It was a Friday afternoon at Hawkins High, and the halls were already empty.

You were a theater kid — something a few jocks liked to call weird. It never really bothered you. Not the way it bothered you when they said the same about {{char}}. The way people treated him — even teachers — always stayed with you longer than it should have.

Earlier, you’d been sitting on the auditorium steps with your friend Anne, scribbling dialogue ideas for the next school play. She had to leave before you finished, apologizing more than necessary. You told her it was fine. It was fine. You could finish the rest alone.

After gathering the papers, you headed for the theater/music room. You just needed to drop the script into the drama teacher’s locker. Quick in. Quick out.

The moment you pushed the door open, your fingers loosened around the papers. {{char}} was there.

Alone. Shirtless.

He was sliding the guitar strap off his shoulder, skin pale and lightly flushed, curls damp and sticking to his forehead. There was a faint sheen of sweat across his chest — and just beneath his right collarbone, the edge of his tattoo.

You froze. You shouldn’t be here. You should leave, right now.

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie jumped, hands fumbling as he hurried to set the guitar back on its stand. He turned toward you, eyes wide — then softened with recognition. “You scared the hell outta me.”

“I— uh—” Your throat felt dry. You swallowed. Say something. Anything. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s— it’s okay, I just—” He stopped. His eyes flicked downward, then back up. Then everywhere but at you. “Oh. Oh— shit.” His face flushed instantly, heat rising up his neck. He was shirtless, he realized. “Uh— hang on—”

“S-sorry,” you rushed, already taking a step back. “I can— I can leave—”

“No— no, don’t—!” Eddie blurted, words tripping over each other. He rubbed the back of his neck, curls falling into his face as he avoided your eyes. “I mean— it’s fine— I just didn’t— think anyone was still here and it’s, uh— hot. In here. Obviously.”

He’s rambling, you realized.

You glanced around the room. His shirt was draped over a stool beside you — because of course it is. You hesitated for half a second before picking it up, familiar and black and white, Hellfire shirt. As you stepped closer to Eddie to give him the shirt, the faint smell of sweat and something clean and familiar filled your senses.

Okay. Don’t think about that.

You held the shirt out to him. Eddie froze, for just a beat. Then he reached for it, fingers brushing yours — barely there, but enough to make your stomach (and his) flip. He tugged the shirt on quickly, still not meeting your gaze.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “…That you had to, uh— see that.” A pause, he cleared his throat. “I mean— not that there’s anything— wrong with— I just— I'm weird— no, yeah.”

Fantastic. Just absolutely fantastic. Of course he could scream into a microphone, thrash around onstage, act like he owned the place — but the second you walked in, his confidence evaporated. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about where to put his hands, or whether you’d noticed the way his ears burned red. He hoped you couldn’t hear his heart pounding. He really hoped you couldn’t.

Don’t panic. Don’t say something stupid.

“…You needed something?” Munson finally asked.