Things are getting Stranger...

When you eventually arrive in Magaluf, a driver is waiting for you at arrivals, holding up a sign with your names on it. The car takes you both through the darkened streets of Magaluf, still awake with life, despite the late hour. As you get closer to the coast, you see glimpses of the glistening ocean, winking at you under the moonlight and, even in your exhaustion from the long journey, you are glad you decided to take Heather’s advice. Some time away from Hawkins is just what you need. 

When you pull up outside of the hotel, the driver unloads your cases for you. You both thank him then push your way through the doors into the reception. A welcoming, air-conditioned breeze washes over you as soon as you step inside. 

There’s a large desk directly opposite the entrance, where a young woman, who you assume is around the same age as you and Heather, maybe slightly older, leans against the marble top. She slowly pushes herself up to standing and welcomes you as you enter. She’s wearing a hot pink polo shirt and has dark skin and long, dark brown hair which cascades down her back in hundreds of thinly plaited braids. 

“Hi, I’m Heather, this is Y/N,” Heather announces, as you both sluggishly wheel your suitcases over to the desk. “We’re repping here over the summer, Brynn said to ask for him when we arrived.” 

“Oh, hi, great to meet you. I’m Jasmine,” the girl behind the counter replies in an English accent, offering you both a warm, beautiful, smile. Her eyes linger on Heather, who returns Jasmine’s smile with one of her own. “Brynn’s not here at the moment, he had to pop out to deal with something. He said to just let you guys get some sleep after your long flight. He’ll meet you down here at 10 tomorrow morning, for your induction.” She reaches under the desk and pulls out two lanyards with laminated passes attached, as well as two pink polo shirts each and a white lifeguard’s vest for Heather. “Here are your staff IDs and uniforms.” 

You both take them from her and you slide your staff ID into the pocket of your jeans. 

“Your room is on the first floor,” she says, glancing down at the number on your key cards, handing them over as well, “You’re right next to me, actually,” she says with another smile, her eyes going back to Heather. “Stairs and elevators are that way,” she points round a corner just past the front desk, “and the dining hall, pool and gym are that way,” she says, pointing down the corridor behind you, next to the main entrance. 

“Great, thank you,” Heather says brightly, despite the jetlag. 

There’s a beat of silence, then Jasmine adds, “Oh, by the way, staff get to use the pool and gym areas an hour before guests, so from 7am. And, if you have a day off, you can use all the amenities as much as you want.” 

Your ears perk up at that. 

“Really? That’s great,” you say with excitement. 

Jasmine leans forwards on the counter top again, as if she’s about to let you both in on a secret. “If I were you, I’d make the most of it now. Novelty wears off real quick,” she says with a laugh. 

“Not for Y/N, it won’t,” Heather replies fondly, “She loves swimming, don’t you, Y/N/N? Used to do it all the time at Hawkins pool.” 

“Yeah,” you wistfully agree, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you remember the summers spent there. 

“Hawkins?” Jasmine asks with polite curiosity. 

“Oh, yeah, it’s where we’re from. It’s a small town in Indiana, America,” Heather explains, tucking some loose strands of hair back behind her ear. 

“Never heard of it,” comes Jasmine’s earnest reply. 

Without even missing a beat, you and Heather both simultaneously say “No one has,” making yourselves and Jasmine laugh. 

“Well, I won’t keep you guys any longer,” she says, tapping the desk with one hand. “It was really great to meet you,” she adds, giving you both another brilliant smile. “I’ll definitely see you around.” Her eyes meet Heather’s and you get the distinct impression that that last part was directed more at your friend, whose cheeks, coincidentally, now look a little rosier than they had before, as she smiles back. 

You both say goodbye to Jasmine, then wheel your luggage in the direction of the elevators she had pointed to earlier. 

“She seems nice,” you offer, once you’re sure you’re no longer in earshot of the front desk.

“Yeah,” Heather responds with a thoughtful smile, glancing back over her shoulder in the direction of the entrance, as you make your way to your room. 

------ 

The next morning, you wake early and, taking Jasmine’s advice from the previous night, you put on your swimsuit. After sliding a pair of shorts on over-top and grabbing a towel, you fight with the jeans that you had discarded on the floor yesterday, searching the pockets for your staff ID and key card. 

Heather stirs as you open the door to your room, rolling over in her bed to squint at you, bleary eyed. 

“You’re up early,” she says, her voice thick with sleep. 

“Gonna hit the pool for a bit,” you say, gesturing with the rolled up towel you’re holding. 

She smiles gently, her eyes already closed again. 

“That sounds nice,” she mumbles. 

You would ask if she wants to join you, but her features have already gone slack and her breathing evened out again, indicating she’s already fallen back asleep. 

You chuckle fondly as she gives a small snore, and leave the room. 

It’s a little after 7am when you reach the pool. It’s pleasantly warm outside already, the morning sun climbing up the side of the hotel to bid you a good day. You sigh happily to yourself, wondering if Jasmine was right and if the novelty truly will wear off. 

There’s already a few white plastic sun loungers set up along the side of the pool, so you place your towel on one of them and remove your shorts and sandals, then saunter over to the small row of open shower cubicles off to the side. You quickly rinse yourself off, wetting your hair and rubbing down your arms and legs to try and get yourself used to the coldness of the water. You then wade down the wide mosaic steps leading into the pool, submerging yourself up to your shoulders then push off from the edge, gliding easily through the water to the other side. Your whole body sighs with relief as the water flows around you. The last time you went swimming would have been at the end of last summer, with Nate. He didn’t like you going to the pool alone. 

You push the thought of him from your mind and try to focus on the feel of the water instead, swimming a few laps. When you return to the edge of the pool for a breather, a movement catches your eye. A guy dressed in a white vest with red trim around the arms and neck, and a pair of red shorts, is walking over to the pool area, carrying a stack of three sun loungers in his muscular arms, as if they weigh nothing. 

You watch him with intrigue, keeping low in the water, so he doesn’t see you hidden behind the lip of the pool. He is tanned, with shoulder-length dark blonde hair, which sits in messy curls around his broad shoulders, and a whistle hanging around his neck. You assume he must be the resort lifeguard Heather had been telling you about. 

He carries the loungers around a bed of tall landscaped bushes, into another section of the sunbathing area, out of view. 

You resume swimming laps of the pool. After a short while your muscles begin to ache again, so you decide to lay on your back instead and float peacefully on the water. You’ll have to build your stamina back up again. 

After a moment of staring up at the cloudless blue sky, you slowly close your eyes and just let the water hold you. 

After a little while of floating silently, you hear a shrill noise, which prompts you to open your eyes, tilting your chin awkwardly to look around for the source.  

You see the lifeguard from before, standing nearer the pool, with a new stack of sun loungers abandoned at his feet, lowering his whistle from his lips. 

“Oh shit,” you mutter as you right yourself quickly. You can see his lips are moving, but you can’t hear what he’s saying with all the water that’s still in your ears. You shake your head to try and clear them and swim over to the pool’s edge, an apology already on your lips. He probably thinks you’re just another holiday maker who can’t read the sign with the pool opening times on it. He walks around the discarded loungers and starts heading in your direction. 

“Sorry, what did you say?” you ask, staring bashfully up at him through your wet eyelashes, as you cling to the tiled edge of the pool. 

He lowers his dark sunglasses to get a better look at you, smirking as he does. 

“Was just checking you were alive,” he says, amused, “You okay?” 

“Oh. Er, yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, feeling silly. “Didn’t mean to alarm you.” 

“I was ready to give you mouth to mouth,” he jokes. Licks his lips as he stares over the top of his glasses at you. “I haven’t seen you around before. It’s not every day I get to meet a fellow American around here, you just arrived?” 

He crouches down next to the pool. 

Now that you’re seeing him up close, you notice that he has a thin moustache on his upper lip. It’s also impossible not to notice how attractive he is, with his defined jaw and penetrating ocean blue eyes. 

“Yeah, I got here last night,” you say, urging yourself not to stare at him. You focus your eyes on the palm tree behind him in the distance instead. 

“You got a name, sugar?” he asks smoothly, chewing on the wad of gum in his mouth. His boldness catches you off guard and you blink at him for a moment before answering with your name. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Billy,” he takes off his sunglasses and offers you a tanned hand, which you take, reaching up over the edge of the pool. His grip is firm, but not overpowering, as he clasps your hand in both of his. He holds your gaze a second longer than what feels comfortable, and you look away, biting shyly on your bottom lip as you withdraw your hand. 

“And how long are you here for?” he asks. 

“The whole summer, actually. I’m one of the new reps,” you explain, tucking a stray strand of wet hair back behind your ear. 

“Really?” he comments, interestedly. “Well, I look forward to working very closely with you.” He gives you a lazy kind of grin. 

You wonder what Nate would think about you talking with Billy. 

You notice a movement behind him, back by the entrance to the pool area, as a man appears and calls Billy over to him.  

The lifeguard glances over his shoulder at the sound, then turns back to you with a sigh. 

“Duty calls,” he says, standing up straight. “I’ll catch you later,” he adds with a wink, then pops his sunglasses back on and turns to walk with a leisurely pace towards the other man. 

As he leaves, you let out an amused huff of air. 

‘Is he for real?’ You think to yourself. 

You can’t help but peer curiously over the edge of the pool after him, as he makes his way inside. 

After swimming another few laps, you decide it’s time to head back to your room to get ready for your induction and make sure Heather is awake. 

------ 

Once you’re showered and both dressed in your new bright pink polo shirts, you and Heather make your way to the reception area, to meet Brynn and the other new reps. 

“Hello and welcome to Magaluf!” a man, probably in his late twenties, greets the group. You recognise him as the same man who had called Billy away earlier this morning. He has a round, friendly face and manicured dark hair that’s been meticulously spiked with gel. He’s wearing a bright pink polo shirt, to match the rest of you, and dark blue cargo shorts. “As most of you will know, I’m the Head Rep, Brynn,” he says enthusiastically, in his thick Welsh accent. 

He gets each of you to introduce yourselves to the group by saying your name and a few facts about yourselves, like where you’re from and what your hobbies are. There are four new reps in total: you, Heather, a petite blonde from England called Jess, who announces that she loves dogs, and a tall asian guy, also from England, named Craig, whose passions include working out and writing music. 

“Hi, I’m Heather,” she introduces herself with a small wave, “I’m from a small town in Indiana, that’s in America, and I love the colour pink!” she laughs, gesturing to her uniform. Brynn makes a joke about them choosing the colour especially for her. 

When it’s your turn, you face the rest of the group and tell them that you’re from the same town as Heather, and that you’re best friends. You also add that you only accepted the job just over a week ago and you’re excited to see what the Summer brings. 

“Well, we’re very glad to have you on board,” Brynn remarks, smiling warmly at you. 

He then gives you all a tour of the resort, pointing out fire exits and going over the ‘house rules,’ as he calls them: 

1- No sleeping with guests. 

2- No guests can go back to staff rooms. 

3- When on nights out with guests, you can drink, but not excessively. 

4- Any poor behaviour will result in a drinking ban and restriction to resort-only activities. 

It seems weird to you that there’s a specific rule about not sleeping with the guests; as if anyone would need to tell you not to do that. It also surprises you that they would allow drinking alcohol at all whilst you’re on duty, but then again you would be spending a lot of time in the clubs so you suppose it would make sense. 

As your little group passes the pool, you glance over to see Billy manning the lifeguard’s chair. He lowers his tinted sunglasses a fraction, to watch as you walk past, his expression stoic. 

Brynn then gives you all training on how to check guests in and explains that they get a complimentary drink on arrival, which is taken to their room, along with their itinerary for the duration of their stay. 

When it reaches the end of your first day of training, Brynn gathers you all in the foyer again. 

“Heather,” he addresses her, “I’d like you to start at 7am tomorrow, please. Billy will meet you by the pool to show you lifeguard duties and you’ll finish at 3pm. Everyone else,” he says, turning to the rest of you, ”if you could please meet me in the bar at 10am where we’ll be going over the different drinks we offer and how to make them. And tomorrow night,” he continues, enthusiastically, “I figured we could all go out and see the clubs you’ll be taking the guests to. Maybe have some drinks and get to know each other a bit better.” 

“It’s not compulsory,” he adds, seeing the concerned look on your face, “but it would definitely be beneficial for you all to be there.” 

After you’re dismissed, you and Heather make your way to the dining hall for some dinner, then turn in early. 

--------- 

The next morning, Heather reluctantly gets up and ready in time to head to the pool for 7am. You tag along, dressed in your swimming costume and jean shorts, hoping Billy won’t mind you using the pool again. 

When you arrive, he’s already outside, a cigarette pursed between his lips. He stubs it out when he spots you both and fishes a pack of gum out of his pocket, popping a strip into his mouth. 

“Mornin’ ladies,” he greets you. 

Heather responds with a grunt, adjusting her sunglasses to better protect from the bright morning sun. “Yeah, I’m Heather,” she says curtly, not awake enough for pleasantries yet, then gestures to you “and this is-” 

“Y/N,” he cuts her off. “We’ve already met.” He gives you a cocky smile. 

“Really?” Heather raises an eyebrow at you, because you hadn’t mentioned him to her.  

“Yeah, yesterday morning,” you say offhandedly. “I’m going to get some juice, you guys want anything?” you add, changing the subject. 

“Iced coffee! Please,” Heather all but begs you. 

“Got it.” You glance at Billy, “You want anything?” 

He chews on his gum for a second, surveying you with a smirk, then replies, “I’m good.”  

You turn around and head back inside to grab the drinks from the dining hall. It’s pretty quiet in there, just a few holiday makers and some staff members having their breakfast. Brynn explained yesterday that the busy season hadn’t properly started yet, and that it wouldn’t be packed out for a couple of weeks. You make polite small talk with one of the wait staff as you grab the drinks, flashing your staff pass, then head back out to the pool. 

Heather is lugging sun loungers out onto the paving area one by one, already working up a sweat. You motion at her, showing where you placed her drink, then mosey over to the edge of the pool. You deposit your towel and drink, then climb out of your shorts and shower down, just like you had yesterday. 

Billy walks by carrying a stack of sun loungers. His eyes are hidden by his tinted sunglasses, but you can feel him watching you as you carefully descend the steps of the pool. 

You swim laps for a little while with Billy walking back and forth, placing sun loungers around you. Heather, you notice, is busy taking her loungers to the area past the tall landscaped bushes, stopping every now and then to have a sip of her coffee and to blow her sweaty fringe out of her eyes. 

When you take a moment to rest at the edge of the water, Billy finishes up with his latest stack and sits down on one of the loungers closest to you. 

“I guess I’ll see you at the staff drinks tonight?” he asks, chewing on his gum and reclining on the lounger. 

“Yeah, maybe,” you respond, noncommittally, shielding your eyes with a hand above your brow, as you squint up at him. 

“Maybe?” he repeats, his tone surprised. “You got some place else to be?” He asks with a smirk. 

You huff a quiet laugh, “No, I just… I’m not really into the whole ‘party scene’,” you say, leaning back against the wall of the pool and kicking your legs leisurely through the water in front of you. 

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re in the wrong job,” he laughs. 

“Yeah…,” you agree, amusedly. There’s a beat of silence, as you gaze off into the distance. You can see the beach from here. 

“So how come you took a repping job in the party capital of the world?” he asks. It catches you off guard. 

You open your mouth and close it again, frowning. 

“It’s… complicated,” you say, for lack of a better answer. 

“Ooh, mysterious.” His response makes you chuckle, despite yourself. 

At the same moment, Heather rounds the corner, holding her iced coffee to her forehead in an attempt to cool herself down. 

“All done, Billy,” she says, then stops, seeing you still laughing at Billy’s remark. She slowly lowers the glass from her head. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says, fixing you with a smirk. 

“You’re not interrupting,” you respond quickly, giving your head a little shake. “I was just distracting Billy from his work,” you add, starting to move away from the edge of the pool. “I’ll let you get back to it,” you throw them an apologetic smile then push off the wall with your feet and glide through the water, to the other side of the pool. 

You continue swimming laps as Billy stands and leads Heather over to the Lifeguard’s station. He glances back at you as they pass by, licking his lower lip in thought, but you keep your gaze focused straight ahead. 

After a little while, you decide it’s time to head back inside and get ready for your second day of training. Exiting the pool, you pad over to your belongings, dripping a trail of water onto the sun-warmed tiles beneath your feet. You wrap your towel around yourself and secure it at the top, then make your way over to the Lifeguard’s station, taking slow, refreshing sips of your drink. 

Billy and Heather both look up as you approach. 

“I’m gonna head back up to the room,” you tell them, gesturing over your shoulder to the building. Billy looks at you over the top of his sunglasses, his eyes tracing the length of your bare collarbone. You pretend not to notice the way his gaze makes your stomach flip just a little. 

“Ok, I’ll see you later,” Heather replies. 

“Have a good day,” you add, giving them a small wave before turning and making your way inside. 

Once back in your room you have a shower and dress in your uniform, then head to the dining hall for some breakfast. You take a seat at a table with Jess and Craig, the other two new reps who you met yesterday, chatting casually about how training is going, whilst you eat and drink coffee. Glancing out of the wall of windows that looks out onto the pool area, you see Heather and Billy manning the Lifeguard’s station, watching over the handful of guests who are already in the water. 

—---- 

When you return to your room after your shift finishes, you find Heather laying on her bed reading a book, already changed out of her work uniform. 

“Hey,” she greets you, slotting her bookmark between the pages and placing the book down on her bedside table. “How was training?” 

“Ugh, long! I don’t know how I’ll ever remember all the different drinks,” you complain, slipping out of your shoes. 

“I’m sure you’ll get it with some practice,” she reassures you, “Luckily, we shouldn’t have to cover the bar that often anyway.” 

You hum in agreement, making your way over to your chest of drawers to find a fresh top to wear. 

“Hey, so guess who was asking after you today?” 

You glance over your shoulder at her. You already know the answer. 

“Billy,” she says excitedly. 

“Heather,” you warn her, rummaging through your T-shirts, “It’s not going to happen.” 

She scoffs loudly at you and you shoot her a pointed look. 

“What?” she asks, feigning innocence. 

You turn around to face her properly. 

“You know what. I’m not ready for anything right now, it’s too soon.” 

“For God’s sake, Y/N/N,” she says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes at you, “It’s not like I said he’s thinking of marriage! He was showing an interest is all. You know, could be fun,” She smirks, pumping her eyebrows suggestively. 

You scoff and shake your head disbelievingly at her, turning back to grab a clean t-shirt out of the drawer. 

“Ok, well, whilst you’re living in Fantasy Land,” you say, taking off your work polo, and pulling your t-shirt on over your head, “I’ll be in the dining hall, having dinner.” 

Heather rolls her eyes at you again, but thankfully drops the subject. 

—---- 

Later that evening, you come out of yours and Heather’s shared bathroom after having a shower, wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. 

“You should hurry up and get changed,” Heather says, glancing at you in the reflection of the mirror as she fixes her hair. The bedroom smells of perfume and hairspray. 

“I actually think I’m going to sta-” you begin. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Heather cuts you off, pointing at you sternly in the mirror. “We came here to have fun,” she says, emphasising the last word. “Please, try to remember what that feels like.”

You scoff at her. 

“I know how to have fun, thank you very much. I, just…” you trail off, shrugging. 

Heather turns sharply to face you, curling iron still in hand. 

“Brynn did say it wasn’t compulsory,” you offer up as a weak defence. 

“Look, I am not leaving you here, to sulk alone, in a hotel room. So, Go. Get. Dressed,” she orders, ushering you towards the closet with each word. “And make it sexy,” she adds, winking playfully at you from across the room. You shake your head, laughing at her boldness, and turn to select an outfit. 

--------- 

Chapter Two: Coming soon...

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It’s a voice, singing a melody that’s vaguely familiar but too distant for him to distinguish. He follows the music through the vacant halls until the song title is dragged through the murky waters of his memory to the surface. “Somebody to Love,” bleeding beneath the door to the music room in a girl’s voice and accompanied by piano. He peeks through the little window in one of the double doors to see you sitting at the school’s upright, too lost in the performance to notice that you’ve inadvertently acquired an audience.

Of all the faces he’s learned over his too many years in Hawkins, yours is one he doesn’t recognize, a feat especially unbelievable since Eddie likes to think he knows everything there is to know about the music scene in Hawkins. He hangs out with the band kids occasionally and goes to every talent show and Battle of the Bands that goes on in this town, and yet he’s never seen you anywhere. He racks his brain for a possible class or look shared between the two of you over the years and comes up empty handed. He has no clue who you are. You could be some sort of supernatural being for all he knows, a ghost who haunts the music room or a siren luring him to the cragged rocks of the sea.

Eddie listens with his ear pressed to the door as you sail through the climax of the song. Your voice is unlike any he’s heard before, except maybe for the fading childhood memory of his mother’s lilting timbre as she danced with him on her toes to the tune of Muddy Waters. Yours carries, strong and full with a hint of emotion that blankets Eddie like a warm embrace even through the harsh barrier of the music room door.

His eyes drift close as he lets the music wash over him like a cool breeze. With his back pressed to the door, the final chord resonates through his body, pulling him from a beautiful dream. Without hesitation, he reaches for the door handle, struggling around the box in his hands until he stumbles through the opening.

“That was amazing,” he blurts.

He’s greeted by a dissonant blunder of slammed piano keys as you jump in your seat, your head popping up from the piano to stare at him wide eyed. Your hand draws over your heart.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Eddie says over the sound of the door rattling closed behind him. “I overheard you playing,” he says, gesturing behind him like the door itself served as proof.

“I didn’t realize anyone else was here,” you murmur in a voice antithesis to the strong belt you carried before. Eddie steps closer to hear you better.

“Yeah, my club usually finishes up pretty late,” he says, swinging the box side to side.

“Right. Hellfire,” you hum. The tone is unrevealing. Typically, people say the name with disdain, like the words were sour to the taste.

Eddie’s eyebrows lift in pleased surprise. “So, you’ve heard of us? All bad things I hope.”

A subdued smile floats up onto your face, and you look back down at the keys for distraction, idly pressing on the higher tones.

“You’re really good,” Eddie praises, the notes reminding him of the reason he walked in. “Didn’t realize we had this kind of talent in Hawkins.”

You tuck your hands back into your lap, eyes only meeting Eddie’s own briefly before flicking back down, a polite instinct stifled by embarrassment. “It’s really nothing.”

Eddie tosses down the box, causing you to jump slightly, and barrels over to you. He drops down onto the bench beside you, and you scurry to the edge like a spooked mouse. “No, seriously. You should join the talent show. Give us something good for once.”

The Hawkins High Talent Show was a mandatory attendance affair, although if it weren’t for the fact that it was the only time Corroded Coffin was allowed to perform at school, Eddie would’ve found a way to ditch it anyway. With the only “talent” coming out of Hawkins in the past six years being Tammy Thompson and her pitchy singing, it was obviously not a fun time for anyone.

But if you performed? Eddie would find a way to go even if Corroded Coffin was banned from showing their faces.

You vigorously shake your head. “No. No, I couldn’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“‘Cause my heart would explode playing in front of all those people?”

Eddie grins. “A bit of stage fright, huh?”

“A bit is a huge understatement. Don’t you remember the Junior Talent Show?”

A buried memory surges to the forefront of Eddie’s mind, pulling a gasp from his lips. “Oh my god! I do know you.”

A full body cringe overtakes your body as you let out a regretful groan at the reminder. Your hands clench against the side of your head and you keel over, resting your weight on the lip of wood above the piano keys.

Eddie had seen you before. 

Back at the Junior Talent Show, not only was attendance mandatory, but so was performance. Each student had to participate at least once during their three years at the school, an absolutely malevolent thing to force insecure preteens to do. Eddie held out until his last year, leading to the formation of Corroded Coffin as well as their first performance, but you were also there that year, sitting at a piano like this one.

Eddie remembered watching you from offstage, thinking how small and frightened you looked with your feet not even touching the floor, probably a sixth grader yet to have their growth spurt. The curtains pulled back, and you stared, doe-eyed, at the auditorium of students. Murmurs built up among the crowd as the prolonged silence pushed the limits of preteen politeness. One snicker turned into barking laughter, and you burst into tears. In a scramble to get offstage, you tripped on the piano bench’s leg, the resulting bodyslam against the wood floor sounding out across the room and sending the whole student body into chaos. Your name was the butt of every joke in the hallways until school broke out for summer break and Eddie left for high school.

He’d completely forgotten about the moment, but it seems like you hadn’t. Not by a long shot.

Eddie pats your shoulder. “Hey, we all have our moments. I puked the first time I played in front of an audience.”

You turn your head to look at him, though you still remain slouched over. “Really?”

“Yeah. Ruined my favorite Metallica shirt,” Eddie says, gesturing to his chest like he was pointing out the area of impact, even though the whole thing is a complete lie. He’s never had trouble with performing in front of crowds because he’s never been scared of making a fool of himself. Didn’t mean you had to know that though.

You bite your lip and sigh, sitting back up and staring at Eddie with furrowed brows. It’s the longest time you’ve gone without breaking eye contact, and the intensity of it is making Eddie want to be the one to break first. “Look, uhm, Eddie?” He nods in confirmation, although he’s surprised you have to guess at his name, considering his reputation. “You’re really sweet, but I’m just not cut out for the spotlight. I’m good here.” You hover your shaky hands over the keys.

“What if you had someone to play with?” Eddie suggests.

Your brows furrow.

“What if I played with you?” he rephrases. “Won’t be so scary if you don’t have to do it alone, right?”

You tilt your head downward in muted disapproval. “Sorry, but I don’t even know you.”

“Yet!” Eddie bursts, holding up a finger. “You don’t know me yet.”

You breathe a laugh, a reluctant smile on your lips.

Eddie holds his hands up in defense. “Hey, baby steps. I’ll be your test run. When you can play in front of one person, what’s a couple hundred more?”

You shake your head, although your smile only widens. “You’re not as convincing as you think you are.”

“If I’m only half as convincing, I’ll consider it a win,” Eddie grins.

“Come on,” he says, shaking you by the shoulder until laughter billows through your mouth. He stands up, delighting in how your eyes naturally follow. “Just picture it. The rush of performing.” He stands behind you, puppeting your hands to slam against the piano keys. “The crowd of adoring fans.” He steps back to the side, clapping loudly and wiping an invisible tear. “Bravo! Bravo! Encore! Encore!”

You laugh, looking away from him in an attempt to hide the bright smile on your face. “Okay, fine! I’ll do it,” you surrender.

“Oh, come on. Show some enthusiasm,” Eddie shouts. He cups his hands over his mouth. “I’m going to join the school talent show!”

He watches as you mimic him, your hands more constrained around your mouth like you were hiding behind them. “I’m going to join the school talent show!”

“There you go!” he booms. “I’m going to join, and I’m going to win!”

“I’m going to join, and I’m going to win!”

Eddie laughs, which makes you laugh, too. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, and the harsh lights of the music room reflect in your eyes like stars. 

He can’t help but notice how beautiful you are when you laugh.

“Bucky.”

You say his name like it’s simple. Like it doesn’t carry weight. Like it doesn’t belong to a ghost.

He looks at you from across the room, jaw tight. “Yeah?”

You tilt your head, studying him in that quiet, perceptive way that makes him feel seen down to the bone. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Where you act like you’re about to disappear.”

His chest tightens.

You cross the room toward him, slow, careful—not because you’re afraid, but because you know him. Because you understand the fragile balance he lives in.

When you reach him, you don’t touch him right away.

You wait.

It undoes him every time.

“You don’t get to decide what I want,” you say softly.

His brows pull together. “That’s not—”

“You don’t get to decide I deserve better,” you continue, voice still gentle but firm. “Or that I’m too young, or too anything.”

He exhales sharply, looking away. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I know enough.”

It’s not dismissive. It’s not naive.

It’s a choice.

And that’s what makes it worse.

“I feel—” He stops, swallowing hard, the words sticking like glass in his throat. “I feel wrong, sometimes."

That gets your attention.

You step closer, close enough that he can feel your warmth, your presence grounding him whether he wants it or not.

“Why?”

His laugh is hollow. “Look at me. Look at you.”

“I am,” you say.

And you are.

Not the metal arm. Not the scars. Not the weight of history pressing into every line of his face.

Just him.

“You make me feel…” He struggles, voice quieter now. “Like I get to have something good.”

Your expression softens.

“And that feels dirty,” he admits. “Like I didn’t earn it. Like I don’t get to just—have you.”

There it is.

The truth.

Raw and ugly and honest.

You close the space between you, hands finally finding him—one over his heart, the other wrapping gently around his wrist, metal cool under your fingers.

“James,” you say, and the name alone makes him flinch in that soft, vulnerable way he only does with you.

“You don’t earn love.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t understand the language you’re speaking.

“You don’t have to deserve me,” you continue. “I’m not a reward. I’m not something you win after suffering enough.”

Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles.

“I’m choosing you.”

His breath catches.

“Every day,” you whisper. “Not because you’re perfect. Not because you’re fixed. But because you’re you.”

Something in his chest cracks open.

“You make me feel whole,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Like it’s a confession. Like it’s dangerous.

You smile—soft, a little sad, but steady.

“Then let me.”

He shakes his head slightly, overwhelmed. “What if I break that?”

“You won’t,” you say.

He huffs, unconvinced.

You lean in just enough that your forehead brushes his.

“And if you do,” you murmur, “we fix it. Together.”

His hand finds your face then, tentative at first, like he’s still asking permission.

You lean into it instantly.

That’s all it takes.

The hesitation melts. The doubt quiets—just for a moment.

And when he kisses you, it’s not desperate or claiming.

It’s careful.

Reverent.

Like he’s holding something sacred.

You smiled automatically at the sight of him.

Because you always did.

Unfortunately, every remaining seat was taken.

You frowned slightly, scanning the room.

“There’s nowhere left.”

“Sit on the floor,” Sam suggested immediately.

“You sit on the floor.”

“I was here first.”

Tony pointed toward Bucky without looking away from the TV.

“Tin Man’s got room.”

The entire room went briefly quiet.

Because technically yes, there was room.

Bucky occupied one corner of the sectional entirely alone.

But sitting beside Bucky Barnes and sitting on Bucky Barnes were two catastrophically different things.

You looked at Bucky hesitantly.

He looked back.

For one terrible second, neither of you said anything.

Then Steve—traitor that he was—shifted slightly farther into Sam’s side.

“Looks full here.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Coward.”

Steve smiled innocently.

Natasha looked deeply entertained already.

“You could always sit in Barnes’ lap.”

Bucky choked on absolutely nothing.

You stared at her in horror.

Natasha raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“What? Efficient use of space.”

“You are a menace.”

“Thank you.”

Bucky still hadn’t spoken.

Which somehow made this worse.

You glanced at him carefully.

“…Would that be weird?”

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly like he hadn’t expected you to genuinely consider it.

Truthfully, neither had you.

You and Bucky weren’t exactly touchy.

Not because you disliked each other.

Quite the opposite.

There was just always this… awareness between you.

Every accidental brush of hands lingered too long. Every moment standing too close felt charged somehow.

And now everyone was looking at him expectantly while you stood awkwardly beside the couch.

Bucky swallowed once.

Then muttered:

“I mean… if you want.”

Natasha immediately smirked.

“Oh, he’s doomed.”

“Romanoff,” Bucky warned.

But his voice sounded rougher than usual.

Your heart beat stupidly hard as you carefully lowered yourself onto his lap.

At first it was incredibly awkward.

Not because Bucky made it awkward.

Because he went completely motionless.

Like if he moved too suddenly he might combust.

You tried very hard to ignore how warm he was beneath you.

Which was difficult.

Super soldier body heat should honestly count as a weapon.

Your back pressed lightly against his chest. One of his thighs bracketed yours naturally. His metal arm rested rigidly beside you like he was terrified to touch you accidentally.

The room immediately erupted.

“Oh my God,” Sam whispered dramatically.

Clint pointed at Bucky.

“He looks like somebody held him at gunpoint.”

“He does,” Natasha agreed.

Bucky glared at all of them.

You were trying very hard not to laugh.

“This is fine,” you said weakly.

“No it’s not,” Sam answered instantly. “Barnes forgot how to breathe.”

“I’m breathing.”

“You haven’t blinked in thirty seconds.”

Bucky finally looked down at you.

Your eyes met.

And suddenly the teasing faded into background noise for one dangerous second.

Because he looked…

Overwhelmed.

Not upset. Not uncomfortable.

Just intensely aware of you.

You smiled slightly before you could stop yourself.

Bucky’s expression softened immediately in response.

Then, cautiously, his flesh hand settled against your side.

Not gripping. Just there.

Steadying.

Your stomach flipped violently.

“Oh, he’s touching her now,” Clint announced.

“Everybody shut up,” Bucky muttered.

The movie finally started after that.

And slowly, impossibly, the awkwardness faded.

Because sitting with Bucky felt…

Nice.

His chest warm against your back. The low rumble of his voice when he occasionally commented quietly. The way his hand shifted absentmindedly against your side whenever you laughed.

At some point during the movie, you relaxed fully against him without even realizing it.

Bucky noticed immediately.

Every muscle in his body softened.

Like your trust physically melted tension out of him.

By the end of the night, his metal arm rested loosely across your lap while your head leaned comfortably against his shoulder.

Nobody missed it.

Especially not Natasha.

“You two are revolting,” she informed you both pleasantly.

You lifted your head sleepily.

“What?”

“You’re cuddling.”

You looked down.

Oh.

Bucky’s arms were around you.

Fully around you.

At some point that had happened without either of you acknowledging it.

Your cheeks warmed instantly.

Bucky looked down too.

But instead of pulling away—

His grip tightened slightly.

Just slightly.

Like he didn’t want you moving.

Natasha’s smile turned positively vicious.

“Oh, this is going to get worse.”

It did.

Very quickly.

The second time you sat on Bucky’s lap, it was deliberate.

The common room was crowded again.

There were other seats available this time.

You ignored them automatically and crossed straight toward Bucky instead.

He looked up from his book immediately.

Eyes tracking you instinctively.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Hi.”

Then, without really thinking about it, you settled into his lap naturally.

Like it was normal now.

Bucky went still for exactly one second.

Then his arm wrapped around your waist automatically.

Comfortably.

Like his body had already memorized yours.

Sam stared openly from across the room.

“No.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“There are literally empty chairs.”

You looked around.

“…Oh.”

Bucky’s chest rumbled quietly behind you.

A laugh.

“You can move if you want,” he said softly.

But his arm tightened infinitesimally around you when he said it.

Liar.

You smiled slightly.

“I’m comfortable.”

Bucky’s entire posture relaxed immediately.

Sam pointed dramatically.

“Did everybody see that?”

Steve looked deeply amused over his book.

“It’s pretty obvious.”

“What’s obvious?” you asked suspiciously.

“The fact that Barnes is one missed nap away from carrying you around in a baby sling.”

Bucky flipped him off without hesitation.

You laughed so hard you nearly slid sideways.

Bucky caught you instantly.

Strong hands gripping your waist securely.

“Careful.”

His voice dropped lower when talking directly to you.

Softer too.

Natasha noticed everything.

Of course she did.

“You know,” she mused one evening while watching you climb into Bucky’s lap during a briefing despite several empty seats nearby, “at this point I think she just likes making you malfunction.”

Bucky looked at her flatly.

“She’s sitting.”

“You stare at her like she invented oxygen.”

Your face immediately burst into flames.

Bucky looked mildly alarmed now too.

“I do not.”

“Barnes,” Clint said. “You literally stopped listening to Fury because she fixed your collar.”

Bucky frowned.

“It was crooked.”

The room erupted instantly.

You buried your face in his shoulder laughing while Bucky glared at everyone over your head.

Which honestly only made it worse.

Because now his hand was rubbing absentminded circles against your back.

Possessive. Comforting.

Intimate enough that Steve quietly hid a smile behind his coffee mug.

The problem was that nobody realized how bad it had gotten for Bucky.

Not even you.

Because somewhere between movie nights and briefings and lazy afternoons tangled together on couches, sitting on his lap had become second nature.

You did it constantly now.

Reading reports. Watching TV. Scrolling through your phone.

Sometimes you sat sideways across his thighs while talking to the others. Sometimes you leaned fully back against his chest while he wrapped both arms around you automatically.

Bucky never complained.

Never hesitated.

In fact, he started unconsciously making room for you before you even crossed the room.

Like some part of him expected your weight settling against him now.

The terrifying thing was how much he needed it.

Because every time you sat with him, the world quieted.

The noise in his head softened. The hypervigilance eased.

You grounded him without even trying.

And Bucky—

God.

Bucky was so deeply in love with you it physically hurt sometimes.

He knew exactly when it happened too.

One rainy afternoon in the tower.

You’d fallen asleep on him during a movie.

Curled against his chest with one arm looped lazily around his neck.

The others had long since filtered out of the room, leaving only the soft sound of rain against the windows.

Bucky looked down at you sleeping in his lap.

At your relaxed face. Your soft breathing. The absolute trust in the way you melted into him without hesitation.

And suddenly it hit him with horrifying clarity.

Oh.

Oh no.

He loved you.

Not casually. Not halfway.

Completely.

The realization should’ve terrified him.

Instead it just felt inevitable.

Like he’d been falling for you slowly every single time you smiled at him across the room. Every time you chose his lap over empty seats. Every time you trusted him enough to curl into his arms like it was the safest place in the world.

Bucky brushed a strand of hair carefully away from your face.

You stirred slightly against him.

His chest tightened painfully.

“Jesus,” he whispered to himself.

“What?”

Bucky nearly jumped out of his skin.

You blinked sleepily up at him.

Still half asleep.

Still warm and heavy in his lap.

Bucky stared at you.

Then sighed softly through his nose.

“Nothin’.”

You narrowed your eyes lazily.

“You’re doing the overthinking face.”

“I don’t have an overthinking face.”

“You absolutely do.”

Your fingers drifted absentmindedly along the back of his neck.

Bucky nearly stopped breathing.

“You okay?” you murmured.

There was so much genuine concern in your voice.

So much affection.

And suddenly Bucky couldn’t do it anymore.

Couldn’t keep swallowing the feelings down every time you curled up in his lap smiling at him like he mattered.

His hand slid carefully against your waist.

“You know,” he said quietly, “most people don’t sit in their friends’ laps this much.”

You blinked slowly.

Then your expression changed.

“Oh.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped immediately.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” you interrupted softly. “No, I just…”

Your cheeks warmed visibly.

“I thought maybe you liked it.”

Bucky stared at you.

“You thought maybe—”

“You always hold me.”

“Because I like holding you.”

The words slipped out too fast to stop.

Silence.

Then your eyes widened slightly.

Bucky closed his eyes briefly.

Great.

Perfect.

But when he looked back at you, you were smiling.

Small. Soft. Almost shy.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m kind of in love with you.”

Bucky’s entire brain short-circuited.

“You—what?”

You laughed quietly at his expression.

“I figured that was obvious.”

“To me?”

“Yes?”

“Doll, I thought you just really liked sitting down.”

You burst out laughing fully then.

The sound hit Bucky right in the chest.

God, he loved you.

You cupped his face gently.

“I love sitting with you because it’s you.”

Every protective wall Bucky carried cracked apart instantly.

He kissed you before he could overthink it.

Slow at first. Careful.

One hand cradling your jaw while the other tightened around your waist instinctively, keeping you close in his lap.

You kissed him back immediately.

Warm and certain.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

Both of you breathless.

“You know,” you murmured softly, “I’m still gonna sit on your lap constantly.”

Bucky’s mouth curved into the softest smile you’d ever seen from him.

“Good.”

Then he kissed you again just as Sam walked back into the room.

Sam stopped dead.

Looked at the two of you tangled together on the couch.

Then groaned loudly.

You join the Avengers in the least dramatic way possible.

No alien invasions.

No secret prophecies.

No world-ending catastrophe.

You’re simply very, very good at your job.

You’re a trauma medic attached to a relief organization the Avengers occasionally partner with, and after patching up three agents, one diplomat, and Sam Wilson himself during a mission in Madripoor, Fury offers you a permanent position.

You say no.

Twice.

The third time, Pepper Potts calls personally.

By the fourth offer, you finally cave.

Which is how you end up living in the compound three floors beneath a supersoldier who actively avoids you.

At first, you assume he just doesn’t like people.

Natasha informs you otherwise.

“Oh, he likes people,” Natasha Romanoff says dryly over breakfast. “Just not many.”

You glance toward the empty seat Bucky abandoned the second you walked into the kitchen.

“…Did I offend him somehow?”

Natasha actually chokes on her coffee.

Across from her, Sam suddenly becomes deeply fascinated by his cereal.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Natasha says immediately.

“Absolutely nothing,” Sam agrees.

You narrow your eyes.

Neither elaborates.

You begin noticing things after that.

Little things.

Bucky always leaves the room when you enter it—but somehow your favorite tea always appears stocked in the kitchen.

You mention once that the compound hallways are freezing, and two days later there’s a thick knit blanket folded neatly outside your door with no note attached.

You complain about a stubborn cabinet hinge in your apartment.

The next morning it’s fixed.

No one admits responsibility.

But when you thank Bucky casually over dinner just to test a theory, he nearly inhales his drink.

“…Wasn’t me.”

You smile slowly.

“Okay.”

He stares at you like you’re dangerous.

Which is ridiculous.

You’re wearing bunny slippers.

The age gap becomes obvious one night during a movie marathon.

You, Sam, Peter, and Bucky are sprawled across the common room while some absurd eighties action movie plays on the screen.

Peter groans dramatically. “This CGI is awful.”

“It looked good at the time,” you argue.

Bucky turns his head.

“At the time?”

You freeze.

Sam bursts into laughter so violently he almost falls off the couch.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “She thinks the eighties are ancient history.”

“They are ancient history,” you defend.

Bucky stares at you with something between horror and disbelief.

“You were born after the eighties?”

“…Yes?”

“The nineties?” he asks weakly.

“Yes.”

Peter pipes up helpfully. “She was born in 1998.”

Bucky looks like someone shot him.

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Sam says gleefully. “He is not.”

Bucky stands abruptly.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Sam loses it completely.

After that, Bucky avoids you harder.

Which would almost be impressive if he weren’t terrible at hiding the fact that he cares about you.

He watches you constantly.

Not in a creepy way.

In a protective way.

Like he’s making sure you’re breathing.

You catch it in fragments.

His eyes tracking you during missions.

His body subtly positioning between you and danger.

The way he relaxes when you laugh.

The way he goes still when someone touches you for too long.

You start understanding the truth before anyone says it aloud.

Bucky Barnes is in love with you.

And for some insane reason—

You’re falling for him too.

It happens slowly.

Then all at once.

You fall for his quietness first.

Most people assume silence means emptiness.

Bucky’s silence is full.

Heavy with observation. Care. Thoughtfulness.

He notices everything.

The exact way you take your coffee.

The songs you hum absentmindedly.

Which nightmares leave you restless.

You realize he starts leaving the compound gym earlier on mornings after you wake from bad dreams.

Like he’s trying to make breakfast before you get there.

Like feeding people is the only comfort he knows how to offer.

And God.

When he smiles?

Rare. Small. Crooked.

It feels precious.

Like discovering something hidden beneath ice.

The problem is that Bucky refuses to let anything happen between you.

The closer you get, the more distance he forces between you afterward.

You’ll spend hours talking on the roof at night—sharing stories and terrible coffee and quiet laughter—and then he’ll avoid you for three straight days.

It hurts more than you expect.

Because you know he feels it too.

One night, after a mission in Prague, you finally corner him.

He’s sitting alone in the hangar cleaning his weapons when you walk in.

“Did I do something wrong?”

His hands stop moving instantly.

“No.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not.”

You fold your arms.

He sighs.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

“Bucky—”

“You should be out with people your own age.”

The words hit like cold water.

You stare at him.

“…What?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

“And?”

“And I’m not…” He swallows hard. “I’m not someone you build a future with.”

Anger sparks sharp and immediate.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His jaw tightens.

“You think this is a joke?”

“I think you’re scared.”

That gets his attention.

Steel-blue eyes snap to yours.

“You don’t know what I am.”

“I know exactly what you are,” you fire back. “You’re kind. You’re loyal. You’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing. You bring me tea when I’m stressed and pretend you didn’t. You stay outside the medbay when I work late because you think I don’t notice.”

His expression fractures slightly.

“You deserve someone better.”

“No,” you say softly. “I deserve to choose.”

Silence stretches between you.

Raw.

Fragile.

Bucky looks wrecked by it.

By you.

“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “I remember too much.”

Your anger fades instantly.

Slowly, carefully, you walk toward him.

He goes perfectly still.

“I know,” you say gently.

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“That’s not helping.”

Despite everything, you laugh quietly.

His eyes close briefly like the sound physically affects him.

“You’re gonna wake up one day,” he says roughly, “and realize you wasted your life on an old man with too many ghosts.”

You crouch in front of him.

“James.”

He looks at you helplessly.

“You are not hard to love.”

Something inside him breaks.

You see it happen in real time.

Like a wall finally cracking after decades under pressure.

His metal hand flexes once.

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to believe you.”

Your heart aches.

So you do the only thing that feels right.

You take his hand.

Both of them.

Flesh and metal.

Equally.

“I mean it.”

Bucky stares at your joined hands like he’s never seen anything so devastating.

Then he pulls away.

Not harshly.

Worse.

Carefully.

Like it costs him everything.

“I can’t.”

And he leaves.

You cry exactly once about it.

Natasha finds you sitting on the kitchen counter at two in the morning eating dry cereal from the box.

“You look terrible,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She takes the cereal from you.

“…He said no?”

You nod miserably.

Natasha sighs the sigh of someone deeply exhausted by male stupidity.

“He loves you.”

“I know.”

“Unfortunately, he’s also an idiot.”

A startled laugh escapes you.

Natasha bumps your shoulder lightly.

“Give him time.”

Time, unfortunately, turns out to involve disaster.

Because of course it does.

This is the Avengers.

Nothing emotionally significant can happen without explosions.

The mission in Bucharest goes sideways fast.

An arms deal.

Bad intel.

Too many hostiles.

You’re there strictly as medical support, tucked safely in the quinjet several blocks away.

At least, that’s the plan.

Then the building collapses.

Your comms erupt with shouting.

“Medic down—”

“—need extraction—”

“Where’s Barnes?”

Dust fills the air.

You’re dragged from the wreckage half-conscious with blood running down your temple and your left leg trapped beneath concrete.

And then Bucky arrives.

You’ve seen the Winter Soldier before.

Cold.

Efficient.

Terrifying.

But this?

This is different.

This is rage.

Pure, horrifying rage.

He tears through debris with his metal arm like the rubble personally offended him.

Someone tries to stop him.

That person immediately regrets it.

“BUCKY—” Sam shouts.

Bucky ignores everyone.

His eyes find you.

And you swear the entire world stills.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly.

He drops to his knees beside you.

Hands shaking.

Actually shaking.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice rough with panic.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Your attempt at humor nearly destroys him.

You can see it.

Blood loss makes everything hazy, but one thing becomes crystal clear:

Bucky loves you so much it terrifies him.

He lifts the concrete slab like it weighs nothing.

The second you’re free, he gathers you against his chest.

Protective.

Desperate.

Your face presses against tactical gear and leather and the frantic pounding of his heart.

“You’re okay,” he mutters, like he’s trying to convince himself. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

His forehead rests briefly against your hair.

For one tiny moment, the world disappears.

No missions.

No history.

No fear.

Just him.

Just you.

Then your pain catches up.

You hiss sharply.

Bucky immediately pulls back. “Medbay. Now.”

The quinjet ride is chaos.

You fade in and out while Bruce works on your leg.

Bucky never leaves your side.

Not once.

At some point you wake to find him sitting beside your cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s praying.

“You stayed,” you murmur.

His head snaps up instantly.

“Yeah.”

“You hate medbays.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“Still counts.”

A faint huff of laughter leaves him.

Relief flickers across his face just hearing you joke again.

You watch him quietly.

Disheveled hair.

Blood on his gloves.

Exhaustion carved into every line of his body.

And underneath it all—

Love.

So much love.

“Bucky.”

His eyes meet yours.

“Come here.”

He hesitates.

Then obeys.

You shift carefully, making room for him beside the cot.

“Doll—”

“Please.”

That word wrecks him every time.

He sits carefully beside you.

You lean into him immediately.

No hesitation.

His entire body locks up.

Then slowly—

Slowly—

He wraps an arm around you.

Like holding you is both instinct and privilege.

You rest your head against his shoulder.

“I meant what I said before,” you whisper.

Silence.

Then quietly:

“I know.”

“You still think you’re too old for me?”

A long pause.

“…Yeah.”

You snort softly.

He looks offended.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You tilt your head back to look at him. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re using age because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared someone might actually love you enough to stay.”

Bucky goes still.

Dead still.

The truth lands hard.

You see it.

And because apparently you enjoy emotional violence, you add gently:

“I think everyone leaves you eventually, and you’re trying to leave first.”

His breathing catches.

For a second you think he might walk away again.

Instead, he whispers:

“You make me want things.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“What kind of things?”

“A home.” His voice is barely audible. “A future. Somethin’ normal.” He swallows hard. “Kids, maybe.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Bucky looks horrified he admitted that aloud.

“You’d be a good dad,” you say softly.

He laughs once.

Broken.

“No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t.”

“You already are.”

His brows pull together.

You smile faintly. “You take care of everyone. Especially the people you love.”

The word hangs there.

Love.

He doesn’t deny it this time.

Instead, he reaches up carefully and brushes hair away from your face.

His fingertips linger against your cheek.

Warm flesh hand.

Not the metal one.

Like he still thinks the other might hurt you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

Your heart pounds.

“Why would I do that?”

His eyes darken with emotion so intense it almost hurts to look at.

Then finally—

Finally—

He kisses you.

Soft at first.

Tentative.

Like he’s waiting for the world to punish him for wanting this.

But the second you kiss him back, everything changes.

His hand slides behind your neck.

He kisses like a man starved.

Like he’s been holding himself back for months and doesn’t know how to do it anymore.

It’s not frantic.

It’s worse.

Careful.

Reverent.

Every brush of his mouth says something he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.

You pull back breathless.

Bucky’s forehead drops against yours.

“I’m in so much trouble,” he mutters.

You laugh softly.

“Because you kissed me?”

“Because I’m never gonna stop wanting to do it again.”

Dating Bucky Barnes is surprisingly domestic.

You expect intensity.

Drama.

Brooding declarations in the rain.

Instead, you get:

Quiet mornings.

His hand at the small of your back.

Shared coffee.

Movie nights where he falls asleep with his head in your lap despite insisting supersoldiers “don’t nap.”

You get Alpine deciding you’re her favorite human.

You get Bucky standing in the kitchen at midnight making grilled cheese while listening to you ramble about terrible reality television.

You get a man who loves fiercely but carefully.

Like your happiness is something precious he’s been entrusted with.

The age gap still bothers him sometimes.

Usually in small ways.

Pop culture references.

Technology.

The occasional existential crisis when you tease him about being born before penicillin.

“You are never saying that sentence again,” he informs you gravely.

You grin. “You were literally alive during swing dancing.”

“So were old people in the nineties.”

“You are old people in the nineties.”

He glares.

Then kisses you to shut you up.

Which honestly feels like a win.

The real turning point comes six months later.

It’s after a mission.

A bad one.

You wake in the middle of the night to find Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.

Nightmare.

You recognize the signs now.

Without speaking, you move closer and press against his back.

His shoulders tense briefly.

Then sag.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“No.”

Honest.

Always honest with you now.

You wrap your arms around his waist.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Long silence.

Then quietly:

“I saw you die.”

Your chest aches.

“In the dream?”

He nods once.

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“I’m still here.”

“For now.”

The fear in his voice destroys you.

You turn him gently until he faces you.

“You know what’s really unfair?” you murmur.

“What?”

“You think loving you is a burden.”

His eyes flicker downward.

“But loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Emotion crashes across his face so openly it startles you.

You touch his jaw softly.

“I’m not going anywhere, James.”

And for the first time—

He believes you.

You can actually see it happen.

The shift.

The surrender.

His walls finally lowering completely.

Bucky pulls you into his lap and buries his face against your neck.

Holding you so tightly it feels instinctive.

Necessary.

“I love you,” he says roughly.

Not tentative.

Not fearful.

Certain.

“I love you too.”

He kisses you afterward like he finally understands he’s allowed to.

A year later, Sam finds Bucky in the compound kitchen staring at a jewelry website with naked panic.

Sam nearly drops his smoothie.

“Oh, this is serious.”

Bucky slams the laptop shut.

“Get out.”

Sam grins slowly. “You’re proposing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re absolutely proposing.”

Bucky scowls.

Sam’s expression softens unexpectedly.

“You happy?”

Bucky glances toward the hallway where your laughter echoes faintly from another room.

His entire face changes.

Softens in a way that would probably terrify his enemies.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I am.”

He proposes on the roof.

No audience.

No elaborate setup.

Just the city lights below and cold evening air curling around both of you.

You’re rambling about something completely ridiculous when he interrupts suddenly:

“I wanna spend the rest of my life loving you.”

You blink.

“…What?”

Bucky looks nervous.

Actually nervous.

More nervous than when facing down armed mercenaries.

“I had this whole speech planned,” he mutters, frustrated. “Was supposed to be better than this.”

Your heart starts pounding.

He drops to one knee anyway.

“I know I’m older than you.”

You snort through sudden tears. “Slightly.”

“Brat.”

You grin shakily.

Bucky takes your hand carefully.

Reverently.

“But every good thing I have now started with you.” His voice roughens. “You made me believe I could still have a life after everything.”

Tears spill down your cheeks immediately.

