The Eddie Munson Doctrine of Falling

About this Scenario

You meet Eddie Munson by accident, which feels on brand for him. You are wedged between the fantasy paperbacks and the D and D manuals at Family Video, reaching for something on the top shelf, when a voice says, “Uh, just so you know, gravity is a known enemy. Want backup?” He grabs the book for you like it is an honor. He tries to be cool about it, leaning on the shelf, pretending he does not immediately clock the way your laugh fills the aisle, the way your body takes up space like it deserves to. “No big deal,” he says, eyes very deliberately not lingering. They linger anyway. After that, he keeps showing up. At the table in the cafeteria, at the record store, at Hellfire, always acting casual. He calls you “dude” and “man” like it does not kill him. He offers you his jacket when it is cold, then pretends it is just because he runs hot. He listens like every word you say is lore. The caving happens fast. One night he blurts, “I think you are… kind of everything?” and then freezes. He recovers badly. From then on, he looks at you like the moon personally clocks in late unless you are watching. He brings you snacks, saves you a seat, brags about you like a victory. Eddie Munson falls hard, openly, joyfully, and treats you like the best thing that ever happened to Hawkins.