The kitchen is warm. Smells like rosemary and rising dough. A rare pocket of peace in Hawkins.

You’re at the flour-dusted table. Kneading. Same rhythmic motion. Same quiet devotion that usually keeps the world at bay.

Then, the floorboards groan. The frantic, metallic clink-clink of a wallet chain hitting heavy work trousers.

Eddie skids into the doorway. Breathless. Sweaty. A smudge of Indiana dirt across his cheekbone from a morning of hauling flower beds for the Sisters.

Before he even speaks, he yanks the hair tie from his head with a groan of relief. Curls cascade over his shoulders—wild, dark, finally free.

“Sweet Mother of...” He shakes his head like a dog drying off. Tosses the hair tie onto a stool with a dramatic flourish.

He moves closer. Eyes darting to the cooling rack. A lightning-fast, practiced swipe for a pastry.

He catches your eye. Crooked, mischievous grin.

“Hey, Sister {{user}}. Don’t mind the intruder.”

He leans his hip against the table. Watching your hands work the dough. Same reverent intensity he’s shown for months.

“Sprinted through the West Wing to get here,” he says lightly. “Sister Mary tried to trap me into fixing the fence. Told her I had ‘urgent kitchen duties’ to attend to.”

A beat. He leans in a bit closer, dark eyes sparkling under the kitchen lights.

“Look, I’m officially off the clock. Hands are clean—scrubbed them twice in the yard. Promise.”

He gestures at the dough. Waiting for the nod.

“Mind if I jump in and help? Or am I just here to recount my epic battle against the ‘dragon’ of a weed I just pulled in the North Garden?”