“So yeah,” he says softly. “Marry me?”

You don’t even let him finish reaching for the ring box before you’re kissing him.

Bucky laughs against your mouth for the first time since you’ve known him.

Pure happiness.

Unrestrained.

“Yes?” he asks breathlessly.

“Yes.”

Again.

“Yes.”

He slides the ring onto your finger with shaking hands.

Then pulls you into his arms like he never intends to let go again.

And this time—

"And what 'part' is that, exactly?"

He gestured vaguely at you, at your pastel outfit and the little floral purse you had tucked behind the counter. "The Melody Records part. John's got a thing for lost causes, I guess."

You straightened up, pulling your shoulders back. The soft cashmere of your cardigan suddenly felt like armor. "Oh that is hilarious."

You let out an actual laugh at that as he stood there, eyebrow quirked and arms crossed. "Yeah? How so?"

"Eddie Munson. King of nonconforming, judging someone on their aesthetic." The words came out sharp, precise, each one a tiny pinprick. "My musical knowledge is just as deep as yours, I guarantee it. The fact that I like skirts doesn't mean I can't tell you the difference between black metal and death metal."

Eddie's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he recovered. He leaned against the counter, the worn wood creaking under his weight, and watched you, a new, more assessing light in his gaze.

"So the princess has bite," he mused, the nickname an experiment. "Alright, then. Go help him."

He nodded over to a man who had just walked in, leather vest creaking as he browsed the punk section. You recognized the patch on his back from a local band, The Flesh Riot. He looked lost.

"I could be wrong," you said, not moving an inch, "but something tells me he's looking for early UK anarcho-punk. I'd start him with a little Crass, maybe some Conflict. If he wants something more American, MDC's a safe bet."

You turned back to Eddie, raising an eyebrow in perfect, challenging symmetry to his earlier gesture. "Or I could just point him to the Taylor Swift section. Since I'm probably only qualified to sell that, right?"

A choked, surprised laugh escaped Eddie's lips. It was rough, unused, but it was real. He looked at the man, then back at you, and for the first time, the condescending amusement was gone, replaced by something grudgingly impressed.

"Let's just get you trained on the register system. It's older than dirt." Eddie sounded almost... subdued.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks of shared shifts, bickering over the correct way to file compilations, and the slow, steady erosion of Eddie's initial assumptions.

You were here together after close, doing your first Sunday night inventory together. The usual music was shut off, and instead some low folk you could both agree on played distantly on your phone.

That's when you heard the sound again. Skittering above you, like something was running across the floor upstairs.

"Oh my god, what is that sound? It's driving me insane." You groaned.

Eddie looked up from his clipboard, pausing for a moment. "There's an apartment upstairs."

"Okay. Who lives there? A bunch of rowdy gnomes?"

He shakes his head and looks back to his list, hiding a smile. "Nah, John used to back in the day before he married Marie and they had kids. Now he rents it out to some lowlife with a cat."

"There's been a random guy living above our workplace that I don't know, and you just... didn't tell me?" You stared at him, aghast. "For three weeks? You let me walk into the store alone for three weeks, knowing there's a stranger upstairs?" 

You slapped him on the arm, half-joking, half-serious.

He rubbed the spot where you'd hit him, feigning injury. "Hey! What was that for?"

"For being a terrible coworker! What if he's a creep?"

"Oh he's definitely a creep. The creepiest. Hear he worships Satan and sacrifices bunnies in the upstairs bathroom." He's looking dead at you as he says this, and you don't believe it for a second.

You roll your eyes and go back to tallying the 7-inch singles, but you can't shake the image of some pale, gaunt figure performing a dark ritual in the bathroom while you were stocking shelves downstairs.

An hour or so goes by and you're finally finished. Eddie walks you to the front door but doesn't head out with you.

"Uh, is there more to do? If you're going to stay and take all the extra hours that's kind of ass, Munson. I need money too." You said, half-joking, but still confused.

He just smirked and gestured upstairs. "I'm going up."

"To the devil worshipping, bunny sacrificialist's apartment?"

"Hey, he's also a really good cat owner and guitarist. Don't put people in a box." He says with a wink.

"Wait, you live here?" The question comes out as a choked whisper, a flurry of realizations hitting you all at once.

"Surprise," he says, but there's no malice in it now, just a weird sort of gentleness you haven't heard before. "Told you. Total creep up there."

He doesn't wait for you to process, just gives you a two-fingered salute and shuts the door behind you, locking it from the inside. You watch him head upstairs.

Another month goes by and you're early for your shift. Shivering from the cold, you hold a tray with two hot coffees in one hand, unlocking the door with the other. 

You and Eddie have built up a bond of sorts. You talk about music, of course, debating the merits of '80s goth versus '90s grunge until your voices are hoarse. He's learned you have a soft spot for sad, twee indie pop, and you've discovered his surprisingly encyclopedic knowledge of folk singer-songwriters.

The bickering is still there, but it's morphed. It's less barbed, more like a well-rehearsed routine. It's comfortable. Sometimes even bordering on flirting.

"It is like, freezing out there dude." You say to the store, assuming he's already downstairs. "I swear I am not built for the cold." 

You set the coffee tray down, shrugging off your pink peacoat and unwrapping your scarf. "Brought you coffee. But, don’t worry, it's black. Because I know you're too good for sugar and cream like a normal person." You're talking to the empty store, the words echoing slightly in the quiet space.

A floorboard by the back creaks and you turn, expecting to see Eddie. 

What does greet you is a woman, slightly disheveled in a way that screams 'I just had a very good night'. Her dark hair is a mess, and she's wearing what is unmistakably one of Eddie's sweatshirts over a tight black dress. She pauses, shoes in one hand and she looks just as surprised to see you.

"Oh!" You both say at the same time.

The awkwardness hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.

"Um... Eddie said the exit was down here but... I think I picked the wrong door."

"Yeah, the one on the left... goes out to the alley," you manage, your throat suddenly tight. "Easy mistake." 

As if on cue, you hear fast footsteps coming down the stairs, and Eddie appears, pulling on a t-shirt, hair a chaotic mess. He freezes when he sees you, then sees the woman, then looks back at you.

"Shit. Hey. Morning."

"Morning," you parrot back, trying very hard to look anywhere but at them.

This is fine. This is totally fine.

Why do you care what he does? It's his home, technically. He can have whoever he wants over.

But the image of her, in his sweatshirt, flashes in your mind. A hot, acidic feeling bubbles in your stomach.

She's pretty, in a way that is very different to you. Sharp, defined angles, a confident smirk. She's one of the sleek black cats to your fluffy pink kitten.

"So, this is awkward," she says with a small, breathy laugh, breaking the tension.

"Hey, no worries sweetheart, I'll walk you out. Left door, okay?" Eddie says, all charm and confidence. The nickname, the one he'd used on you that first day, now lands differently when directed at someone else. It feels cheap. Transactional.

The girl and Eddie disappear through the back door, her giving you an awkward wave. The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with unspoken things. You busy yourself with getting the register ready, the movements stiff and robotic. The back door opens and the shuts a few minutes later. You don't look up.

"Listen," Eddie's voice is low, careful. "About that."

"Don't," you cut him off, your own voice surprisingly steady. "You don't owe me an explanation. It's your... apartment. Your life." 

"Yeah, sure," he starts heading toward you and pulling his hair into a low ponytail. His neck had faint marks you pretended not to notice. "But it's also our workplace. And that was... not my most professional moment. I'm sorry."

You risk a glance at him. He looks genuine, which only makes it worse. You force a smile that feels brittle on your face.

"You're fine. I brought coffee." You point at the tray, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a foghorn.

He looks at the two cups, then at you. He picks up the one you designated as his, his name on it in your bubbly handwriting with a little heart, and takes a long sip. A small, genuine smile touches his lips.

"Thanks, princess," he says, the nickname falling between you, heavy with new, complicated layers. "This might just save my life."

"Speaking of... professional…" You finish counting the money. "I think you should probably stop calling me that."

He pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow. "Princess?"

"Yes. We're coworkers. Equals. It feels... demeaning. Now."

"Now?" A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. You want to wipe it off with your own hands.

"Yes. Now," you snap, your carefully constructed composure cracking. "Maybe when I started I was your 'rookie', but I've earned my spot here. I'm not your princess."

For a long moment, he just looks at you.

Something flashes on his face that looks a lot like hurt, which is ridiculous. He nods, slowly.

"Okay. Fair enough."

"Good."

"Good."

The morning proceeds in a tense, quiet efficiency. The usual banter is gone, replaced by the sterile sound of tape guns sealing boxes and the rustle of plastic sleeves. You're pointedly not looking at him, and he's pointedly not talking to you.

"I don't, like, have women over every night or something." He says at one point, when there's a lull in customers. 

You pause. "I really didn't ask."

"I know, I know. I just... wanted to clarify that I'm not some... man-whore." He looks so awkward saying the words it almost makes you smile.

Almost. 

"Your neck says otherwise, Eddie." You retort, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. The instant it leaves your mouth, you regret it. It's none of your business.

"Jesus," he breathes out, running a hand over the faint purple marks. "I'm sorry you had to see that. It was... a one-time thing. She liked my band's set. We had a few drinks. It wasn't anything."

He looks so genuinely distressed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, that your anger dissolves into a confusing, hollow ache.

"You really don't need to explain," you say, your tone softer now. "Who you bring home is your business. It was just... awkward."

"Yeah, no shit," he agrees, a little of his usual swagger returning. "I'll try not to bring anyone home who doesn't know their left and right from now on. Scout's honor." He holds up three fingers, a mock-promise.

You don't laugh. You just nod and go back to your work, the silence stretching on.

Eddie is fucked. 

It's been only a week since the awkward encounter with his one night stand. 

One week since you'd asked him to stop calling you princess. One week of being acutely aware of your presence, the scent of your fruity perfume, the gentle click of your heeled boots on the wooden floorboards, the way you'd hum along to whatever was playing on the store's speakers, a soft, off-key counter-melody that he found himself straining to hear over the actual music.

He is, as they say, completely and utterly fucked.

Because you weren't talking to him. Not full silent treatment, but not the easy bickering he'd come to rely on. The silence was a new form of torture.

It all came to a head when he'd been helping a customer find an obscure post-punk record, and when he'd turned to ask you a question about the stockroom inventory, he'd found you with your phone in your hand, a brilliant, genuine smile lighting up your face as you texted someone back.

The hot, possessive surge of jealousy was so potent it almost knocked him backward. He'd wanted to smash the phone.

It hit him like a ton of bricks that maybe he wanted you to be his. His princess. An honorific you’ve recently denied him from using.

"You're being really brooding right now." 

Gareth's voice, muffled by his mouthful of fries, pulled Eddie from his thoughts. 

"Yeah, man. You're doing more staring at that beer than actually drinking it." Jeff raised an eyebrow. 

It was Friday night at the Hideout and Corroded Coffin had just played a gig for a crowd of at least ten drunks. 

"I'm not brooding," Eddie grumbled, taking a large swallow of his beer.

He was thinking about the way your nose crinkled when you laughed. He was thinking about how he'd accidentally overheard you on the phone with your mom, your voice soft and sweet as you reassured her you were eating enough.

That. That right there was the problem.

"You're thinking about the new girl, aren't you?" Gareth grinned, a knowing look on his face.

"Her name is not 'the new girl'," Eddie snapped, a little too quickly. "And no, I'm not."

"Liar," Jeff chimed in. "You only get this constipated look when you're thinking about a girl."

Eddie's mind flashed back to that morning. The look on your face. The venom in your tone when you'd said, ‘Your neck says otherwise, Eddie.’ He hadn't been able to get it out of his head.

"She's not even your type, man," Gareth continued, oblivious to the inner turmoil he was stoking. "Isn't she like, all... pink and fluffy?"

"And she asked him to stop calling her 'princess'," Jeff added with a smirk. "That's gotta hurt the ego."

"It does," Eddie mumbled into his beer. "It really, really does."

He just shook his head and signaled the bartender for another round.

"She caught one of my... groupie conquests, trying to escape through the store," Eddie admitted, finally giving in.

Jeff and Gareth's laughter was loud and obnoxious.

"You're an idiot, Munson," Jeff said, clapping him on the back. "An absolute idiot."

"Yeah, well, tell me something I don't know," Eddie grumbled.

"So what's the plan?" Gareth asked, suddenly serious. "Are you going to, you know, talk to her? Like a normal human being?"

"And say what? 'Hey, sorry you saw me with another woman, but I'm actually hopelessly in love with the way you organize the vinyl'?" Eddie scoffed. "Yeah, that'll go over well."

"Just... talk to her, man," Jeff urged. "You guys have a lot in common, despite the... aesthetic differences. You're both nerds about music. Start there."

That night, lying in bed, the sounds of the sleeping city filtering through his window, Eddie couldn't stop thinking about you. 

The way you hairbow bounces a little when you danced behind the counter to some obscure power pop song he'd put on.

The way your face lit up when a customer would ask you for a recommendation you were passionate about.

Your perfect pink pout when he annoyed you.

Yeah. He was so fucked.

The next day you walked into the store and the air immediately felt different. Eddie was already behind the counter, furiously scribbling something in a notebook.

It was starting to snow, the weather app on your phone saying it was going to be a bad one, so you were grateful for the warmth of the store. You hung your coat and went to the counter.

"Morning."

He looked up, and for a second, you saw panic flash across his face before he slammed the notebook shut.

"Hey pri-" Eddie caught himself, jaw tightening. "Hey. Morning." The correction landed awkwardly between you, a placeholder for something more familiar.

You simply nod, and the silence stretches, filling the space with a thousand unsaid things.

"I'm surprised we're open. I doubt we're going to get a lot of customers in this blizzard." You said, trying to make small talk, anything to fill the void.

"You could have called out. I could handle it on my own. Not like I have a far commute. Just up the stairs." The tone was casual, but the offer was clear. A peace offering.

"No. I like the snow." You said, looking out the big front window. And it was true. You did. The way it muffled the world, turned everything into a soft, hazy dream. "Makes the whole city quiet."

Eddie watched you for a long moment.

Your nose was a little red from the cold, and you'd tucked your hair behind your ears. You looked so... soft. A stark contrast to the jagged, noisy feeling inside him.

You were right. There was barely any foot traffic all day. 

By the time the storm got pretty bad, John called, saying you two could close up early and get home safe. The problem was your car was buried, and Eddie knew even if you tried you wouldn't get far in it.

"You can, uh, wait it out at my place if you want," Eddie said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. "It's better than freezing in your car."

"My knight in shining armor." You deadpanned. "It's fine. I can walk." 

"You live across town. You'll be a human popsicle by the time you get to the main road." He said, locking the front door and flipping the open sign to closed. "C’mon. I'll make us some hot cocoa. With tiny marshmallows and everything. And you can meet Ozzy."

The promise of cocoa, with tiny marshmallows, was apparently your undoing. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a slow, reluctant bob of your head.

"Ozzy?" You asked, a small smile finally breaking through your defenses.

"My cat. The real ruler of the apartment, Prince of Darkness himself."

You followed him up the narrow, creaking staircase, your heart thumping a strange, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

The idea of being in his space, the space he shared with other women, sent a confusing mix of anticipation and dread through you.

His apartment was exactly what you expected, and nothing like it. It was chaotic, but a lived-in, comfortable chaos.

Guitars hung on the walls, surrounded by posters of bands you both loved and loathed.

A vintage leather couch was covered in mismatched pillows and a black fuzzy blanket.

It was a studio, so the bed was just there, half made and partially hidden behind a privacy screen. 

It was messy, but clean. And it smelled like him— incense, old wood, and something warm, like sandalwood and clean laundry.

Then, a sleek black cat with one enormous green eye padded out from behind the couch, the other eye a milky, cloudy white.

It made him look perpetually unimpressed with the world.

"And this is Ozzy," Eddie said, scooping the cat up with practiced ease. Ozzy tolerated the affection, purring a deep, rumbling engine against Eddie's chest. "Don't mind him. He's judging us all."

You reached out a hesitant hand, letting Ozzy sniff your knuckles.

"He's blind in that eye," Eddie said softly. "Found him in a dumpster behind the store. Someone, uh, wasn't very nice to him."

Your heart did a painful little lurch.

You looked from the scarred, one-eyed cat to the man holding him. The 'devil-worshipping' freak of Hawkins who rescued hurt animals. The contradictions piled up, making your head spin.

"He's beautiful." You say it softly, unsure which of the boys you were actually talking about.

Eddie's gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the air crackled. The unspoken things between you felt heavier than the storm raging outside.

"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, carefully placing Ozzy back on the floor. "Cocoa. Right."

He busied himself in the small kitchenette, pulling out two mismatched mugs and a carton of milk.

You sat on the edge of the worn leather couch, hands clasped in your lap, feeling like an intruder in a life you were suddenly desperate to know.

A few minutes later, he came back with two steaming mugs, topped with a generous handful of tiny marshmallows, exactly as promised.

"Careful, it's hot." He set yours down on the cluttered coffee table.

You took a cautious sip. The chocolate was rich and dark, and the tiny marshmallows melted into a sweet, sugary foam on your tongue.

"Thank you." You murmur, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic.

"It's no problem." He sat down on the opposite end of the couch, a careful distance between you. "So, uh, this is the place. Palace of sin, as John calls it."

You cough a little as he says that, almost choking on your marshmallow.

"He's joking, mostly." He adds quickly, misinterpreting your reaction. "He knows I'm not really sacrificing bunnies."

"I don't think that's why he calls it the palace of sin." You say quietly into your mug, and then you look at him. You look him directly in the eye, and it's the first real, sustained eye contact you've had since the morning with the girl in the sweatshirt.

"You really think I'm some kind of slut, don't you?"

The question hangs in the air, raw and unfiltered. It's not an accusation, not really. It's a genuine inquiry, and the vulnerability in it catches you completely off guard.

"No... I just..."

You what? Why did you care so much what he did or who he did it with? Why did you feel a heat pooling lower when his shirt would ride up or when he would stick his tongue out just slightly while concentrating?

You try to search for the words, to articulate the tangled mess of your feelings.

"I'm not judging you. I don't care who you sleep with. It's..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely between you, the storm, the empty apartment. "I don't know what it is."

"Then what was that comment about my neck? That sounded a lot like judging." He's not angry, just… confused. A deep furrow of confusion between his brows.

"Because I was jealous, Eddie!" The confession bursts out of you, loud and uncontrolled. "I saw her. In your sweatshirt. And I hated it. Because she was... she looked like she made sense next to you. And I don't. And that makes me feel insane!"

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the howl of the wind outside and the frantic thumping of your own heart.

Eddie's big brown eyes seemed even bigger now, wide and a little glazed. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"You... what?" He finally manages to say.

"I was jealous!" You repeat, the admission now free, terrifying and liberating all at once.

"You were... jealous. Of... her." He's processing it, the words slowly arranging themselves into a coherent thought in his head. A slow smile spreads across his face, but it's not his usual smirk. It's something softer, a little dazed.

"Can we not? Look, I know I'm not your usual type. I'm not some cool, effortless rocker chick in black jeans and a band tee. I'm wearing a sweater with little embroidered daisies on it, for fuck’s sake. I just... I didn't expect it to bother me so much. Seeing you with... someone more your type." You finally look at him, and the vulnerability in your expression is raw, an open wound.

Eddie leans forward, closing the distance between you on the couch.

"You're an idiot," he says, and there's no venom in it. It's a mirror of what you'd said to him what felt like a lifetime ago, but this time it's gentle, almost fond. "A complete, beautiful, floral clad idiot."

You blink. "Beautiful?"

"Yes, beautiful," he says, his gaze unwavering. "And you think she's my type? Did you not hear a single word I said? She was a one-time thing. A... mistake. I was trying to get over this... girl I work with."

He takes your cocoa mug from your trembling hands and sets it on the table. Then he takes one of your hands, his calloused guitarist's fingers wrapping gently around yours.

"You're like, my dream girl. All pretty and soft but with this fire inside you. You know more about music than half the dicks who come in here trying to flex on me. You laugh at my stupid jokes. And for whatever reason, you seem to tolerate my general presence." He takes a shaky breath. "Honestly, I can't imagine why you'd ever give me a second look, but I am so glad you do."

The tears you were fighting back finally escape, tracing hot paths down your cold cheeks.

"I thought you were making fun of me," you whisper. "When you call me princess."

"I am, but it's affectionate! I think you're a princess, but like, a warrior princess. The kind who would totally behead her enemies but then cry at a sad movie." He's so close now you can feel the warmth radiating from him. "I like your little cardigans. And the bows in your hair. I like them so much."

You can't take it anymore. The tension, the longing, the weeks of misunderstanding, it all snaps.

You close the final inch of space between you, pressing your lips to his.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's messy and desperate, a collision of months of unspoken feelings. He tastes like cheap cigarettes and expensive cocoa, a combination that is somehow fitting. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs stroking away your tears as the kiss deepens, becoming softer, more exploratory.

"Don't cry, princess," he murmurs against your lips, the nickname a caress now, a secret shared only between you two.

You shift, swinging a leg over his lap to straddle him, the worn leather against your knees and the seam of his jeans rough against the soft fabric of your tights.

He lets out a surprised laugh, hands moving to the soft curve of your hips. "Well, shit," he breathes, looking up at you with wide, adoring eyes. "Okay."

His hands grip your hips, and you can feel the hard press of him through his jeans.

"You're so pretty," he says, the words a low rasp against your skin. You lean down to kiss him again, a slow, deliberate press of your lips. This time, it's less desperate, more sure. His hands slide from your hips, up your back, tracing the line of your spine through the delicate embroidery on your cardigan. He's touching you like you're something precious, something he's afraid of breaking.

"I want this," you whisper, the confession a puff of air against his jaw. "I want you."

"You have me," he answers, his hands stilling on your back. "Eager girl."

With newfound confidence, your lips find the sensitive skin just below his ear, and you're rewarded with a sharp inhale.

"Let's," you start, a little breathless, "move this to somewhere not the couch."

"Right. The bed. Yes."

The journey is clumsy, a mess of tangled limbs and quiet laughter. He backs you towards the bed, and the backs of your knees hit the mattress, sending you falling back with a soft bounce.

He looms over you, blocking out the dim light of the single lamp in the corner, a shadow made of ink and want. He hooks a finger into your sweater, tugging it up and over your head.

You had layers on, a tank over your bra, a skirt, tights, leg warmers. You blush a little at how many items of clothing he'd have to work through.

"Aren't you a present," he mutters, his eyes raking over you. "Gonna let me unwrap you, sweet girl?"

All you can do is nod, a frantic little bob of your head.

His knuckles brush against your skin as he unbuttons your skirt, slowly pulling it down your legs. His eyes follow the path of the fabric, a dark, hungry look in them. He tosses it aside, leaving you in your tights and tank top.

"These have to go." He says, hooking a finger in the waistband of your tights. "I'll be good and not ruin them. This time."

He's careful as he peels them down, the fabric whispering against your skin. The cool air of the apartment hits your bare legs, and you shiver.

"Shhh, I've got you," he murmurs, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your knee, then another a little higher, on your inner thigh. "Gonna keep you warm."

His hands trail up your legs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips. The touch is feather-light, maddeningly teasing, and you can't help but arch into it, a silent plea for more.

"Let's see if we're on the same page." he whispers, as if he can read your mind. His fingers continue their slow, deliberate journey upward, and you feel a breath catch in your throat as he traces the edge of your underwear. He hooks a finger under the damp fabric, and your whole body tenses in anticipation. "Oh, yeah. We are definitely on the same page."

With a low groan, he kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, pulling you flush against the edge. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your clothed core, and the heat of his breath through the thin cotton is enough to make you gasp.

"Eddie..."

"Wet little thing already," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. "All for me? Just from a few kisses and some sweet talk?"

You can only manage a weak, desperate nod in response.

"Gonna treat you so good, princess." The nickname is a worshipful murmur now. "Gonna make you forget all about being jealous."

He finally slides your underwear down your legs, the cool air a shocking but welcome sensation against your slick heat. His hands gently spread your thighs, and you feel utterly exposed, completely vulnerable under the intensity of his gaze.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word a reverent whisper. "Look at you."

He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a revelation. It's slow, deliberate, a thorough exploration that has you writhing on the bed. He's not in a hurry. He's savoring every second, every sigh and whimper that escapes your lips.

"Mmm... this is my favorite flavor," he hums against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your entire body. "Wet, sweet, and all mine."

He focuses on your clit, drawing lazy circles with the flat of his tongue before switching to quick, precise flicks. Your hands find their way into his hair, the strands tangled between your fingers as you guide him, your hips bucking against his face in a desperate, needy rhythm.

"That's my girl," he praises, pulling back for a second to look at you. "So needy for me. Look at you, trying to fuck my face."

He's smiling, a smug, entirely too pleased smile, and you want to be annoyed, but all you can feel is a white-hot pleasure coiling tight in your belly.

"More, please, Eddie," you beg, your voice breathy and high.

"Anything for you, princess," he whispers, diving back in with renewed fervor.

He slides a long finger inside you, then another, the stretch perfect as he curls them just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. His tongue is relentless at your clit. His eyes are on you, so dark with lust they're almost black. 

He looks like the most handsome devil and you understand why this is a den of sin as your back arches off the bed, a silent scream caught in your throat. The orgasm crashes through you, a wave of blinding pleasure that leaves you shaking and breathless.

He doesn't stop, working you through it until you're whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.

"Please," you gasp, pushing weakly at his head. "Too much."

"Too much?" He grins, pressing a final, soft kiss to your oversensitive clit before crawling up your body to loom over you. "We're just starting."

His lips crash against yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimate flavor makes your head spin. You kiss him back with a desperate hunger, your hands roaming over the familiar planes of his back, feeling the muscles tense and shift under your touch.

He lifts his shirt off and then reaches for the hem of your tank top. You raise your arms, letting him pull it over your head, revealing the simple, lacy pink bra you wore.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you. "Hiding these from me, were you?"

He reaches behind you to unclasp your bra with a practiced flick of his wrist, tossing it aside. His hands are on you then, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already hardened nipples.

"God, I'm gonna worship these." He says, before leaning down to take one into his mouth.

He sucks and licks and nips, each tug sending a jolt straight to your core. Your back arches, pressing yourself closer, seeking more friction, more of him.

"Sensitive little thing," he murmurs against your skin before switching to the other, giving it the same, thorough attention. "Could probably make you come just from this, couldn't I?"

The thought alone is enough to make you moan.

"Yeah.. I bet I could. Maybe next time." He pulls away, a string of spit connecting his lips to your nipple. "Right now, I need to be inside you." 

He stands up, making quick work of his own belt and jeans, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. He kicks them away, and your breath catches in your throat.

It's the prettiest cock, dark curls at the base, flushed and already beading with precum at the tip. You watch, transfixed, as he gives himself a few slow, deliberate strokes.

"Yeah?" His smirk is sinful. "You like it? Like knowing you did this to me?"

"Come here," you demand, your voice thick with want.

He moves over you again, settling between your thighs. He takes himself in hand, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal.

"I'm on the pill," you breathe out, a desperate last-ditch effort at coherent thought.

"Thank fuck," he groans, and then he's pushing inside you.

The stretch is a steady burn as he fills you inch by inch.

"Oh, fuck," he chokes out, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Feel so... you feel so good."

You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper.

"Dirty girl," he chuckles, the sound of a low rumble in your ear. "Want it deep, huh?"

His hips begin to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that has you seeing stars.

"Does the pretty, soft princess like to be fucked deep and hard?" The question is a taunt, a dare, and you answer with a sharp buck of your hips, taking him even deeper. "Yeah she fucking does." 

He rears up, grabbing your hands and pinning them above your head with one of his, lacing your fingers together. The other hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he picks up the pace.

"Perfect for me, aren't you?" He breathes, his eyes locked on yours. "Soft and sweet on the outside, but underneath, you're a dirty little thing. My dirty little thing."

"Just for you..." It comes out a whiny moan as he starts to pound into you, the headboard of his bed starting to tap against the wall.

"My good girl." He claims. The rhythm is punishing, a driving beat that pushes you toward the edge again. "Letting a monster like me defile your pretty little body."

The coil in your belly is winding up again, tighter and hotter than before.

"I'm close," you gasp, your nails digging into the back of his hand. "I'm so close."

"Mm yeah, baby. Can feel it. But you're gonna give me a few aren't you?" He coos. His pace changes to deep, grinding thrusts, the coarse hair at the base of his cock grinding deliciously against your clit. "Gonna soak my dick again and again before I'm done with you."

You whine his name as your orgasm washes over you, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him tight, and he groans, a long, deep sound of satisfaction.

"Oh yeah... I'm going to make you do that again," he pants. "Look at you, can't even stop shaking."

Before you've even come down, he's flipping you over. He pulls your hips up, guiding you to your hands and knees.

"This okay?" He whispers in your ear, checking in even now, the consideration a stark contrast to the raw, primal fucking.

You nod, pushing back against him, a wordless plea for more. He eases back in, the new angle hitting even deeper.

"Jesus... look at that," he breathes, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wide so he can watch himself disappear inside you.

He starts moving again, a faster, harder rhythm that has the headboard slamming against the wall all over again. 

"Wish you could see the way this pretty pussy swallows me," he growls, punctuating his words with sharp, deep thrusts. "So greedy for me. Taking my cock so well."

His words are filthy, a string of praise and degradation that makes your head spin.

"I'm gonna have you on every surface in this apartment. The couch. The kitchen counter. Up against the window where anyone could see."

The image flashes in your mind, and a fresh wave of arousal gushes around him. "Oh you filthy fucking thing. You'd like that wouldn't you? Want someone to see what we do? See how good you take me?"

You're reduced to a series of desperate sobs and whimpers, your brain too foggy with pleasure to form a coherent response. "S'good... f-feels so..."

"Yeah, I know, princess," he pants, one of his hands snaking around to find your clit. "Got you stupid on my cock, don't I? Just a pretty, brainless mess for me."

He circles your clit with a rough thumb, and that's all it takes. The next orgasm rips through you, violent and overwhelming.

He leans over, kissing your shoulder as your body trembles. "There we go... I want one more."

"Eddie..." you protest, the word a weak puff of air. "Can't..."

"You can," he insists, his voice low and demanding. "You will."

And he proves it.

He pulls out, turning you onto your back once more. The sheets beneath you are damp, a testament to your pleasure. He looks at you with such awe, a reverence that makes your heart ache.

"My messy girl," he murmurs, spreading your legs wide. "Fucking perfect."

He slides back in, the sensation of him filling you again almost too much, and yet exactly what you crave.

Your thighs are pressed against your chest, a position that has him impossibly deep. He moves slowly this time, deep, grinding thrusts that stoke the fire in your belly all over again.

"Yeah... gonna give it to you nice and slow," he breathes, his forehead pressed against yours. "Make you feel it."

"Feel you everywhere," you whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Everywhere..." 

"You're so beautiful like this," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "All fucked out and begging. Never seen anything prettier."

The praise is your undoing. You can feel another orgasm building, a slow, deep wave that promises to be the most intense of all.

He keeps kissing you as your thighs begin to shake. It's a slow, deep, bone melting thing. You're not even making loud noises anymore, just a constant mewl into his mouth.

Then you feel him start to lose rhythm, you pussy clenching him like you never want to let him go.

"M'close... fuck... princess, you're gonna make me... make me cum... " He grunts, burying his face in your neck, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a long, shuddering groan.

His release is warm and there's so much of it that it leaks out around him, but he doesn't pull out right away.

He stays there, a heavy, comforting weight on top of you, as you both catch your breath.

"Please don't pull out," you beg, clinging to him. "Not yet."

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in your ear. He rolls over, taking you with him, so you're sprawled across his chest, still connected.

"I'd never pull out if I didn't have to eventually," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He was still buried deep, softening slowly inside you. "We can stay like this as long as you want."

He shifts slightly, and you can feel a little more of him slip out. You try to clench around him to keep him in place, a futile, desperate gesture.

"Sweetheart... easy," he soothes. "We've got all night. And tomorrow. And every day after that, if you'll have me."

He pulls a blanket over your tangled, sweat-slick bodies, cocooning you in warmth.

"Like... dating?" you ask, your voice muffled against his chest.

He laughs. "No, like I'm planning on keeping you as my sex prisoner in my den of sin." He says sarcastically, then his tone gets serious. "Yes, like dating. Fucking obviously. I've been pining over you for months. You think I'm just gonna let you walk away after I finally got you into my bed?"

The idea of him pining, of Eddie Munson being just as wrecked by this quiet, aching tension as you were, makes your heart swell.

"I'd like that," you whisper. "The dating thing. Not the sex prisoner thing."

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Good to know. Glad we got that cleared up. But I mean... if we're talking roleplay..."

You swat at his chest, but it's a weak, lazy motion. You feel him soften completely, finally slipping out of you. You whimper at the loss, a sudden, hollow ache.

He kisses your forehead, murmuring against your skin. "Let's get you cleaned up, princess."

He's gentle, so surprisingly gentle. He disappears into the small bathroom and returns with a warm, wet washcloth. You expected him to just toss it to you, but instead, he kneels on the bed beside you and carefully, meticulously wipes you clean.

"Really did a number on you, huh?" A soft, proud smile on his face as he looks at the mess between your thighs. "All full and swollen. Perfect."

You hide your face in your hands, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks.

"No, no. Don't hide from me." He gently pulls your hands away, leaning down to kiss you, a slow, deep, claiming kiss. "Come on... shower and pee time. Maybe round two if we're lucky."

He pulls you to your feet, and your legs tremble, almost giving out from under you.

"Woah there." He catches you, scooping you up into his arms with a grunt. "I've got you. And the princess gets carried to her throne, apparently."

You can't help but laugh as he carries you into the tiny bathroom.

After you've both showered, the hot water a welcome ease to your sore muscles, he leads you back to the bed, pulling on a fresh pair of boxers before handing you a t-shirt of his, an old Metallica one that's been washed so many times it's soft and worn.

You pull it on, getting into bed next to him. Ozzy jumps up to join you, curling into a ball against your stomach with a deep, rumbling purr.

"See? He approves," Eddie murmurs, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. "And Ozzy is a very good judge of character."

You snuggle into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart.

The storm has passed, and outside, the world is quiet, blanketed in a fresh layer of snow.

Inside, you're warm and safe in your own private palace of sin, the world outside melting away until there's only the two of you, and the comforting weight of a one-eyed cat, and the promise of every tomorrow.

'this IS music!' [eddie taglist]

A group of jocks challenges him to join their stupid game of truth or dare. Eddie came only to sell, none of his friends are around, the music is awful, and all the good food is already gone.

He agrees through his teeth, and it’s kind of fun to invent dares for obnoxious teenagers. Someone tells a girl to take off her panties and throw them in the neighbors yard.

Until it lands on him.

“Truth,” Eddie says, expecting questions about his “cult.”

“What’s your darkest fantasy?” he hears instead. “I mean, in sex,” a girl says. Eddie struggles to recall her name. Sandy or Cindy…

Someone laughs. “Yeah, what’s the sickest fantasy you’ve got, Munson?”

Eddie’s grin turns wicked, he sets his beer aside and leans forward, elbows on his knees. His voice drops into the theatrical tone he uses for Hellfire campaigns.

“I’d chase a pretty thing through the woods at night. Let her think she might actually get away… then I’d catch her. Pin her down, rip her clothes off, and ravish her right there in the dirt like a fucking animal. No mercy. Just me taking what I want while she fights and screams.”

Dead silence for a beat. Then the room erupts.

“Jesus Christ, dude, that’s fucked up.”

“You’re a straight-up psycho, Munson.”

“Gross. Who the hell admits that?”

“Pervert.”

Eddie just chuckles darkly and shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but his eyes scan the room with a sharp, knowing glint. Most people look disgusted. A few girls shift uncomfortably.

You, in your red dress, are sitting on the floor near the wall, thighs pressed tightly together. Your face burns. Heat throbs between your legs at his words, vivid images flashing through your mind — Eddie’s wild hair, that dangerous smile while he hunts you, him rutting into you on the ground. You’re embarrassingly wet just from listening to him narrate.

He’s getting ready to leave. This is insane but, it’s now or never.  Before you can overthink it you tear a page from someone’s abandoned notebook and write fast, cold shivers down your spine with panic. You fold it small and press it into his palm without looking at his face as you walk past him on the way to the bathroom. You stare at your reflection and wipe the back of your neck with cold water. Will he laugh? Or show it to someone? Ignore it? You could stay, instead, you return to your friends, drink, dance,  then pretend to have a headache to excuse yourself. 

Woods behind the house. Meet me in 20 minutes. I’m wearing a red dress. Chase me. Catch me. Ravish me exactly like you said. Safeword is RED. Yellow to slow down. I want it rough. No discussion needed — just take me. No marks.

He glances down, eyebrows rising.

Eddie waits, a switchblade tucked into his boot just in case this is some jock prank to mess with the freak. He waits in the shadows, heart pounding harder than he’d admit. The woods are dark, barely any path visible, the new moon is not providing much light, the sky is cloudless  and stars shine making the scene seem ethereal. 

When a figure in a red dress slips between the trees, he smiles a crooked smile.

“It’s a pretty dress,” he says, looking you over.

“I have a change in the car,” you say, shivering from either cold or excitement.

Eddie grins, delighted, reading silent permission to rip it, then bends just a bit, ready to launch himself at you.

“Run.”

You run. You don’t hear him chasing yet. Heels aren’t helping and you take them off. It feels like a long run bare feet on the pine needles and dry leaves,  but is probably just Eddie counting to ten. Then you hear him.

“I can smell your fear. I can hear your heart pounding. You won’t get away from me.” He’s narrating again, same low velvety voice, aimed at you specifically this time. 

You stop. Moving at this point would expose you right away. You take cover behind a large tree. Your heart is throbbing out of your chest but this is not the panic you felt before. Maybe you could still turn it into a joke.Is it still a game?

“You can’t hide from me.” It’s so close, right behind. 

He finds you in a heartbeat, clutching your hand.

“There she is,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “Sweet thing. Did you wander off the path?”

You drop your shoes on the ground.

His hand rose to brush your cheek. You flinched. He caged you in with his other arm.

Eddie leans toward your lips. Your eyes shut tight, face turned away, knees wobbly.

“Color?” he checks in almost softly.

“Green,” you whisper.

Eddie turns your chin toward him and claims your lips. You open instinctively and he slips in his tongue, swirling around yours, sucking in just enough to send electric shivers down your spine. His other hand is already bunching the fabric over your thigh. You almost forget the game and arch into the kiss, into his embrace. That’s when he bites your lip hard.

Eddie lifts your leg and leans closer. You feel his thick length against you and your stomach tightens. His mouth wanders up and down your neck, hand palms your breast then yanks the dress’s thin strap down — it gives way, exposing your tits barely covered by a strapless bra.

You moan, wrapping your leg around him, chasing more contact as he moves the bra down to caress the nipple, then bites it and soothes with his tongue.

You hiss and wiggle and grab his hair, pulling away. He likes it — you hear him groan.

Eddie shoves a hand between your legs. You remember to resist and shut your thighs but it’s too late. His fingers move your panties aside, run along your slick folds once, twice, and he pushes them all the way in, to the knuckles. 

“So fucking tight,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been properly fucked.”

“No.” You remember sex with your boyfriend — him saying he’s on top of the world while you stare at the ceiling, moaning occasionally the way you’ve seen in movies, while being fucked bluntly without any real response. “Never.”

“Good, because I will ruin this little pussy.”

Eddie adds a third finger. It hurts and doesn’t quite fit and somehow excites you even more. You drip on his fingers, but try to fight him. He finally fits the third in and you cry out.

“Need to stretch you, Red. Prepare you for my cock.”

You think about it and heat runs through your body, making your toes curl. His mouth covers yours as he pumps in and out harshly.

Finally Eddie is satisfied with the stretch and his cock is barely fitting in his pants. He rips your panties and tucks them into his back pocket. You gasp at the thought that he’ll push into you now. He takes his time, kissing your neck and breasts again while he spreads your thighs wide.

You push his chest away but he’s unmovable.

“Color?” he asks against your mouth.

“Green,” you repeat.

Eddie frees himself and you can’t help looking down. He’s huge — you even doubt it will fit.

You make a sound.

“Don’t worry, it will fit,” he reads your mind.

The slick head pushes in. He stops for a second to play with your nipples, then pushes more. It hurts, it burns, it stretches you. Luckily you’re already so wet.

“Breathe,” he says, giving you a moment to adjust before slamming the rest of his cock in.

You cry out again, tears rolling down your cheeks. He pounds into you mercilessly, teeth sink in your neck.

“Relax,” he orders, and you melt into him, letting him be the only thing supporting your weight.

The pain goes away. You feel Eddie somewhere deep inside you didn’t know you had access to. Being completely full of him shuts your brain down.

Your mind went blissfully blank, no thoughts remain, just Eddie fucking you against the tree. You didn’t notice when he started pinning your hands at your sides. You hang on his cock like a rag doll and it feels good to let go, to let him take you, force you, ruin you.

You hear your own voice moaning his name and Eddie commands:

“Look at me.”

It’s not easy but you open your eyes. He’s just as gone as you are, eyes black with desire, face flushed. You shake and tremble, feeling your release coming.

“Look at me when you come,” he repeats, sliding his hand between your bodies to rub your clit. He thrusts into you harder and you fall apart like you never have before.

“Such a good girl. Should I let you go or can you give me one more?”

You’re too far gone to respond, your eyes rolling back.

Eddie chuckles and looks around.

“I’m not done with you yet, little rabbit.”

He pulls you off his cock — to your dissatisfaction, and walks you the two steps to the fallen trunk, hand firm between your shoulder blades, puts you on your wobbly knees first, then over a fallen tree trunk. Your ass is in the air, Eddie lifts the hem of your dress to expose you again. He stretches your folds with his thumbs and spits on your fucked-open pussy. You hear it, feel it, and your walls clench around nothing.

He slams into you again, hitting a spot that makes you see bright lights, again and again, relentlessly chasing his own release. You moan and cry and scratch the ground until you shudder around him again, squeezing him almost out. Eddie puts his hand on your back to hold you still and pushes in again. You feel tears gather in the corners of your eyes.

Somehow his cock gets even harder, even bigger, and in a few especially deep thrusts that you feel in your stomach he pulls out and comes on your butt. He breathes out hard, then pulls your panties from his pocket to wipe you clean and tosses them away.

Eddie drops his weight onto you and murmurs in your ear.

“How’s that, Red? Is that what you wanted?”

“Yes.” You can’t manage more than that.

“Good.” He kisses you with surprising tenderness after what he just did to you.

Eddie gets up and pulls you up too, makes an attempt to fix your dress and hair with little success, then kneels to put your shoes back on.

“You okay like this?”

You nod. He walks you to your car, where you change into old jeans and a hoodie you keep there just in case and wipe the black streaks on your cheeks.

“What’s your name, Red?”

“Better keep it this way.”

“Not fair, you know mine. It’s a small town anyway.”

You find water in the trunk and share the bottle with him standing in the dark parking lot, both of you slightly wrecked, and it’s the best thing that’s happened tonight.

You lean in close and give him your name. Eddie repeats it back once, quietly, adding: 

“See you again soon.”

Eddie Munson didn’t have a crisis on his hands. It wasn't the kind of earth-shattering revelation that brought your entire world crashing down in a heap of metaphorical rubble. It was more of a... pesterization. A low-frequency hum of annoyance that he’d grown just apathetic enough to tolerate, mostly because he didn't see it changing anytime soon.

One week into his third attempt at senior year, and the problem he’d first tripped over at thirteen was becoming glaringly apparent. On the cusp of high school, Eddie had made the error of trying to kiss one of his only friends, only to be gently informed that she didn’t exactly do the “boys” thing. He’d spent years silently hoping it was just an age thing, a phase they’d both outgrow, until she confessed before heading off to New York that she’d definitely had sex with a girl in the marching band. And since then? Nothing. Radio silence. Sure, he found fantasy tucked inside the gloss of magazines and the grainy flickers of cheap pornos from the back of the video store like every other red-blooded guy in Indiana. But when it came to the living, breathing variety of girls? He was inexperienced, terrified, and frankly, bored.

His third lap around senior year had taught him that the scenery never changed, it just swapped out the actors. There was always a fresh crop of jocks convinced that the universe ended at the edge of the football field. There were the nerds acting as if a B-minus on a lab report would derail their entire existence. The names changed, but the archetypes remained. The kid getting shoved into lockers today was named Fred; a year ago it was Todd, and before that, Arthur. Same script, different face. Yawn.

The girls of Hawkins High weren't exempt. According to the general consensus of the locker room, girls occupied three very specific boxes: the Buddy, the Porn Star, and the Sweetheart. Take Chrissy Cunningham with those baby-pink sweaters and wholesome smiles. Adorable? Sure. But she was the type who would likely burst into tears if she found herself alone in a room with him. That put her firmly in the friendly category, even if a friendship between a cheerleader and a freak was about as likely as Eddie passing Calculus.

Then there was Tina, a girl from his original graduating class. He’d heard the rumors from Billy Hargrove and the other cavemen at school about her extracurricular talents. She had the personality of a wet brick and cared more about her perm than her pulse, but that hadn't stopped Eddie from watching her lips move across the hall and wondering if the rumors lived up to the hype.

As for that third category… the ones you actually wanted to hold hands with? The kind of girls who could make your heart stop with just a smile or a quick remark? He hadn't met a soul who fit the bill. Eddie wasn't sure if he was a romantic, but he was a realist. Who wanted the son of the town criminal? A guy on his third try at Grade 12, who dealt weed to keep the van running? He’d perfected the art of being offensive to avoid the need to be defensive. Scare 'em or weird 'em out before they realize how easy it is to shove a scrawny metalhead into a locker.

He flung open the door to his rusted-out GMC, tossing his beat-up Jansport that had managed to survive since Freshman year, onto the passenger seat with a satisfying thum. He peeled out of the parking lot without a second thought, the engine groaning in protest as he left the school behind. Just another year in the Hellhole, all because he couldn't grasp the basic principles of chemistry. At least it was Friday. And Fridays meant freedom. It also meant he had a chance to deal with his other little pesterization. This one wasn't quite as existential as his quest to find a girl who’d laugh at his dorkier jokes before helping him finally retire his nineteen-year-old virginity, but it was an annoyance nonetheless.

Since the age of nine, Eddie had been a regular at the downtown music shop. It started with replacement strings for the battered Alvarez acoustic his Uncle Wayne had rescued from a pawn shop. A guitar that had seen hell and back as Eddie bled over chords until his callouses finally took. As the years passed and he saved every cent, he’d graduated to the electric variety, but the constant need for fresh strings and heavy-duty picks remained. The Starcourt Mall had changed everything. In its short, neon-drenched life, it had swallowed the downtown shop whole, only for the entire place to go up in flames. Now, with the mall a blackened shell and the downtown storefront still empty, Hawkins was a musical desert.

A quick session with the White Pages had revealed the closest oasis. Mainstreet Music in Bedford, about twenty minutes down the road. That was the Friday plan. Drive ten miles out of his way on a half-empty tank, pray that Bedford wasn't as soul-crushing as Hawkins, and see if this new shop could actually provide the gear he needed to keep Corroded Coffin’s output loud enough to piss off the neighbors.

The drive to Bedford was fueled by a warped Iron Maiden cassette and the flickering orange light of his fuel gauge. When he finally pulled up to Mainstreet Music, he found it tucked between a hardware store and a dusty laundromat. It wasn't the gleaming palace of rock he’d hoped for, but the window display featured a cracked Gibson and a stack of Marshall amps that looked like they’d seen a tour or two. Good enough, he thought. The bell above the door gave a weary chime as he stepped inside, but the muffled ring was immediately swallowed by the sheer scale of the place. From the outside, it looked like a cramped hole-in-the-wall, but the interior was a TARDIS-like trick of architecture. It was massive, stretching back into the shadows of the building with rows of instruments that made his breath hitch.

It wasn't just the gear, though that was impressive enough. The walls were a sensory overload, plastered floor-to-ceiling with posters of bands ranging from the household names to obscure acts he couldn’t have identified if his life depended on it. It was a chaotic museum of sound: metal logos sat right next to soft-focus folk singers. Neon-drenched pop stars shared space with gritty, black-and-white country legends. Beneath the posters, the floor space was a maze of wooden crates overflowing with vinyl and precarious stacks of cassettes that looked like they might topple if he breathed too hard.

"Just a second! I'll be right out!" a voice called from somewhere deep in the back, muffled by a heavy curtain. Eddie barely offered a grunt of acknowledgement, as he drifted toward a rack of vintage offsets. He was too busy drinking in the atmosphere to care about service. Then, the silence of the shop was broken by a familiar sound. The distinct sound of a needle dropping onto a record, followed by the soft crackle. A second later, the stinging lick of an electric guitar cut through the air. Albert King’s "Born Under a Bad Sign."

The opening notes hit Eddie, pinning him to the spot. Suddenly, he wasn't in a music shop in Bedford; he was five years old, sitting on a linoleum floor in a sun-drenched kitchen, watching his mother hum along to this exact track while she sewed. She’d been the one with the blues records. The one who taught him that music wasn't just noise, but a feeling you pulled out of your soul. She was the reason he’d ever bothered to pick up a guitar in the first place.

He stood there, paralyzed by a rare moment of vulnerability, his hand hovering over a pack of guitar strings as the horns blared through the shop's speakers.

"Dio. Nice." The voice was right behind him. Cool, steady, not to mention entirely too close. Eddie jumped, nearly knocking over a display as he spun around. His heart hammered against his ribs as his carefully cultivated "Lord of the Freaks" persona momentarily was replaced by the wide-eyed look of a startled cat.

Eddie finally managed to find his footing, his sneakers scuffing against the floor as he fully faced her. He opened his mouth to deliver some biting, eccentric remark but the words died in his throat. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked right out of the room, leaving him lightheaded and strangely hollow. He’d spent years cataloging the girls of Hawkins into his little mental boxes, but as he looked at her, the system crashed. She wasn't a "Sweetheart," a "Buddy," or a "Porn Star." She was something else entirely. A category all of her own.

She looked to be right around his age, though she carried herself with a groundedness that Eddie felt he’d been lacking his entire life. She was pretty but it wasn't the manicured, hairsprayed beauty of the girls in the hallways at school he’d grown used to. There was an edge to her, apparent in the way an unlit cigarette was perched behind her ear and her wrists were covered in a collection of woven bracelets. Smudged smokey looking eyeliner adorning a bottom row of lashes that drew his focus to the beautiful color of her eyes. An authenticity that matched the heavy blues track still vibrating through the speakers overhead.

A searing jolt of attraction hit him, sharp enough to make his pulse thrum in his ears. But beneath that was a second feeling, something he couldn't quite put a name to. It wasn't just that he wanted to look at her. It was a sudden, desperate urge to be known by her. He realized he was staring, his hands still awkwardly raised from his momentary fright. He looked like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck, and for the first time in his life, Eddie Munson was genuinely, painfully speechless.

"Uh," Eddie managed, a masterclass in eloquence. He cleared his throat, desperately trying to summon the Munson charm, but his rings felt heavy on his shaking fingers. "Yeah. Ronnie James. The man, the myth, the... very short legend." He stood there, scrawny and wide-eyed in his battle vest, feeling like for the first time in his life, he was the one who was totally out of his depth. She was pretty with a look in her eyes that suggested she could see right through his "scary freak" mask to the nervous kid underneath who still missed his mom's singing.

“Men," she said, her voice dry and laced with a playful edge as she tilted her head toward his Dio patch. "Always seemingly obsessed with size?"

Eddie froze. He stood there for a beat, his brain short-circuiting as he replayed the comment. He looked at his vest, then back at her, the realization hitting him like a bucket of ice water. She wasn't just talking about Ronnie James Dio’s height, or lack thereof. She was making a joke about... that. The male obsession with measurement. The length of the sword, so to speak.

A heat he couldn't control climbed rapidly up his neck, flooding his cheeks with a vivid, traitorous crimson. Eddie Munson, the man who stood on cafeteria tables and barked at jocks, was officially speechless. He opened his mouth to deliver a witty, rock-and-roll themed comeback, but all that came out was a faint, pathetic squeak.

Then, she laughed.

It wasn't a dainty, princess-like giggle, with a manicured hand covering her mouth. It was a loud, uninhibited, soul-deep sound that echoed off the stacks of vinyl. It was messy and real, and in that instant, Eddie decided it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He watched her, mesmerized, his own embarrassment softening into a dazed, lopsided grin. 

She caught her breath, wiping a stray tear from her eye as her laughter subsided into a lingering, mischievous spark. She leaned against the glass counter, crossing her arms as she looked him up and down. "You know," she said, her voice dropping into a teasing, rhythmic lilt that made his stomach do a backflip. "For a guy dressed so satanic by rural Indiana standards, you sure are adorable when you get flustered."

The word adorable should have been an insult. To a guy like Eddie, it should have been a blow to his carefully cultivated ego. But coming from her, delivered with that specific, flirtatious tilt of the head, it felt like a damn coronation.

Eddie scrambled to find a foothold, his brain a frantic mess of "don't screw this up" and "say something cool." He opened his mouth, his tongue feeling like a heavy piece of lead as he tried to summon a suave, biting quip. Something about how he was actually a creature of the night who just happened to enjoy a good laugh. But as she scrutinized him, her eyes dancing with that playful, observant light, the words just died in his throat. He ended up letting out a half-formed "I,well–" before trailing off, sheepishly adjusting his rings. He was failing. Spectacularly. But for some reason, looking into her face, he didn't even mind.

