that freaks you out.”

She peeked out between her fingers, voice muffled. “You’re not gonna make fun of me?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “Maybe ten years from now. When it’s socially acceptable to say ‘penis’ in front of your mom.”

That made her laugh again, real, unguarded.

But she didn’t miss the words tucked inside the joke.

Ten years from now.

She didn’t call attention to it. Just let her hand fall back to her side, smile playing at the edge of her mouth like she was filing it away for later. And how it calmed her nerves from what he’d said on the phone earlier. Like maybe he hadn’t taken it back or clarified, but demonstrated he’d at least considered reading the same book as her.

And Eddie?

Eddie didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. But right then, sitting on a butterfly bedspread, a Dally Winston poster at his back and the girl who kept it standing just a few feet away, he felt more like himself than he ever had before.

The porch creaked softly beneath their steps as Reese walked him out, barefoot and unhurried. Her hand brushed his once, just once, before falling back to her side. The air had shifted. Cooler now. Grass-sweet and touched with the day’s leftover warmth. Somewhere beyond the trees, a couple of dogs were barking back and forth, low, steady, and strangely ceremonial.

Eddie didn’t want to go. Not really.
But he knew this part mattered too.

They reached the steps. And then—

“Reesy,” her father said from behind them, voice calm but definite. “I wanna talk to Ed here. Say your goodnights and head on back.”

Reese hesitated only a second. Then leaned in.

She kissed Eddie’s cheek, barely a brush, but it lit something behind his ribs, and whispered near his ear for the second time that night:

“Don’t let him scare you too much.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

The porch settled into silence again.

Eddie stood there, spine taut, suddenly too aware of how loud his own breathing was. His fingers fidgeted with the frayed cuff of his flannel, where he just now realized it was missing a button. The porch light buzzed faintly above them.

Mr. Halverson didn’t speak at first. Just leaned on the railing, arms crossed, gaze somewhere out in the dark.

And when he did speak, it wasn’t a challenge. It was quieter than that.
Not unkind. Just… solid.

“Y’know,” he said, “I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what a boy your age wants.”

Eddie felt something rise in his throat. Not shame, just instinct. He wanted to say it’s not like that. That it’s not about what Reese could give him. That she wasn’t a prize or a reward or something he’d earned.

But Mr. Halverson lifted a hand, just slightly.

“But I also see how she looks at you,” he said. “That’s trust.
And I see how you look back.
That ain’t a lie.”

He continued, “She’s got convictions. Knows who she is. That’s rare. And if you’re with her thinkin’ you’ll change that—you’re not the man I want around her.”

Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But it was like something in him got very still. The kind of still you get when you’re standing in front of a man who sees you. Not as a screw-up or a stray or some problem to handle. Just—as you are.

Then Mr. Halverson turned to him.
Not looming. Not glaring.
Just meeting him.

“So if you’re gonna love her,” he said, steady as a nail through wood, “do it like it’s your job. Like it’s for real.
Or don’t do it at all.”

No flare of drama. No hesitation.

“Yes, sir,” Eddie said.

Simple. Sincere.
The kind of vow that didn’t need a ring to count.

Mr. Halverson gave a single nod. Then turned back toward the door, feet heavy on the boards.

Eddie stayed where he was a second longer. Jacket slung over his shoulder. Heart too full for words.

He walked toward the truck. Gravel was soft under his boots.

At the edge of the driveway, he glanced back.

The porch light still burned.
Inside: a home.

Then—movement. Just near the window. Reese.

She stood behind the curtain, wrapped in lamplight and shadow. For a heartbeat, she looked caught, like she hadn’t meant to be seen. But then she smiled. Small. Almost sheepish.

And raised her hand in a quiet wave.

Eddie raised his in return, slower.
The light behind her blurred.
And for a moment, everything felt holy.

He climbed into the truck, fingers brushing the wheel.

His chest felt tight. Not from fear.

From the ache of something he’d never had.
And maybe, just maybe, something he could learn how to build.

Chapter Text

The halls of Hawkins High didn't try very hard for Halloween.

A few limp paper pumpkins clung to the cafeteria doors with yellowing Scotch tape, their edges curled like the leaves outdoors. A group of seniors had gone all in, bedsheets for togas, laurel crowns twisted from notebook paper, but most students barely looked up. It was a Thursday with candy. That's all.

But then Reese Halverson walked in.

No one gasped or dropped their books. But something about her arrival made a few heads lift—just briefly. Like the air changed a little.

Most people didn't give it a second thought. But a few teachers, the girls who sat up front in English, one kid from art class, watched her pass with that look people get when they can't place a memory. Something about her didn't match the rest of the day. Like she'd stepped out of a different scene and forgot to change costumes.

She wore that same cardigan she often did—the grayish blue one that looked like it had seen a hundred wash cycles but still held its shape. Buttoned high, neat. Her skirt matched, maybe not exactly, but enough to look deliberate. The hem brushed just above her knees, white tights underneath, and those stiff little Oxfords that usually only made an appearance on Easter Sundays or Eamon's piano recitals.

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't even particularly stylish. But there was something about the way it all came together, like she'd decided, just for today, not to dress for Hawkins at all.

Not for the fluorescent lights. Not for the locker clatter or the cafeteria smell. Just for herself.

Her hair was parted straight down the middle, same as always. But the back was brushed back and flipped under, more effort than usual, like she'd borrowed a trick from an old magazine. It wasn't perfect. The ends wouldn't hold, slipping loose into soft curves that trailed down her back, stubborn as ever. A faint flick of eyeliner at the corners gave her a catlike tilt when she blinked, and her lips were bare, just the natural rosy color of skin. Blush sat high on her cheekbones—subtle, but deliberate, like she'd actually thought about how she wanted to show up today.

There was no sign. No label. No dramatic reveal.

But for anyone who looked, really looked, she wasn't just in costume.

She was becoming.

Clarisse McClellan. If Clarisse drove a Firebird and kept dolphin clippings in her locker. She didn't need to announce it. The literary girls would get it. So would a few of the teachers. Most students wouldn't, but it didn't matter.

She liked that. The quietness of it. The way a thing could be known only to those who took the time to notice.

Robin rounded the corner near the senior lockers, one strap of her backpack slipping off her shoulder. She was mid-yawn, already planning to skip last period if she could fake a cough convincing enough for Mr. Arnett, when her eyes landed on Reese.

And she slowed.

"Whoa," Robin said, blinking. "Are we going somewhere… retro?"

Reese looked up from closing her locker, lips soft and calm. "I'm Clarisse."

Robin tilted her head. "Like—Clarisse Clarisse?"

A small shrug. "I liked her character, I guess. I think Bradbury's a genius."

Robin, one corner of her mouth twitching, replied, "Yeah, that tracks. Quiet girl who reads too much and makes guys rethink their entire worldview."

Reese gave a shy, sidelong smile, small, but bright enough to catch. "Then it's easy to pull off."

Robin huffed a laugh, tucking her short hair behind both ears. "So…" she said, rocking back slightly on her heels, "you thinking of sitting with the nerd cult today?"

Reese hesitated. Just for a second. Her eyes flicked toward the cafeteria, to the swirl of noise and movement she still hadn't fully stepped into. They had their rhythms, her and Robin. But something about the way she'd said when they’d hung out last night, "They're not gonna bite" stuck in her chest, like a dare she wasn't ready to name.

"If you're going," she said softly, "I'd like that. I just don't want to go over there by myself."

Robin bumped her shoulder lightly. "Oh, I'm not just going. I'm supervising."

A smirk. "And heckling. Ruthlessly."

The cafeteria was its typical midday blur, too bright, too loud, too full of the same voices arguing over the same lunch trades and Wednesday night reruns.

At the Hellfire table, Gareth was bent over a paper bag, trying to fold it into what looked like a bat. Kevin was debating—loudly—whether a shield spell could be cast while in wild shape, and Dustin kept breaking pretzel sticks in half to illustrate something no one was actually listening to.

Eddie sat at the head, sneaker propped on the seat beside him, sketching loosely on a napkin with the end of a pen he'd been chewing on. A new antagonist that may or may not be appearing for the campaign tomorrow. The din didn't faze him; he liked the noise. It filled in the corners.

And then, she showed up.

He didn't notice her at first, not until the corner of his eye caught a flash of pale blue. He looked up.

She stood there with Robin beside her, clutching her lunch sack in front of her hips with both hands like it might try to bolt. Her hair was flipped at the ends in a way that didn't suit the era but made her look like a time traveler anyway. She wasn't smiling, just doing that small, unreadable half-expression she did when she wasn't sure what kind of room she was walking into.

Her lips parted just a little, and then—

"Um… can we… D'you mind if we sit here?"

The question hung in the air—not dramatic, just uncertain. Like maybe it hadn't sounded as casual as she'd meant it to. Her knuckles were white around her lunch sack. Robin said nothing, just waited beside her like she was giving Reese the lead.

Eddie looked up slowly. There was a pause—short, but it stretched. A few eyes from the table drifted toward her. Not unfriendly. Just curious.

Then Eddie's grin curved sideways, lazy and warm.

"Man," he said, dragging his sneaker off the seat beside him. "Didn't think I'd live to see the day girls asked to sit with Hellfire."

He glanced at Dustin. "Take notes, Henderson. This is history."

Then back to Reese. "Yeah. 'Course. Sit."

Robin slid in first with a half-smile, nudging her lunch into place. "This feels vaguely illegal," she mumbled, more to Reese than anyone else. "Crossing cafeteria lines like this."

Reese followed, slower, setting her paper sack down with care. She sat to the left of where Eddie was perched at the head of the table, smoothing her skirt beneath her as she did. She didn't meet his eyes, busy adjusting the sleeves of her cardigan, then the edge of her napkin, then tucking her hair behind her ear, even though it wasn't in the way.

The others were still mid-conversation, but Dustin clocked the silence first. He glanced between them.

"Wait—are you dressed up?" he asked, brow furrowed. "You look like… I dunno, a secretary from The Partridge Family."

Robin sighed and gave him a light smack with the back of her hand.

"She's Clarisse. Fahrenheit 451? Try reading something that doesn't come with a decoder ring."

"Hey," Dustin said, sitting up straighter. "I read The Hobbit in third grade."

"Great," Robin said with sarcastic enthusiasm. "Read something with a girl in it next time."

Kevin, halfway through opening his milk carton, glanced toward Reese.

"Well whatever you are, you're a babe."

Robin didn't look up.

"Careful. She bites."

Kevin snorted, elbow on the table. "Her? Doubt it."

Eddie finally spoke, calm and dry:

"Easy, Kev. That's how the last guy lost a finger."

The table burst out laughing. Gareth wheezed, Dustin snorted into his juice, but Reese stayed quiet.

She just blinked, her expression unreadable.

It wasn't that she hadn't been defended before. She had. Her parents did it often—firmly but kindly—when neighborhood boys said things they shouldn't, or when grown men looked twice instead of once. It was always clear, always adult—a shield drawn without hesitation.

But this was different.

This was Robin. Dry and easy, not stepping in like a lecture, but slipping a line across the table like a checkmate.

And Eddie. Not rushing to her rescue, not puffing up or posturing. Just rebalancing the room like it was second nature. Like it mattered to him that she felt safe here.

Reese stared down at her lunch. One of her apple slices had turned brown at the edge. She picked it up, took a bite, and didn't say a word.

But something warm and strange settled low in her ribs, like being quietly pulled under a quilt someone else had tucked around her.

Like being claimed without being owned. Like someone had tucked her in without asking first, but she didn't mind.

Eddie hadn't said anything else yet. Just watched her. Not in a weird way. Just observing.

Finally, softly, just to her:

"Clarisse, huh?"

Reese looked up, tucked her hair again, and nodded once.

"I liked her," she said. "Thought maybe I'd try seeing the world like she does. Just for today."

Eddie's pen paused on the napkin.

"Careful," he said. "That kind of thing's contagious."

She smiled then, small and lopsided, but real. And under the table, their knees knocked gently once.

Neither of them moved away.

The table roared back to life, Dustin arguing about gelatinous cube digestion, Gareth making wild gestures with a carrot stick, Kevin pretending to be offended by something Robin muttered under her breath. The noise folded back over them like a dropped blanket.

Amid the bickering, Eddie shifted.

Just slightly, leaning forward, twisting his shoe to the side under the bench. Nothing deliberate. Nothing planned.

And then—

Their hands brushed beneath the table.

Not intentional. Not performative. Just magnetic. The way metal finds metal.

Reese stilled. Her gaze dropped to the neat rows of apple slices and the untouched peanut butter cracker. Her cheeks flushed, not red, just warm. Like something was blooming under her skin.

She reached for his hand, tentatively, beneath the table where no one could see. Her fingers were smaller than his, colder too, and the angle was awkward, like holding hands under a desk in study hall. But she found him anyway.

Eddie didn't move. Didn't look at her. Just let their palms press together, and began tracing slow, absentminded circles with his thumb against the inside of hers. Not quite rhythmic or flirtatious. Just quiet.

Like he was grounding himself.

Like whatever chaos buzzed outside their bubble didn't matter right now.

His voice never rejoined the conversation. His whole body settled, like a vinyl needle finally dropping onto the right groove.

The bell rang low and droning, like a warning more than a dismissal. Fluorescents buzzed overhead as Reese stepped out into the corridor, the air outside the cafeteria still thick with the scent of cafeteria pizza and mop water.

Robin walked beside her, her Converse a blur of black on the waxed linoleum. Her arms were folded behind her head, casual as ever, and she gave Reese a sidelong glance through the fringe of her bangs.

"So... Kevin's like, bonkers into you," she said. "Like, actually throwing himself across the table." With the next point, she crossed her arms and pitched her voice deep, "'Whatever you are, you're a babe.'" Her normal voice again, "Come on."

Reese felt her cheeks warm. "Please. He calls anything with a bosom a 'babe.'"

Robin barked a laugh. "Bosom?" She stopped walking. "Oh my god. Did you just say bosom?"

Reese bit back a smile, gently tugging the strap of her book bag higher on her shoulder. "It's a perfectly good word."

"It's a perfectly Victorian word. You sound like a thirteen-hundred-year-old poetess." Robin swirled a hand dramatically in the air. "Ah yes, thine ample bosom doth maketh me swoon."

Reese choked out a laugh. “Please never say the word ‘ample’ again.”

“Bosom is way worse than ample!”

They turned the corner near the senior wing, where foot traffic started to thin out. A few couples lingered by lockers, whispering behind Trapper Keeper shields.

Robin peeled off toward hers. "Gotta grab my Spanish book, left it in class," she said. "But hey—if Kevin starts writing you sonnets about your ample bosom, you have to show me."

Reese rolled her eyes, still smiling as she turned toward her own locker. "You're the worst."

Robin winked. "Only on odd-numbered days."

And then she was gone, vanishing around the corner with a lazy wave.

Reese exhaled, adjusting her sweater, and reached for her locker dial. The click of the numbers was familiar—comforting, even.

20... 25... 20.

The metal creaked as she opened it.

And then she felt it. That particular silence. A shift in the air—like someone had stepped too close.

She didn't hear him. Not really. It was more like she sensed him.

At first, she almost thought it was Eddie. That quiet sort of gravity.

But no. The shape of it was wrong. The feeling was wrong.

Reese kept her hand on the inside edge of the locker door, like maybe it could become a shield if she needed it.

A low voice came from just beside her ear—lazy, smug.

"Boo."

Reese glanced over, startled—but only slightly. Her eyes widened before she could stop them, then softened in quick retreat. Calm. Just look calm. Not like a deer in headlights.

And there he was. Again.

Andy Clayton.

"Um. Hi," she said, voice a shade above polite as she turned back to her locker.

"Hey yourself."

His voice was low, too casual, too familiar. She cringed—internally, of course—but still felt her shoulders pull up by a fraction. Gosh. Was he flirting?

Ugh. Barf.

She reached for something—anything—sharp enough to jab with. Maybe Eddie was wearing off on her.

"Are you here to pull my hair again?"

Dang it. It came out weaker than she meant. Sarcasm was the aim. Ransom victim was the result.

Andy laughed. Not at the joke, at her.

"Nah. Not here for that."

There was a beat where she almost thought—almost—that he might apologize. His eyes flicked down, just for a second, like something real might surface.

But then that smug smile settled back onto his face like it'd never left. Of course.

"Got something for ya."

He pulled something from his back pocket and slapped it over the top edge of her locker, letting it dangle in front of her like bait.

It swayed lazily—cheap Xerox ink bleeding through orange paper.

BOOS & BOOZE  – Halloween Bash! When the kids go to bed… the real monsters come out. Costume required. Fun guaranteed.

She blinked at it, mouthing the words without meaning to.

"Boos and booze."

Oh. A party. Of course.

She didn't take the flyer. Didn't even touch it.

Instead, she angled her head slightly, polite but firm.

"Um… I don't think so."

"What?" Andy said, his tone coated in disbelief, like she'd just turned down a ride in a convertible or front-row tickets to Van Halen. "It's just a party. Dancing, talking."

Reese didn't answer.

Didn't look up.

Instead, she focused on the books inside her locker—her copy of The Scarlet Letter with the spine curling at the corners. She pressed her fingertips to the edge of the shelf and quietly counted the seconds in her head.

One, two, three…

Maybe if she stayed quiet, he'd get the hint.

Maybe if she didn't feed it, he'd run out of things to say.

But Andy Clayton never did know when to quit.

"I—" she began, soft and uncertain. She wasn't even sure what she meant to say. That she was busy? That she wasn't interested? That she didn't want to go anywhere near a place where boys laughed too loud and girls cried in the bathroom and the floor smelled like spilled rum and spilled reputations?

"What?" he cut her off. "Jesus don't let you have fun?"

She blinked.

"Or is it Daddy?"

He said it low and lazy, like it was a joke. Like he was charming. Like he didn't just reach into her ribcage and twist.

"Either way," he added, shifting his weight, crowding the space just enough to make it felt. "C’mon. You can take one night off from the whole ‘good girl’ thing. Live a little."

Reese still didn't look at him.

But she felt it.

The smugness. The assumption. The entitlement wrapped in a smirk.

There was a tone boys like Andy used—a tone that pretended to be friendly, flirty even, but was really just a dare in disguise. It said: I know who you are better than you do.

And maybe, once, a long time ago—before she moved here, before Eddie Munson started opening doors and waiting for her to speak—maybe she would've laughed politely. Maybe she would've said ‘maybe’ just to keep the peace.

But now?

Now her stomach curled at the way he said "good girl," like it was something to be tested.

Now her silence wasn't fear. It was resistance.

Even if it trembled a little.

"She said no, asshole."

The words cut through the hallway like a dropped amp cord—loud, jarring, and unmistakably Eddie.

Reese turned.

And there he was.

Leaning just slightly into one foot, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, curls haloed by the ceiling lights. His voice still echoed faintly off the lockers behind him, but he didn't move, just stood there, calm and sharp-eyed, like the end of a movie where the real hero finally shows up.

Her body responded before her mind even caught up. Shoulders uncoiling. Breath softening. Like her muscles recognized the safety before her brain had the chance to name it.

Andy straightened beside her, visibly annoyed now—like a little kid who'd just been told to stop climbing on the furniture. His whole posture shifted, cocky at first, then deflated by degrees.

He folded the flyer once, lazily, then again. And without looking at her, dropped it right onto the top of her books—the ones she still held pressed against her chest like armor.

It fluttered a little as it landed.

Then Andy turned and walked.

Not away.

Toward Eddie.

Toward the boy ten feet down the hall, who didn't speak in riddles or dares. Who didn't leer or loom or pretend cruelty was charisma.

He stopped in front of Eddie—close, but not too close.

And Reese saw it.

Clear as anything.

Andy was shorter. Maybe by an inch. Maybe a little more.

But the difference was enough.

Enough to feel like something real had clicked into place.

Because next to her, Andy had felt tall. Overbearing. Towering in that way, boys sometimes do when they want to make you feel small.

But next to Eddie?

He just looked like a boy.

A petty, forgettable boy.

And somehow, that felt like justice.

No fists thrown. No scene made. Just truth, standing there in white sneakers and a battered jacket.

Andy didn't stop walking as he passed. Just muttered, low and clipped, "Whatever, man.” He dropped his voice, just an octave. “Don't act like you won't be there. Selling your party favors. "

And then, shoulder check. Hard. Deliberate.

It wasn't a full shove, but it didn't have to be.

The thud of it echoed in the hollowness between lockers and linoleum.

Reese's breath caught.

Not because of what was said—she hadn't heard that part. Just a mumble, a smear of syllables too far off to make sense of.

But she'd seen it. The hit.

Eddie jostled slightly off balance, his boots skidding a fraction on the waxed tile. Andy was walking away like nothing had happened.

And something in Reese bristled.

Protective. Fierce.

Which surprised her.

Because she was used to feeling like he was the one protecting her. Eddie was the loud one. The rough one. The one who stood taller, talked sharper, made the world a little easier to bear just by being nearby.

But now?

Seeing him take a blow in silence, seeing the way his jaw clenched, how he didn't fire back, didn't rise to it, didn't even speak.

She wanted to storm after Andy herself.

Wanted to grab the stupid flyer and shove it down his throat. Or at least kick his ankle, hard enough to make him trip.

But she stayed still.

Hands frozen on the spine of her Lit notebook. Eyebrows drawn, mouth parted just slightly. Her cheeks were still dusted with makeup, and her cardigan's sleeves hung soft at her wrists, but she suddenly looked like she'd been caught doing something wrong. Like a kid waiting for the principal to call her name.

Eddie turned toward her. Saw it.

And softened.

Step by step, the tension slid off his shoulders. His fists stayed loose, his eyes less sharp now, warmer, like they always were when they landed on her. He didn't smile. But he didn't need to.

He just walked toward her.

And with every inch, Reese's heart steadied.

Because there he was. Unshaken. Untouched, where it counted.

And he was still hers.

He stopped a few feet from her locker, eyes scanning her face like he was taking inventory. Like he needed to count every detail—every breath, every blink—to make sure she was still alright.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low and steady. Not overbearing. Just checking.

Reese nodded quickly. "Me? Yeah. What about you?" Her brows knit. "That was totally uncool—did he—?"

"I'm fine," Eddie said before she could finish. He gave a crooked half-smile, like the whole thing had already rolled off him. "Shoulder's still attached."

But Reese didn't laugh.

She just watched him, wide-eyed, still holding her books tight against her chest like a shield.

The bell rang—sharp and shrill—and Reese startled slightly, snapping back to the moment.

"I've gotta go," she said. "English."

Eddie nodded, already stepping aside for her to pass, but then paused.

"Walk you to your car?"

It was almost funny how he still asked. Like it wasn't already understood. Like she'd ever say no.

But she didn't roll her eyes. Didn't tease him for it. Because she could see it, clear as anything, that he needed to ask. He needed to feel like he was still doing something right.

So she just smiled.

"Yeah," she said softly.

And then she turned, the ends of her skirt swishing behind her as she slipped into the crowd of students filing toward their next class.

Eddie stood there a moment longer, hands in his pockets, jaw flexing once before he turned to go.

The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly above them, a dull hum barely audible beneath the rustle of pages and the creak of old plastic chairs. Mr. Beck was mid-monologue at the front of the room, something about public shaming and scarlet symbols, his corduroy blazer wrinkled at the elbows like it had lived through several Puritan trials of its own.

Robin leaned toward Reese, voice just above breath level. "So… he actually told you to come to the party?"

Reese nodded, eyes fixed on the paragraph in front of her—though she'd read the same sentence three times and still couldn't tell you what Hester was doing.

"Yeah," she whispered back. "And I told him I didn't think so. And he said—get this—'what, is it 'cause Jesus won't let you have fun? Or Daddy?'"

