Eddie Munson’s pretty damn sure the universe is screwing with him.

Because he’s supposed to be a fugitive—supposed to be hiding out, laying low, not drawing attention, not thinking about girls—and yet here she is again, sitting cross-legged on the sagging carpet of Reefer Rick’s living room, a half-eaten bowl of Honeycomb in her lap and a joint balanced between her fingers.

She wasn’t supposed to be the one doing “Eddie-sitting.” Steve and Robin had promised they’d take turns, then absolutely ditched the responsibility onto her like passing off a cursed object. “You’re home for break anyway,” Steve had said. “He likes you,” Robin had added, like that wasn’t painfully obvious.

And now Eddie’s stuck with the fact that they’re alone. Again.

Curtains drawn. Lights low. Everything smelling faintly like lake water and old weed. The vinyl player low in the background. She’s in jeans and a Purdue sweatshirt, beat up converse and bracelets that jangle with her movements.

He keeps stealing glances—the kind he hopes she doesn’t catch, even though she always does. And she always smirks like she knows something he doesn’t.

She wasn’t popular back in school. Robin had cued him in about her—band kid, smart, funny, a little awkward. Eddie had only known of her: the girl who never fit cleanly into any of the Hawkins cliques. He remembers seeing her once or twice, drifting down the halls with sheet music sticking out of her backpack. He didn’t know her then.

Now he can’t stop thinking about her.

She passes the joint back, fingers brushing his, and his brain short-circuits for a second too long. Long enough for her to notice.

“Y’know…” she says, leaning back on her hands, “you’re acting weird.”

Eddie snorts softly. “You’re the one eating my entire box of Honeycomb. I think that counts as the weirdest thing happening in this room.”

She kicks his shin gently. “Shut up. I bought it for you.”

“Yeah, but you’re still eating it,” he fires back, grinning.

She rolls her eyes and takes the joint again, inhaling, slow and lazy, watching him over the smoke. And that’s the part killing him—the watching. She watches him like she’s already memorized what he looks like in the dark, like she knows where he keeps the soft parts he doesn’t show anyone else.

And hell, maybe she does.

They’ve already kissed once. Twice. The kind of kisses that happen because they’re stoned and talking too much and leaning too close. Kisses that were supposed to be accidents but definitely weren’t. Kisses that he’s been thinking about every time she walks through the door with another grocery bag and that bright, unbothered Hello.

He tries to play it cool. He always tries. She makes it impossible.

She exhales, drops her head back against the couch, neck exposed to the orange lamp glow. “So,” she murmurs, “what are we talking about tonight? More childhood trauma? More ‘how I totally didn’t murder anyone’? Or do you wanna continue debating which Scoops Ahoy sailor hat looked dumber?”

He laughs—real, barking, unfiltered. “Yours. Obviously yours.”

“Liar.”

“Absolutely not a liar,” he says, leaning closer without meaning to. “You looked like a depressed Popeye.”

She shoves him again, but he catches her wrist this time—gently, thumb brushing her pulse before he realizes he’s doing it. Her breath gets just a little uneven. That’s all it takes to tilt the whole room.

He lets go, but the air stays charged.

They stare at each other for a beat too long.

Outside, everything is falling apart—monsters, murders, the kind of nightmare he’s barely holding together in his head. But in here? In this tiny, ugly living room with her knees brushing his thigh and the taste of smoke in the air? It feels almost normal.

She lifts the cereal again, scooping a handful and offering it to him, palm cupped like a dare.

“Hungry?” she asks softly.

Yeah. God, yeah. And not for the cereal.

“Might be,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to hers. “Depends on what you’re offering.”