"I haven't seen you around here before," she noted, her gaze traveling from the chaotic curls of his hair down to the scuffed toes of his sneakers. "And I usually remember the ones who look like they’ve climbed out of a Black Sabbath pit."

Eddie finally managed to get a coherent sentence out. "I'm from Hawkins. Just a quick, twenty-minute trek down the road. Usually, I'm a big fish in a very small, very judgmental pond."

She hummed, a low sound of acknowledgement that seemed to vibrate right through him. "Hawkins, huh? Explains it. I’ve seen more traffic in here lately since that mall of yours turned into a giant charcoal grill."

"Yeah, the Starcourt disaster," Eddie said, leaning against a nearby rack of acoustic guitars, trying to look like a guy who wasn't currently having an internal meltdown. "Ruined the only music shop for miles. Which is exactly why I found myself wandering into your neck of the woods today. Desperate times, desperate measures."

She straightened up from the counter, her playful demeanor shifting, though the spark in her eyes remained. "Well, consider me your savior for the afternoon kind Sir who hails from Hawkins," she said. "What exactly does thou seek on this quest to the far land of Bedford?"

Eddie’s brain hit a screeching halt. Did she just... did she really just "kind sir" me? His heart practically performed a double-bass beat against his ribs. Because now it wasn't just that she was pretty, or that she liked the blues. Or even that she’d successfully made a dick joke at his expense. It was the delivery. That specific, nerdy, high-fantasy cadence. The kind of talk he usually had to reserve for a small circle of social pariahs gathered around a twenty-sided die. The crush he’d felt five minutes ago had just been upgraded to a full-blown obsession. He felt like he was looking at a unicorn in the middle of Indiana. He stared at her, his mouth slightly agape, searching her face for any sign that she was mocking him. But all he found was that same, sharp-eyed amusement.

"Has the traveler been struck by a silence curse?" she asked, leaning over the counter just enough to bring the scent of old paper and vanilla into his personal bubble. "Or hast my presence rendered thee speechless in the same way the sirens lured sailors to their doom?"

Eddie snapped out of it, clearing his throat so hard it actually hurt. He scrambled for a shred of dignity, reaching out to gesture vaguely at the rack of guitar strings he’d been hovering over before the Albert King track had transported him. "I, uh... no. Just...," he stammered, finally finding a smirk to hide behind. "I seek the tools of my trade, oh mysterious guardian of the Bedford realm. My current strings are sounding a bit too much like a dying cat and not enough like the heralds of doom."

She nodded, but instead of staying behind the safety of the glass, she rounded the counter and stepped directly into his space. She looked up at him, her presence strangely grounding despite the way he was vibrating with nerves. "A noble pursuit," she murmured, her eyes scanning the wall of Slinkys and Cobalts before settling back on him. "And what exact gauge of steel does thou require for this 'herald of doom' business? Are we talking light enough for those flashy solos, or heavy enough to shake the foundations of the earth?"

Eddie took a small breath, trying to steady his hands. "Heavy."

She reached out, her fingers brushing past a pack of Ernie Balls near his shoulder, and he felt the contact like a jolt of electricity. She pulled a pack down, but she didn't hand it to him. Instead, she turned the small package over in her hands, a sheepish, genuine smile finally breaking through the fantasy persona. "Sorry," she said, her voice dropping the theatrical lilt for a second. "I was a total drama nerd in high school, and I’ve been stuck in set design for the local community Shakespeare production all week. I keep slipping into the 'thee' and 'thou' without even thinking about it."

"Theater nerd?" Eddie repeated, a laugh bubbling up that was actually genuine this time. "Well, that explains the dramatic entrance. And here I thought I’d finally found someone who spent as much time in a dungeon as I do."

Her eyebrows shot up, and she leaned an elbow against the shelf, eyeing him with a newfound curiosity. "Don’t tell me you’re a traveler of the tiled maps and polyhedral dice variety. Do you play?"

Eddie’s chest puffed out, a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride washing over him. This was his home turf. "Play? Sweetheart, you are looking at the Dungeon Master of the Hellfire Club. I don't just play, I run the whole show at Hawkins High. I’ve spent more time crafting campaigns and painting lead miniatures than I have studying for... well, basically anything."

For a split second, he felt like a king. But then he saw it. The slight twitch of her lips, a tiny deflation in her shoulders as she looked at him over again. "High school?" she repeated, her voice losing a bit of that playful spark. "Oh. So you're... what, sixteen? Seventeen?"

Eddie winced, the mystique he’d hoped he was projecting evaporating instantly. He quickly held up his hands. "Whoa, hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m nineteen. Almost twenty. Technically, I should’ve been Class of ’84. I’m just... on the extended, scenic tour of the twelfth grade. My third attempt, if you’re keeping score. Chemistry and I have a long-standing mutual hatred."

The change in her was immediate. She let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, as she practically sagged against the instrument rack. "Oh, thank god," she laughed, and that beautiful, loud sound was back, making his heart do another clumsy backflip. "Whew! I was starting to sweat for a second. I was really out here thinking I was about to be a cradle robber."

Eddie grinned, the relief infectious. "And you?"

"Nineteen," she confirmed, tossing the pack of strings into the air and catching them with ease. "Class of ’84, actually made it out on the first try, though barely. I’ve been working here and going to the community college for art classes since. So, technically, we’re from the same brand of vintage."

"Vintage," Eddie mused, his confidence finally clicking into place. He leaned one hand against the shelf, closing the gap between them just an inch. "I like that. Makes me sound like a fine wine instead of a guy who just can't remember the periodic table."

She hummed, her eyes flicking down to his lips for a fraction of a second before meeting his gaze again. "I think vintage suits you, Hawkins. It’s got a bit more character than a repeat offender."

"I'm Eddie," he finally offered, realizing he’d been talking to a goddess for ten minutes without a name to call her. "Eddie Munson. Local freak, master of the dungeon, and currently your most intrigued customer."

She told him her name then, and the sound of it seemed to hang in the air between them, vibrating at the exact same frequency as that Albert King record. Eddie repeated it internally, testing the weight of it, the way the syllables felt like a hook to a song he knew was going to be stuck in his head for weeks. It was a name that had grit but a certain kind of melody to it, too. "Well," she said, pulling him out of his internal daze as she tossed the pack of strings from her left hand to her right. "Now that the introductions are out of the way, what exactly are we stringing up? Please tell me you aren't putting these on some cheap, dusty plywood box."

Eddie shook his head, a smirk returning to his face. "Give me some credit. She’s an Iron Maiden-inspired beauty. B.C. Rich Warlock."

She whistled lowly, nodding in approval. "A Warlock. Bold choice. So, are you just a solo act? A lonely bard shredding in his bedroom to a wall of posters?"

"Absolutely not," Eddie corrected, his pride flaring up again. "I’m the front-man, lead guitarist, singer, and because I own a van, transportation for Corroded Coffin. We’re currently the loudest, most offensive thing to happen to the Hawkins music scene. Have a dedicated crowd of about… 5 drunks on your average Tuesday night at the local dive bar."

She hummed, leaning her hip against the counter as she considered him. "Corroded Coffin. It’s got a nice ring to it. And I get it. There’s something about playing with a group that you just can’t replicate on your own. It’s always nicer with a crew." Her expression shifted, a small, weary shadow flickering over her features. "Though, honestly, my situation lately has made getting the band back together feel like a pipe dream."

"You’re in a band?" Eddie asked, his interest peaking.

"A blues-rock outfit," she explained. "Nothing as loud as whatever a Corroded Coffin puts out, I’m sure. We drive up to Bloomington once a week to play this little jazz bar. It’s good for the soul, when we can actually make it happen. One of our guys has been a bit of a wildcard lately. Stuck at home with his kid more often than not. Parenthood and the blues… they go together, but they don't exactly make for a consistent rehearsal schedule."

Eddie leaned in, fascinated. "Bloomington? That’s the big leagues. You’re telling me I’m standing in the presence of a professional?"

She laughed that beautiful, world-ending laugh again. "Let’s call it semi-professional. We get paid in drinks and gas money, but in Indiana, that basically makes us rockstars."

Eddie’s grin widened, his fingers drumming a restless beat against the side of his pant leg. He couldn't help himself. The fantasy metaphors were bubbling up again, fueled by the sheer high of actually talking to someone who didn't look at him like he was a stain on the carpet. "Alright, so we’ve established you’re a high-level bard," he said, keeping the D&D speak lighter this time, more of a shared shorthand than a full-blown roleplay. "But what’s your actual contribution to the party?"

She gave a small, graceful shrug, her eyes following the movement of his hands. "I’m one of the singers. Since our frontman is currently preoccupied with the dad questline, lately I’ve been carrying a lot of the vocal weight. We split the setlist down the middle, which usually works out until he has to bail for a diaper emergency." She stepped closer to the repair bench, picking up a stray pick and flipping it between her fingers. "And when I’m not behind the mic, I’m on guitar. Rhythm mostly, keeping things steady."

Eddie felt a literal physical tug in his chest. A girl who could talk Shakespeare, play the blues, handle a guitar, and didn't flinch at the mention of a d20? He was fairly certain he was dreaming, and if he was, he never wanted to wake up again.

"Singer and a rhythm player," Eddie mused. "The backbone of the operation. That’s a lot of power to hold over a bunch of Bloomington jazz-heads."

"It keeps me busy," she admitted, finally handing him the pack of strings. As she did, her fingers lingered against his for just a second too long to be accidental. "Though I have to say, Hawkins, a Warlock is a lot of guitar for a guy who gets as red as a tomato over a little dick joke."

Eddie took the strings, his skin buzzing where she’d touched him. "The Warlock is for the stage. The blushing? Well, let's just say you caught me with my armor unequipped."

The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged with a tension that was far more electric than any amp in the room. Eddie found himself caught in her gaze, his usual restless energy replaced by a grounded stillness. He didn't look away, and for a long, heart-hammering minute, neither did she. It was a silent standoff. One where Eddie felt like he was being read like a book, and for once, he didn't mind the scrutiny. Finally, she broke the spell, clearing her throat and glancing down at the counter. "So," she started, her voice a little huskier than before. "Did you actually just venture into the wilds of Bedford for one pack of strings, or is there something else on your quest log?"

Eddie exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders dropping as he tried to find his swagger again. "I, uh... I could probably use a few extra picks. I tend to lose them in the abyss of my van or my hair if I’m honest."

"Follow me, Hawkins," she said, gesturing for him to follow her toward the glass display cases at the back of the store.

As they walked, Eddie watched the way she moved. Comfortable, confident, and entirely in her element. He couldn't help himself; He had to know. "So, if you’re holding down the rhythm for a blues band, what’s your weapon of choice? Please don't tell me it's a Squier."

She laughed. A sound that made him grin. "Hardly. I’m a traditionalist at heart. I usually stick to a Gibson ES-335. Ebony finish. It’s got that warm, woody growl that just... well, it does things to a song that a solid body can't touch."

Eddie stopped dead in his tracks. A low, playful moan escaped his throat in a sound of unadulterated appreciation. In a sudden surge of confidence he leaned in slightly, a wolfish, dazed smile spreading across his face. "God," he breathed, his eyes wide. "Could you say that again? But, like, way slower this time? Because a pretty girl describing her ebony Gibson ES-335 is officially the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire nineteen years of existence."

She paused, her hand hovering over the tray of picks, and turned to look at him. A slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, and for the first time, Eddie felt like he might be the one in trouble. “Careful there, Eddie the Head," she chuckled, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial register that made his skin prickle. "You’re wandering into dangerous territory. You keep inflating my ego like that, and I might just decide to keep you here as a permanent fixture. I’ve been looking for a roadie who’s easy on the eyes and knows his way around a headstock."

Eddie stood there, the nickname hitting him with the force of a freight train. She knew Iron Maiden well enough to pull out the mascot’s moniker, and she was using it to flirt with him. He took a long, exaggerated pause, tilting his head back as if weighing the heavy consequences of his next move. He tapped a ringed finger against his chin, his eyes darting toward the ceiling in faux-contemplation.

"Well," he finally said, a slow, reckless grin splitting his face. "A lifetime of service to a Gibson-wielding siren in the heart of Bedford? Honestly, as far as traps go, it’s a lot more enticing than a weekend at the trailer park with a six-pack of cheap beer and a physics textbook." He leaned an elbow onto the display case, looking her dead in the eye, all the stuttering nervousness from before replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity. "I think I’m willing to take that risk. Lay it on me. I’m a big boy. I can handle a pretty girl with a guitar."

She laughed, the sound lower and more intimate now that they were tucked away in the back of the shop. She reached into the case, pulling out a handful of heavy-gauge Tortex picks and let them rain slowly into his open palm. "I like the confidence, Hawkins," she murmured, watching him as the plastic clicked against his palm. "But let’s see if you can still talk that big when you’re actually holding a guitar instead of just talking about one. Most guys come in here and talk a lot of game, but the second they plug in, they sound like they’re trying to strangle a cat."

Eddie caught the last pick out of the air, clutching it tight. "Is that a challenge? Because if you’re asking me to audition for the role of your most loyal subject, I’ve got a whole repertoire of metal that’ll shake the dust off the rafters."

"Maybe," she countered, her gaze lingering on his hands. "But for now, let's just get you checked out before my boss, who also happens to be my aunt, comes back and wonders why I’ve spent twenty minutes hovering over the picks with a guy who looks like he’s about to start a riot."

“Ah nepotism… snatching up all the good local gigs,” he teased at the mention of her aunt owning the shop. 

She hummed, a soft, wistful sound that didn't quite match the sharp wit she’d been wielding moments before. "Less about nepotism," she said, her fingers tracing the edge of the glass counter. "After my folks passed in a car accident, my aunt, the cool one, thankfully, took me in. It’s been just the two of us since I was in middle school. Working here... it’s how I pay her back for the groceries and the roof over my head. Rent’s cheap when you’re family, but the debt’s still there."

The timing was almost eerie. Just as the weight of her words settled into the air, the record on the speaker system reached the end of the side. The stinging blues guitar faded out, replaced by the empty hiss-thump of the needle spinning in the run-out groove. The silence that followed was heavy. She seemed to realize the gravity of what she’d just dropped on him, and she cleared her throat, shifting her weight as if she were about to bolt back to the safety of the repair bench. The playful spark in her eyes had flickered, replaced by a momentary, awkward vulnerability that made Eddie’s heart ache in a way he wasn't prepared for.

She started to turn away, murmuring something about finding a bag, when Eddie reached out. Not touching her, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her arm. "Hey," he said, his voice dropping the theatrical projection entirely. She paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. Eddie cleared his throat, "I get it. More than you know." He looked down at the counter, a rare flash of somber honesty crossing his face. "I've been living with my Uncle since I was a kid. My mom... she passed a long time ago. And my old man? Well, he traded his parenting duties for a permanent residency with the state after he got busted for five finger discounting some cars. It’s been me and Wayne against the world ever since."

The air in the shop shifted, the shared weight of their histories acting like a bridge between them. She turned back fully now, her shoulder losing its defensive tension as she leaned against a stack of amplifiers. There was a new light in her eyes. Not just the spark of a flirtatious challenge, but the quiet, steady gaze of someone who had seen the same shadows he had. "He sounds like a good man. Your Uncle. It takes a certain kind of soul to take in a kid with baggage like us and not try to sand down all the rough edges."

Eddie let out a short, dry laugh, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his denim vest. "Oh, he’s the best.He’s the only reason I haven't dropped out and headed for the coast already."

She nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She moved toward the record player, the silence of the shop feeling too loud now that they’d traded pieces of their souls. She flipped the vinyl, and a moment later, a new track began to fill the room. Something a bit more upbeat, that cut through the somber mood.

"Well, Eddie Munson," she said, stepping back behind the counter and held out her hand for the strings and picks to ring him up. "I think you’ve officially earned a 'kindred spirit' discount, though don't tell my aunt. I have a feeling if I let you walk out of here without a reason to come back, I’d be failing some kind of cosmic quest."

Eddie handed over his treasures, his heart doing a slow, controlled roll in his chest. "A reason to come back, huh? You think the twenty-minute drive and the threat of my van running out of gas isn't enough of a hurdle for me to leap?"

"I think," she said, her eyes locking onto his as she punched the keys on the old-fashioned register, "that for the right kind of music, and the right kind of company, you’d drive a lot further than ten miles out of your way."

“I’ve got a counter-proposal for you," Eddie said, his voice regaining that theatrical flair, though it was softened by the genuine heat behind his gaze. He gestured toward the counter, his fingers mimicking a scribbling motion. "Dear maiden, might I humbly request a quill and parchment? Or, you know, a ballpoint and a scrap of a receipt will do."

She smirked, sliding a notepad and a pen across the glass. Eddie took it with a flourish, leaning over the counter as he began to write. His handwriting was a chaotic scrawl as he jotted down his number and the address of The Hideout. "Tuesday night," he said, tapping the pen against the paper before sliding it back to her. "Corroded Coffin is taking the stage. It’s loud, it’s unapologetic, and it’s definitely not a jazz bar in Bloomington. But, if you don't mind a little heavy metal, you should come see me actually put this equipment to work." He straightened his vest, hooking his thumbs into his pockets as he looked at her. She only raised an eyebrow, fingers tapping the bar surface as if pondering his request. "I’d love to see you there," he added, his voice dropping into a sincere, quiet register. "I’ve spent three years playing to the same bored faces in that town. It’d be nice to have someone in the crowd who actually appreciates music."

She picked up the paper, her eyes scanning the address before she tore the sheet and tucked it carefully into the pocket of her jeans. A thoughtful smile spread across her face. "Tuesday," she repeated, her gaze meeting his with a weight that made his breath hitch again. "I’ll see what I can do. But you better make sure those strings are tuned perfectly. I’m a very harsh critic."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Eddie grinned, finally backing toward the door. He felt like he was walking on air, the jingle of the bell above the door sounding less like a warning and more like a victory chime.

He paused at the threshold, one hand on the brass handle, and turned back for a final flourish. He swept a low, exaggerated bow. "Until then, my silver-tongued siren," he called out, his voice ringing through the shop with a newfound warmth. "May your chords stay true. This humble bard shall count the hours until Tuesday's moon rises."

He winked, and finally stepped out into the afternoon. He hopped into the GMC, slamming the door and letting out a triumphant shout that was promptly swallowed by the roar of the engine. As he pulled away from the curb, his eyes caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. The blush was still there, staining his cheeks a dusty rose, but his grin was wide enough to hurt. He reached over, patting the bag of new strings on the passenger seat like a prized trophy.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, shifting into gear. "Don't screw this up. You’ve got a Gibson-wielding goddess to impress, and only four days to make sure the Coffin doesn't sound like a literal trash compactor." He cranked the volume on his Maiden tape, the twin-guitar harmonies of The Trooper flooding the cab. For the first time in three years, the drive back to Hawkins didn't feel like a sentence. It felt like a countdown.

🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆

It was Tuesday night, and the air inside The Hideout was a thick, stagnant cocktail of stale cigarette smoke, spilled draft beer, and the electric hum of overworked Marshall stacks. Eddie had arrived two hours early, his nervous energy manifesting as a buzzing restlessness that his bandmates had already grown tired of. He’d recounted the story of the "Bedford Siren" no less than six times since load-in. By the fourth retelling, Jeff had stopped looking up from his drum kit, and by the sixth, Gareth had threatened to shove a drumstick in Eddie's mouth if he mentioned the words "Gibson Goddess" one more time.

"She’s not coming, man," Gareth muttered, "You met her once in a music shop ten miles away. Girls like that don't just show up to dive bars because an awkward guy in a vest asked nicely."

"She’s not just a girl, Gareth, you uncultured swine," Eddie shot back, though his stomach did a nervous flip at the suggestion. He was currently pacing the small expanse of the hallway that led to the stage, his rings clicking against the neck of his Warlock. "She’s a kindred spirit. A fellow music lover. A theater nerd who knows her way around a fretboard. She’ll be here."

He looked at the door every time the heavy oak wood creaked open, his heart jumping into his throat only to sink back down when it was just another local regular looking for a cheap pitcher. The bar was filling up. Well, "filling up" by the Hideout standards. A few fellow metalheads, some curious stragglers, and the usual crowd of misfits who found sanctuary in the dark corners of the bar. Eddie checked his reflection in the grime-streaked mirror in the hall next to the stage. He’d put a little extra effort into his hair tonight. "Five minutes, Munson," the bar manager grunted, signaling toward the clock.

Eddie took a deep breath, the scent of the bar suddenly feeling suffocating. He adjusted his guitar strap. He’d spent hours yesterday stretching the new strings she’d sold him, making sure they were settled and ready to howl.

"Alright, boys," Eddie said, "Tonight, we don't just play. We melt faces. We go out there like the Prince of Darkness himself is in the front row. Clear?" He was met with the excited energy that only can come from teenage boys indulging in their favorite pastime as they finally stumbled out of the hallway. He stepped up to the mic, the feedback whining in anticipation. He took one last, desperate scan of the room. The door swung open again, letting in a swirl of cool night air and the muffled sound of a car engine cutting out. For a second, the silhouettes were just shadows against the neon "Budweiser" sign. But then, he saw the shift of a leather jacket and the unmistakable movement of a confident stride.

She slid through the crowd with a devastating ease, stepping toward the edge of the light. She paused, reaching up to shed her jacket, and Eddie nearly dropped his pick as he took in the change. She looked like she’d been pulled straight from a 1970s rock festival. She was wearing a tight, shortly cropped Wings t-shirt that had seen its fair share of wash cycles, paired with high-waisted black denim bell-bottoms that flared out over the tops of her boots. Topping it all off was the schoolboy cap featuring pins he couldn’t quite make out from a distance, but the overall effect was like an ACDC album cover. It screamed "I know exactly where I am," and it sat on her with a natural, effortless cool that made every other girl in the bar seem to fade into the background. Eddie stood paralyzed, his fingers frozen on the fretboard, his jaw probably hovering somewhere near his knees. He was staring and he knew it, but he couldn't find the mental brakes to stop.

"Eddie!" Gareth’s voice hissed from behind him, sharp and impatient. "Eddie, for the love of God, the intro!" Gareth’s hiss acted like a bucket of cold water. Eddie snapped his head back, blinking rapidly as his brain finally reconnected with his hands. He looked back toward the edge of the stage just in time to see her catch his eye. She didn't look flustered. Instead, she raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her lips quirked into a knowing smile. She gave him a small, two-fingered wave. The kind that said I'm watching, Hawkins, so don't blow it.

Eddie felt the adrenaline hit his system like a live wire. The nervousness was still there, buzzing under his skin, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a fierce, desperate need to show off. He slammed his hand down on the strings, and the first chord of the set ripped through the smoke-filled air with a raw, aggressive power that made the floorboards groan. He threw himself into the music, the world outside the stage lights blurring into a haze of distorted sound and flickering shadows. Between the shredding and the straining growl of his vocals, he lost track of her in the dark. The Hideout was a sea of shifting shapes and nodding heads, and he couldn't afford to scan the crowd while trying to keep Corroded Coffin from derailing. He played with a manic intensity, his hair flying as he thrashed his head. The new strings she’d sold him biting into his fingertips.

Halfway through the set, the energy shifted. Eddie wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a ringed hand and signaled for Gareth and Jeff to hold up. They knew exactly what was coming, and they weren't thrilled about it. Eddie stepped up to the microphone, his chest heaving. He looked out into the gloom, a lopsided, slightly breathless grin on his face. "Alright, folks!" he barked, though his eyes were searching the back of the room. "I have to offer a little disclaimer. I apologize in advance if this next one sounds like absolute dogshit. It’s... well, it’s one we had to pull from the archives."

Gareth let out a long, dramatic sigh behind him. Eddie’s mind flashed back to the previous forty-eight hours. The absolute war he’d waged to get the guys to agree to this. He had practically held them hostage in the garage, forcing them to relearn a song they hadn't touched since their first month of jamming together. There had been shouting, there had been threats of mutiny, but Eddie had been relentless. He needed something with soul. 

He closed his eyes for a second, catching a glimpse of a familiar silhouette leaning against a wooden pillar near the bar. "This one’s for the Gibson wielding Goddess who drove out of her way to hear us butcher Sabbath," he murmured, earning a few chuckles at the self deprecating humor.  He let out a slow, steady breath and began the slow, bluesy opening crawl of Led Zeppelin’s Since I’ve Been Loving You. The transition from thrash metal to agonizingly slow blues-rock was jarring, but as Eddie’s fingers danced over the frets, coaxing a mournful, soaring wail from his Warlock, the room went eerily still. 

Eddie poured himself into the solo, his eyes squeezed shut as he bent the strings until they practically wept. Chasing that feeling his mother had loved. Every slow slide was a message sent directly across the room. A bridge built of high-voltage wire and raw vulnerability. Behind him, the guys held the rhythm with a surprising steadiness despite it being a last minute addition to their set. He was sweating through his shirt, his curls plastered to his forehead, completely lost in the agonizing beauty of the track. 

As the final, haunting chord began to decay, vibrating through the wood of the stage until it was just a ghostly hum, Eddie finally dared to open his eyes. He didn't have to search for her this time. She was right where he’d seen her last, but she wasn't leaning back with that guarded, teasing smirk anymore. She was leaning forward, her arms crossed over the railing, her body language completely open. In the dim, smoky light, he caught her gaze. She was smiling. Not the teasing smile from the shop, but something genuinely impressed. She was nodding her head slowly, a rhythmic, appreciative movement that told him she hadn't just heard the song; she’d felt it. She looked entirely consumed by the performance, her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that made the rest of the room vanish. The rest of the set was a blur of adrenaline and unadulterated showing off. With her eyes locked on him every time he glanced up, Eddie played like a man possessed. Every power chord felt heavier, every solo faster, his fingers flying across the frets with a precision that usually deserted him halfway through a crate of cheap beer. He barely felt the sting of the strings or the sweat stinging his eyes.

When the final crash of cymbals signaled the end of the night, Eddie didn't wait for the scattered applause or the usual post-show banter with the guys. As the house lights flickered to life he practically peeled the Warlock off his body. He set the guitar into its stand and hopped off the edge of the stage before the feedback had even fully died out. He moved through the crowd with a single-minded focus, sidestepping a drunk regular and ignoring Jeff calling his name. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, his chest still heaving. "So," he panted, his hair a chaotic mess around his face as he wiped a streak of sweat from his temple. He tried to summon the smirk, but his heart was beating too hard for his usual theatricality. "How did I do? Am I still a candidate for that roadie position, or should I stick to my day job of failing calculus?" 

She didn't answer immediately. She just looked at him, her gaze traveling from his ripped jeans up to his wide, expectant eyes. The smirk she’d worn in Bedford was back, but there was a new warmth behind it, a softness that made Eddie’s stomach do a slow, dizzying roll. "You're a liar, Munson," she finally said, her voice low and smooth under the humming of the bar’s neon signs.

Eddie blinked, his confidence faltering for a split second. "A liar? I’ve been nothing but an open book!"

"You told me you played aggressively," she countered, stepping into his space, her fingers catching the wallet chain hanging from his jeans, tugging him just a fraction closer. "You didn't mention you could play with that much soul. Zeppelin? That wasn't dogshit, Eddie. That was... something else entirely."

Eddie felt his face heat up, the adrenaline of the performance curdling into a delicious, dizzying sort of bashfulness. He shifted his weight, leaning one hand against the wooden pillar she’d been occupying, effectively caging her into a small, private pocket of the loud bar. As he leaned in, the scent of vanilla he’d noticed in Bedford was now layered with the familiar tang of a recently smoked cigarette and the malty aroma of the longneck beer bottle she held loosely in her other hand. It was the smell of The Hideout, but on her, it was aphrodisia. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and summon the confident persona that usually came so easily. He let a crooked smirk pull at his lips, his eyes dropping to the beer in her hand before flicking back to hers.

"Well, you know," he started, his voice dropping into a drawl that he hoped sounded suave and not just like he’d been screaming for an hour. "I figure if a legendary creature like yourself is going to brave the treacherous journey to Hawkins, the least I can do is provide a soundtrack worthy of the journey. I’d hate for you to think the local talent was... lacking in inspiration."

She let out a soft snort, her eyes tracking the way he was trying to look effortless while his chest was still heaving from the set. She slowly rolled her eyes, the movement playful enough that Eddie didn't feel the sting. "God, you are so corny, Munson," she laughed, taking a slow sip of her beer while she watched him over the bottle. She lowered the amber glass, her thumb tracing the condensation on the label. "Normally, I’d have to penalize you for a line like that." Eddie opened his mouth to defend his honor, but she held up a finger to silence him, her smirk softening into something that made his knees feel like they were made of jelly.

"However," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that cut straight through the house music playing over the speakers. "I think I can find it in my heart to grant you a pardon tonight. Only because you went through the trouble of dedicating a Zeppelin track to me. And because you actually managed to hit those high notes without your voice cracking."

"It was a calculated risk," Eddie admitted, his cocky facade finally cracking into a genuine, beaming grin. "High stakes, high rewards. Does this mean the harsh critic is officially satisfied with the evening's entertainment?"

“Very satisfied," she purred, the words vibrating with a low resonance that seemed to travel straight down Eddie’s spine. She took another slow pull of her beer, her eyes never leaving his, and Eddie felt like he was a second away from short-circuiting. The bravado he’d spent the last hour projecting on stage suddenly felt like a suit of armor that was three sizes too big. He was Eddie Munson. He was supposed to have a witty comeback for everything. But standing this close to her, under the harsh yellow glow of the house lights, he found himself utterly tongue-tied. He looked down at his sneakers for a second, his rings catching the light as he nervously fidgeted with his belt loops.

"I, uh... good. Great. Excellent," he stammered, before mentally kicking himself for sounding like a broken record. He cleared his throat and looked back up, trying to regain his footing. "Can I... can I get you another one? Another beer, I mean. Not that I'm trying to ply the Bedford Siren with spirits, but the service in this establishment is notoriously slow unless you know the guy behind the tap."

She tilted her head, looking at the nearly empty bottle in her hand and then back at him. She seemed to weigh the request for a moment, a thoughtful glint in her eyes. "I think I can manage one more and still be okay to navigate the treacherous roads back to my realm," she decided, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

"Music to my ears," Eddie grinned.

Without thinking and driven by a sudden burst of "now or never" confidence, he reached out and took her hand. Her skin was cool compared to his post-show heat, her fingers slender but strong. He tugged her gently, weaving through the lingering crowd toward the bar. Eddie kept her close, his shoulder brushing against hers as he carved a path through the sweaty bodies and discarded plastic cups. When they reached the sticky wooden edge of the bar, he didn't let go of her hand. Instead, he leaned back against the counter, pulling her into the small space beside him, shielding her from the rowdy regulars with his own body.

"Hey, Rick!" Eddie barked, catching the bartender's eye with a wave. "Two more! And make 'em cold. We’ve got a VIP in the house tonight." Rick only rolled his eyes and grabbed two Coors out of the fridge and popped the bottle caps, setting them down before turning away without a word. 

“He’s chatty,” she remarked, the corner of her mouth quirked in a grin as she claimed one of the sweating bottles. As she tilted it back to drink, Eddie reached out, his hand hovering briefly to arrest the movement. He held the crown of his own bottle out toward her, an unspoken invitation suspended in the space between them. For a fraction of a second, her gaze flickered with a quiet, curious confusion. The look of someone momentarily caught off guard by a sudden shift in the script. Then, the understanding settled in. She met the gesture with a deft movement, clinking her glass against his with a clack that punctuated the low roar of the bar. 

Eddie lowered his bottle, a stray drop of condensation clinging to his thumb, and felt the intense beat of his heart finally begin to settle into something more sustainable. The bar was a riot of sound but tucked into this narrow sliver of space at the counter, the world felt strangely compressed. “So,” he started, leaning his weight onto his elbows. He shifted his weight, trying to find a pose that felt like effortless rockstar and less like a kid vibrating out of his skin. He watched her for a moment, the way she handled the grimy atmosphere of the Hideout as if she’d personally designed the decor. She was so composed, so entirely there, that Eddie felt a pang of certainty that she had lived a dozen lives while he was still stuck repeating his senior year. She likely had a string of Bloomington musicians in her wake. Guys who knew how to talk to a woman. College boys who had an actual future.

He cleared his throat. He wanted to say something smooth, something that suggested he was a man of the world, but his brain could only offer up a clumsy bridge between his two favorite worlds. “Now, I don’t want to presume the nature of your... mission to Hawkins,” Eddie began, his voice laced with a nervous energy he couldn't quite suppress. He toyed with the heavy silver ring on his thumb, his eyes darting to the label of her bottle before snapping back to hers. “But a guy could get the wrong idea. A girl drives all this way, braves the local fauna of the Hideout on a Tuesday? One might think she was looking for more than just a souvenir guitar pick.”

It was clunky. A bit too wordy and transparent. Eddie felt the heat of his own awkwardness prickling at the back of his neck. He watched her carefully, certain that a woman who carried herself with that kind of effortless gravity probably had a trail of much smoother, much more experienced men in her wake. He felt like a level-one bard trying to charm a high-level sorceress with a cantrip he’d only half-learned. 

She didn’t laugh at him, though. Rather than letting him flounder in the awkward silence of his own making, she closed the distance, her boots scuffing as she pushed her way into his space. She didn't stop until her hip pressed into his side. Eddie’s breath hitched, his elbows sliding just a fraction on the bar as he found himself suddenly, wonderfully pinned by her proximity.

“You want to know the truth, Munson?” she murmured. “I haven’t been able to get our little encounter on Friday out of my head. Not once. I stared at the phone for two days, but I didn’t want to be the one to call. I didn't want to seem... overeager.”

Eddie’s brain short-circuited. The girl he’d been dreaming about had been sitting at home, thinking about him? The mental image of her wrestling with the same restless, pacing energy he’d been nursing since Friday felt like a victory more significant than any natural twenty he’d ever rolled.

She reached out then, her hand moving with a focused intent that made his heart threaten to beat out of his chest cavity. She didn’t go for his hand or his shoulder; instead, her fingers trailed upward, ghosting over the wild, untamed tangle of his curls. She caught a stray lock of dark hair between her fingers, testing the texture of it with a soft, appreciative hum. “And for the record,” she added, her eyes tracking the movement of her own hand as she tucked a curl behind his ear. “I love the hair.”

The bashfulness hit him then. Genuine reaction of a guy who had spent most of his life being told his appearance was a problem to be solved. He ducked his head slightly, his shoulders hunching as he offered her a small, lopsided smile that was far more vulnerable than anything he’d shown on stage. But then, a flicker of something else stirred beneath the bashfulness. A spark of the guy who had climbed onto cafeteria tables to face down the world. If she was going to bridge the gap, if she was going to stand there and tell him she’d been thinking of him, he wasn't going to let the moment slip away into a stuttering mess of apologies.

With a steadying breath that he hoped didn't look as shaky as it felt, he reached out. His movements were slow, giving her every second to pull away, but she stayed right where she was. He let his hand settle tentatively against her side, his palm finding the narrow, warm expanse of skin where her cropped shirt rode up above the dark denim of her jeans. The contact was electric. Her skin was soft, radiating a heat that seemed to travel directly up his arm and settle in the center of his chest. His thumb brushed against the curve of her waist, his rings feeling cold for a split second against her warmth before they acclimated to her. He felt the slight hitch of her breath beneath his touch.

Eddie’s pulse was frantic now, but as he looked at her, he didn't pull back. He kept his hand there as some sort of physical claim in the middle of the crowded bar. "I, uh... it's a lot of maintenance," he stammered, his voice sounding lower, roughened by the proximity and the sudden weight of his own hand against her. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of the suave persona he’d been projecting, even as his fingers curled slightly against her skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him further, her body language shifting from a flirtatious challenge to something more intimate. Her hand settled on his shoulder, her fingers finding a different, thick strand of his hair. She began to toy with it, twisting the curl around her index finger as she looked up at him, her eyes soft and shining with a playful sort of surprise.

“Maintenance, huh?” she asked, her voice a low, rhythmic purr that seemed to vibrate right through his denim vest. “Tell me, Munson, does the Dungeon Master have a specific ritual?”

Eddie opened his mouth to answer, a rambling explanation about specific drug-store conditioners and the struggle of humidity already halfway up his throat. “Well, see, the trick is you can’t actually brush it when it’s dry, or you end up looking like a Pomeranian that’s been…”

He trailed off, the words dying as he caught the look in her eyes. She wasn’t actually listening for hair care tips. She was watching his lips move, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw while she continued to weave her fingers through his curls. The question was just a flimsy excuse to keep her hands on him. She let out a soft, throaty chuckle as his voice failed him, her gaze traveling over the vivid, traitorous heat that he could feel creeping up his neck and flooding his face.

“You know, for a guy who has that kind of stage presence, you really are something else when you’re flustered,” she murmured, her thumb ghosting over the apple of his cheek. “It’s incredibly endearing, Eddie.”

Eddie let out a shaky, self-deprecating breath, his hand on her waist tightening just a fraction as he tried to find his footing. “How is it possible?” he managed, his voice sounding raw and far more honest than he’d intended. “How are you so... grounded?I feel like I’m literally about to turn into a puddle right here. And you look like you’re just having a casual stroll through the park.”

A knowing, secret smile pulled at her lips. She leaned in closer, bridging the final inch of space until her lips were hovering just beside his ear, her breath a warm, tickling sensation against his skin. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered, her voice a smooth, conspiratorial velvet. “I was a theatre nerd. Shakespeare, remember?” She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, her expression dancing with a mixture of mischief and warmth. “I’m not actually this cool, Eddie. I’m just very, very good at acting like I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Eddie’s hand stayed anchored at her waist, but his thumb went still against her skin as he processed her confession. The admission that she was "acting" should have made him feel more on her level, but instead, it sent a jolt of caution through his system. His mind flickered back. An unwelcome strobe light of a memory, to a rainy afternoon when he was thirteen. He could almost feel the sting of Ronnie’s gentle rejection, the hollow weight in his gut when he realized he’d completely misread their friendship. He couldn't do that again. Not with her. 

“And what are you doing… exactly?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rough murmur. He tried to keep it light, to lace it with his usual eccentric curiosity, but the vulnerability he was trying to shield was leaking through the cracks. She didn't pull away. She let the strand of his hair go, her palm flattening against the back of his neck, her fingers tangling slightly in the curls at the nape. She looked at him, her eyes searching his with a steady, unblinking focus that made the air in his lungs feel heavy. 

“The real question, Eddie,” she whispered, “is what do you wish I was doing?”

He let his gaze drop to her lips, then slowly back up to her eyes, his thumb tracing a deliberate, trembling arc against her waist. "I think," he began, "that if I actually answered that, the Dungeon Master would have to call for a wisdom saving throw. Because my wishes... aren't exactly PG-rated tonight, Bedford."

He leaned in that final, agonizing inch, until the tip of his nose brushed against hers. The world outside their small circle became a muffled, distant static. “Try me,” she whispered, looking up at him with encouraging wide eyes.

"I wish," he whispered, his breath hitching as he felt her fingers tighten at the nape of his neck, "that you’d stop acting for a second and you’d tell me if this script ends with me finally getting to see if you taste as good as you look, or if I’m destined to spend the rest of the night wondering if I’m just a fading curiosity."

She didn’t answer right away. She just stared at him, her gaze dropping to his lips with a heavy, lingering intent that made the air in Eddie’s lungs turn to lead. The silence stretched, thick and humming with the kind of electricity that usually preceded a lightning strike. Then, slowly, she pulled back just an inch, her eyes flicking toward the heavy oak door at the front of the bar before returning to his. “I’m dying for a smoke,” she said, her voice regaining a bit of that dry, practical edge. She gave his shoulder a playful pat, her hand sliding away from his neck. “And you... you should probably go pack up that Warlock of yours. It’s a lot of guitar to leave sitting on a stage in a place like this.”

Eddie felt the floor drop out from under him. The sudden withdrawal of her touch felt like a cold front moving in to replace the heat of a moment ago. He stood there, his hand still hovering awkwardly near the space where her waist had been, his mind racing to find where he’d tripped the wire. He’d been too bold. He’d overstepped. He’d taken a "try me" as an invitation and turned it into something too real, too fast.

“Right,” he managed, the word sounding hollow and brittle. He forced a stiff smile onto his face, his rings catching the light as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He started to turn away, his shoulders hunching in a defensive crouch, the familiar weight of rejection settling into his bones. He was already rehearsing the self-deprecating joke he’d tell Gareth later to mask the sting.

But before he could take a single step toward the stage, she moved. She bridged the gap again, tugging him back into her orbit. She leaned in, her lips finding the shell of his ear, her voice a low, secret vibration that cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Have a little faith, Sir Munson,” she whispered, her breath warm and smelling of vanilla. “I’m not making an exit. I’m just making sure there won't be any interruptions. I'll be by your van. Don't make me wait.” She pulled back, giving him a wink, before turning and heading toward the door with that same confident stride.

Eddie stood at the bar for a beat longer, his pulse thrumming in his ears, before he let out a breathless laugh. He turned and practically bolted toward the stage. Gareth and Jeff were already there, winding up cables and snapping latches on road cases, but their movements were sluggish. They were both staring at the front door as if expecting it to burst back open.

“So,” Gareth started, his voice a mixture of awe and genuine confusion as he looked at Eddie. “That was her? The actual manifestation of your hyper-fixation?”

“She’s real,” Jeff added, shaking his head. “And she was all over you. I think I saw your soul leave your body for a second there.”

Eddie reached for his Warlock, his fingers trembling with a newfound energy as he slid it into its coffin-shaped case. He tried to puff out his chest, catching his reflection in the stage monitors and attempting to summon a look of cool, calculated triumph. He adjusted his jacket, tossing his hair back with a flourish that was about sixty percent bravado and forty percent sheer panic. “What can I say, boys?” Eddie quipped, though his voice cracked just enough to betray him. “The lady has discerning taste. She knows a legendary bard when she sees one.” But as he snapped the last latch on his guitar case, the facade flickered. He leaned his forehead against the cold Tolex of the case for a fleeting second, letting out a long, shaky exhale. “Fuck,” he muttered, his eyes wide and slightly glazed. “I think I’m actually about to die. My heart is doing things it’s definitely not medically cleared to do.”

Gareth snorted, hoisting a drum throne over his shoulder. “Well, don't die on the stage. Rick’ll charge us a cleaning fee.”

“I can't stay,” Eddie said, suddenly galvanized, grabbing his gear with an urgency. “I shouldn’t keep her waiting. Every second I’m in here talking to you two losers is a second I’m risking her realizing she could do infinitely better.”

Jeff frowned, looking around the emptying bar. “Waiting? Where? She walked out the door, man. She’s probably halfway to the county line by now.”

Eddie offered a manic, lopsided grin as he began to back away toward the hallway, the Warlock case bumping against his leg. “She’s waiting by the van while I pack up to ‘ensure there are no interruptions’, I’ll have you know.”

The two of them stopped dead, exchanging a look. A slow, mischievous grin spread across Jeff’s face, and Gareth let out a low whistle that echoed through the darkening room. “The van?” Gareth repeated, a wicked glint in his eye. “In the parking lot? Damn, Munson.”

“Godspeed, Eddie,” Jeff called out, tossing a balled-up bit of tape from their cables toward him as a parting gift.  Eddie didn't even bother with a retort. He just flipped the bird over his shoulder and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, his mind already miles ahead of his feet, sprinting toward the cool night air and the girl waiting by the rusted-out GMC.

🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆

The drive from Hawkins to Bloomington was usually a mundane stretch of Indiana blacktop, but this Saturday evening, Eddie barely noticed the miles. His mind was a chaotic rewiring of the last four days, a highlight reel that played on a continuous loop behind his eyes.

Tuesday night in the back of the War Wagon was the undisputed headliner. The air in the van had been thick enough to choke on. Heavy with the scent of her vanilla perfume, the lingering metallic tang of the bar, and the humid heat of two people who had run out of words. He could still feel the weight of her. The way she’d climbed into his lap and draped herself over him like she belonged there. She’d been relentless. The agonizing friction as she rutted against his thighs, her hands tangled in his hair while he gripped her waist with a desperation that bordered on feral. He’d come so close to losing it right there in his denim, his breath hitching in a series of broken, pathetic sounds that she’d swallowed with open mouth kisses, before they’d finally forced themselves to call it a night.

She’d promised to call before she even climbed out of the back into the brisk air. And she’d kept that promise. Every single night since, the phone in the trailer had become Eddie’s lifeline. They talked until his ear went numb and Wayne started knocking on the wall, trading stories that went deeper than the "freak" persona he projected for the world.

Then there was Thursday. A mid-week fever dream where he’d pushed the van to its limit just to meet her at the edge of Bedford. They’d found a nondescript, neon-lit burger joint. The kind of place where the grease soaked through the paper bags before you even got to the window. It was perfect. He remembered the way she’d sighed, kicking off her boots and propping her sock-covered feet up on his dashboard, her toes wiggling to the rhythm of something on the radio. They hadn’t talked much then; they didn't need to. They’d just shared a strawberry shake and watched the lightning bugs congregate in the tall grass, the silence between them feeling more comfortable than any conversation he’d ever had with a girl in Hawkins. But now, the neon "OPEN" sign of the Bloomington blues bar was staring him down. Eddie adjusted the collar of his vest. He wasn't the frontman tonight; he was the visitor in her realm, and he was dying to see if the girl under the stage lights was the same one who’d left her footprints on his dashboard.

The heavy door of the Bloomington club swung shut, cutting off the humid Indiana night. The place felt different from the Hideout; the air was thinner, smelling more of expensive bourbon and old wood than stale PBR and regret. Eddie knew he was early, his internal clock having run on overdrive for the entire drive, so he kept his head down, slipping toward the mahogany bar. He ordered a Jack on the rocks and retreated to a shadowed corner table, a tactical position that offered a clear view of the modest stage.

He didn't have to wait long. A side door near the stage creaked open, and the band began to file out. Eddie leaned forward, his drink momentarily forgotten. He was struck first by the company she kept. He’d expected peers but these men were seasoned. They were middle-aged, faces etched with the kind of lines only decades of late nights and low lamplight could carve. One man, cradling a weathered saxophone, looked to be pushing sixty, his hair a shock of silver against a dark vest. And then, there she was.

She looked radiant, a sharp contrast to the lived-in grit of her bandmates. She was wearing a short, dark dress, paired with a vintage fur coat that was already beginning to slip provocatively down her shoulders. She looked like a starlet who had wandered into a noir film, her presence commanding the room before she even touched a microphone. As the house lights began to dim, a single blue spotlight cut through the haze, catching  a flash of silver on her own hand that made Eddie’s heart stop.

They had been sitting in the cramped cabin of the War Wagon, the windows beginning to fog from the heat of their proximity. The radio was a low hum between them, and Eddie’s fingers had been restlessly tapping an uneven beat against the steering wheel. She had reached out, her cool hand catching his, stilling his movements. She didn't say a word as she looked at his hand, her eyes tracing the heavy silver of the ring on his index finger. A piece of gothic hammered metal he’d worn since he was fifteen. She’d slid it off his finger and onto her own. It was too big, hanging loose against her skin, but she didn't seem to mind. She just turned her hand over, admiring the weight of it.

Suddenly, the staticky speakers of the van had flared to life with the opening, upbeat chords of Suzi Quatro’s "Stumblin' In." She’d let out a small, breathless laugh, her shoulders hitching as she looked at the dashboard. "Oh, god," she’d murmured, her voice laced with a sudden, uncharacteristic bashfulness. "I love this song." She glanced at him, her eyes guarded as if she expected him to scoff. "I know, I know. I’m admitting to liking something soft and sugary to a god of metal like yourself. It’s probably a strike against my cool-girl credentials, isn't it?"

Eddie had looked at her, watching the way the neon light of the burger joint turned her features into a palette of pink and orange. Instead of the biting remark she’d clearly expected, he’d leaned his head back against the seat and started to sing. "Our love is alive, and so we begin..."

His voice wasn't the gravelly roar he used on stage; it was softer, a light, melodic baritone that caught the rhythmic swing of the track perfectly. He saw her eyes go wide, her mouth parting in a tiny "o" of genuine surprise. "Foolishly laying our hearts on the table," he continued, a playful, lopsided grin spreading across his face as he nudged her shoulder with his own. "Stumblin' in..."

She’d joined in then, her voice a rich, soulful harmony that bridged the gap between his metal world and her bluesy heart. In that moment, surrounded by the smell of fries and the glow of the radio dial, the genres didn't matter. They were just two kids in a van, finding the same tune.

Back in the present, under the blue light of the Bloomington stage, she gripped the fretboard of her guitar with that same hand. His ring still shining defiantly on her finger. She scanned the dark room, and for a moment, Eddie was certain her gaze locked onto his corner. The smirk she gave the microphone was a silent acknowledgment that she was glad he came.

She didn't introduce the band or offer a rehearsed greeting to the crowd. Instead, she simply nodded to the drummer behind her. The count-in was a sharp, clicking rhythm that was immediately drowned out by the deep, honey-thick growl of her ES-335. Watching her play was a different experience than seeing her lean over a music shop counter. Here, she was the authority. She moved with a controlled, swaying grace, her fingers dancing over the frets with a technical precision that made Eddie’s own style feel like a chaotic brawl.

Midway through the first set, the tempo dropped. The middle-aged bassist fell into a slow, walking groove, and the saxophonist stepped back into the shadows. She stepped up to the mic, the fur coat finally sliding completely off her shoulders to pool around her elbows, revealing the delicate line of her collarbones. She didn't look at the crowd this time. She looked straight toward the back corner, toward the flicker of the candle on Eddie’s table.

She didn't rush the microphone; she drifted toward it, her boots clicking softly against the wood as the band transitioned into a slow, dirty blues shuffle. She gripped the stand with both hands, the fur coat finally surrendering to gravity and slipping to the crook of her elbows.

“We’re gonna slow it down just a hair,” she said into the mic, her voice a low, honeyed rasp that made the ice in Eddie’s drink rattle as his hand shook. She scanned the dark room, her eyes eventually finding his corner and staying there, pinned and unwavering. “This next one goes out to a certain… traveler. A guy who thinks he’s a lot more dangerous than he actually is, but who knows exactly when to lean in.”

A few light chuckles rippled through the sophisticated crowd, but Eddie felt like he was the only person in the building. The band dropped into a heavy beat, the bass player’s thumb thumping out a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat against the floorboards. She leaned into the mic, her eyes hooded and dark, her voice a rich, soulful rasp as she delivered the opening line.

"These men that I've been seeing, baby... got their soul up on the shelf."

He’d spent years watching his peers. The guys who peacocked in the locker rooms or treated girls like trophies to be won and discarded. He thought of his own three boxes theory and realized how shallow he had been. But as she continued, her voice swelling with a gritty, uncompromising power, he realized she was cutting through all of it.

"You know they could never love me, When they can't even love themselves"

She was so casually stripping away the performance. Eddie watched the way she leaned her lips into the microphone, his silver ring catching the blue light as her fingers danced on the frets, and he felt a strange illumination in his chest. He knew what it was like to struggle with that. To hide behind a "freak" mask because the person underneath felt too small, too battered. And yet, all things considered Eddie knew who he was. The parts of himself he could control, he liked. When she reached the chorus, her gaze intensified, locking onto his with a heat that made the back of his neck prickle.

“I want a man to rock me like my backbone was his own. Darlin', I know you can”

The line hit him with the force of a freight train. His mind flashed back to Tuesday night, to the way he’d held her in the van, his hands shaking but steady enough to keep her close. He hadn't wanted to "take her for a ride"; he’d wanted to be exactly what she was asking for. Someone who could hold the weight of her without folding. Someone to be strong enough for the both of them.

She let the guitar do the talking for a moment. A stinging, bent note wailing out from the ES-335 that sounded like a cry for help and a declaration of war all at once. She moved with the music, her body swaying in a slow, hypnotic curve that made Eddie’s pulse hammer.

"I come home sad and lonely... feel like I wanna cry. I want a man to hold me, not some fool to ask me why."

There was a raw vulnerability in her delivery that moved him more than the technical skill of the band ever could. She was telling him what she needed. A man who understood the shadows. Someone who wouldn't put himself above her, or beneath her, but would simply stand beside her when the house lights went down. As she reached the final, lingering notes, her voice dropped to a near-whisper, a conspiratorial secret shared across the crowded room.

"Don't you put yourself above me... you just love me like a man."

The final chord decayed and for a long moment, the bar stayed silent. Eddie sat in the shadows, his drink forgotten, his eyes wide and bright. He felt seen in a way that terrified him, but as she stepped back from the mic and offered him one last, lingering smirk, he knew he wasn't going to run. Eddie lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the last of the blue stage light, and offered a silent, steady toast to the air between them. He capped it with a slow, deliberate wink before taking a long pull of the whiskey. 

As the band transitioned into a more upbeat, rhythmic shuffle, Eddie sank back into the shadows of his booth, letting the music wash over him like a tide. She stayed at the microphone for a few more tracks, her voice weaving through the smoky air with an effortless, practiced soul. She shared a few harmonies with the older saxophonist, her head tilted back, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips that seemed to say she was exactly where she was meant to be. She sang a haunting, low-tempo cover of a Janis Joplin track that made the hair on Eddie's arms stand up, and later, she retreated to the edge of the stage to provide a steady, driving rhythm for a long, improvisational bass solo.

