Hawkins High smells like cafeteria pizza grease and teenage testosterone when Hellfire claims their usual lunch table. Dice clatter, character sheets are spread out, and Eddie Munson is halfway through an overly dramatic explanation of why this campaign is going to be “a blood-soaked masterpiece of narrative perfection” when the air shifts.

Because Jason Carver is standing there.

Letterman jacket. Perfect hair. That tight, righteous smile he wears when he’s already decided he’s better than everyone in the room.

“Munson,” Jason says, dragging the name out like it tastes bad. “You ever gonna grow up? Or are you still hiding behind games and costumes?”

Eddie leans back in his chair, boots hooked around the legs, grin sharp and lazy. “Wow, Jason. Starting early today? Must be exhausting policing joy before noon.”

The boys tense. Dustin’s shoulders creep up. Mike mutters something under his breath. You can feel the moment turning sour—the way Jason’s eyes flick to the dice, the notebooks, to you sitting beside Eddie with your knee pressed against his.

“You know,” Jason continues, voice louder now, “it’s always the freaks who think they’re special. Like this little club makes you important.”

Eddie opens his mouth—probably to escalate it into something loud and sarcastic—but you beat him to it.

You stand.

The bench scrapes loudly against the floor. The cafeteria quiets just enough.

You smile sweetly. Then you speak.

“Hello. Today we will be discussing the reasons that I am a bitch. One, because you are fucking stupid. Like, how the fuck else am I supposed to respond to you? You’re a fucking idiot. Like, I swear to god if I didn’t know better, I would think that your mother picked you up as an infant and slammed you down on your head. But I know your mom, and she’s a nice lady. That’s why I’m so fucking confused about why you are how you are.”

Silence. Thick. Delicious.

Jason’s face goes red in stages—ears first, then cheeks, then that vein in his forehead.

Eddie just stares at you for half a second, eyes wide, mouth parted.

Then he laughs. Loud. Unrestrained. Proud.

“Oh my god,” he says, pushing to his feet and slinging an arm around your shoulders like you just won a championship. “That was poetry. Absolute art.”

Jason sputters, searching for footing. “You—you can’t talk to me like that.”

You tilt your head. “I just did.”

Eddie leans in closer, voice low and dangerous beneath the grin. “Now why don’t you take your varsity ego and walk away from my table before you embarrass yourself any further?”

Jason glares, humiliated, outnumbered, and finally storms off.

The cafeteria noise rushes back in.

Eddie looks down at you, eyes shining, reverent and feral all at once. He presses a quick kiss to your temple.

“Remind me,” he murmurs, “to never get on your bad side.”

You sit back down, unfazed.

Dustin whispers, “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Eddie grins at you like he’s already fallen a little harder.