нора чудес ;)

Okay, maybe you picked the wrong night to surprise him at the trailer. Maybe, just maybe, he took a little longer than usual to get home from the venue because some faceless person (that looked important at the moment!) offered to buy him a drink.

That was mistake number one.

Mistake number two was not feeling when that random groupie’s lips landed on his cheek as she was taking a picture with him after the show as he was too busy still riding the high of a successful show.

Mistake number three was not noticing the pink kiss mark it left and therefore not wiping it off.

Eddie closed the door to his room with a heavy thud and exhaled a deep breath that he had been holding all night, still bitter over the fact that you couldn’t make it to his show over an awful headache.

…speak of the devil

You, asleep on his bed, right here, right now. He doesn’t know how long you’ve been here, but based on your relaxed form, must’ve been an hour or even two.

He carefully shrugged off his jacket and guitar before kneeling besides his bed and enjoying the view of your calm sleeping face. He slowly dragged a finger along the bridge of your nose and watched your eyes scrunch as you drifted awake.

“…what a nice surprise.” He whispered, smiling.

“How long have you been watching me, perv?” You rubbed the sleep away from your eyes.

“You’re the perv! You broke into my room and even slept in my bed… now I know that I’m your deepest fantasy but-“ he was cut off by your lips pressing into his.

“Stop talking and get on the bed.” Well, he didn’t need to be told twice.

Your hand snuck under his shirt like fifteen times and his fingertip had managed to trace his own name on your back four times before the first time you pulled away to admire his face.

Usually, at times like this, your face would be sporting a satisfied and happy expression. You always loved to see how dopey he looked, how swollen his lips got and how messed up his hair managed to get. But something was off today, instead of adoration, all that he found of your face was almost worry and borderline disgust.

Your voice cut his thought process off.

“-Baby, what’s that on your cheek?” He dragged a quick fingertip along his cheek where you were pointing. There seemed to be a sheen of pink, subtle enough to seem like nothing at first glance, but definitely visible enough to point out.

“Is that lipstick?” Fuck. Shit. This was bad. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. He could already see you slowly caging in on yourself and pulling away from him with a furrow to your brows.

“It’s nothing, just, uh- fuck, some groupie wanted to take a picture and kissed me, it’s nothing, promise.” He tried to look reassuring but could sense how red his cheeks were getting for some reason. You didn’t look so convinced, your lack of response only solidified his thoughts.

“What is this? Do you not trust me?” Eddie felt almost hurt. His perfect girl, one and only, partner in crime, other half thinking that he would cheat on her with none other than some groupie? Come on!

“Well I don’t know, Eds, you barely talk to me anymore, you’re always so busy with something else, and the one time I decide to pop by the trailer to see you after a gig you’re two hours late with a kiss mark on your cheek? Maybe I’m just holding you back…” your eyes avoid his as you pull further back.

“-and I’m starting to think that you don’t even love me anymore…” you crossed your arms across your chest, staring daggers into Eddie’s wide eyes. How could you think that?

“No…. Don’t be like that, sweet thing… you’re my only girl and I’m so lucky to have you, I’d give you the world if I could… God, I’m such a bastard… taking such a beautiful girl for granted and not loving her like I should…” His brown eyes found yours again and he ran a hand through your hair.

“It’s you and me, baby, okay?” You only gave a weak nod. “Holding me back… no, you’re my muse, got it?” His gaze kept jumping between your eyes, looking for a sliver of trust and security.

“…you still have to make it up to me, that really scared me.” Eddie recognised that sly look in your eye, the girl he loved and worshiped was back in front of him.

"Yeah?" He noticed how fidgety she was, and how flushed she looked. "You okay?" His worried tone made her heart melt. She slammed her book shut and tossed it to the floor. She crawled over to eliminate the small amount of space between them. She didn't want to scare him off so she gently placed her hand on his guitar and hinted that she wanted him to move it. He gently placed it against his bed, his eyes still on her. If there wasn't such a lustful look in her eyes, he would have been worried about her silence. Eddie knew the look in her eyes, the same hungry look he got from random chicks during his small gigs. The fact that the look was coming from her made Eddie's jeans tighten. The tension was thick as they stared at each other. She softly pressed her lips against his, trying not to seem as desperate as she felt. He kissed her back, feeling the same butterflies he always did. She tried to keep the kiss slow but when she felt his hands land on her hips, she couldn't hold back.

Eddie moaned as she crawled onto his lap and shoved her tongue into his mouth. He enjoyed how she tried to dominate the kiss but he easily made her puddy in his hands as his tongue swirled against hers. She purred in his lap, why was everything he did so fucking hot? She pulled away, panting lightly.

"Do you...um...maybe want to go a little further?" She asked. Eddie could barely speak. His blown out eyes looked at her lips and the way she puffed in and out air to catch her breath. "We don't have to!" She panicked, already regretting she asked. She wanted to run off his lap but his strong hands moved to her thighs and she halted. She shivered as the cold metal of his rings cooled down her burning skin, thankful she wore shorts so she could feel his touch.

"What are you wanting, sweetheart?" His voice was deep, low, and dominant. She knew he felt the way she clenched her thighs. He gripped the skin and pushed her right on top of his growing hard on. "I'll give you whatever you want."

"Your fingers," she confessed. Her heart raced as a sexy smirk appeared on his face.

"Didn't even hesitate," he teased. He leaned in and pressed soft kisses on her neck. She gripped his shoulders and quietly moaned. "You want me to finger your pretty pussy?" His words were hot against her neck and she lightly rocked her hips against his, excitement in her chest as he moaned. She rolled her hips slightly faster to make him moan, wanting to hear the sound again on repeat.