Robin wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. Gross ."

There was a beat of silence between them, broken only by Mr. Beck clapping a copy of The Scarlet Letter shut on his desk.

Robin chewed the edge of her pencil. "But—to be clear," she muttered, eyes flicking sideways, "it's not just 'cause of your parents, right? I mean—as much as I do loathe Andy with the fire of a thousand suns—he's not… totally wrong. Like, if you wanted to go, you're not gonna spontaneously burst into flames."

Reese glanced at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. Not challenging, just checking.

She smiled softly. "Yeah. I'm sure." She turned a page quietly. "I'd honestly rather take Eamon trick-or-treating, anyway. Sounds way more enjoyable than getting barfed on by a drunkard dressed as the Grim Reaper."

Robin let out a snort that she tried to stifle in her sleeve.

From the front of the room, Mr. Beck's voice cut across the hum: "Ladies—if your conversation has nothing to do with Hester Prynne's inner torment, I suggest you save it for after class."

Robin sat up straight. "Sorry," she said, far too cheerfully.

Reese covered her smile with her hand, eyes twinkling.

Robin leaned in again, just barely a whisper now: "But for real. You're kind of an anomaly."

Reese shook her head with a quiet laugh and bent over her book again. But the smile lingered—small, and sure.

The October sky had slipped into that pale, powdery blue it saved for afternoons like this, cool but not cold, stretched thin over the bare treetops and the buzz of a high school parking lot that was already half-empty. Most of the cars had cleared out. Just a few lingered, someone sitting on their hood smoking cloves, two underclassmen trading Halloween candy early behind the dumpsters, a ten-speed tipped sideways while its chain got put back in place.

Reese walked beside him, her arms full, library books stacked against her chest because her bag didn't quite fit the excess literature.

She hadn't said much since they left the building, but Eddie didn't mind. He was okay with the quiet when it came from her. It wasn't awkward, it was focused. Like she was letting the world bloom in her head before choosing which piece of it to hand over.

They reached her Firebird, clean and bright as ever, the kind of car that looked like it should have a theme song. The citrus scent hit him again, sharp and clean from the leather inside. He glanced down at his sneakers, toeing a crack in the pavement.

Reese shifted her weight. Cleared her throat once, softly.

"Hey, so…"

He looked up.

"I'm taking Eamon trick-or-treating tonight. Around the block."

She gave a small smile, one shoulder rising in a little shrug. "You're welcome to come. If you want."

There wasn’t pressure in her voice. Just hope. Not that he’d say yes, necessarily, though yes, that too, but that he’d understand what she meant.

Eddie tilted his head, letting a curl fall behind his ear.

"You want me to come?"

Reese met his eyes. Deadpan.

"I mean… yeah."

The smile that followed was softer than the first. A little unguarded. A little embarrassed.

"Plus, my parents would probably feel better if there was, you know... a big strong man there to protect us."

She said it with a straight face. Eyebrows gently raised. Voice calm as anything.

He blinked. And then he saw it—that flicker of mischief at the corners of her mouth.

He snorted, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Wow. That's me, huh? Big. Strong."

He flexed, if it could be called that. "Absolutely terrifying."

"Terrifying," Reese echoed, nodding in mock solemnity, eyes sparkling now.

He looked at her then, for real. Not just her eyes or her mouth or how funny she could be when she let herself—but the whole picture. All of her. Like she'd wandered in from another kind of life and somehow sat down next to him.

"I'll be there."

A pause.

"Wait—do I need a costume?"

Reese laughed. Actually laughed. It caught her by surprise, too, and she covered it with the back of her hand.

"No, no. Just. Wear black. I've got a hat for you."

"You want me to cover these?" He ran a dramatic hand through his curls, aggrandizing himself like a shampoo commercial.

She shook her head, grinning now.

And for a second, neither of them said anything.

Eddie moved first, stepping ahead to open the car door for her, not like a big gesture, just something that felt instinctual. She slid in with a small nod that said more than thank you.

He closed the door gently. Stepped back.

And then stood there, hands in his pockets, watching her taillights blink to life as she pulled away.

The lot was quieter now.

But his chest wasn't.

The sun was slipping behind the trees when Eddie's van pulled up.

The sky had gone gold around the edges, catching in the bare limbs of oaks and maples and turning every front yard into a shadow puppet theater. Porch lights were flicking on one by one down the block, warm glows behind plastic jack-o'-lanterns and ghost cutouts made from old sheets. The kind of Halloween Reese remembered from picture books: normal, good, a little sticky.

She stood on the front porch in her Clarisse costume again, but with a little more care this time—her eyeliner a touch bolder, a soft shimmer brushed along her eyelids. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to catch it.

Her sweater was buttoned all the way up again. Her skirt swayed as she shifted from foot to foot on the wood. When she saw him climb out of the van, her smile came quickly, and then softened, like she wasn't quite sure she was allowed to let it stay.

Eddie stepped out dressed entirely in black—dark jeans, his regular white shoes, his leather jacket zipped halfway up, no denim vest. He looked like himself, just a little more contained. Like the shadows had folded him up neatly.

Reese walked down to the yard where he now stood, holding her dad's black fisherman hat.

"So," he said irresolutely, “what exactly am I supposed to be here? Other than the ominous guy in all black following children?"

Reese smiled at him and tilted her head to get a look at his face from a different angle.

"You're Montag," she said, smoothing the hat over his brown curls with a gentle touch. "He's a fireman in Fahrenheit 451. He doesn't burn books anymore. He meets a girl who notices things."

Eddie looked up at the hat. Then back down at her.

"So basically, I'm your boyfriend… with the same job as your dad?"

Reese tilted her head the other way, amused. "If that helps you commit to the bit."

He grinned and tugged the hat on a little tighter, like he was officially accepting the role.

"It doesn't. But I like the title."

From behind them, the screen door banged open, and Eamon came sprinting down the steps like he was being chased by a swarm of bees. His face was smeared green with face paint, cardboard ears flopping with every step. He had a lollipop in one hand, half bitten into, and something that looked like a paperclip glued to his forehead.

Eddie stepped back instinctively, like a dog had just jumped over a fence and he didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

"Is he—uh. Is he Yoda? Or… a frog?"

"I'M A GREMLIN!" Eamon screeched, spinning in a circle and nearly tripping over his tail, which was made of an old sock stuffed with grocery bags.

"Don't get me WETTTTT!"

Eddie looked at Reese.

She looked back, deadpan.

"He made the tail himself."

"Oh, I can tell." That got a laugh out of her, and the sound was one he wanted to bottle.

Eamon darted past them, sticky fingers raised like claws. His candy bucket rattled.

"Come on, come on, we're gonna miss the good houses!" he sounded like an old geezer on the street corner, shaking a can of change.

Reese turned to follow, but Eddie held her back for half a second—just long enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and whisper, low enough so only she could hear it:

"You're the prettiest girl at the fire."

She blinked. The line didn't make perfect sense. The fire from their first date? The fires at his 'job'? But she got the sentiment behind it anyway.

And then they were walking down the block, beneath the blinking porch lights and rustling trees, with a gremlin-child shrieking ahead of them and their shoulders brushing, once, twice, like something that would eventually become habit.

They started walking—slow and unhurried—side by side as Eamon tore ahead down the sidewalk, the gremlin tail bouncing wildly behind him.

"You got your flashlight, Gizmo?" Reese called after him, cupping one hand around her mouth.

He didn't answer, just made some high-pitched shrieking sound and vanished into a yard with inflatable pumpkins and a blow-up Dracula that was already sagging at the knees.

They kept walking. A plastic ghost rustled from a tree branch as they passed. The breeze smelled like leaves and something faintly charred—maybe someone's fireplace or a grill still cooling from dinner.

And then—

One of them reached first. Maybe it was him. Maybe her. Neither of them would remember later, and maybe that's how they'd know it mattered.

Their fingers laced together like they'd always meant to, but hadn't had the chance. Not like this. Not out here.

They'd held hands before—but only in private. Sitting close on the couch. After a campaign session, when no one else was looking. In the Firebird once, when she'd said something that made his chest ache and he'd reached for her without thinking.

But this?

This was outside.

Her hand was cold, as usual—like she belonged to autumn itself—but his was warm and strong, calloused just enough to feel real.

Reese smiled without turning her head.

"How's Corroded Coffin been?"

Eddie snorted.

"Loud. Off-beat. Gareth chipped a drumstick and splintered his thumb."

"That's… impressive," she said. "And ouch."

"He bit it out."

Reese blinked. "Bit… it out?"

Eddie brought his thumb to his mouth, mimed a quick nip, then pulled it away.

"Yeah. No tweezers required. Punk rock dentistry."

"That's disgusting."

"Hey, I bite my nails when I can't find clippers!"

"That's worse!"

"All guys do it!"

"I'm getting you clippers on a chain for your birthday."

"Now that," Eddie declared, "is metal."

She smiled at that, but something inside her softened—something she hadn't noticed until now. She turned to him.

"Wait. When's your birthday? You said 'next month' a couple weeks ago."

Eddie hesitated.

The memories came in like static—faded birthdays from before his mom was gone. The quieter ones with Wayne. None of them loud. None of them lit candles kind of special.

"November eleventh."

He had to think longer than most people would. Not because he didn't know—just because no one usually asked.

Reese's eyes widened.

"Veterans Day, huh?" she teased gently. "So you really are a hero."

She leaned into his side, smiling up at him.

Eddie chuckled. Hero wasn't a word he'd ever reach for. But if Reese called him one? He'd put on the cape.

"Wait," she said, pulling back a little. "That's just over a week away! Were you gonna let me miss it?"

Eddie shrugged, crooked smile playing at his mouth.

Would he have? Maybe. Maybe he'd wanted to. He usually let the day pass quietly. But it would've hurt her not to know.

"No, Mouse," he said, voice soft. "I would've told you."

"Well." Her tone lightened as she stepped ahead. "Guess you'll just have to start getting excited then, huh?"

She jogged up the sidewalk a few paces to catch up with Eamon, then circled back toward him, grinning, a small fistful of candy in hand like she was presenting a prize on a game show.

"What's behind palm number one?"

She opened her hand.

Mini Hershey's. A yellow-and-blue wrapped Dubble Bubble. A slightly smushed purple Now & Later.

And, right in the center, a crinkled packet of Reese's Pieces.

Eddie raised an eyebrow.

"Bold of you to offer me your actual body parts."

She rolled her eyes, but the smile broke through anyway.

"You want it or not, Dracula?"

"Obviously," he said, already tearing it open. "I'm just trying to figure out what part of you tastes like peanut butter."

"You're so gross."

"You're the one handing out edible puns!"

He dumped the whole packet into his mouth at once.

Reese watched, horrified and delighted.

"Gosh—are you even tasting them?"

She spoke around her own wad of Now & Later, the candy puffing out one cheek.

"Yeah? " he mumbled through the mouthful. "I eat 'em like this so I can taste them."

"That's not how taste works," she laughed.

"Says who? You? You with the purple wax palate? That was your first choice? D'you eat a lotta wax?"

"No—just…"

"Just—your Chapstick?"

All she could do was look at him, slightly stunned, half offended, before,

 "You're so immature it's not even funny. Even Eamon could give you etiquette lessons."

"Table manners from the Sock-Sucker? Yeah, no thanks. "

Reese burst out laughing and had to cover her mouth with both hands to stifle it.

"No—shhh! If he hears you, he's gonna withhold the candy!"

Eddie grinned, his cheeks pink with mischief and the air just cold enough to make every laugh feel sharper in his lungs. Her laughter still rang faint in his ears, sweeter than anything he could unwrap in a plastic wrapper.

They walked in a little quiet after that. Just for a moment. The kind where nothing felt awkward.

Eddie nudged a pebble with the toe of his shoe. "Y'know," he said, voice a little lower now, "I've, uh… been trying to write something."

She glanced over, curious. "For the band?"

His eyes didn't quite meet hers. "For you."

She stopped walking.

Her eyes went wide, brows lifting in shock.

"What!" she gasped. "That's like. The Munson equivalent of a wedding ring!"

He laughed, loud and sudden, and squeezed her hand.

"Yeah, well,” he smiled boyishly at the comment."You should come hear it sometime. Practice, I mean. Not a show. Our audience is mostly drunks and two guys who think we're Metallica."

"Tempting."

"We rehearse in Gareth's garage. There's a dartboard and a raccoon that lives in the ceiling."

"Even more tempting."

He looked down at her, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth again.

"I'll save you a folding chair."

Before she could reply, a blur of motion caught their attention—two little kids in matching pumpkin costumes tore past them on stubby legs, giggling and sticky-fingered, one trailing a pillowcase that was already dragging with loot.

"Slow down!" a woman called from behind them, breathless but amused.

She couldn't have been more than thirty. Cat ears perched on her head, her coat flared slightly where it was unbuttoned around her rounded belly—clearly expecting. Beside her, a man in a Ghostbusters jumpsuit jogged to keep up, his hand instinctively resting against the small of her back as they moved. They exchanged a glance that was part shared exhaustion, part quiet joy.

As they passed Reese and Eddie, the woman offered a knowing, slightly conspiratorial smile, the kind you gave to someone else in the trenches of bedtime routines and sidewalk chases. The man gave a little nod, casual and approving in the way adults sometimes acknowledged other adults with kids.

Only—Reese and Eddie weren't adults.

And the sticky little gremlin sprinting ahead of them?

Not theirs.

Still, the moment hung there, warm and weird and surreal.

Reese smiled back, instinctively, politely.

Eddie, less sure of what he was being smiled at for, just kind of tilted his head. Not a nod, exactly. More like a confused gesture of "uh, you too?" that trailed off before it ever left his face.

They walked a few paces more before Reese blinked, suddenly struck by something, and turned toward him with wide eyes.

"Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh."

Eddie raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"They totally think we're actual parents."

"What?"

"I didn't even realize—Eddie. Look at us. I'm dressed like a mother. You're dressed like… a vaguely suspicious Midwestern father. Eamon's sprinting ahead in a sugar trance. We look like our names are Bill and Tammy, and we live next to the Wheelers and own a riding mower."

He laughed, short and stunned. "Bill?"

"You're absolutely a Bill right now."

"That's—"

"No, seriously. Imagine what else we could get away with in these costumes." Eddie's mind immediately went a million places, none of which were what Reese spouted, 

"We could vote. We could get library cards without parental permission. Maybe even sign a contract."

Eddie was laughing now, full-bodied and warm. "Wow. Endless possibilities."

"I'm just saying," she said, gesturing dramatically with her hand, "if anyone asks, I make really good tuna casserole and you build birdhouses in the garage."

Eddie gave her a look—fond, adoring, completely out of his depth in the best way. "You've definitely thought about this before."

She lifted her chin with mock offense. "Well…"

He shook his head, the smile still stretching at the corners of his mouth. Then, softer, like he couldn't help it: "Tammy suits you."

Reese gave him a shove. "Take it back."

"Nope. Sorry. You're Tammy now."

"You're impossible."

"And you're my wife, Tammy. Let's go pick up little Gremlin and go home."

Reese let out a lquiet augh, but only so she wouldn't at spiral his joke. 

And Eddie just watched her. Quietly.

Like maybe Bill wasn't such a bad name after all.

But Reese… Reese couldn't laugh it off quite so easily.

Because for a second—just a flicker—she saw it.

Not casserole and cul-de-sacs. But something real. A home. A life. With him.

Not today or maybe even soon. But someday.

The image flashed across her brain like lightning on film: her sitting on the floor in a cluttered little living room, Eddie beside her, a toddler with his curls and her eyes pulling Halloween candy out of a bucket, holding up each one like it was treasure. Another kid toddling over in a diaper. A record playing faintly in the next room. Light through curtains.

A life.

Not Tammy and Bill.

But Reese and Eddie.

And she knew—knew in her marrow—that she wanted it. Desperately.

Which only made the ache worse.

Because did he want that? Was that joke just a joke?

She shouldn't be thinking about this. Not now. Not here.

She blinked hard, trying to push the reel back into its canister. Her pulse was suddenly too loud in her ears.

"Hey."

Eddie's voice was soft.

Reese looked up.

He was still watching her. That steady, unreadable gaze that could cut through her thoughts like a hot knife.

"You okay?"

She forced a smile, a breath, a nod.

"Yeah," she said, quieter now. "I'm okay."

But he kept holding her hand just the same. And maybe he knew. Maybe not all of it. But enough.

They reached the curb just outside the Halverson house, porch light humming in the dusk like a firefly caught in a jar. Leaves crunched under Eamon's scuffed sneakers as he hauled his pail of candy behind him like a sack of gold.

Reese turned to him gently. "Go on in, buddy. Brush your teeth—even the back ones—and don't forget to thank Mama."

Eamon groaned. "But I wanna show Eddie my haul—"

"Eamon." Just one look. That big-sister look. Not mean. Just final.

Eamon made a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh and trudged up the porch steps. He paused at the door, glancing back, and for a second, it looked like he might say something else. But he didn't. He slipped inside.

And then it was just them.

Reese turned back toward him, the light catching the shimmer on her eyelids. Her smile was soft, her eyes even softer.

"Thank you," she said, barely above a whisper. "For coming with us. I know it was just trick-or-treating, but… I had fun. Like real, full-hearted, honest-to-goodness fun."

Eddie let out a breath—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Yeah," he said. "Best Halloween I've had in… maybe ever."

Her smile deepened, and she stepped closer, reaching up on tiptoe to pluck the fisherman's cap from his head. She held it for a beat like she might say something else, but then—without a word—she folded herself into him.

It was a full-bodied hug. She pressed her cheek into his chest and wrapped her arms tight around his waist, like she was grounding herself in him.

"Thank you," she said again. Just that. And it hit him like a freight train.

Thank you for tonight.
Thank you for Andy.
Thank you for being you.
With me.

He didn't ask which it was. He knew. It was all of it.

Her head tilted up to look at him. She didn't lean in—just let her eyes close softly, lashes dark against her cheek. Waiting.

Eddie had to chuckle. Quiet. Awed. Like some sacred joke had just been told. It was so clear he was the only person she'd ever kissed.

He cupped her jaw, gentle, adoring, and kissed her like it was the first one all over again. Soft. Still. She tasted like grape candy.

He tasted like peanut butter.

When they pulled apart, she stayed close for a moment longer. Then stepped back, cheeks flushed, sweater slightly crooked from where it had bunched against his jacket.

"Goodnight, Eddie," she murmured.

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her climb the steps—two at a time, like always—and disappear behind the door.

The porch light flicked off a second later.

And Eddie was still standing there.

Watching.

Holding something warm that she'd left behind in his chest.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to go.
Not just because it was cold.
Not just because his night was about to get a whole lot uglier.

It was something about the quiet she left in her wake.
Something about the way she kissed him, like it was easy, safe, sacred.
Something about knowing she’d fall asleep in a room full of stuffed animals and folded socks and paperback books, with no idea what he was about to go do.

And for a minute—just one minute—he let himself pretend he belonged in that world, too.

The party had already started by the time he pulled up. Some senior’s older cousin's house, music leaking out the cracked windows, strobe lights flickering like a migraine. He parked half a block away—didn't want his van associated, even if everyone knew who brought the green.

His backpack felt heavier tonight.

Inside, it was the usual scene: cheap beer, fog machine, someone already puking in the kitchen sink. He posted up in a hallway corner, tried to keep his head down, eyes sharp. A couple of kids lit up beside him, asking prices, trying to flirt. He handed off a dime bag, muttered something dry, and ignored their cackling.

And all the while, his mind was somewhere else.

She's probably already in bed right now. Reese. Some flowy nightgown or button-up set with kittens on it. Curled under that butterfly blanket like a kid in a storybook. Eamon in the next room, sugar-coma knocked out, drooling on his dinosaur pillow.

She slept surrounded by warmth and softness and things that didn't bite.

And he was here.

In a place that reeked of bad decisions, handing over something that felt more like rot than release.

She didn't know.

And it wasn't lying. Not really.

But it sure as hell wasn't telling the truth either.

Chapter Text

When Reese awoke the following dawn, it was the heaviness she felt first.    

Her eyes tugged open, lazy as honey, fluttering across the constellation of bubbles stippling her popcorn ceiling, each one irregular and small, as if they'd shifted in the night like worry stones. Milky light seeped through the lace curtains.  

That was her heart this morning. Milk. But not the solitude of plain milk—rather tea with milk, someone's Earl Grey brewed for the day's work, gentled with cream, sweetened without sugar's false bite. The bag still steeping, bleeding amber into the cup until it looked almost bruised, waiting for someone who would never return to drink it. Or at least preserve its dignity by emptying the mug.  

She couldn't name the weight in her chest; only knew it had followed her from sleep like a faithful dog. Some dream, perhaps, already scattering at the edges of memory. If it mattered, it would find her again. Dreams always did.  

The day stretched ahead, patient as a cat. She could drift through it. Lord knew she had the talent for daydreaming. But beds weren't made for forever. So up she rose, her body reluctant as old hinges, and began the ritual of smoothing sheets that would only tangle again come evening.  

Her throat felt raw when she swallowed. Another night of sleeping with her mouth open, breathing dreams instead of air. Drat. But nothing honey and tea couldn't mend, and she could use the caffeine anyway. Maybe it would chase the cold from morning's sharp corners.  

She padded down the hallway, carpet tufting between bare toes, following the domestic symphony already begun: the low percussion of spoons against ceramic, the quiet hum of family settling into their grooves. Her father's coffee steamed from his mug—black. Predictable as sunrise.  

"Mornin', Reesy." Mr. Halverson's voice carried the particular warmth fathers reserve for daughters before the world gets its teeth in them.  

"G'morning," she murmured through a yawn that felt older than seventeen. Eamon hunched over his granola bowl, quieter than usual, still tender from last night's adventure. She didn't mind the peace; mornings were better when they moved like slow water without his antics to get under her skin.  

"How'd you sleep, sweetie?" Her mother was already reaching for the kettle, that peculiar mother-radar sensing Reese's need before she'd even touched the tea box.  

"Fine," she said, though the heaviness clung like morning fog. She almost mentioned it, but her dream surfaced first, insistent as a cork bobbing to the water's surface.  

"I was Alice again last night. At the Mad Hatter's tea party, only I told him I didn't want any tea. He poured it anyway, right into my cup. Except silver coins came tumbling out instead of Earl Grey."  

Her mother's mouth curved into a smile mothers wear when indulging daughters' peculiarities. "Bring any back with you? We could use them for the dishwasher. Seal keeps leaking."  

The kettle screamed then—sharp and sudden as a fire alarm. Reese lifted it from the burner, watching steam rise like incense as she poured. No silver coins this time, just water finding its way to leaves, the ordinary alchemy of morning.  

“How much silver?” Eamon piped up at last, interest flickering in his sleepy eyes.  

She settled into her usual chair and shrugged. “A teacup full. Twenty? Thirty pieces?”  

Her father's head lifted at that, not his usual morning acknowledgment, but something sharper. A shadow passed behind his eyes like clouds over wheat.  

"What?" she asked, though something in her stomach already knew.  

He twitched his mustache, that barely-there movement she'd learned to read like weather signs. "Thirty pieces of silver. Ring any bells?"  

It landed then, heavy as a stone dropped in still water. Matthew 26. Judas trading Christ to the Romans for thirty coins. Betrayal wearing the face of convenience, love bartered away for expedience or fear.  

Her stomach dropped like stepping off an unexpected curb. She sank deeper into her chair, reaching for the granola box as if ordinary things might anchor her against whatever current was trying to pull her under.  