But for Eddie, none of it quite reached the heights of that Bonnie Raitt cover. The lyrics to Love Me Like a Man were etched into his brain, playing on a loop alongside the memory of her fingers tracing his silver ring. It was a heavy thing to ask of someone and Eddie found himself wondering if he was actually up to the task. He was used to being the one who needed an audience, the one who filled the silence with noise to keep the dark at bay. It was a new kind of quest, one where the monsters weren't made of lead and paint, but of shared history and quiet, lonely nights. Eventually, the set wound down. The silver-haired drummer let out a final, resonant crash of the cymbals, and the house lights began their slow, amber climb back toward reality. The applause was warm and lingering, a sophisticated roar that filled the room as the band began to unstrap their instruments.

Eddie watched as she handed her Gibson off to the older man, her movements tired but graceful. She didn't head for the stage room or linger to talk to the regulars who were already drifting toward the stage to offer their compliments. Instead, she grabbed her fur coat from the back of an amp from where she’d tossed it towards the end of the set, slinging it over one shoulder. 

While the band had been taking their final bows, Eddie had made a quick retreat to the bar, navigating the cluster of Bloomington jazz-heads to flag down the bartender. The man had looked Eddie over, eyes lingering just a second on the denim vest and the chaotic hair, before his expression softened into something knowing. "She’s a powerhouse, isn't she?" the bartender had murmured, already reaching for a heavy-bottomed rocks glass. "Her usual is an Old Fashioned. Extra bitters, easy on the sugar. She likes the bite."

Now, as she reached the table, Eddie slid the condensation-beaded glass toward her. The orange peel twist caught the low light, glowing like an ember against the dark wood.

Her eyebrows shot up, a tired but genuine smile breaking across her face. "An Old Fashioned? You’ve been doing your homework."

"I have my sources," Eddie quipped. "I figured a goddess of your stature shouldn't have to fetch her own libations after a performance like that."

She didn't stay on the other side of the table. Instead, she rounded the edge of the booth and curled up onto the vinyl seat right next to him. She didn't leave a polite gap either as she pressed herself directly into his space. Eddie felt the air leave his lungs as she settled in, her thigh flushing against his in a move that was as forward as the lyrics she’d just sung. She took a slow, appreciative sip of the drink, her eyes closing for a brief second as the bite of the bourbon hit her tongue. When she opened them, she was looking up at him from under her lashes, the silver of his ring flashing as she rested her hand on the table, dangerously close to his own.

“So,” she murmured, her voice a low vibration that seemed to pull the shadows of the booth tighter around them. “Did the reality live up to the day dream, Munson? Or do I need to go back up there and do an encore to keep your interest?”

Eddie looked down at her. The proximity was intoxicating. The scent of the stage, the vanilla, and the sharp, citrusy tang of her drink all swirling into a cocktail that made his head spin. He didn't pull back. He leaned his head against the back of the booth, turning his face just enough so that he could catch the heat of her gaze. “Interest was never the problem,” he admitted.  

Slowly, she reached out, her hand disappearing beneath the edge of the table to slide firmly across his denim-covered thigh. Her fingers moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the pressure of her palm sending a jolt of heat straight to his core. She looked up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes, her eyes heavy with a look that made the smoky air in the bar feel ten degrees hotter. "Yeah?" she asked, the word a soft, sultry challenge that hung in the air between them.

Eddie swallowed hard. He looked at her, noticing the way she was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing. "Yeah," he whispered, nodding slowly. "I'm always stuck in this... middle ground with you. Half the time, I’m trying so hard to be the guy who deserves to stand next to you. And the other half? I just want to drop the act. I want to tell you all the dorky, uncool things I love without apologizing for any of it."

He let out a shaky breath, his own hand finding hers beneath the table, his fingers lacing through hers. "I'm stuck between wanting to just hold your hand and walk through a park like we're in some cheesy rom-com... and wanting to get you out of here right now." He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips before flicking back to her eyes, his pupils blown wide. "I want to find out if you're just as pretty underneath me as you are standing under those blue lights."

She didn't flinch at the intensity of his gaze. If anything, she leaned in closer, her thumb tracing the seam of his jeans while she studied the vulnerability etched into his face. The smoke-heavy air of the club seemed to hold its breath as she tilted her head. "Eddie," she murmured, her voice dropping the sultry lilt for something far more direct. "Have you ever had sex?"

Eddie froze, his mind instantly spiraling. He could lie. He could weave some elaborate, rock-star tale of a wild night after a gig. Something involving a groupie and a motel room and she’d probably believe him. He was nineteen, after all. He was supposed to have a few notches on his belt. But as he looked at her, seeing the way his ring caught the amber light on her finger, the lie died in his throat. He realized he didn't want to give her a performance. Not after the song she’d just sung for him.

"No," he admitted, the word sounding small and startlingly honest. He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh, his gaze dropping to the table. "Believe it or not, there isn't exactly a long, winding line of girls in Hawkins eager to jump into bed with the long haired, super-senior freak."

He felt a sharp pang of shame. The weight of his reputation in that small, narrow-minded town suddenly felt like a lead weight. He waited for her to realize she was wasting her time. Instead, she hummed. "Well," she said, her voice reclaiming that teasing, melodic edge as she tightened her grip on his hand beneath the table. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting just beneath the shell of his ear, "I think those girls in Hawkins must be even more boring and stupid than you let on.”

"I don’t know, I think they just have a very healthy survival instinct," Eddie muttered, his eyes darting to his drink. He tried to rely on his usual shield of self-deprecation, a nervous twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I’m an acquired taste, like... black licorice."

She didn't laugh. Instead, she reached out with her free hand, her fingers catching his chin and firmly turning his face back to hers. She shook her head, her expression settling into something intensely serious, stripping away the layers of his defense until he felt completely exposed. "Stop it," she commanded softly. "I’m not being nice. You are, without a doubt, the coolest guy I’ve ever met."

Eddie’s breath hitched, the joke he’d been about to make dying in his throat.

"You’re incredibly talented," she continued, her voice a low, steady anchor. "You get what it’s like to have a home life that isn't exactly a Hallmark card, which is a rare thing in this corner of the world. And you’re the only person I know who doesn't look at me like I’ve grown a second head when I randomly drop into Shakespearean English."

She leaned in, the thumb of her hand on his thigh traced the heavy denim seam again, her voice dropping into a register that made his entire body hum. "I may have only known you a week, Eddie Munson, but I’ve already spent a significant amount of time imagining things." She paused, her smirk returning. "Some of it is wholesome. Like how cute you looked with mustard on your cheek or how adorable it is after it rained and your hair gets all frizzy. But mostly, I’ve been wondering what it would be like if you played me as well as you play that Warlock."

Eddie choked.

A genuine, undignified sputter as he inhaled a bit of his Jack and Coke at the exact moment she finished that sentence. He coughed into his fist, his face turning a shade of red, until he finally managed to clear his throat and blink the stinging tears from his eyes.

"Right," he rasped, his voice an octave higher than usual before he settled it back down. "Okay. Message received. Loud and clear. Critical hit." He leaned in, his fingers twitching against his glass. "Is there... I mean, hypothetically, if I were to act on that very specific and terrifyingly enticing invitation… assuming that was actually an invitation… is there somewhere we can go? Because I don't think my van is quite the private chamber you deserve tonight."

She smiled, a slow, cat-like curve of her lips as she watched him recover. "My aunt is out of town for the weekend," she whispered, her hand finally sliding up from his thigh to lace her fingers with his on the table. "The house is quiet. And very, very empty."

Eddie didn't even hesitate. "Can I follow you back? I’ll stick to your bumper like glue, I swear."

"Actually," she said, tilting her head toward the stage, "I could use a ride. I tagged along with the bassist tonight since my car’s been making a sound like a dying cat."

Eddie didn't answer with words. He grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his drink in one determined swallow, the ice clinking against his teeth. She followed suit, tilting her head back to finish her Old Fashioned. "Wait here," she commanded, sliding out of the booth.

He watched her weave back toward the stage, her fur coat swinging around her hips. She leaned over to the silver-haired drummer and the older bassist, nodding toward Eddie as she made her excuses. The bassist, the one who looked like he’d seen everything twice, looked over at Eddie and barked a laugh, saying something low that made the drummer grin and shake his head. Eddie stood up, his legs feeling a little like jelly, and met her halfway as she grabbed her Gibson case. He reached for it before she could lift the heavy weight, his hand brushing hers.

"Careful with her, kid," the bassist called out, leaning over the edge of the stage with a toothy, mischievous grin. 

"Knock it off, Lou!" she shot back, waving him off with a roll of her eyes. She grabbed Eddie’s free arm, her fingers digging into his leather sleeve, and began pulling him toward the side exit. "Ignore them. They’ve been playing bars since the Mesozoic era. They tend to think they’re hilarious."

They burst out of the side door and into the cool, humid night air of Bloomington. Eddie led the way, his sneakers hitting the pavement in a quick shuffle. He fumbled with his keys as they reached the van, the rusted GMC looking like a majestic carriage in the yellow glow of the streetlights. He threw the side door open and tossed her guitar case onto the bench seat before turning to help her up. "Watch the step," he breathed, his eyes wide and dark as he looked at her in the moonlight. 

Eddie practically hoisted her into the van, his hands lingering on her waist for a split second longer than necessary just to feel the heat of her through the dress. Once she was settled, he slammed the heavy door shut with a triumphant thud and sprinted around the front. He vaulted into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. The engine turned over with a guttural, rattling roar that felt entirely appropriate for the state of his nerves. He didn't waste time. He threw the van into gear and tore away from the curb, the tires chirping as he pointed the War Wagon toward the highway that led back to Bedford.

Beside him, she didn't seem bothered by the sudden G-force. She leaned forward, her fur coat spilling over the center console as she began to dig through the disorganized mountain of cassettes littering the floorboards. She tossed aside a few home-recordings before her eyes lit up. "A call back," she murmured, sliding Holy Diver into the tape deck. 

The opening synthesized growl of "Stand Up and Shout" exploded through the van's mismatched speakers, the riff immediately filling the cramped cabin. Eddie found himself drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat. "Good choice, Bedford!" he shouted over the music, a wild, reckless grin splitting his face as they hit the open road.

They had just cleared the final flickering streetlights of Bloomington’s city limits, the dark, rolling hills of the Indiana countryside swallowing the highway, when the atmosphere inside the van shifted. The neon glow of the dashboard caught the wicked curve of her smile as she turned in her seat. She didn't say a word. She just leaned across the console and reached out. Eddie’s breath hitched as he felt her cool fingers find the metal button of his jeans.

"Eyes on the road, Munson," she purred, her voice nearly lost under Dio's soaring vocals.

Eddie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles went white, his heart performing a frantic, chaotic solo against his ribs. The highway was a blur of gray and black, and for a terrifying, wonderful second, he forgot exactly how to breathe. "I... uh...," he managed to stammer, his head falling back against the headrest as he felt the button pop. "Right. The road. Keeping my eyes... on the road."

The heavy bassline of Dio’s anthem pulsed through the space, but it was quickly eclipsed by the rush of blood in Eddie’s ears. He felt the cool slide of the zipper, a sound he felt more than heard, followed by the sudden, sharp relief of the cool night air against his skin as she cleared the path. She didn't hesitate. With a fluid, cat-like grace, she slid out of the passenger seat and knelt in the narrow, carpeted gap between the two pilot chairs. The van hit a small dip in the highway, but she braced herself against his thigh, her touch grounding him even as his head began to swim. When she leaned forward and took him into her mouth, the world outside the windshield ceased to exist.

Eddie’s head snapped back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut as a groan tore from his throat. It was a raw, unfiltered sound that drowned out Ronnie Dio’s soaring vocals. His hands cramped around the steering wheel, his knuckles white and shaking, as he struggled to remember the basic mechanics of driving.

"Jesus," he gasped.

The sensation was overwhelming. A localized explosion of heat and friction that made every nerve ending in his body scream. He was nineteen, operating on a decade's worth of built-up anticipation and a week's worth of agonizing tension. Having experienced this long awaited act was almost more than his system could handle. He felt the occasional glide of his own silver ring against his skin as she used her hand to guide what she couldn’t take in her mouth, and it sent a fresh wave of electricity straight up his spine. He fought the urge to look down, knowing that if he did, he’d lose whatever precarious grip he had on his remaining sanity, not to mention, the steering wheel.

"You're... you're gonna be the death of me," he managed to choke out, his chest heaving as he stared blindly at the road ahead, his hips jerking involuntarily upward into her warmth. "The absolute... death of me."

The dashboard hummed with the vibrations of the music, but Eddie felt like he was being slowly dissolved from reality. In his head he’d rehearsed this a thousand times. He’d read the descriptions in the back of the dirty paperbacks Wayne kept in the trailer, heard the guys in the locker room talk about it and had certainly spent enough lonely nights in his bedroom imagining the mechanics. He’d assumed it would feel nice. In theory, the idea of a warm, wet environment pulling at him was a solid concept. A gold-tier fantasy. But theory was a pale, flickering candle compared to the bonfire currently happening in his lap.

It wasn't just the warmth, though that was a shock in itself. It was the intensity of the suction. Every time she moved, her tongue swirled or her throat tightened around him, and a new wave of pleasure surged up his spine, short-circuiting his brain until he couldn't remember his own middle name. The actual experience was a sensory overload he hadn't been prepared for. It was a visceral, bone-deep sensation of being wanted, and of being the sole focus of someone who knew exactly how to dismantle him. He’d spent his life playing the role of Hawkin’s “Freak". Al, the dead beat Munson’s boy. The guy everyone looked down on. But right here, in the narrow gap between two pilot seats, he felt like a king. 

As she increased the pace, her hand guiding him with a firm, steady grip, Eddie’s vision blurred. The white lines of the highway ahead became long, glowing streaks of light. The world was narrowing down to a single point of white-hot sensation until an aggressive blare of a horn shattered the spell. The left tires hugging the yellow line as an oncoming sedan flashed its high beams in warning. The sudden jolt of adrenaline was a cold bucket of water. Eddie yanked the wheel back to the right, his heart leaping into his throat for an entirely different reason. She pulled back just an inch as she looked up at him with a look of unbothered mischief.

"I said eyes on the road, Munson," she murmured before she leaned back in with a renewed, predatory vigor.

"I can't–I'm gonna–" Eddie’s words came out jumbled. The combination of near-death on the asphalt and the expert movements happening in his lap was too much. He couldn't keep the van between the lines and keep his soul from leaving his body at the same time. With a shaky hand, he flicked the indicator and guided the GMC onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching loudly as they came to a rolling stop. He threw the van into park, the engine idling. He reached down, his fingers lacing into the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't pull, but he held her there, his knuckles brushing the soft skin behind her ear. "Is this... you're okay? I'm not..." he trailed off, his voice thick and uncertain. He wanted this more than his next breath, but the gentleman buried under the denim and chains needed to hear it. She didn't speak. She just looked up at him, her eyes wide in the dim light of the cabin, and gave a firm, decisive nod.

That was all the permission he needed.

Eddie let out a sound as he finally let go of the restraint. He guided her back down, his hand steadying her as he pushed deeper, the raw reality of her throat closing around him far more intense than any fantasy. He bucked upward, his hips moving. She let out a muffled, involuntary gag as he hit the back of her throat, her eyes watering but never leaving his. The vulnerability of it, the sheer trust of her letting him do this, sent him over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers tightening in her hair as he finally came. His body racked with a series of long, shuddering tremors that felt like they were shaking the very frame of the van.

Eddie sat there for a minute, his head lolling back against the headrest while his chest heaved in uneven bursts. The world was slowly reassembling itself. The smell of the old upholstery, the distant hum of the idling engine, and the fading wail of a guitar solo on the stereo. He felt heavy, light, and completely hollowed out all at once. Eventually, he forced his eyes open, looking down at her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking remarkably composed given she’d just dismantled him.

“Holy… sweet mother of Mary,” he managed to croak out. Panic suddenly flared in his brain. He began to dig frantically through the center console, his rings clattering against loose change and old guitar picks. “Gum. I have gum. Somewhere. I know I have a pack in here for emergencies.” He finally unearthed a crumpled yellow pack and held it out to her with a hand that was still visibly trembling. “In case you, uh… want to get the taste of the Hawkins freak out of your mouth.”

She let out a soft, throaty laugh that made his stomach flip, taking a piece and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks, Munson. You’re a real peach.”

She moved, sliding back into the passenger seat and pulling her fur coat back up over her shoulders. Eddie stayed where he was, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, trying to convince his legs that they still knew how to operate pedals. After a few steadying breaths, he reached across the console. He simply took her hand, his thumb tracing the silver ring of his she was still wearing. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “That was amazing,” he whispered, his eyes dark and sincere as he looked at her. “Truly. But you’ve officially ruined this van for me, Bedford.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Ruined it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie grinned. “Because now, every single time I’m behind this wheel, even if I’m just driving Gareth to practice or going to get cigarettes, I am going to be vividly imagining road head.”

She watched him, her head tilted against the headrest, with a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She looked utterly unbothered, almost serene in the dim amber glow of the dashboard. But as the silence stretched, the manic grin on Eddie’s face began to falter. A flicker of something else crossed his features. He looked down at his lap, then back at her, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically quiet and heavy.

"What?" she asked, her voice dropping the sultry edge for something more curious. She reached out, her finger tracing the line of his jaw. "What’s that look for?

Eddie let out a long, slow breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "I just..." He paused, "I feel like a bit of a prick, honestly. I’m sitting here making jokes about road head and my van being ruined, and you just... you did that. For me." He looked at her then, his big, dark eyes wide. "And as much as I loved every agonizing second of it, it feels a little one-sided for my taste. I don’t want to be the guy who just... takes."

He shifted the van back into drive, but he didn't let up on the break yet. He leaned over the console. "I’d really like to get back to your place, Bedford," he whispered. "Because I’d very much like the chance to show you exactly how thankful I am.”

She didn't say a word, but the way her breath hitched and her pupils dilated told him all he needed to know. "Well then, Munson," she murmured, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. "I suggest you stop talking and start driving.

The twenty-minute crawl toward Bedford was the most exquisite form of torture Eddie had ever endured. The adrenaline from the roadside stop was still humming in his veins, but it had shifted. He couldn't just sit there with his hands at ten and two. Not after that. Tentatively, his hand migrated across the console, his palm finding the smooth, exposed skin of her thigh where the dress had ridden up. The warmth of her was startling. He let his fingers trail upward, tracing the soft curve of her leg with a slow deliberation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he kept a constant, flickering watch on her. He was terrified of overplaying his hand, and assuming that he had a permanent green light. But every time he looked over, she was leaning back against the seat, her head tilted toward him with an expression that was nothing short of encouraging. “Left at the next light, Munson,” she murmured, her voice like velvet.

As he turned the wheel, his hand moved a fraction higher, his thumb grazing the very edge of her hem. The absolute frustration of being strapped into a vibrating metal box while the person he wanted to dismantle was sitting inches away becoming almost unbearable. Yet, the frustration of the drive was being rapidly eclipsed by a spike of anxiety that began to twist in his gut. It was one thing to act the part of the confident lead guitarist, but the reality of a stationary bed and four quiet walls was starting to loom like a boss battle he hadn't leveled up for. Eddie’s mind was suddenly sprinting through every worst-case scenario. He was acutely aware of every flaw. The way his ribs poked out a bit too much, the spastic energy he couldn't always turn off, the fact that his experience was limited to grainy magazines and his own vivid imagination.

"You're awfully quiet over there, Munson," she said, her voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts.

Eddie swallowed hard, his throat feeling tight. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to admit that his heart was currently trying to exit his ribcage. But he also didn't want to break the spell. He wanted to be the man she asked for in that song. He squeezed her thigh, and forced a breath out through his nose. "Just concentrating on the road," he lied. “Gotta make sure the Princess gets back to her tower in one piece.” 

Sensing the sudden, tight tension in his frame, she reached down and laced her fingers through his, her palm pressing firmly against the back of his hand. Eddie almost groaned aloud when the contact made it undeniable. His fingers were shaking. She didn't pull away or laugh. Instead, she leaned over the center console, her shoulder pressing into his arm. "There is absolutely nothing to be nervous about, Eddie," she murmured.

"I beg to differ," he countered, his voice cracking just enough to make him wince. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of the highway, but his grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. "You’ve already proven, quite wonderfully, I might add, that you’re a goddamn expert in this arena. Meanwhile, I’m feeling like I’m flying a plane in the middle of a storm with no radar and a manual written in a language I don't speak. I don't want to be a disappointment, Bedford."

She squeezed his hand, her thumb tracing the silver rings on his fingers. "Look at me," she commanded softly. He flicked his gaze toward her for a split second before returning it to the road, but the heat in her eyes was enough to make his head swim. "Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered instantly, and he realized with a start that he meant it. It wasn't just about the prospect of sex. It was about the way she looked at him. The way she heard the music in his head, and the way she didn't flinch at him the way everyone else did. "And are you willing to listen to me?"

"Of course," he rasped. "I'm a very attentive student. Well, if you don't count the super-senior thing."

A small, genuine smile touched her lips, and she leaned in closer until her breath was hot against his ear. "Then you have nothing to worry about." The knots in his stomach didn't disappear, but they loosened just enough for him to breathe again. He squeezed her hand back. “Right here,” she whispered, pointing toward a narrow lane lined with overgrown maples.

Eddie turned the wheel, the tires crunching onto a gravel driveway that tucked back away from the street. He put the van in park, the engine giving one final, shuddering rattle before falling silent. He took a moment to just look at the place. It wasn't the sprawling, pristine estate he might have expected for a girl who looked like she belonged on a velvet-lined stage. It was a simple, small historic house. The kind with deep eaves and white siding that had grayed over decades of Indiana winters. A bit decrepit around the edges. A loose shingle here, a slightly sagging porch step there, but it had a soul. A single lamp cast a warm, buttery glow through the living room curtains, and the porch light flickered behind a frosted glass shade, welcoming them into the quiet. It felt lived-in. It felt safe. It felt like the kind of place where the rest of the world couldn't find them.

"Home sweet home," she said softly.

Eddie hopped out of the driver's side, moving with a quietness that was unusual for him. He met her at the side of the van, his sneakers barely making a sound on the gravel as he swung the heavy sliding door open. He reached in and grabbed the Gibson case, handling the instrument with care. She led the way up the front steps, her fur coat swaying under the porch light. Eddie followed a step behind, his eyes fixed on the way she moved.

She fished her keys out of her coat pocket. She turned the lock and pushed the door open, and Eddie stepped over the threshold. He didn't say a word, he just followed her into the warmth of the house, the scent of old wood and dried lavender wrapping around him as the door clicked shut behind them. She lingered by the door for a moment, the heavy fur of her coat slipping slightly as she turned to face him. "Can I... get you anything?" she asked, her voice sounding different now. "I’ve got tea, or I think there’s some wine left in the kitchen."

Eddie paused, his throat still feeling like he’d swallowed a handful of dry Indiana dust. "Water would be a godsend, actually," he rasped, offering a small, tired smile.

She nodded toward the back of the house. "Kitchen’s through here."

Eddie moved into the living room, moving gingerly as if he might break the stillness. He found a spot for the guitar case near an old, velvet-backed armchair. When he straightened up, he noticed her still standing near the entryway. She was shifting her weight, her fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on her dress’s hemline. "I... sorry," she said, her eyes scanning the room as if seeing it through a stranger’s eyes for the first time. "I realized as we were walking up that I don't really bring people around here. Like, ever. And it’s... it’s a bit of a mess. My aunt isn't exactly a decorator, and the floorboards creak if you breathe on them too hard."

Eddie let out a short, genuine scoff, his head shaking as he looked around the cozy, slightly cluttered space. He took in the stacks of books, the mismatched rugs, and the faint scent of old paper. "Bedford, look at me," he said, stepping back into her space. He gestured vaguely toward the worn denim, the rings, the messy hair that had been through the wringer tonight. "I live in a double-wide trailer with my Uncle. The decor consists of empty beer cans, an aggressive amount of mugs and trucker hats and my half-finished D&D maps. There are layers of dust that are probably older than I am. Clean is a concept I only understand in theory." He took another step closer, his voice dropping. "This place? It’s got a soul. It’s nice. Really."

She looked up at him, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to dissolve. "Okay," she breathed, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Water. Right. I'll be back in a second."

Eddie watched her disappear into the kitchen, the floorboards indeed giving a friendly, familiar groan under her boots. He stood in the center of the living room, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and realized that there was a possibility that she was just as nervous as he was. Only that she’d been better at hiding it up till this point. 

He had spent the entire week viewing her as this untouchable, mythic entity. A siren who had stepped out of a folk song and landed in his passenger seat. He’d been so preoccupied with his own shaking hands and the fear of being "just a freak" that he hadn’t considered the quiet weight she was carrying. Seeing her stand there, apologizing for the creak of a floorboard or a stack of unread mail, humanized her in a way that made his chest ache.

He scanned the room again, really looking this time. There were stacks of film theory books on the coffee table next to a bowl filled with take out menus. A stray guitar pick sat on the mantel next to a framed, grainy photo of an older woman laughing in a garden. This was the place where she didn't have to be the girl with the Gibson. She was just a girl living in a town that probably didn't understand her any more than Hawkins understood him.

He heard the tap run in the kitchen, the plumbing letting out a distant rattle. He pulled his hands from his pockets and started to pace the small area of the rug. When she stepped back into the living room, she was holding two mismatched glasses of water. She’d shed the fur coat and in the soft light of the single lamp, she looked smaller. She walked over and handed him a glass, her fingers brushing his, and Eddie noticed that her own hand wasn't as steady as it had been on the highway. "Here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie took a long sip, the water soothing his parched throat, but his eyes never left hers. He set the glass down on a ceramic coaster and reached out, gently catching her wrist. "Hey," he said, "You don't have to put on a show for me here. The Blues Siren routine is great, don't get me wrong but I’m pretty fond of the girl who lives in the creaky house, too."

She didn’t look away this time, but her eyes seemed to fix on a point just past his shoulder. "I'm just..." she started, her voice sounding raw. "I'm not used to people actually seeing me. Not the performance, not the girl on stage with the Gibson. Just... this. And liking it."

She leaned her hip against the back of the armchair, her fingers tracing the worn velvet. "I was a total pariah in high school, Eddie. I wasn't the cool, mysterious girl back then. I was the girl people avoided because I was 'weird' or 'too much.' I never really had friends growing up. The two or three people who tolerated me packed up and left the second they got their diplomas, and I can't say I blame them."

She let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "When I got to college, I realized I could just... reinvent. I could fake the confidence. I could be this person because nobody there knew every cringey, desperate thing I did as a teenager just to keep people from messing with me. I built a character so I wouldn't have to be the girl who ate lunch in the library anymore."

"Hey," he said, his voice soft but firm as he reached out, taking both of her hands in his. He squeezed them, forcing her to feel the callouses of his palms. "Look at me. " He waited until her eyes locked onto his. "You think I don't get that? I’m the guy who stood on a cafeteria table and made a speech about being non conformists just last week. I’m a guy who wears all this like it's a suit of armor because if I don't look like I’m dangerous, they’ll realize I’m just a guy who likes to play pretend in a dusty room with my dorky friends. Everything I do is all just a way to survive high school without losing my goddamn mind."

He took a step closer, closing the gap until the warmth of her breath was ghosting over his lips.

"I would never judge you for that. Not in a million years. Especially not for the stuff you do to get by, because I’m doing the exact same dance. If you want to be the confident chick out there, that’s fine. I’ll be your biggest fan. But in here?" He leaned down, his forehead resting gently against hers. "You don't have to fake a single thing."

The tension in her hands finally snapped, and she leaned into him, her face hiding in the crook of his neck. Eddie wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of her heart finally start to sync up with his.  Eddie pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands resting on her shoulders. He felt a protectiveness that overrode his own hormones. He might have been dying for the chance to finally cross that finish line, but the guy who looked out for the lost sheep of the Hellfire Club wasn't about to let her feel like she had to perform for him just to keep him interested.

"Hey," he whispered, his thumbs tracing the line of her collarbone. "You know we don't have to do... anything, right? The highway stuff was incredible, and I am definitely a fan of your work, but we can just hang out. We can put on a movie, or just sit here and talk. I’ve actually got some pretty decent weed back in the van if you’d rather just get high and forget the world exists for a few hours."

She pulled back, her eyes searching his face with a flicker of skepticism. Her brow arched as she studied his sincerity. "Are you telling me, Eddie Munson, that after everything I just did in that van, you’re offering to go back out into the cold for a bag of weed and a movie?"

Eddie let out a self-deprecating laugh, his ears turning a faint pink. "I’m saying I like you. And I don't want you to feel like you’re on a stage in your own living room. If you’re tired, or if you’re just in your head too much right now, I’m good. I’m content just being in the same zip code as you."

She looked at him for a long beat. Then, the skepticism melted. She leaned closer, closing the small gap, and the vulnerability in her gaze shifted into heat that made his breath catch. "I appreciate the offer, Eddie," she said, her voice dropping back into that bluesy rasp that always made his knees feel like they were made of water. She reached out, her fingers hooking into the collar of his leather jacket and pulling him down until their noses brushed. "I really do. But..." She gained confidence with every syllable, her smirk returning. "I don't want to get high and I definitely don't want to watch a movie," she murmured, her eyes dropping to his mouth before locking back onto his. "I want to get you into my bedroom, where I want to take those ridiculous chains off you.”

He managed to find his smirk again, though it was a little lopsided and breathless. He stepped back, giving her a theatrical, sweeping bow that sent his hair cascading over his shoulders and his silver chains rattling as if to punctuate her sentiment at how ridiculous they were. "Well, in that case," he said, his voice dropping into a playful, faux-chivalrous rumble, "lead the way, milady."

She let out a genuine laugh that echoed through the quiet house. The sound finally chasing away the last of the awkwardness. She reached out, swiping a lock of hair from his face as she stepped past him, her hand trailing along the wall as she headed toward the narrow hallway. "Follow the creaking floorboards, Munson," she tossed back over her shoulder, her hips swaying under the silk of her dress.

Eddie straightened up, and as he started to follow her, he caught the faint, amused whisper she breathed into the dark hallway. "Dork." A ridiculous grin broke across Eddie’s face. He didn't even mind. In fact, coming from her, it sounded like the highest compliment he’d ever received. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them before he truly had time to process it. Eddie stood for a moment, his back against the wood, just taking it in. If the living room was a sanctuary, this was the inner sanctum. It was a chaotic, beautiful explosion of everything she was when the world wasn't looking.

High on the walls, old black-and-white movie posters were tacked up next to charcoal sketches that looked fresh, the edges of the paper still smudged. An easel stood in the corner, a half-finished canvas draped in a thin cloth, surrounded by a minefield of paint tubes and jars of murky water. One entire wall was dominated by a music system that looked like it cost more than his van, flanked by a library of vinyl and cassettes that made his own collection look like a starter kit. And there, glowing under the soft light of a beaded lamp, was a rack holding three guitars. A Fender, a battered acoustic, and a sleek black Gretsch that looked like it could kill a man.

"Damn, Bedford," he whispered, his eyes wide. "You’ve got a whole ecosystem in here."  Eddie didn't wait for an invitation this time. He stepped into her space and slid his hands around her waist. He pulled her flush against him looking down at her. "You're incredible," he murmured. He leaned down, and when their lips met, the kiss was different. It wasn't the desperate clash they’d shared in the van. 

As the kiss deepened, Eddie’s mind started to betray him.

He was a guitarist. His hands were his livelihood. He knew how to bend a string until it wailed. But as he held her, a sudden, paralyzing wave of uncertainty washed over him. He realized with a jolt that his hands were currently the most important tools in the room, and he had absolutely no blueprint for how to use them. Sure, they’d made out. He knew the basic geometry of a girl’s waist and the way the back of her neck felt. But this was different. This was the moment where "making out" turned into "making love," and the technicality of it all started to feel like an exam he hadn't studied for.

Where was he supposed to start? Should he reach for the zipper of her dress, or would that be too aggressive? Was he supposed to keep his hands on her waist, or would it be better to cup the side of her cheek? He was acutely aware of his rings and he worried about them being too cold against her skin or catching on the delicate silk of her dress. He felt like his hands were suddenly twice their normal size, clumsy and uncoordinated.

He wanted to touch her everywhere. To trace the line of her spine. To feel the heat of her shoulders. To learn the geography of her body with the same precision he used on a fretboard. But he was terrified of the silence that would follow a wrong move. His thoughts all swimming. Don't squeeze too hard. Don't be too light; she’ll think you’re scared. Wait, are you supposed to move your thumbs like that? Should you be taking your own shirt off first?

She felt the way his hands went rigid, she broke the kiss, pulling back just a few inches to look him in the eye. "You’re still in your head, Munson," she whispered. "You’re nervous."

Eddie let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. "No shit," he rasped.

She laughed and gave his chest a playful shove. "Go to the turntable. Pick an album. Any album. Put it on and let it do the work for a minute."

Eddie sighed, but he didn't argue. He welcomed the task. He needed a moment to ground himself, in something he understood. He walked over to the stack of vinyl, his fingers skimming the spines until he found a worn, yellowing cover. Ray Charles. Hallelujah I Love Her So. It felt right: soulful, steady, and a little bit gritty. He slid the record out, placed it on the platter, and carefully lowered the needle. The crackle of the static was a comfort before the upbeat, soulful piano of "Ain't That Love" began to bounce through the speakers.

When he turned back, the room felt different. She was already on the bed, her back propped against a headboard that, upon closer inspection, was just a series of old wooden crates turned on their sides and bolted together. The bed itself was barely a foot off the floor. Just a mattress thrown over a makeshift platform of old shipping pallets. It was DIY, a little rough around the edges, and perfect.

She had already lit a cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling in the lamplight. Eddie walked over and lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, the pallet frame creaking. Without a word, he reached out, and she handed him the cigarette. He took a long, slow drag, letting the nicotine steady his nerves. He noticed her boots were already discarded on the rug. Feeling the need to catch up, Eddie leaned over and began to unlace his own sneakers. He kicked them off with a thud, but as he pulled his feet up onto the mattress, he felt a sudden flush of heat creep up his neck. Right there was a decent-sized hole in his black sock, his big toe peeking through like a stray stowaway. "God," he muttered, staring at the hole. "The King of the Freaks, ladies and gentlemen. I'm taking you to bed with a hole in my sock. Truly, I am the height of sophistication."

She let out an unladylike snort. "Oh, knock it off with the self-deprecation routine, Munson," she said, rolling her eyes as she leaned forward. The movement brought her dangerously close, the scent of her perfume overwhelming his senses. She reached out, her fingers ghosting over the frayed edge of the hole in his sock before she leaned in to whisper against the shell of his ear, her voice a seductive purr. "The socks stay on. It’s a very specific kink of mine."

Eddie barked out a laugh, the sound genuine and loud enough to startle himself. The sheer absurdity of it broke the last of the glass walls in his mind. He looked at her and the nervousness that had been a tight, cold knot in his gut began to unfurl. He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight on the low mattress, moving closer until their knees were locked together. He didn't hand the cigarette back. He held it up, his hand steadying as he brought the filter to her lips. He kept his eyes locked onto hers, an intense, unwavering stare that challenged her to look away first. The room felt like it was shrinking, the upbeat rhythm of Ray Charles’s piano fading into the background as the space between them became charged. His thumb brushed the corner of her lower lip as he held the cigarette steady. There was a gravity in his gaze now, a silent communication that the dork was stepping aside for a moment to let the man who had been wanting this all week take the lead.

She didn't blink. She met his stare with an intensity of her own, her eyes tracking the slight movement of his hand before she leaned in. She took a slow, deep drag of the cigarette while his fingers remained touching her mouth, the cherry of the tobacco glowing bright between them. As she exhaled, the cloud ghosting over his lips, Eddie didn't move an inch. He just waited, his heart hammering a heavy beat against his ribs, finally ready to see exactly where this was going to lead him.

She reached out and took the cigarette from his fingers, her eyes never breaking the connection as she leaned over to crush it out in an ashtray resting precariously atop a stack of heavy hardbacks. When she turned back, she didn't settle back against the crates. Instead, she rose onto her knees, the mattress dipping and the wooden pallets beneath giving a groan under her weight.

She reached for the lapels of his leather vest. "Can I take this off?" she whispered, her voice soft. Eddie nodded, his throat too tight to offer a witty retort. He worked his arms out of the heavy leather, helping her slide it off his shoulders until it slumped onto the floorboards. Without the vest, he felt suddenly exposed, his white t-shirt clinging to him in a way that felt like it was broadcasting every boney shape of his torso.

She didn't move toward his shirt yet. Instead, her hands found his forearms. Her touch was light, almost feather-like, as her fingertips traced the ink of the puppet master leading toward his elbows, until he turned his arm around and her callouses landed on his bats. She followed the lines of the wings with a slow reverence that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. "Do you have any others?" she murmured, her thumb pressing into the soft skin of his inner wrist.

"Yeah," Eddie rasped. "A few."

"Can I see them?" 

He nodded again. His hands reached for the hem of his shirt, and for a second, they stalled. He didn't say he was nervous, but the fabric of his shirt bunched and trembled in his grip. He pulled the shirt up and over his head, the cotton catching briefly on his messy curls before he tossed it aside. The air in the room hit his bare skin, and he felt an involuntary shiver ripple across his shoulders. He didn't look at her immediately. Instead, he looked down at his own lap, his chest rising and falling in shallow, visible hitches. He stayed very still, his elbows tucked slightly inward as if trying to take up less space, his fingers curling and uncurling against his denim-clad thighs. He felt every inch of himself on display. The pale stretch of his torso, the dark ink of the demon on his chest, the way his ribs flared with every breath. He was waiting for the verdict, his entire frame humming with a tension so tight it felt like a guitar string tuned three steps too high, vibrating on the verge of snapping.

She didn't move away. If anything, she drifted closer, the mattress dipping further as she moved her weight to accommodate the new, bare reality of him. Her hands remained steady as they migrated from his wrists up the lean, pale expanse of his arms. When her fingertips finally reached the ink, she traced. Her touch was agonizingly slow. A gentle exploration that turned his skin into a sensory minefield. She lingered especially long on the spider perched near his collarbone, her index finger following the spindly, arched legs of the arachnid where they led into the hollow of his throat. Eddie felt his swallow catch halfway down, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath her touch. He was acutely aware of how small her hand looked against his chest, and how loudly his heart was thumping against his ribs.

She let out a low hum that seemed to resonate in the small space between them. "Very metal, Munson," she murmured, a trace of a smile ghosting her lips as she admired the dark artwork. Her hand slid around to the side of his bicep, her eyes scanning the collection of symbols and creatures he’d gathered like a visual diary of his own rebellion. "So, tell me," she whispered, her breath warm against the skin of his shoulder. "Which one is your favorite?"

Eddie took a shaky breath, the air whistling through his teeth as he tried to regain his composure. He shifted his weight, rotating his right arm slightly so the back of it faced her. "This one," he said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin toward his triceps. Under the amber lamplight, the ink was visible. A sharp-winged, serpentine dragon coiling around the faint, almost non-existent muscle of his arm. Its jaw frozen in a silent, defiant roar. It was older than the others, the lines a bit softer but the detail still fierce.

"The wyvern," he explained, his voice gaining a sliver of that old storytelling gravity. "Most people think it’s just a dragon, but it’s different. Two legs instead of four. It’s a bit of an underdog in the monster manual. It’s got to be faster, meaner, and more resourceful just to survive." He paused, his eyes flickering up to hers for a brief second. "I always felt a bit of a kinship with the lesser monsters. They usually have better stories."

She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her nose almost brushing the ink of the wyvern’s wing as she studied it with a focus that made Eddie’s entire arm feel like it was on fire. "The underdog monster," she repeated softly.  Eddie’s gaze flickered away, his neck flushing a deeper shade of red. He couldn’t maintain that level of eye contact. Not while he was sitting shirtless on a pallet bed, feeling like she was reading the fine print of his soul via the ink on his skin. It was exposure of the highest order. The good kind that made your skin tingle and your stomach drop.

His eyes landed on the charcoal sketches tacked to the wall near the easel. Her talent was undeniable. The lines were aggressive but precise, capturing shadows with accuracy. "I didn't realize you were... god, I didn't realize you were this incredible at art," he said, his voice regaining some of its volume as he focused on a sketch of a detailed spindly tree. He let out a breathless chuckle. "I mean, I probably should've guessed, right? You're literally in school to be an artist. It’s kind of in the job description."

She shrugged, her hand dropping from his arm as she leaned back slightly, her expression shifting into something uncharacteristically modest. "I’m decent. It’s mostly just a way to get the noise out of my head."

Eddie shook his head emphatically, his wild curls bouncing. "No, Bedford. You're better than decent. You’re 'enlist-you-to-design-my-next-campaign-map' good. Or better yet..." He looked back at her, a spark of genuine excitement momentarily overriding his nerves. "I’d kill to have you design my next tattoo."

She scoffed, a quick sound of dismissal as she shook her head. "No way. I am not letting you put my doodles on your body permanently, Munson."

Eddie blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Why not? I like them."

"Because they aren’t good enough," she said, her voice dropping. "It’s just sketches, Eddie. Tattoos are... they're forever. You deserve better than some amateur student's charcoal practice."

Eddie didn't even hesitate. He gestured down to the large, snarling demon head sitting right in the center of his sternum, the lines a bit shaky and the shading somewhat muddy. "Bedford, look at this guy," he said with a lopsided grin, tapping the ink over his heart. "The art here isn't exactly immaculate. The guy who did it was working out of a kitchen in a trailer park and he might have been seeing double by the time he got to the smile. It's there permanently. And I love it anyway, you know? But what you do? That’s a hell of a lot better than half the shit already on this pasty white ass of mine."

Her eyes searched his face as if she were trying to see the version of her art that he saw. "I’ll think about it," she murmured, though the stubborn set of her jaw had softened. "But if I draw it, it’s going to be something that actually lives up to the rest of this canvas."

The conversation about ink and art had acted like a brief bridge over a chasm, but now the bridge was falling away, leaving them right back on the edge of the mattress. The weight of the room shifted. The playful debate ended, and in its place, a thick, pressurized tension settled over them. She didn't move her hand away this time. Instead, she let her fingers wander back to his chest, tracing the outline of the demon on his skin before drifting lower, mapping the lean ridges of his stomach. Her touch was slower now, more deliberate, and her gaze followed the path of her hand with a focus that made Eddie feel like he was being memorized.

"You know," she whispered. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting against the shell of his ear, her breath hitching just slightly. "Under all that leather and the hair... you sure are pretty, Eddie."

Eddie felt his stomach do a slow, dizzying roll as her fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans. He was still vibrating, and feeling like he was one wrong move away from short-circuiting, but when he looked at her, he saw a girl who was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. He reached up, his hand trembling only slightly now as he cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't say anything, and honestly he couldn't have found the words if he'd tried, but the way he pulled her back into a kiss was his answer. It was desperate, heavy, and carried the weight of a week's worth of wanting, finally boiling over in the quiet of the room.

The heavy, electric air of the room seemed to thicken as she pulled back just enough to create a sliver of space between them. The Ray Charles track had transitioned into a slower, more rhythmic groove, the brass section humming steady in the background. She reached behind her back, her shoulder blades moving beneath the fabric as she fumbled with the small zipper at the top of her dress.

Eddie watched her, his hands still hovering in the air where her neck had been just seconds before. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown out until the dark irises were almost indistinguishable. He didn't move until he saw her fingers slip against the metal, a frustrated little huff escaping her lips. He simply tilted his head, a silent, wide-eyed question written across his face: Do you want me to do it?

She met his gaze and gave a single nod. She turned her back to him, the movement shifting the mattress. Eddie took a breath that felt like it had to travel through a mile of lead to reach his lungs. He reached out, his fingers feeling immense and clumsy as he approached the delicate task. As his knuckles grazed her, he felt the heat radiating off her. He found the tiny metal tab and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He was so agonizingly slow. As the fabric began to part, revealing the graceful line of her spine, Eddie’s pulse spiked so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He followed the path of the zipper all the way down to the small of her back, his hand shaking with a tremor he could no longer suppress.

He didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his hand hovering just an inch from where the dress had loosened. As she reached up, she hooked her thumbs under the delicate silk straps and eased them over the curve of her shoulders. The dress surrendered, sliding down her frame in a rustle until it pooled around her hips on the low mattress.

Eddie’s brain, usually hyperactive, stalled into a total whiteout. He had spent years imagining moments like this. Moments fueled by late-night magazines but none of it had prepared him for the quiet reality of a woman in front of him. He realized then, that there was no lace or wire to be found. She had been wearing nothing but the dress and a thin-strapped pair of panties, leaving her almost entirely bare to the soft light of the room. When she turned back around to face him, the shift in her weight caused the pallet bed to groan softly.

His eyes tracked upward. He viewed the front of her, his gaze lingering on the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He felt the ache of inadequacy. He was so aware of his own frame. The lanky, pale limbs, the dark ink, the tremors he couldn't hide, meanwhile he looked like something carved from marble and moonlight.  His hands, still resting near his knees, twitched. He felt a bead of sweat trek down the back of his neck, the air in the room suddenly feeling five degrees hotter. He wanted to say something but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth.

She didn't look away, and she didn't try to cover herself. She sat there on her knees, her shoulders back, watching the way his eyes moved over her with a quiet, patient confidence. Sensing his paralysis, she reached out and took his hands and guided them back to her waist. Even as his fingers made contact with the soft curve of her hips, Eddie couldn’t keep his gaze steady. His eyes began to dart, frantic and wide, scanning the room as if looking for an exit. He looked at the Ray Charles record spinning on the turntable, at the charcoal sketches on the wall, at the hole in his left sock. Anywhere but the overwhelming reality of the bare woman sitting inches from him. 

"Eddie," she murmured in the storm of his panic.

Before he could find his voice to offer a shaky apology she rose onto her feet for a fleeting second, just enough to step over his legs. In that brief transition, the silk dress, no longer held up by the curve of her waist from where she sat, surrendered completely. It slid down her frame as it hit the floorboards.

Then, she climbed onto his lap. The mattress dipped sharply under the added weight. She straddled him, her knees tucking into the space beside his hips, her weight settling firmly against his thighs. He froze, his head snapping up as he was forced to look at her. She was right there, her breath ghosting over his lips, her heat radiating into his chest. He could see the slight tremor in her own shoulders now, a mirror of his own nerves that she had finally stopped trying to hide. He felt small and large all at once, a chaotic mess of ink and nerves held together by the sheer gravity of her presence.

She reached up, her fingers sliding into the wild, tangled mess of his hair, cupping the back of his head to steady him. She didn't push, just held him there, in the center of the world they had built on a shitty pallet bed in a creaky house. "Breath, Munson," she whispered, her forehead leaning against his.

He reached up, his hands still trembling slightly, and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in a way that grainy magazines and his own imagination had never quite managed to convey. A soft, breathless "oh" escaped him, his eyes widening as the reality of her superseded every fantasy he’d ever had.

She looked down at him, a flicker of concern softening her gaze. "Is something wrong? Do you not...?"

"No," Eddie rasped. "No, nothing is wrong. It's just... I’ve never actually felt bare tits before. I didn't realize they’d be this soft. Or this nice. It’s like... god, it's incredible."

The honesty of it seemed to ground them both. Emboldened by her proximity, his thumbs began to move of their own accord, tracing the peaked circles of her nipples. He wasn't even thinking about it. It was an instinctual, tactile curiosity, like a musician finding the right tension on a string.

Her eyes fluttered shut instantly, her head falling back as a long, shaky sigh escaped her lips. Eddie froze, his thumbs going still. "Are you okay? Did I... was that too much?"

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, her eyes remaining closed as she leaned into his touch. "No, Eddie. It’s fine. It just... it felt really good."

Eddie stayed very still. He looked down at his hands, watching the way his calloused, ring-adorned thumbs were pressed against her. Tits had always been a visual concept to him. He hadn't considered the intricacies of the anatomy or the fact that something so small could be so easily stimulated. He hadn't realized that the texture could change under his touch, or that a simple, unconscious movement of his thumb could elicit a sound like that from her. He moved his thumbs again, more deliberately this time, watching the way her breath hitched in response.

He remembered Tuesday. He remembered the cramped interior of the War Wagon, the smell of gasoline and rain, and the way she had come alive when he’d buried his face in the crook of her neck. He remembered how her hands had gripped his hair, and how her hips had found a frantic, punishing rhythm against his denim-clad thigh the moment his lips hit that one sensitive spot.

With a spike of confidence, Eddie leaned forward, letting his head drop. He pressed his mouth into the hollow of her throat, his lips finding the jump of her pulse point. He tasted the faint salt of her skin and the lingering vanilla of her perfume, and he felt a low, vibrating growl start in the back of his own chest. The reaction was instantaneous and even more violent than it had been in the van. A ragged, choked-off sound escaped her as she arched her back, her fingers clenching into the tangled curls at the nape of his neck with enough force to make him wince even if he didn’t mind the pain. The shift in her body was tectonic as she began to grind against his lap. The contact was devastating. Every time his lips moved against her skin, every time his teeth grazed the column of her throat, she responded with a renewed, desperate pressure, her breath coming in short, staccato gasps that synced perfectly with the beat of the Ray Charles record.

She reached down between them, her fingers fumbling with the heavy silver buckle of his belt. Her knuckles grazed the skin just above his waistband, and the contact made Eddie’s vision swim for a second. She wasn't being delicate anymore. There was a hungry energy in the way she worked the leather through the loops, her breath coming in hot, uneven puffs against his shoulder.

Eddie didn’t need a second invitation. "I've got it," his voice a distorted rumble.

He shifted his weight, bracing one hand against the rough wood of the pallet frame to steady them both as he helped her. He made quick work of the button and then he was reaching down to shove the denim toward his knees. He kicked his legs out, the heavy fabric and his leather belt pooling on the floorboards. Eddie sat there, stripped down to the absolute bare essentials, feeling the cool draft of the room against his legs.

His mind flashed back to the van ride earlier with the ego-shattering sensation of her mouth on him. It had been amazing, a core memory in the making, but there was a world of difference between a dark backseat and this room. Being exposed like this, with the light catching every awkward angle of his lanky frame and the nervous tremors he still couldn't quite kill, felt like being on stage without a guitar to hide behind. As she moved to climb back onto his lap, her weight shifting the mattress again, his hand drifted to the thin, delicate strap of her underwear. He gave it a playful, nervous snap against her hip.

"Hey," his voice cracked just a hair before he steadied it. He looked up at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "How exactly does a guy go about... returning the favor?"

A flicker of genuine confusion crossed her face. "Returning the favor?"

"Yeah," Eddie said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "You know. Going down. On you. How does a guy do that properly?"

She shrugged, her gaze dropping for a second as she shifted her weight. "I... I'm not really sure, actually."

The admission caught Eddie off guard. The insecure part that lived in the back of his brain, had been trying very hard not to think about her with other guys. He’d assumed, given the sheer confidence she’d shown thus far, that she’d done this a thousand times with guys far more polished than a trailer park metalhead. He figured if she knew how to handle him like that, she must have had plenty of people eager to return the gesture. But looking at her now, seeing that small, uncertain shrug, he realized he might have been wrong. Maybe the Siren didn’t get as much back as she gave. Maybe nobody had ever bothered to take the time to learn the map of her.

The thought made a desperate desire to be the one who got it right. He didn't care if he was a novice. "Can I..." he started, his voice barely a whisper, a quiet question lost in the soul music humming from the speakers. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the fabric he’d just snapped. "Can I try? To figure it out?"

She sputtered, a startled, breathless sound that was a far cry from her usual composure. "Eddie, I’ve heard... I’ve heard it’s really not that great. Most guys say it’s a chore, or they don’t do it for a reason. You really don't have to."

Eddie just shrugged, a slow, lopsided tilt of his shoulders that conveyed a stubborn lack of concern for what most guys thought. "I don’t really care what the consensus is. I want to try. I want to know everything about you, remember? That includes the parts people are too lazy to appreciate."

She bit her lip, looking at him with a mix of disbelief and a growing heat. Finally, she gave a small, reluctant nod. "Okay. Fine. Lay back."

Eddie didn't need to be told twice. He eased himself down onto the mattress, his head resting against her mismatched pillows. As he settled, she reached down and slid the final barrier down her legs, discarding it somewhere in the shadows near his clothes. Then, she leaned over him, her hand finding the switch on the beaded lamp. The warm glow vanished, replaced instantly by the cinematic palette of the night. The room now washed in the pale, silver-blue light of the moon and the distant, flickering orange of a streetlamp filtering through the window. It cast long, dramatic shadows across the art supplies and the guitar rack, making the space feel even more like a private world.

Eddie reached up, his large hands finding the backs of her thighs. He felt the soft curve of her as he gently but firmly tugged her forward, guiding her weight until she was hovering directly over his face. As his eyes slowly adapted to the shadows of the room, Eddie felt like he was peering through a lens into a world he had only ever heard described in hushed, exaggerated tones. Up close, the perspective changed everything. 

The reality was far more detailed than any magazine centerfold. Everything was soft and curved, anchored by the patch of groomed hair that felt like just another texture to memorize. The gravity of the moment was too heavy for a punchline. He let out a shaky exhale and gave a slow, experimental swipe of his tongue across her folds. It was a tentative move, a basic chord struck on an unfamiliar instrument just to see how it sounded.

She buckled, her weight dropping slightly as her knees trembled. One of her hands, which had been resting tentatively on his shoulder for balance, suddenly lunged forward. Her fingers tangled deep into the wild, messy curls of his hair, her knuckles pressing hard against his scalp as she gripped a fistful of him. Eddie’s eyes went wide in the dark. He felt her fingers tighten in his hair, a silent, desperate command to keep going. He didn’t pull away. Emboldened by the way she gripped his hair, Eddie leaned back in, his movements losing their tentative edge and gaining a focused intent. He let his tongue linger this time, a long, slow stroke that started low and followed the center line upward.

