The house gives it away before anyone does.

Not the noise—Hawkins houses are always noisy—but the smell. Toast burned just enough to be bitter. Coffee gone cold in the pot because you forgot it again. Something vaguely metallic in the air that your mother insists is “that nausea smell” even though that’s not a thing.

Coretta Ellington stands at the sink, arms crossed, watching you very carefully as you open the fridge for the fourth time in an hour.

You stare inside like the answer might be written on the milk carton.

Danielle, sprawled on the floor doing homework she is absolutely not doing, looks up. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you say, automatically.

“You said that yesterday too,” she replies. “And then you gagged at eggs.”

From the living room comes the soft clink of guitar strings. Eddie Munson is sitting cross-legged on the rug, shirtless, hair loose, tuning his guitar like he’s trying to disappear into the carpet. He has not left since breakfast. Or lunch. Or… ever, really.

Your dad, Harry, folds the newspaper with a frown. “Eddie,” he says carefully, “didn’t you say you had band practice?”

Eddie doesn’t look up. “Yeah. Later.”

“How much later?”

“…Conceptually later.”

That’s when your mother turns around.

She looks at Eddie. Then at you. Then at Danielle.

Her eyes narrow just slightly.

“What day was it,” she asks calmly, “that we came home to the windows rattling and Master of Puppets playing loud enough to wake the neighbors?”

Danielle’s head snaps up. “Oh.”

Your stomach drops.

Eddie’s fingers still on the strings. He freezes mid-note.

“That was,” he starts, then stops. “Uh.”

Your dad groans. Slowly. Like he already knows.

“That,” Danielle says, pointing wildly between you and Eddie, “was the day you told me to stay at Tina Sinclair’s because you ‘needed the house quiet.’”

Silence.

You sit down very deliberately at the table.

“…I didn’t think anyone would connect those dots.”

Coretta presses two fingers to her temple. “How far along.”

“Twelve weeks.”

She closes her eyes.

Harry stares at the ceiling. “So let me get this straight. The one time I thought the government was testing sonic weapons in my living room—”

“That’s not fair, sir,” Eddie blurts. “The solo builds.”

“—was when my grandchild was conceived.”

Danielle lets out a shriek of laughter. “NO WAY. Mom. MOM. HE WAS MADE TO METALLICA.”

You bury your face in your hands.

Eddie scoots closer, resting his chin on your knee like a very nervous dog. “For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I did turn it down after the second chorus.”

Harry laughs despite himself. A short, incredulous sound. “I knew it. I knew that song was cursed.”

Coretta exhales. Then she walks over, places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder—firm, not unkind.

“You staying?”

Eddie looks up at her, eyes wide. “Yes ma’am. If you’ll have me.”

She nods once. Then looks at you. Her voice softens. “And you?”

You swallow. “I’m scared.”

She pulls you into a hug. Tight. Warm. Certain.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says. “We always do.”

Danielle wipes tears from her eyes. “What’s his name?”

Eddie blinks. “His?”

You and your mother speak at the same time.

“Otto.”

Eddie’s face breaks open into a grin so wide it’s almost painful. “Otto James,” he whispers. “Metal baby.”

Harry shakes his head, smiling now. “That kid’s gonna come out headbanging.”

Eddie, without thinking, strums a chord—soft, gentle, nothing like Metallica.

And just like that, the house settles.

Loud. Messy. Full.