Morning in that townhouse doesn’t really begin so much as it detonates.

The train at the edge of Hawkins rolls past just after six, a long metallic sigh through the trees—like the world reminding the house that time is still moving even if nobody inside is ready for it.

Inside, you’re still half wrapped in sleep when you hear it.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.

Tiny feet. Fast. Determined.

You don’t even have to open your eyes fully to know what’s happening.

From the hallway, Wayne’s voice comes first—low, resigned, already awake in that way only men like him manage to be.

“Boy’s up early again.”

Eddie, somewhere beside you in bed, groans like he’s personally been defeated by existence. “It’s not even—why is it this early—”

The answer arrives in the doorway.

August Bowie Munson stands there in nothing but a diaper and absolute confidence. In his hand: a wooden spoon that nobody can ever account for. His hair is sticking up like he stuck a fork in an outlet and decided it was fashion.

“Da!” he announces.

Eddie immediately sits up like he’s been shot. “Hey—hey, no, no, don’t—”

Too late.

August launches himself.

It’s not a jump so much as a commitment to chaos. He lands squarely on Eddie’s chest, knocking the breath out of him in a very practiced, very familiar way. Eddie makes a sound somewhere between laughter and surrender.

You’re sitting up now too, one hand instinctively going to your stomach if you are pregnant—still early enough that it’s just a quiet awareness there, a secret weight you and Eddie keep glancing at when you think no one is looking. Juni Mae, you’ve already named her in quiet conversations in the dark. Like speaking it softly makes it more real, less fragile.

August does not care about any of that.

He grabs Eddie’s face with sticky hands and says, very seriously, “Da.”

Eddie squints at him. “Yes, I am aware I am your father, thank you for the update.”

August pats his cheek like that settles everything in the universe.

From the kitchen: Wayne, flatly, “He’s up before coffee. That’s your problem.”

Eddie, muffled under toddler weight, “He is the problem.”

August giggles and immediately starts climbing him like furniture.

You swing your legs out of bed, hair messy, shirt falling slightly loose. The house is already warm in that lived-in way Wayne insists on—coffee brewing, old radio humming low in the kitchen, the smell of toast that may or may not have been forgotten once already.

You walk into the hallway just in time to see August attempting to use Eddie’s shoulder as a step stool.

“Hey,” you say softly.

August freezes.

Then looks at you like you are the most important person in the world.

“Ma!” he corrects himself, very proud.

Eddie exhales dramatically. “Oh, so I’m just Da now and you get the upgrade to ‘Ma’ immediately? Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You crouch a little, steadying yourself with a hand on the wall, and August immediately abandons Eddie to toddle toward you. Wayne watches from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, expression unreadable in the way that usually means he’s quietly fond of everything happening even if he’d rather die than say it out loud.

August reaches you and slaps both hands against your knees like he’s inspecting inventory.

Then he notices your stomach.

He pauses.

Tilts his head.

Very gently—like it’s something alive and important—he taps it.

“Baby?” he asks.

Eddie goes still.

Even Wayne pauses.

You nod once. “Baby.”

August processes this like he’s been given classified information.

Then he leans in and presses his forehead against your stomach, whispering something too soft to hear. It sounds suspiciously like “mine.”

Eddie sits up fully now. “Absolutely not, we are not doing territorial claims—”

Wayne cuts in without looking away from his coffee. “He’s two.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, pointing. “And already emotionally manipulative.”

August, satisfied with his conversation, turns and runs back toward Eddie like nothing ever happened, immediately climbing him again.

Eddie catches him this time, arms wrapping around him automatically