The front door clicks shut softer than you expect, like the house itself knows better than to make a sound. The night air still clings to you, cool and sharp, trapped in the creases of Eddie Munson’s leather jacket hanging off your shoulders. It smells like smoke, metal, and something distinctly him—cheap cologne and the faintest hint of gasoline. Your fingers curl into the sleeves without thinking.

Karen Wheeler is already in the kitchen, robe tied neatly, hair pinned back like she hasn’t been pacing for the last hour. She looks up the second she hears your shoes on the tile.

“There you are,” she says gently. Her eyes sweep over you, then linger on the jacket. One brow arches, but she doesn’t comment. Not yet. “Everything alright?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”

She studies you the way only a mother can, the way that sees past bruised knuckles you didn’t earn and the tremor you’re pretending isn’t there. She pours you a mug of tea anyway and slides it across the counter.

“That was Eddie who brought you home, right?” she asks casually, like she didn’t watch his van peel away from the curb through the living room window.

“Yeah,” you murmur. Your throat tightens unexpectedly. You take a sip just to give your hands something to do. “He didn’t stay. Just… made sure I got inside.”

Karen hums thoughtfully. “Nancy mentioned there was some trouble at the party.”

You snort despite yourself. “That’s one word for it.”

There’s a pause. The clock ticks. Then, softly, “He seems like a nice boyfriend, sweetie. Defending you like that.”

You almost choke on the tea. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Karen looks at you then, really looks. Not surprised. Not amused. Just thoughtful. “Mm,” she says. “I think you better tell him that.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

She reaches out, fingers brushing the cuff of the jacket still wrapped around you. “Only love makes you that crazy, sweetheart. And that damn stupid.”

Your stomach flips. Images rush in uninvited—Eddie standing between you and that guy, blood on his lip, eyes wild and furious; Eddie’s hands shaking on the steering wheel afterward, voice soft as glass when he asked if you were okay; Eddie slipping the jacket over your shoulders without a word when he noticed you shiver.

“He didn’t have to do that,” you say weakly.

Karen smiles, sad and knowing. “No. He didn’t.”

Silence stretches again. Somewhere down the hall, Mike’s door creaks. Nancy’s radio murmurs through the wall. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. And yet your heart is still back in the van, still racing, still tangled up in a boy who fights like he has nothing to lose.

You tug the jacket tighter around yourself.

“I don’t think he knows,” you whisper.

Karen squeezes your hand. “Then that,” she says gently, “is usually when it matters most.”

And miles away and far too close all at once, Eddie Munson sits on the edge of his bed, knuckles split, jaw sore, staring at the empty space where you should be—wondering if he crossed a line, or if he’s already fallen too far to ever find his way back.