He experimented with the pressure, moving from a broad, flat sweep to the sharper, more targeted tip of his tongue. He found that if he swirled it in small, concentrated circles against the sensitive peak hidden in the shadows, her breath shattered. Every time she let out an airy gasp, Eddie cataloged it. He noticed that a soft, suctioning pull of his lips combined with a steady, flicking motion was what made her hips start that searching roll again. He was fascinated by the mechanics of it. The way the textures shifted from soft and velvet-like to something slick and responsive under his touch.

His nose brushed against her, and he breathed in the scent of her deeply feeling it settle into his lungs like a heavy fog. He began to use his lips more, grazing the tender skin of her inner thighs before returning to the center, his tongue now moving with a more confident, metronome-like rhythm. Eddie felt her fingers tighten even further in his hair, pulling him closer as if she were afraid he’d disappear if she let go. The sound of his own heavy breathing and the wet slide of his tongue became the only soundtrack in the room, drowning out the faint crackle of the record player. 

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, and her hips began to shake with a fine, uncontrollable tremor that vibrated right through his jaw. She let out a sound that wasn't a gasp or a moan, but something raw and grounded. Her strength simply vanished. Her knees, which had been bracketed so firmly around his face, gave out as she collapsed forward, her weight landing fully across his chest and face. Eddie didn't mind. He melted back into the pillows, his head sinking into the soft fabric as he took the full weight of her. He let his arms wrap around her back, his hands splaying wide against her skin to steady her as she shook against him. The room was silent except for the heavy, desperate sound of her trying to find her air and the low, skipping hiss of the record player needle reaching the end of the groove. He lay there in the moonlight. He was exhausted, his jaw ached, and his hair was a total disaster, but as he felt her thighs twitching against the side of his cheek , her skin damp and warm, a triumphant grin spread across his face. 

She finally stirred, her limbs moving with a slow, clumsiness as she slid off his face. She retreated only a few inches, kneeling beside him on the tangled sheets, her chest still heaving in uneven swells. The moonlight caught the stunned widening of her eyes as she looked down at him, her lips parted but silent, as if the connection between her brain and her voice had been temporarily severed by the sheer force of what had just happened.

Eddie didn’t move for a long moment, content to let the room spin around him while he stared up at the ceiling. Slowly, he turned his head to meet her gaze, his messy curls splayed out against the pillow like a dark halo. "So," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been scraped over gravel. "I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say the general population of men are wrong."

She tried to speak, her throat clicking as she swallowed, but only a faint, airy sound escaped. She looked genuinely shaken, a far cry from the composed girl who had been teasing him about his socks only an hour ago.

Eddie let out a chuckle, his aching jaw stretching into that triumphant, lopsided grin. "Seriously, Bedford. I don’t get it. I don't understand why guys wouldn't want to do that. People talk about it like it’s some kind of chore you have to get through, but that?" He shook his head, his dark eyes glowing in the silver light. "That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of."

She shook her head weakly, her voice finally returning in a hushed, disbelieving whisper. "It’s... it’s messy, Eddie. And it’s not… I don’t know. It feels a bit one sided…"

"One-sided?" Eddie repeated, a spark of genuine amusement dancing in his gaze. He didn't bother with words to argue. Instead, he simply gestured down toward his lap, where the thin fabric of his boxers was stretched taut, the unmistakable, rigid tenting leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Does that look one-sided to you?" he asked, his brow arching in a playful, defiant challenge. "Because from where I’m lying, I’m pretty sure I was getting just as much out of that as you were. Seeing you like that? Hearing those sounds?" He let out a long, shaky exhale, his hand reaching out to trace the line of her knee. "I’d spend every night in this room right between your thighs just to get that reaction out of you again. No contest."

She let out a soft, mortified groan and immediately covered her face with her hands, her fingers splaying wide as if she could physically shield herself from the unvarnished honesty of his gaze. "Hey, none of that," Eddie said. He reached up, his large hands gently encircling her wrists. He didn't use force, just a persuasive tug, prying her hands away from her face until he could see her eyes again. "Don't you dare go covering your pretty face now. Not when I’m trying to tell you how fucking sexy you are."

He leaned up on one elbow, his face inches from hers. "Seriously. Riding my face like you were trying to find a way to take flight? That’s going to be burned into my retinas until the day I die."

She let out a strangled yelp, his name escaping her in a shocked, high-pitched rush of air and immediately surrendered the fight, diving forward to bury her face into the crook of his shoulder. She was warm, her damp skin pressing against his bare chest, and Eddie couldn't help the triumphant rumble of laughter that vibrated through his ribs. He didn't push her for more words. He knew the feeling of being overstimulated and too nervous to speak. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close into the mismatched pillows. He began to draw aimless, drifting patterns on the skin of her back. His fingers traced the line of her spine, circling the small of her back before wandering up to the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades.

He watched the way her breathing gradually slowed. She began to melt into his frame, her limbs losing their defensive tension and draping over him with a comfortable familiarity. The room was quiet, save for the insistent, click-hiss of the turntable needle. Eddie shifted slightly, his lips grazing the shell of her ear as he leaned in. "As much as I love this, and believe me, I could stay right here until the sun comes up," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, "I should probably flip the record over. Side B has all the good songs,” 

She looked up from his shoulder, her eyes heavy-lidded and gave a slow nod. Eddie felt the sudden absence of her heat as he slid off the edge of the mattress. His bare feet met the cold floorboards with a soft creak. He reached the turntable and carefully lifted the needle, the rhythmic scratching finally cutting to a blissful silence. He flipped the record to Side B and lowered the needle, and a few seconds later, the first notes of a low, soul-drenched ballad began to bleed into the room, the bass line thick.

While the music swelled, he heard the sound of movement behind him. He turned back to see her reaching into one of the cubby-style compartments built into the headboard. When he reached the edge of the bed, she was sitting up slightly, her hand extended. Between her fingers, catching a glint of the streetlamp's orange glow, was a small, square foil packet. Eddie froze, his hand hovering over hers as the reality of the situation finally caught up with his adrenaline. He took the packet, the plastic crinkling under his thumb, and let out a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, sobering sincerity. He sat on the edge of the mattress, looking down at the condom in his palm. In his rush to get her clothes off and prove he wasn't just a dork with a hole in his sock, the actual logistics of protection had completely slipped his mind. He’d been flying by the seat of his pants, literally and figuratively. He looked back at her. "I’m an idiot. It just dawned on me that I don't have one in the van, let alone in my pocket. And trust me, Uncle Wayne would personally castrate me if I managed to knock someone up before I got my hands on that diploma.”

Eddie took a deep breath as he reached for the elastic waistband of his boxers and tugged them off, the fabric falling to join the graveyard of denim and silk on the floorboards. Standing there completely bare in the moonlight, he felt a momentary return of that vulnerability, but it was quickly overshadowed by the task at hand. He tore the foil packet open with a shaky thumb and forefinger, pulling out the small latex ring. He squinted at it, his brain working overtime to pull a hazy, half-remembered demonstration from a health class filmstrip out of the depths of his memory. He set it against his tip and tried to roll it down, but the rubber snagged, stubborn and unyielding.

"Dammit," he hissed under his breath, a flush creeping up his neck. He didn't let the frustration take hold, though. He flipped the ring over, centered it, and tried again. This time, it glided down his length with a smooth ease. He let out a silent sigh of relief.

He turned back toward the bed, intending to climb back into the spot they’d carved out on top of the sheets, but he paused. In the time he’d been occupied, she had reached back and pulled the covers open. She was lying back against the pillows now, the pale light tracing the curves of her body as she waited for him. Eddie didn't hesitate. He slid into the bed, the cool cotton of the sheets a stark contrast to the heat radiating off her. He moved, bracing his weight on his forearms as he dragged himself over her frame.

The full length of him settling against her, skin to skin, heart to heart. He could feel every breath she took, and the way her thighs parted naturally to welcome his weight made his head light. He hovered there for a second, his nose brushing against hers, his eyes searching her face in the shadows. In the cool, blue-shadowed light, she looked up at him, her hand reaching up to brush a stray, wild curl away from his forehead.

"Eddie?" she asked, her voice a soft, barely-there thread of sound. "Are you okay?"

He took a breath, his chest expanding against hers. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against her own, his eyes closing. "I'm just nervous," he whispered back. "I've been thinking about this for a long time. I don't want to mess up."

She shifted beneath him, her hands sliding down to rest on his shoulder blades. "We don't have to rush it," she murmured. "We have all night. We can just... be here."

Eddie opened his eyes, his dark gaze locking onto hers. "It's okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, certain rumble. "I want to."

He tilted his head and closed the small gap between them, his lips meeting hers in a kiss. This was slow. It was a lingering exploration, his mouth soft and patient. Her tongue began to move against his, a lazy dance. It was a deep, sensory conversation without words, each movement a question and each response a quiet, certain answer. Eddie felt his entire body relax into the mattress, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolving into the warmth of the bed. She let the kiss linger until his heart was thudding a heavy beat against her ribs, and then she slowly pulled away. She didn't go far. Just enough to look at him, her lips damp and parted in the moonlight, her hands tightening their grip on his shoulders as the music outside the covers seemed to fade into the background.

Eddie shifted his weight, bracing himself on one shaky forearm. He reached down between them, his fingers searching for the right alignment, but the angles felt all wrong. He let out a soft, frustrated huff, his brow furrowing as he fumbled. "Dammit," he hissed, his voice a strained, breathy rasp against her collarbone. "I swear... the movies and the magazines always make this part look like a seamless transition. I feel like I'm trying to tune a guitar with boxing gloves on."

She let out a tiny, truncated laugh and reached down to meet him. Her fingers were steady where his were trembling. She guided him. The moment they finally aligned, Eddie let out a long, shaky exhale. He felt the initial, velvet-soft resistance and then the slow, incredible glide as he found exactly what he’d been searching for. He didn't move any further. He just stayed there, poised at the threshold, his eyes fixed on hers. He looked down at her, his pupils so blown out they swallowed the dark irises entirely, leaving only a reflection of the moonlight. He wanted to see her expression.

Slowly, with an agonizingly careful pressure, he pushed in just a tad. Eddie’s breath caught in his throat, his jaw tightening as he felt the sheer, overwhelming heat of the connection. He stayed perfectly still, waiting for her to tell him that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Eddie’s eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, his head dropping back as he choked out "God... it’s so hot," the words sounding like they were being squeezed from his lungs by a heavy weight. "It’s really, really hot."

She looked up at him, her hands moving from his shoulders to cup the sides of his face, her palms cool against his feverish skin. "Do you want to stop?" she whispered, her voice laced with a genuine, quiet concern that nearly broke his focus.

He shook his head immediately. He forced his eyes open, pinning her with a look that was raw and desperately sincere. "No," he rasped, his chest heaving against hers. "No, don't–don't stop. Am I... am I okay to keep going. Are you okay?"

She didn't hesitate, giving him a firm, encouraging nod as she pulled his head down to press a quick, salt-sweet kiss to his forehead. "I'm okay. Go ahead, Eddie." He took a breath that felt like it was made of liquid gold and pushed forward, the movement slow and deliberate as he settled deeper into the heat.

He had spent years hearing guys talk about this. Exaggerated stories told over cheap beer and cigarettes, but none of them had ever mentioned the weight of it. Being inside her for the first time felt like finally stepping inside the music instead of just listening to it from across the room. It was an overwhelming, pressurized warmth that seemed to wrap around not just his body, but his very pulse. He was fascinated by the way his own rhythm was being dictated by the velvet-tight squeeze of her, the way every small shift in his hips sent a corresponding ripple through his entire frame.

It wasn't just "sex". That word felt too small and simple for the reality of the silver light, the soul music, and the way her body was stretching and yielding to accommodate his lanky, awkward self. He felt grounded and untethered all at once. A chaotic mix of ink and bone finally finding its center in the quiet, humid dark of the bed. He watched her face as he realized that no magazine or porno could have ever prepared him for the sheer, staggering intimacy of being this close to another human being.

Eddie had always been a creature of high-energy distractions. Loud music, chaotic campaigns, the constant hum of being the "freak" everyone expected him to be. He had assumed that this would follow that same trajectory. He’d expected a surge of pleasure, a release, and maybe a bit of a boost to the ego he spent so much time pretending was bulletproof.

But this wasn't simple. It wasn't just a physical thing.

It was a total, terrifying dissolution of the boundaries he’d built around himself. Being inside her felt less like a conquest and more like a surrender in some odd way. He felt every hitched breath she took as if it were his own. He felt the way her fingers traced the lines of his shoulders and realized she wasn't just touching his skin. She was touching the parts of him he usually kept hidden behind a denim vest and a wall of jokes.

The intimacy of it was overwhelming. Eddie didn’t feel like he was just "getting laid" in the way the guys in the locker room used to brag about. He was being seen, completely and utterly, in a way that made his messy life feel... enough. The pleasure was there, but it was anchored by something much heavier: the weight of being the person she chose to appreciate unfiltered. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers in the pale light, and for the first time, he didn't feel like he had to perform. He didn't have to be the Dungeon Master or the lead guitarist or the charismatic outcast. He was just Eddie, and she was just her, and they were building something in the silence of this room that didn't need a dramatic flair for the sake of survival.

He shifted his weight forward, his brow furrowing as he tried to translate theory into motion. It wasn’t like the movies. There was no automatic rhythm. He started with small, tentative movements, pulling back just an inch and then sliding back in, his body feeling heavy and uncoordinated. He experimented with the angle of his hips, a bit frustrated by the clumsy friction of the sheets against his knees, until he adjusted his tilt and felt the resistance give way to a smoother, deeper glide.He started to move more deliberately, letting the slow, honeyed tempo of the Side B ballad dictate his pace. He went deeper this time, in a long, steady slide that made him let out a low sound against the hollow of her neck. He felt her respond with a gasp, her body unfolding and relaxing around him as if she were finally letting him into the deepest part of her.

He watched her face in the silver moonlight, fascinated by the change. The tension in her jaw was gone, replaced by a soft, dazed expression, her lips parted as her breath began to sync with his. She started to meet him, her hips rising slightly to greet each stroke, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his hair, pulling him down until their chests were fused.

Her fingers dug into his scalp with a new, hungry urgency, and the small moans she let out told him he was finally getting it right. Seeing her enjoy it in the way her eyes clouded over with pleasure, made Eddie feel ten feet tall. 

Eddie felt the heat in his core intensifying in a thrumming that started at the base of his spine and radiated outward until his fingertips felt numb. He leaned down, his voice against her ear. "I’m close... God, I’m really close," he managed to choke out, his muscles locking with the effort of trying to maintain his pace without shattering.

She responded by shifting beneath him, her thighs opening wider to bracket his hips, her heels digging into the mattress to pull him even deeper. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice thick and dazed. "Just let go, Eddie. Don't stop."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face pained. He shook his head, a wild curl falling over his damp forehead. "No, wait," he breathed, his chest heaving. "What about you? I want... how do I get you there?"

The sheer, unselfish desperation in his voice must have made her soften. She didn't say a word; instead, she reached down between their fused bodies, catching his hand. She guided his fingers, placing them firmly against the sensitive peak of her clit that was already slick and swollen. Eddie watched, his breath hitching, as she kept her hand over his, demonstrating a steady pressure. She moved his fingers in small circles, with a friction that made her head fall back against the pillows with a sharp inhale.

"Like that?" he whispered, his eyes wide as he cataloged the way her body arched under the touch.

"Yes," she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just like that. Don't stop moving, Eddie. Do both."

For a few seconds, Eddie’s brain short-circuited. He’d find the right pressure with his fingers only to have his hips falter, or he’d get the glide back only to lose the circular motion she’d taught him. "I’m trying," he grunted, his brow furrowed. But then, he stopped thinking. He found a sweet spot where the slide of his hips provided the base and the friction of his thumb provided the high notes. As he locked into it, she let out a gasp that echoed off the walls, her back arching off the mattress until only her heels and shoulders were touching the bed.

The sensation of her clenching around him was a velvet-tight seizure that sent a white-hot spark straight to his brain. Eddie’s eyes went wide and he let out a startled, unceremonious swear. "Holy—!"

He felt the control snap. It wasn't a choice . He came with a force that made his vision blur into a haze of moonlight, his head falling forward into the crook of her neck. He wanted to stop, to just sink into the sheets and breathe, but she wasn't done. Her hand shot down, her fingers locking around his wrist like a vice, pinning his hand in place against her. "Don't," she choked out, a desperate, commanding edge to her voice. "Don't stop, Eddie. Please."

He forced himself to move, his muscles screaming and his heart doing an uneven gallop. He pushed through the overstimulated haze, maintaining the pressure with his hand even as his body felt like it was turning to mush. He kept the rhythm, stumbling but persistent, until she finally hit the edge. She let out a high, broken cry that was muffled against his shoulder, her fingers digging into his wrist so hard he’d probably have nail bites tomorrow.

Eddie lay there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against her damp shoulder, before the reality of his own lanky frame hit him. "Sorry, shit, I'm probably crushing you," he panted, his voice a ghost of its usual self.

He moved, rolling off her and onto the cool side of the mattress. The sudden shift in temperature made him shiver, but he focused on the task at hand. He reached down, his fingers still a bit shaky, to carefully remove the condom and tie it off. He set it aside on the floor, feeling a strange, quiet sense of pride in the plastic proof of his deflowering. Once he was clear, he didn't stay on his side of the bed for more than a second. He rolled back toward her, his arm sliding out to hook around her waist and pull her flush against his chest. He tucked his chin over her shoulder, his wild, sweat-damp curls touching her cheek as he settled into the crook of her neck.

"You okay?" he whispered, his hand splaying against her stomach, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over her skin. "I didn't... I didn't break you, did I?"

She let out a soft, tired giggle that vibrated through him, her hand coming up to rest over his. "No, Eddie. I'm definitely not broken."

"Good," he murmured, his eyes drifting shut as the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving a deep exhaustion in its wake.  Eddie’s eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by a satisfaction so deep it felt structural. He shifted his head slightly, his nose brushing against the soft skin of her nape, and let out a long, contented sigh. 

"Hey," he murmured, the word slurring just a bit as sleep began to pull at him. "Your aunt... is she gonna, like, bust in here at dawn and flip her lid? Because I’m pretty sure I don’t have the energy to jump out a window right now. My legs are officially made of lead."

He felt her chest move with a quiet, tired huff of amusement. She turned her head just enough to catch his gaze in the dim moonlight, her eyes soft and glazed with the same lingering haze that was clouding his own mind. "She’s in Chicago until Monday," she whispered. 

Eddie’s brain processed it slowly. The implications of a whole weekend of this. Of her, of this room, of the lack of a ticking clock. He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer until there wasn't a single gap of air between them.  "So," he started, his voice barely audible over the hum of the house. "You want me to... you want me to stick around? Or do you want your bed back?”

She didn't even hesitate, the answer leaving her lips with a soft, certain breath. "Stay," she whispered, her fingers interlacing with his where they rested on her stomach. "I just want you to turn that record player off before the needle wears a hole straight through the vinyl."

Eddie let out a huffed laugh, "Copy that, Bedford."

He started to shift, bracing himself, but he stopped mid-motion. He hovered over her, his arms framing her head against the mismatched pillows. In the silver-blue wash of the moonlight, she looked softer than he’d ever seen her. "You know," he murmured, "you look so beautiful right now it’s actually kind of terrifying. Like, 'legendary siren pulling a sailor to his doom' terrifying."

He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss right between her brows, his lips soft against her skin. When he pulled back, he didn't move away immediately. He worried his bottom lip for a second, the bravado finally failing him as he asked the question that had been thrumming in the back of his mind since the van. "So... just for the record," he started, trying and failing to sound off-hand, "does this, uh... does this officially make us a couple? Or is there a specific ritual or a signed contract I’m missing? Because I’m pretty new to the 'not-a-loner' scene."

She reached up, her palm cupping his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with tenderness. "Eddie Munson," she said, a playful but firm glint in her eyes, "you are not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me now."

A slow, genuine grin spread across his face. "Stuck, huh? Yeah, I think I can live with that."

He slid out of bed just long enough to cross the room, as he finally clicked the turntable off. The silence that followed was profound, filled only by the soft creak of the floorboards as he practically dove back under the covers. He pulled her close, her back against his chest and his chin tucked into the crook of her neck, his long limbs tangling with hers until they were a single, messy knot of warmth. As the edges of sleep began to blur his thoughts, he thought of the charred, skeletal remains of the Starcourt Mall. A place that had felt like the center of his frustration only a week ago. He thought of the long, aimless drive across the county line, his fingers drumming irritably on the steering wheel of the van, cursing the luck that had forced him to travel a town over just to find a shop with a decent set of guitar strings. He had been so angry at the inconvenience. He had spent the whole drive thinking about how much gas he was losing.

Now, with the scent of her skin filling his senses and the steady, solid reality of her heart beating against his arm, the memory of that frustration felt like a different lifetime. It was a strange realization. That a fire in a town he hated had been the exact pieces of luck required to lead him to this room. If the world hadn't inconvenienced him just a little bit, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't know the sound she made when she lost her breath, or the way the moonlight made her look like something he didn't deserve but was allowed to hold anyway.

He tightened his grip on her, a small, sleepy smile touching his lips as the darkness finally pulled him under. He decided right then that he’d never complain about a detour again.

Tag List? Just ask babes

(Tagging those who used to be on my Eddie story tag list)

Eddie Munson didn’t have a crisis on his hands. It wasn't the kind of earth-shattering revelation that brought your entire world crashing down in a heap of metaphorical rubble. It was more of a... pesterization. A low-frequency hum of annoyance that he’d grown just apathetic enough to tolerate, mostly because he didn't see it changing anytime soon.

One week into his third attempt at senior year, and the problem he’d first tripped over at thirteen was becoming glaringly apparent. On the cusp of high school, Eddie had made the error of trying to kiss one of his only friends, only to be gently informed that she didn’t exactly do the “boys” thing. He’d spent years silently hoping it was just an age thing, a phase they’d both outgrow, until she confessed before heading off to New York that she’d definitely had sex with a girl in the marching band. And since then? Nothing. Radio silence. Sure, he found fantasy tucked inside the gloss of magazines and the grainy flickers of cheap pornos from the back of the video store like every other red-blooded guy in Indiana. But when it came to the living, breathing variety of girls? He was inexperienced, terrified, and frankly, bored.

His third lap around senior year had taught him that the scenery never changed, it just swapped out the actors. There was always a fresh crop of jocks convinced that the universe ended at the edge of the football field. There were the nerds acting as if a B-minus on a lab report would derail their entire existence. The names changed, but the archetypes remained. The kid getting shoved into lockers today was named Fred; a year ago it was Todd, and before that, Arthur. Same script, different face. Yawn.

The girls of Hawkins High weren't exempt. According to the general consensus of the locker room, girls occupied three very specific boxes: the Buddy, the Porn Star, and the Sweetheart. Take Chrissy Cunningham with those baby-pink sweaters and wholesome smiles. Adorable? Sure. But she was the type who would likely burst into tears if she found herself alone in a room with him. That put her firmly in the friendly category, even if a friendship between a cheerleader and a freak was about as likely as Eddie passing Calculus.

Then there was Tina, a girl from his original graduating class. He’d heard the rumors from Billy Hargrove and the other cavemen at school about her extracurricular talents. She had the personality of a wet brick and cared more about her perm than her pulse, but that hadn't stopped Eddie from watching her lips move across the hall and wondering if the rumors lived up to the hype.

As for that third category… the ones you actually wanted to hold hands with? The kind of girls who could make your heart stop with just a smile or a quick remark? He hadn't met a soul who fit the bill. Eddie wasn't sure if he was a romantic, but he was a realist. Who wanted the son of the town criminal? A guy on his third try at Grade 12, who dealt weed to keep the van running? He’d perfected the art of being offensive to avoid the need to be defensive. Scare 'em or weird 'em out before they realize how easy it is to shove a scrawny metalhead into a locker.

He flung open the door to his rusted-out GMC, tossing his beat-up Jansport that had managed to survive since Freshman year, onto the passenger seat with a satisfying thum. He peeled out of the parking lot without a second thought, the engine groaning in protest as he left the school behind. Just another year in the Hellhole, all because he couldn't grasp the basic principles of chemistry. At least it was Friday. And Fridays meant freedom. It also meant he had a chance to deal with his other little pesterization. This one wasn't quite as existential as his quest to find a girl who’d laugh at his dorkier jokes before helping him finally retire his nineteen-year-old virginity, but it was an annoyance nonetheless.

Since the age of nine, Eddie had been a regular at the downtown music shop. It started with replacement strings for the battered Alvarez acoustic his Uncle Wayne had rescued from a pawn shop. A guitar that had seen hell and back as Eddie bled over chords until his callouses finally took. As the years passed and he saved every cent, he’d graduated to the electric variety, but the constant need for fresh strings and heavy-duty picks remained. The Starcourt Mall had changed everything. In its short, neon-drenched life, it had swallowed the downtown shop whole, only for the entire place to go up in flames. Now, with the mall a blackened shell and the downtown storefront still empty, Hawkins was a musical desert.

A quick session with the White Pages had revealed the closest oasis. Mainstreet Music in Bedford, about twenty minutes down the road. That was the Friday plan. Drive ten miles out of his way on a half-empty tank, pray that Bedford wasn't as soul-crushing as Hawkins, and see if this new shop could actually provide the gear he needed to keep Corroded Coffin’s output loud enough to piss off the neighbors.

The drive to Bedford was fueled by a warped Iron Maiden cassette and the flickering orange light of his fuel gauge. When he finally pulled up to Mainstreet Music, he found it tucked between a hardware store and a dusty laundromat. It wasn't the gleaming palace of rock he’d hoped for, but the window display featured a cracked Gibson and a stack of Marshall amps that looked like they’d seen a tour or two. Good enough, he thought. The bell above the door gave a weary chime as he stepped inside, but the muffled ring was immediately swallowed by the sheer scale of the place. From the outside, it looked like a cramped hole-in-the-wall, but the interior was a TARDIS-like trick of architecture. It was massive, stretching back into the shadows of the building with rows of instruments that made his breath hitch.

It wasn't just the gear, though that was impressive enough. The walls were a sensory overload, plastered floor-to-ceiling with posters of bands ranging from the household names to obscure acts he couldn’t have identified if his life depended on it. It was a chaotic museum of sound: metal logos sat right next to soft-focus folk singers. Neon-drenched pop stars shared space with gritty, black-and-white country legends. Beneath the posters, the floor space was a maze of wooden crates overflowing with vinyl and precarious stacks of cassettes that looked like they might topple if he breathed too hard.

"Just a second! I'll be right out!" a voice called from somewhere deep in the back, muffled by a heavy curtain. Eddie barely offered a grunt of acknowledgement, as he drifted toward a rack of vintage offsets. He was too busy drinking in the atmosphere to care about service. Then, the silence of the shop was broken by a familiar sound. The distinct sound of a needle dropping onto a record, followed by the soft crackle. A second later, the stinging lick of an electric guitar cut through the air. Albert King’s "Born Under a Bad Sign."

The opening notes hit Eddie, pinning him to the spot. Suddenly, he wasn't in a music shop in Bedford; he was five years old, sitting on a linoleum floor in a sun-drenched kitchen, watching his mother hum along to this exact track while she sewed. She’d been the one with the blues records. The one who taught him that music wasn't just noise, but a feeling you pulled out of your soul. She was the reason he’d ever bothered to pick up a guitar in the first place.

He stood there, paralyzed by a rare moment of vulnerability, his hand hovering over a pack of guitar strings as the horns blared through the shop's speakers.

"Dio. Nice." The voice was right behind him. Cool, steady, not to mention entirely too close. Eddie jumped, nearly knocking over a display as he spun around. His heart hammered against his ribs as his carefully cultivated "Lord of the Freaks" persona momentarily was replaced by the wide-eyed look of a startled cat.

Eddie finally managed to find his footing, his sneakers scuffing against the floor as he fully faced her. He opened his mouth to deliver some biting, eccentric remark but the words died in his throat. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked right out of the room, leaving him lightheaded and strangely hollow. He’d spent years cataloging the girls of Hawkins into his little mental boxes, but as he looked at her, the system crashed. She wasn't a "Sweetheart," a "Buddy," or a "Porn Star." She was something else entirely. A category all of her own.

She looked to be right around his age, though she carried herself with a groundedness that Eddie felt he’d been lacking his entire life. She was pretty but it wasn't the manicured, hairsprayed beauty of the girls in the hallways at school he’d grown used to. There was an edge to her, apparent in the way an unlit cigarette was perched behind her ear and her wrists were covered in a collection of woven bracelets. Smudged smokey looking eyeliner adorning a bottom row of lashes that drew his focus to the beautiful color of her eyes. An authenticity that matched the heavy blues track still vibrating through the speakers overhead.

A searing jolt of attraction hit him, sharp enough to make his pulse thrum in his ears. But beneath that was a second feeling, something he couldn't quite put a name to. It wasn't just that he wanted to look at her. It was a sudden, desperate urge to be known by her. He realized he was staring, his hands still awkwardly raised from his momentary fright. He looked like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck, and for the first time in his life, Eddie Munson was genuinely, painfully speechless.

"Uh," Eddie managed, a masterclass in eloquence. He cleared his throat, desperately trying to summon the Munson charm, but his rings felt heavy on his shaking fingers. "Yeah. Ronnie James. The man, the myth, the... very short legend." He stood there, scrawny and wide-eyed in his battle vest, feeling like for the first time in his life, he was the one who was totally out of his depth. She was pretty with a look in her eyes that suggested she could see right through his "scary freak" mask to the nervous kid underneath who still missed his mom's singing.

“Men," she said, her voice dry and laced with a playful edge as she tilted her head toward his Dio patch. "Always seemingly obsessed with size?"

Eddie froze. He stood there for a beat, his brain short-circuiting as he replayed the comment. He looked at his vest, then back at her, the realization hitting him like a bucket of ice water. She wasn't just talking about Ronnie James Dio’s height, or lack thereof. She was making a joke about... that. The male obsession with measurement. The length of the sword, so to speak.

A heat he couldn't control climbed rapidly up his neck, flooding his cheeks with a vivid, traitorous crimson. Eddie Munson, the man who stood on cafeteria tables and barked at jocks, was officially speechless. He opened his mouth to deliver a witty, rock-and-roll themed comeback, but all that came out was a faint, pathetic squeak.

Then, she laughed.

It wasn't a dainty, princess-like giggle, with a manicured hand covering her mouth. It was a loud, uninhibited, soul-deep sound that echoed off the stacks of vinyl. It was messy and real, and in that instant, Eddie decided it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He watched her, mesmerized, his own embarrassment softening into a dazed, lopsided grin. 

She caught her breath, wiping a stray tear from her eye as her laughter subsided into a lingering, mischievous spark. She leaned against the glass counter, crossing her arms as she looked him up and down. "You know," she said, her voice dropping into a teasing, rhythmic lilt that made his stomach do a backflip. "For a guy dressed so satanic by rural Indiana standards, you sure are adorable when you get flustered."

The word adorable should have been an insult. To a guy like Eddie, it should have been a blow to his carefully cultivated ego. But coming from her, delivered with that specific, flirtatious tilt of the head, it felt like a damn coronation.

Eddie scrambled to find a foothold, his brain a frantic mess of "don't screw this up" and "say something cool." He opened his mouth, his tongue feeling like a heavy piece of lead as he tried to summon a suave, biting quip. Something about how he was actually a creature of the night who just happened to enjoy a good laugh. But as she scrutinized him, her eyes dancing with that playful, observant light, the words just died in his throat. He ended up letting out a half-formed "I,well–" before trailing off, sheepishly adjusting his rings. He was failing. Spectacularly. But for some reason, looking into her face, he didn't even mind.

"I haven't seen you around here before," she noted, her gaze traveling from the chaotic curls of his hair down to the scuffed toes of his sneakers. "And I usually remember the ones who look like they’ve climbed out of a Black Sabbath pit."

Eddie finally managed to get a coherent sentence out. "I'm from Hawkins. Just a quick, twenty-minute trek down the road. Usually, I'm a big fish in a very small, very judgmental pond."

She hummed, a low sound of acknowledgement that seemed to vibrate right through him. "Hawkins, huh? Explains it. I’ve seen more traffic in here lately since that mall of yours turned into a giant charcoal grill."

"Yeah, the Starcourt disaster," Eddie said, leaning against a nearby rack of acoustic guitars, trying to look like a guy who wasn't currently having an internal meltdown. "Ruined the only music shop for miles. Which is exactly why I found myself wandering into your neck of the woods today. Desperate times, desperate measures."

She straightened up from the counter, her playful demeanor shifting, though the spark in her eyes remained. "Well, consider me your savior for the afternoon kind Sir who hails from Hawkins," she said. "What exactly does thou seek on this quest to the far land of Bedford?"

Eddie’s brain hit a screeching halt. Did she just... did she really just "kind sir" me? His heart practically performed a double-bass beat against his ribs. Because now it wasn't just that she was pretty, or that she liked the blues. Or even that she’d successfully made a dick joke at his expense. It was the delivery. That specific, nerdy, high-fantasy cadence. The kind of talk he usually had to reserve for a small circle of social pariahs gathered around a twenty-sided die. The crush he’d felt five minutes ago had just been upgraded to a full-blown obsession. He felt like he was looking at a unicorn in the middle of Indiana. He stared at her, his mouth slightly agape, searching her face for any sign that she was mocking him. But all he found was that same, sharp-eyed amusement.

"Has the traveler been struck by a silence curse?" she asked, leaning over the counter just enough to bring the scent of old paper and vanilla into his personal bubble. "Or hast my presence rendered thee speechless in the same way the sirens lured sailors to their doom?"

Eddie snapped out of it, clearing his throat so hard it actually hurt. He scrambled for a shred of dignity, reaching out to gesture vaguely at the rack of guitar strings he’d been hovering over before the Albert King track had transported him. "I, uh... no. Just...," he stammered, finally finding a smirk to hide behind. "I seek the tools of my trade, oh mysterious guardian of the Bedford realm. My current strings are sounding a bit too much like a dying cat and not enough like the heralds of doom."

She nodded, but instead of staying behind the safety of the glass, she rounded the counter and stepped directly into his space. She looked up at him, her presence strangely grounding despite the way he was vibrating with nerves. "A noble pursuit," she murmured, her eyes scanning the wall of Slinkys and Cobalts before settling back on him. "And what exact gauge of steel does thou require for this 'herald of doom' business? Are we talking light enough for those flashy solos, or heavy enough to shake the foundations of the earth?"

Eddie took a small breath, trying to steady his hands. "Heavy."

She reached out, her fingers brushing past a pack of Ernie Balls near his shoulder, and he felt the contact like a jolt of electricity. She pulled a pack down, but she didn't hand it to him. Instead, she turned the small package over in her hands, a sheepish, genuine smile finally breaking through the fantasy persona. "Sorry," she said, her voice dropping the theatrical lilt for a second. "I was a total drama nerd in high school, and I’ve been stuck in set design for the local community Shakespeare production all week. I keep slipping into the 'thee' and 'thou' without even thinking about it."

"Theater nerd?" Eddie repeated, a laugh bubbling up that was actually genuine this time. "Well, that explains the dramatic entrance. And here I thought I’d finally found someone who spent as much time in a dungeon as I do."

Her eyebrows shot up, and she leaned an elbow against the shelf, eyeing him with a newfound curiosity. "Don’t tell me you’re a traveler of the tiled maps and polyhedral dice variety. Do you play?"

Eddie’s chest puffed out, a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride washing over him. This was his home turf. "Play? Sweetheart, you are looking at the Dungeon Master of the Hellfire Club. I don't just play, I run the whole show at Hawkins High. I’ve spent more time crafting campaigns and painting lead miniatures than I have studying for... well, basically anything."

For a split second, he felt like a king. But then he saw it. The slight twitch of her lips, a tiny deflation in her shoulders as she looked at him over again. "High school?" she repeated, her voice losing a bit of that playful spark. "Oh. So you're... what, sixteen? Seventeen?"

Eddie winced, the mystique he’d hoped he was projecting evaporating instantly. He quickly held up his hands. "Whoa, hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m nineteen. Almost twenty. Technically, I should’ve been Class of ’84. I’m just... on the extended, scenic tour of the twelfth grade. My third attempt, if you’re keeping score. Chemistry and I have a long-standing mutual hatred."

The change in her was immediate. She let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, as she practically sagged against the instrument rack. "Oh, thank god," she laughed, and that beautiful, loud sound was back, making his heart do another clumsy backflip. "Whew! I was starting to sweat for a second. I was really out here thinking I was about to be a cradle robber."

Eddie grinned, the relief infectious. "And you?"

"Nineteen," she confirmed, tossing the pack of strings into the air and catching them with ease. "Class of ’84, actually made it out on the first try, though barely. I’ve been working here and going to the community college for art classes since. So, technically, we’re from the same brand of vintage."

"Vintage," Eddie mused, his confidence finally clicking into place. He leaned one hand against the shelf, closing the gap between them just an inch. "I like that. Makes me sound like a fine wine instead of a guy who just can't remember the periodic table."

She hummed, her eyes flicking down to his lips for a fraction of a second before meeting his gaze again. "I think vintage suits you, Hawkins. It’s got a bit more character than a repeat offender."

"I'm Eddie," he finally offered, realizing he’d been talking to a goddess for ten minutes without a name to call her. "Eddie Munson. Local freak, master of the dungeon, and currently your most intrigued customer."

She told him her name then, and the sound of it seemed to hang in the air between them, vibrating at the exact same frequency as that Albert King record. Eddie repeated it internally, testing the weight of it, the way the syllables felt like a hook to a song he knew was going to be stuck in his head for weeks. It was a name that had grit but a certain kind of melody to it, too. "Well," she said, pulling him out of his internal daze as she tossed the pack of strings from her left hand to her right. "Now that the introductions are out of the way, what exactly are we stringing up? Please tell me you aren't putting these on some cheap, dusty plywood box."

Eddie shook his head, a smirk returning to his face. "Give me some credit. She’s an Iron Maiden-inspired beauty. B.C. Rich Warlock."

She whistled lowly, nodding in approval. "A Warlock. Bold choice. So, are you just a solo act? A lonely bard shredding in his bedroom to a wall of posters?"

"Absolutely not," Eddie corrected, his pride flaring up again. "I’m the front-man, lead guitarist, singer, and because I own a van, transportation for Corroded Coffin. We’re currently the loudest, most offensive thing to happen to the Hawkins music scene. Have a dedicated crowd of about… 5 drunks on your average Tuesday night at the local dive bar."

She hummed, leaning her hip against the counter as she considered him. "Corroded Coffin. It’s got a nice ring to it. And I get it. There’s something about playing with a group that you just can’t replicate on your own. It’s always nicer with a crew." Her expression shifted, a small, weary shadow flickering over her features. "Though, honestly, my situation lately has made getting the band back together feel like a pipe dream."

"You’re in a band?" Eddie asked, his interest peaking.

"A blues-rock outfit," she explained. "Nothing as loud as whatever a Corroded Coffin puts out, I’m sure. We drive up to Bloomington once a week to play this little jazz bar. It’s good for the soul, when we can actually make it happen. One of our guys has been a bit of a wildcard lately. Stuck at home with his kid more often than not. Parenthood and the blues… they go together, but they don't exactly make for a consistent rehearsal schedule."

Eddie leaned in, fascinated. "Bloomington? That’s the big leagues. You’re telling me I’m standing in the presence of a professional?"

She laughed that beautiful, world-ending laugh again. "Let’s call it semi-professional. We get paid in drinks and gas money, but in Indiana, that basically makes us rockstars."

Eddie’s grin widened, his fingers drumming a restless beat against the side of his pant leg. He couldn't help himself. The fantasy metaphors were bubbling up again, fueled by the sheer high of actually talking to someone who didn't look at him like he was a stain on the carpet. "Alright, so we’ve established you’re a high-level bard," he said, keeping the D&D speak lighter this time, more of a shared shorthand than a full-blown roleplay. "But what’s your actual contribution to the party?"

She gave a small, graceful shrug, her eyes following the movement of his hands. "I’m one of the singers. Since our frontman is currently preoccupied with the dad questline, lately I’ve been carrying a lot of the vocal weight. We split the setlist down the middle, which usually works out until he has to bail for a diaper emergency." She stepped closer to the repair bench, picking up a stray pick and flipping it between her fingers. "And when I’m not behind the mic, I’m on guitar. Rhythm mostly, keeping things steady."

Eddie felt a literal physical tug in his chest. A girl who could talk Shakespeare, play the blues, handle a guitar, and didn't flinch at the mention of a d20? He was fairly certain he was dreaming, and if he was, he never wanted to wake up again.

"Singer and a rhythm player," Eddie mused. "The backbone of the operation. That’s a lot of power to hold over a bunch of Bloomington jazz-heads."

"It keeps me busy," she admitted, finally handing him the pack of strings. As she did, her fingers lingered against his for just a second too long to be accidental. "Though I have to say, Hawkins, a Warlock is a lot of guitar for a guy who gets as red as a tomato over a little dick joke."

Eddie took the strings, his skin buzzing where she’d touched him. "The Warlock is for the stage. The blushing? Well, let's just say you caught me with my armor unequipped."

The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged with a tension that was far more electric than any amp in the room. Eddie found himself caught in her gaze, his usual restless energy replaced by a grounded stillness. He didn't look away, and for a long, heart-hammering minute, neither did she. It was a silent standoff. One where Eddie felt like he was being read like a book, and for once, he didn't mind the scrutiny. Finally, she broke the spell, clearing her throat and glancing down at the counter. "So," she started, her voice a little huskier than before. "Did you actually just venture into the wilds of Bedford for one pack of strings, or is there something else on your quest log?"

Eddie exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders dropping as he tried to find his swagger again. "I, uh... I could probably use a few extra picks. I tend to lose them in the abyss of my van or my hair if I’m honest."

"Follow me, Hawkins," she said, gesturing for him to follow her toward the glass display cases at the back of the store.

As they walked, Eddie watched the way she moved. Comfortable, confident, and entirely in her element. He couldn't help himself; He had to know. "So, if you’re holding down the rhythm for a blues band, what’s your weapon of choice? Please don't tell me it's a Squier."

She laughed. A sound that made him grin. "Hardly. I’m a traditionalist at heart. I usually stick to a Gibson ES-335. Ebony finish. It’s got that warm, woody growl that just... well, it does things to a song that a solid body can't touch."

Eddie stopped dead in his tracks. A low, playful moan escaped his throat in a sound of unadulterated appreciation. In a sudden surge of confidence he leaned in slightly, a wolfish, dazed smile spreading across his face. "God," he breathed, his eyes wide. "Could you say that again? But, like, way slower this time? Because a pretty girl describing her ebony Gibson ES-335 is officially the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire nineteen years of existence."

She paused, her hand hovering over the tray of picks, and turned to look at him. A slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, and for the first time, Eddie felt like he might be the one in trouble. “Careful there, Eddie the Head," she chuckled, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial register that made his skin prickle. "You’re wandering into dangerous territory. You keep inflating my ego like that, and I might just decide to keep you here as a permanent fixture. I’ve been looking for a roadie who’s easy on the eyes and knows his way around a headstock."

Eddie stood there, the nickname hitting him with the force of a freight train. She knew Iron Maiden well enough to pull out the mascot’s moniker, and she was using it to flirt with him. He took a long, exaggerated pause, tilting his head back as if weighing the heavy consequences of his next move. He tapped a ringed finger against his chin, his eyes darting toward the ceiling in faux-contemplation.

"Well," he finally said, a slow, reckless grin splitting his face. "A lifetime of service to a Gibson-wielding siren in the heart of Bedford? Honestly, as far as traps go, it’s a lot more enticing than a weekend at the trailer park with a six-pack of cheap beer and a physics textbook." He leaned an elbow onto the display case, looking her dead in the eye, all the stuttering nervousness from before replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity. "I think I’m willing to take that risk. Lay it on me. I’m a big boy. I can handle a pretty girl with a guitar."

She laughed, the sound lower and more intimate now that they were tucked away in the back of the shop. She reached into the case, pulling out a handful of heavy-gauge Tortex picks and let them rain slowly into his open palm. "I like the confidence, Hawkins," she murmured, watching him as the plastic clicked against his palm. "But let’s see if you can still talk that big when you’re actually holding a guitar instead of just talking about one. Most guys come in here and talk a lot of game, but the second they plug in, they sound like they’re trying to strangle a cat."

Eddie caught the last pick out of the air, clutching it tight. "Is that a challenge? Because if you’re asking me to audition for the role of your most loyal subject, I’ve got a whole repertoire of metal that’ll shake the dust off the rafters."

"Maybe," she countered, her gaze lingering on his hands. "But for now, let's just get you checked out before my boss, who also happens to be my aunt, comes back and wonders why I’ve spent twenty minutes hovering over the picks with a guy who looks like he’s about to start a riot."

“Ah nepotism… snatching up all the good local gigs,” he teased at the mention of her aunt owning the shop. 

She hummed, a soft, wistful sound that didn't quite match the sharp wit she’d been wielding moments before. "Less about nepotism," she said, her fingers tracing the edge of the glass counter. "After my folks passed in a car accident, my aunt, the cool one, thankfully, took me in. It’s been just the two of us since I was in middle school. Working here... it’s how I pay her back for the groceries and the roof over my head. Rent’s cheap when you’re family, but the debt’s still there."

The timing was almost eerie. Just as the weight of her words settled into the air, the record on the speaker system reached the end of the side. The stinging blues guitar faded out, replaced by the empty hiss-thump of the needle spinning in the run-out groove. The silence that followed was heavy. She seemed to realize the gravity of what she’d just dropped on him, and she cleared her throat, shifting her weight as if she were about to bolt back to the safety of the repair bench. The playful spark in her eyes had flickered, replaced by a momentary, awkward vulnerability that made Eddie’s heart ache in a way he wasn't prepared for.

She started to turn away, murmuring something about finding a bag, when Eddie reached out. Not touching her, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her arm. "Hey," he said, his voice dropping the theatrical projection entirely. She paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. Eddie cleared his throat, "I get it. More than you know." He looked down at the counter, a rare flash of somber honesty crossing his face. "I've been living with my Uncle since I was a kid. My mom... she passed a long time ago. And my old man? Well, he traded his parenting duties for a permanent residency with the state after he got busted for five finger discounting some cars. It’s been me and Wayne against the world ever since."

The air in the shop shifted, the shared weight of their histories acting like a bridge between them. She turned back fully now, her shoulder losing its defensive tension as she leaned against a stack of amplifiers. There was a new light in her eyes. Not just the spark of a flirtatious challenge, but the quiet, steady gaze of someone who had seen the same shadows he had. "He sounds like a good man. Your Uncle. It takes a certain kind of soul to take in a kid with baggage like us and not try to sand down all the rough edges."

Eddie let out a short, dry laugh, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his denim vest. "Oh, he’s the best.He’s the only reason I haven't dropped out and headed for the coast already."

She nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She moved toward the record player, the silence of the shop feeling too loud now that they’d traded pieces of their souls. She flipped the vinyl, and a moment later, a new track began to fill the room. Something a bit more upbeat, that cut through the somber mood.

"Well, Eddie Munson," she said, stepping back behind the counter and held out her hand for the strings and picks to ring him up. "I think you’ve officially earned a 'kindred spirit' discount, though don't tell my aunt. I have a feeling if I let you walk out of here without a reason to come back, I’d be failing some kind of cosmic quest."

Eddie handed over his treasures, his heart doing a slow, controlled roll in his chest. "A reason to come back, huh? You think the twenty-minute drive and the threat of my van running out of gas isn't enough of a hurdle for me to leap?"

"I think," she said, her eyes locking onto his as she punched the keys on the old-fashioned register, "that for the right kind of music, and the right kind of company, you’d drive a lot further than ten miles out of your way."

“I’ve got a counter-proposal for you," Eddie said, his voice regaining that theatrical flair, though it was softened by the genuine heat behind his gaze. He gestured toward the counter, his fingers mimicking a scribbling motion. "Dear maiden, might I humbly request a quill and parchment? Or, you know, a ballpoint and a scrap of a receipt will do."

She smirked, sliding a notepad and a pen across the glass. Eddie took it with a flourish, leaning over the counter as he began to write. His handwriting was a chaotic scrawl as he jotted down his number and the address of The Hideout. "Tuesday night," he said, tapping the pen against the paper before sliding it back to her. "Corroded Coffin is taking the stage. It’s loud, it’s unapologetic, and it’s definitely not a jazz bar in Bloomington. But, if you don't mind a little heavy metal, you should come see me actually put this equipment to work." He straightened his vest, hooking his thumbs into his pockets as he looked at her. She only raised an eyebrow, fingers tapping the bar surface as if pondering his request. "I’d love to see you there," he added, his voice dropping into a sincere, quiet register. "I’ve spent three years playing to the same bored faces in that town. It’d be nice to have someone in the crowd who actually appreciates music."

She picked up the paper, her eyes scanning the address before she tore the sheet and tucked it carefully into the pocket of her jeans. A thoughtful smile spread across her face. "Tuesday," she repeated, her gaze meeting his with a weight that made his breath hitch again. "I’ll see what I can do. But you better make sure those strings are tuned perfectly. I’m a very harsh critic."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Eddie grinned, finally backing toward the door. He felt like he was walking on air, the jingle of the bell above the door sounding less like a warning and more like a victory chime.

He paused at the threshold, one hand on the brass handle, and turned back for a final flourish. He swept a low, exaggerated bow. "Until then, my silver-tongued siren," he called out, his voice ringing through the shop with a newfound warmth. "May your chords stay true. This humble bard shall count the hours until Tuesday's moon rises."

He winked, and finally stepped out into the afternoon. He hopped into the GMC, slamming the door and letting out a triumphant shout that was promptly swallowed by the roar of the engine. As he pulled away from the curb, his eyes caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. The blush was still there, staining his cheeks a dusty rose, but his grin was wide enough to hurt. He reached over, patting the bag of new strings on the passenger seat like a prized trophy.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, shifting into gear. "Don't screw this up. You’ve got a Gibson-wielding goddess to impress, and only four days to make sure the Coffin doesn't sound like a literal trash compactor." He cranked the volume on his Maiden tape, the twin-guitar harmonies of The Trooper flooding the cab. For the first time in three years, the drive back to Hawkins didn't feel like a sentence. It felt like a countdown.

🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆

It was Tuesday night, and the air inside The Hideout was a thick, stagnant cocktail of stale cigarette smoke, spilled draft beer, and the electric hum of overworked Marshall stacks. Eddie had arrived two hours early, his nervous energy manifesting as a buzzing restlessness that his bandmates had already grown tired of. He’d recounted the story of the "Bedford Siren" no less than six times since load-in. By the fourth retelling, Jeff had stopped looking up from his drum kit, and by the sixth, Gareth had threatened to shove a drumstick in Eddie's mouth if he mentioned the words "Gibson Goddess" one more time.

"She’s not coming, man," Gareth muttered, "You met her once in a music shop ten miles away. Girls like that don't just show up to dive bars because an awkward guy in a vest asked nicely."

"She’s not just a girl, Gareth, you uncultured swine," Eddie shot back, though his stomach did a nervous flip at the suggestion. He was currently pacing the small expanse of the hallway that led to the stage, his rings clicking against the neck of his Warlock. "She’s a kindred spirit. A fellow music lover. A theater nerd who knows her way around a fretboard. She’ll be here."

He looked at the door every time the heavy oak wood creaked open, his heart jumping into his throat only to sink back down when it was just another local regular looking for a cheap pitcher. The bar was filling up. Well, "filling up" by the Hideout standards. A few fellow metalheads, some curious stragglers, and the usual crowd of misfits who found sanctuary in the dark corners of the bar. Eddie checked his reflection in the grime-streaked mirror in the hall next to the stage. He’d put a little extra effort into his hair tonight. "Five minutes, Munson," the bar manager grunted, signaling toward the clock.

Eddie took a deep breath, the scent of the bar suddenly feeling suffocating. He adjusted his guitar strap. He’d spent hours yesterday stretching the new strings she’d sold him, making sure they were settled and ready to howl.

"Alright, boys," Eddie said, "Tonight, we don't just play. We melt faces. We go out there like the Prince of Darkness himself is in the front row. Clear?" He was met with the excited energy that only can come from teenage boys indulging in their favorite pastime as they finally stumbled out of the hallway. He stepped up to the mic, the feedback whining in anticipation. He took one last, desperate scan of the room. The door swung open again, letting in a swirl of cool night air and the muffled sound of a car engine cutting out. For a second, the silhouettes were just shadows against the neon "Budweiser" sign. But then, he saw the shift of a leather jacket and the unmistakable movement of a confident stride.

She slid through the crowd with a devastating ease, stepping toward the edge of the light. She paused, reaching up to shed her jacket, and Eddie nearly dropped his pick as he took in the change. She looked like she’d been pulled straight from a 1970s rock festival. She was wearing a tight, shortly cropped Wings t-shirt that had seen its fair share of wash cycles, paired with high-waisted black denim bell-bottoms that flared out over the tops of her boots. Topping it all off was the schoolboy cap featuring pins he couldn’t quite make out from a distance, but the overall effect was like an ACDC album cover. It screamed "I know exactly where I am," and it sat on her with a natural, effortless cool that made every other girl in the bar seem to fade into the background. Eddie stood paralyzed, his fingers frozen on the fretboard, his jaw probably hovering somewhere near his knees. He was staring and he knew it, but he couldn't find the mental brakes to stop.