The tea tasted different after that. Still warm, still sweet with honey, but carrying something else now. She lingered over the last sip anyway, letting steam rise against her face like prayers, though it couldn't quite chase the chill that had settled in her bones.  

Later, standing before her bedroom mirror, she brushed sleep from her hair with measured strokes, each pull of the bristles just sharp enough to remind her skin it was awake. She caught a rebellious lock and secured it with a lilac barretteWisteria left too long in a vase, still beautiful but bowed at the stem, petals just beginning to curl at the edges. Like so many beautiful things, it wore its dying gracefully. The fact that it matched her sweater didn’t hurt either. 

By the time she stepped into the crowded hallway, the percussion of slamming lockers and the white noise of teenage laughter felt almost violent against her ears. And then she saw him.  

Eddie bent over the drinking fountain, dark curls spilling forward into the stream without a care. He straightened, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth—a gesture so ungainly it made her chest tighten with adoration. When his eyes found hers, something in that familiar brown softened, and the heaviness she'd carried from sleep eased by degrees.  

He wasn't wearing his usual armor of black denim. These jeans were indigo, worn pale at the seat and knees like old prayers, making him look less like the Eddie who held court at Hellfire and more like the one she glimpsed in unguarded moments—younger somehow, as if morning had caught him before he could arrange his face for the world.  

"Hey," he said, falling into step beside her like it was choreographed, his voice carrying that particular roughness of someone who'd been awake too long and not dreaming hard enough.  

"Hi."  

She studied him through her periphery as they navigated the current of students. He'd only offered that single syllable, but the language of his body spoke volumes. Shoulders curved inward like he was protecting something fragile, a shadow along his jaw that suggested razors and sleep had been strangers. His eyes were dark brown fawns standing proud above pigeon gray crescents, his peepers as delicate as they were defiant.  

"You okay?" The question emerged softer than she'd intended, careful as fingers on bruised skin.  

"Yeah." He nodded, but his gaze drifted past her shoulder toward some middle distance. "Just tired."  

She allowed herself a small smile. "Sorry we kept you out so late. Next time we'll aim for seven-thirty instead of eight." Her elbow found his ribs, gentle, testing, making sure he was solid and not some figment of her morning-addled ghost.  

His laugh came like light filtering through water, present but somehow refracted. "Nah, wasn't that. Just... couldn't turn my brain off, y’know?” 

There was that shift again, subtle as a barometric change before rain. Something in the air between them that she couldn't name but felt in her bones like weather.  

They reached her locker in companionable quiet that felt different from their usual comfortable silences. Normally Eddie was the one scattering words like guitar picks, careless and bright, but today the silence belonged to him, carried like something precious he wasn't ready to set down. Reese, who typically let quiet be what it was, found herself reaching for small talk like lifelines—observations about the cold, the hallway racket, a half-formed question about Hellfire's session that evening. He'd respond, but each answer came clipped, his voice moving with the carefulness of an injured gait.  

She swung her locker open and reached past the stack of textbooks to the worn sketchbook tucked against the metal wall like a secret. Before she could close the door, Eddie tilted his chin toward it, and something in his expression shifted, curiosity cutting through the morning's strange melancholy.  

"Hey," he said, voice warming like sunlight breaking through clouds, "let me see something."  

Her thumb held the cover closed for a heartbeat longer, that familiar flutter of vulnerability making her hesitate. But this was Eddie. Eddie who saw her work the way others might read scripture, with veneration and wonder. She opened to the most recent page.  

The drawing revealed itself in careful layers: a lion wearing a crown, mounted on a horse caught mid-stride. The lion's mane streamed wild and wind-caught, a cloak flowing from broad shoulders. One massive paw held leather reins with surprising delicacy; the other rested on a sword's ornate hilt.   

Eddie leaned in, and she caught the scent of his shampoo mixed with something uniquely him—cigarettes and leather and boy musk. His eyes traced every inch of her creation, mouth curving into something approaching reverence.  

"No way," he breathed, then broke into that grin that could power small cities. "The Cowardly Lion but like. Post-Dorothy. This is—" He shook his head like he was trying to clear static. "—majestic as hell. That horse looks ready to drop the most epic concept album of the decade."   

Despite everything, her mouth pulled upward. "I'm serious," he continued, finger hovering just beside the lion's crown as if afraid to disturb the graphite magic. "This guy's got better hair than me, and that's saying something considering I'm basically Fabio's younger, more talented brother."  

For a moment, the strange weight between them lifted, replaced by the familiar warmth that bloomed whenever Eddie Munson turned the full force of his enthusiasm on something she'd created. It was like being seen through a lens that made everything sharper, more significant, more real.  

But bells, like all tyrants, don't wait for perfect moments. The first one rang sharp as an accusation, and Reese let her eyes fall closed for a breath, trying to hold the warmth a moment longer. It was like writing your name in wet sand—beautiful for an instant before the tide claimed it. You couldn't hate the sea for being itself, but you could mourn the temporary delusion of believing the letters might last.  

"Ready for art?" His voice carried that careful lightness people use when they're trying not to disturb something fragile.  

She shifted the sketchbook against her hip, armor against the coming day.  

 “Yeah. Last day of figures. I think we’re gonna do perspective next. Which normally I’d hate, but…” She let the words tilt into a wry smile. “Anything’s better than that.”  

Normally, he’d’ve made some crack about her “ way-harsh opinion on the family jewels ” as he'd done before in his typical… refined manner. Instead, Eddie offered a closed-mouth chuckle, his attention already drifting toward whatever horizon only he could see.  

They lingered in her classroom doorway, stretching the morning's last elastic moments. Reese leaned against the doorframe, then pushed away, her hair catching on the pushpins that held motivational posters to the wall like trapped butterflies.  

Eddie's hand moved without thought, freeing the strands with the delicacy of someone untangling silk from thorns. His touch was there and gone, but it left her scalp tingling with the memory of careful fingers.  

He glanced into the art room.

“M’kay. Well—”  

“—Yeah. I should—”  

“—Yeah.”  

"Yeah." She didn't lift her head, just looked at him through the curtain of her lashes, suddenly aware of how many times they could say the same meaningless word and somehow understand each other perfectly.  

“Catch you later?”  

“Yeah.” Again. Was her vocabulary shrinking by the second?   

She turned toward the classroom but paused to call back, "Don't fall asleep in shop class. Those saws don't have much sympathy for the sleep-deprived."  

"You too—well, not the... yeah. Roger that." His voice was already half-gone, carried away by whatever current was pulling him through the day.  

She found her usual seat, sketchbook a familiar weight under her arm, and allowed herself a small smile. But the moment kept replaying itself like a song stuck on repeat—his unusual quiet, the exhaustion pooling in his eyes like dark water. He must have stayed up later than he'd admitted, probably fine-tuning today's campaign or lost in whatever musical labyrinth his mind wandered through during sleepless hours.  

And yet, somewhere in the Starry Night swirl of her thoughts, the dream refused to fade—clinging like wet oil paint that wouldn't dry, all silver coins and broken trust, waiting to see what betrayal the day might bring.  

The rest of the morning passed like water finding its level—the quiet focus of art, the honest sweat of gym, the predictable comfort of numbers in mathematics. Somewhere between proof techniques and the scratch of pencil on paper, her mind drifted to Eddie. Not to the strange stillness that had clung to him earlier like morning fog, but to the simple, electric fact of him: her boyfriend. The word alone sent warmth spiraling through her chest, giddy and secret as stolen candy.  

She glanced at the empty desk beside her—well, occupied by someone whose name existed somewhere in the peripheral blur of high school anonymity. Empty in the ways that mattered. In a school this small, it bordered on miraculous that they'd managed to share exactly zero classes, as if the counselors had conspired to keep them apart during daylight hours.  

She pictured Eddie folded into that plastic chair and nearly laughed aloud into the geometry-scented quiet. Perhaps it was divine intervention. If Eddie Munson were trapped in her math class, he'd wage a campaign against her concentration, transforming her protractor into some medieval shield, asking if her compass pointed toward "buried treasure, milady," in that theatrical voice he reserved for maximum embarrassment. She'd tell him it wasn't that kind of compass, and he'd clutch his chest in mock devastation, declaring she simply wasn't "applying herself to the mystical arts of navigation."   

As always, the bell severed the moment with bureaucratic precision. Students rose like marionettes pulled by invisible strings, and Reese followed them into the hallway's controlled chaos.  

She pressed her books against her chest, feeling her stomach announce itself with a hollow growl. She'd just begun wondering what motherly wisdom her lunch bag contained when a familiar presence materialized beside her. Shorter than the one she preferred, unwelcome as rain on drying laundry.  

Andy Clayton fell into step from behind, too easily, with the casual presumption of someone who'd been doing it for years. She didn't need to look; his particular brand of entitlement preceded him like cologne applied with too heavy a hand.  

She kept walking, saying nothing, rolling her eyes inwardly at whatever plot point God had decided this Friday needed.  

They reached her locker, and naturally, he remained. What was it about boys and her locker? At least when Eddie haunted this stretch of hallway, she welcomed the intrusion.  

Andy attempted small talk, and awkwardness settled between them thick as summer humidity. Chemistry wasn't everything—she'd learned that from watching her parents' easy companionship of over twenty years—but with Andy, the absence was almost comedic. He possessed the attempted swagger of a discount Casanova with all the wit and magnetism of sedimentary rock. In fact, she mused, she'd prefer conversing with actual geology. At least stones had the decency to listen.  

His gaze snagged on the newspaper clipping taped inside her locker door—the baby dolphin born in California just before she’d moved. He reached for it with the casual presumption that made her jaw tighten, and she half-expected the paper to crumble at his touch like something cursed. It didn’t.  

"Hey, if dolphins have such big brains," he said, voice carrying that particular tone boys used when they thought they were being clever, "why haven't they built houses and cars and stuff?"  

She forced her math textbook between two others with unnecessary violence, then delivered what she was certain ranked among the most cutting comments she'd ever uttered. The words tasted strange in her mouth. Bitter fruit picked too early by the wrong hands, acerbic without time to ripen into proper sweetness.  

"Well. Brain size doesn't exactly correlate with intelligence." She reached for her Spanish books, not bothering to grant him eye contact. "Sometimes the ones with the biggest heads are the bravest. Guess ‘cause there's not much rattling around in there to scare them."  

He laughed—at her, not with her. The insult had sailed clear over that enlarged skull, swollen with precisely the kind of hollow confidence she'd just skewered. They were polar opposites, she realized, like matter and antimatter occupying the same hallway.  

“Listen,” Reese said finally, tucking her Spanish books under her arm, “I don’t mean to be rude, but is there something I can help you with? I really ought to get to class.”  

Andy leaned against the adjacent locker with studied nonchalance, arms crossed in a pose he'd probably practiced in bathroom mirrors. A lazy smile coated his next words like cheap paint over rust.  

 “Eager, huh?”  

Her lips compressed involuntarily, the sharp corner of her notebook biting into her ribs through her sweater.  

"Not particularly." Her tone remained level, like answering a test question she knew she'd aced.  

He produced a sound meant to pass for laughter, then drummed his fingers against the cool metal beside her locker in an uneven rhythm that set her teeth on edge.  

"So what do you do for fun?"  

The question was broad enough to drive Hannibal’s war elephants through, but his delivery carried the weight of someone collecting intelligence for his own amusement rather than genuine curiosity about her inner life.  

She shut her locker with deliberate finality and spun the combination without looking at him.  

"Taxonomic classification." Short, flat, and self-aware enough to know he wouldn't appreciate the humor.  

She knew he didn’t care—that wasn’t the point of his question.  

"Maybe I should take you out sometime," he said, grinning like he'd just invented romance itself, "so you can show me."  

The words landed with the weight of rehearsed dialogue, completely untethered from anything she'd actually said. It wasn't sleazy enough to warrant a scene, but it felt wrong—the sort of proposition that left no space for her to imagine him offering anything meaningful in return.  

For a moment, she simply stood there, books pressed against her chest like a shield, surprised not that he'd asked but that he'd chosen today for this particular theater.  

For half a heartbeat, she almost felt guilty about what she was going to do. Not because she harbored any affection for Andy Clayton, but because refusing anyone always carried a small cruelty, like stepping on flowers that had struggled up through sidewalk cracks.  

Something in her cooled, the earlier sharpness softening into something quieter, more private. She wasn't ashamed of what she was about to reveal. If anything, there was a spark of excitement in finally saying it aloud. Still, she could feel the moment shifting, a small personal truth about to become public property.  

She looked at him then, steady and unblinking, the kind of gaze that held ground without cutting. Her fingers smoothed an invisible wrinkle along her notebook's edge, a small gesture of grace to steady herself for what came next.  

“That’s quite alright, thank you. I have a boyfriend.”  

The words fell plain as rain, without ceremony or apology—a simple truth dressed in the soft fabric of good manners.  

Andy blinked at her like he was waiting for the laugh track to kick in. "C'mon," he said, that half-smirk still hanging on like a party guest who couldn't take a hint. "You're kidding."  

Reese didn’t answer, just held his gaze.  

“What? Who? ” He seemed to thumb through his own mental Rolodex, scanning for any guy he’d ever seen near her. Then she saw it land.  

Munson. Eddie Munson. That freak who’d told him point-blank she was “unavailable.” The satanic panic poster boy who was always there to step between them like some unwelcome guard dog, always lurking at her locker, leaning close like he had earned the right to be there.  

Reese almost pitied him—how had he missed all the signs? Though she doubted Andy Clayton possessed sufficient self-awareness to experience genuine embarrassment.  

She could practically see the calculations spinning behind his eyes: if she'd been dating some golden-boy athlete or clean-cut church kid, someone like Andy , he'd have been disappointed but understanding. Game recognized game. But Eddie? That wasn't competition—that was incomprehensible. That was wrong on some fundamental level that his worldview couldn't process.  

A dry scoff punctuated the pause. “Whatever. Guess ‘Beauty and the Freak’ wasn’t far off.”  

He turned and melted back into the hallway crowd, leaving his words hanging in the air like cigarette smoke—meant to linger, meant to sting.  

Reese rolled her eyes, externally this time, and strode toward Spanish class with steps sharp enough to strike sparks from the linoleum.  

Reese slipped into the Spanish classroom as the late bell's final note died in the air, sliding into her seat with the fluid grace of someone who'd perfected this particular dance of near-tardiness. Her books settled onto the desk with barely a whisper.  

Robin, already contained in the desk beside her, leaned in.  

“Whoa. Cutting it close to the bell? Did you get caught up in… hell?”  

Something like that, Reese thought, but what emerged as she replayed the rhyme in her head was, “That sounds like a Metallica song.”   

The observation surprised her. Maybe she was spending too much time with Eddie if heavy metal references were becoming her default mode. The thought amused rather than alarmed her.  

Robin's grin sharpened into something feral. "So were you late because you were making out with your metalhead, or—?"  

Reese turned toward her, mouth betraying the hint of a reluctant smile,   

"No. Shut up."  

Robin nodded with smug satisfaction, clearly filing this non-denial away for future interrogation, but mercifully didn't press. For the first time all day, the weight in Reese's chest loosened, replaced by something lighter. The simple medicine of laughing with a friend who knew exactly how to needle you with affection.  

From the front of the classroom, Señora Ferrell began speaking about what the “plan de hoy” was. The back of the class, likewise, launched into their own curriculum of events which had already transpired.  

“So. Why were you late? Like, actually?” Robin's voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur.  

“I—someone... asked me out?” The words emerged like she was reading from a script being written in real time, each syllable uncertain of its own existence.  

Robin's eyes widened by degrees, as if the correct answer might materialize if she stared hard enough at Reese's face.  

“Who? Don’t tell me—”  

"Was it Eddie? " Dustin twisted backward in his chair with the casual presumption of someone who believed all conversations naturally included him.  

"Eddie's already her boyfriend, genius," Robin replied with the flat delivery of someone explaining basic physics to a houseplant.  

"Doesn't mean he can't ask her out! If Suzie were here, I'd ask her out every single day." His Thinking Cap bobbed with the fervent conviction of a fourteen-year-old who'd just discovered the secret to romance was as simple as quantity.  

Reese narrowed her eyes but couldn’t quite think of a response to him. Like forming an answer would be worth more than its weight in effort.   

"Speaking of which," Dustin continued with the authority of someone who'd appointed himself her social secretary, "when's your next date with Eddie?"  

Reese’s lips quirked in a quiet, unsure smile, one that felt half-caught between amusement and wanting to sink into her chair. It was soft, but edged with disbelief, as if she were humoring him more than answering.  

“Um. Later.”   

Eddie had only mentioned something about making their next outing "crusade-adjacent," whatever that meant in his particular vernacular. She hadn't pressed for details—Half the fun was in wondering what he had up his sleeve.  

"Wait, hold on—" Robin interjected, her voice carrying the sharp edge of dawning horror. “Was it Andy? Please, God, tell me it wasn’t that creep.”  

Reese’s answer was in her silence.  

“NO!” Robin said, her volume control going por la ventana.   

“ Chicos... por favor, silencio,” Señora Ferrell called from the front, her voice carrying that particular teacher weariness of someone who'd given up hope of actual attention.  

"Uh," Robin offered with sheepish contrition, "lo siento."  

A momentary peace settled over their corner of the room. Dustin maintained his pretzeled position—torso facing backward toward the girls while his head swiveled forward in a poor approximation of paying attention, like some confused owl caught between two interesting sounds.  

When Señora Ferrell resumed her lecture, Robin leaned in again, her whisper barely audible above the scratch of pencils on paper.  

"But seriously, Reese—you're telling me Andy Clayton actually worked up the nerve? The guy who dresses like the Hawkins athletic department sponsors his whole life?"  

Reese continued taking notes with deliberate concentration, offering only the slightest nod, the kind that suggested admitting the truth caused physical pain.  

Dustin's radar detected the renewed conversation, and he swiveled back toward them. "Wait. Andy, as in Jason's sidekick Andy? Mr. 'My Dad Owns a Dealership' Andy?"  

"No," Robin deadpanned, already wearing the expression of someone sitting on comedic gold. "Andy Warhol."  

She delivered the line like she'd been polishing it all period, then promptly returned to her notes with the satisfied air of someone who'd just won the entire exchange.  

Dustin’s lips curled in a thin, mocking sort of smile to her supposed wit, laced with just enough sarcasm to make it clear he wasn’t impressed.  

Despite everything, Reese felt a genuine grin break across her face. The absurdity was too perfect not to appreciate, at least internally. Sometimes God provided His own comedy.   

“Chicos... ¿Tengo que separarlos ? No hablen más.” Señora Ferrell's voice carried the warning tone of someone whose patience was hanging by increasingly thin threads.   

"No," Reese and Robin chorused with suspicious synchronization.  

"Lo siento," Reese added for good measure.  

Señora Ferrell offered them a skeptical smile, lips pursed in that universal teacher expression that said 'I don't believe you for a second, but I'm choosing my battles'—before turning back to the board.  

"I'll fill you in later," Reese whispered.  

“Can I come?” Dustin’s voice delivered like a stage whisper—loud enough to carry three rows.  

“No,” both girls replied once again in perfect harmony, their timing so precise it might have been rehearsed.  

Reese leaned over her notebook, scrawling a quick line without lifting her eyes from the board, then slid the paper sideways toward Robin.  

Free tonight?   

The notebook returned within moments.  

Sorta. Family Video. Steve will be there — ok?   

Reese tapped her pencil once, considering it, then scrawled underneath.  

Yeah, have Hellfire anyway. Sleepover @ my place after?   

Another slide.  

Yes! Should I bring movie?   

Instead of writing, Reese offered a small, deliberate nod and mouthed "your choice"  before glancing back toward the board, where Señora Ferrell was conjugating verbs with the zeal of someone unveiling the Dead Sea Scrolls. Reese, meanwhile, filed it under the same category as balancing a checkbook—necessary, but not exactly the stuff of tea-stained novels or constellation maps.  

She didn't bother erasing their conversation, simply flipped to a fresh page and picked up the thread of the lecture, letting the familiar rhythm of note-taking settle her thoughts like prayer.  

By the time the school day was limping toward its conclusion and the final period loomed like a promise of freedom, Reese’s weary steps carried her toward the History classroom. Her mind had shifted gears—no longer churning with morning’s strange weight but humming with that particular Friday anticipation of games and sleepovers that made even tired feet feel lighter. 

It was one of those moments when the prospect of evening plans painted everything in softer colors, bringing warmth to her cheeks and a secret smile to her lips that she couldn’t quite suppress. 

She found herself wondering what Hellfire might look like tonight with Eddie running on whatever thin reserves of energy he’d managed to scrape together, or maybe if he’d found his fountain-of-caffeinated-youth in a vending machine. 

Then, as if her thoughts had conjured him from the ether, a familiar mop of taupe curls slid into her peripheral vision—Eddie bent nearly double at the waist, creeping into her line of sight like some cartoon spy attempting stealth in broad daylight.  

The hallway wasn’t nearly wide enough to accommodate his theatrical skulking, but that didn’t stop him from grinning up at her as if they’d just stumbled into each other during some clandestine back-alley rendezvous. 

Before she could offer a proper greeting, he straightened and extended a closed fist into her path like he was about to perform street magic. 

“What is that?” she asked, shifting her books against her hip. 

“Guess.” 

His grin was there, sure — but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something tucked back behind them, a shadow that ducked away the second she looked too close. 

Her brows knitted together in mock concentration. “A ring?” 

“Gee, moving a little fast, doncha think?” The joke came easily, but the way his thumb worried the edge of his palm made it feel more like filler than mischief. 

“No—not like.” She sighed with theatrical defeat, knowing he was savoring every second of her confusion. “One of your rings.” 

“Nope.” 

“A… piece of trash?” 

“Wow.” His tone carried mock devastation, though the smirk never wavered. “That really all you think of me?” It was light, almost playful — but somewhere in the back of it lived the need to make her laugh, to prove she still thought well of him. 

She sighed and opened her palm, allowing him to drop his mystery offering into her waiting hand. It was lighter than expected—tiny, square, white with modest blue lettering that simply read: 

SUGAR  

Her mouth curved upward involuntarily as a flood of memories crashed over her like warm water. 

“Y’know, the proper term for these is sugar sachets.” She informed. “I always guessed the etymology came from saccharum—Latin for sugar. But it’s actually derived from saccus, which is bag.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, that familiar academic excitement taking over. 

Eddie’s lower lip disappeared beneath his teeth for a heartbeat. If she’d noticed, she might’ve read it as focus — but really, it was relief. A reminder to himself: See? You can still be the guy who listens, who humors her, who doesn’t mess it up. 

“Wait, did you just give me a Latin lesson from a sugar packet?” He shook his head with mock solemnity. “The school system’s been doing it wrong this whole time.” 

“You’re welcome,” she said, tucking the tiny packet into her pencil pouch as if it were something precious worth preserving. 

They fell into step together, the rhythm of their shoes creating a lazy percussion against the polished tiles. The comfortable synchronization lasted exactly half a hallway before Eddie broke the silence. 

“So… ya busy before Hellfire tonight? Maybe we could, like, grab some food or—” 

“Oh. Actually, yeah—Robin’s coming over. Sleepover. Mama wants me to clean my room first.” 

There was no reason for it to sting, but it did. He masked it quickly, mouth pulling down just a fraction before he lifted it into something more neutral. “Oh. Cool.” 

“Sorry—” 

He flicked a hand like he was brushing off the word. “Nah, don’t… don’t be sorry. It’s cool.” 

He waved the word away like smoke, keeping his eyes fixed on the lockers as if they were a safer conversation partner. “Don’t apologize. That’s awesome. You need the girl time.” 

“I could call you later?” she tried again. 

