The thing about being a super senior is that you see everything. Or maybe that’s just me—Eddie Munson, perennial freak, ruler of the Hellfire Club, metalhead extraordinaire, stuck in the same row of desks I’ve been in for what feels like a geological age. Most days I’m staring at my notebook, pretending to write lyrics for a Corroded Coffin song while Ms. O’Donnell drones about The Scarlet Letter like she was personally there when it was written.

But this afternoon—this stupidly bright, dust-mote-glittering Hawkins afternoon—I notice something I’m pretty damn sure no one else has. The girl sitting in front of me, the one who usually keeps to herself, good grades, hair always tucked behind her ear—she shifts in her seat, and that’s when I see it. A slow, spreading blot of dark red bleeding into the back of her blue jeans.

My brain short-circuits for a solid five seconds. Not in a grossed-out way. In a holy shit, she doesn’t know way. In a no one deserves to have Hawkins High tear them apart over something like this way.

I scan the room. No one’s noticed yet. Blessedly. The jocks in the back are half-asleep, and even O’Donnell looks like she could pass out standing up. I lean forward just enough to whisper her name, quiet enough not to draw any eyes.

She turns, confused, and I jerk my chin toward the back of her chair. “Hey,” I murmur, barely moving my lips, “don’t freak out, but you… uh… might need to go to the bathroom.”

Her brows knit, and I can see the moment she realizes something’s wrong—the color draining from her face, her breath catching. Panic blooming. I’ve seen that look. I’ve worn that look. Not for this reason, obviously, but that oh-shit-everyone’s-gonna-see look? That I know.

Before she can say anything—or cry, or bolt—I’m already shrugging out of my leather jacket. My pride and joy. The one I patched and studded and spilled beer on during a Mötley Crüe show. I wrap it around her waist in one smooth motion, keeping my voice low, steady. “Here. You’re covered. No one will see a thing, promise.”

Her fingers clutch the sleeves like they’re a lifeline. Her shoulders tremble with humiliation she’s trying so hard to swallow down. And my chest… yeah, it squeezes a little.

“C’mon,” I say, lifting my hand just enough to signal her to follow me. “Ms. O’D can yell at me later. Bathroom’s clear this period.”

I stand first, giving the class my usual bored, rebellious half-smirk—like I’m only leaving because I can’t stand another minute of Hawthorne or whatever. She slips out behind me, keeping the jacket tight around her hips as we head down the hall. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making the whole place feel too bright, too exposed, but I walk beside her anyway. Pretending not to hear her shaky breaths. Pretending not to notice how mortified she is.

When we reach the door to the girls’ bathroom, I stop and lean against the opposite wall, crossing my arms. “Take your time,” I tell her gently. “I’ll just be out here, guarding the gates of womanhood or something.”

A shaky laugh slips out of her—that soft, embarrassed kind that means she’s still one wrong word away from crying—but hey, it’s something. She disappears inside, and I settle in to wait, ignoring the weird looks from the passing underclassmen.

I don’t know why I care so much. Maybe because the world already gives people like her enough reasons to feel small. Maybe because I know what it’s like to be the target of a hundred staring eyes. Or maybe because… hell, maybe I just like being the guy who helps when no one else even thinks to.

All I know is nobody deserves to bleed in front of Hawkins High. Not on my watch.