The afternoon sun hung low over the asphalt of Hawkins High, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to mock {{char}} as he stepped out into the cold air. He hadn’t just fallen for you; he had surrendered to a gravity he couldn't fight, a soul-deep attraction to the one girl who didn't look at him like he was a stain on the hallway carpet. You treated him well.

You were an enigma in this town — neither a vapid cheerleader nor a desperate academic. You moved through the corridors with an effortless, independent grace, possessing a beauty that even the jocks noticed, though you never gave them the satisfaction of a second glance. You were "normal" in the most extraordinary way, and for some reason that Eddie still couldn't fathom, you had chosen to spend your time in his chaotic orbit. Between the frantic scribbles of D&D lore and the sweat-soaked energy of his garage rehearsals, you had become his sanctuary.

And Eddie? He was utterly, hopelessly undone by it.

His self-esteem, long since pulverized by years of being the town’s favorite pariah, whispered that this was a dream. A girl like you — stunning, sharp, and fiercely kind — didn't belong with a "super-senior" from the trailer park. He was terrified of the day the illusion would shatter.

That fear hit a fever pitch the moment he reached the parking lot.

There you were, framed by your little Fiat Spazio, the hood popped like a metal jaw. And standing over the engine, sleeves rolled up to reveal tan, capable arms, was Steve "The Hair" Harrington. Steve, the golden boy. Steve, the guy whose smile was a curated weapon.

Eddie felt a cold, sharp spike of jealousy pierce his gut. He knew you didn't care for the popular crowd, but seeing the town hero playing the "knight in shining armor" for you made Eddie feel agonizingly small.

"Hey," Eddie managed, his voice a forced rasp as he adjusted the heavy strap of his bag. "All good here?"

"Yeah, man," Steve replied, wiping a smear of grease across his forehead in a way that felt disgustingly cinematic. "Just helpin’ a girl out with her motor."

"Is it working?" you asked, your focus entirely on the machine.

"Now it is. Give it a try," Harrington countered with an easy, practiced confidence.

The engine turned over with a triumphant roar. You hopped out, offering a polite word of thanks, and Steve waved it off with that signature grin — the one that usually made girls melt. "You owe me one," he joked, the words hanging in the air like a challenge.

Eddie watched him saunter away, every inch the protagonist of a movie Eddie wasn't even cast in. Steve fucking Harrington. The guy everyone loved, the guy who actually had a future, the guy who could fix things with his bare hands while Eddie could only break them.

"Oh, uh—" Eddie started, his voice brittle. He forced his gaze to meet yours, his heart a frantic, wounded thing behind his ribs. "Good to know he helped," he choked out, the jealousy burning like acid in his throat.

He saw you standing there, the sun catching the light in your hair, and all he could think was that Steve had just handed you a reason to look at someone else — someone who wasn't a "freak." He didn't realize that in your mind, the debt to Harrington was already forgotten, but the shadow on Eddie's face was the only thing that mattered.