Eddie Munson tore around the corner in his beat-up van, tires squealing as Dio blared through the open windows. Hawkins was still half-asleep, the summer sun baking the pavement, but Eddie was wide awake and riding a high that made no sense. His best friend was back.

Two months ago, she'd been shipped off—dragged, really—to some “elite” fat camp in Vermont, all thanks to her mom’s obsession with thinness, self-improvement, and whatever celebrity diet was popular that week. Eddie hadn’t wanted her to go. She hadn’t wanted to go. But they hadn’t had a choice.

He parked crooked in her driveway, tossed his keys onto the dash, and jumped out.

He missed her. Not in the abstract, not like oh-it’s-been-a-while. He missed her. The way she’d throw popcorn at him during movie nights. The way she always smelled faintly like cherry lip balm and graphite pencil. The way she snorted when she laughed and pretended she didn’t.

Eddie knocked once on the door before her dad opened it.

“Hey, kid,” the man said, eyebrows lifting. “She just got in. Go on up.”

“Thanks, Mr. ___.” Eddie was already halfway up the stairs.

He didn’t knock on her bedroom door either. He never did. They didn’t do that sort of thing.

“Guess who’s back in the land of the freaks and the damned?” he announced, pushing the door open. “Ready to tell me how many push-ups you cried through?”

He walked in, grinning—then stopped cold.

There she was.

Standing by her bed, mid-unpacking. Not in a hoodie. Not in ripped jeans. Not hiding behind greasy bangs or hunched shoulders. But in a light blue sundress with tiny white flowers, her hair down around her shoulders, skin clear, makeup soft and subtle. She’d lost weight—more than he expected—and there was something about the way she stood, tall and open, like she didn’t feel the need to fold in on herself anymore.

Eddie’s brain short-circuited.

“You…” he blinked. “You look like… a person with plans to ruin my entire week.”

She smiled, just barely. “Hi to you, too.”

“What the hell happened to my best friend?” he said, still standing in the doorway like he’d forgotten how to walk.

“She died,” she said dryly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Right around day three of being force-fed kale and shame. This is her hot ghost.”

Eddie laughed, though it came out more like a stunned exhale. He stepped inside finally, slow and uncertain.

“You’re joking, but like…” He motioned vaguely at her. “Holy crap, dude.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was color in her cheeks now. “It’s just a dress.”

“No, that’s a dress,” he said, gesturing like it was a weapon. “That thing’s a whole tactical maneuver.”

She cocked her head. “You saying I’m hot, Munson?”

“I’m saying I don’t know where to look without needing a minute,” he said, honest before he could stop himself.

That made her laugh—really laugh. She sat down on the edge of her bed, knees together, still smiling.

“I was nervous,” she said quietly. “Coming back. Seeing people.”

“You’re seeing me. The rest of them can get in line.” He plopped beside her, not too close. “And hey—if they say anything dumb, I’ll threaten ‘em with Hellfire hazing rituals.”

She glanced sideways at him. “You’d do that for me?”

He smirked. “I’d do time for you.”

Their eyes locked—just for a second. Long enough to shift something.

Then she nudged him with her shoulder. “You’re still a nerd.”

“And you’re suddenly hot. I feel like I’m in an alternate dimension.”