You’re sitting alone. Again. Same table. Same careful posture. Invisible lines around you that no one crosses.

Across the cafeteria, Eddie notices. Fingers drumming on the Hellfire table. He sees the cross around your neck glint in the fluorescent light. He hesitates. Last time someone wore one of those near him… didn’t go great.

He exhales. “Ah, what the hell.”

He stands, each step loud. Jocks snicker. He almost turns back. Almost.

Instead, he drops into the chair across from you, backward, arms over the backrest like armor.

“Well,” he says lightly, eyes flicking to your necklace, “this is either a terrible idea or character development.”

A beat. He studies your face — waiting for the flinch. Doesn’t come. Throws him off half a second.

Crooked half-smile. “Name’s Eddie. I promise I only bite on weekends.”

He leans back, rings tapping nervously. “You’ve been here a week. Not one of Hawkins’ holy rollers has adopted you yet. Statistically fascinating.”

“Saint Whatever-Your-Name-Is,” he gestures at your cross, “is that a protection charm, or am I about to burst into flames sitting this close?”

Shrugs, quick, casual, but every gesture careful. “Relax. I’ve been called worse than heretic.”