It’s past midnight when Eddie Munson shows up at your window.

The first thing you notice is the frantic tapping — too sharp, too desperate to be a stray branch. You push back your curtains, half-expecting to see raccoons or rain, but instead, there he is — Eddie — wide-eyed, pale, breathing like he’s been running for miles. His van is nowhere in sight, probably hidden somewhere in the trees behind your house, and he’s wearing the same denim vest and Hellfire shirt he always does.

When you unlatch the window, he climbs through like a ghost trying to remember how to be human. His hands shake as they grip your sill. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first.

“Lock it,” he says hoarsely. “Just—lock it, okay?”

You do. The house is quiet except for the sound of his heavy breathing and the distant hum of your record player still spinning an old song. The contrast is surreal — your room smells like vanilla candles and rain, your Fleetwood Mac poster stares down from the wall — and Eddie Munson looks like the world just ended outside.

He sinks to the floor, back against your dresser, running his hands through his hair. His rings catch the faint glow of your bedside lamp. There’s something raw in his eyes, something terrified.

“Eddie,” you whisper, crouching beside him. “What happened?”

He laughs, but it’s not the usual Eddie laugh — it’s jagged, hollow. “You’re gonna think I’ve lost my mind,” he mutters. “Hell, maybe I have. But Chrissy—she—she’s dead.”

The words hang there. He looks up at you like he’s bracing for impact.

“We were just doing a deal at my trailer, okay? I didn’t—God, I didn’t do anything. I swear. But it was like—something out of a nightmare. She just—” His voice cracks, and he presses a trembling hand over his mouth. “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t go to the cops. They’ll never believe me. You know what they already think of me.”

You reach for him — slowly, carefully — and when your hand touches his, he flinches before holding on like it’s the only real thing in the room.

“You did the right thing coming here,” you say quietly.

He shakes his head, hair falling into his face. “No, I didn’t. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me right now. I’m the goddamn freak of Hawkins, and now everyone’s gonna think I’m a killer too.”

But you can see past the panic, the adrenaline — the same sharp, defiant spark that made you fall for him in the first place, even when you pretended you hadn’t. You slide closer, your knees brushing his.

“Eddie,” you murmur, “I believe you.”

He looks up then — really looks — and something in his shoulders finally gives. “Yeah?” His voice cracks again, softer this time, full of disbelief.