"Eddie!" Gareth’s voice hissed from behind him, sharp and impatient. "Eddie, for the love of God, the intro!" Gareth’s hiss acted like a bucket of cold water. Eddie snapped his head back, blinking rapidly as his brain finally reconnected with his hands. He looked back toward the edge of the stage just in time to see her catch his eye. She didn't look flustered. Instead, she raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her lips quirked into a knowing smile. She gave him a small, two-fingered wave. The kind that said I'm watching, Hawkins, so don't blow it.

Eddie felt the adrenaline hit his system like a live wire. The nervousness was still there, buzzing under his skin, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a fierce, desperate need to show off. He slammed his hand down on the strings, and the first chord of the set ripped through the smoke-filled air with a raw, aggressive power that made the floorboards groan. He threw himself into the music, the world outside the stage lights blurring into a haze of distorted sound and flickering shadows. Between the shredding and the straining growl of his vocals, he lost track of her in the dark. The Hideout was a sea of shifting shapes and nodding heads, and he couldn't afford to scan the crowd while trying to keep Corroded Coffin from derailing. He played with a manic intensity, his hair flying as he thrashed his head. The new strings she’d sold him biting into his fingertips.

Halfway through the set, the energy shifted. Eddie wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a ringed hand and signaled for Gareth and Jeff to hold up. They knew exactly what was coming, and they weren't thrilled about it. Eddie stepped up to the microphone, his chest heaving. He looked out into the gloom, a lopsided, slightly breathless grin on his face. "Alright, folks!" he barked, though his eyes were searching the back of the room. "I have to offer a little disclaimer. I apologize in advance if this next one sounds like absolute dogshit. It’s... well, it’s one we had to pull from the archives."

Gareth let out a long, dramatic sigh behind him. Eddie’s mind flashed back to the previous forty-eight hours. The absolute war he’d waged to get the guys to agree to this. He had practically held them hostage in the garage, forcing them to relearn a song they hadn't touched since their first month of jamming together. There had been shouting, there had been threats of mutiny, but Eddie had been relentless. He needed something with soul. 

He closed his eyes for a second, catching a glimpse of a familiar silhouette leaning against a wooden pillar near the bar. "This one’s for the Gibson wielding Goddess who drove out of her way to hear us butcher Sabbath," he murmured, earning a few chuckles at the self deprecating humor.  He let out a slow, steady breath and began the slow, bluesy opening crawl of Led Zeppelin’s Since I’ve Been Loving You. The transition from thrash metal to agonizingly slow blues-rock was jarring, but as Eddie’s fingers danced over the frets, coaxing a mournful, soaring wail from his Warlock, the room went eerily still. 

Eddie poured himself into the solo, his eyes squeezed shut as he bent the strings until they practically wept. Chasing that feeling his mother had loved. Every slow slide was a message sent directly across the room. A bridge built of high-voltage wire and raw vulnerability. Behind him, the guys held the rhythm with a surprising steadiness despite it being a last minute addition to their set. He was sweating through his shirt, his curls plastered to his forehead, completely lost in the agonizing beauty of the track. 

As the final, haunting chord began to decay, vibrating through the wood of the stage until it was just a ghostly hum, Eddie finally dared to open his eyes. He didn't have to search for her this time. She was right where he’d seen her last, but she wasn't leaning back with that guarded, teasing smirk anymore. She was leaning forward, her arms crossed over the railing, her body language completely open. In the dim, smoky light, he caught her gaze. She was smiling. Not the teasing smile from the shop, but something genuinely impressed. She was nodding her head slowly, a rhythmic, appreciative movement that told him she hadn't just heard the song; she’d felt it. She looked entirely consumed by the performance, her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that made the rest of the room vanish. The rest of the set was a blur of adrenaline and unadulterated showing off. With her eyes locked on him every time he glanced up, Eddie played like a man possessed. Every power chord felt heavier, every solo faster, his fingers flying across the frets with a precision that usually deserted him halfway through a crate of cheap beer. He barely felt the sting of the strings or the sweat stinging his eyes.

When the final crash of cymbals signaled the end of the night, Eddie didn't wait for the scattered applause or the usual post-show banter with the guys. As the house lights flickered to life he practically peeled the Warlock off his body. He set the guitar into its stand and hopped off the edge of the stage before the feedback had even fully died out. He moved through the crowd with a single-minded focus, sidestepping a drunk regular and ignoring Jeff calling his name. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, his chest still heaving. "So," he panted, his hair a chaotic mess around his face as he wiped a streak of sweat from his temple. He tried to summon the smirk, but his heart was beating too hard for his usual theatricality. "How did I do? Am I still a candidate for that roadie position, or should I stick to my day job of failing calculus?" 

She didn't answer immediately. She just looked at him, her gaze traveling from his ripped jeans up to his wide, expectant eyes. The smirk she’d worn in Bedford was back, but there was a new warmth behind it, a softness that made Eddie’s stomach do a slow, dizzying roll. "You're a liar, Munson," she finally said, her voice low and smooth under the humming of the bar’s neon signs.

Eddie blinked, his confidence faltering for a split second. "A liar? I’ve been nothing but an open book!"

"You told me you played aggressively," she countered, stepping into his space, her fingers catching the wallet chain hanging from his jeans, tugging him just a fraction closer. "You didn't mention you could play with that much soul. Zeppelin? That wasn't dogshit, Eddie. That was... something else entirely."

Eddie felt his face heat up, the adrenaline of the performance curdling into a delicious, dizzying sort of bashfulness. He shifted his weight, leaning one hand against the wooden pillar she’d been occupying, effectively caging her into a small, private pocket of the loud bar. As he leaned in, the scent of vanilla he’d noticed in Bedford was now layered with the familiar tang of a recently smoked cigarette and the malty aroma of the longneck beer bottle she held loosely in her other hand. It was the smell of The Hideout, but on her, it was aphrodisia. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and summon the confident persona that usually came so easily. He let a crooked smirk pull at his lips, his eyes dropping to the beer in her hand before flicking back to hers.

"Well, you know," he started, his voice dropping into a drawl that he hoped sounded suave and not just like he’d been screaming for an hour. "I figure if a legendary creature like yourself is going to brave the treacherous journey to Hawkins, the least I can do is provide a soundtrack worthy of the journey. I’d hate for you to think the local talent was... lacking in inspiration."

She let out a soft snort, her eyes tracking the way he was trying to look effortless while his chest was still heaving from the set. She slowly rolled her eyes, the movement playful enough that Eddie didn't feel the sting. "God, you are so corny, Munson," she laughed, taking a slow sip of her beer while she watched him over the bottle. She lowered the amber glass, her thumb tracing the condensation on the label. "Normally, I’d have to penalize you for a line like that." Eddie opened his mouth to defend his honor, but she held up a finger to silence him, her smirk softening into something that made his knees feel like they were made of jelly.

"However," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that cut straight through the house music playing over the speakers. "I think I can find it in my heart to grant you a pardon tonight. Only because you went through the trouble of dedicating a Zeppelin track to me. And because you actually managed to hit those high notes without your voice cracking."

"It was a calculated risk," Eddie admitted, his cocky facade finally cracking into a genuine, beaming grin. "High stakes, high rewards. Does this mean the harsh critic is officially satisfied with the evening's entertainment?"

“Very satisfied," she purred, the words vibrating with a low resonance that seemed to travel straight down Eddie’s spine. She took another slow pull of her beer, her eyes never leaving his, and Eddie felt like he was a second away from short-circuiting. The bravado he’d spent the last hour projecting on stage suddenly felt like a suit of armor that was three sizes too big. He was Eddie Munson. He was supposed to have a witty comeback for everything. But standing this close to her, under the harsh yellow glow of the house lights, he found himself utterly tongue-tied. He looked down at his sneakers for a second, his rings catching the light as he nervously fidgeted with his belt loops.

"I, uh... good. Great. Excellent," he stammered, before mentally kicking himself for sounding like a broken record. He cleared his throat and looked back up, trying to regain his footing. "Can I... can I get you another one? Another beer, I mean. Not that I'm trying to ply the Bedford Siren with spirits, but the service in this establishment is notoriously slow unless you know the guy behind the tap."

She tilted her head, looking at the nearly empty bottle in her hand and then back at him. She seemed to weigh the request for a moment, a thoughtful glint in her eyes. "I think I can manage one more and still be okay to navigate the treacherous roads back to my realm," she decided, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

"Music to my ears," Eddie grinned.

Without thinking and driven by a sudden burst of "now or never" confidence, he reached out and took her hand. Her skin was cool compared to his post-show heat, her fingers slender but strong. He tugged her gently, weaving through the lingering crowd toward the bar. Eddie kept her close, his shoulder brushing against hers as he carved a path through the sweaty bodies and discarded plastic cups. When they reached the sticky wooden edge of the bar, he didn't let go of her hand. Instead, he leaned back against the counter, pulling her into the small space beside him, shielding her from the rowdy regulars with his own body.

"Hey, Rick!" Eddie barked, catching the bartender's eye with a wave. "Two more! And make 'em cold. We’ve got a VIP in the house tonight." Rick only rolled his eyes and grabbed two Coors out of the fridge and popped the bottle caps, setting them down before turning away without a word. 

“He’s chatty,” she remarked, the corner of her mouth quirked in a grin as she claimed one of the sweating bottles. As she tilted it back to drink, Eddie reached out, his hand hovering briefly to arrest the movement. He held the crown of his own bottle out toward her, an unspoken invitation suspended in the space between them. For a fraction of a second, her gaze flickered with a quiet, curious confusion. The look of someone momentarily caught off guard by a sudden shift in the script. Then, the understanding settled in. She met the gesture with a deft movement, clinking her glass against his with a clack that punctuated the low roar of the bar. 

Eddie lowered his bottle, a stray drop of condensation clinging to his thumb, and felt the intense beat of his heart finally begin to settle into something more sustainable. The bar was a riot of sound but tucked into this narrow sliver of space at the counter, the world felt strangely compressed. “So,” he started, leaning his weight onto his elbows. He shifted his weight, trying to find a pose that felt like effortless rockstar and less like a kid vibrating out of his skin. He watched her for a moment, the way she handled the grimy atmosphere of the Hideout as if she’d personally designed the decor. She was so composed, so entirely there, that Eddie felt a pang of certainty that she had lived a dozen lives while he was still stuck repeating his senior year. She likely had a string of Bloomington musicians in her wake. Guys who knew how to talk to a woman. College boys who had an actual future.

He cleared his throat. He wanted to say something smooth, something that suggested he was a man of the world, but his brain could only offer up a clumsy bridge between his two favorite worlds. “Now, I don’t want to presume the nature of your... mission to Hawkins,” Eddie began, his voice laced with a nervous energy he couldn't quite suppress. He toyed with the heavy silver ring on his thumb, his eyes darting to the label of her bottle before snapping back to hers. “But a guy could get the wrong idea. A girl drives all this way, braves the local fauna of the Hideout on a Tuesday? One might think she was looking for more than just a souvenir guitar pick.”

It was clunky. A bit too wordy and transparent. Eddie felt the heat of his own awkwardness prickling at the back of his neck. He watched her carefully, certain that a woman who carried herself with that kind of effortless gravity probably had a trail of much smoother, much more experienced men in her wake. He felt like a level-one bard trying to charm a high-level sorceress with a cantrip he’d only half-learned. 

She didn’t laugh at him, though. Rather than letting him flounder in the awkward silence of his own making, she closed the distance, her boots scuffing as she pushed her way into his space. She didn't stop until her hip pressed into his side. Eddie’s breath hitched, his elbows sliding just a fraction on the bar as he found himself suddenly, wonderfully pinned by her proximity.

“You want to know the truth, Munson?” she murmured. “I haven’t been able to get our little encounter on Friday out of my head. Not once. I stared at the phone for two days, but I didn’t want to be the one to call. I didn't want to seem... overeager.”

Eddie’s brain short-circuited. The girl he’d been dreaming about had been sitting at home, thinking about him? The mental image of her wrestling with the same restless, pacing energy he’d been nursing since Friday felt like a victory more significant than any natural twenty he’d ever rolled.

She reached out then, her hand moving with a focused intent that made his heart threaten to beat out of his chest cavity. She didn’t go for his hand or his shoulder; instead, her fingers trailed upward, ghosting over the wild, untamed tangle of his curls. She caught a stray lock of dark hair between her fingers, testing the texture of it with a soft, appreciative hum. “And for the record,” she added, her eyes tracking the movement of her own hand as she tucked a curl behind his ear. “I love the hair.”

The bashfulness hit him then. Genuine reaction of a guy who had spent most of his life being told his appearance was a problem to be solved. He ducked his head slightly, his shoulders hunching as he offered her a small, lopsided smile that was far more vulnerable than anything he’d shown on stage. But then, a flicker of something else stirred beneath the bashfulness. A spark of the guy who had climbed onto cafeteria tables to face down the world. If she was going to bridge the gap, if she was going to stand there and tell him she’d been thinking of him, he wasn't going to let the moment slip away into a stuttering mess of apologies.

With a steadying breath that he hoped didn't look as shaky as it felt, he reached out. His movements were slow, giving her every second to pull away, but she stayed right where she was. He let his hand settle tentatively against her side, his palm finding the narrow, warm expanse of skin where her cropped shirt rode up above the dark denim of her jeans. The contact was electric. Her skin was soft, radiating a heat that seemed to travel directly up his arm and settle in the center of his chest. His thumb brushed against the curve of her waist, his rings feeling cold for a split second against her warmth before they acclimated to her. He felt the slight hitch of her breath beneath his touch.

Eddie’s pulse was frantic now, but as he looked at her, he didn't pull back. He kept his hand there as some sort of physical claim in the middle of the crowded bar. "I, uh... it's a lot of maintenance," he stammered, his voice sounding lower, roughened by the proximity and the sudden weight of his own hand against her. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of the suave persona he’d been projecting, even as his fingers curled slightly against her skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him further, her body language shifting from a flirtatious challenge to something more intimate. Her hand settled on his shoulder, her fingers finding a different, thick strand of his hair. She began to toy with it, twisting the curl around her index finger as she looked up at him, her eyes soft and shining with a playful sort of surprise.

“Maintenance, huh?” she asked, her voice a low, rhythmic purr that seemed to vibrate right through his denim vest. “Tell me, Munson, does the Dungeon Master have a specific ritual?”

Eddie opened his mouth to answer, a rambling explanation about specific drug-store conditioners and the struggle of humidity already halfway up his throat. “Well, see, the trick is you can’t actually brush it when it’s dry, or you end up looking like a Pomeranian that’s been…”

He trailed off, the words dying as he caught the look in her eyes. She wasn’t actually listening for hair care tips. She was watching his lips move, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw while she continued to weave her fingers through his curls. The question was just a flimsy excuse to keep her hands on him. She let out a soft, throaty chuckle as his voice failed him, her gaze traveling over the vivid, traitorous heat that he could feel creeping up his neck and flooding his face.

“You know, for a guy who has that kind of stage presence, you really are something else when you’re flustered,” she murmured, her thumb ghosting over the apple of his cheek. “It’s incredibly endearing, Eddie.”

Eddie let out a shaky, self-deprecating breath, his hand on her waist tightening just a fraction as he tried to find his footing. “How is it possible?” he managed, his voice sounding raw and far more honest than he’d intended. “How are you so... grounded?I feel like I’m literally about to turn into a puddle right here. And you look like you’re just having a casual stroll through the park.”

A knowing, secret smile pulled at her lips. She leaned in closer, bridging the final inch of space until her lips were hovering just beside his ear, her breath a warm, tickling sensation against his skin. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered, her voice a smooth, conspiratorial velvet. “I was a theatre nerd. Shakespeare, remember?” She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, her expression dancing with a mixture of mischief and warmth. “I’m not actually this cool, Eddie. I’m just very, very good at acting like I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Eddie’s hand stayed anchored at her waist, but his thumb went still against her skin as he processed her confession. The admission that she was "acting" should have made him feel more on her level, but instead, it sent a jolt of caution through his system. His mind flickered back. An unwelcome strobe light of a memory, to a rainy afternoon when he was thirteen. He could almost feel the sting of Ronnie’s gentle rejection, the hollow weight in his gut when he realized he’d completely misread their friendship. He couldn't do that again. Not with her. 

“And what are you doing… exactly?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rough murmur. He tried to keep it light, to lace it with his usual eccentric curiosity, but the vulnerability he was trying to shield was leaking through the cracks. She didn't pull away. She let the strand of his hair go, her palm flattening against the back of his neck, her fingers tangling slightly in the curls at the nape. She looked at him, her eyes searching his with a steady, unblinking focus that made the air in his lungs feel heavy. 

“The real question, Eddie,” she whispered, “is what do you wish I was doing?”

He let his gaze drop to her lips, then slowly back up to her eyes, his thumb tracing a deliberate, trembling arc against her waist. "I think," he began, "that if I actually answered that, the Dungeon Master would have to call for a wisdom saving throw. Because my wishes... aren't exactly PG-rated tonight, Bedford."

He leaned in that final, agonizing inch, until the tip of his nose brushed against hers. The world outside their small circle became a muffled, distant static. “Try me,” she whispered, looking up at him with encouraging wide eyes.

"I wish," he whispered, his breath hitching as he felt her fingers tighten at the nape of his neck, "that you’d stop acting for a second and you’d tell me if this script ends with me finally getting to see if you taste as good as you look, or if I’m destined to spend the rest of the night wondering if I’m just a fading curiosity."

She didn’t answer right away. She just stared at him, her gaze dropping to his lips with a heavy, lingering intent that made the air in Eddie’s lungs turn to lead. The silence stretched, thick and humming with the kind of electricity that usually preceded a lightning strike. Then, slowly, she pulled back just an inch, her eyes flicking toward the heavy oak door at the front of the bar before returning to his. “I’m dying for a smoke,” she said, her voice regaining a bit of that dry, practical edge. She gave his shoulder a playful pat, her hand sliding away from his neck. “And you... you should probably go pack up that Warlock of yours. It’s a lot of guitar to leave sitting on a stage in a place like this.”

Eddie felt the floor drop out from under him. The sudden withdrawal of her touch felt like a cold front moving in to replace the heat of a moment ago. He stood there, his hand still hovering awkwardly near the space where her waist had been, his mind racing to find where he’d tripped the wire. He’d been too bold. He’d overstepped. He’d taken a "try me" as an invitation and turned it into something too real, too fast.

“Right,” he managed, the word sounding hollow and brittle. He forced a stiff smile onto his face, his rings catching the light as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He started to turn away, his shoulders hunching in a defensive crouch, the familiar weight of rejection settling into his bones. He was already rehearsing the self-deprecating joke he’d tell Gareth later to mask the sting.

But before he could take a single step toward the stage, she moved. She bridged the gap again, tugging him back into her orbit. She leaned in, her lips finding the shell of his ear, her voice a low, secret vibration that cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Have a little faith, Sir Munson,” she whispered, her breath warm and smelling of vanilla. “I’m not making an exit. I’m just making sure there won't be any interruptions. I'll be by your van. Don't make me wait.” She pulled back, giving him a wink, before turning and heading toward the door with that same confident stride.

Eddie stood at the bar for a beat longer, his pulse thrumming in his ears, before he let out a breathless laugh. He turned and practically bolted toward the stage. Gareth and Jeff were already there, winding up cables and snapping latches on road cases, but their movements were sluggish. They were both staring at the front door as if expecting it to burst back open.

“So,” Gareth started, his voice a mixture of awe and genuine confusion as he looked at Eddie. “That was her? The actual manifestation of your hyper-fixation?”

“She’s real,” Jeff added, shaking his head. “And she was all over you. I think I saw your soul leave your body for a second there.”

Eddie reached for his Warlock, his fingers trembling with a newfound energy as he slid it into its coffin-shaped case. He tried to puff out his chest, catching his reflection in the stage monitors and attempting to summon a look of cool, calculated triumph. He adjusted his jacket, tossing his hair back with a flourish that was about sixty percent bravado and forty percent sheer panic. “What can I say, boys?” Eddie quipped, though his voice cracked just enough to betray him. “The lady has discerning taste. She knows a legendary bard when she sees one.” But as he snapped the last latch on his guitar case, the facade flickered. He leaned his forehead against the cold Tolex of the case for a fleeting second, letting out a long, shaky exhale. “Fuck,” he muttered, his eyes wide and slightly glazed. “I think I’m actually about to die. My heart is doing things it’s definitely not medically cleared to do.”

Gareth snorted, hoisting a drum throne over his shoulder. “Well, don't die on the stage. Rick’ll charge us a cleaning fee.”

“I can't stay,” Eddie said, suddenly galvanized, grabbing his gear with an urgency. “I shouldn’t keep her waiting. Every second I’m in here talking to you two losers is a second I’m risking her realizing she could do infinitely better.”

Jeff frowned, looking around the emptying bar. “Waiting? Where? She walked out the door, man. She’s probably halfway to the county line by now.”

Eddie offered a manic, lopsided grin as he began to back away toward the hallway, the Warlock case bumping against his leg. “She’s waiting by the van while I pack up to ‘ensure there are no interruptions’, I’ll have you know.”

The two of them stopped dead, exchanging a look. A slow, mischievous grin spread across Jeff’s face, and Gareth let out a low whistle that echoed through the darkening room. “The van?” Gareth repeated, a wicked glint in his eye. “In the parking lot? Damn, Munson.”

“Godspeed, Eddie,” Jeff called out, tossing a balled-up bit of tape from their cables toward him as a parting gift.  Eddie didn't even bother with a retort. He just flipped the bird over his shoulder and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, his mind already miles ahead of his feet, sprinting toward the cool night air and the girl waiting by the rusted-out GMC.

🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆

The drive from Hawkins to Bloomington was usually a mundane stretch of Indiana blacktop, but this Saturday evening, Eddie barely noticed the miles. His mind was a chaotic rewiring of the last four days, a highlight reel that played on a continuous loop behind his eyes.

Tuesday night in the back of the War Wagon was the undisputed headliner. The air in the van had been thick enough to choke on. Heavy with the scent of her vanilla perfume, the lingering metallic tang of the bar, and the humid heat of two people who had run out of words. He could still feel the weight of her. The way she’d climbed into his lap and draped herself over him like she belonged there. She’d been relentless. The agonizing friction as she rutted against his thighs, her hands tangled in his hair while he gripped her waist with a desperation that bordered on feral. He’d come so close to losing it right there in his denim, his breath hitching in a series of broken, pathetic sounds that she’d swallowed with open mouth kisses, before they’d finally forced themselves to call it a night.

She’d promised to call before she even climbed out of the back into the brisk air. And she’d kept that promise. Every single night since, the phone in the trailer had become Eddie’s lifeline. They talked until his ear went numb and Wayne started knocking on the wall, trading stories that went deeper than the "freak" persona he projected for the world.

Then there was Thursday. A mid-week fever dream where he’d pushed the van to its limit just to meet her at the edge of Bedford. They’d found a nondescript, neon-lit burger joint. The kind of place where the grease soaked through the paper bags before you even got to the window. It was perfect. He remembered the way she’d sighed, kicking off her boots and propping her sock-covered feet up on his dashboard, her toes wiggling to the rhythm of something on the radio. They hadn’t talked much then; they didn't need to. They’d just shared a strawberry shake and watched the lightning bugs congregate in the tall grass, the silence between them feeling more comfortable than any conversation he’d ever had with a girl in Hawkins. But now, the neon "OPEN" sign of the Bloomington blues bar was staring him down. Eddie adjusted the collar of his vest. He wasn't the frontman tonight; he was the visitor in her realm, and he was dying to see if the girl under the stage lights was the same one who’d left her footprints on his dashboard.

The heavy door of the Bloomington club swung shut, cutting off the humid Indiana night. The place felt different from the Hideout; the air was thinner, smelling more of expensive bourbon and old wood than stale PBR and regret. Eddie knew he was early, his internal clock having run on overdrive for the entire drive, so he kept his head down, slipping toward the mahogany bar. He ordered a Jack on the rocks and retreated to a shadowed corner table, a tactical position that offered a clear view of the modest stage.

He didn't have to wait long. A side door near the stage creaked open, and the band began to file out. Eddie leaned forward, his drink momentarily forgotten. He was struck first by the company she kept. He’d expected peers but these men were seasoned. They were middle-aged, faces etched with the kind of lines only decades of late nights and low lamplight could carve. One man, cradling a weathered saxophone, looked to be pushing sixty, his hair a shock of silver against a dark vest. And then, there she was.

She looked radiant, a sharp contrast to the lived-in grit of her bandmates. She was wearing a short, dark dress, paired with a vintage fur coat that was already beginning to slip provocatively down her shoulders. She looked like a starlet who had wandered into a noir film, her presence commanding the room before she even touched a microphone. As the house lights began to dim, a single blue spotlight cut through the haze, catching  a flash of silver on her own hand that made Eddie’s heart stop.

They had been sitting in the cramped cabin of the War Wagon, the windows beginning to fog from the heat of their proximity. The radio was a low hum between them, and Eddie’s fingers had been restlessly tapping an uneven beat against the steering wheel. She had reached out, her cool hand catching his, stilling his movements. She didn't say a word as she looked at his hand, her eyes tracing the heavy silver of the ring on his index finger. A piece of gothic hammered metal he’d worn since he was fifteen. She’d slid it off his finger and onto her own. It was too big, hanging loose against her skin, but she didn't seem to mind. She just turned her hand over, admiring the weight of it.

Suddenly, the staticky speakers of the van had flared to life with the opening, upbeat chords of Suzi Quatro’s "Stumblin' In." She’d let out a small, breathless laugh, her shoulders hitching as she looked at the dashboard. "Oh, god," she’d murmured, her voice laced with a sudden, uncharacteristic bashfulness. "I love this song." She glanced at him, her eyes guarded as if she expected him to scoff. "I know, I know. I’m admitting to liking something soft and sugary to a god of metal like yourself. It’s probably a strike against my cool-girl credentials, isn't it?"

Eddie had looked at her, watching the way the neon light of the burger joint turned her features into a palette of pink and orange. Instead of the biting remark she’d clearly expected, he’d leaned his head back against the seat and started to sing. "Our love is alive, and so we begin..."

His voice wasn't the gravelly roar he used on stage; it was softer, a light, melodic baritone that caught the rhythmic swing of the track perfectly. He saw her eyes go wide, her mouth parting in a tiny "o" of genuine surprise. "Foolishly laying our hearts on the table," he continued, a playful, lopsided grin spreading across his face as he nudged her shoulder with his own. "Stumblin' in..."

She’d joined in then, her voice a rich, soulful harmony that bridged the gap between his metal world and her bluesy heart. In that moment, surrounded by the smell of fries and the glow of the radio dial, the genres didn't matter. They were just two kids in a van, finding the same tune.

Back in the present, under the blue light of the Bloomington stage, she gripped the fretboard of her guitar with that same hand. His ring still shining defiantly on her finger. She scanned the dark room, and for a moment, Eddie was certain her gaze locked onto his corner. The smirk she gave the microphone was a silent acknowledgment that she was glad he came.

She didn't introduce the band or offer a rehearsed greeting to the crowd. Instead, she simply nodded to the drummer behind her. The count-in was a sharp, clicking rhythm that was immediately drowned out by the deep, honey-thick growl of her ES-335. Watching her play was a different experience than seeing her lean over a music shop counter. Here, she was the authority. She moved with a controlled, swaying grace, her fingers dancing over the frets with a technical precision that made Eddie’s own style feel like a chaotic brawl.

Midway through the first set, the tempo dropped. The middle-aged bassist fell into a slow, walking groove, and the saxophonist stepped back into the shadows. She stepped up to the mic, the fur coat finally sliding completely off her shoulders to pool around her elbows, revealing the delicate line of her collarbones. She didn't look at the crowd this time. She looked straight toward the back corner, toward the flicker of the candle on Eddie’s table.

She didn't rush the microphone; she drifted toward it, her boots clicking softly against the wood as the band transitioned into a slow, dirty blues shuffle. She gripped the stand with both hands, the fur coat finally surrendering to gravity and slipping to the crook of her elbows.

“We’re gonna slow it down just a hair,” she said into the mic, her voice a low, honeyed rasp that made the ice in Eddie’s drink rattle as his hand shook. She scanned the dark room, her eyes eventually finding his corner and staying there, pinned and unwavering. “This next one goes out to a certain… traveler. A guy who thinks he’s a lot more dangerous than he actually is, but who knows exactly when to lean in.”

A few light chuckles rippled through the sophisticated crowd, but Eddie felt like he was the only person in the building. The band dropped into a heavy beat, the bass player’s thumb thumping out a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat against the floorboards. She leaned into the mic, her eyes hooded and dark, her voice a rich, soulful rasp as she delivered the opening line.

"These men that I've been seeing, baby... got their soul up on the shelf."

He’d spent years watching his peers. The guys who peacocked in the locker rooms or treated girls like trophies to be won and discarded. He thought of his own three boxes theory and realized how shallow he had been. But as she continued, her voice swelling with a gritty, uncompromising power, he realized she was cutting through all of it.

"You know they could never love me, When they can't even love themselves"

She was so casually stripping away the performance. Eddie watched the way she leaned her lips into the microphone, his silver ring catching the blue light as her fingers danced on the frets, and he felt a strange illumination in his chest. He knew what it was like to struggle with that. To hide behind a "freak" mask because the person underneath felt too small, too battered. And yet, all things considered Eddie knew who he was. The parts of himself he could control, he liked. When she reached the chorus, her gaze intensified, locking onto his with a heat that made the back of his neck prickle.

“I want a man to rock me like my backbone was his own. Darlin', I know you can”

The line hit him with the force of a freight train. His mind flashed back to Tuesday night, to the way he’d held her in the van, his hands shaking but steady enough to keep her close. He hadn't wanted to "take her for a ride"; he’d wanted to be exactly what she was asking for. Someone who could hold the weight of her without folding. Someone to be strong enough for the both of them.

She let the guitar do the talking for a moment. A stinging, bent note wailing out from the ES-335 that sounded like a cry for help and a declaration of war all at once. She moved with the music, her body swaying in a slow, hypnotic curve that made Eddie’s pulse hammer.

"I come home sad and lonely... feel like I wanna cry. I want a man to hold me, not some fool to ask me why."

There was a raw vulnerability in her delivery that moved him more than the technical skill of the band ever could. She was telling him what she needed. A man who understood the shadows. Someone who wouldn't put himself above her, or beneath her, but would simply stand beside her when the house lights went down. As she reached the final, lingering notes, her voice dropped to a near-whisper, a conspiratorial secret shared across the crowded room.

"Don't you put yourself above me... you just love me like a man."

The final chord decayed and for a long moment, the bar stayed silent. Eddie sat in the shadows, his drink forgotten, his eyes wide and bright. He felt seen in a way that terrified him, but as she stepped back from the mic and offered him one last, lingering smirk, he knew he wasn't going to run. Eddie lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the last of the blue stage light, and offered a silent, steady toast to the air between them. He capped it with a slow, deliberate wink before taking a long pull of the whiskey. 

As the band transitioned into a more upbeat, rhythmic shuffle, Eddie sank back into the shadows of his booth, letting the music wash over him like a tide. She stayed at the microphone for a few more tracks, her voice weaving through the smoky air with an effortless, practiced soul. She shared a few harmonies with the older saxophonist, her head tilted back, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips that seemed to say she was exactly where she was meant to be. She sang a haunting, low-tempo cover of a Janis Joplin track that made the hair on Eddie's arms stand up, and later, she retreated to the edge of the stage to provide a steady, driving rhythm for a long, improvisational bass solo.

But for Eddie, none of it quite reached the heights of that Bonnie Raitt cover. The lyrics to Love Me Like a Man were etched into his brain, playing on a loop alongside the memory of her fingers tracing his silver ring. It was a heavy thing to ask of someone and Eddie found himself wondering if he was actually up to the task. He was used to being the one who needed an audience, the one who filled the silence with noise to keep the dark at bay. It was a new kind of quest, one where the monsters weren't made of lead and paint, but of shared history and quiet, lonely nights. Eventually, the set wound down. The silver-haired drummer let out a final, resonant crash of the cymbals, and the house lights began their slow, amber climb back toward reality. The applause was warm and lingering, a sophisticated roar that filled the room as the band began to unstrap their instruments.

Eddie watched as she handed her Gibson off to the older man, her movements tired but graceful. She didn't head for the stage room or linger to talk to the regulars who were already drifting toward the stage to offer their compliments. Instead, she grabbed her fur coat from the back of an amp from where she’d tossed it towards the end of the set, slinging it over one shoulder. 

While the band had been taking their final bows, Eddie had made a quick retreat to the bar, navigating the cluster of Bloomington jazz-heads to flag down the bartender. The man had looked Eddie over, eyes lingering just a second on the denim vest and the chaotic hair, before his expression softened into something knowing. "She’s a powerhouse, isn't she?" the bartender had murmured, already reaching for a heavy-bottomed rocks glass. "Her usual is an Old Fashioned. Extra bitters, easy on the sugar. She likes the bite."

Now, as she reached the table, Eddie slid the condensation-beaded glass toward her. The orange peel twist caught the low light, glowing like an ember against the dark wood.

Her eyebrows shot up, a tired but genuine smile breaking across her face. "An Old Fashioned? You’ve been doing your homework."

"I have my sources," Eddie quipped. "I figured a goddess of your stature shouldn't have to fetch her own libations after a performance like that."

She didn't stay on the other side of the table. Instead, she rounded the edge of the booth and curled up onto the vinyl seat right next to him. She didn't leave a polite gap either as she pressed herself directly into his space. Eddie felt the air leave his lungs as she settled in, her thigh flushing against his in a move that was as forward as the lyrics she’d just sung. She took a slow, appreciative sip of the drink, her eyes closing for a brief second as the bite of the bourbon hit her tongue. When she opened them, she was looking up at him from under her lashes, the silver of his ring flashing as she rested her hand on the table, dangerously close to his own.

“So,” she murmured, her voice a low vibration that seemed to pull the shadows of the booth tighter around them. “Did the reality live up to the day dream, Munson? Or do I need to go back up there and do an encore to keep your interest?”

Eddie looked down at her. The proximity was intoxicating. The scent of the stage, the vanilla, and the sharp, citrusy tang of her drink all swirling into a cocktail that made his head spin. He didn't pull back. He leaned his head against the back of the booth, turning his face just enough so that he could catch the heat of her gaze. “Interest was never the problem,” he admitted.  

Slowly, she reached out, her hand disappearing beneath the edge of the table to slide firmly across his denim-covered thigh. Her fingers moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the pressure of her palm sending a jolt of heat straight to his core. She looked up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes, her eyes heavy with a look that made the smoky air in the bar feel ten degrees hotter. "Yeah?" she asked, the word a soft, sultry challenge that hung in the air between them.

Eddie swallowed hard. He looked at her, noticing the way she was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing. "Yeah," he whispered, nodding slowly. "I'm always stuck in this... middle ground with you. Half the time, I’m trying so hard to be the guy who deserves to stand next to you. And the other half? I just want to drop the act. I want to tell you all the dorky, uncool things I love without apologizing for any of it."

He let out a shaky breath, his own hand finding hers beneath the table, his fingers lacing through hers. "I'm stuck between wanting to just hold your hand and walk through a park like we're in some cheesy rom-com... and wanting to get you out of here right now." He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips before flicking back to her eyes, his pupils blown wide. "I want to find out if you're just as pretty underneath me as you are standing under those blue lights."

She didn't flinch at the intensity of his gaze. If anything, she leaned in closer, her thumb tracing the seam of his jeans while she studied the vulnerability etched into his face. The smoke-heavy air of the club seemed to hold its breath as she tilted her head. "Eddie," she murmured, her voice dropping the sultry lilt for something far more direct. "Have you ever had sex?"

Eddie froze, his mind instantly spiraling. He could lie. He could weave some elaborate, rock-star tale of a wild night after a gig. Something involving a groupie and a motel room and she’d probably believe him. He was nineteen, after all. He was supposed to have a few notches on his belt. But as he looked at her, seeing the way his ring caught the amber light on her finger, the lie died in his throat. He realized he didn't want to give her a performance. Not after the song she’d just sung for him.

"No," he admitted, the word sounding small and startlingly honest. He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh, his gaze dropping to the table. "Believe it or not, there isn't exactly a long, winding line of girls in Hawkins eager to jump into bed with the long haired, super-senior freak."

He felt a sharp pang of shame. The weight of his reputation in that small, narrow-minded town suddenly felt like a lead weight. He waited for her to realize she was wasting her time. Instead, she hummed. "Well," she said, her voice reclaiming that teasing, melodic edge as she tightened her grip on his hand beneath the table. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting just beneath the shell of his ear, "I think those girls in Hawkins must be even more boring and stupid than you let on.”

"I don’t know, I think they just have a very healthy survival instinct," Eddie muttered, his eyes darting to his drink. He tried to rely on his usual shield of self-deprecation, a nervous twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I’m an acquired taste, like... black licorice."

She didn't laugh. Instead, she reached out with her free hand, her fingers catching his chin and firmly turning his face back to hers. She shook her head, her expression settling into something intensely serious, stripping away the layers of his defense until he felt completely exposed. "Stop it," she commanded softly. "I’m not being nice. You are, without a doubt, the coolest guy I’ve ever met."

Eddie’s breath hitched, the joke he’d been about to make dying in his throat.

"You’re incredibly talented," she continued, her voice a low, steady anchor. "You get what it’s like to have a home life that isn't exactly a Hallmark card, which is a rare thing in this corner of the world. And you’re the only person I know who doesn't look at me like I’ve grown a second head when I randomly drop into Shakespearean English."

She leaned in, the thumb of her hand on his thigh traced the heavy denim seam again, her voice dropping into a register that made his entire body hum. "I may have only known you a week, Eddie Munson, but I’ve already spent a significant amount of time imagining things." She paused, her smirk returning. "Some of it is wholesome. Like how cute you looked with mustard on your cheek or how adorable it is after it rained and your hair gets all frizzy. But mostly, I’ve been wondering what it would be like if you played me as well as you play that Warlock."

Eddie choked.

A genuine, undignified sputter as he inhaled a bit of his Jack and Coke at the exact moment she finished that sentence. He coughed into his fist, his face turning a shade of red, until he finally managed to clear his throat and blink the stinging tears from his eyes.

"Right," he rasped, his voice an octave higher than usual before he settled it back down. "Okay. Message received. Loud and clear. Critical hit." He leaned in, his fingers twitching against his glass. "Is there... I mean, hypothetically, if I were to act on that very specific and terrifyingly enticing invitation… assuming that was actually an invitation… is there somewhere we can go? Because I don't think my van is quite the private chamber you deserve tonight."

She smiled, a slow, cat-like curve of her lips as she watched him recover. "My aunt is out of town for the weekend," she whispered, her hand finally sliding up from his thigh to lace her fingers with his on the table. "The house is quiet. And very, very empty."

Eddie didn't even hesitate. "Can I follow you back? I’ll stick to your bumper like glue, I swear."

"Actually," she said, tilting her head toward the stage, "I could use a ride. I tagged along with the bassist tonight since my car’s been making a sound like a dying cat."

Eddie didn't answer with words. He grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his drink in one determined swallow, the ice clinking against his teeth. She followed suit, tilting her head back to finish her Old Fashioned. "Wait here," she commanded, sliding out of the booth.

He watched her weave back toward the stage, her fur coat swinging around her hips. She leaned over to the silver-haired drummer and the older bassist, nodding toward Eddie as she made her excuses. The bassist, the one who looked like he’d seen everything twice, looked over at Eddie and barked a laugh, saying something low that made the drummer grin and shake his head. Eddie stood up, his legs feeling a little like jelly, and met her halfway as she grabbed her Gibson case. He reached for it before she could lift the heavy weight, his hand brushing hers.

"Careful with her, kid," the bassist called out, leaning over the edge of the stage with a toothy, mischievous grin. 

"Knock it off, Lou!" she shot back, waving him off with a roll of her eyes. She grabbed Eddie’s free arm, her fingers digging into his leather sleeve, and began pulling him toward the side exit. "Ignore them. They’ve been playing bars since the Mesozoic era. They tend to think they’re hilarious."

They burst out of the side door and into the cool, humid night air of Bloomington. Eddie led the way, his sneakers hitting the pavement in a quick shuffle. He fumbled with his keys as they reached the van, the rusted GMC looking like a majestic carriage in the yellow glow of the streetlights. He threw the side door open and tossed her guitar case onto the bench seat before turning to help her up. "Watch the step," he breathed, his eyes wide and dark as he looked at her in the moonlight. 

Eddie practically hoisted her into the van, his hands lingering on her waist for a split second longer than necessary just to feel the heat of her through the dress. Once she was settled, he slammed the heavy door shut with a triumphant thud and sprinted around the front. He vaulted into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. The engine turned over with a guttural, rattling roar that felt entirely appropriate for the state of his nerves. He didn't waste time. He threw the van into gear and tore away from the curb, the tires chirping as he pointed the War Wagon toward the highway that led back to Bedford.

Beside him, she didn't seem bothered by the sudden G-force. She leaned forward, her fur coat spilling over the center console as she began to dig through the disorganized mountain of cassettes littering the floorboards. She tossed aside a few home-recordings before her eyes lit up. "A call back," she murmured, sliding Holy Diver into the tape deck. 

The opening synthesized growl of "Stand Up and Shout" exploded through the van's mismatched speakers, the riff immediately filling the cramped cabin. Eddie found himself drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat. "Good choice, Bedford!" he shouted over the music, a wild, reckless grin splitting his face as they hit the open road.

They had just cleared the final flickering streetlights of Bloomington’s city limits, the dark, rolling hills of the Indiana countryside swallowing the highway, when the atmosphere inside the van shifted. The neon glow of the dashboard caught the wicked curve of her smile as she turned in her seat. She didn't say a word. She just leaned across the console and reached out. Eddie’s breath hitched as he felt her cool fingers find the metal button of his jeans.

"Eyes on the road, Munson," she purred, her voice nearly lost under Dio's soaring vocals.

Eddie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles went white, his heart performing a frantic, chaotic solo against his ribs. The highway was a blur of gray and black, and for a terrifying, wonderful second, he forgot exactly how to breathe. "I... uh...," he managed to stammer, his head falling back against the headrest as he felt the button pop. "Right. The road. Keeping my eyes... on the road."

The heavy bassline of Dio’s anthem pulsed through the space, but it was quickly eclipsed by the rush of blood in Eddie’s ears. He felt the cool slide of the zipper, a sound he felt more than heard, followed by the sudden, sharp relief of the cool night air against his skin as she cleared the path. She didn't hesitate. With a fluid, cat-like grace, she slid out of the passenger seat and knelt in the narrow, carpeted gap between the two pilot chairs. The van hit a small dip in the highway, but she braced herself against his thigh, her touch grounding him even as his head began to swim. When she leaned forward and took him into her mouth, the world outside the windshield ceased to exist.

Eddie’s head snapped back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut as a groan tore from his throat. It was a raw, unfiltered sound that drowned out Ronnie Dio’s soaring vocals. His hands cramped around the steering wheel, his knuckles white and shaking, as he struggled to remember the basic mechanics of driving.

"Jesus," he gasped.

The sensation was overwhelming. A localized explosion of heat and friction that made every nerve ending in his body scream. He was nineteen, operating on a decade's worth of built-up anticipation and a week's worth of agonizing tension. Having experienced this long awaited act was almost more than his system could handle. He felt the occasional glide of his own silver ring against his skin as she used her hand to guide what she couldn’t take in her mouth, and it sent a fresh wave of electricity straight up his spine. He fought the urge to look down, knowing that if he did, he’d lose whatever precarious grip he had on his remaining sanity, not to mention, the steering wheel.

"You're... you're gonna be the death of me," he managed to choke out, his chest heaving as he stared blindly at the road ahead, his hips jerking involuntarily upward into her warmth. "The absolute... death of me."

The dashboard hummed with the vibrations of the music, but Eddie felt like he was being slowly dissolved from reality. In his head he’d rehearsed this a thousand times. He’d read the descriptions in the back of the dirty paperbacks Wayne kept in the trailer, heard the guys in the locker room talk about it and had certainly spent enough lonely nights in his bedroom imagining the mechanics. He’d assumed it would feel nice. In theory, the idea of a warm, wet environment pulling at him was a solid concept. A gold-tier fantasy. But theory was a pale, flickering candle compared to the bonfire currently happening in his lap.

It wasn't just the warmth, though that was a shock in itself. It was the intensity of the suction. Every time she moved, her tongue swirled or her throat tightened around him, and a new wave of pleasure surged up his spine, short-circuiting his brain until he couldn't remember his own middle name. The actual experience was a sensory overload he hadn't been prepared for. It was a visceral, bone-deep sensation of being wanted, and of being the sole focus of someone who knew exactly how to dismantle him. He’d spent his life playing the role of Hawkin’s “Freak". Al, the dead beat Munson’s boy. The guy everyone looked down on. But right here, in the narrow gap between two pilot seats, he felt like a king. 

As she increased the pace, her hand guiding him with a firm, steady grip, Eddie’s vision blurred. The white lines of the highway ahead became long, glowing streaks of light. The world was narrowing down to a single point of white-hot sensation until an aggressive blare of a horn shattered the spell. The left tires hugging the yellow line as an oncoming sedan flashed its high beams in warning. The sudden jolt of adrenaline was a cold bucket of water. Eddie yanked the wheel back to the right, his heart leaping into his throat for an entirely different reason. She pulled back just an inch as she looked up at him with a look of unbothered mischief.

"I said eyes on the road, Munson," she murmured before she leaned back in with a renewed, predatory vigor.

"I can't–I'm gonna–" Eddie’s words came out jumbled. The combination of near-death on the asphalt and the expert movements happening in his lap was too much. He couldn't keep the van between the lines and keep his soul from leaving his body at the same time. With a shaky hand, he flicked the indicator and guided the GMC onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching loudly as they came to a rolling stop. He threw the van into park, the engine idling. He reached down, his fingers lacing into the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't pull, but he held her there, his knuckles brushing the soft skin behind her ear. "Is this... you're okay? I'm not..." he trailed off, his voice thick and uncertain. He wanted this more than his next breath, but the gentleman buried under the denim and chains needed to hear it. She didn't speak. She just looked up at him, her eyes wide in the dim light of the cabin, and gave a firm, decisive nod.

That was all the permission he needed.

Eddie let out a sound as he finally let go of the restraint. He guided her back down, his hand steadying her as he pushed deeper, the raw reality of her throat closing around him far more intense than any fantasy. He bucked upward, his hips moving. She let out a muffled, involuntary gag as he hit the back of her throat, her eyes watering but never leaving his. The vulnerability of it, the sheer trust of her letting him do this, sent him over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers tightening in her hair as he finally came. His body racked with a series of long, shuddering tremors that felt like they were shaking the very frame of the van.

Eddie sat there for a minute, his head lolling back against the headrest while his chest heaved in uneven bursts. The world was slowly reassembling itself. The smell of the old upholstery, the distant hum of the idling engine, and the fading wail of a guitar solo on the stereo. He felt heavy, light, and completely hollowed out all at once. Eventually, he forced his eyes open, looking down at her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking remarkably composed given she’d just dismantled him.

“Holy… sweet mother of Mary,” he managed to croak out. Panic suddenly flared in his brain. He began to dig frantically through the center console, his rings clattering against loose change and old guitar picks. “Gum. I have gum. Somewhere. I know I have a pack in here for emergencies.” He finally unearthed a crumpled yellow pack and held it out to her with a hand that was still visibly trembling. “In case you, uh… want to get the taste of the Hawkins freak out of your mouth.”

She let out a soft, throaty laugh that made his stomach flip, taking a piece and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks, Munson. You’re a real peach.”

She moved, sliding back into the passenger seat and pulling her fur coat back up over her shoulders. Eddie stayed where he was, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, trying to convince his legs that they still knew how to operate pedals. After a few steadying breaths, he reached across the console. He simply took her hand, his thumb tracing the silver ring of his she was still wearing. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “That was amazing,” he whispered, his eyes dark and sincere as he looked at her. “Truly. But you’ve officially ruined this van for me, Bedford.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Ruined it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie grinned. “Because now, every single time I’m behind this wheel, even if I’m just driving Gareth to practice or going to get cigarettes, I am going to be vividly imagining road head.”

She watched him, her head tilted against the headrest, with a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She looked utterly unbothered, almost serene in the dim amber glow of the dashboard. But as the silence stretched, the manic grin on Eddie’s face began to falter. A flicker of something else crossed his features. He looked down at his lap, then back at her, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically quiet and heavy.

"What?" she asked, her voice dropping the sultry edge for something more curious. She reached out, her finger tracing the line of his jaw. "What’s that look for?

Eddie let out a long, slow breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "I just..." He paused, "I feel like a bit of a prick, honestly. I’m sitting here making jokes about road head and my van being ruined, and you just... you did that. For me." He looked at her then, his big, dark eyes wide. "And as much as I loved every agonizing second of it, it feels a little one-sided for my taste. I don’t want to be the guy who just... takes."

He shifted the van back into drive, but he didn't let up on the break yet. He leaned over the console. "I’d really like to get back to your place, Bedford," he whispered. "Because I’d very much like the chance to show you exactly how thankful I am.”

She didn't say a word, but the way her breath hitched and her pupils dilated told him all he needed to know. "Well then, Munson," she murmured, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. "I suggest you stop talking and start driving.

The twenty-minute crawl toward Bedford was the most exquisite form of torture Eddie had ever endured. The adrenaline from the roadside stop was still humming in his veins, but it had shifted. He couldn't just sit there with his hands at ten and two. Not after that. Tentatively, his hand migrated across the console, his palm finding the smooth, exposed skin of her thigh where the dress had ridden up. The warmth of her was startling. He let his fingers trail upward, tracing the soft curve of her leg with a slow deliberation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he kept a constant, flickering watch on her. He was terrified of overplaying his hand, and assuming that he had a permanent green light. But every time he looked over, she was leaning back against the seat, her head tilted toward him with an expression that was nothing short of encouraging. “Left at the next light, Munson,” she murmured, her voice like velvet.

As he turned the wheel, his hand moved a fraction higher, his thumb grazing the very edge of her hem. The absolute frustration of being strapped into a vibrating metal box while the person he wanted to dismantle was sitting inches away becoming almost unbearable. Yet, the frustration of the drive was being rapidly eclipsed by a spike of anxiety that began to twist in his gut. It was one thing to act the part of the confident lead guitarist, but the reality of a stationary bed and four quiet walls was starting to loom like a boss battle he hadn't leveled up for. Eddie’s mind was suddenly sprinting through every worst-case scenario. He was acutely aware of every flaw. The way his ribs poked out a bit too much, the spastic energy he couldn't always turn off, the fact that his experience was limited to grainy magazines and his own vivid imagination.

"You're awfully quiet over there, Munson," she said, her voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts.

Eddie swallowed hard, his throat feeling tight. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to admit that his heart was currently trying to exit his ribcage. But he also didn't want to break the spell. He wanted to be the man she asked for in that song. He squeezed her thigh, and forced a breath out through his nose. "Just concentrating on the road," he lied. “Gotta make sure the Princess gets back to her tower in one piece.” 

Sensing the sudden, tight tension in his frame, she reached down and laced her fingers through his, her palm pressing firmly against the back of his hand. Eddie almost groaned aloud when the contact made it undeniable. His fingers were shaking. She didn't pull away or laugh. Instead, she leaned over the center console, her shoulder pressing into his arm. "There is absolutely nothing to be nervous about, Eddie," she murmured.

"I beg to differ," he countered, his voice cracking just enough to make him wince. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of the highway, but his grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. "You’ve already proven, quite wonderfully, I might add, that you’re a goddamn expert in this arena. Meanwhile, I’m feeling like I’m flying a plane in the middle of a storm with no radar and a manual written in a language I don't speak. I don't want to be a disappointment, Bedford."

She squeezed his hand, her thumb tracing the silver rings on his fingers. "Look at me," she commanded softly. He flicked his gaze toward her for a split second before returning it to the road, but the heat in her eyes was enough to make his head swim. "Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered instantly, and he realized with a start that he meant it. It wasn't just about the prospect of sex. It was about the way she looked at him. The way she heard the music in his head, and the way she didn't flinch at him the way everyone else did. "And are you willing to listen to me?"

"Of course," he rasped. "I'm a very attentive student. Well, if you don't count the super-senior thing."

A small, genuine smile touched her lips, and she leaned in closer until her breath was hot against his ear. "Then you have nothing to worry about." The knots in his stomach didn't disappear, but they loosened just enough for him to breathe again. He squeezed her hand back. “Right here,” she whispered, pointing toward a narrow lane lined with overgrown maples.

Eddie turned the wheel, the tires crunching onto a gravel driveway that tucked back away from the street. He put the van in park, the engine giving one final, shuddering rattle before falling silent. He took a moment to just look at the place. It wasn't the sprawling, pristine estate he might have expected for a girl who looked like she belonged on a velvet-lined stage. It was a simple, small historic house. The kind with deep eaves and white siding that had grayed over decades of Indiana winters. A bit decrepit around the edges. A loose shingle here, a slightly sagging porch step there, but it had a soul. A single lamp cast a warm, buttery glow through the living room curtains, and the porch light flickered behind a frosted glass shade, welcoming them into the quiet. It felt lived-in. It felt safe. It felt like the kind of place where the rest of the world couldn't find them.

"Home sweet home," she said softly.

Eddie hopped out of the driver's side, moving with a quietness that was unusual for him. He met her at the side of the van, his sneakers barely making a sound on the gravel as he swung the heavy sliding door open. He reached in and grabbed the Gibson case, handling the instrument with care. She led the way up the front steps, her fur coat swaying under the porch light. Eddie followed a step behind, his eyes fixed on the way she moved.

