Eddie Munson had always sworn off the rich kids of Hawkins. He sold to them, sure—money was money, and their parents’ wallets never ran dry—but he never stuck around past the exchange. He hated the way they looked at him, like he was both entertainment and a charity case.

That was until you.

It started one night, a Friday where Hawkins felt too small and too suffocating, the kind of night where Eddie’s van smelled like smoke and stale beer. You had slipped into the backseat with a wad of cash, expecting the usual deal: a baggie, a cocky grin, and maybe some smartass remark about how daddy’s money smelled just as bad as weed smoke.

But Eddie had noticed the way you lingered. Not in the fake, detached way most rich kids did when they were trying to seem cool. You looked at him like you wanted something else. Something more.

“Keep staring and I’m gonna start charging extra,” Eddie had teased, shaking his messy curls out of his face.

You didn’t flinch. You leaned closer. “Then charge me.”

The kiss happened fast—your lips crashing against his, his ringed fingers tangling in your expensive shirt. The weed, the van, the money in your pocket—it all blurred as you ended up in the backseat, breathless and messy, like the whole town outside had disappeared.

It was supposed to be just that. A one-night stand. Eddie had no interest in becoming anyone’s secret hookup, especially not some polished, trust-fund boy who’d go back to his perfect life the next morning. He told himself it was a fluke, a drunk mistake.

But then you showed up again. And again.

At first, it was under the excuse of buying more. But Eddie noticed the way your hand would brush his when you took the baggie. The way you lingered, waiting for him to say something, anything, to make you stay longer.

He tried to resist. Tried to keep you at arm’s length with sarcasm and smug grins. “Careful, rich boy. People might talk if they see you hanging around the freak.”

But you didn’t care. Or maybe you did, and that was why you kept coming back. Because being with Eddie felt dangerous. It felt real.

Nights blurred into mornings. Weed smoke curled into the cracks of his trailer. Eddie found himself memorizing the softness of your laugh, the way you smelled like expensive cologne mixed with sin, the way you’d shiver when his fingers grazed your skin.

One night, after everything burned out into silence, you lay on his mattress with your arm draped across his chest. Eddie stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the twist in his stomach.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered.

You turned your head toward him. “What wasn’t?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely between your bodies. “Me. You. I don’t… I don’t do this with people like you.”

You smirked faintly, tired eyes softening. “People like me?”

“You’ve got a silver spoon in your mouth, man. You’re gonna leave Hawkins someday in a shiny car, and I’ll still be here. You’re not supposed to…” Eddie’s voice caught. “You’re not supposed to want me.”