“Nah, focus on Robin.” His hands found his pockets, shoulders pulling slightly inward. “She’s probably been looking forward to it.” 

She nodded, then brightened. “What about tomorrow?” 

Eddie hesitated long enough for her to glance over. For a second, something unguarded flickered there—the kind of look that came from somewhere deeper than tiredness—before he smoothed it over. 

“I have detention on Saturday,” he said finally, voice carrying just enough dejection to make her heart squeeze. 

Her head tilted sympathetically. “Oh.” 

He let the moment stretch until her brows began to pinch with concern, then broke character with a grin he knew she’d believe. 

“I’m kidding, Reese.” 

“Eddie.” The relief in her exhale transformed into a laugh—until reality crashed back. “Wait, shoot. I’m babysitting tomorrow.” 

Now it was his turn to deflate. “Oh.” 

His mouth twisted into something that might charitably be called a smile before he rallied. “All day, or…?” 

She calculated quickly. “No, just until three.” 

He nodded, and she watched a genuine smile fight its way to the surface like sunlight through clouds. “Cool.” 

“Yeah. Cool,” she echoed, her gaze drifting toward the classroom doorway where Robin sat pretending not to eavesdrop on their conversation. 

“Okay. Well. Bye, then.” She said gauchely, unsure of what else the moment asked of her. 

She half-turned toward the doorway, but Eddie’s voice followed her. 

“Whoa, whoa. Forgettin’ somethin’?” 

Reese pivoted back, confusion creasing her forehead—until she saw her pencil pouch dangling from his fingers like a magician’s reveal. She hadn’t even felt him take it. 

She sighed with feigned annoyance and stepped forward to reclaim her property. Eddie stepped back just far enough to draw her away from the doorway traffic, then—with that lazy grin she was learning to both love and fear—held the pouch above her head like some schoolyard bully. 

She didn’t reach for it. Instead, she fixed him with her most serious expression. “Don’t make me tickle you,” she warned, voice flat as a prairie. 

“Ooh, terrifying.” His mock-shiver was worthy of community theater, but he handed over the pouch before she could make good on her threat. 

She almost left it there, almost turned and walked into class like a sensible person, but something in the way the afternoon light caught in his eyes made her bold. Quick as lightning, she leaned in and pressed a soft peck against the edge of his jaw, right where stubble met smooth skin. 

If guilt was still lurking under there, he buried it deep in the theater of his reaction.  

“Halverson.” A sharp, theatrical gasp, eyes wide as if she’d just committed some scandal in full view of the student body. 

Her face was already burning, and his teasing only stoked the fire higher. “You liked it,” she mumbled, unable to meet his gaze for more than a second. 

Before he could fire back, and before whatever else he might be holding back had the chance to slip through, she ducked into the classroom where Robin’s knowing grin was already waiting like a cat with canary feathers in its whiskers. 

The bell’s shrill cry followed her to her seat, but it couldn’t quite drown out the wild flutter in her chest—or the way Eddie, behind her, let the sugar packet sit heavy in his pocket like it meant more than he’d admit. 

Chapter Text

The campaign table was already in place when Reese stepped into the drama room, dead center, like it had heard the director yell "places" and sprinted to hit its mark.  

Eddie had been staring at it for minutes. Hunched forward, elbows bracketing the scarred wood, pretending to check the D&D modules scattered in front of him. They looked more like tarot cards now, each one offering a future he wasn't sure he wanted to read. His thumb worried the edge of a d20, the plastic warm from his skin, the numbers whispering in a language he didn't feel like translating. 

Then she was there. 

"Need any help?" 

Soft voice. Fell right between them and stayed there. 

He didn't look up. Couldn't. "Nah. Almost ready," he said, and even he could hear how flat it landed. 

Still, she came closer. Her boots squeaked against the floorboards, a rhythm that made him too aware of his own breathing. She straightened the messy character sheets, aligned the chairs like she was setting a table for company. Just Reese being Reese, but the care in it made the back of his throat ache. 

She slid into the chair beside him instead of across. Close enough that he caught a whiff of her shampoo over the dusty-drama-room air. Close enough that if he moved his right wrist an inch, his bracelet would scrape the table in her direction. 

So he did. 

Her hand met the top of his—careful, like she thought he might spook. Light touch, but enough to bring back something she'd told him once in that way she had of noticing things most people never would. 

She'd said the hair on the back of his hand was different than anyone else's she'd held—by that she meant people like Robin. Eamon. Her mom. 

His was darker, thicker. Proof (in her words) that he was "biologically unakin" to her. Which, in plain English, was just her way of realizing: he's a guy, she's a girl. Mind-blowing stuff. 

At the time, he'd thought it was a little kooky. Sweet, but kooky. 

Now, as her palm rested there, he caught himself noticing it too: the faint brush of his hairy hand against her smooth palm, the way it nailed him to the fact that she was really here. Different. Touching him like something worth keeping intact. 

Umber met pearl-gray, and for the blink of an eye, he thought she might see straight through the muddy mess behind his eyes. The part of him that sold to guys who'd laugh if they knew who he was sitting next to. The guilt swelled until it felt like he'd swallowed a fist. 

He opened his mouth. The words were right there, balancing on the edge of a cliff. 

The door groaned open. Voices crashed in. 

And just like that, the moment was gone. 

"Oh. Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds," Dustin called, too loud and too pleased with himself. "Didn't mean to crash your make-out sesh." 

A couple of the others snickered. Kevin muttered something about "getting a room." 

Reese’s hand left his almost instantly, folding back into her lap like it had never been there at all. She scooted her chair just far enough away that the edge of her knee no longer brushed his. 

The moment shattered like a guitar string snapping mid-solo. 

He told himself she didn’t like having an audience. Hell, who would?  

Still, something about the way she went back to smoothing the corner of that folder stuck in his head. Like she needed something else to do with her hands. 

By the time he looked down, his own hand felt colder where hers had been. He flipped through the nearest module, pretending to look for a page. 

"Yeah, yeah. Take a seat," he said, voice lighter than he felt. 

The others moved around him, still laughing. He tried to let it go, but the quiet thought had already started working its way in. 

Don't overthink it. She's here, isn't she?  

"'Kay," he said, voice louder than it needed to be. "Let's roll." 

The dice hit the table, plastic on wood. He launched into the setup, but the words didn't have their usual snap. The dungeon corridors came out "narrow" instead of "cramped and treacherous." The goblin guards were "posted" instead of "lurking." It was fine, serviceable, just not the full show. 

He caught Reese's eyes on him once or twice, her pencil still, notebook open. She didn't look suspicious, just… studying him. Probably figured he was tired. 

And here he was. The guy who'd been bounced from principals' offices more times than classrooms. Who'd run from and sweet-talked his way out of trouble with cops and then gone right back to making trouble. Who sold to people who thought "Munson" was a warning label, not a last name. Who could clear a PTA meeting just by walking in the door? 

Safe wasn't supposed to be part of his deal—not the persona, not the product. 

He cleared his throat and forced himself back into the game. Threw in a one-liner about the rogue tripping over his own feet, and got a couple of laughs. But it felt like running on fumes, the performance still there, just thinner around the edges. 

No one said anything. Not yet. But he knew the people who mattered noticed. 

The noise of Hellfire spilled into the hallway, Gareth's voice rising over Kevin's as they argued about initiative order. Reese was already halfway to the door, keys in hand. 

Normally, they lingered, took too long to clean up, and found some stupid reason to stall until the parking lot was empty. Tonight felt different. Too quick. Too clean. 

He caught up. "Headed out?" 

"Yeah. Gotta pick up Robin from work." She smiled, but it was the polite kind you gave cashiers, not the one that hit him in the chest. 

"Right. Sacred rite of the sleepover," he said, falling into step beside her. 

She chuckled as she unlocked the Firebird with a click. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to keep his voice light, reaching, grasping for anything casual. Anything normal. 

"So… what do you even do at one of those? Never been on the guest list before." 

Her brows ticked up, amused. "Well. She's bringing a movie. So we'll probably watch that. And stay up too late talking." 

"Talking? 'Bout what?" He smirked, trying for casual. "Cat sweaters and world domination? Which Tolkien character's got the best hair? The gender-skew of Smurf Village?" 

She laughed, genuinely, shaking her head. "No." Her smile revealed her braces, little armored soldiers standing at attention. "School. Parents. Boys." She paused, only for a heartbeat, before adding, 

"You." 

She said it like it was a good thing. 

He wanted to take it that way. God, he did. But in the space between heartbeats, he saw it warped: her sitting cross-legged on her bed one day, voice low and tight, telling Robin what a liar he was. Tears on her pink cheeks as she cried that she should’ve known better. 

Before the picture could sharpen, he pulled her in, the only thing that ever cut through the noise in his head. Arms around her, the stubble on his cheek catching in her hair, and for a second, it worked. For a second, he could almost believe it was that simple. 

But it wasn’t. 

This hug had weight. Not a goodbye, not to her, but close enough for him to feel the edge of it. Like holding on to the last bright day of summer before storm season. 

She fit against him too easily. Rose and honey in his nose, the silk of her hair against his jaw, the purple knit of her sweater soft under his palms. 

He felt her melt against him, head dipping, rubbing her face against his shirt like some kind of cat. One of those weird little things she did that he'd never tell her he adored. 

Then she went still, a tiny shift, breath catching somewhere in her chest. 

And then she said it. 

And it damn near made him puke. 

"I love you, Eddie."  

It was barely a whisper, words that vibrated against his chest, traveling to meet his ear like they were afraid to be real. Like she read him to bits and saw he was hurting. Or hiding. And needed him to know he wasn't alone. That was what killed him. 

His chest seized, sharp and sudden, like a power chord hitting wrong. Stomach bottomed out, pulse spiked, and his brain bellowed say it back, say it back—but his mouth wouldn't move. Not because he didn't. God, not that. Never that. He'd loved her longer than he had any right to. 

Since she rolled that nineteen at Hellfire for the first time and grinned at him like she'd just pulled Excalibur from the stone. 

Since the day she talked about locust pupa.

Since the night she said space farts and laughed like a kindergartner and didn't care how stupid it was. 

Since she looked him dead in the eye and said he wasn't a freak, like it was a fact she'd known forever. 

Since… too many little things to count. All his. 

But he couldn’t say it. Not when it’d feel like shoving a lit cigarette in his pocket, the truth scorching straight through denim, skin, and bone. 

So he just held her tighter. Probably too tight. Maybe desperate. Like if he could just hang on hard enough, she’d know what he meant.  

That he loved her more than his own fucking life. 

But because he loved her, he couldn’t hand her those words yet. Not without the rest. He told himself it was protection. If he said it now, she'd be in too deep, and when she found out who he really was, it’d break her. 

Better she thought he was an asshole than blame herself for trusting him. 

If she noticed he didn’t say it, she didn’t let on. 

And if he could’ve stayed there forever, he would’ve. 

The world outside was November-dark. 

She was on a mission. Get to Robin, just get to Robin, just get to Robin. The thought looped in her head like a prayer, but her hands told a different story—white-knuckled on the wheel, grip so tight it ached. Her breath never seemed to make it all the way down—like blowing up a balloon through a coffee stirrer. Something else was gripping her throat just as firmly as she gripped the steering wheel, the vinyl ridges pressing little mountain ranges into her palms. 

And over all of it, her words replayed. 

I love you, Eddie.  

How he'd held her tighter then—so tight the blood had rushed to her head like applause, and the air squeezed out of her. She'd felt the guitar pick on his necklace pressing a tiny crescent dent into her collarbone, had noticed how he smelled a lot more like cigarettes that day, and something indefinably him—maybe the soap his uncle bought, or his aftershave that he'd used not because he'd shaved, but in a futile attempt to distract from the tobacco. 

But he hadn’t said it back. 

The urge to scream rose sharp in her chest—not at him, never at him. Just at the world. At herself. 

The tears started slowly, then came the way waterfalls do when the dam gives way. Crying wasn't foreign to her; she'd always been tender-hearted. But she hadn't cried in a while. She'd had no reason. 

She’d been on top of the world. She and Eddie had felt like an unstoppable force, someone she saw stitched into her future. 

But could she really say that? How much did she truly know about him? 

She knew he lived in a trailer park with his uncle and had a father he didn't talk about.

That he had a D+ in algebra—slowly creeping to a C because she'd made it her mission.

That he hadn't gotten detention since they'd started going out. That his brown eyes could be so gentle, they unraveled every rumor about him—like chocolate softening in the sun. And in that same light, when he turned toward it, tiny ochre specks appeared, just a hue brighter than the rest of the deep brown, glinting like the glitter in her kaleidoscope.

That his hands were so different from hers—bigger, with calluses from guitar strings like tiny pebbles under them. How at first, they hurt a little when he touched her face. How when he didn’t shave, his stubble made his kisses feel a little like a cat's tongue. But now, she’d grown used to it.  Loved the roughness of his hands, face, and life even more for the fact that they tickled a little when they brushed up against her softness.  

That he could make her laugh harder than anyone alive, until she made sounds she didn't even recognize as her own. That he never looked at her like she was strange, or wrong, or some odd little frequency no one else could quite tune into. With him, she didn't have to buffer or soften herself just to match the signal.

That he could take her breath away without even trying—through a joke, through the way he cupped her cheek, through those long, steady looks that made her bashful. And now… through the ache in her chest. 

Was this love? The thing all the songs and stories swore was the grandest thing in the world? Not the perfect, all-consuming love of God. This was different. Romantic. Imperfect. 

She wanted to believe this was just a bad day for him. That he was tired. Overwhelmed. That it wasn’t about her. 

But what if it was? What if he realized she wasn't what he wanted? Or worse—that he thought she belonged with someone more polished. 

Maybe that's why she'd said it. Because she'd felt something slipping, and wanted to throw out a rope before he was too far gone. Why she hadn't yet told him about what Andy said today. 

But golly, it was humiliating, too. To bear her whole heart and have him kindly, wordlessly, turn away from it. 

Her breath hitched. She began to pray, the way she always did when nothing else could steady her. 

God, what is happening? Is this You? Are You trying to take him away? What's going on with him? Is it me? What do I do, Lord? I don't want to lose him. I feel like I'm losing my mind, and I don't know where the pieces are.  

She blinked, and she was in the parking lot—the lost time like stepping through a doorway and forgetting which room you'd come from. Family Video's sign glowed weakly in the dark, the green and red letters buzzing like sleepy Christmas bees, barely legible from here.  

“…and then what? He just—what?—hugged you?” 

Reese tucked her foot tighter under her knee. “Yeah. Really tight,” she said. “But…” She trailed off. 

“But he didn’t say it back.” Robin’s voice softened. 

Reese stared at the popcorn bowl between them, counting the unpopped kernels without meaning to—thirteen little wooden tears scattered among the fluffy white clouds.  

“Yeah.” 

"D’you think he does? I mean, not to totally erase the whole unrequited love narrative you're spinning, but is it possible he's just… I don't know… freaked out? Afraid to say it? I mean, he's not exactly Mister Loves-&-Cuddles. He's probably never said it to, like… anyone.” 

“I…” Reese looked at Robin’s face, the anticipation on her brow. “I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“No, no. Not ‘I don’t know.’” Robin leaned forward, jabbing the air. “You know him, Reese. Better than anyone else here. I’m not asking for some polite shrug, I’m asking you—does he love you?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before.” 

“Yeah, but—okay—does he treat you like he does?” 

The question landed square in her chest. “Yes.” 

“Then that’s your answer, right?” 

“No, that’s—if he felt it, he’d say it. If you loved somebody and they told you first, you’d say it back. Wouldn’t you?” 

Robin hesitated. Tilted her head. “I don’t think that’s everybody’s motto, Reese. I mean… I don’t know Eddie like you do. But he’s not… Jason Carver.” 

Reese knew what she meant. Not Jason the person—Jason the concept. 

“He’s probably just not used to… I don’t know… being around someone like you. Like, someone loving him like you do.” 

“What, you mean like ‘the human embodiment of oops’? ” Reese said, not looking at her friend. 

“Hey.” Robin’s voice went sharper than usual. “I meant like… someone who always sees the good. Someone so good you’d think darkness wouldn’t even get near. But it does. People do. People don’t feel safe around you, Reese—” 

“Thanks.” 

“Shut up. Stop interrupting.” Robin waved her off. “I mean, they don’t feel safe to stay the same. You make people wanna be better. Try harder. And for a guy like Eddie—excuse my bluntness—who’s been living the same unchanging, kind of pathetic, rinse-repeat cycle for three years… and then suddenly you show up. And you’re you. All sunshine and kittens and scripture—” she winced, “—which, I know, sounds like a Lisa Frank sticker, but whatever—it’s true—and his brain is probably going, like, ‘aaah.’ And honestly? So is mine.” She gasped for air, barely stopping. 

"And I think he's just… scared. Scared that saying the thing out loud will make it too real, and when things get real, secrets get out, and when secrets get out, you have to change, and—" she flopped a hand, "—that's why people write in code. Or… you know. Don't write at all. Same difference." 

Reese couldn't speak at first. Gosh, she could hug Robin to death right now. She loved her honesty. It felt like everyone else always sugar-coated things, pretended the situation was better than it was. But not Robin. Robin said it exactly how it was. Wasn't afraid to step on toes. 

But then, something about her words snagged in Reese’s mind. 

“Wait,” she said slowly, “secrets… You mean like people finding out we’re dating? That doesn’t sound like something he’d care about.” 

Robin’s eyes flickered, the way someone’s do when they’re weighing how much to say. “Not… exactly.” 

Reese frowned. “Then what?” 

Robin exhaled through her nose, leaning back into the pillows on the mattress. “I can’t tell you. It’s not mine to tell.” 

“That makes it sound worse.” 

"It's not—" Robin stopped, pressing her lips together. "It's just… Eddie's been Eddie for a long time. And you've been you. You live in different worlds, Reese. Sometimes those worlds bump into each other, and it's not a big deal. But sometimes… they collide. And I think he's scared of that." 

Reese stayed still, her knees still tucked tight under the blanket. “What, like—he’s smoked marijuana? I’m not stupid, Robin. I know he’s not exactly a ‘clean slate.’” 

Robin softened. “I mean... sort of. I just—I don’t think he’s bad. He’s not dangerous. I just think there’s… history. Stuff you should hear from him. So ask him. When you’re ready, ask him.” 

Reese nodded, oddly a little more at peace. 

Not bad. Just history. Who didn’t have history? Everyone made mistakes. What? So maybe he smoked dope a couple times. Failed school. A couple times, too. Maybe got in fights. It’s not exactly who her dad would pick out for her, but all fall short. If Jesus would forgive him, she would too.  

Reese leaned across her bed, arms wrapping around Robin's shoulders. The position was a little awkward—more cling than hug, like trying to hug someone through a fence—but it felt necessary nonetheless. Robin's shoulder blades were sharp little bird wings, just like a robin, under her oversized sweater, and the tips of her short hair tickled Reese's ear in a way that made her want to both pull away and never let go. 

“Thank you, Robin,” she said into hair that smelled faintly of Herbal Essence. 

Robin startled, then let out a tiny, nervous laugh. “Anytime, comrade,” she said, holding on a second longer than either of them admitted. “We endure.” 

Reese exhaled, some slight tranquil feeling blooming into the room. “Aren’t you sooo bummed you don’t have a boyfriend?” she teased. 

Robin huffed a laugh. “Oh, I am positively grieving it. I cannot think of a better way to spend my Friday night than boo-hooing over some guy who chews his nails down to the knuckle and does laundry once a month.” 

“Hey!” Reese yelped. “I told you that in sleep-deprived confidence!” 

“Exactly. That was all the proof I needed to swear off getting married.” 

Reese softened, just a little, the moment dampening at the edges. “Never?” 

“No. Never. Guys suck. Not just Hawkins guys.” 

“Really? What if you change your mind?” 

“Not gonna happen.”  

“What? ” Reese giggled,  “How do you even know that? What if you meet someone?” 

Robin leaned back against the pillows, parallel to Reese, eyes a little glassy but steadier now. 

“Yeah, okay, Mother Thereese,” Robin said, tossing it off like a Teresa joke. 

Reese flicked a popcorn kernel at her. “Oh, shut up. Contain yourself.” 

“I contain multitudes,” Robin deadpanned. “You contain holiness. Checks out.” 

The corner of Reese’s mouth tugged; the air in the room eased by a degree.  

But then Robin thought about it for a minute. What if she "met someone?" And then she thought about the truth. The real reason, the one only Steve knew. And she thought of Reese. The forgiveness policy she lived by, the kindness Robin never even saw in Disney movies. And then her eyes met the Jesus portrait that hung above the bed, watching them. The bed she'd be sleeping in tonight. Next to Reese. 

So she didn’t say it. But she landed on something else. 

“Reese.” 

Reese looked at her, expression inquisitive.  

“I’m not... gonna date a guy. Ever. I mean it.” 

She thought about saying that she didn’t like guys at all, but somewhere deep in her eyes, she saw it. Reese understood enough.  

“Okay,” Reese said, nodding. Maybe she got it, maybe she didn’t. Either way, she wasn’t weirded out. And that mattered. 

“Okay?” Robin echoed. 

“Yeah. That’s cool. I mean. The sentiment isn’t... shared.” A sheepish smile spread across her lips. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. You don’t wanna date anyone? That's okay.” 

For a second, Robin thought she might have gotten it after all. 

“I mean, it’s sort of... Biblical,” Reese added, smiling softly. “Paul even encourages people to stay single if they don’t ‘burn with passion.’” 

Oh. They weren’t on the same page. Not yet, anyway.  

Maybe never, quite exactly. But they were somewhere in the same book. And that was what mattered, that they were on the same plot line together. 

The garage was lit by one jaundiced bulb, the kind that hummed like it hated being alive. Oil smell, stale smoke, the faint metallic bite of guitar strings. Somebody'd left Space Invaders paused on the little TV in the corner, pixel aliens frozen mid-march. 

Eddie was on a beat-to-hell stool, cigarette drooping between his fingers, watching the ember burn down like it was a timer he wasn't gonna beat. Gareth sat on the unplugged amp, spinning a drumstick in his hand. Kevin was horizontal on the busted-up couch with a Dr. Pepper balanced on his stomach, and Jeff was massacring a bag of pretzels next to him. 

"Seriously," Gareth said without looking up. "What's eating you, man? You've been—" he pursed his lips, "—mopey. It's weird." 

Jeff snorted. “He’s probably in the doghouse. What’d you do, Munson, forget her birthday? Step on her stuffed animal?” 

“Shut up, ” Eddie snapped, sharper than he meant. The room tilted quieter. He took a drag, like maybe he could pull the words back in with the smoke. 

Gareth slowed his air drumming. “Did something... happen last night? During Halloween?” 

“No.” and he could hear how defensive it sounded as he watched the green galaxy of the paused TV. So almost immediately, he changed his answer,  

“Yeah...” His hand scraped over his jaw. “She doesn’t… know. About the dealing.” 

That killed the air. 

Kevin sat up. “Jesus, man.” 

Jeff grimaced. “Woof. If you’re not in the doghouse now, you’re gonna be.” 

Gareth just stared, thumb rubbing his drumstick. “You have to tell her.” 

“I know,” Eddie muttered, already defensive again. He snubbed the cigarette out in a crushed Coke can, lit another without looking at the guys. He didn’t usually chain-smoke. But since he always tried not to light up around Reese, it came back to bite him later. “Thanks for the after-school special.”

“I’m serious.” Gareth insisted.

“What, are you gonna tell her?” Eddie’s eyes flicked up—half dare, half fear. 

“No. Not my job.” Gareth’s tone was even, realizing what his next words cost him. But he knew it wasn’t any use to avoid throwing in the towel now. “She’s your girl. Just tell her. She’ll get it.” 