She fished her keys out of her coat pocket. She turned the lock and pushed the door open, and Eddie stepped over the threshold. He didn't say a word, he just followed her into the warmth of the house, the scent of old wood and dried lavender wrapping around him as the door clicked shut behind them. She lingered by the door for a moment, the heavy fur of her coat slipping slightly as she turned to face him. "Can I... get you anything?" she asked, her voice sounding different now. "I’ve got tea, or I think there’s some wine left in the kitchen."

Eddie paused, his throat still feeling like he’d swallowed a handful of dry Indiana dust. "Water would be a godsend, actually," he rasped, offering a small, tired smile.

She nodded toward the back of the house. "Kitchen’s through here."

Eddie moved into the living room, moving gingerly as if he might break the stillness. He found a spot for the guitar case near an old, velvet-backed armchair. When he straightened up, he noticed her still standing near the entryway. She was shifting her weight, her fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on her dress’s hemline. "I... sorry," she said, her eyes scanning the room as if seeing it through a stranger’s eyes for the first time. "I realized as we were walking up that I don't really bring people around here. Like, ever. And it’s... it’s a bit of a mess. My aunt isn't exactly a decorator, and the floorboards creak if you breathe on them too hard."

Eddie let out a short, genuine scoff, his head shaking as he looked around the cozy, slightly cluttered space. He took in the stacks of books, the mismatched rugs, and the faint scent of old paper. "Bedford, look at me," he said, stepping back into her space. He gestured vaguely toward the worn denim, the rings, the messy hair that had been through the wringer tonight. "I live in a double-wide trailer with my Uncle. The decor consists of empty beer cans, an aggressive amount of mugs and trucker hats and my half-finished D&D maps. There are layers of dust that are probably older than I am. Clean is a concept I only understand in theory." He took another step closer, his voice dropping. "This place? It’s got a soul. It’s nice. Really."

She looked up at him, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to dissolve. "Okay," she breathed, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Water. Right. I'll be back in a second."

Eddie watched her disappear into the kitchen, the floorboards indeed giving a friendly, familiar groan under her boots. He stood in the center of the living room, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and realized that there was a possibility that she was just as nervous as he was. Only that she’d been better at hiding it up till this point. 

He had spent the entire week viewing her as this untouchable, mythic entity. A siren who had stepped out of a folk song and landed in his passenger seat. He’d been so preoccupied with his own shaking hands and the fear of being "just a freak" that he hadn’t considered the quiet weight she was carrying. Seeing her stand there, apologizing for the creak of a floorboard or a stack of unread mail, humanized her in a way that made his chest ache.

He scanned the room again, really looking this time. There were stacks of film theory books on the coffee table next to a bowl filled with take out menus. A stray guitar pick sat on the mantel next to a framed, grainy photo of an older woman laughing in a garden. This was the place where she didn't have to be the girl with the Gibson. She was just a girl living in a town that probably didn't understand her any more than Hawkins understood him.

He heard the tap run in the kitchen, the plumbing letting out a distant rattle. He pulled his hands from his pockets and started to pace the small area of the rug. When she stepped back into the living room, she was holding two mismatched glasses of water. She’d shed the fur coat and in the soft light of the single lamp, she looked smaller. She walked over and handed him a glass, her fingers brushing his, and Eddie noticed that her own hand wasn't as steady as it had been on the highway. "Here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie took a long sip, the water soothing his parched throat, but his eyes never left hers. He set the glass down on a ceramic coaster and reached out, gently catching her wrist. "Hey," he said, "You don't have to put on a show for me here. The Blues Siren routine is great, don't get me wrong but I’m pretty fond of the girl who lives in the creaky house, too."

She didn’t look away this time, but her eyes seemed to fix on a point just past his shoulder. "I'm just..." she started, her voice sounding raw. "I'm not used to people actually seeing me. Not the performance, not the girl on stage with the Gibson. Just... this. And liking it."

She leaned her hip against the back of the armchair, her fingers tracing the worn velvet. "I was a total pariah in high school, Eddie. I wasn't the cool, mysterious girl back then. I was the girl people avoided because I was 'weird' or 'too much.' I never really had friends growing up. The two or three people who tolerated me packed up and left the second they got their diplomas, and I can't say I blame them."

She let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "When I got to college, I realized I could just... reinvent. I could fake the confidence. I could be this person because nobody there knew every cringey, desperate thing I did as a teenager just to keep people from messing with me. I built a character so I wouldn't have to be the girl who ate lunch in the library anymore."

"Hey," he said, his voice soft but firm as he reached out, taking both of her hands in his. He squeezed them, forcing her to feel the callouses of his palms. "Look at me. " He waited until her eyes locked onto his. "You think I don't get that? I’m the guy who stood on a cafeteria table and made a speech about being non conformists just last week. I’m a guy who wears all this like it's a suit of armor because if I don't look like I’m dangerous, they’ll realize I’m just a guy who likes to play pretend in a dusty room with my dorky friends. Everything I do is all just a way to survive high school without losing my goddamn mind."

He took a step closer, closing the gap until the warmth of her breath was ghosting over his lips.

"I would never judge you for that. Not in a million years. Especially not for the stuff you do to get by, because I’m doing the exact same dance. If you want to be the confident chick out there, that’s fine. I’ll be your biggest fan. But in here?" He leaned down, his forehead resting gently against hers. "You don't have to fake a single thing."

The tension in her hands finally snapped, and she leaned into him, her face hiding in the crook of his neck. Eddie wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of her heart finally start to sync up with his.  Eddie pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands resting on her shoulders. He felt a protectiveness that overrode his own hormones. He might have been dying for the chance to finally cross that finish line, but the guy who looked out for the lost sheep of the Hellfire Club wasn't about to let her feel like she had to perform for him just to keep him interested.

"Hey," he whispered, his thumbs tracing the line of her collarbone. "You know we don't have to do... anything, right? The highway stuff was incredible, and I am definitely a fan of your work, but we can just hang out. We can put on a movie, or just sit here and talk. I’ve actually got some pretty decent weed back in the van if you’d rather just get high and forget the world exists for a few hours."

She pulled back, her eyes searching his face with a flicker of skepticism. Her brow arched as she studied his sincerity. "Are you telling me, Eddie Munson, that after everything I just did in that van, you’re offering to go back out into the cold for a bag of weed and a movie?"

Eddie let out a self-deprecating laugh, his ears turning a faint pink. "I’m saying I like you. And I don't want you to feel like you’re on a stage in your own living room. If you’re tired, or if you’re just in your head too much right now, I’m good. I’m content just being in the same zip code as you."

She looked at him for a long beat. Then, the skepticism melted. She leaned closer, closing the small gap, and the vulnerability in her gaze shifted into heat that made his breath catch. "I appreciate the offer, Eddie," she said, her voice dropping back into that bluesy rasp that always made his knees feel like they were made of water. She reached out, her fingers hooking into the collar of his leather jacket and pulling him down until their noses brushed. "I really do. But..." She gained confidence with every syllable, her smirk returning. "I don't want to get high and I definitely don't want to watch a movie," she murmured, her eyes dropping to his mouth before locking back onto his. "I want to get you into my bedroom, where I want to take those ridiculous chains off you.”

He managed to find his smirk again, though it was a little lopsided and breathless. He stepped back, giving her a theatrical, sweeping bow that sent his hair cascading over his shoulders and his silver chains rattling as if to punctuate her sentiment at how ridiculous they were. "Well, in that case," he said, his voice dropping into a playful, faux-chivalrous rumble, "lead the way, milady."

She let out a genuine laugh that echoed through the quiet house. The sound finally chasing away the last of the awkwardness. She reached out, swiping a lock of hair from his face as she stepped past him, her hand trailing along the wall as she headed toward the narrow hallway. "Follow the creaking floorboards, Munson," she tossed back over her shoulder, her hips swaying under the silk of her dress.

Eddie straightened up, and as he started to follow her, he caught the faint, amused whisper she breathed into the dark hallway. "Dork." A ridiculous grin broke across Eddie’s face. He didn't even mind. In fact, coming from her, it sounded like the highest compliment he’d ever received. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them before he truly had time to process it. Eddie stood for a moment, his back against the wood, just taking it in. If the living room was a sanctuary, this was the inner sanctum. It was a chaotic, beautiful explosion of everything she was when the world wasn't looking.

High on the walls, old black-and-white movie posters were tacked up next to charcoal sketches that looked fresh, the edges of the paper still smudged. An easel stood in the corner, a half-finished canvas draped in a thin cloth, surrounded by a minefield of paint tubes and jars of murky water. One entire wall was dominated by a music system that looked like it cost more than his van, flanked by a library of vinyl and cassettes that made his own collection look like a starter kit. And there, glowing under the soft light of a beaded lamp, was a rack holding three guitars. A Fender, a battered acoustic, and a sleek black Gretsch that looked like it could kill a man.

"Damn, Bedford," he whispered, his eyes wide. "You’ve got a whole ecosystem in here."  Eddie didn't wait for an invitation this time. He stepped into her space and slid his hands around her waist. He pulled her flush against him looking down at her. "You're incredible," he murmured. He leaned down, and when their lips met, the kiss was different. It wasn't the desperate clash they’d shared in the van. 

As the kiss deepened, Eddie’s mind started to betray him.

He was a guitarist. His hands were his livelihood. He knew how to bend a string until it wailed. But as he held her, a sudden, paralyzing wave of uncertainty washed over him. He realized with a jolt that his hands were currently the most important tools in the room, and he had absolutely no blueprint for how to use them. Sure, they’d made out. He knew the basic geometry of a girl’s waist and the way the back of her neck felt. But this was different. This was the moment where "making out" turned into "making love," and the technicality of it all started to feel like an exam he hadn't studied for.

Where was he supposed to start? Should he reach for the zipper of her dress, or would that be too aggressive? Was he supposed to keep his hands on her waist, or would it be better to cup the side of her cheek? He was acutely aware of his rings and he worried about them being too cold against her skin or catching on the delicate silk of her dress. He felt like his hands were suddenly twice their normal size, clumsy and uncoordinated.

He wanted to touch her everywhere. To trace the line of her spine. To feel the heat of her shoulders. To learn the geography of her body with the same precision he used on a fretboard. But he was terrified of the silence that would follow a wrong move. His thoughts all swimming. Don't squeeze too hard. Don't be too light; she’ll think you’re scared. Wait, are you supposed to move your thumbs like that? Should you be taking your own shirt off first?

She felt the way his hands went rigid, she broke the kiss, pulling back just a few inches to look him in the eye. "You’re still in your head, Munson," she whispered. "You’re nervous."

Eddie let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. "No shit," he rasped.

She laughed and gave his chest a playful shove. "Go to the turntable. Pick an album. Any album. Put it on and let it do the work for a minute."

Eddie sighed, but he didn't argue. He welcomed the task. He needed a moment to ground himself, in something he understood. He walked over to the stack of vinyl, his fingers skimming the spines until he found a worn, yellowing cover. Ray Charles. Hallelujah I Love Her So. It felt right: soulful, steady, and a little bit gritty. He slid the record out, placed it on the platter, and carefully lowered the needle. The crackle of the static was a comfort before the upbeat, soulful piano of "Ain't That Love" began to bounce through the speakers.

When he turned back, the room felt different. She was already on the bed, her back propped against a headboard that, upon closer inspection, was just a series of old wooden crates turned on their sides and bolted together. The bed itself was barely a foot off the floor. Just a mattress thrown over a makeshift platform of old shipping pallets. It was DIY, a little rough around the edges, and perfect.

She had already lit a cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling in the lamplight. Eddie walked over and lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, the pallet frame creaking. Without a word, he reached out, and she handed him the cigarette. He took a long, slow drag, letting the nicotine steady his nerves. He noticed her boots were already discarded on the rug. Feeling the need to catch up, Eddie leaned over and began to unlace his own sneakers. He kicked them off with a thud, but as he pulled his feet up onto the mattress, he felt a sudden flush of heat creep up his neck. Right there was a decent-sized hole in his black sock, his big toe peeking through like a stray stowaway. "God," he muttered, staring at the hole. "The King of the Freaks, ladies and gentlemen. I'm taking you to bed with a hole in my sock. Truly, I am the height of sophistication."

She let out an unladylike snort. "Oh, knock it off with the self-deprecation routine, Munson," she said, rolling her eyes as she leaned forward. The movement brought her dangerously close, the scent of her perfume overwhelming his senses. She reached out, her fingers ghosting over the frayed edge of the hole in his sock before she leaned in to whisper against the shell of his ear, her voice a seductive purr. "The socks stay on. It’s a very specific kink of mine."

Eddie barked out a laugh, the sound genuine and loud enough to startle himself. The sheer absurdity of it broke the last of the glass walls in his mind. He looked at her and the nervousness that had been a tight, cold knot in his gut began to unfurl. He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight on the low mattress, moving closer until their knees were locked together. He didn't hand the cigarette back. He held it up, his hand steadying as he brought the filter to her lips. He kept his eyes locked onto hers, an intense, unwavering stare that challenged her to look away first. The room felt like it was shrinking, the upbeat rhythm of Ray Charles’s piano fading into the background as the space between them became charged. His thumb brushed the corner of her lower lip as he held the cigarette steady. There was a gravity in his gaze now, a silent communication that the dork was stepping aside for a moment to let the man who had been wanting this all week take the lead.

She didn't blink. She met his stare with an intensity of her own, her eyes tracking the slight movement of his hand before she leaned in. She took a slow, deep drag of the cigarette while his fingers remained touching her mouth, the cherry of the tobacco glowing bright between them. As she exhaled, the cloud ghosting over his lips, Eddie didn't move an inch. He just waited, his heart hammering a heavy beat against his ribs, finally ready to see exactly where this was going to lead him.

She reached out and took the cigarette from his fingers, her eyes never breaking the connection as she leaned over to crush it out in an ashtray resting precariously atop a stack of heavy hardbacks. When she turned back, she didn't settle back against the crates. Instead, she rose onto her knees, the mattress dipping and the wooden pallets beneath giving a groan under her weight.

She reached for the lapels of his leather vest. "Can I take this off?" she whispered, her voice soft. Eddie nodded, his throat too tight to offer a witty retort. He worked his arms out of the heavy leather, helping her slide it off his shoulders until it slumped onto the floorboards. Without the vest, he felt suddenly exposed, his white t-shirt clinging to him in a way that felt like it was broadcasting every boney shape of his torso.

She didn't move toward his shirt yet. Instead, her hands found his forearms. Her touch was light, almost feather-like, as her fingertips traced the ink of the puppet master leading toward his elbows, until he turned his arm around and her callouses landed on his bats. She followed the lines of the wings with a slow reverence that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. "Do you have any others?" she murmured, her thumb pressing into the soft skin of his inner wrist.

"Yeah," Eddie rasped. "A few."

"Can I see them?" 

He nodded again. His hands reached for the hem of his shirt, and for a second, they stalled. He didn't say he was nervous, but the fabric of his shirt bunched and trembled in his grip. He pulled the shirt up and over his head, the cotton catching briefly on his messy curls before he tossed it aside. The air in the room hit his bare skin, and he felt an involuntary shiver ripple across his shoulders. He didn't look at her immediately. Instead, he looked down at his own lap, his chest rising and falling in shallow, visible hitches. He stayed very still, his elbows tucked slightly inward as if trying to take up less space, his fingers curling and uncurling against his denim-clad thighs. He felt every inch of himself on display. The pale stretch of his torso, the dark ink of the demon on his chest, the way his ribs flared with every breath. He was waiting for the verdict, his entire frame humming with a tension so tight it felt like a guitar string tuned three steps too high, vibrating on the verge of snapping.

She didn't move away. If anything, she drifted closer, the mattress dipping further as she moved her weight to accommodate the new, bare reality of him. Her hands remained steady as they migrated from his wrists up the lean, pale expanse of his arms. When her fingertips finally reached the ink, she traced. Her touch was agonizingly slow. A gentle exploration that turned his skin into a sensory minefield. She lingered especially long on the spider perched near his collarbone, her index finger following the spindly, arched legs of the arachnid where they led into the hollow of his throat. Eddie felt his swallow catch halfway down, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath her touch. He was acutely aware of how small her hand looked against his chest, and how loudly his heart was thumping against his ribs.

She let out a low hum that seemed to resonate in the small space between them. "Very metal, Munson," she murmured, a trace of a smile ghosting her lips as she admired the dark artwork. Her hand slid around to the side of his bicep, her eyes scanning the collection of symbols and creatures he’d gathered like a visual diary of his own rebellion. "So, tell me," she whispered, her breath warm against the skin of his shoulder. "Which one is your favorite?"

Eddie took a shaky breath, the air whistling through his teeth as he tried to regain his composure. He shifted his weight, rotating his right arm slightly so the back of it faced her. "This one," he said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin toward his triceps. Under the amber lamplight, the ink was visible. A sharp-winged, serpentine dragon coiling around the faint, almost non-existent muscle of his arm. Its jaw frozen in a silent, defiant roar. It was older than the others, the lines a bit softer but the detail still fierce.

"The wyvern," he explained, his voice gaining a sliver of that old storytelling gravity. "Most people think it’s just a dragon, but it’s different. Two legs instead of four. It’s a bit of an underdog in the monster manual. It’s got to be faster, meaner, and more resourceful just to survive." He paused, his eyes flickering up to hers for a brief second. "I always felt a bit of a kinship with the lesser monsters. They usually have better stories."

She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her nose almost brushing the ink of the wyvern’s wing as she studied it with a focus that made Eddie’s entire arm feel like it was on fire. "The underdog monster," she repeated softly.  Eddie’s gaze flickered away, his neck flushing a deeper shade of red. He couldn’t maintain that level of eye contact. Not while he was sitting shirtless on a pallet bed, feeling like she was reading the fine print of his soul via the ink on his skin. It was exposure of the highest order. The good kind that made your skin tingle and your stomach drop.

His eyes landed on the charcoal sketches tacked to the wall near the easel. Her talent was undeniable. The lines were aggressive but precise, capturing shadows with accuracy. "I didn't realize you were... god, I didn't realize you were this incredible at art," he said, his voice regaining some of its volume as he focused on a sketch of a detailed spindly tree. He let out a breathless chuckle. "I mean, I probably should've guessed, right? You're literally in school to be an artist. It’s kind of in the job description."

She shrugged, her hand dropping from his arm as she leaned back slightly, her expression shifting into something uncharacteristically modest. "I’m decent. It’s mostly just a way to get the noise out of my head."

Eddie shook his head emphatically, his wild curls bouncing. "No, Bedford. You're better than decent. You’re 'enlist-you-to-design-my-next-campaign-map' good. Or better yet..." He looked back at her, a spark of genuine excitement momentarily overriding his nerves. "I’d kill to have you design my next tattoo."

She scoffed, a quick sound of dismissal as she shook her head. "No way. I am not letting you put my doodles on your body permanently, Munson."

Eddie blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Why not? I like them."

"Because they aren’t good enough," she said, her voice dropping. "It’s just sketches, Eddie. Tattoos are... they're forever. You deserve better than some amateur student's charcoal practice."

Eddie didn't even hesitate. He gestured down to the large, snarling demon head sitting right in the center of his sternum, the lines a bit shaky and the shading somewhat muddy. "Bedford, look at this guy," he said with a lopsided grin, tapping the ink over his heart. "The art here isn't exactly immaculate. The guy who did it was working out of a kitchen in a trailer park and he might have been seeing double by the time he got to the smile. It's there permanently. And I love it anyway, you know? But what you do? That’s a hell of a lot better than half the shit already on this pasty white ass of mine."

Her eyes searched his face as if she were trying to see the version of her art that he saw. "I’ll think about it," she murmured, though the stubborn set of her jaw had softened. "But if I draw it, it’s going to be something that actually lives up to the rest of this canvas."

The conversation about ink and art had acted like a brief bridge over a chasm, but now the bridge was falling away, leaving them right back on the edge of the mattress. The weight of the room shifted. The playful debate ended, and in its place, a thick, pressurized tension settled over them. She didn't move her hand away this time. Instead, she let her fingers wander back to his chest, tracing the outline of the demon on his skin before drifting lower, mapping the lean ridges of his stomach. Her touch was slower now, more deliberate, and her gaze followed the path of her hand with a focus that made Eddie feel like he was being memorized.

"You know," she whispered. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting against the shell of his ear, her breath hitching just slightly. "Under all that leather and the hair... you sure are pretty, Eddie."

Eddie felt his stomach do a slow, dizzying roll as her fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans. He was still vibrating, and feeling like he was one wrong move away from short-circuiting, but when he looked at her, he saw a girl who was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. He reached up, his hand trembling only slightly now as he cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't say anything, and honestly he couldn't have found the words if he'd tried, but the way he pulled her back into a kiss was his answer. It was desperate, heavy, and carried the weight of a week's worth of wanting, finally boiling over in the quiet of the room.

The heavy, electric air of the room seemed to thicken as she pulled back just enough to create a sliver of space between them. The Ray Charles track had transitioned into a slower, more rhythmic groove, the brass section humming steady in the background. She reached behind her back, her shoulder blades moving beneath the fabric as she fumbled with the small zipper at the top of her dress.

Eddie watched her, his hands still hovering in the air where her neck had been just seconds before. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown out until the dark irises were almost indistinguishable. He didn't move until he saw her fingers slip against the metal, a frustrated little huff escaping her lips. He simply tilted his head, a silent, wide-eyed question written across his face: Do you want me to do it?

She met his gaze and gave a single nod. She turned her back to him, the movement shifting the mattress. Eddie took a breath that felt like it had to travel through a mile of lead to reach his lungs. He reached out, his fingers feeling immense and clumsy as he approached the delicate task. As his knuckles grazed her, he felt the heat radiating off her. He found the tiny metal tab and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He was so agonizingly slow. As the fabric began to part, revealing the graceful line of her spine, Eddie’s pulse spiked so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He followed the path of the zipper all the way down to the small of her back, his hand shaking with a tremor he could no longer suppress.

He didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his hand hovering just an inch from where the dress had loosened. As she reached up, she hooked her thumbs under the delicate silk straps and eased them over the curve of her shoulders. The dress surrendered, sliding down her frame in a rustle until it pooled around her hips on the low mattress.

Eddie’s brain, usually hyperactive, stalled into a total whiteout. He had spent years imagining moments like this. Moments fueled by late-night magazines but none of it had prepared him for the quiet reality of a woman in front of him. He realized then, that there was no lace or wire to be found. She had been wearing nothing but the dress and a thin-strapped pair of panties, leaving her almost entirely bare to the soft light of the room. When she turned back around to face him, the shift in her weight caused the pallet bed to groan softly.

His eyes tracked upward. He viewed the front of her, his gaze lingering on the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He felt the ache of inadequacy. He was so aware of his own frame. The lanky, pale limbs, the dark ink, the tremors he couldn't hide, meanwhile he looked like something carved from marble and moonlight.  His hands, still resting near his knees, twitched. He felt a bead of sweat trek down the back of his neck, the air in the room suddenly feeling five degrees hotter. He wanted to say something but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth.

She didn't look away, and she didn't try to cover herself. She sat there on her knees, her shoulders back, watching the way his eyes moved over her with a quiet, patient confidence. Sensing his paralysis, she reached out and took his hands and guided them back to her waist. Even as his fingers made contact with the soft curve of her hips, Eddie couldn’t keep his gaze steady. His eyes began to dart, frantic and wide, scanning the room as if looking for an exit. He looked at the Ray Charles record spinning on the turntable, at the charcoal sketches on the wall, at the hole in his left sock. Anywhere but the overwhelming reality of the bare woman sitting inches from him. 

"Eddie," she murmured in the storm of his panic.

Before he could find his voice to offer a shaky apology she rose onto her feet for a fleeting second, just enough to step over his legs. In that brief transition, the silk dress, no longer held up by the curve of her waist from where she sat, surrendered completely. It slid down her frame as it hit the floorboards.

Then, she climbed onto his lap. The mattress dipped sharply under the added weight. She straddled him, her knees tucking into the space beside his hips, her weight settling firmly against his thighs. He froze, his head snapping up as he was forced to look at her. She was right there, her breath ghosting over his lips, her heat radiating into his chest. He could see the slight tremor in her own shoulders now, a mirror of his own nerves that she had finally stopped trying to hide. He felt small and large all at once, a chaotic mess of ink and nerves held together by the sheer gravity of her presence.

She reached up, her fingers sliding into the wild, tangled mess of his hair, cupping the back of his head to steady him. She didn't push, just held him there, in the center of the world they had built on a shitty pallet bed in a creaky house. "Breath, Munson," she whispered, her forehead leaning against his.

He reached up, his hands still trembling slightly, and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in a way that grainy magazines and his own imagination had never quite managed to convey. A soft, breathless "oh" escaped him, his eyes widening as the reality of her superseded every fantasy he’d ever had.

She looked down at him, a flicker of concern softening her gaze. "Is something wrong? Do you not...?"

"No," Eddie rasped. "No, nothing is wrong. It's just... I’ve never actually felt bare tits before. I didn't realize they’d be this soft. Or this nice. It’s like... god, it's incredible."

The honesty of it seemed to ground them both. Emboldened by her proximity, his thumbs began to move of their own accord, tracing the peaked circles of her nipples. He wasn't even thinking about it. It was an instinctual, tactile curiosity, like a musician finding the right tension on a string.

Her eyes fluttered shut instantly, her head falling back as a long, shaky sigh escaped her lips. Eddie froze, his thumbs going still. "Are you okay? Did I... was that too much?"

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, her eyes remaining closed as she leaned into his touch. "No, Eddie. It’s fine. It just... it felt really good."

Eddie stayed very still. He looked down at his hands, watching the way his calloused, ring-adorned thumbs were pressed against her. Tits had always been a visual concept to him. He hadn't considered the intricacies of the anatomy or the fact that something so small could be so easily stimulated. He hadn't realized that the texture could change under his touch, or that a simple, unconscious movement of his thumb could elicit a sound like that from her. He moved his thumbs again, more deliberately this time, watching the way her breath hitched in response.

He remembered Tuesday. He remembered the cramped interior of the War Wagon, the smell of gasoline and rain, and the way she had come alive when he’d buried his face in the crook of her neck. He remembered how her hands had gripped his hair, and how her hips had found a frantic, punishing rhythm against his denim-clad thigh the moment his lips hit that one sensitive spot.

With a spike of confidence, Eddie leaned forward, letting his head drop. He pressed his mouth into the hollow of her throat, his lips finding the jump of her pulse point. He tasted the faint salt of her skin and the lingering vanilla of her perfume, and he felt a low, vibrating growl start in the back of his own chest. The reaction was instantaneous and even more violent than it had been in the van. A ragged, choked-off sound escaped her as she arched her back, her fingers clenching into the tangled curls at the nape of his neck with enough force to make him wince even if he didn’t mind the pain. The shift in her body was tectonic as she began to grind against his lap. The contact was devastating. Every time his lips moved against her skin, every time his teeth grazed the column of her throat, she responded with a renewed, desperate pressure, her breath coming in short, staccato gasps that synced perfectly with the beat of the Ray Charles record.

She reached down between them, her fingers fumbling with the heavy silver buckle of his belt. Her knuckles grazed the skin just above his waistband, and the contact made Eddie’s vision swim for a second. She wasn't being delicate anymore. There was a hungry energy in the way she worked the leather through the loops, her breath coming in hot, uneven puffs against his shoulder.

Eddie didn’t need a second invitation. "I've got it," his voice a distorted rumble.

He shifted his weight, bracing one hand against the rough wood of the pallet frame to steady them both as he helped her. He made quick work of the button and then he was reaching down to shove the denim toward his knees. He kicked his legs out, the heavy fabric and his leather belt pooling on the floorboards. Eddie sat there, stripped down to the absolute bare essentials, feeling the cool draft of the room against his legs.

His mind flashed back to the van ride earlier with the ego-shattering sensation of her mouth on him. It had been amazing, a core memory in the making, but there was a world of difference between a dark backseat and this room. Being exposed like this, with the light catching every awkward angle of his lanky frame and the nervous tremors he still couldn't quite kill, felt like being on stage without a guitar to hide behind. As she moved to climb back onto his lap, her weight shifting the mattress again, his hand drifted to the thin, delicate strap of her underwear. He gave it a playful, nervous snap against her hip.

"Hey," his voice cracked just a hair before he steadied it. He looked up at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "How exactly does a guy go about... returning the favor?"

A flicker of genuine confusion crossed her face. "Returning the favor?"

"Yeah," Eddie said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "You know. Going down. On you. How does a guy do that properly?"

She shrugged, her gaze dropping for a second as she shifted her weight. "I... I'm not really sure, actually."

The admission caught Eddie off guard. The insecure part that lived in the back of his brain, had been trying very hard not to think about her with other guys. He’d assumed, given the sheer confidence she’d shown thus far, that she’d done this a thousand times with guys far more polished than a trailer park metalhead. He figured if she knew how to handle him like that, she must have had plenty of people eager to return the gesture. But looking at her now, seeing that small, uncertain shrug, he realized he might have been wrong. Maybe the Siren didn’t get as much back as she gave. Maybe nobody had ever bothered to take the time to learn the map of her.

The thought made a desperate desire to be the one who got it right. He didn't care if he was a novice. "Can I..." he started, his voice barely a whisper, a quiet question lost in the soul music humming from the speakers. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the fabric he’d just snapped. "Can I try? To figure it out?"

She sputtered, a startled, breathless sound that was a far cry from her usual composure. "Eddie, I’ve heard... I’ve heard it’s really not that great. Most guys say it’s a chore, or they don’t do it for a reason. You really don't have to."

Eddie just shrugged, a slow, lopsided tilt of his shoulders that conveyed a stubborn lack of concern for what most guys thought. "I don’t really care what the consensus is. I want to try. I want to know everything about you, remember? That includes the parts people are too lazy to appreciate."

She bit her lip, looking at him with a mix of disbelief and a growing heat. Finally, she gave a small, reluctant nod. "Okay. Fine. Lay back."

Eddie didn't need to be told twice. He eased himself down onto the mattress, his head resting against her mismatched pillows. As he settled, she reached down and slid the final barrier down her legs, discarding it somewhere in the shadows near his clothes. Then, she leaned over him, her hand finding the switch on the beaded lamp. The warm glow vanished, replaced instantly by the cinematic palette of the night. The room now washed in the pale, silver-blue light of the moon and the distant, flickering orange of a streetlamp filtering through the window. It cast long, dramatic shadows across the art supplies and the guitar rack, making the space feel even more like a private world.

Eddie reached up, his large hands finding the backs of her thighs. He felt the soft curve of her as he gently but firmly tugged her forward, guiding her weight until she was hovering directly over his face. As his eyes slowly adapted to the shadows of the room, Eddie felt like he was peering through a lens into a world he had only ever heard described in hushed, exaggerated tones. Up close, the perspective changed everything. 

The reality was far more detailed than any magazine centerfold. Everything was soft and curved, anchored by the patch of groomed hair that felt like just another texture to memorize. The gravity of the moment was too heavy for a punchline. He let out a shaky exhale and gave a slow, experimental swipe of his tongue across her folds. It was a tentative move, a basic chord struck on an unfamiliar instrument just to see how it sounded.

She buckled, her weight dropping slightly as her knees trembled. One of her hands, which had been resting tentatively on his shoulder for balance, suddenly lunged forward. Her fingers tangled deep into the wild, messy curls of his hair, her knuckles pressing hard against his scalp as she gripped a fistful of him. Eddie’s eyes went wide in the dark. He felt her fingers tighten in his hair, a silent, desperate command to keep going. He didn’t pull away. Emboldened by the way she gripped his hair, Eddie leaned back in, his movements losing their tentative edge and gaining a focused intent. He let his tongue linger this time, a long, slow stroke that started low and followed the center line upward.

He experimented with the pressure, moving from a broad, flat sweep to the sharper, more targeted tip of his tongue. He found that if he swirled it in small, concentrated circles against the sensitive peak hidden in the shadows, her breath shattered. Every time she let out an airy gasp, Eddie cataloged it. He noticed that a soft, suctioning pull of his lips combined with a steady, flicking motion was what made her hips start that searching roll again. He was fascinated by the mechanics of it. The way the textures shifted from soft and velvet-like to something slick and responsive under his touch.

His nose brushed against her, and he breathed in the scent of her deeply feeling it settle into his lungs like a heavy fog. He began to use his lips more, grazing the tender skin of her inner thighs before returning to the center, his tongue now moving with a more confident, metronome-like rhythm. Eddie felt her fingers tighten even further in his hair, pulling him closer as if she were afraid he’d disappear if she let go. The sound of his own heavy breathing and the wet slide of his tongue became the only soundtrack in the room, drowning out the faint crackle of the record player. 

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, and her hips began to shake with a fine, uncontrollable tremor that vibrated right through his jaw. She let out a sound that wasn't a gasp or a moan, but something raw and grounded. Her strength simply vanished. Her knees, which had been bracketed so firmly around his face, gave out as she collapsed forward, her weight landing fully across his chest and face. Eddie didn't mind. He melted back into the pillows, his head sinking into the soft fabric as he took the full weight of her. He let his arms wrap around her back, his hands splaying wide against her skin to steady her as she shook against him. The room was silent except for the heavy, desperate sound of her trying to find her air and the low, skipping hiss of the record player needle reaching the end of the groove. He lay there in the moonlight. He was exhausted, his jaw ached, and his hair was a total disaster, but as he felt her thighs twitching against the side of his cheek , her skin damp and warm, a triumphant grin spread across his face. 

She finally stirred, her limbs moving with a slow, clumsiness as she slid off his face. She retreated only a few inches, kneeling beside him on the tangled sheets, her chest still heaving in uneven swells. The moonlight caught the stunned widening of her eyes as she looked down at him, her lips parted but silent, as if the connection between her brain and her voice had been temporarily severed by the sheer force of what had just happened.

Eddie didn’t move for a long moment, content to let the room spin around him while he stared up at the ceiling. Slowly, he turned his head to meet her gaze, his messy curls splayed out against the pillow like a dark halo. "So," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been scraped over gravel. "I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say the general population of men are wrong."

She tried to speak, her throat clicking as she swallowed, but only a faint, airy sound escaped. She looked genuinely shaken, a far cry from the composed girl who had been teasing him about his socks only an hour ago.

Eddie let out a chuckle, his aching jaw stretching into that triumphant, lopsided grin. "Seriously, Bedford. I don’t get it. I don't understand why guys wouldn't want to do that. People talk about it like it’s some kind of chore you have to get through, but that?" He shook his head, his dark eyes glowing in the silver light. "That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of."

She shook her head weakly, her voice finally returning in a hushed, disbelieving whisper. "It’s... it’s messy, Eddie. And it’s not… I don’t know. It feels a bit one sided…"

"One-sided?" Eddie repeated, a spark of genuine amusement dancing in his gaze. He didn't bother with words to argue. Instead, he simply gestured down toward his lap, where the thin fabric of his boxers was stretched taut, the unmistakable, rigid tenting leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Does that look one-sided to you?" he asked, his brow arching in a playful, defiant challenge. "Because from where I’m lying, I’m pretty sure I was getting just as much out of that as you were. Seeing you like that? Hearing those sounds?" He let out a long, shaky exhale, his hand reaching out to trace the line of her knee. "I’d spend every night in this room right between your thighs just to get that reaction out of you again. No contest."

She let out a soft, mortified groan and immediately covered her face with her hands, her fingers splaying wide as if she could physically shield herself from the unvarnished honesty of his gaze. "Hey, none of that," Eddie said. He reached up, his large hands gently encircling her wrists. He didn't use force, just a persuasive tug, prying her hands away from her face until he could see her eyes again. "Don't you dare go covering your pretty face now. Not when I’m trying to tell you how fucking sexy you are."

He leaned up on one elbow, his face inches from hers. "Seriously. Riding my face like you were trying to find a way to take flight? That’s going to be burned into my retinas until the day I die."

She let out a strangled yelp, his name escaping her in a shocked, high-pitched rush of air and immediately surrendered the fight, diving forward to bury her face into the crook of his shoulder. She was warm, her damp skin pressing against his bare chest, and Eddie couldn't help the triumphant rumble of laughter that vibrated through his ribs. He didn't push her for more words. He knew the feeling of being overstimulated and too nervous to speak. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close into the mismatched pillows. He began to draw aimless, drifting patterns on the skin of her back. His fingers traced the line of her spine, circling the small of her back before wandering up to the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades.

He watched the way her breathing gradually slowed. She began to melt into his frame, her limbs losing their defensive tension and draping over him with a comfortable familiarity. The room was quiet, save for the insistent, click-hiss of the turntable needle. Eddie shifted slightly, his lips grazing the shell of her ear as he leaned in. "As much as I love this, and believe me, I could stay right here until the sun comes up," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, "I should probably flip the record over. Side B has all the good songs,” 

She looked up from his shoulder, her eyes heavy-lidded and gave a slow nod. Eddie felt the sudden absence of her heat as he slid off the edge of the mattress. His bare feet met the cold floorboards with a soft creak. He reached the turntable and carefully lifted the needle, the rhythmic scratching finally cutting to a blissful silence. He flipped the record to Side B and lowered the needle, and a few seconds later, the first notes of a low, soul-drenched ballad began to bleed into the room, the bass line thick.

While the music swelled, he heard the sound of movement behind him. He turned back to see her reaching into one of the cubby-style compartments built into the headboard. When he reached the edge of the bed, she was sitting up slightly, her hand extended. Between her fingers, catching a glint of the streetlamp's orange glow, was a small, square foil packet. Eddie froze, his hand hovering over hers as the reality of the situation finally caught up with his adrenaline. He took the packet, the plastic crinkling under his thumb, and let out a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, sobering sincerity. He sat on the edge of the mattress, looking down at the condom in his palm. In his rush to get her clothes off and prove he wasn't just a dork with a hole in his sock, the actual logistics of protection had completely slipped his mind. He’d been flying by the seat of his pants, literally and figuratively. He looked back at her. "I’m an idiot. It just dawned on me that I don't have one in the van, let alone in my pocket. And trust me, Uncle Wayne would personally castrate me if I managed to knock someone up before I got my hands on that diploma.”

Eddie took a deep breath as he reached for the elastic waistband of his boxers and tugged them off, the fabric falling to join the graveyard of denim and silk on the floorboards. Standing there completely bare in the moonlight, he felt a momentary return of that vulnerability, but it was quickly overshadowed by the task at hand. He tore the foil packet open with a shaky thumb and forefinger, pulling out the small latex ring. He squinted at it, his brain working overtime to pull a hazy, half-remembered demonstration from a health class filmstrip out of the depths of his memory. He set it against his tip and tried to roll it down, but the rubber snagged, stubborn and unyielding.

"Dammit," he hissed under his breath, a flush creeping up his neck. He didn't let the frustration take hold, though. He flipped the ring over, centered it, and tried again. This time, it glided down his length with a smooth ease. He let out a silent sigh of relief.

He turned back toward the bed, intending to climb back into the spot they’d carved out on top of the sheets, but he paused. In the time he’d been occupied, she had reached back and pulled the covers open. She was lying back against the pillows now, the pale light tracing the curves of her body as she waited for him. Eddie didn't hesitate. He slid into the bed, the cool cotton of the sheets a stark contrast to the heat radiating off her. He moved, bracing his weight on his forearms as he dragged himself over her frame.

The full length of him settling against her, skin to skin, heart to heart. He could feel every breath she took, and the way her thighs parted naturally to welcome his weight made his head light. He hovered there for a second, his nose brushing against hers, his eyes searching her face in the shadows. In the cool, blue-shadowed light, she looked up at him, her hand reaching up to brush a stray, wild curl away from his forehead.

"Eddie?" she asked, her voice a soft, barely-there thread of sound. "Are you okay?"

He took a breath, his chest expanding against hers. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against her own, his eyes closing. "I'm just nervous," he whispered back. "I've been thinking about this for a long time. I don't want to mess up."

She shifted beneath him, her hands sliding down to rest on his shoulder blades. "We don't have to rush it," she murmured. "We have all night. We can just... be here."

Eddie opened his eyes, his dark gaze locking onto hers. "It's okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, certain rumble. "I want to."

He tilted his head and closed the small gap between them, his lips meeting hers in a kiss. This was slow. It was a lingering exploration, his mouth soft and patient. Her tongue began to move against his, a lazy dance. It was a deep, sensory conversation without words, each movement a question and each response a quiet, certain answer. Eddie felt his entire body relax into the mattress, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolving into the warmth of the bed. She let the kiss linger until his heart was thudding a heavy beat against her ribs, and then she slowly pulled away. She didn't go far. Just enough to look at him, her lips damp and parted in the moonlight, her hands tightening their grip on his shoulders as the music outside the covers seemed to fade into the background.

Eddie shifted his weight, bracing himself on one shaky forearm. He reached down between them, his fingers searching for the right alignment, but the angles felt all wrong. He let out a soft, frustrated huff, his brow furrowing as he fumbled. "Dammit," he hissed, his voice a strained, breathy rasp against her collarbone. "I swear... the movies and the magazines always make this part look like a seamless transition. I feel like I'm trying to tune a guitar with boxing gloves on."

She let out a tiny, truncated laugh and reached down to meet him. Her fingers were steady where his were trembling. She guided him. The moment they finally aligned, Eddie let out a long, shaky exhale. He felt the initial, velvet-soft resistance and then the slow, incredible glide as he found exactly what he’d been searching for. He didn't move any further. He just stayed there, poised at the threshold, his eyes fixed on hers. He looked down at her, his pupils so blown out they swallowed the dark irises entirely, leaving only a reflection of the moonlight. He wanted to see her expression.

Slowly, with an agonizingly careful pressure, he pushed in just a tad. Eddie’s breath caught in his throat, his jaw tightening as he felt the sheer, overwhelming heat of the connection. He stayed perfectly still, waiting for her to tell him that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Eddie’s eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, his head dropping back as he choked out "God... it’s so hot," the words sounding like they were being squeezed from his lungs by a heavy weight. "It’s really, really hot."

She looked up at him, her hands moving from his shoulders to cup the sides of his face, her palms cool against his feverish skin. "Do you want to stop?" she whispered, her voice laced with a genuine, quiet concern that nearly broke his focus.

He shook his head immediately. He forced his eyes open, pinning her with a look that was raw and desperately sincere. "No," he rasped, his chest heaving against hers. "No, don't–don't stop. Am I... am I okay to keep going. Are you okay?"

She didn't hesitate, giving him a firm, encouraging nod as she pulled his head down to press a quick, salt-sweet kiss to his forehead. "I'm okay. Go ahead, Eddie." He took a breath that felt like it was made of liquid gold and pushed forward, the movement slow and deliberate as he settled deeper into the heat.

He had spent years hearing guys talk about this. Exaggerated stories told over cheap beer and cigarettes, but none of them had ever mentioned the weight of it. Being inside her for the first time felt like finally stepping inside the music instead of just listening to it from across the room. It was an overwhelming, pressurized warmth that seemed to wrap around not just his body, but his very pulse. He was fascinated by the way his own rhythm was being dictated by the velvet-tight squeeze of her, the way every small shift in his hips sent a corresponding ripple through his entire frame.

It wasn't just "sex". That word felt too small and simple for the reality of the silver light, the soul music, and the way her body was stretching and yielding to accommodate his lanky, awkward self. He felt grounded and untethered all at once. A chaotic mix of ink and bone finally finding its center in the quiet, humid dark of the bed. He watched her face as he realized that no magazine or porno could have ever prepared him for the sheer, staggering intimacy of being this close to another human being.

Eddie had always been a creature of high-energy distractions. Loud music, chaotic campaigns, the constant hum of being the "freak" everyone expected him to be. He had assumed that this would follow that same trajectory. He’d expected a surge of pleasure, a release, and maybe a bit of a boost to the ego he spent so much time pretending was bulletproof.

But this wasn't simple. It wasn't just a physical thing.

It was a total, terrifying dissolution of the boundaries he’d built around himself. Being inside her felt less like a conquest and more like a surrender in some odd way. He felt every hitched breath she took as if it were his own. He felt the way her fingers traced the lines of his shoulders and realized she wasn't just touching his skin. She was touching the parts of him he usually kept hidden behind a denim vest and a wall of jokes.

The intimacy of it was overwhelming. Eddie didn’t feel like he was just "getting laid" in the way the guys in the locker room used to brag about. He was being seen, completely and utterly, in a way that made his messy life feel... enough. The pleasure was there, but it was anchored by something much heavier: the weight of being the person she chose to appreciate unfiltered. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers in the pale light, and for the first time, he didn't feel like he had to perform. He didn't have to be the Dungeon Master or the lead guitarist or the charismatic outcast. He was just Eddie, and she was just her, and they were building something in the silence of this room that didn't need a dramatic flair for the sake of survival.

He shifted his weight forward, his brow furrowing as he tried to translate theory into motion. It wasn’t like the movies. There was no automatic rhythm. He started with small, tentative movements, pulling back just an inch and then sliding back in, his body feeling heavy and uncoordinated. He experimented with the angle of his hips, a bit frustrated by the clumsy friction of the sheets against his knees, until he adjusted his tilt and felt the resistance give way to a smoother, deeper glide.He started to move more deliberately, letting the slow, honeyed tempo of the Side B ballad dictate his pace. He went deeper this time, in a long, steady slide that made him let out a low sound against the hollow of her neck. He felt her respond with a gasp, her body unfolding and relaxing around him as if she were finally letting him into the deepest part of her.

He watched her face in the silver moonlight, fascinated by the change. The tension in her jaw was gone, replaced by a soft, dazed expression, her lips parted as her breath began to sync with his. She started to meet him, her hips rising slightly to greet each stroke, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his hair, pulling him down until their chests were fused.

Her fingers dug into his scalp with a new, hungry urgency, and the small moans she let out told him he was finally getting it right. Seeing her enjoy it in the way her eyes clouded over with pleasure, made Eddie feel ten feet tall. 

Eddie felt the heat in his core intensifying in a thrumming that started at the base of his spine and radiated outward until his fingertips felt numb. He leaned down, his voice against her ear. "I’m close... God, I’m really close," he managed to choke out, his muscles locking with the effort of trying to maintain his pace without shattering.

She responded by shifting beneath him, her thighs opening wider to bracket his hips, her heels digging into the mattress to pull him even deeper. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice thick and dazed. "Just let go, Eddie. Don't stop."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face pained. He shook his head, a wild curl falling over his damp forehead. "No, wait," he breathed, his chest heaving. "What about you? I want... how do I get you there?"

The sheer, unselfish desperation in his voice must have made her soften. She didn't say a word; instead, she reached down between their fused bodies, catching his hand. She guided his fingers, placing them firmly against the sensitive peak of her clit that was already slick and swollen. Eddie watched, his breath hitching, as she kept her hand over his, demonstrating a steady pressure. She moved his fingers in small circles, with a friction that made her head fall back against the pillows with a sharp inhale.

"Like that?" he whispered, his eyes wide as he cataloged the way her body arched under the touch.

"Yes," she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just like that. Don't stop moving, Eddie. Do both."

For a few seconds, Eddie’s brain short-circuited. He’d find the right pressure with his fingers only to have his hips falter, or he’d get the glide back only to lose the circular motion she’d taught him. "I’m trying," he grunted, his brow furrowed. But then, he stopped thinking. He found a sweet spot where the slide of his hips provided the base and the friction of his thumb provided the high notes. As he locked into it, she let out a gasp that echoed off the walls, her back arching off the mattress until only her heels and shoulders were touching the bed.

The sensation of her clenching around him was a velvet-tight seizure that sent a white-hot spark straight to his brain. Eddie’s eyes went wide and he let out a startled, unceremonious swear. "Holy—!"

He felt the control snap. It wasn't a choice . He came with a force that made his vision blur into a haze of moonlight, his head falling forward into the crook of her neck. He wanted to stop, to just sink into the sheets and breathe, but she wasn't done. Her hand shot down, her fingers locking around his wrist like a vice, pinning his hand in place against her. "Don't," she choked out, a desperate, commanding edge to her voice. "Don't stop, Eddie. Please."

He forced himself to move, his muscles screaming and his heart doing an uneven gallop. He pushed through the overstimulated haze, maintaining the pressure with his hand even as his body felt like it was turning to mush. He kept the rhythm, stumbling but persistent, until she finally hit the edge. She let out a high, broken cry that was muffled against his shoulder, her fingers digging into his wrist so hard he’d probably have nail bites tomorrow.

Eddie lay there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against her damp shoulder, before the reality of his own lanky frame hit him. "Sorry, shit, I'm probably crushing you," he panted, his voice a ghost of its usual self.

He moved, rolling off her and onto the cool side of the mattress. The sudden shift in temperature made him shiver, but he focused on the task at hand. He reached down, his fingers still a bit shaky, to carefully remove the condom and tie it off. He set it aside on the floor, feeling a strange, quiet sense of pride in the plastic proof of his deflowering. Once he was clear, he didn't stay on his side of the bed for more than a second. He rolled back toward her, his arm sliding out to hook around her waist and pull her flush against his chest. He tucked his chin over her shoulder, his wild, sweat-damp curls touching her cheek as he settled into the crook of her neck.

"You okay?" he whispered, his hand splaying against her stomach, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over her skin. "I didn't... I didn't break you, did I?"

She let out a soft, tired giggle that vibrated through him, her hand coming up to rest over his. "No, Eddie. I'm definitely not broken."

"Good," he murmured, his eyes drifting shut as the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving a deep exhaustion in its wake.  Eddie’s eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by a satisfaction so deep it felt structural. He shifted his head slightly, his nose brushing against the soft skin of her nape, and let out a long, contented sigh. 

"Hey," he murmured, the word slurring just a bit as sleep began to pull at him. "Your aunt... is she gonna, like, bust in here at dawn and flip her lid? Because I’m pretty sure I don’t have the energy to jump out a window right now. My legs are officially made of lead."

He felt her chest move with a quiet, tired huff of amusement. She turned her head just enough to catch his gaze in the dim moonlight, her eyes soft and glazed with the same lingering haze that was clouding his own mind. "She’s in Chicago until Monday," she whispered. 

Eddie’s brain processed it slowly. The implications of a whole weekend of this. Of her, of this room, of the lack of a ticking clock. He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer until there wasn't a single gap of air between them.  "So," he started, his voice barely audible over the hum of the house. "You want me to... you want me to stick around? Or do you want your bed back?”

She didn't even hesitate, the answer leaving her lips with a soft, certain breath. "Stay," she whispered, her fingers interlacing with his where they rested on her stomach. "I just want you to turn that record player off before the needle wears a hole straight through the vinyl."

Eddie let out a huffed laugh, "Copy that, Bedford."

He started to shift, bracing himself, but he stopped mid-motion. He hovered over her, his arms framing her head against the mismatched pillows. In the silver-blue wash of the moonlight, she looked softer than he’d ever seen her. "You know," he murmured, "you look so beautiful right now it’s actually kind of terrifying. Like, 'legendary siren pulling a sailor to his doom' terrifying."

He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss right between her brows, his lips soft against her skin. When he pulled back, he didn't move away immediately. He worried his bottom lip for a second, the bravado finally failing him as he asked the question that had been thrumming in the back of his mind since the van. "So... just for the record," he started, trying and failing to sound off-hand, "does this, uh... does this officially make us a couple? Or is there a specific ritual or a signed contract I’m missing? Because I’m pretty new to the 'not-a-loner' scene."

She reached up, her palm cupping his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with tenderness. "Eddie Munson," she said, a playful but firm glint in her eyes, "you are not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me now."

A slow, genuine grin spread across his face. "Stuck, huh? Yeah, I think I can live with that."

He slid out of bed just long enough to cross the room, as he finally clicked the turntable off. The silence that followed was profound, filled only by the soft creak of the floorboards as he practically dove back under the covers. He pulled her close, her back against his chest and his chin tucked into the crook of her neck, his long limbs tangling with hers until they were a single, messy knot of warmth. As the edges of sleep began to blur his thoughts, he thought of the charred, skeletal remains of the Starcourt Mall. A place that had felt like the center of his frustration only a week ago. He thought of the long, aimless drive across the county line, his fingers drumming irritably on the steering wheel of the van, cursing the luck that had forced him to travel a town over just to find a shop with a decent set of guitar strings. He had been so angry at the inconvenience. He had spent the whole drive thinking about how much gas he was losing.

Now, with the scent of her skin filling his senses and the steady, solid reality of her heart beating against his arm, the memory of that frustration felt like a different lifetime. It was a strange realization. That a fire in a town he hated had been the exact pieces of luck required to lead him to this room. If the world hadn't inconvenienced him just a little bit, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't know the sound she made when she lost her breath, or the way the moonlight made her look like something he didn't deserve but was allowed to hold anyway.

He tightened his grip on her, a small, sleepy smile touching his lips as the darkness finally pulled him under. He decided right then that he’d never complain about a detour again.

Tag List? Just ask babes

(Tagging those who used to be on my Eddie story tag list)

“Selfish Appetite”- @tw1sters

「 Lewis 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Mayor!Reader

You’ve always had one rule: never date your residents — and it’s been easy — until Bucky shows up with his steady hands and deep blue eyes, making you question everything you’ve built and everything you’ve sought to protect.

“Pour Decisions” - @blowingbarnes

「 Gus 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Bartender!Bucky

Tony Stark’s saloon runs on good liquor, better music, and one rule: don’t cause trouble. Bucky finds it one hell of a rule to follow when you get your claws out. To everyone, you're harmless — sweet, attentive, and just so nice. To him, you're a problem he keeps coming back to.

