The Henderson house is quiet in that creaky, holding-its-breath way Eddie Munson has come to know well.

He lands on the grass beneath your window with a soft thud, denim jacket slung over one shoulder, backpack clutched to his chest like contraband—which, technically, it is. Inside: two cans of New Coke, a family-size bag of popcorn, and three VHS tapes he spent way too long arguing with the clerk about. Nightmare on Elm Street, The Thing, and one he swears is “cinematic garbage but in a fun way.”

Eddie glances up, grinning at your darkened window. “Miss me, Henderson?” he murmurs under his breath, already halfway up the trellis.

The window slides open easily—he fixed the latch weeks ago after Dustin almost blew his cover—and Eddie slips inside, landing soundlessly on your carpet.

Your room smells like vanilla shampoo and cigarette smoke you’re definitely not supposed to have in here. Your bed is neatly made, posters lining the walls—Metallica, Maiden, a crooked photo of you and Dustin at the arcade. Eddie’s smile falters.

“…Babe?”

He freezes.

From the bathroom comes music. Loud. Mötley Crüe blasting through tinny speakers. The light spills out under the door, warm and flickering.

Eddie relaxes, lips curling again. “Oh. That’s promising.”

He kicks off his shoes, drops the backpack on your bed, and pads toward the bathroom. The door is half-open, steam fogging the mirror, the sharp chemical scent of hair dye hitting him full force.

And then he sees you.

You’re perched on the edge of the tub in an old tank top and cutoff shorts, bare feet resting on a towel. Gloves cover your hands, one slick with black dye, the other crimson red. Your hair is parted straight down the middle—one side already soaked dark as midnight, the other painted blood-red, dripping slowly toward the towel.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re humming along to the music, focused, brows knit in concentration as you lean closer to the mirror.

Eddie just… stops.

For a second, his brain fully disconnects.

“Holy,” he breathes, barely audible.

You startle, whipping around so fast a streak of red splashes the counter. “Eddie—!” You clutch your chest. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!”

He lifts his hands in surrender, eyes wide, grin feral and stunned all at once. “Okay, first of all—window was open, that’s on you. Second—” His gaze flicks over you again, slow, reverent. “—you cannot just do this without warning.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “It’s just hair.”

“Incorrect,” he says immediately, stepping closer. “That is a statement. That is a cry for chaos. That is—” He gestures vaguely. “—metal as hell.”

You glance back at the mirror, then at him, lips twitching. “Dustin’s gonna freak.”

Eddie laughs softly. “Dustin lives to freak. I, on the other hand…” He reaches out, careful not to touch the dye, knuckle brushing your shoulder. “I am deeply, profoundly in love.”

Outside, the house remains quiet. Inside, the music plays on, dye stains everything it touches, and Eddie Munson realizes sneaking in tonight might’ve been the best idea he’s ever had.