Eddie barked out a laugh with zero joy in it. “Yeah. That’s the problem.” 

Jeff frowned. “Explain how that’s a problem?” 

“Because she’ll twist herself into knots trying to,” Eddie said flatly. “That’s what she does. And that doesn’t exactly pass the ‘safe to date’ checklist. Not for a girl like her. Not her.” 

Gareth leaned back, but caught himself before he toppled off the amp, “Yeah, but, c’mon. It's not like... 1890 anymore. Chicks get to choose who they date. She can decide what’s safe.” 

“She can’t decide what she’s never seen,” Eddie shot back. Flicked ash and missed. The ember fell on his sneaker, and he didn’t bother brushing it off. 

“I think you’re selling her short,” Gareth said. “Yeah, she’s… sunshine and Bible verses. But she’s not stupid.” 

“And her dad'd snap you in half before you did any real damage,” Jeff added, smirking. 

Eddie didn’t rise to it. Just stared at the cigarette between his fingers. “Doesn’t mean she needs my mess all over her. Feels like I dump it on her when she’s next to me.” 

“Then clean it up,” Gareth said. “Or stop pretending it’s not there while you’re holding her hand.” 

Eddie’s jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The bulb buzzed. Outside, a dog barked once and quit. 

“Yeah,” he said finally. Not agreement—just acknowledgement. 

Jeff broke the quiet. “So what’s the plan?” 

Eddie sighed, searching. “Start with not lying.” Eddie’s voice was low. 

“Step two: flowers,” Jeff offered. 

“Reese isn’t your mom, man,” Eddie said, flicking ash. “This isn’t a ‘sorry honey’ bouquet situation.” 

“Still. Roses are classic.” 

“Yeah. How many girlfriends have you had?” 

Jeff flipped him off. Kevin laughed. Gareth went back to spinning his drumstick. 

The conversation splintered into nothing. Dumb jokes, arguments about Def Leppard albums. Eddie stayed quiet, the noise washing over him. 

He could quit. Just flush it, walk away, let her find out when it didn't matter anymore. Then he'd get to say, "Yeah, I used to, but then I met you." Play the reformed hero.   

But that was still a lie, and lies didn't wash clean, not even with her. 

Telling her would be the only thing that scraped the guilt off his ribs. If it made her walk? That’d be better than her staying because she didn’t know who she was holding onto. 

But finding the words was the easy part. Actually getting them out of his mouth was gonna be the real fight. 

The morning came in soft, pale light, sifting through the lace, laying quiet patterns over the Persian rug and the butterfly quilt. The house hadn’t decided to be loud yet; only the faint tick of the heat coming on, and from outside, the somber coo of mourning doves. Reese breathed in the cool, fabric-clean smell of her room and let her eyes adjust to the gray of dawn. 

Robin was a small country across the mattress, mouth slack, one arm flung over her head like she’d fainted in a play. Freckles constellated her cheeks and forehead, rust and terracotta stars you could trace with a fingertip if you were the kind of person who went around mapping things. A tiny crescent of drool darkened the pillowcase. It should have ruined the picture. It didn’t. It made it truer. 

Reese wanted, for half a second, to reach for the Kodak on her desk to catch the way the lace scattered light across Robin’s lashes, the way her hair made a little halo where it stuck up wrong. But the flash would wake her, and this was better as a painting you only kept in your head. 

The hard thoughts tried to edge in—the unsaid thing sitting in Eddie’s pocket; the pause Robin sometimes put between words when the subject turned to boys, like she had to hold her breath to cross a narrow bridge. Reese didn’t know the shape of these things, not exactly. Only that it mattered, that it was tender, like a bruise she didn’t want to poke. But she didn’t want them to feel like they had to tuck such things away. 

Reese knew about tucking. Years of turning the volume down on herself a click or two, rounding off the corners, translating feelings into a language that wouldn’t get her sent to the nurse for “being dramatic.” Too much, too soft, too Reese. It cost something, all that smoothing. 

But not here. 

Here, in the sea-glass morning, she didn’t have to translate. Around Robin. Around a handful of Hawkins people who made room—Eddie with his careful hands even when his eyes were stormy; Dustin with his bright baton of a voice; Robin with her gallop of words and the sudden, steady kindness under them. With them, the mask could slide off the hook for a while. 

Whatever happened with Eddie, though, Lord, she prayed they’d find their way; she had this. A bed sharing its warmth, a friend breathing steady in the same square of air, a room that knew her actual size. 

She didn’t say it out loud. The room didn’t need it said. 

But Robin was her best friend. 

Chapter Text

They were at the breakfast table when the phone rang. 

Eamon was busy interrogating Robin about her old job at Scoops. 

“Did you really get all the free ice cream you wanted?” He inquired skeptically. 

“Oodles, my granola-fiending friend.” She replied as she downed the milk on her spoon. “More USS Butterscotch and Mint Flare than your young mind could comprehend.” 

Eamon pulled a face, already offended by mint, when the trilling of the wall phone cut through the kitchen. It hung there like some mounted prize; sturdy, expectant. 

Reese pushed her chair back, but her mother was already crossing the linoleum. 

“Oh! Hi there, sweetheart.” She was practically singing the words. “A little early for a phone call, isn’t it?” But it was clear there was zero animosity toward the borderline wake-up call. 

Reese caught Robin staring at her, wide-eyed. The look they traded was the kind only teenage girls could translate. 

Sweetheart?
Is that—?
No way. At eight in the morning?
What does he want?
He’s not going to… not on the phone… right? 

“Reese,” her mother glanced over with a soft smile, “Eddie.” 

Reese shot Robin another look before getting up and padding to the phone. 

“Hello?” she asked, and immediately felt stupid. It wasn’t a normal ‘hello.’ It was a ‘who’s calling?’ hello. 

“Hey.” His voice was rough with relief. 

“Hey...” she echoed, more tentative than she meant to be. Which was odd, because she actually was relieved to hear him. The line hung quiet for a beat. She flicked her eyes back toward the table; Robin was watching like a hawk, hair still mussed from sleep. 

“Are you, uh—” 

“Eating breakfast?” 

He laughed, warm enough to almost erase the memory of last night’s tears. “I was gonna ask something else, but now I’m curious. What’s the spread?” 

“Granola. Same as always. Eamon insisted.” She glanced up at her brother, pursing her lips in annoyance. 

“Oh. Cool, cool.” 

“So—” they both began, then laughed under their breath. 

“You go,” Reese said. 

“Yeah. Well… I was calling to see if we’re still on. For today.” 

Right. Their plans. Plans made before she’d spewed out the truth like a milk-sick kitten. She didn’t regret it—it was true, after all—but she’d wished he’d said it back. Or said anything at all. But that point was moot now. 

“Oh—yeah. If you are.” 

“Oh yeah, big time. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” 

She could hear the smile in his voice, and it tugged something loose inside her, like he’d reached down her throat and pulled up a chunk of the weight she'd been trying to ignore.

As a kid, she’d always thought that a “pit in your stomach” wasn’t a hole at all, but rather the seed of a stone fruit. Hard, obtrusive, bound to sprout something unwanted when swallowed. This one had been there since last night. 

“Reese?” he asked. 

“Yeah—hi. Sorry. I was thinking about peach pits.” 

He sighed, but not the annoyed kind. She liked that about him; his sighs. She never had to guess what kind of sighs they were.  

“So… we’re okay, then?” 

Okay in general? Okay with him? With each other?  

“You mean about today?” Reese asked. 

“Well… yeah. Wait—that’s what we’re talking about, right?” His voice had the same uncertainty she felt. So Reese let it go. 

“Yeah. Sitting might run a little long, though. Maybe... Quarter till?” 

“That’s fine. Same address?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, cool.” 

“Cool.” 

Robin rolled her eyes at the repetition, which made Reese stifle a laugh. She sighed a little into the receiver, “I should... prob’ly go. Robin’s still here, and I oughta leave soon.” 

“Yeah, yeah, 'course. Have fun, okay, Mouse?” Whether he meant with Robin or with the three-year-old she’d be watching, she couldn’t tell. But the sentiment was still nice. 

“Okay, Eddie.” 

Robin leaned toward Reese, half muttering, quiet enough not to be caught on the other end. “Tell him I said to get over himself and talk.”  

Reese contorted her brows—are you crazy?—and into the receiver said in solitude, “Robin sends her best regards.” 

“Oh, I’m sure she does,” Eddie replied dryly. He wasn’t fooled; he knew Robin knew. 

It was strange, Reese thought as she set the receiver back. Strange and a little comforting. That there could be something so unspoken and yet understood. They hadn’t talked about it, but they both knew they would. And knowing that was as comforting as it was disarming.  

Two kinds of guilt had been chewing on Eddie Munson since the last time he saw Reese Halverson. 

The first was familiar—sort of. It was the same taste he got when he knew Wayne was about to find out something he didn’t want him to. Flunked again. Hauled into the station for possession. That knot in his gut when he’d already messed up and the clock was ticking before someone he cared about heard. Only… this was different. 

Truth was, nobody in Hawkins would be shocked to hear Eddie Munson had never had a girlfriend. If anything, they’d nod and say, figures. He wasn’t exactly varsity material. He’d mouthed off sometimes, peacocked like maybe he’d had more going on with girls than he did, but it was all bluff—cheap stage tricks to cover the silence.

But Reese? Reese was the kind of girl who probably assumed somebody had seen what she saw in him. Like it was obvious. Like it made sense. And that—Christ—that was the wild part. She didn’t know she was the first one to actually pick him.

And Reese made him want to clean up. He was already trying. Dumb little things, like watching his mouth around her or lighting fewer cigarettes. Only getting high when he knew he wouldn’t see her for a few days, which was becoming more and more scarce, naturally. The kind of fixes that felt like bawling when a fire started and trying to put it out with your tears.

And since things with her hadn’t gone completely south yet, he couldn’t shrug it off like, Eh, been here before, piece a cake. This was new territory. 

The second kind… he never thought he’d get in his lifetime. Not even with her. Not being able to say I love you. Not because he was some “emotionally intelligent” type, the kind those guidance counselor namby-pambies liked to talk about while they worked their eyebrows in judgment and said, "We're concerned about your future, Mr. Munson. But because he honestly never figured he’d choke on it with Reese. 

Girl like her? Sweet as all get-out. Smart. But without being a know-it-all. Gentle. So pretty it felt like getting sucker punched each time you looked at her, like sunlight sneaking into a dive bar. Warm like it too. All prim and proper, like she learned to talk from Archie comics and Audrey Hepburn movies. But she wasn’t a priss—nah, she had a sense of humor. And that was the part that killed him. 

Past Eddie, present Eddie, future Eddie—every version of him—would’ve bet the farm he’d be blurting it out first chance he got. Because she’d done the impossible: 

1. Looked at him. 
2. Talked to him. 
3. Gone out with him.
4. Said she loved him. 

And not in the kind of old-timey courtship routine where you play the gentleman, she plays the lady, and by next Sunday you’re shopping for rings. Reese meant it. Or at least he hoped to God she did. He still wasn’t convinced any of this was real, and maybe that’s why he’d even let himself think he had a choice about saying it back. 

But that was a lie. 

Truth was, he knew exactly why. 

He was a screw up. And she was a spring meadow. He was dirt—muddy boots, cigarette ash. She was fresh-washed linen flapping in the summer breeze. The kind of thing you were supposed to admire from a distance, joke with your buddies about approaching, then never actually do it. A guy like him ending up with Reese? Not just a girl like Reese, but Reese Reese? Yeah right. Only in his sappiest, most embarrassing daydreams. 

And yet… here they were. 

He’d been arrested more times than he’d been invited to church, and she’d still tucked herself against him, rested that pretty little face on his chest, and whispered, I love you, Eddie.  

And he hadn’t said it back. 

Because he was a liar. 

Because he was a coward. 

Because she still needed to know the truth. 

He rubbed a ringed hand over his freshly shaved jaw. That counted for something, right? He looked out at the pale clapboard house through the windshield. The late-afternoon gloom cast a damper murk on the concrete, making the whole world look a little grayer than it really was. It looked like it might try to rain. Yeah, that checked out.  

The longer he sat there, the louder the engine rattled in the quiet street. He was two seconds from sliding back into the same dumb loop when the front door twitched and the static in his skull cut out. 

There she was. Like the air had been saving a spot for her. His lungs remembered their job, but it was the kind of breath you take after staying under too long—sharp, too big, knocking you stupid. 

Green sweater. Not loud but not dark. It was sorta soft and washed-out green. Like Irish Spring after a hundred showers. She made the color look fancy. Long jean skirt. That lazy sway she never meant to have. Hair still gold even with the sky dimming it, like sunlight hiding behind a cloud. Simple. All of it simple. Still rocked him sideways. A four-leaf clover in a snowbank—shouldn’t even be there, and there it is. 

She talked to some lady a few years older—he barely clocked it until Reese leaned in for a hug and had to angle around the stomach. Right, pregnant. Like nine-months-plus-a-day pregnant. 

Reese handled people like they were made of glass and tissue paper, he thought. Even him, half the time. Bumped his elbow and apologized like she broke it clean through. And with this lady, she moved like she was setting a crown back in its box. Careful, precise, but the opposite of stiff. How’d she do both? Gentle like it’d shatter, loving like it could vanish the next moment. 

He didn’t get it. He liked it. 

Then this little blur blasted down the walk. Tiny, towheaded, maybe three, in a princess getup with a big brown stripe down the front like chocolate milk or mud. She latched onto the back of Reese’s legs. 

Reese looked down and smiled—God, that smile—and said something he couldn’t hear. The kid threw her sticky hands up: carry me. Reese scooped her like it was the most obvious request on Earth. Hip perch, easy as breathing. More soft talking. The kid grinned so hard her face might split. He knew the feeling; he got that way when Reese talked to him, too. 

Kids, he’d always… tolerated. Trailer-park demons throwing rocks at strays and pocketing anything you left in the yard too long. Not his favorite scene. (Especially not the dog part. That he’d shut down quick.) He didn’t hate kids. Just saw... noise, mess, running. 

But her, with that little kid? She lit up. Brows up, eyes bright, mouth wide—not the fake “aww” girls did for show. Real. Like these thirty seconds were the best bit of her Saturday. 

He didn’t realize he was grinning like an idiot until his cheeks ached. She started toward the curb. He leaned across the cab and popped the passenger door from the inside, already bracing like she might climb straight into his chest, and he’d let her. 

“Hey,” he said, almost laughing from the relief of just seeing her slide into the seat. 

“Hi.” She buckled in and gave him that small, careful smile. 

He thought about leaning over and kissing her—real quick, just to reset the world. Didn’t. Told himself it was ’cause she went shy in public, but that wasn’t it. Half the time, she was already halfway to shy anyway. Truth was, he wasn’t sure she’d let him. Didn’t feel like he’d earned it. 

She started fiddling with her hair—not flirty, more… looking for familiar. She pulled that little strand by her ear and smoothed it flat, then braided it slowly, like a camp bracelet you make when you don’t know what to do with your hands. 

“Hungry?” he asked. She didn’t ask where they were going. That trust always knocked him around a little. 

“Sure.” A small nod; her shoulders rocked with it. 

He eased the clutch and rolled out. She watched the window for a second, like she was checking that the mom and kid got back inside, then looked ahead. He felt her glance at him. Kept his eyes on the road—because she always said that, “eyes on the road,” whenever he tried to steal one. So fine. Eyes on the road when she was looking. The second she turned away, though, he stole the glance anyway. 

She was so pretty it put a pinch right under his ribs. He loved the picture of it—her over there, braiding that same piece of hair in his beat-up van. But she was quieter than usual, and not the Reese kind of quiet. Not the clean, ‘why talk if you don’t need to’ quiet. Usually, after time apart, she got chatty. Today… not so much. Head busy. He could tell. So he put out a branch and saw if she’d take it. 

“How was it?” Vague on purpose. Let her pick the door. 

She cut him a sidelong look. “What—the babysitting? Or Robin?” 

“Either. All of it.” 

She let out not-quite-a-sigh. “Fine. Good. She’s sweet. Spilled a whole glass of chocolate milk down the front, so I had to clean that up. And her.” The corner of her mouth hitched. “We mostly just played. Which means she shows me how to play, and I do it wrong and get corrected.” 

He smiled at the windshield. “And… How was hanging out with the baby?” 

That cracked a laugh out of her—light, quick—and he rode the relief like a wave. She didn’t roll her eyes or call him immature, but she’d laughed. He’d take the win. 

“Robin was good too. We mostly just… talked.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“’Bout…” 

“About… life. The things I mentioned.” 

“…Me?” 

She went still for a beat. He glanced over to see if she’d heard him and found her already studying his face, weighing something invisible. 

“Yeah,” she said finally. “That was the main subject.” 

He pulled into Blue Plate Diner. Plain front, good bacon, coffee like motor oil. Hawkins always had room for one more ’50s sign and a stack of pancakes. When a town won’t change, it eats. Pancakes count as progress.

It had started drizzling a little sometime on the drive there. Nothing too extreme, just enough to leave little droplets on the windshield.  He hopped out, swung around, and opened her door. She slid like she always did, legs straightening, a little half-fall to her feet. Smoothed the back of her skirt, nudged a pinecone with the toe of her boot while he locked up. 

They started through the parking lot. His hand found hers. No fanfare, just found it, and she let him keep it. Small victory. Enough to keep him held together. 

The bell over Blue Plate’s door gave a tired ding, and the place breathed burnt coffee and syrup. 

“Smells good. Like maple,” Reese commented, rain still beading soft in her hair. 

A plump waitress with a tight perm—Shelly, sixty if a day—met them at the host stand with a worn smile. 

“Hey, Shelly. How goes it?” Eddie said, easy. 

She gave him that look she saved for regular trouble. “You and Flower Child want a booth or a table?” 

“Booth, please, Sea-Shell, my dearest.” He flicked a glance at Reese—jokes like that felt a little different now, even harmless ones. She didn’t seem to mind; she was busy taking in the chrome and the pie case, giving a small nod to the old boys at the counter nursing refill number six. 

He clocked the back booth: a knot of cross-country string beans in school jackets. Better them than the basketball crowd. 

Shelly set them at a vinyl booth and came back with a pot. She tipped coffee toward both preset mugs until Reese, gentle as ever, cut in. 

“Um—could I actually have apple cider, please?” 

One of Shelly’s eyebrows climbed, then eased when she got the measure of the girl. “We don’t got cider, hon.” 

“Oh. Hot cocoa, then? Please.” 

“You got it.” She was already moving. 

When she returned to take orders, Eddie went bacon, hash browns, and  scrambled eggs. Reese asked for a waffle. Plates landed, steam drifted. He ate like it was any other afternoon, tried to anyway. She carved off neat, small bites and let most of them cool on the plate. She looked up then, and he knew it was the moment. His stomach dropped straight to his sneakers. 

“We should talk about yesterday.” She said as if she were suggesting going for a drive. 

As if it were a start whistle, he launched into an explanation.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know—listen, Reese, I can explain…” 

He stopped there, braced for the usual cut-in. People always cut in when he tried to explain. Reese didn’t. She just waited, quiet, patient in a way that made it harder. 

“Look—the reason I didn’t say it back, it’s not 'cause I don’t feel it. 'Cause I do, God, I do Reese, more than I know what to do with.” 

He watched her face soften, almost smile, and he wished he could stay in the moment.

“I just… there are things you don’t know. About me. I couldn’t say I loved you without you knowing who you were saying it to. I’ve done things. Bad things.” 

She finally spoke, “You mean like…” She glanced sideways, leaned in as if the booth were wiretapped. “Used marijuana?” 

He sighed. If the situation weren’t as serious as it was, he might’ve teased her for talking like a cop.

“Trying to quit. But that’s not all.”  He waited. She gave him nothing. Fair. 

“Look, there’s no easy way to do this other than to rip the band-aid off, I used to sell. Sort of still do. Basically don’t. Just gotta tie up loose ends.” 

Her brows knit. “What—you mean like... cigarettes? Or... fireworks?” 

“No, Reese.” He shook his head. “Drugs. Weed, mostly. And… some other stuff. But almost never. It’s pretty much entirely just weed.” 

Shelly came to ask if she could get anything else. Eddie shook his head quickly, trying to dismiss her as soon as possible. Reese looked half-gone already.  

“Reese? Reese—Where the hell are you going?”  

She didn’t remember getting up from her seat at the booth. Her hearing had gone all fuzzy like it did when she saw what happened to Muirgen. 

That late evening during the summer. That was how her ears felt. Plugged up. 

Muirgen didn’t scream when she went under. That was the thing about drowning. It was quiet. And her hearing had gone blurry. Blurry, like her vision was now in that diner. Her legs were numb underneath her; she was surprised her knees hadn’t buckled. 

Someone was still calling her name. Over and over again, it was getting rather annoying. They wouldn’t stop. So she pushed open the glass door, the bell sending a singular poignant ding.  

Drizzle stitched the air outside. She stepped off the curb into the empty parking space and let the rain prick her scalp, each drop a tiny cold pin. 

The door thumped behind; she didn’t need to turn. Eddie’s nearness had a weather to it—pressure changing, a front rolling in. She could feel him, like you feel thunder minutes before it happens. 

A car edged toward the spot—chrome grin, patient, then not. The horn blared, an aggravated war bugle boring straight through the cotton in her head. She flinched and stepped back to the sidewalk without thinking, like a hand pulling off a hot pan. Eddie slid past her, his ringed hand smacking the car hood—metal on metal, hollow, his mouth shaping words she couldn’t sort into meaning. 

That was when the floor of her stomach dropped out.

 Nausea rose quick and mean. Her throat opened on a gag—once, twice—and she folded, retching into the gutter where blacktop kissed concrete. 

Hot chocolate, but all wrong now, scorched and acid. Some of it found the back way through her nose and lit it on fire. Rainbow oil swirled in the water by the curb; strings of spit would not stop being strings. She hated that part most: the endless slick after, the mouth that wouldn’t dry up, the need to keep spitting until the world was just clean again. 

Hands in her hair, lifting it off her face. Again. Why were there always hands in her hair? She swatted them without looking, small and automatic, like batting at fat, lazy flies. Rings clicked; the hands retreated. 

She straightened. The cotton in her ears thinned a little. Sound came apart into separate things instead of one big bruise: the pitter of rain, the diner bell settling back into silence, the car idling, Eddie’s voice trying to be soft and tripping over itself. 

She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. Drool, sick, rain—didn’t matter. Off. 

“Reese? Holy—You okay? Reese, can you hear me? Christ, baby, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. Reese, please—can you please look at me?” 

She looked. Brown eyes, all the way open. The sight of him split her in two: a reach and a recoil. Body leaning toward safe; mind throwing up its hands—no. Betrayal braided to wanting. A tide tugging both ways. 

He kept talking. Sorry-sorry, her name, the soft pet name that felt like a blanket and a warning at the same time. She heard every bit of it and wanted him to stop talking. It’d be one less thing to think about.

The rain thickened. Heavier drops landed with a faint plat on her scalp—one, two—and she tipped her face up. A bead fell straight into her eye, sharp like the allergy drops Mama made her use—permission to blink taken away. Not pain. An intrusion. 

That was the tilt, the last inch. The world slid. 

She choked out a sob. Not the polite kind that folded into a napkin. The baby-kept-awake-too-long kind. Full-body. Her ribs shook; breath blew out of her like someone had stepped on a bellows; she had to yank it back in in wet, gasping pulls. 

What he said. What he hadn’t. Muirgen’s quiet water. The horn. The wrong hot chocolate. The ugly little pile at the curb. The rain in her eyes. Too much. Too intense, too loud, too many. 

