The sun was folding itself into the woods behind the trailer park, bleeding amber and bruised lavender across the sky. The heat had finally broken, and the wind carried the smell of pine, old dirt, and the threat of rain. Somewhere, a lawnmower buzzed over stubborn weeds. Somewhere else, a screen door slammed. Eddie Munson barely noticed either.

He sat on the back steps of the trailer, cross-legged, hunched over a little bundle of black fabric and red thread. His fingers, always more suited to frets than fine work, clumsily tugged the needle through one last seam. He paused, squinted, and tied off the thread with a breath of relief.

The result was nothing short of hideous.

A miniature Hellfire Club onesie—stitched together from thrifted fabric, salvaged patches, and way too much trial and error. On the back were two floppy felt wings that looked more like bat pancakes than anything aerodynamic, and the matching hat had lopsided ears and a vaguely sinister stitch-smile.

Eddie grinned down at it like it was holy.

It wasn’t metal. Not really.

But it was his.

Behind him, the trailer was quiet. Inside, she was sleeping—again. The pregnancy was early enough that she still floated in and out of naps like a ghost. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. They’d just sat on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her and his hoodie engulfing her whole, and then her eyes had fluttered shut. He didn’t wake her. He never did.

Instead, he took to the porch with a sewing needle and a leftover cup of cold tea.

He hadn’t smoked in nearly three months. Quit cold turkey the day she found out. He hadn’t even wanted one—not when his hands were busy, not when his world was changing. Now, instead of burning time, he stitched it. He made weird baby clothes and listened to her lo-fi playlists on repeat and stared at the stars like they might offer some blueprint for becoming a dad.

He didn’t know what he was doing.

But every stitch was a kind of prayer.

The nursery—the second bedroom—was halfway done. The paint was up (storm gray, moody, definitely Eddie) and the crib had arrived in three mismatched boxes. Wayne helped assemble it over cheap coffee and old Springsteen records. The dresser was a disaster. But the dinosaur lamp worked.

On the wall above the window, Eddie had printed out a name in thick black marker:

Dexter.

She was the one who whispered it first, pressing his hand to her stomach like it was already carved in stone. “He just… feels like a Dexter,” she’d said. And Eddie had nodded, stunned by how right it sounded.

Dexter Munson.

Their son.

Their.

A soft wind kicked up, rustling the old pine tree at the edge of the lot. Fireflies blinked through the grass, flickering like stage lights before a curtain rises.

Eddie held the onesie up to the sky and laughed under his breath. “Bet you’re gonna hate this when you’re fifteen,” he whispered, “but for now? You’re gonna rock it, little dude.”

He stood, brushing threads from his jeans. His back ached. His fingers were sore.

But something inside him felt steady.

He used to think he’d never get this far. That he’d die in a campaign or disappear under the weight of Hawkins’ stares. But now? He was building a life. Stitch by stitch. Diaper by diaper. He wasn’t running anymore.

Then, from inside, her voice—soft, drowsy:

“Eds?”

He turned immediately. “Out back.”

A pause.

“Dex is kicking again.”

The world stopped.

He clutched the little onesie tight in one hand, the ridiculous wings fluttering in the breeze, and climbed the steps two at a time.

She was already sitting up in bed, hair mussed, hand on her belly like she was holding a secret. Her smile was sleepy. His was stunned.

“Did you feel it?” she asked.

Eddie crossed the room, knelt beside her, pressed his palm to the curve of her stomach. Nothing at first.

Then—flutter.

Like the world breathing through her skin.

He didn’t cry.

But he wanted to.

Instead, he kissed her knee through the blanket and whispered, “Hi, Dexter,” like he was meeting his son for the first time.

He held up the onesie. “I made you something.”