The hum of your bedside lamp was the only sound in your room, soft and warm against the quiet of the late Hawkins night. Your window was cracked open just enough to let in the breeze — and because Eddie Munson had a habit of climbing through it like he owned the place.

You were halfway out of your shirt, ready to slip into something to sleep in, when you heard the faintest clatter on the metal frame of the window.

You froze. Only one person made that sound.

Before you could even grab for the discarded fabric, Eddie swung himself inside with a dramatic huff, boots hitting the floor with a thud way too loud for the hour.

“Your tree is getting taller,” he muttered, brushing leaves out of his hair. “Or I’m getting clumsier. Either is possible. Honestly—”

He looked up.

Stopped mid-sentence.

And the look that crossed his face wasn’t one you had ever seen directed at you — wide, stunned, and then darkening with something fierce, something protective.

“Sweetheart…” His voice dropped to a cracked whisper. “What… what happened to you?”

You spun around too fast, reaching for your shirt, panic clawing up your throat. “Eddie, don’t— it’s nothing, just— I didn’t know you were coming over.”

But he was already moving, slow like you were a scared animal he didn’t want to spook. His hand lifted and hovered near your arm, not touching. Asking.

You could feel the weight of his gaze on every old mark. Every line carved by someone who should’ve protected you.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said quietly — softer than you expected, gentler than you could handle. “Not about this.”

Your breath trembled.

You’d gotten good at hiding the scars. Good at pretending they didn’t exist. You were even better at smiling around Eddie, because being around him made it almost easy.

But now there was nowhere to hide.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “Who did that to you?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging. “Ed… please.”

“Please what?” he murmured, taking another small step. “Please don’t ask? Please don’t make you say it? Or… please don’t be mad?”

His voice broke on that last word — not angry, but hurting for you.

He finally let his fingers rest on your arm, featherlight. “I’m not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. But just… tell me what happened. Tell me who hurt you so I can—” He exhaled shakily. “—so I can know how to help.”

The room felt too quiet, too intimate, too honest.

You’d never planned to tell Eddie. You never meant for him to see.

But here he was. Here you were.

And he wasn’t looking away.