She couldn’t tell where rain ended and tears began, and gave up on sorting it. She pressed both fists over her eyes and cheeks and made herself a small cave. The world lost one layer of sharpness. It helped. A little. 

An arm came around her waist—leather, cigarette smoke ghost. Eddie, no question. She didn’t need to look. 

She was caught halfway between heartsick and horrified with him. She wanted to collapse onto him just as much as she wanted to push him off of her. But still, she was grateful for the turning of her body away from the open, toward the awning, the van, somewhere with fewer sounds and fewer eyes.  

Maybe she’d get to keep a sliver of her dignity after all. 

When he admitted he used to deal, he expected her to get quiet. Frown. Maybe hit him with a “that’s not you” or bow her head and start the world’s softest prayer. What he didn’t expect was to see the color drain out of her. Not in that corny, book way, either. The pink in her cheeks literally just… clicked off. Like somebody unplugged the TV. 

He almost kept talking, but for once she cut in, and he was glad she had. 

“You… sold… drugs? Eddie…” She looked like she couldn’t find the first word in a full drawer. “How long?” 

“Few years,” he admitted. “Started the summer before my senior year.” Beat. “First senior year.” He felt his face do the wince on its own. God, he was a real prince, huh?  

Reese nodded like she understood a thing he hadn’t managed to say yet. She opened her mouth, sound didn’t come out, but she kept it open until the words came. “Why?” 

Why.  

He hadn’t let himself touch that one in a while. 

He thought about shrugging, but he held it back. This wasn’t the principal's office. 

“Used to just buy,” he said plainly, picking at the napkin. “My guy—supplier—roped me in. Said I could make good pocket cash. I was an idiot. Young. Didn’t have a warning-kit or whatever to tell me how deep it’d get.” 

He watched her face and couldn’t read it right—concern, yeah, and something tighter. Disgust maybe. He deserved worse. 

“But—no. That’s not... on him. I could’ve said no.” He forced his eyes up to meet hers, which, for the first time since yesterday, were laser-focused on his.

“Should’ve. I mean. You know I’m not exactly high-class, Reese. Wayne works nights. Wanted to pull my weight. And this was the world I knew. The dumb thing I was good at.” He blew out a breath. “I wouldn’t’ve done it unless I felt like I had to.” 

She swallowed hard enough that he heard it. “How old?” 

“My supplier? I dunno—” 

“Your customers,” she added, steady. “How young was the youngest?” 

He didn’t have a curse foul enough for himself. 

He loved her for asking the true thing. Most people let it slide; she never did. But it did make him want to slink into his seat when she did.

He didn’t want to say it. It still came out like poison. 

“Fourteen.” He looked away. Fourteen was a kid. Dustin, Lucas, Mike. He wouldn’t sell to those boys if you put a gun to his head. 

She didn’t say anything after that. Like she had the same thought as him. The glaze came over her eyes, and whatever color she’d had left took a bus to Michigan. 

“I know it was wrong,” he pushed on, hating how it sounded. “After that, I felt sick. Swore sixteen and up—yeah, I know, still garbage. Since I met you, I kept it to eighteen. And I—Reese, I’m sorry. I can’t even—” 

She didn’t look like she’d heard a word. Fair. 

When she stood, that’s what broke him. It wasn’t a storm-off; it was sleepwalking. 

“Reese?” he pressed, but had no clue what the sentence after that would’ve been. 

She slid out of the booth and headed for the door. 

“Reese! Reese—where the hell are you going?” He popped up a second later, almost left his wallet, grabbed it, yanked a ten and slapped it on the table. His gut said he wasn’t coming back for change. 

The rain had picked up. She was in the parking lot when he shoved the door open, nearly breaking that damn bell. Her hair was darkening in strings. He started toward her, and a tan Buick tried to claim the space like she wasn’t standing in it. It waited for her to move. She didn’t. He reached for her hand and didn’t make it before the horn went off. 

It spiked something mean in him—like the car was punishing her for standing still. Like it was piling on when she was already going through hell.. He lurched forward and smacked his palm on the hood like it was instinct, rings clacking. The driver jumped like Eddie had slapped him, not the car.

“There’s other spots!” Eddie barked, and the Buick backed off about a foot. He turned to Reese just in time to see her fold and hurl into the gutter. 

Panic shot through him. Move. Fix it. Do something. She’s puking and you’re decoration. He got behind her and hauled her hair back, trying to keep it out of the mess. He was saying words—too many, probably all the wrong ones— but something got her attention, and she finally looked at him, wiping her face with her wrist. 

And yeah, he knew this wasn’t the moment for poetry, but it still hit him how lovely she was, even in the middle of the world cracking—rain beading in her hair, lashes wet, rosy lips and skin gone pale and damp with with overhead precipitation. Like a forest nymph; something Tolkien. 

She tipped her face up into the rain, and then the sound came out of her—big, baby-sad, nothing-pretty-about-it. It almost took his stomach with it. 

Yeah. He royally screwed up.

That was the kind version. 

She was blubbering and gasping and hiding her face, and the do something hit again. He slid an arm around her waist and got her moving, out to the parking lot, out of the line of eyes from the windows. People were staring. Whispering. He didn’t have room in his head for them. 

They reached the van, he led her to the driver’s side, looked at her for a minute, cars flew past on the road to his right. He took a swing at a gamble. She might not want it. She might shove him off. But she was crying, and he couldn’t just stand there like a post. 

He pulled her in. Wrapped her up. One hand in her hair—gentler this time, lower, at the back of her head—one arm clamped firm around her mid-back, snug, like he could hold the pieces of her together by force. 

“Shh. Hey. It’s okay. I got you, Mouse. You’re okay. Just breathe. Breathe.” He had no training. No clue. You don’t get taught how to be the person somebody leans on. You just decide to be it and hope. 

Cruelly, it was familiar to where they’d been last night. And he realized it more now than ever. With puke in her hair and tear-streaked cheeks. 

“I love you, Reese.” 

She shook a little in his arms, but finally took her first big breath. 

And maybe he had no right to say it. 

But with that kind of reaction, he figured she had a pretty good idea of who he was now. 

Chapter Text

It had been a few minutes since the collapse released its grip.  

That’s what Reese named it: collapse. Nothing else fit. Not tantrum, not fit. Collapse. Because it wasn’t about wanting what she couldn’t have. It was about her chest caving under too much weight, her heart folding in on itself until all it could do was sob. 

Humiliating. Seventeen and crying like a child. Spilling out everything raw—like laundry gone wrong, soap and water flooding the floor until the clothes were dirtier than before. 

She wanted nothing more than to tuck herself away like an old cat slipping into the basement to die. Quiet, hidden. Heartbreaking, yes, but oddly peaceful. 

Although another voice inside her, the one that refused to care about appearances, reminded her there was balance. He’d seen her wreckage. She’d seen his. A boy—no, a man—repeating school, getting high on weekends, selling cheap highs to kids who thought they had nothing else. 

The mannerly part of her almost whispered an acknowledgement—sorry you had to see that—but the floor was already saturated with enough empty apologies. She couldn’t bear to add another. 

So in silence they sat. Respective, solitude islands rather than any empire.  

Rain clung to her hair, slick against her temples and neck. Her chest ached, whether from sobs or retching, she couldn’t tell. It hadn’t poured; not really. Yet the drizzle painted her shoulders and collar with soft brushstrokes of liquid sunlight. 

She felt like an art piece. Not a pretty one. More like an Edvard Munch. The kind you stand in front of and can feel the despair, despite the bright colors. 

“Reese.” His voice was soft. Not a question this time, not a demand. Just offering a stepping stone, laying his jacket she could step on if she’d like. 

His hair hung damp too, though somehow it shed the rain more easily, like water slid off him instead of sinking in, just as every other deplorable choice he made.  
Not like her. She absorbed everything. Grief, noise, weather. All until it soddened her to the soul. 

He looked guilty now. And she couldn’t tell if it was guilt for what he’d done, or just guilt for being caught. She wanted it to be the former. 

“I’d like you to take me home now. Please.” 

She met his eyes when she said it. It mattered that she did. A tiny act of defiance against her own fragility. Proof that she wasn’t afraid of him. Just… brokenhearted. 

Eddie nodded instantly, like the words were an order and he’d been waiting for them. He pushed off the tailgate in one smooth motion, the denim and chain scraping the metal bench. And then, he offered her his hand. 

The hand said what his mouth couldn’t: 

I am sorry. 
I need to fix this. 
If you’ll let me. 
Please let me. 
If you trust me. 

Maybe that’s not what he was writing. But that’s what she read. 

It all felt frail, like a music box handled too roughly; spring bent, tune warped. She couldn’t give it back whole. 

So she didn’t. 

She only gave him half of what he was reaching for—just enough to leave him his dignity. Mercy, where maybe none was earned. 

The drive was hushed. Not silent. Reese’s nose wouldn’t stop dripping, the small, raw snff punctuating the air every few breaths. 

The turn signal ticked, steady as a metronome. 

Eddie’s stomach growled once. 

She almost wished he’d try. Say something, anything. Not to smother the awkwardness, but to make it easier. Like if he did, she’d have the final bit of evidence she’d need to slam the coffin lid on him, nail it shut, and write him off as an idiot, herself the fool. 

But he didn’t. 
For once, Eddie Munson stayed silent. 
For once, Eddie Munson did the right thing.

When he opened the van door for her, she didn’t meet his eyes like she had before.  

Reese slid out, the seat belt caught on her shoulder like it didn’t want to let go. She stepped onto the dampened pavement and turned just enough to be polite, not enough to be brave. 

"Thank you for the ride,” she said. The words were small and perfectly folded, and a little odd considering how often he drove her home. 

She walked up the porch and reached for the door, then stopped, the knob cold under her hand.  

“You can put your jacket in the dryer if you want,” she added softly, not looking at him. “Laundry room’s through the kitchen. Mama won’t mind.” 

She hadn’t looked at him when she uttered it, and it was more to the bronze handle than him. 

“I’m going to bed now.” Reese continued, her voice was thin and distant, like she was speaking through glass. She paused for only a second before she added: 

“We won’t be talking tonight.”   

A breath. 
A boundary. 

She let that sit. Not cruel, just true. Then, because her mother had taught her how to end things gently, she offered the last ribbon. 

 “Good night, Eddie.” 

The door opened. Warm air and the faint smell of something simmering moved around her. She stepped inside and was gone. The door closed without a gap between the inside and the out, but she didn’t click the latch. The door would push open if only he were to reach out and touch it. 

He considered it for a minute. The easy, the smart thing would be to turn heel and drive back to the trailer park and not risk screwing things up more.  

But the part of him that bet on long shots every time Reese was involved told him he didn’t have much else to lose. 

So he pushed open the door. 

The bathroom was its usual scene: quaint, dressed with the makings of a shared space, old plumbing and all. Her devotionals and Archie comics were stacked on the back of the toilet, the ones Eamon once claimed had always been his. She’d scoffed at him then, told him she’d owned them before he was even born. 

She’d been so annoyed at the time. But now? She’d trade anything to be back in that kind of petty conflict—bickering over who read Archie first. Not this; the very grown-up weight of love. 

He wasn’t here tonight. Sleepover at his friend’s. Probably for the best. If he saw Eddie, he’d pepper him like a journalist. 

A thought trickled into her head, simultaneous with the faucet’s steady stream. The same thought she’d had less than twenty-four hours ago. Gee, had it really been less than a day? Mere hours?   

And already, it had permeated her thoughts the way a bruise beneath flesh did. Bleeding around the edges and corrupting the whole picture in fuchsia until it couldn’t be ignored: 

Was this love?   

The kind sung about in old tales—imperfect, messy, but still romantic? Not the unconditional stuff of God and family. 

This was different. 

Close to friendship, but not quite. That was the simplest way to name it. 

She loved Robin, but not like how she loved Eddie. 
And she loved Eddie, but not like how she loved Robin. 

She loved him in a way that never let her sleep easily. It was the kind of love that made you stay up past bedtime talking to God about the same old things, again and again, like rewriting a story a hundred times. The bones stayed the same, but small details shifted each telling, pulling you back for another draft. 

She shifted out of her rain-dampened clothes and sank into the filled tub. Normally, she showered. But today she needed more than a drizzle. She needed something all-encompassing. Submerging. Resetting. 

If the collapse had left everything like a spilt laundry load, then this was the opposite. Gather, submerge, start over. 

No bubbles, no froth, nothing to disguise herself. Just her in the cramped tub, hair floating loose around her arms. Uncladness as a fact, not a spectacle. Unhidden. Not a secret, not to her, anyway.  

Unlike so much of Eddie’s life. 

Was there more he was hiding? The dramatic voice in her said yes, yes, of course. But deeper down, she felt she already had the gist of him. Knew he didn’t have it in him to hide much more. 

Was she wrong to want to believe him? Or was that just another way she’d let herself be fooled? 

From the outside, thinking of Eddie while her body was bare might look indecent. But there wasn’t anything indecent about it. There was nothing more chaste than a broken heart. 

A broken heart, huh?  

She could almost hear Robin now: So… what does that mean? Are you guys still... what? A month together and then kaput?  

What would she tell Robin come Monday? 

Was it too soon to be back to thinking about what they were? 

Yes. That was the only question she let herself answer. 

This was about taking care of herself. She had to mend the stitching of her heart before she could even think about giving it back to him. 

But the ironic part was that he still held it. 
And it didn’t make sense, but she wanted him to. 
And she knew she shouldn’t. No part of her life really aligned with his. 
Just two kids kicked by life like puppies—one with hands to pull her out of the swamp, the other still clutching at branches. 

When she sank her head under the water, she remembered that scene in The NeverEnding Story. Atreyu and Artax. The Swamp of Sadness. Fight against the sadness.  

It wasn’t pity for Eddie, not exactly. She still respected him too much, even if she didn’t want to admit it. She wanted to believe he was telling the truth, that he only did what he had to. But still—fight against the sadness. Fight against the badness.  

It was a little stupid, maybe, but that scene had always helped her on the days she remembered Muirgen too much to do anything at all. So maybe there was nothing stupid about whatever reigns pulled you out of the swamp. 

She only wished Eddie had had an Atreyu sooner. Someone to pull him out before he stopped struggling. 

But he was fighting now. She thought so. She hoped so. 

And what did that make him to her? Just a “boyfriend”? 
Or something heavier, stranger, more complex? 

Not tonight. 
Not if she wanted to keep her sanity.

Reese was in her room, wringing the water from her hair into a towel, when a knock came at her door. 

For half a second, she thought it might be Eddie. Silly. No way. He wasn’t that reckless. 

“Come in,” she said, trusting. 

Her mother cracked the door, then stepped in, quiet, gentle. She lingered for a beat, her smile soft, the same one she’d worn the first time Reese had come home glowing after Hellfire. 

Reese sat cross-legged on her butterfly quilt, yellow fleece pajamas she’d gotten last Christmas, hair slicked back from the bath. For all the sorrow clinging to her, she looked impossibly young in that moment—duckling and pixie-like all at once. 

“You’re so pretty, Tee,” Mrs. Halverson said at last, as if it were the only truth in the room. 

Reese gave her a meek smile. 
“Can you close the door?” 

The wood shut with a soft click. 

“What’s up?” her mom asked, crossing the room. 

Reese hesitated. Then: 
“Will you brush my hair?” 

Her mother nodded. Picked up the horse-hair brush from the vanity. She smelled faintly of her cold cream and herbs from dinner prep—home and safe. Reese almost fell into her arms right then, but instead, shifted to make room on the bed. 

Her mom sat behind her, brushing slow, steady strokes straight, combing over the crown the way she always did, like Reese was some dapper gentleman from a bygone era. 

“It happened,” Reese said suddenly, softly. “In front of him. In front of everyone. At the diner.” 

Her mom stayed quiet. Brushing. Waiting. 

“He told me things. Bad things. Things he’s done.” Reese’s eyes drifted sideways, landing on the Dally Winston poster without meaning to. 

She hated the next words. Saying them made it real. 
“He sold drugs, Mama. To kids. Or—at least one. Fourteen.” 

The brush stopped for a breath. Paused in her hair. Whether it was in surprise or the opposite, disappointment or recognition, Reese couldn’t tell. 

“An’ I don’t know if I’m more hurt by that,” she went on, voice breaking, “or the fact he didn’t tell me till now. Until I was in love with him. I just feel... stupid.” Tears prickled, hot, but still clung stubbornly to her lashes. 

Her mother smoothed the brush down again. Gentle. 
“You’re not stupid. Just... well, sometimes people only share the painful parts when they finally trust you. Maybe it wasn’t that he waited until you loved him. Maybe it was that he realized he loved you. And it sort of... snuck up on him.” 

“I didn’t even tell you he said it,” Reese muttered. 

Her mom chuckled softly. “Sweetie, that boy is down the hall talking to your daddy right now. Voluntarily. After making you cry. He’s not hiding. He’s showing up. He’s fighting.”

 The glimmer of her memories from the bath caught in her mind like something shiny under the ocean, but she let it pass. 

“You’re not s’posed to side with him,” Reese said. Not defensive—just tired. 

“I’m not.” Her mom lilted, meeting Reese’s eyes in the vanity mirror. “But his whole thing is not making sense, isn’t it?” 

Reese turned, meeting her gaze. 

“God doesn’t always make sense either,” her mom said softly. “Cruel things happen. Unfair things. Things get stolen. We lost Muirgen.” The name hung fragile between them. 

“So no—we don’t always get answers. We don’t always like the plan or understand why people do what they do. But that’s not the point.” 

Reese swallowed. “Yeah, but… what does that mean for Eddie?” 

Her mom smiled faintly, fingers separating a section of hair to braid. “It means it doesn’t have to make sense right now. Why he did those things. Why you care for him. Maybe it never will. That doesn’t mean it’s broken. Doesn’t mean you are.” 

“I’m not saying you have to take him back,” she continued. “But I am saying this: forgiveness gives you peace. And maybe you’ll be the first one to show him it’s even possible. Not with grand speeches from scripture. Just by loving him person to person. Not just girlfriend to boyfriend, not if you can’t.” 

She tied off the braid with a simple elastic. Smoothed it once. 

Reese let her eyes drop. Her chest still ached, but some part of her steadied. Being in love with him was the easy part. Forgiving him could be possible. She wanted to. Trusting him? That would take work. 

“Has Daddy ever betrayed you?” Reese asked quietly. 

Her mom gave the smallest smile. "Betrayed is a big word. But... yes, he’s hurt me. And I’ve hurt him. That’s marriage. You wake up and choose each other anyway. Love isn’t about never messing up. It’s about saying, ‘I love you more than my own selfishness.’ Which means forgiving, even when it’s hard.” 

Reese nodded, her head heavy but her heart just a little lighter, like the brush had smoothed some of the knots out of that, too. 

The dryer thumped in the laundry room like a slow heartbeat. Warm air and the scent from the simmering stove drifted in from the kitchen. Eddie hung back a second, jacket half out of the drum, then shoved it the rest of the way in and shouldered through the doorway. 

Mr. Halverson was at the counter with two longnecks, watching Eddie as he walked into the kitchen. 

 He had that plant-shift look a little, the one Wayne had: work-worn hands, calm eyes that missed nothing. Tired from an honest week's work that was worth every second for what, or rather who, you were clocking in for. 

Eddie noted the label. “Miller High Life? For a California guy, you run pretty old-school.” 

A corner of Halverson’s mouth clicked against his teeth. “Hasn’t changed much since ’65.” 

He tipped a bottle toward Eddie. “Want one?” 

Eddie froze a half-beat. Nineteen—for a few more weeks anyway. Girlfriend’s dad. Reputation like a bent bumper. He opened his mouth to say he was fine. 

Halverson saved him. “Relax, kid. It’s not a test. You just look like you could use a beer.” His voice gentled. “I saw the way Reesy came in.” 

Eddie huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah.” 

Halverson popped the cap off with the other bottle—psst—like it was muscle memory, handed it over, and then opened his own under the lip of the counter. 

Eddie took a pull. Winced. Not because it was strong.  “God, this stuff’s practically lemonade.” 

For a split second, he wished he could stuff the words back in his mouth. 

Halverson actually laughed—low, surprised, the sound of a man who didn’t do it often. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right.” He took a drink. “Goes down easy.” 

The fridge hummed. The dryer thumped again. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard popped as the house settled. 

Halverson set the bottle down and leaned back on the counter like he had all night to stand there and measure him up. Same gray eyes as Reese, but where hers felt like tide pools you could fall into, his were the kind of gray that made you double-check for sharp edges. Same color. Different weapon. 

“Alright,” he said, not unkind. “Tell me what I need to know.” He sighed. “There’s a reason you’re standing in my kitchen, an’ I take it it’s more than my Miller.” 

Eddie watched the gold fizz climb the neck, then made himself look up. “I told her some things. Truth.” He cleared his throat. “Figure you’d wanna hear 'em, too.” 

He parked his bottle carefully on the Formica, like it might slide. 

“My reputation’s not—” 

“Quit dancing, Munson,” Halverson cut in. “Spit it.” 

“Right.” Eddie’s jaw worked. “I dealt. To kids. One for sure—fourteen. I quit. Should’ve told Reese sooner. Didn’t. Not ‘cause I wanted to hide it. ‘Cause I was scared.” He exhaled through his nose. “She looks like a daisy, but she’ll stare a hole through you. And I know I don’t get a vote, but… I’m not gonna hurt her. I’d put myself in a ditch first.” 

Halverson’s mouth twitched, hard to tell if it was disappointment or something else. He took a pull. “Y’think I’m stupid?” 

“What—? No, sir.” 

“Then don’t talk to me like I never read a report.” He tipped his head toward the hallway. “I’m ex-fire, son. Was one a long time ‘fore I started with Parks. I pull records for a living. When I heard your name, I did my homework.” 

Eddie came up empty a beat. “Then why’d you let me take her out?” 

“Because I’m her father, not her warden.” Halverson didn’t blink. “I raise her. I don’t leash her.” 

That didn’t land right away. Eddie frowned, then nodded once. 

“And for what it’s worth,” Halverson added, rolling the bottle in his palm, “you remind me of boys I knew. Some good. Some trouble. Most of us were both.” He let that hang. “I didn’t come home from ‘Nam a choirboy. Men come back with holes. Takes time for the Lord to fill ’em. Grace ain’t soft—just stays put.” 

He set the bottle down again. “So here’s me being plain. You want a future, any kind, with my daughter or not: you don’t sell to kids. You don’t sell, period. You make right where you can. Job that isn’t poison. Show up when you say you will. Front door, not sneaking. Respect her. That means her time, her word, her body. She says stop, you stop. That’s it.” 

Eddie swallowed. “Yes, sir.” 

“And if you lie to her again,” Halverson said, still even, “we’re done being friendly.” 

“Yes, sir.” It came out smaller than he wanted. 

Halverson’s face eased a fraction. “Now—why’d you tell her today?” 

“Because I love her,” Eddie said, and didn’t dress it up. “And I got tired of being someone she’d have to find out about.” 

Halverson studied him like a fireman reading smoke—color, speed, which way it wanted to run. Then he nodded once. “Alright. That I can work with.” 

He picked up the bottle on the counter, a small clink. “Finish your lemonade, Munson. Dryer’ll buzz in five. When you walk out, you tell me you’re done with the rest of it. Not with your mouth. With your feet.” 

Eddie picked up his bottle. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good,” Halverson said, gentler now. “And one more thing.” 

Eddie braced. 

“You don’t push her. You wait.” A beat. “That’s what men do.” 

Eddie let the words settle. “I can do that.” 