“Silver Springs” - @superbassbuck

「 Haley 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

As the new farmer in a small town, Bucky is constantly working to earn everyone’s respect. He can’t seem to get through to you, so he keeps his distance out of respect for your boundaries. Then he realizes your distance isn't by choice, but rather a testament to how lonely you truly are in this town.

“Fertiliz-her” - @pinksplace

「 Demetrius」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Scientist!Reader

Bucky gives you free range of his farm and all the plants and wildlife it includes. You give Bucky fertilizer and any scientific insights you find. Tit for tat. Seems simple enough, but as the days pass, you can’t seem to escape each-other’s orbit. It’s like nature is literally pushing you together, but that would be crazy… wouldn’t it?

“Reap What You Sow” - @epiphanyrogers

「 Shane 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

bucky barnes moved to the valley looking for peace. you’ve been here your whole life and never known it. one impulsive night proves you have chemistry. every day since proves you’re fundamentally incompatible. or at least, that’s how it looks when anyone’s watching. the problem is what happens when they’re not.

“Hex Appeal” - @artficlly

「 Rasmodius 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Witch!Reader

You must obtain the power of forest magic to decipher this message

ᛍ╮ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵ ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ᛁ◟⸍ᛁ╮ᛁˎި⸝╵⸍ᛙᛍᚽᛁᛍ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄⸌╵╵ᛍ╮ި ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ ᛍ╮ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵ ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ᛁ◟⸍ᛁ╮ᛁˎި⸝╵⸍ᛙᛍᚽᛁᛍ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄⸌╵╵ᛍ╮ި ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ ᛍ╮ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵ ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ᛁ◟⸍ᛁ╮ᛁˎި⸝╵⸍ᛙᛍᚽᛁᛍ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄⸌╵╵ᛍ╮ި ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵ ᚽ⡄ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵

Only one can gift it.

“Doctor’s Orders” - @54nboo

「 Harvey 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Doctor!Reader

the farmer claims he doesn’t need your help, but he always ends up in your clinic one way or another. this time, a particularly bad fall in the mines is the reason he’s laid out on your examination table, and as the valley’s only doctor, it’s your job to make him feel better no matter what.

thank you @/artficlly for the gorgeous Bucky sprite!!!!

Stardew fence divider by @/softandsleepyboy

Tall, wide, expensive in the way of money that had never been rushed. Windows stared out over the lawn with the blank patience of eyes that had seen too many arrivals and no departures worth remembering. There were no lights in the upper floors. There were no voices. Even the rain seemed to fall more quietly, as if the property had its own rules. When you stepped out of the car, the air took you by the throat. It smelled of wet stone and cold earth and – faintly, underneath it all – oil paint. Turpentine. Something sharp and almost sweet, like a memory you could not place. A man waited at the foot of the steps. He stood too straight to be merely a butler; he had the posture of someone who had been trained to disappear and chose, instead, to endure. His hair was silver at the temples, his suit dark and immaculate. “You must be the new governess,” he said, and his voice did not echo. “Welcome to the Barnes estate.” He did not offer his hand. You did not offer yours. There were hierarchies here, visible even in politeness. “I’m–” you began. “I know your name,” he replied smoothly, as if names were paperwork and paperwork was, in this house, an instrument of control. “This way.” Inside, the warmth hit you last. The entrance hall was vast, paneled in dark wood that drank light instead of reflecting it. A chandelier hung overhead like a frozen spill of crystal, the kind of opulence that seemed to have forgotten how to be joyful. Your footsteps fell on a runner that should have muffled sound, yet every heel-click felt too loud, too alive. There were paintings everywhere. Not the cheerful landscapes meant to prove good taste. Portraits, mostly. Faces turned away at the last second, mouths half-open, eyes caught in the precise moment before a thought became a confession. They were old and new and impossible to date, and you found yourself slowing without meaning to, your gaze snagging on brushwork so fine it looked like skin. “You are not to touch the artwork,” the man said, as if he had heard the change in your breathing. “I wasn’t going to.” He paused beside a narrow table where a letter lay neatly arranged with a sealed envelope. Beside it sat a small bell, antique brass. “My name is Jarvis,” he continued. “If you require assistance, you will ring and someone will come. Meals are served at eight, one, and seven. Housekeeping follows a schedule. Accounts are to be balanced every Friday. Staff wages are handled through me.” You nodded, cataloguing each instruction. This part you understood. Rules were comfort. Rules were something you could hold. “One rule above all,” Jarvis added, his tone unchanging. “The studio is to remain closed. You are not to enter it under any circumstances.” “Studio,” you repeated, and tasted the word like it might tell you more. “Yes.” His eyes flicked to the side – just once, just enough to betray the presence of a door. It stood at the end of the hall, darker wood than the surrounding paneling, with a lock that looked newer than anything else in the house. No dust lay on the threshold. Someone used it. Someone stood there often enough to keep it clean. “Mr. Barnes does not like to be disturbed,” Jarvis said. “Not while he… works.” “I was told he hasn’t painted in months,” you said before you could stop yourself. Jarvis’s face did not change. Only the air did – tightening, like a drawstring pulled. “People say many things,” he replied, and then stepped aside. “Your room is prepared.” You followed him up the staircase, past more portraits, past a landing where a tall mirror should have been and was not. The space was empty but for a narrow console table and a vase of flowers that had begun to brown at the edges.

No mirror. You noticed, and in the noticing, something in you went still. Your room was on the second floor, overlooking the grounds. It was comfortable in a way that suggested it had been arranged for someone else and left, waiting, for years. The bed was made perfectly. A small sitting area faced a cold fireplace. Your trunk sat at the foot, already carried up. Jarvis handed you a key. “This locks your door,” he said. “You will find a list of duties inside the desk drawer. If you have questions, bring them to me.” “And Mr. Barnes?” you asked. Jarvis’s gaze sharpened by a fraction. “Mr. Barnes will summon you if he wishes to speak.” He left without another word. For a moment, you stood alone in the quiet and listened. The house did not creak. It did not settle. It was too still for a building this old, like a body holding its breath. You unpacked with the brisk efficiency of someone who refused to be unsettled, folded your dresses into drawers, set your toiletries in the washroom, straightened the already-straightened chair by the desk. You checked the duty list.

It was, as promised, thorough. Meals. Staff oversight. Supplies. House order. “Ensure Mr. Barnes maintains proper nourishment.” “Discourage excessive isolation.” “Do not permit visitors without consent.” It read less like a job description and more like a set of instructions for keeping something delicate from breaking. By the time the clock downstairs chimed seven, you had rehearsed professionalism like armor. You found the dining room by scent. Roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables still steaming as they were arranged in silver dishes. The table could have seated twelve. Two places were set. Only one was occupied. He sat at the far end as if distance might serve him. James Barnes did not look like any employer you had ever met, and not because of wealth. There was an oddness to him that had nothing to do with tailored clothes and everything to do with the way he inhabited them – like a man wearing his own body out of habit rather than ownership. He rose when you entered, but the movement was so smooth it made you think of a blade being drawn. His hair was dark and slightly too long, falling forward near his cheekbones. His eyes were a vivid blue that seemed to reflect light instead of producing it. His face was handsome, yes, but there was a hollow under it, an exhaustion that did not belong to sleepless nights. When he looked at you, his attention landed like a hand on your throat. Not rough. Not cruel. Just… sure. “You’re the governess,” he said. Not a question. You held his gaze because looking away would feel like weakness. “Yes, sir. Thank you for having me.” The corner of his mouth twitched, as if the phrase amused him. “Sit,” he said. You sat at the opposite end, not because he offered, but because the chair was there and the distance felt necessary. Servants moved quietly, refilling water, placing food, never lingering. They did not speak to you. They did not speak to him. It was like watching people orbit a star that did not want their light. He lifted his fork, paused, and set it down again. You waited three seconds. Five. Then you cleared your throat lightly. “Will you be eating, Mr. Barnes?” His gaze snapped to you, sharp enough to cut. “Are you going to watch me chew?” “I’m going to make sure you don’t starve,” you replied, the words calm even as your pulse tried to climb. “That is, as far as I understand, what you hired me for.” His eyes narrowed. “I did not hire you.” “Your household did.” “Jarvis did,” he corrected, as if Jarvis were a force of nature rather than a man “And yet,” you said, tipping your chin a fraction, “I’m here. The food is here. And you haven’t touched it.” Silence thickened between you, heavy as velvet. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, and therefore more dangerous. “You’re not my mother.” “No,” you agreed. “I’m paid. That means I have fewer feelings about your objections.” A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. It was brief. It sounded unused. His expression tightened immediately afterward, as if laughter was an indulgence he could not afford. He picked up his fork, speared a piece of potato, and ate it with the unenthusiastic precision of someone taking medicine.

You did not smile. You did not let yourself. But something loosened in your chest – relief, or victory, or the strange satisfaction of having made an impossible man do something human. He ate three bites and pushed the plate away. “That will be all,” he said. “It will not,” you replied, and the words surprised even you with their steadiness. “You can eat more.” His eyes flashed. “You have no authority here.” “I have a list of duties,” you said, and reached into the pocket of your skirt. You pulled out the folded paper, placed it beside your plate with careful neatness. “This one is underlined.” His gaze dropped, landed on the page, and for a moment something changed in his face. Not anger. Fear. It was gone so quickly you might have imagined it, except your skin remembered. He pushed back his chair, stood, and the room seemed to tilt around him, as if the house itself leaned closer to listen. “You will not go near the studio,” he said. You blinked. “I didn’t mention the studio.” “You won’t,” he corrected, and his eyes were cold now, the grey turning to storm. “You won’t ask about it. You won’t look at it. You won’t touch the door. If you value your position here, you will pretend it does not exist.” The words were too intense for a simple room. Your mouth went dry. “Understood.” He stared at you a second longer, as if measuring the shape of your obedience, then turned and left the dining room without waiting for dismissal. The servants moved again. Plates were cleared. The food disappeared. Your own appetite, which had been there a moment ago, evaporated. Later, when you lay in bed with the curtains drawn against the dark, you found that sleep came only in scraps. The house remained too quiet. At some point past midnight, you sat up, unsure what had pulled you from dreams. You listened. Rain tapped gently on the glass. The wind moved through trees like an animal trying not to be heard. And then… A sound. Not the creak of floorboards. Not the settling of old wood. A soft, rhythmic whisper. Bristle against canvas. Your breath caught. You slipped out of bed, bare feet silent on the rug, and cracked your door open just enough to see the corridor. Darkness pooled there, deep and patient, but it did not swallow everything; moonlight spilled in pale rectangles across the floor. The sound came again. Brush. Pause. Brush. It was not loud. It was not frantic. It was steady, intimate, like someone praying in a language only they understood. You eased into the hallway. The air was colder out here, and under the cold, that same sharp-sweet scent waited – turpentine, oil, something living trapped inside something dead. You did not go far. You did not have to. At the end of the hall, the studio door stood like a sealed mouth. There was no light leaking from beneath it. And yet you heard it clearly now, the quiet scrape of bristles on stretched fabric, patient and precise. You remembered Jarvis’s voice when you had let your thoughts slip about Mister Barnes not painting: People say many things. You remembered the way Bucky’s eyes had hardened at the mention of the studio, as if you had reached for a wound. The brush moved again. Your hand lifted without permission, hovering in the air as though it already knew the shape of the door. You stopped yourself. You lowered it. You went back to your room and shut the door with care, heart thudding as if you had run. In the dark, under the covers, you pressed your fingers to your wrist as if checking for something – pulse, warmth, proof that you were still entirely your own. You told yourself it was none of your business. You told yourself, very firmly, that you would follow the rules. And somewhere down the hall, behind a door that was never to be opened, a brush kept moving, stealing something you could not yet name from the night.

The studio door became a geography.

You tried not to look at it, the way you tried not to look at a bruise on someone else’s skin, but it pulled at your attention all the same – an unseen current, a quiet insistence. Every time you crossed the hall, your eyes slid toward the darker wood, the newer lock, the clean line of its threshold as though someone brushed dust away with devotion.

In the mornings, the house smelled of coffee and polished floors and something faintly medicinal. By noon, it smelled of paper and old books and the damp that no amount of wealth could bully out of stone. But at odd hours – when the corridors were empty, when your footsteps were the only proof you existed – the air shifted.

Turpentine. Oil. A sweetness like cut fruit left too long on a plate.

It made your mouth water in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

You began to measure the house by that door: how far it was from the kitchen, the library, your own room. How quickly you could reach it if something happened. How quickly he could.

It was ridiculous. You knew it was ridiculous. You had been hired to keep order, not to develop obsessions.

And yet.

On the third day, you found him in the study before breakfast, staring at a fire that had burned down to ash without ever warming the room.

He sat in a leather chair with his legs crossed, sleeves rolled to his forearms, one hand around a cup that had gone cold. The lamplight turned his face into something carved – sharp and pale, as if the night had filed him down.

He did not look up when you entered. You knew he had heard you anyway.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, and kept your voice practical because it was the only thing between you and the strange, electric pull in your chest. “I would like to see where you work.”

His fingers tightened around the cup. A small thing, a betraying thing.

“No,” he replied.

You waited. “No…?”

“No,” he repeated, flat and final.

You had expected resistance. You had not expected the immediate cold that filled the word, as if a door inside him had slammed shut.

“It would help me,” you said carefully, “to understand your schedule. Your needs. If you are going to be–”

“Supervised,” he cut in, and finally lifted his gaze.

It hit you like a hand at the small of your back.

His eyes were blue but not soft. They were stormwater in a stone basin – still until disturbed, then dangerous. He looked at you the way he looked at the portraits in the hall: like you were a question he did not want to answer.

“I don’t have needs,” he said.

“You eat,” you replied. “Occasionally.”

His mouth twitched with something that might have been humor if it had ever been allowed to grow.

“I am not a child,” he said.

“No,” you agreed. “Children are easier.”

Something flickered in his expression then – an irritation that did not quite hide… recognition. As if you had said something he had heard before, in another voice, in another century.

His gaze dipped, unintentional, to your hands.

You realized, with a sudden chill, that he was memorizing you in pieces. The curve of your knuckles. The line of your wrist where your sleeve shifted when you moved.

He caught himself doing it.

You saw it happen – the moment his attention jerked away as if he had touched a hot stove. He set the cup down too quickly, coffee sloshing darkly against porcelain.

“The studio is not open,” he said, and there was an edge now, sharpened by fear. “It will not be open. Do you understand?”

You held your ground. “I understand that you don’t want me there.”

“That is not what I said.”

You swallowed. “Then tell me what you meant.”

His jaw worked once, as if he ground his teeth on the inside of his mouth.

“You are not to ask again,” he said.

Silence stretched.

Then you nodded, because you were employed, because you were sensible, because you were not supposed to be the sort of person who pushed.

But as you turned to leave, his voice followed you, low and rough around the edges of something unspoken.

“And don’t linger near the door.”

You froze in the threshold.

You had not mentioned the door.

You did not turn around. You did not give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

“All right,” you said evenly.

Behind you, you felt his gaze like a weight.

That evening, the house developed a heartbeat.

It happened slowly, the way dusk bled into shadow outside the windows, the way servants moved with their murmured footsteps and lit lamps that could not quite cut the dark. Jarvis informed you, as he had before, that Mr. Barnes would not be taking supper.

You found the tray in the kitchen ten minutes later, untouched. Soup cooling under a silver lid, bread turning stale at the edges.

You stared at it until your irritation became a decision.

You carried the tray yourself.

The corridor upstairs was empty. The portraits watched you pass, their eyes frozen in paint, their mouths forever on the edge of speech. When you reached his door, you knocked once – firm, not hesitant.

No answer.

You knocked again.

A pause.

Then, from inside, his voice: “Go away.”

You tightened your grip on the tray. “No.”

Silence.

You heard movement – footsteps, a chair dragging slightly against wood, a soft exhale like someone bracing.

The door opened just enough for you to see him.

He looked worse in the lamplight. Not sick, exactly – something older than sickness. His hair was slightly dishevelled as if he had run his hands through it too many times. His shirt collar sat open, no tie, the skin at his throat too exposed for a man who liked distance.

His eyes went immediately to the tray.

Then to you.

“Stop doing that,” he said.

“Doing what?” you asked, though you knew.

“Acting like you…” He stopped, swallowed, and the muscles in his jaw tightened until you wondered if they would crack. “Like you care.”

You stared at him. “I do care. That doesn’t mean I’m in love with you.”

Something in his face went very still.

You realized your mistake a half-second too late. It was the kind of sentence that should have sounded light, dismissive, a joke to cut tension – except your voice had come out too honest.

His gaze sharpened, then shuttered. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t understand.”

“I understand hunger,” you replied, and stepped closer before he could stop you. The scent of him hit you – clean soap over something darker, that same sharp sweetness that haunted the halls. “And I understand stubbornness. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re lying.”

His eyes flashed. “You think you know me?”

“I think you’re trying to disappear,” you said, and the words softened without your permission. “And I was hired to stop you.”

For a moment, he did not move. He looked at you as if you had spoken a language he remembered but had tried to forget.

Then, abruptly, he stepped back, opening the door wider. Not an invitation. A concession.

You entered his sitting room. It was colder than the rest of the house, the fireplace unlit, the curtains drawn tight against the world. There were no mirrors here either, only dark wood and books and the faint, inescapable smell of paint.

You set the tray on the table and lifted the lid.

Soup steamed weakly, like it had already resigned itself.

Bucky sat across from you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely as if he was holding himself together by habit.

He stared at the bowl for a long time.

“You’ll watch,” he said, and it was not a question.

“You’ll eat,” you replied.

A sound that might have been a laugh escaped him – more breath than amusement. Then he picked up the spoon and began, slow and careful, as if each swallow was negotiation.

You watched his hands more than his face.

There were faint streaks of paint at the edges of his nails. A smear of blue along the side of his index finger, half-scrubbed. When he noticed your gaze, he curled his hand inward, hiding it.

“You’ve been working,” you said quietly.

“I told you,” he replied, voice low, “not to ask.”

“I didn’t ask where,” you pointed out.

He looked up then, and fatigue peeled his distance back enough for you to see the raw thing underneath.

“You shouldn’t want to know,” he said.

“Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He held your gaze for a long, measured beat.

Then he spoke as if answering a question he had been asked centuries ago.

“Because it ruins things,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “Art?”

His mouth twisted. “If only it were that simple.”

He set the spoon down. He looked past you, toward the wall, toward the space where the studio would be if you could see through wood and rules.

“People think painting is gentle,” he continued, and his voice did something strange – flattened into something too calm, too controlled. “They think it’s hands and light and color. They think it’s a hobby. Something you do to soothe yourself.”

You leaned forward, unable not to. “Isn’t it?”

His gaze snapped back to you. “No.”

The word landed heavy.

“It’s hunger,” he said. “It’s need. It’s the only way I… keep breathing.”

You blinked. “That’s dramatic.”

His smile was brief and sharp. “Is it?”

You hesitated. The sensible thing would have been to retreat into duties, into schedules, into safe conversation.

But his exhaustion made him reckless. His insomnia loosened his tongue.

And you were too curious to be careful.

“I think art can be a comfort,” you said, voice softer than you intended. “A way of… holding something without destroying it.”

Something stirred behind his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or memory.

“Comfort,” he repeated, as if he had forgotten the taste of the word. “That’s a nice lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” you insisted. “People paint to remember. To keep things close.”

He stared at you for a moment so intense it felt like standing under a spotlight.

Then he spoke, and his voice dropped lower, almost to himself.

“Sometimes keeping something close is the same as taking it,” he said.

Your skin prickled. “You talk like a thief.”

His gaze flicked to your throat, your pulse point, so quick you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching him as closely as he watched you.

He looked away immediately, jaw tight.

“I am,” he said simply.

The room went quiet around the confession, as if the house itself held its breath again.

You forced yourself to breathe. “Then stop.”

He let out a sound that was not quite laughter and not quite despair. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“It does,” you said, and the governess in you rose like a shield. “Everything works like that. You decide. You do or you don’t.”

He looked at you then with something like disbelief.

“I did decide,” he murmured.

You frowned. “What did you decide?”

His gaze dropped to his hands. To the paint under his nails. To the faint tremor that he was pretending did not exist.

He did not answer.

Instead, he pushed the bowl away and stood too quickly, as if the conversation had become a fire he could not afford to sit near.

“That’s enough,” he said.

“You barely ate.”

His eyes flashed. “Go to bed.”

“You don’t get to–”

He stepped closer, and the air between you changed. Not romance. Not quite. Something heavier, older. A gravity you could not explain.

His gaze locked on yours, and for a second you saw the man behind the distance: exhausted, starving, terrified of his own hands.

“Please,” he said, and the word sounded like it had been unused for a long time.

It stopped you.

You swallowed. “Fine.”

You reached out without thinking, because the paint on his fingers bothered you in a domestic, practical way that felt safer than everything else.

“Your hand,” you said.

His posture went rigid.

You took his wrist gently anyway and turned his fingers toward the lamplight. Blue paint streaked the pads, dried in the creases. You picked up a damp cloth from the sideboard and began to wipe, slow and firm, like you were cleaning a child after a messy meal.

His breath caught.

It was a small sound, but it hit you in the chest.

You looked up, startled, and found him staring at you with a kind of strained intensity that made your skin feel too thin.

“You do that,” he said hoarsely.

“Clean paint?” you asked, trying for lightness.

“No,” he replied.

You stopped. “Then what?”

His gaze stayed on your face as if it hurt him.

“Touch me like I’m…” He swallowed. “…like I’m human.”

Your chest tightened. Your fingers paused on his skin, cloth damp and cool against his warmth.

You forced your voice steady. “You are human.”

His expression twisted, something bitter and aching. “No.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he pulled his hand away – gentle, but decisive – and turned toward the door.

“You should go,” he said again, firmer this time.

You hesitated in the threshold. “Mr. Barnes–”

“Bucky,” he corrected abruptly, and the name fell out of him like a mistake.

You blinked. “Bucky.”

His shoulders tensed as if hearing it aloud did something to him.

“Good night,” he said, and shut the door before you could say anything else.

That night, sleep brought you a place you had never been and knew by heart.

A ballroom, candlelight reflecting in mirrors that stretched the room into infinity. Music – strings, soft and aching. Your dress brushed the floor, heavy with embroidery. Your hand rested in someone else’s, fingers interlaced.

His hand was cold.

Not dead-cold. Just… unreasonably cool, like marble warmed by sun.

You looked up.

He stood before you in a dark suit, hair longer, eyes the same impossible grey. He smiled at you as if he had been waiting an eternity.

“Don’t,” you whispered, but you did not know what you meant.

“I have to,” he murmured back, and his voice wrapped around you like a vow.

You tried to say his name.

It was on your tongue, familiar and strange, a sound you had never learned and had always known.

“…”

The music swelled. The mirrors shattered. The room dissolved into paint.

You woke with your heart pounding and your fingers curled as if they still held a hand.

In the dark, you pressed your palm to your chest, trying to calm your breathing.

From somewhere down the hall, faint as a secret, you heard the soft whisper of bristles on canvas.

Brush. Pause. Brush.

And then, as if the house wanted to prove it could disturb you in daylight too –

The next afternoon, while you supervised linens in the drawing room, you found yourself humming.

You did not choose the melody. It arrived in you fully formed, slipping out between your lips like a thought you had forgotten to guard. It was old, lilting, the kind of tune that belonged to candlelight and spinning skirts.

You did not realize what you were doing until the air changed.

You looked up.

Bucky stood in the doorway.

He had not made a sound. He never made a sound.

His face had gone white – not pale, but bloodless, as if the world had drained out of him. His eyes were locked on you with the stunned intensity of someone watching a ghost walk in daylight.

You stopped humming mid-note.

“What?” you asked, suddenly uneasy.

He did not answer.

His mouth opened once, like he meant to speak, and then closed again. His throat bobbed with a swallow that looked too hard.

For a heartbeat, you thought he might step toward you.

Instead, he flinched back as if the song had burned him.

He turned sharply and left the room.

You stared after him, linen forgotten in your hands, the melody still trembling in the air like a question.

And deep inside you, under confusion, under irritation, under the strange ache you could not name –

Something answered. Quiet and certain.

He knew that song.

The first time you learned that the house had visitors, it was because it tried to hide them from you.

Jarvis’s footsteps became more frequent that afternoon – measured trips from the front hall to the study, from the study back to the front hall. Doors closed softly. Voices dipped into murmurs. The staff moved with an extra layer of caution, as if sound itself had become a liability.

You noticed, because noticing was your profession.

When you asked one of the maids who had arrived, she hesitated just long enough to tell the truth without wanting to.

“A gentleman,” she said finally. “For Mr. Barnes.”

“Is he expected?” you asked.

The maid’s eyes flicked toward the corridor that led to the study. “He says he is.”

You did not like the phrasing.

You found Jarvis near the vestibule, adjusting the cuffs of his gloves with the calm of a man who had survived worse than curiosity.

“Jarvis,” you said.

He looked up. “Miss.”

“There’s a visitor.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t inform me.”

“I didn’t think it necessary.”

“It is always necessary,” you replied. “If someone enters this house, I need to know who they are, what they want, and when they are leaving.”

Jarvis’s mouth tightened, a near-invisible line. “Mr. Barnes prefers discretion.”

“And I prefer not discovering strangers in the hallways,” you shot back.

For a moment, Jarvis studied you as if weighing whether you were going to become a problem he could not neatly solve.

Then he leaned in – just slightly, just enough that his voice could be kept from the ears of the staff.

“Do not go near the study,” he said quietly.

Your stomach dipped. “Why?”

Jarvis held your gaze. “Because you will hear things you cannot unhear.”

He turned away before you could demand more.

Which, of course, meant you did.

Not immediately. You did not charge down corridors like a heroine in a penny dreadful. You waited until the staff had returned to their work, until the house resumed its careful stillness.

Then you moved as you had been trained to move: quietly, efficiently, like you belonged everywhere.

The study door was shut. A thin line of lamplight leaked beneath it. You approached until the carpet muffled your steps entirely, until you stood close enough to smell the smoke of a cigar and the sharpness of cologne that did not belong to Bucky.

Inside, two voices spoke low.

Jarvis’s, and someone else’s – male, polished, edged with a kind of practiced charm.

“…a private collection,” the stranger was saying. “Surely you understand the value of keeping such a – such a singular talent from fading into obscurity. The right buyers are prepared to pay an obscene amount for a Barnes.”

A pause.

Then Bucky’s voice, calm and cold. “You shouldn’t have come.”

The stranger chuckled softly, as if scoldings amused him. “And miss an opportunity? Never. James, there are people who have searched for you for decades. Centuries, if we’re being poetic.”

Silence, heavy enough to make your skin prickle.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking,” Bucky said.

“Oh, I understand exactly,” the stranger replied. “You stop painting, your name becomes a rumor again. You paint, and the world remembers. It’s simple.”

“It’s not simple.”

“Then make it simple,” the stranger pressed, and his voice sharpened. “You can’t keep refusing commissions. You can’t keep turning away patrons. Your… condition–”

That word hit the air like a thrown knife.

Bucky’s voice cut in, dangerously quiet. “Don’t speak of it.”

“You’ll die,” the stranger said, and the bluntness stole the breath from your lungs. “That’s what you want? After all this time?”

A beat.

Then Bucky replied, and there was something in his tone that made your throat tighten, made your hand curl against your skirt as if you needed to anchor yourself.

“Maybe,” he said.

The stranger exhaled in disbelief. “Because of a girl?”

Your pulse jumped.

Bucky did not answer.

The silence that followed felt like confirmation.

Then the stranger spoke again, softer now, as if coaxing a skittish animal. “I’m not telling you to hurt her. Paint something harmless. An object. A landscape. A still life. You’ve done it before.”

“You know that isn’t enough,” Bucky said.

Jarvis’s voice finally entered, controlled but strained. “Sir, perhaps we should–”

“No,” the stranger snapped, and then lowered his tone again, returning to charm. “James, listen. You don’t have to take life. Not if you choose correctly.”

You frowned, instinctively. Take life.

The stranger continued. “Choose someone already near the end. Someone willing. Someone who won’t be missed.”

Your stomach turned.

Bucky’s voice went razor-sharp. “Leave.”

A chair scraped. Footsteps approached the door.

You backed away quickly, heart hammering, retreating down the corridor like you had every right to be there.

By the time the study door opened, you were halfway to the staircase, posture calm, pace unhurried, as if you had simply been checking the drapes for dust.

A man emerged – a stranger in a tailored coat, hair slicked back, smile too bright for a house that swallowed light. His eyes slid over you with interest that made your skin crawl.

“Ah,” he said, pleased. “You must be the one.”

You kept your face blank. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

His smile widened. “Of course you don’t.”

Behind him, Bucky stood in the doorway of the study, all tension and pale stillness. His gaze fixed on the stranger with something close to hatred.

The stranger gave Bucky a small, mocking nod. “We’ll speak again.”

Then he walked past you, uninvited familiarity in his stride, as if he knew the path already.

When the front door closed, the house exhaled.

You did not wait for supper.

You found Bucky in the corridor outside the study, staring at the floor as if he could burn a hole through it with sheer force.

“Who was that?” you demanded.

His head lifted sharply, eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I live here,” you snapped. “I work here. I keep this household running while you – ” You stopped, because you did not know how to finish the sentence without admitting you had been listening.

Bucky’s gaze flicked toward the far end of the hall, toward the studio door, and his expression tightened as if he felt it watching too.

“Go back to your duties,” he said.

“No,” you replied, and the word came out steadier than you felt. “He said you’ll die.”

Bucky went very still.

Then he spoke, and his voice was carefully empty. “People say many things.”

“He talked about your condition,” you pressed. “And he said–” your throat tightened, disgust and fear tangling together, “–take life.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. A muscle jumped beneath his cheekbone.

“You were listening,” he said flatly.

“You were hiding it,” you shot back.

A long, stretched silence.

Then, without warning, Bucky turned and walked away.

Not toward the stairs.

Toward the studio door.

Your breath caught. Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

“Bucky–” you called after him, the name tasting like a risk.

He stopped with his hand on the lock.

For a heartbeat, you thought he might open it.

He did not.

He stood there, fingers curled around the metal as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Go,” he said, voice low.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, and stepped closer.

His shoulders rose and fell once, a controlled inhale.

“Then you’re going to hear something you’ll hate me for,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Try me.”

He turned slowly, and in the lamplight you saw it clearly – how tired he was. Not the tiredness of long days, but of long years. Centuries, if the stranger had been “being poetic.”

“You think I’m a vampire,” Bucky said.

The word should have been ridiculous. In his mouth it was not.

You forced yourself to breathe. “Are you?”

His lips twisted. “Not the kind in stories.”

“You don’t drink blood,” you said, remembering your own thoughts, your own unease at the way he watched throats, wrists.

He held your gaze. “No.”

“Then what do you–” You stopped, because the answer suddenly felt too close.

Bucky’s eyes drifted down your face, over your mouth, your throat, the curve where your pulse lived under skin.

You felt it like a touch.

Then his gaze snapped away, as if he hated himself for the instinct.

“I take what people spend their lives not noticing they’re losing,” he said, voice controlled to the point of cruelty. “Vitality. Years. The… momentum that makes you want to wake up tomorrow.”

Your stomach clenched. “How?”

His hand tightened on the lock behind him, knuckles whitening. “Through paint.”

The hallway seemed to narrow around you.

You forced the words out. “If you paint someone, you…”

“They fade,” he said, and there was no softness in it, no apology. Just the truth stripped down to bone. “Slowly, sometimes. Sometimes fast. Depends on the person. Depends on the work.”

You stared at him. “That’s–”

“Monstrous,” he supplied, his mouth twisting. “Yes.”

A cold wave rolled through you. Your thoughts tripped over each other, searching for something rational to latch onto.

“You have… paintings,” you managed, and your gaze flicked toward the portraits lining the walls. Faces caught in eternal near-speech.

Bucky’s eyes followed your glance, and something dark crossed his expression. “I do.”

“And the people–”

“Dead,” he said, and the word thudded into the air. “Eventually.”

You went cold.

Then anger sparked, hot and sudden, because it was the only thing that kept you from shaking.

“You let that man come here and talk about commissioning you like it’s– like it’s business,” you said, voice rising despite your effort. “You let him talk about choosing someone who won’t be missed–”

“I told him to leave,” Bucky snapped.

“You didn’t deny it.”

His eyes flashed. “What would denial change? The truth doesn’t care if you hate it.”

You flinched at the sharpness, then steadied yourself. “So you do it.”

Bucky’s breath came shallow now, the calm starting to fracture.

“I did,” he corrected. “I don’t–” He stopped, jaw working. “Not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” you echoed. “Since when?”

His gaze cut to you, and the honesty in it startled you.

“Long enough,” he said.

“You’re lying,” you accused, because you had smelled paint in this house, because you had heard a brush in the night.

His eyes hardened. “I haven’t painted a human in a long time.”

“Human,” you repeated, and the word sharpened in your mouth. “So you’ve painted something.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked away, and that was answer enough.

Your pulse roared in your ears. “Why would you ever–”

“Because if I don’t paint,” he said, voice rough now, stripped of its control, “I start to… stop.”

The hallway felt suddenly too small for breath.

“Stop,” you whispered.

He looked at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes turned human for a heartbeat. Vulnerable.

“I age,” he said. “I break. I end.”

Your mind skidded. “So you’re doing this to survive.”

Bucky’s laugh was short and bitter. “Survive is a generous word.”

You stared at him, the weight of it pressing down: the paintings, the portraits, the stillness of the house, the way everything here was preserved like a specimen.

“And you hired me,” you said slowly, “to keep you fed. To keep you… maintained.”

His gaze sharpened. “Jarvis hired you.”

“But you kept me,” you insisted. “Why?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He did not answer.

Because the answer was standing in front of him.

Because he was looking at it.

The studio door remained between you like a third presence, listening.

“Don’t,” he said suddenly, voice strained.

“Don’t what?” you asked, though your skin already knew.

He swallowed, and when he spoke again, there was something almost… pleading beneath the harshness.

“Don’t make me say it out loud.”

You held his gaze. Your heart hammered. “Say what.”

Bucky’s eyes moved over your face again – hungry, terrified, reverent in a way that made you feel exposed all the way down to your bones.

“I want to paint you,” he whispered.

The words did not feel like a compliment.

They felt like a threat.

You went very still.

“You shouldn’t,” you said, voice thin.

“I know,” he replied, and his hand slid from the lock to the doorframe, fingers splayed as if he needed to steady himself. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you, taut as wire.

Then, as if he needed to prove his own control, he forced his tone lighter – almost mocking.

“It would be a masterpiece,” he said, and the self-loathing in the joke was unmistakable. “You have the kind of face artists pray for.”

You should have recoiled.

Instead, something in your chest tightened painfully, a strange, forbidden heat.

Because being seen like that – truly seen – was intoxicating.

You hated yourself for it.

“Paint an object,” you said abruptly, clinging to practicality. “A vase. A landscape. Anything else.”

Bucky’s mouth twisted. “It’s not the same.”

“It has to be,” you insisted.

He stared at you. Then he exhaled through his nose, sharp.

“I could paint your hands,” he said, as if bargaining with his own hunger. “Just your hands on a teacup. It wouldn’t take much.”

“It would take something,” you said, and your voice broke on the last word.

His eyes softened – barely. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you replied, because you remembered the portraits in the hall, the half-open mouths, the frozen confessions. “And you do too.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped, a small surrender.

Then, after a long moment, he lifted his eyes again.

“Just a sketch,” he said quietly. “Charcoal. No paint. No… taking. Let me–” His voice caught, and for a second he looked younger than the centuries in his posture. “Let me see you properly.”

Your throat tightened.

Fascination and fear braided together inside you.

You imagined sitting for him, imagined the weight of his gaze, the drag of charcoal, the way his hand would move with certainty. The thought sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with cold.

“No,” you said, and the refusal cost you more than it should have.

Bucky flinched as if struck.

Then his expression shut down again, hardening into the familiar distance.

“Good,” he said flatly. “Then we’re done.”

He turned away, and for a heartbeat you thought he might open the studio and disappear behind it, lock himself away with whatever monster lived on canvas.

Instead, he stayed in the hallway with you, breathing shallow, like a man holding back a tide.

“I’m going to have the locks changed,” you said, desperate for something to do with your hands, your voice. “No one comes here without my approval. Not that man. Not anyone.”

Bucky’s laugh was sharp. “You think a lock stops him?”

“I think I stop him,” you shot back.

His gaze snapped to you, and something dangerous and startled moved in it – like admiration he refused to recognize.

“Be careful,” he said quietly.

“I am careful,” you replied.

He stared at you for a long moment, and then the tension in his shoulders shifted.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured again, but this time it sounded less like an order and more like a confession.

Before you could answer, the lights went out.

Not a flicker.

A full, sudden plunge into darkness.

The house swallowed the corridor in one breath, leaving only the faint grey shape of windows at the far end, the outline of Bucky’s shoulders, the soft sound of your own inhale.

Somewhere below, a servant cried out in surprise.

Thunder rolled outside, deep and close, shaking the glass.

A storm.

Your pulse jumped. “The power–”

“Stay,” Bucky said, and the word came out too sharp, too immediate, as if his instincts had leapt ahead of his manners.

Your breath caught.

Then he corrected himself, voice lower. “Stay close.”

You swallowed. In the dark, it was impossible to pretend you did not want the same thing.

“All right,” you said, and your voice sounded too small.

He moved then – quiet, sure, a shadow that knew the house better than anyone. You heard the soft brush of fabric, the faint creak of floorboards that had been silent for you but acknowledged him.

“You know where the candles are?” he asked.

“In the pantry,” you replied automatically. “And in the library cabinet.”

He made a sound of agreement.

“Library,” he said. “Come on.”

You followed the sound of him down the corridor, your hand skimming the wall to orient yourself. In the dark, the portraits became shapes without faces, a crowd of silent witnesses.

When you reached the library, he pushed the door open and the scent hit you – paper, leather, dust, and beneath it the ever-present undercurrent of paint, as if it lived in him now.

He found a match with practiced ease. The scratch of it flared into a small, fierce light.

For a moment, the flame lit his face from below, turning him into something carved and haunted.

Then he lit a candle.

The circle of light was small. It made the rest of the room darker by contrast. Shelves rose like cliffs around you, books looming, shadows pooling between them.

Bucky set the candle on the table and turned away, as if afraid to face you in this closeness.

“Sit,” he said.

You hesitated, then sat on the edge of a chair. Your hands folded tightly in your lap.

Bucky paced once, stopped, and then leaned his hip against the table, arms crossed. He looked like he wanted to leave the room and could not.

Thunder cracked again, closer. The rain hammered the windows.

In that small light, with the house powerless and the storm pressing in, the distance between you felt suddenly artificial – something you had both been maintaining out of habit.

“You said I would hate you,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. “You should.”

“I don’t,” you admitted, and the honesty made your chest ache. “Not yet.”

His gaze flicked to you, sharp with warning. “Don’t be generous. It’s wasted on me.”

You inhaled slowly. “Tell me why.”

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the candle flame. Its light trembled in them, making them look almost – almost alive.

“There was a woman,” he said finally, voice low.

The words slid into the room like a key turning.

You swallowed. “I know.”

He glanced up, startled.

“You talk about her,” you said, and tried to keep your tone light, practical, as if it did not matter. “In the way you avoid certain rooms. In the way you–” you stopped, because you did not want to say look at me like I’m her ghost.

Bucky’s mouth tightened. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know you lost someone,” you said softly. “And I know it wasn’t recent.”

His gaze turned distant, fixed on something that was not the library, not the storm, not you.

“Centuries,” he murmured, and the word sounded like ash. “I don’t even remember the year properly anymore. I remember her hands. I remember the way she laughed when she was trying not to. I remember–” He stopped abruptly, throat working. “I remember her dying.”

Your stomach clenched.

Jealousy flared in you so sudden and absurd you almost laughed at yourself for it. Jealous of a dead woman. Jealous of a memory.

And yet the emotion sat heavy, undeniable, because it was not really jealousy of her.

It was jealousy of how much of him belonged to someone else.

“You loved her,” you said, and the sentence came out like a bruise.

Bucky’s eyes cut to you, and in the candlelight you saw something raw there – pain and anger and a kind of weary devotion.

“I still do,” he said simply.

It should have made you step back.

Instead, it made your chest tighten so hard you had to swallow against it.

“That’s why you paint,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Bucky’s gaze sharpened, and for a second you thought he would snap again, shut down, retreat into coldness.

But the storm kept the house close. The candle kept you contained.

And his insomnia had already stripped away some of his armor.

“I painted her once,” he said, voice barely audible.

Your breath caught.

“The portrait is still perfect,” he continued. “She is still twenty-two in it. Still breathing. Still… there.”

You stared at him, skin prickling. “And she–”

His jaw clenched. “She faded anyway. Not because of the painting. Because time doesn’t bargain.”

The candle flame flickered, and for a moment his face looked haunted enough to be a confession all by itself.

“You wanted to make your art immortal,” you said slowly, piecing the shape of it together. “And something answered.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped. A bitter sound escaped him. “Something answered,” he echoed.

You could hear the unsaid words: and I paid.

Thunder rolled again, and the shelves seemed to tremble with it.

Your fingers tightened in your lap. “So why am I here?”

Bucky’s eyes lifted to you, and the intensity in them made the candlelight feel too bright.

He opened his mouth.

For a second, you thought he might tell you. The truth that sat between you like a third heartbeat.

Instead, he shut his eyes briefly, as if forcing the words back down.

“You were competent,” he said, the lie stiff and obvious. “Jarvis needed someone.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you said softly.

Bucky’s mouth twisted. “I’m trying not to be a thief.”

The phrase hit you hard.

Your pulse jumped, inexplicably.

The candle crackled.

In the quiet, you heard your own breath, the storm’s rage, the faint shifting of the house like it resented being made mortal by darkness.

And beneath it all, low and insistent, the thing you had been circling since the day you arrived.

His hunger.

Not for blood.

For life.

For the urge to put you on canvas and keep you where nothing could ever take you away.

You stood abruptly, unable to sit with it anymore.

Bucky’s head snapped up. “Where are you going?”

“Kitchen,” you said, voice too tight. “We need more candles. The staff will be frightened.”

“And you,” he added, and the softness of the word made you hate how much it warmed you.

You hesitated, then forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m fine.”

His eyes narrowed, as if he did not believe you – because he could hear something in your heartbeat you were pretending wasn’t there.

“Don’t hum that song again,” he said suddenly.

You froze.

Your stomach dropped. “Why?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. The candlelight caught the edge of his teeth, white and too sharp for comfort.

“Because it makes me forget,” he said, voice low.

“Forget what?” you whispered.

He looked at you as if the answer was too dangerous to say.

Then the storm shook the window hard enough to make you flinch, and the moment broke – thread snapped.

Bucky pushed away from the table, turning his back, the familiar distance slamming into place like a door.

“Go get your candles,” he said, cold again. “And stay out of the studio.”

You stared at him for a long beat.

Then you nodded, because what else could you do?

But as you left the library with the candlelight trembling in your hands, jealousy and fear twisting tight in your chest, you understood something with a clarity that made your skin go cold.

The studio door was not locked to keep you out.

It was locked to keep him in.

Morning became the closest thing the house had to mercy.

Not because the light changed it – sunlight did not banish anything here, it only revealed the dust you had already suspected – but because mornings were predictable. They were routine. They could be measured in kettles and keys and footsteps, in the mundane comfort of tasks that had nothing to do with curses.

And somewhere in the middle of your list of duties, Bucky began to appear.

Not dramatically. Not with apologies or explanations.

He simply… started showing up.

At first it was small: the sound of his chair in the study when you brought in the tray, the brief sight of him in the doorway as you passed, a nod – barely a nod – when you reported that the butcher had arrived or the roof had been patched.

Then it became a ritual.

You set breakfast on the same corner of the kitchen table, where the window looked out over hedges and grey sky. You placed the cup of coffee exactly where his right hand would reach without thinking. You did not announce it. You did not plead.

You simply did it.

The first time he sat across from you and ate an entire slice of toast without complaint, you had to look down at your own hands to keep from smiling.

He noticed anyway.

“You’re pleased,” he said, voice flat.

“I’m efficient,” you replied.

His gaze lingered on you a beat too long, as if the word had meant something else in another mouth.

After that, he began to eat because you were there to witness it.

It was absurd – two adults locked in a silent battle over soup and bread – but the absurdity became intimate in a way you could not admit out loud. You learned the things he tolerated. You learned what made him push the plate away. You learned the difference between his refusal and his fear.

And in return, he gave you proof of presence.

A pair of gloves appeared on the sideboard one morning, soft leather lined with wool. No note. No mention. They were your size.

You stared at them for a full minute before taking them.

That afternoon, when you wore them outside to oversee the delivery of coal, he watched you from the upstairs window.

You felt his gaze on your hands like heat.

Later, when you returned, he was in the hallway pretending to examine a portrait he had walked past a thousand times.

“They fit,” he said, without looking at you.

“Yes,” you answered, and then, because you were tired of playing games you didn’t understand, you added, “Thank you.”

His shoulders tightened, as if gratitude embarrassed him more than anger.

“You needed them,” he said.

It was always need with him. Always utility. Always something that could be justified in the language of household management and weather.

A week after that, a coat hung by the front door – dark, heavy, warm, with a lining that smelled faintly of cedar. You tried to refuse it. Jarvis merely raised an eyebrow and told you it was “Mr. Barnes’s instruction.”

You found Bucky in the library that night and held up the coat like evidence.

“I am not a charity case,” you said.

His eyes flicked over you, sharp and quick, like he was assessing how the fabric sat on your shoulders.

“You’re cold,” he replied.

“I have my own coat.”

“It’s thin,” he said.

“I am not–”

“Stubborn,” he cut in, and the word sounded almost fond before he smothered it. His jaw tightened. “Wear it or don’t. I don’t care.”

You stared at him.

He stared back for half a heartbeat longer than was polite, then looked away as if he had caught himself stealing.

When you wore the coat the next morning, he didn’t look at you at all.

Not directly.

But you felt him anyway, the way you felt the house settle around your existence – as if your presence had become a fixture, like the chandelier, like the portraits, like the locked door.

Like something permanent.

It terrified you.

The first time you recognized the poetry, it happened by accident.

You were dusting the shelves in the west sitting room, the one nobody used, the one that smelled faintly of dried roses and old smoke. Most of the books were untouched, their spines uncracked, but one volume sat half-pulled from its place, as if someone had been interrupted mid-thought.

You reached for it without thinking.

The cover was leather, worn smooth by hands that had held it a thousand times. The pages were thin and slightly yellowed. The text inside was not English.

Not French.

Not Latin.

It was… older.

And yet your eyes slid over it, and your mind understood before it had time to argue.

You read the first line aloud under your breath.

The syllables tasted familiar, like a song you’d learned as a child and forgotten you ever knew.

A shadow moved in the doorway.

You looked up.

Bucky stood there, frozen. His face had gone pale in a way you had only seen once before – when you hummed that melody and he fled as if daylight had turned to knives.

“What is that?” he demanded, voice tight.

You blinked. “A book.”

His gaze locked on the open pages. Then snapped to your mouth.

“You can read it,” he said. Not a question.

You swallowed, suddenly uncertain. “I– apparently.”

“That language,” he pressed, taking a step into the room without realizing it. “You’ve never studied it.”

“No,” you replied honestly. “I don’t even know what it is.”

Bucky stared at you as if you had just lifted the hem of the world and shown him what was underneath.

His throat bobbed with a swallow that looked painful.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

The request made your skin prickle. “Why?”

“Just–” His voice broke, and he recovered quickly, hardening it. “Say it.”

You hesitated, then read the line again, slower.

As you spoke, something shifted in the air. The house seemed to lean closer. The candlelight (because the lamps were always too dim in this room) trembled faintly, as if reacting to the sound.

Bucky’s eyes went glassy.

For one terrible second, you saw him lose the present entirely.

He stared at you like you weren’t you.

Like you were an impossible door that had opened.

Then his face tightened violently, and he turned away, one hand lifting as if to cover his mouth.

“You should put that back,” he said, voice rough.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“I said put it back.”

The coldness in his tone hit you like a slap.

You closed the book carefully, slid it into place, and watched his shoulders stay rigid, as if he was holding himself in a vice.

“What was that?” you asked softly.

Bucky did not answer.

He walked out of the room like a man leaving a fire.

After that, the house began to betray you in smaller ways.

You reached for a key in the kitchen drawer and found it immediately, your fingers moving with certainty you had not earned. You turned left in a corridor you hadn’t walked and found the linen closet as if you’d memorized the floor plan years ago. You woke some mornings with the taste of words in your mouth you could not translate, and the shape of music in your hands.

Once, while Jarvis reorganized the pantry list, you found yourself saying, absent-mindedly, “The silver polish is behind the flour.”

Jarvis blinked. “It hasn’t been kept there in decades.”

You stared at him. “It hasn’t?”

Jarvis’s expression went carefully blank. “No, miss.”

You felt suddenly sick.

And then, on a quiet afternoon when rain smeared the windows and the house felt like it was holding its breath, you walked into the study and found Bucky at his desk, head bent over papers.

His hair fell forward near his eyes, dark against pale skin. His sleeves were rolled up. Ink stained his fingers. He looked, for a rare moment, less like a ghost haunting a mansion and more like a man trying to pretend he had a life.

You set the ledger down and said, without thinking, in a tone that came from somewhere deep and unplaceable, “Don’t furrow your brow like that. You’ll make it permanent.”

The words hung in the air.

Bucky went completely still.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

The look he gave you was not anger.

It was shock.

It was grief.

It was hunger and horror braided together so tightly you could not separate them.

For one heartbeat, his eyes softened in a way you had never seen – warm, helpless, devastatingly human.

Like he had just seen someone he buried rise from the ground.

Then the warmth shattered.

He stood so quickly his chair scraped. “Don’t say that.”

Your throat tightened. “Why? It was–”

“Don’t,” he repeated, voice sharper now, the panic cutting through his control. His gaze locked on your face, searching it, devouring it. “Where did you hear that?”

“I didn’t,” you said, heart hammering. “It just– came out.”

Bucky stared at you, breathing shallow. He looked like a man trying not to break something fragile in his hands.

And then, before you could step back, before you could decide whether you were frightened or furious, he crossed the room.

His hand reached for yours.

He caught your fingers – not rough, not gentle enough to be safe, just… certain. His skin was cool, not cold. Alive in a way that felt wrong for him.

You inhaled sharply.

He did not let go.

His thumb pressed against the inside of your knuckle, a small, absent gesture that made your pulse jump so hard it hurt.

You looked up at him, and for a second, there was no distance.

No employer. No governess. No rules.

Just you, and the unbearable intensity of being held in place by someone who looked like he had been starving for centuries.

“Bucky,” you whispered, the name slipping out without permission.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Something in him cracked.

His grip tightened – then loosened, like he’d realized he was holding a blade.

He released you abruptly, as if your skin burned.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the apology clipped, immediate. His gaze dropped, then snapped away entirely. “I shouldn’t.”

The room felt suddenly too empty. Too bright. Too sharp.

You stared at your hand where his fingers had been, as if the imprint remained.

“You do this,” you said, voice trembling with something you hated. “You pull me close and then you– punish me for it.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m protecting you.”

“From what?” you demanded.

He looked at you then, and the anguish in his eyes was so naked it stole your breath.

“From me,” he said.

You swallowed hard. Anger rose like a shield, because the alternative was admitting how much his touch had meant.

“I don’t need your protection,” you snapped.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to your throat again, involuntary, hungry.

Then he flinched back as if ashamed of his own eyes.

“You don’t know what you need,” he said, voice rough. “You don’t know what you are to me.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Then tell me,” you whispered.

For a moment, you thought he might.

Instead, he turned away, retreating into the only language he trusted – distance, cruelty, control.

“Go,” he said flatly. “Before I forget myself.”

You left the study with your hands shaking and your mouth full of words you had bitten down on.

You hated him.

You hated the house.

You hated the way your body remembered his touch like it had always belonged there.

After that, you began to notice the fragments.

The way his gaze landed, not on you as a whole, but in pieces – as if he was trying to break you down into safe parts he could look at without falling.

He watched your hands when you poured tea.

He watched the nape of your neck when you bent over a ledger, the soft line where hair escaped your pins.

He watched the pulse in your throat when you spoke too quickly.

Once, you turned and caught him staring at the hollow of your collarbone like it held a secret.

He looked away too late.

“You’re doing it again,” you said quietly.

“Doing what,” he replied, too fast.

“Looking at me like you’re–” you stopped, because saying composing me out loud felt too intimate, too true. “Like you’re measuring.”

His jaw tightened. “Paranoia doesn’t suit you.”

But that night you found a delivery slip in Jarvis’s hand.

Pigments. Brushes. Fresh canvases.

You stared at the inked list until your vision blurred.

When you looked up, Jarvis’s expression was the same careful blankness he always wore.

“You ordered these?” you asked.

Jarvis hesitated just long enough. “Mr. Barnes did.”

Your throat went tight. “He said he wasn’t painting.”

Jarvis’s eyes held yours, and for a moment, there was something almost sympathetic there.

“Mr. Barnes says many things,” he replied softly.

The brush in the night returned.

Not every night. Not at first. But often enough that you began to dread the sound even as your body leaned toward it, listening, tense and alive.

Bucky grew sharper around the edges.

He slept less. You heard him pacing in the hours between two and four, footsteps whispering across the floor as if he could not outrun himself. He snapped at servants for mistakes that barely existed, then apologized in murmurs you weren’t meant to hear.