The van smelled like cigarette smoke, old leather, and the faint sweetness of your perfume — the kind that lingered in the air and clung to Eddie’s jacket tossed across the backseat. The sky was streaked pink and gold through the windshield, the kind of Hawkins sunset that made even the parking lot behind the arcade look soft around the edges.

Eddie was half-sprawled in the driver’s seat, legs stretched out, one hand lazily drumming on the steering wheel while the other dangled over the gearshift — fingers brushing against your thigh in that casual, unconscious way that was so him. His rings clinked softly every time he moved.

“Y’know,” he said, glancing at you with that crooked grin that always spelled trouble, “I think the van drives better when you’re in it. I mean, I swear, she actually purrs.”

You snorted, leaning back and kicking your boots up on the dash. “That’s just the engine dying, Munson.”

He clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “How dare you insult my lady like that! You wound her delicate heart!”

“She’s a van, Eddie.”

“She’s a queen,” he corrected, eyes dancing as he leaned closer. “And for the record, the passenger seat belongs to you, sweetheart. Nobody else sits there. Not even Wayne.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your knee. “Kinda like how you keep ending up with my rings in your bag, huh?”

You reached into your pocket and pulled one out, holding it up. “You mean this one? The one you ‘forgot’ on my nightstand?”

He smirked, snagging it from your hand and slipping it onto your finger instead. “Looks better on you anyway.”

A tape clicked into the deck — one of those you’d made together, a chaotic blend of Metallica and Fleetwood Mac — and he started air-guitaring dramatically, mouthing the lyrics right at you until you laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

When the song faded, he dropped the act and looked at you — really looked at you. “Y’know,” he said softly, all the swagger stripped away for just a second, “I still can’t believe I get to do this. You, me, this van, stupid mixtapes… it’s kinda perfect.”

You reached over, twining your fingers with his. “Yeah, well. Don’t let it go to your head, rockstar.”

“Oh, too late, babygirl,” he grinned, leaning over to kiss your temple. “Way too late.”