“We’ll see,” Halverson said, but there wasn’t any bite in it—just truth. He took another drink, eyes flicking toward the hallway where water hissed through pipes, then back to Eddie. 

 “An’ she likes tulips. White ones. Had this dream when she was little about planting ’em in her room.” 

 For an instant, he saw a barely there quirk on the corner of Halverson’s mustache, but then it disappeared. 

“So if you want a tip…” Halverson’s eyes stayed steady. 

“…Start there.” 

When Eddie Munson got home that evening, he didn’t flush his stash. Didn’t touch the radio. The first thing he did was strip the bed. Which wasn’t much of a job—his fitted sheet had already surrendered, half curled off the corner. A top sheet balled at the foot, and one sad blanket, pilled to hell, probably swiped from the nurse’s office sometime in middle school. 

He crammed it all into a black trash bag. Still too light. So he scooped the trail of band tees and jeans off the floor, shoved those in too. Finally, the bag had some weight. He slung it over his shoulder like Santa Claus for degenerates, dropped it by the door, and dug for the soup can under the sink. 

It had started its life as a swear jar when he was thirteen—Wayne’s last noble stand at clean language. Lasted about two days. After that, just a coin fund. Now Eddie was wrist-deep, fishing nickels like a man panning for gold. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was under the flicker of the Suds-O-Mat sign off 41, bag at his feet. The place smelled like hot lint and old metal, but the machines worked. He fed coins, listened to the drum catch and spin, shirts vanishing under soap that feathered white against the glass. 

He dropped into a cracked folding chair. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, painting everything a shade flatter than life. On the table, somebody’d left a stack of magazines— Hot Rod, People, and a beat-up ReMIND with a coffee ring like Saturn. Eddie tugged Hot Rod free. 

An ’85 Firebird stretched across the centerfold. White, sharp, clean. Not Reese’s—too new—but close enough that his gut gave a stupid little lurch. 

Drugs are the world I know. The dumb thing I’m good at.  

He’d said it like a joke. Didn’t feel funny now. 

The washer hit spin; black shirts pressed to the glass like phantoms trying to claw their way out. He thumbed the page. Intake, valves, torque curves—half the words from junkyard Saturdays with Wayne, the other half he could learn. Cars didn’t lie.  

The washer rattled, and the whole row shivered. Eddie stood, stretched the kink out of his back, and wandered toward the bulletin board by the change machine—the cork so stabbed up it looked like it had smallpox. 

First thing his eyes snagged on: LOST KITTEN — answers to “Peaches.” Black and white photocopy image. Big eyes, smudge-nose. He could already see Reese finding that, going soft in the face, planning rescue missions in the time it took most people to blink. And he’d tease her, jabbing, “How does somebody even lose a kitten?” and she’d throw back some perfect explanation, probably including Latin names. He swallowed and kept moving. 

Below it:  

HOUSECLEANING — FAST, FAIR, HONEST. Tear-off tabs like little ribs, half gone. Next to that, a BABYSITTER AVAILABLE written in bubble letters with hearts on the i’s. Church bake sale flyer with a crooked cross and someone’s grandma's handwriting. Guitar lessons—three chords listed like a promise, price circled twice. He almost tore a tab just to see if he could teach better, then thought about what Halverson had said. Job that isn’t poison. 

In the corner, half hidden under a faded Bowling League Sign-up, he spotted something on oil-stained paper. HELP WANTED — LUBE TECH / SHOP HAND. Address over on 22nd, a little hand-drawn arrow pointing toward the service road, like the guy who posted it didn’t trust anyone to read. NO EXPERIENCE OK. WILL TRAIN. Phone number with the last digit written over twice. 

He felt stupid even reading it. Then he didn’t. 

Yeah. Okay.  

Eddie stared at it a second, waiting for it to turn into a trick. It didn’t. He reached up, pinched the tab free. The paper tore a little scream. He folded it small and slid it behind his license in his wallet, next to the grocery receipt where he’d scrawled WHITE TULIPS like a lunatic the second he got back into his van. Maybe Jeff wasn’t far off. He’d never let him have it, though. 

The washer thumped, the glass fogged with suds, and somewhere behind him, the soda machine coughed out a warm Dr Pepper. Eddie looked back at Peaches, then at the shop hand notice. Cars don’t lie, the thought echoed.. You listen right, they tell you what hurts.  

Not fixed. Not forgiven. But maybe a gear had shifted. 

By the time he drove home, his clothes smelled a little less like mildew and bachelor, and the idea kept ricocheting around his head like a pinball machine in tilt. 

Wayne’s old toolbox, reeking of oil and copper pennies. Reese’s Firebird in July, hood up, him actually knowing what he was doing for once, other than jump starting or hot wiring. Her hair tied back, grease on her cheek, pretending it wasn’t the best sight in the world. 

He lugged the laundry through the trailer door and dropped it with a heavy thump. Then, like some alien impersonating a human, he made his bed. Fitted sheet, top sheet, blanket. Square, neat. Respectable enough Wayne might faint if he walked in. He didn’t put away his clothes, though. 

Eddie stripped down and flopped onto the mattress. Early for a Saturday night. Too early. But maybe if he stayed horizontal, he’d stay out of trouble. 

And that’s when the reel started. 

Her in that green sweater from today. Pretty as hell. Dangerous, the kind of sight that carved itself into you. That kid she babysat, grinning ear to ear when Reese picked her up. 

Then his brain skipped tracks, remixed the previous image: Reese in that summer dress, hair braided back, laughing at him for stalling the van. 

And once it started, no brakes. Many more summers after that. Tulips in a little room. A crib. A gremlin with his hair and her eyes, tearing down a hallway while Eddie chased and Reese scooped the kid up, smiling all steel and soft at the same time. 

She’d be good at it. Damn good. He could see it mapped clearer than any campaign: gentle, sharp, unshakable when she needed to be. Scary thing was she knew how to let people take care of her, too. 

And then the reel snapped, like film burning through the projector. He was  Eddie Munson. Flat on a sagging mattress that still smelled like smoke, only faintly redeemed by clean sheets. 

Maybe it was just a dream. Something his brain spliced together to torture him with. Happened often. Too much wanting for a kid who’d never had much. 

And maybe it’d never happen. Maybe he’d already trashed the chance. Maybe she’d forgive but never take him back. 

But it didn’t matter. Not tonight. 

Tonight he’d let it play. 

Her, elbows-deep in an engine beside him, hair long as ever, stuck to her face, belly round as the moon like that lady's today.  

And because his brain was cruel and kind in the same breath, dream-Reese let one rip so loud she doubled over laughing till she pissed herself, and he thought it was the funniest thing in the world. 

Eddie barked out a laugh in the dark, then scrubbed his face quick before it could turn into something wetter. 

Jesus, if the guys knew this is what he was thinking about before he conked out, they’d eat him alive.  

So he locked it down, swore it to himself like a saving throw nobody else would ever roll:  

Nobody was hearing that one. 

’Cept maybe Reese. If she’d have him. 

Chapter Text

The Sunday light cast a bright, almost bitter streak in Reese’s eyes as she sat in the back of her dad’s 1980 Impala.  

 It was a square, sensible car. Bench seat, column shifter, a low V8 hum you felt more than heard. Nothing as peculiar as her Firebird, though that credit was also owed mostly to her father. The Pontiac had been the pride of his young adulthood, but as he settled into the welcomed routine of Reese’s adolescent years and Eamon’s karate lessons, he’d invested in something steadier. Something quiet. Something he could drive while feeling just okay enough to leave the Firebird to Reese. It wasn’t prim and sturdy with subtle European flair like her mom’s ’79 Volvo. It was plainer. Truer. 

She liked riding in it. But not as much as she liked riding in her mom’s wagon, and definitely not as much as she liked driving her Firebird.  

And something about sitting beside Eamon while he scattered toast crumbs across his church slacks, grumbling about granola, and hearing her mother, calm as ever from the passenger seat, remind him that ‘he’d have had time for it if he hadn't been dragging his feet,’ made her feel like she’d reached a checkpoint. A chapter’s end. A selah.  

The sign that stood watch over the yard of First Baptist still read REPENT. Perpetual. Unsympathetic. 

Repentance comes from loving the Father, she thought, climbing the concrete steps. Ahead of her, her mother’s tan heels clicked against the pavement, one hand curled around Eamon’s. How can you expect them to repent if they don’t realize they’re loved, first?  

Strangely, as she slid into their usual pew and smoothed the fabric over her lap, she almost rolled her eyes, because it rang true of Eddie, too. 

He’d said he loved her. 

As Reese sat in the chapel, sapphire and ruby light pouring in from the window, staining her with color, she lifted her eyes to the wooden plaque: Consummatum est. It is finished. She wondered if love was enough to make him repent. 

Because repentance wasn’t just I’m sorry. It was action. A turning. A fleeing from the shadows you’d tried to keep hidden. 

And against her will, she wondered too, if she had loved him well enough first so that he could. 

But then the piano began, the congregation rose, voices lifted into worship, and the thought faded away like the end of any other song. 

“Reese, can you pleeeease just take me out to the car? I gotta new Mad I wanna show Gabe an’ I—” 

“No, Eamon. Why can’t it wait till school?” 

“PLEEEEASE, Reeze,” he begged, clipping the s in that lazy schoolyard way he did when he got whiny. 

“No.” 

“Eamon. Quit it.” Their father cut in, voice even. “You already know I ain’t fond of you reading that garbage. Quit draggin’ Gabe and your sister into it.” 

Reese smirked at her brother, but the look didn’t last past her father’s second commandment: 
“Reesy, go take your brother to the car. We’re headed out soon anyway.” 

“But—” 

“Reese.” Not unkind, just final. 

She nodded softly, and jabbed a finger into the back of Eamon’s neck. He grabbed for her hand, but she’d already pulled it away. 

“Hey, when’s Eddie comin’ back over?” Eamon chattered as they walked down the concrete steps, his straw-bright hair catching the afternoon sun that had finally stopped being shy. “I gotta show him Mad too.” 

“Eamon, I don’t really wanna talk about it right now.” 

“Why not? I’m just sayin’. You got the key, right? We could take it. Daddy always takes forever, even when he says ‘soon.’ Why not just drive it to Eddie’s. Be back before him. Do a joyride. Like those guys in The Goonies did.” 

“You mean like the criminals?” she side-eyed him. 

Eamon puffed up, ready to fire back, but Reese cut in as they reached the navy beast. 
“Look, if you wanna go on a joyride ‘n' get chased by the police for arson, be my guest. But you might wanna think twice, seeing as Daddy was fire chief—” 

“What’s arson?” 

Before Reese could be given the honor of explaining arson to her nine-year-old brother, a cool but kind voice cut through. 

“Hey, Reese. How you doing?” 

She turned, startled. Jason Carver stood just behind them, crisp hair combed, Bible tucked under his arm. That polite, all-American smile was fixed on his face—the same one he used with anyone he decided wasn't a disgrace. 

Reese opened her mouth, but before she could answer, he added, “Got a minute?” 

Her eyes flicked to Eamon, clutching the door handle at her side, then to the church doors where their parents had yet to appear.  

Truth was, she didn’t exactly want to talk to Jason. Not because of anything he’d ever done to her personally. Maybe she should’ve cut him some slack for that. But she’d heard the names he’d called Eddie. And even if Eddie sometimes earned himself a little trouble, she wasn’t about to let Jason have the last word.

Complicated or not, she still owed Eddie her loyalty. 

Jason shifted, lowering his voice a notch. “Look… I don’t know if it’s really my place. I don’t know you super well, but—” 

Reese kept her gaze steady, waiting. 

“That Eddie guy you’re seeing?” He leaned on the name like it tasted sour. “He’s bad news. Criminal. And that Hellfire game? Looks innocent, but it’s a cult. Folks are saying it’s... satanic.” 

Of course.   

Jason went on, earnest as a Sunday school teacher: “I know you think he’s harmless, but that’s just ‘cause you’re new. I’d steer clear. A good girl like you? You could do a lot better. Like my buddy Andy—he’s crazy about you. Nobody’d blame you for walking now. Still time to turn it around.” 

 He softened his smile. “I think you’d get along great with my girl, Chrissy. She’s sweet like you. Head on straight.” 

Reese could not imagine a fate worse than finding herself at Andy Clayton’s side, playing along on some cafeteria double date. Not that she had anything against Chrissy—truth was, their paths had barely crossed. But she’d noticed how the girl smiled, small and careful, like she didn’t want to be caught taking up too much space. Reese thought it looked exhausting. She wanted no part of that life. 

The thought of living in their mold, trying to measure up, made her throat close. If she bent to it, she’d suffocate. If she stayed herself, she’d drown. 

Before she could form a reply, Eamon piped up, blurting it like a firecracker: 

“You like Mad?” 

Reese’s stomach sank. Oh Lord. Please not now. I’m gonna tear that stupid thing in half.  

Jason blinked, thrown. “The magazine? Uh… Nah. Always thought it was kinda dumb.” 

“Well, Eddie likes it.” 

Jason’s mouth twitched; he glanced at Reese, brushing it off as kid talk. 

“O...kay?” 

“And he’s her boyfriend !” Eamon announced, voice carrying farther than it should have. 

“Eamon.” Reese’s warning tone had teeth. 

“She doesn’t like Andy—she likes Eddie!” 

Jason chuckled awkwardly under his breath, the sound clipped. He straightened, taking a small step back. 

 “Look, not trying to ruffle any feathers. Just something to think about, that’s all.” He turned to head back across the lot, raising a hand in parting. “You take it easy, alright, Reese?” 

“You too,” she said, small, absently. Polite on the surface, but her voice still carried that talking-through-glass distance, the same one Eddie had heard when she told him goodnight. 

As Jason’s figure disappeared into the crowd of suits and Sunday dresses, Eamon muttered under his breath,

“Butthead.” 

“Eamon!” She choked out, a little embarrassed by how much it made her sound like Mama. 

He looked at her, guilty for half a second, then his face cracked into a sly smirk. 

Reese tried to smother her own grin but failed. So she ruffled his hair with defeat just as their parents finally pushed open the church doors. 

“Maybe a little,” she allowed, unlocking the car. 

By the time they were driving home, her thoughts had crept back in, winding through her like yarn. Not the knotted kind, but the soft skeins, never wound too tight, with stretch enough to shift and breathe.

She didn’t know why she had gone so quiet when Jason offered her an “escape plan.” The silence had come over her the same way it did when Andy tried his clumsy advances, or when those good ol’ boys had leered as her and Eddie waited at that light. 

What she wouldn’t have given for Eddie to be there then. To be loud, to be defiant on her behalf. But she was beginning to realize that life in Hawkins, and maybe life altogether, would require her to turn her up her volume a few decibels now and then. 

And something else told her she’d have to learn to stand up for him, too. In the moments he couldn’t be there to be her scarecrow. Not in any demeaning way, it was just that he made her troubles shrink to harmless little crows that wouldn’t dare swoop close. To them, he was frightening; to her, he was endearing. A little silly. Someone who could still put a grin on her face. 

She allowed herself to smile small, reserved in the back of the Impala as she imagined what it might be like if she were Dorothy. If she had been transported to Oz, and Eddie had been the scarecrow. How funny he’d look in that black floppy hat.  

And maybe it was rash to even think it—but the thought came anyway, as her thoughts often did: sudden, hopeful. 

Maybe she could take him back. 
If he proved he wasn’t just straw and bravado. If he found a brain, one steady enough to hold her trust. 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch—Eddie’s name for Forest Hills any time Wayne threw on an old Western, they were sunk into the sagging couch. Wayne was nursing his Busch. Eddie was half-watching the cowboy gunfight, half-stuck in the thing that had been chewing holes in his brain for weeks. 

Well. Days. Felt like weeks. Everything felt longer with Reese in the picture. 

The notebook in his lap looked like it had been through a war. Pages scribbled over, scratched out, torn to shreds. More like CIA blackouts than lyrics. 

He’d told Reese the other day he was working on something special with Corroded Coffin for her. Which was, uh… half true. He was writing her a song. The guys just didn’t know about it.
Didn’t want them in on it either. Not when their last masterpiece had been called “Coffin Birth” which was... pretty much as gnarly as it sounded.  

Nah. This one was just his. And maybe hers. Someday. If he could actually figure it out. 

He’d written it almost all the way through once, then decided he hated it and ripped the page clean out. Started over. Did it again. Five times, easy. And now, with him and Reese sitting in no-man’s land, or if he wasn’t lying to himself, with him needing to win her back, it felt like he had to finally land the thing. 

He tore out the illegible page and crumpled it into a ball. Tossed it by his bare foot. He sighed, thumping his head back on the couch, not trying to make a scene, but failing as Wayne finally set down his beer and asked plain, 

“You writin’ it, or wrestlin’ it?” 

Eddie snorted. “Little of both. Song’s got reach.” He nudged the paper ball with his toe. “I’m makin’ confetti till further notice.” 

Wayne didn’t bite. TV gunsmoke popped; a cowboy hit the dirt. The trailer hummed. 

Eddie let the joke die. “Every time I try to say it straight, it comes out… stupid.” A beat. “Corny.” 

“Feels important,” Wayne commented. 

“Yeah,” Eddie muttered, eyes on the chewed-up page. “That’s the problem.” 

The quiet sat with them a second—Wayne’s beer on the table, the clock ticking over the sink. 

Eddie tried for a question he’d never thought he’d ask. “Have you ever… lost a girl? A real great girl. One you have to get back?” 

It was Wayne's turn to sigh from his spot on the couch. He rubbed at his gray scruff and didn't say anything for a good while. 

Eventually, “Long time ago.”  

Eddie hesitated, weighing it. “…What happened?”  

Wayne kept his eyes on the TV like he was listening to something behind it. “Met her at Benny’s. Linda. Divorcee. She always worked mornin’s where I’d eat at ‘fore my shift. When I was still working days. We did Friday nights, sometimes Saturday mornings if I wasn’t on. Had a ring on layaway at Sears.” 

He took a swig from his beer. “Then your old man got in trouble. Again. And your ma… well. Somebody had to keep a light on for you.” He sniffed, sharp. 

 “So I did. Nights turned to doubles. Cartoons on in the morning so you’d quit cryin’. Linda said she didn’t sign up to raise my brother’s kid. Didn’t say it mean.” 

He set the can down, neat. “Told her I couldn’t put you second. She said she couldn’t be third. Couple months later she married a fella with a boat over in Kentucky. Good man, far as I heard.” 

Silence. The cowboy on screen tipped his hat to nobody. 

Wayne’s mouth twitched, something like a smile that had learned better. “Ain’t no villain in that story. Just two folks wantin’ different lives. You don’t wrestle a person back like a runaway dog. You either make a life they can walk into… or you let ’em keep theirs.” 

He glanced at Eddie then, finally. “So. You askin’ me how to lasso her, I ain’t got that trick. All I know is: show up. Cut out the rot. Keep showin’ up. If she’s yours, she’ll see it. If she ain’t… you stand up straight anyway.” 

Eddie stared at the chewed-up page in his lap. “Yeah,” he said, throat rough. “That sounds like you.” 

Wayne huffed. “Ain’t poetry. But it works.” 

Eddie nodded a little, thought about muttering a ‘thanks,’ but didn’t. The nod said enough. He grabbed his pencil and this time, jotted down: 

Call me from the gallows, girl, I’ll climb your rope of light. 
swear by every broken prayer, tonight I’ll get it right. 

The longer he stared at it, the more he disliked it. But instead of tearing it out, pretending it didn’t happen, he let it sit there for what it was.

Monday mornings for Eddie usually— 
and by usually, always—meant being late. 

Sleep as long as possible. Drag himself up. Throw on whatever shirt was closest. If Wayne had left enough coffee for two, drink that. Maybe shower. 

Well. Since Reese, always shower. 
One thing he’d learned in his very short, very educational career as a boyfriend: girls smelled good. At least Reese did. And yeah, maybe he just hadn’t caught her in one of those mortal, bad-moment days, but part of him was convinced she had some fairy-girl forcefield that made her always smell like heaven. So Eddie started showering in the mornings, every morning, and for the first time in his life, didn’t feel like he needed to drown in aftershave.
A little splash couldn’t hurt, though. 

Mondays meant late. Always. Except today. 

Today his stomach was turning like it was his first day of kindergarten, and worse, there was no more Mr. Half-Ass-It. That’s what Wayne had said in passing this morning as Eddie got ready to leave. 

“Y’ready to not Mr. Half-Ass-It today?” 

It almost made Eddie laugh, and he couldn’t even explain why. Wayne had this habit of talking like the blue-collar, Tennessee-born man he was, then every so often, dropping a line that sounded like it came out of a Sunday comic strip from the sixties. 

Reese would get a kick out of that. The two of them would get along great, if the time ever came. Eddie told himself he had to make it work—just to see it. 

But the reason for all this early bird baloney was that he’d had a plan. A good one.
Wake up early.
Shower.
Freshly cleaned clothes (thank you, Eddie Munson, domestic god).
Stop at Mary’s Flowers.
Buy tulips.
Present them to Reese. She’d roll her eyes, sure, but she’d come around. Easy. 

Except, of course, nothing ever went easy for Eddie. 

The shower, check. The clean clothes, check. But when he got to Mary’s Flowers, there was the sign, mocking him in block letters: 

CLOSED. 
Hours: 10 a.m.–4 p.m. 

Because yeah, sure, who wouldn’t run errands in the middle of the least convenient hours of the day? 

So much for sneaking flowers into Reese’s locker. He’d have to try again later. 

Which left him with nothing but time. And nerves. 

By the time he pulled into the school lot, he’d talked himself into and out of half a dozen opening lines. And then he saw her, her Firebird sliding into place like she was starring in his own private movie. He almost bolted across the asphalt to meet her, but before he could, Robin skittered in right beside her. The two of them were already chattering, heads close. Eddie couldn’t see Reese’s face, but Robin squinted, half-grimace, half-sympathy, and he knew—bad time. 

So he let her go. He’d catch her later. No big deal. Cool. Totally cool.  

Except every hallway seemed to have Robin glued to Reese’s side. Eddie tried to catch her eye at least once, but she never quite looked back. Not like she was ignoring him, though. He could feel it. Munson senses.  

Another thing his Munson senses were good at? Eyes. Which was weird, because people always stared. Usually, those stares came preloaded with judgment, like a warning label stamped on his forehead. But these ones? They were different. Reserved. Confused. Like folk s were trying to puzzle him out. Maybe even a little skittish. 

Must’ve been the extra conditioner. 

Lunch came and went without a word. Nobody said anything, because nobody knew anything.He had to get things patched with Reese before word did get out. Knowing Dustin, that gave him, what? Two days tops? Maybe less. Kid had a magic sense for sniffing out drama. 

He half-considered bribery. Bribe Dustin to keep quiet. Bribe him to get the inside scoop on Reese. Wouldn’t even be hard—the little spy had a knack for eavesdropping on their so-called private moments, anyway.

But it felt wrong. Pipe-dream wrong. And besides, Eddie was pretty sure he could read his girlfriend better than a fourteen-year-old could. 

…His. Maybe not right now, maybe not for long. But still his, in some stubborn corner of his chest. And that thought felt good, even with everything twisted sideways. 

He wasn’t even sure what he’d say to her if she gave him the time of day. 'Hey, sorry I sold drugs.'  Yeah. Great opener, Munson.

Part of him wanted to explain it away, say it wasn’t that bad, just weed, not like her dad probably made it sound. But he knew that wouldn’t cut it. Reese was smart enough to get past excuses. Hell, she probably already had. 

And that was the thing. Deep down, Eddie knew it wasn’t really about the drugs. It was about him hiding it, keeping a whole part of his life locked up because he didn’t want her to see it. Didn’t want her to see him.  

