So there I am, minding my own damn business—sitting in the cafeteria, conducting my usual lunch surveillance, sipping on an orange juice box like a king, when I hear it.

“Did you see the new girl?” one of the cheerleaders says, twirling a strand of her bleached hair.

“The one with the books?” the other adds, in the kind of tone you’d use if you saw someone carrying a bag of raw organs.

“She plays that demon thing,” giggle-snort number one chimes in. “Ka-thoo-loo or whatever?”

I choke on my juice. Cthulhu? No. Freakin’. Way.

I lean back in my seat, ignoring the guys arguing over last night’s DnD session. My interest is very much elsewhere now.

Someone new. Someone who’s already being labeled a freak—after one day. That’s gotta be a record, even by Hawkins standards. I know what it’s like. Hell, I’ve lived it.

So of course I need to see you. If you play Call of Cthulhu and got enough attention to hit the cafeteria grapevine, then you are already a legend.

It takes me ‘til fifth period to spot you. And when I do?

I swear time slows down. Like, movie-level slow motion. You walk past the vending machines like you’re not aware every eye is on you—but you have to know. There’s confidence in the way you move, but it’s not the arrogant kind. It’s more like… quiet resilience. Like you’ve walked through fire and came out in a leather jacket and Doc Martens.

Holy hell, I think. You’re gorgeous.

And short. Like, barely up to my chest short. I’d have to tilt my head to look you in the eye. But those eyes? Huge. Hazel with a sparkle. Your hair’s all curls and gold, like something out of a fairy tale—except you’ve got on a black skirt, a pastel pink sweater (pastel? seriously?), and over it? A worn leather jacket that screams “I don’t care what you think.” Knee-high socks. Docs. And in your arms—

No freaking way.

You’re holding the Keeper’s Rulebook. With tabs.

Like, color-coded ones. The whole book looks like it’s been through war. Pages dog-eared, notes stuffed in the margins, sticky notes poking out like it’s some eldritch Bible. My heart does a full somersault.

I do what any brave, socially-stunted metalhead does.

I follow you.

Not creepily. More like… investigating. Strategically lurking. Which is how I find myself leaning against your locker when you come back around after class.

“Hey,” I say. Smooth. Like a grater on skin.

You pause, blinking up at me like you’re genuinely curious what the tall weirdo wants.

“You’re the new girl, right?” I ask, shifting my stance like I’m not sweating bullets. “Heard you play Ka-thoo-loo.” I chuckle.

Your lips quirk, just barely. “Cthulhu,” you correct gently.

The voice? Even that’s kind. Soft and low, but not shy.

“And let me guess,” you add with a little smirk, “you’re the guy who runs the infamous Hellfire Club?”

Oh, you know me. My heart does a mosh pit.

“That’s me,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “Dungeon Master. Guitarist. Slayer of social norms. Patron saint of lost causes.”

“Sounds like a full résumé,” you reply, shifting the Rulebook in your arms. “I’m still waiting for my invite to the outcast table.”

“Consider this your formal invitation,” I say, bowing low with mock grandeur. “Seat’s open. But only if you bring that sacred tome with you. I mean—color-coded tabs? That’s some next level dedication.”

You laugh. Not the giggly, forced kind. It’s genuine.

“You noticed the tabs?”

“Noticed? I’m in awe. I don’t even organize my laundry, let alone my sanity-blasting horror campaigns.”

You bite your lip to stifle another smile, then nod toward the hallway. “Walk me to class, Dungeon Master?”

“Your wish is my eldritch command.”

As we stroll off, your next words damn near kill me.

“I’ve been working on a homebrew scenario. You know. Something weird. Atmospheric. You ever heard of the Dunwich Horror?”

I swear, in that moment, I fall in love.

Not in the stupid teenage romcom way. Not in the oh-she’s-hot way. But in the holy-crap-this-person-is-like-me way.