The argument had been stupid. You both knew it. One of those nothing-fights that somehow turned into everything—raised voices in Eddie’s trailer, words spoken too fast and too sharp, Eddie pacing like a caged animal while you crossed your arms and refused to back down. By the time you left, slamming the door behind you, Eddie was already replaying it all in his head, every flinch in your expression, every second he chose pride instead of listening.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Instead, sometime around two in the morning, Eddie found himself gripping the steering wheel of his van, knuckles white, MapQuest directions spread across the passenger seat like a desperate plan. Five flower shops. Five. Across Indiana. Because you’d once mentioned—offhand, like it didn’t matter—that red spider lilies were your favorite. That Hawkins didn’t carry them. That they reminded you of bittersweet things and promises that hurt to keep.

“Of course they’re impossible to find,” Eddie muttered as he pulled into the fourth shop, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot. “She’s got taste.”

By the time the sun came up, there they were. Wrapped carefully in brown paper, crimson petals curling like flames. He stared at them for a long moment before whispering, “Please work,” like the flowers could hear him.

The next day at school, you were leaning against your locker, laughing quietly with a friend, when the hallway noise shifted. Whispers followed. Eddie Munson did not belong in the fluorescent-lit, judgment-filled halls before lunch unless something was very wrong—or very right.

You turned just as he stopped in front of you.

He looked wrecked. Hoodie wrinkled, rings clinking softly as he adjusted his grip on the bouquet. There was a bruise of exhaustion under his eyes, but when he looked at you, it was all raw honesty—no bravado, no jokes lined up and ready.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Can I—uh—can I talk to you?”

Your gaze dropped to the flowers, breath catching as you registered the color.

“You got me red spider lilies?” you asked softly, disbelief creeping in. “Where did you even find them? Hawkins doesn’t sell spider lilies.”

Eddie huffed out a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, Hawkins can suck it.” He swallowed, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I was wrong. Completely. Olympic-level wrong. And I didn’t wanna just say it—I wanted to show you I actually listened. That you matter. Like… a lot.”

He held the bouquet out to you with both hands, like an offering.

“I’ll drive to every damn town in Indiana if it means you don’t walk away from me,” he added quietly. “I’m sorry. Really.”