By the time Eddie finally managed to corner Reese— corner was what it felt like—it was right between fifth and sixth. 

She was wearing that same blue-green sweater she’d had on the first time they met. The one with the tiny flowers stitched at the collar and those lace cuffs. Hit him square in the chest, stupid hard. Like the sweater remembered when they were strangers. He wondered if she knew it was the same one.
Probably not. Probably didn’t matter. 

He thought about saying something bold, something dumb enough to crack her smile. Nothing came. Probably for the best. So while she swapped books at her locker, all he managed was: 

“Hey.” 

She looked at him. Just a glance, but her eyes looked greener than usual. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe it was the sweater. Maybe it was that she was starting to look more like her mom than her dad lately. He shoved that thought down when she finally answered, soft and unsure, 

“Hi.” 

Then she went right back to fussing with her locker. Not really doing anything—books already straight, pencils already lined up. Just busywork. 

She was acting like a skittish cat. Like the ones at the trailer park. Not the harmless bashful kind of nervous he loved out of her, but the other kind. The kind that wanted to skip the whole scene—the awkwardness, him, all of it—by pretending it wasn’t there. 

“Are you…” He didn’t know how to finish it. Mad at me? Want me gone? Want me back?  

“Feeling okay?” was what finally tumbled out. Weak. Stupid. But something. 

“Mhm.” 

That was it. She shut the locker gentle, walked off with her eyes on the floor, mouth tugged sideways like it always did when she was doubting something. A few steps, a corner turn, and she was gone. 

Eddie stayed there, swallowing the air she left behind. 

He’d been on a decent streak lately—actually showing up to classes, even if a little late. 

Not today. Today he backslid. And in his head, it was justified. 

He was going to get flowers. 

When the van rattled back into the same spot he’d been in hours ago, Eddie felt stupid all over again. Because the old Eddie—the one who used to clown on himself in his head—would’ve wheeled out a whole cart of crap for this. Skipping class to stand in a florist’s parking lot, buying flowers for the girl whose trust he’d just cracked.

That old Eddie would’ve split a rib. Holding her hair back while she puked? Holding her hand while she prayed? And now this? He would’ve laughed, scoffed, told her, “Your fault for trying to get close to a guy like me. You want a golden boy? Go find a church boy.”  

But Eddie Munson wasn’t that kid anymore. Or at least, he was trying hard not to be. 

And the deeper truth—the part he hated naming because it made him feel a little soft—was that he was in love. And love, he was learning, didn’t mean rolling your eyes when you hurt someone. It meant owning it. Trying to see things their way, even if some devil on your shoulder said it wasn’t a big deal. Because if it hurt Reese? Then it was. End of story. 

He shoved the van door shut, pushed into the florist’s shop, and instantly wanted to push back out. The place was humid in the way senior homes were humid. Hot for no reason, thick like it had been sitting there for years. 

“Welcome in, dear,” a voice of pure prune juice called from somewhere in the back. 

“Uh… hey," Eddie muttered, dumb as it came. 

What a sight he must’ve been. Battle vest, clunky rings, hair like a lion’s mane—and all of it dropped into a world of frilly pink roses and stuffed teddy bears big enough to ride. If Reese saw him now, he’d never hear the end of it. 

He tried to browse, poked his head down one aisle, then another. Didn’t last long. Truth was, he wasn’t even sure he knew what tulips looked like. 

So he made for the back of the shop, toward the voice. 

The woman behind the counter looked exactly like her voice had sounded—short white hair with a faint blue tint, curled in that fluffy halo way old ladies wore it. Big circle glasses, a striped sweater in pink and purple, thick enough to stand on its own. And damn if he couldn’t see Reese wearing one just like it—not in fifty years, but now. 

“Well, how are you today, sweetheart?” she said, smile folding deeper into her wrinkled face. He half-expected her to ask if he was lost or point him toward the arcade two blocks down. But she didn’t. Just looked at him over her Better Homes and Gardens like he belonged there. 

“Uh… are you Mary?” he blurted, like an idiot. Here to buy flowers, not start a pen-pal. 

“Why, yes I am,” she said, pleased. “And who might you be?” 

“Eddie Munson?” It came out like a question, like he wasn’t entirely sure of it himself. 

 “Well, welcome to my floral boutique.” She chuckled, eyes twinkling. “What is it you’re after today, sweetheart?” 

Eddie darted a look around, like the walls might whisper the answer.

“D’you sell tulips? White ones?” 

“Oh yes, of course we do.” She eased herself up from her chair. “So sorry for your loss. Did somebody pass on?” 

Pass on. That killed him. Something about old folks’ phrasing always did. He kinda liked it, though. Reminded him of Reese in a way—gentle, roundabout, never too sharp. 

“Uh, not… exactly,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s my girlfriend. They’re her favorite. I sorta… messed up. Pretty bad. Figured this might be a good first step.” 

Mary nodded like she’d heard it a hundred times. Probably had. Half her customers were likely guys who’d blown it and were trying to crawl their way back into good graces. But her smile was soft, not judgmental, and that took some of the sting out of saying it out loud. 

She led him toward a display of fresh tulips, their petals leaning toward the grow lights like sleepy heads. “How many would you like, sweetheart?”

She’d probably called him sweetheart at least five times during their short interaction, like she had a bottomless jar of it stashed somewhere behind the counter.

Eddie froze. Crap. Why hadn’t he thought this through? How many was the right number? Too many and it looked like he was panicking. Too few and he looked cheap. 

Mary met his eyes over her glasses. “Six’ll usually do the trick for an apology bouquet. Enough to say you mean it, not so many you risk scaring her off. But…” She tilted her head, considering him. “Depends how sorry you are.” 

Eddie blinked. He could practically feel the sweat under his rings. “Uh—very? Like, top-of-the-charts sorry.” 

She chuckled. “Then maybe you go bigger. Twelve never hurt a woman’s feelings. Unless you’re really in the doghouse.” She leaned in just a fraction. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you do?” 

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the rows of delicate petals like they might cover for him. 

“…Complicated,” he muttered. He wasn’t exactly jumping at the idea of telling this sweet old granny he’d been a drug dealer. 

“Let’s just say she’s the best thing in Hawkins, and I pulled a Munson.” 

The woman laughed again, shoulders bouncing, and for a second, Eddie worried she might topple over. 

“She a sweet girl? I take it she’s not quite the diamonds-and-pearls kind of lady, if she prefers tulips to roses?” 

“Oh yeah. Real sweet. Real gentle, too. I dunno why she likes tulips—only that she wanted to plant ’em in her room when she was a kid.” Eddie had no clue why he was unloading his whole life story on this poor old woman. Maybe it was a grandma thing. She didn’t seem to mind. 

“I thought so,” the woman nodded, her hands moving sure and soft and wrinkled as she gathered twelve ivory tulips, wrapping them in parchment. “She sounds like a darling girl.” 

Darling. That was it. That was Reese. The word landed like a bell. 

“Yeah. She is.” he said simply. Then, before he could stop himself: 

 “I think you’d get along with her, actually. She sorta acts like an old lady. I mean—sorry, that sounds rude, but really, she does. Goes to bed at nine even on weekends. Knits. Goes to church 'cause she wants, not ’cause her parents drag her. Says stuff like ‘gee’ and ‘drat.’ She’s… she’s really great.” 

It came out like a flood. Eddie wasn’t trying to get on a soapbox in front of the florist, wasn’t even trying to sell her on Reese. It just felt, in that moment, like if he said it all out loud, maybe the flowers would soak it in—maybe some fairy godmother spell would cling to the petals and make Reese forgive him. 

The woman smiled, sliding numbers onto a ledger. “Sounds like you found yourself a real keeper.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie said, no hesitation. Then softer: “But I dunno if I am.” 

She set her pencil down, considered him for a moment.

“Why don’t you get yourself a little card? Write some of that down for her to read.” 

Eddie nodded, eyes drifting to the rack of cards.
There were plenty of plain ones—black, red, white—that would’ve technically fit the occasion. But his gaze snagged on one so ridiculous it almost hurt his teeth: two kittens, fluffy as clouds, wearing bows and batting at a feather on some pastel backdrop. The kind of thing that belonged on a grandma’s coffee table, or stuck between Happy 80th Birthday and Congrats on Your Baby at the corner store. 

Except this one read: We’re hoping you’ll soon be well.  

A little off the mark. Sorta irreverent. Ironic. 
Reese would love it. 

He plucked it off the rack. The woman glanced at it, rang it up without blinking. Maybe she’d seen weirder things, maybe her eyesight wasn’t sharp enough to catch the pink cursive. 

Eddie grabbed a pen from the counter and bent over the card, scrawling out his message. 

Robin was already mid-rant as they stepped into the lot, plum-toned backpack thumping her hip. 

 “Steve promised we’d alphabetize by director, then bailed the second the label maker died. Now I’ve got three shelves of mystery tapes because the J’s and L’s look the same when the ribbon craps out.” 

Reese giggled. “A tragedy of our time.” The sound broke off in a small shiver, teeth clicking together. The cold was settling in that day, sharp and certain. She’d only just begun to adjust to Indiana’s autumn, and now the air was already creeping toward winter—her breath coming in pale wisps, her morale dipping with the temperature. She wondered, fleetingly, how she’d bear it once the snow came.

Robin’s voice pulled her back before the thought could linger.

“Oh, and Mrs. Turner wants her late fee forgiven because, quote, ‘my VCR ate your movie.’ Your movie, like we manufacture tapes in the back.” 

 Robin popped her eyes. “Also someone returned Ice Pirates without rewinding. Again.” 

“Hang them in the town square,” Reese said mildly. “Right next to the ‘Be Kind, Rewind’ sign.” 

Robin grinned. “See? You get me.” She nudged Reese’s shoulder. “Hey—wait. He didn’t even try to walk you out, huh?” 

Reese kept her eyes on the oil-slick stripes in the pavement. “No.” 

“Like… at all?” 

“He saw we were talking.” Reese shrugged, focused on trying to pull her sleeve over her knuckles. “It would’ve been… a lot.” 

Robin made a face, then let it go. “Okay. Fine. But later you’re weighing in on whether our new ‘Staff Picks’ shelf is modern art or a cry for help.” 

“Modern art,” Reese nodded.. “With criminal aspirations.” 

They approached the Firebird, but the scene waiting on the windshield wasn’t the usual one. 

“Is that… are those—?” Robin squinted. 

“White tulips,” Reese breathed. She lifted the wiper, easing them free, as though they were little finches caught in a black rubber hunting trap.

Twelve of them. Pale and ghostly under the overcast sky. Still shut tight in buds, not yet in bloom.  

"These are my favorite..." The words rose unbidden, like a gavel striking each consonant. She brought the bundle to her nose, the alabaster petals cool and waxy against her cheek. They didn’t smell floral so much as green—like grass in the morning after the sprinklers had gone off, but still, they were wonderful. 

“There’s a card,” Robin noted, a little triumphant, as if she’d uncovered a clue in one of Nancy Drew’s mysteries. 

Reese plucked it out, turning it over in her hands. Her fingers moved slow, stiff with the whisper of numbness, already glowing pink from the cold, though she’d only been outside a few minutes. The chill made the card feel almost sharp against her skin. Robin, somehow, seemed unbothered—managing just fine.

The front was winsome. Two kittens, impossibly fluffy, tangled in pastel bows, batting at a feather. Above them, a thin twist of cursive declared: We’re hoping you’ll soon be well.  

Her brows drew together. She glanced up at Robin, just for a second, before unfolding it. 

Inside was Eddie’s handwriting, his usual chicken-scratch, though this time there was the faint suggestion he’d tried to keep it legible. 

Me + these kittens are real sorry for makin’ you hurl your waffle. 
The old lady who sold me these flowers? Total peach. (Kinda like you.) 
We talked about you the whole time. Don’t worry — only the flattering stuff. 

On the other side, he’d drawn a stick figure with ragamuffin hair, holding what was a surprisingly accurate cross wrench and a wheel. 

P.S. What d’you think about “Eddie the Mechanic?” 
Got an interview at Darryl’s this week. (Grease monkey glory. Try not to swoon.) 

And beneath it, written with no attempt at disguise: 

I love you, Moonlight. Even if you don’t love me back right now. 
—E 

She hadn’t meant to smile. Yet there it was, tugging at her mouth anyway. 

“What does it say?” Robin asked, her eyes wide, that same lemur-curiosity she wore whenever Reese was withholding information.

Reese pressed her lips together, forced the smile away, and wordlessly handed her the card. 

The following three days unfolded much the same as Monday. Reese ruminating on Eddie, catching herself watching him from afar, rereading each little note he slipped into her locker until the edges grew soft. Like maybe, if she read them enough, one of them might hold the answer she needed. 

Tuesday, the 5th: 
A crooked doodle of him holding a paper labeled RESUME in one hand and a tulip in the other. The caption read: 
Working on two things at once: cars + not being an idiot. Progress pending. 

And scrawled beneath it: 
P.S. How’d the math test go? Bet you aced it. I still don’t know what an isosceles is, but I’d fight one for you. 

Wednesday, the 6th: 
A poorly drawn cartoon mouse that looked more like a dog, clutching a piece of candy. 
Any woodland critter sightings? Asking for a friend who may or may not be jealous of owls. 

And in the bottom corner: 
Miss you, Mouse. Not saying that for pity points. Just true. 

Thursday, the 7th: 
Sock Sucker doin’ OK? Haven’t seen the kid around. Tell him I finally beat Jeff at Defender last night. (Don’t tell Jeff I said that.) 

Beside it, a stick-figure Eddie drawn on his knees, holding flowers with a frowny face.
Still sorry. Still waiting.  

That last one felt like a key turned in some secret garden latch. She wept softly at her vanity that Thursday night, the notes spread before her like petals pressed thin with handling. Because he was trying. And she missed him. Missed him like the quiet missed birdsong. It would’ve been easy to return, to fall into the safe crook of his arm, and press kisses on his cheeks and lips as though that could suture the wounds closed.

But easy wasn’t the same as right. She knew if she went back too quickly, she wouldn’t have the strength to walk away if it turned out he hadn't changed. So she prayed—constantly, quietly—that God would guide her. She wanted to forgive Eddie. In truth, she already had. 

What held her back wasn’t forgiveness. It was fear. Some stubborn, human, maybe even childish part of her was scared to hand her heart right back. 

She didn’t really think of them as broken up, not all the way. When girls in class asked, her answer was always, “Things aren’t good right now.” Not ended. Not finished. Just… not good. 

She wasn’t trying to punish Eddie, though sometimes it felt like that when she read his notes. She questioned herself endlessly: was she being stubborn? Selfish? Immature? Harsh? 

But was fear of being those things really a good reason to rush back? 

Those thoughts trailed her through every hallway, every night, never letting her rest easy. 

She told herself they’d get better. But what if he was only doing this because he missed her? What if the change was temporary? Why had he only started to change once she’d caught him? 

She could love him without letting him hold her heart, she thought. Even if it hurt like dying a little. 

It wasn’t till Friday that things came to a real crescendo. 

Reese wasn’t deaf. She heard people talking all week, each day the tales becoming taller and taller. Saying he screwed up. Saying they were fighting. Other untrue things. But Friday, like the exclamation point of the week it was, insisted on excitement. 

'Excitement' wasn’t the word Reese would’ve chosen as she found her way into the hall of Hawkin's High that morning. Hellfire was tonight. She still hadn’t decided if she would attend; if she could be bold and stand her ground and make it plain that her place at the table wasn’t borrowed. The guys were hers, too.
Not in any flagpole-in-the-ground way. Their loyalty was with Eddie, and she knew it. It was more about proving to them she didn’t show up just because she liked Eddie.
Dustin had been the first to tug her toward the dungeon map, after all. 

That thought slid to a back burner as the day heated. 

By second period, the gymnasium had that forlorn November echo—rain that came and went, wind that rattled the old window panes at the top of the gym, basketballs thudding like a second heartbeat. Reese took the far half court to herself, steady layups, catch-breath, layups again. She wasn’t particularly good, hence why she was playing by herself. At the next hoop, a  small group of friends passed their ball aimlessly and talked like echoes made them invisible. 

“She was crying, Amber. Like... full-on.”  

“’Cause she found out he sells."

Another voice—louder, pleased to know things: “No, my cousin Lawrence was there. He said Munson tried something under the table, she bolted, puked her guts out, then started crying. Like—actual baby crying.”  

A beat; the rim sang off a bad shot. Then a girl from the sideline, soft: “Gross. Poor thing.”  

Reese set, released. The ball kissed the backboard and dropped. She caught it on the bounce with both hands and held on longer than she needed to, palms pressed like prayer around the leather, and moved to the next mark without looking over. 

By lunch the air felt heavy with it. Near the lockers after fourth period, two jocks drifted past behind her, not shouting, but sharp enough that she knew they wanted her to hear.

“Don’t sit by Munson at lunch unless you like hands under the table.” 

“Better bring a barf bag.” 

Reese’s spine went straight. Robin didn't say anything this time, just lightly rubbed Reese's shoulder. It was enough.

Across the current of students, Eddie caught the echo too. He didn’t bark back. He just found her face, holding steady like he could anchor there. She looked away, smoothing the edge of her notebook until the paper bowed. 

It kept building, little taps on the same bruise, until last bell. 

The hallway T-intersection outside her locker was a slow river of polyester and varsity jackets and spiral-bound notebooks. Jason stood ten feet off, talking to Mr. Walters, a straight spine of Sunday neat in a Friday crowd. Andy veered out of that orbit with two teammates, bright as a new penny, too loud on purpose. 

But Eddie reached her first. “Hi,” he said, careful. 

“Hi,” Reese echoed, letting it be small. 

Andy slid in three steps later, grin turned up just enough for the audience. “Hey, Reese—gonna cry on him again today, or you saving it for the parking lot?” 

Snickers. And then, as if one quip wasn’t enough to boost his ego, he'd tacked on the next with a tone akin to that of discovering fire for the first time: “Aw—Prudey and the Freak. Kinda has a ring to it.” 

Something in her chest that had been tight all week pulled tighter. Then it held. It wasn’t even about the comment, she barely processed it.
Her jaw set. The muscle jumped once, then went still. 
She felt the hinge of her shoulders lock into place, blades meeting like a closed book. 
Her fingers found the cold line of her locker door and pressed—just enough to feel metal answer back. 
She made her breath small and even so it wouldn’t shake. 

Jason’s warning in the parking lot. 
The escape route offered like her voice didn’t count. 
Every smirk Andy had ever thrown her way—every careless word he’d tossed and walked away from. When he’d pulled her hair like it was his. 
The men in the pickup with their hungry eyes. 
Every boy, every man who glanced at her quiet and decided it meant easy. 

Heat climbed the edges of her ears. She tucked her thumb into her sleeve so she wouldn’t clench her fist. 
Her tongue pressed the roof of her mouth, steadying the tremor that wanted to be there. 
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a line that would not move. 

Reese shut her locker with a gentle hand. For a just a second, her gaze rested on the dainty silver ring crowning her middle finger. She hardly noticed it most days, but it had never left her hand—her grandmother’s ring. If only her grandma were here, not two thousand miles away in Gold Beach. The thought steadied her. She turned—not to Andy, not to Jason, but past them—toward Eddie.

“That’s enough, thank you,” Reese said over her shoulder. Speaking up at all was enough of a battle. It wasn't loud, didn't make the earth quiver beneath her. It probably sounded a little meek still. But it was something, even if she couldn't look them in the eye.

Andy’s grin flickered. “Kidding, Reese. C’mon.” The way he said it made her stomach churn. He’d said it almost like he was her boyfriend, like Eddie was just some creep bothering her. But he didn’t stop there.  

“He’s the one who made you cry. Want me to walk you to Ms. Kelley’s office? So y’can file a report?” 

That did it. She didn’t answer him. She stepped forward and took Eddie’s hand. Fingers threaded, sure. His rings cold against the warmth of his skin. 

Then she started walking. Through the knot of boys. Past Jason’s unreadable look. Through the river of backpacks and paper and noise—taking Eddie with her. 

Eddie’s breath caught. “Reese—” 

“Just keep walking,” she whispered. 

So walking they kept. 

They turned the corner, the sound of the hall thinning behind them. She didn’t let go right away. Not because everything was fixed, not because the rumors stopped meaning anything, but because this was what she could say today: No, thank you. I choose him. Not with speeches. With feet. 

At the end of the corridor she let his hand go. Eddie didn’t chase the grip back; he only squeezed once, quick, and stepped aside enough to give her air. 

She didn't say anything at first, just stared at the ground. Eventually, she peered up at him, lips pursed until she spoke,
“I hated that they said that.” She said softly. “About you.” 

His brows furrowed, eyes deep and brown like the bottoms of wells that made your stomach spin a little when you got too close to falling in.

“I know.” Was all he said. It was all that needed to be said. 

The Friday noise picked up. After-school engines coughing to life outside. Reese’s eyes met the doors. Hellfire was still undecided, a dozen small choices lined up behind it. But for now, the exclamation point of the week had been made, and it was a quiet one. 

“Can I… walk you to your car?” Eddie asked, soft and coarse all at once, in that impossible Eddie way. 

She looked up at him through her lashes, mouth beginning to twist. 

“I don’t know—” 

“—Please.” He cut in, earnest.
Like he wanted nothing more than this.
Like he needed nothing more than this. 

She honored him. Gave him a piece of what he’d reached for in the diner lot.

“Okay.”  

The walk to the Firebird was quiet. Awkward. But not bad. He didn’t pepper her with questions. Didn’t ask if she was coming tonight. 

Just let the silence be what it was. Present. Trying. Getting it right. 

When Eddie got home that afternoon, he slipped past Wayne asleep on the fold-out, sneakers soft on the linoleum, and went straight for his room. The metal lunchbox sat where it always sat. He popped the latch. The lid breathed out that familiar, stale-skunky smell. 

He didn’t think about it. He scooped the baggies, the papers, a resin-crusted tin. Bathroom. Lid up. One, two—gone. Not the smartest way, sure. Trash felt temporary. Fire was a smell you never got out. Water was a door that shut. Reese would probably have some holy word for it. Baptism or whatever. Washing the sin off. He snorted under his breath—then hated how right it sounded.

He turned the tap and let it roar, holding the little pipe under the stream. Resin bled out in greasy ribbons, staining the porcelain a sick brown. He grabbed a rag and scrubbed until the black ring thinned, swirled, slipped away. When the last flecks spiraled toward the drain he almost—almost—reached after them. Muscle memory. A flinch. Money down the drain, literally. His fingers twitched against the sink.

He stopped. 

Her hand, sudden and sure, threaded through his in the hall. Not the shy grip from last week at Hellfire, the one she’d dropped the second the guys clattered in, leaving him with that hot, stupid fear in his throat that maybe she didn’t want to be seen choosing him. Not that. Today had been different. She’d been mad. Or hurt. And she’d still taken his hand. And he knew it scared her. But she’d done it anyway. 

The drain gurgled. He let the rag go slack, then wrung it out and wiped the last damp ring until the porcelain shone. 

Back in his room, the lunchbox yawned, empty metal sounding bigger than it was. He looked at it a second. Then dug into his wallet and pulled the crinkled receipt from Mary’s Flowers, edges gone soft where he’d worried them with his thumb. He slid it inside. 

Next, he reached for the half-crumpled sheet from his notebook, the one he'd gone back and added lines, only to cross them out. All but that first one he'd jotted down Sunday night. The song that wouldn’t land but wouldn’t let him go. That went in too. 

He shut the lid. Let the click sit in the room a moment.

A box that used to hold everything reckless now held the fragile proof of something—someone—worth keeping.
Someone worth flushing your shitty weed for.