"Even your moans are the hottest thing ever," she whined. He left a mark on her neck, excited to see it the next day and chuckled at her comment. He purposely edged her on and let out a loud moan as her covered cunt rubbed perfectly against him. He held her hips in place once he felt her pace increase. She whined desperately, and tried to move against him.

"I'm going to cum in my pants if you don't stop," he warned. "My fingers will make you feel so much better than this." She nodded at his words and released herself from his lap. His dark eyes followed her as she moved to rest on her back. He quickly placed himself between her legs and his warm hands rubbed her thighs.

"Please no teasing...I'm too desperate." She grabbed his hands and placed them on the top of her shorts.

Eddie was intrigued by how horny his girlfriend seemed to be. This was their first time doing anything more than making out and he already loved every second. "Oh, sweet girl, you're lucky I'm nice," his hands slipped off her shorts and he admired her cute panties. "Because I really want to make you cry, beg, and whimper with pretty tears in your eyes."

She figured Eddie was dominant, but she didn't realize how mean of a dominant he was. She felt her stomach turn with excitement as she thought about it.

"But since you're so desperate and used your manners, I'll save it for next time." His lips kissed her clit over her underwear and she arched into the air. She could wait for the next time, but she couldn't wait for right now. She held her breath as he pulled down her panties. "Oh, my, you are stunning," he said and took in the sight of her wet pussy on display for him. He kept his eyes on her pussy as he began to take off the ring off his pointer finger.

"Wait!" She quickly said. Eddie panicked and froze. "Can...is it...would you," she licked her lips as she tried to spit it out. "Keep the rings?"

Eddie blinked as he looked at his rings and then to her. He looked at her confused, "Rings?"

"Those," she said and nodded her head to his fingers. "Keep them on while you..." she trailed off. Eddie smirked as it connected. He didn't answer her with words, instead he slid a finger in between her soaked folds. Her body jolted and she let out a high pitched moan. He fed off her reaction and slowly pushed his middle finger inside of her.

"Is this what you wanted, pretty girl?" He asked and pushed his finger all the way inside of her until his ring touched her pussy. She shivered as the cold metal added to the pleasure. "Would it feel better with two?" He slid in another finger, once again sliding in until his ring touched her.

"Yes, thank you," she whined and rocked her hips against his fingers. His other hand softly rubbed her hip.

"My fucking pleasure," Eddie chuckled, he was in heaven. He picked up his pace and moaned at the sound of her pussy sucking him in. His cock twitched in his jeans and he couldn't wait for the day he felt her wrap around his cock.

She choked on her moans as he continued. Every time she felt the cold touch of his rings she got louder. Eddie watched her in delight as her body reacted to him. Everything about her was perfect, her body, her sounds.

"Does it feel good? Need more?" He asked, she gripped his arm that was fingers deep inside of her and held him against her.

"So so good," she whined. "Please don't stop."

"I won't. I've got you," he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers, slightly distracting her as he added a third finger. "Such a good girl. Look so gorgeous wrapped around my fingers." His free hand moved down her hip and his thumb rubbed circles on her clit. If Y/N wasn't so horny, she would feel embarrassed by the fact they could hear how wet she sounded.

As Eddie's thumb rubbed her clit, the shiny skull ring caught his attention. The ring was big, clunky, and had indents based on the skull structure. He removed his thumb and brought it to his mouth. She watched through heavy eyes as he sucked his thumb clean, then his teeth latched on to his ring and he pulled it off.

"Fuck!" She jumped as he pressed the skull ring against her clit. His fingers curled up and she began to see stars. He rubbed the ring against her clit. "Eddieeeeee, I need to...mhhm."

"That's it, baby. Cum for me. Cum all over my rings, ruin them."

Y/N panted as she felt her orgasm creeping up. She clenched her eyes and dug her nails into his arm as she squirmed on his fingers. He felt his cock leaking as he watched her orgasm. Her eyes clenched shut, head thrown back and mouth open as she moaned his name over and over. Her wet pussy pulsed and he continued to fuck her through it with soft whispers and lips against her neck.

She released him arm and her body collapsed into his mattress. He slowly removed his hands, his eyes locked in on the way her cum decorated the top of his rings. He looked at her, her eyes immediately back on his cum painted rings. He reached between her thighs, eyes locked on her as he grabbed his thumb ring. She moaned as he placed it back on his thumb.

"Now, how do we clean these?" Eddie asked as he wiggled his fingers in front of her eyes. "Suck them clean?"

She wasn't sure if he was serious, but she knew she'd do it with no questions asked.

Wayne had already left for work. Eddie knew that from the tread from boots in the carpet; the unmistakable smell of cheap coffee from the kitchen and the fact that his keys weren't on the hook. All these things that were out of place were also comforting. It meant that the world was still going on, the same morning routine, the same things out of place. It also meant that this beautiful girl next to him was real. You were real, alive and breathing - all while being madly in love with him.

Eddie had tried his best not to wake you - really, he had. While he could usually be a clutz, your relationship was one of his top three things he didn't want to break; the other two being his guitar and his van. So waking you up out of the pits of your slumber and disturbing your dream world? OK, a bit of a dramatic description, but that was Eddie, overdramatic and always with a theatrical flourish. Either way, he wouldn't dream of waking you. Instead, he just led there, playing with your hair because he needed to be doing something. Under his breath, he sang whatever song or verse that came to his mind at the time. Iron Man turned into Black Dog which then turned into Ramble On which somehow turned into Aces High. Not even Eddie knew how they all linked: sometimes his brain just felt like people shoving quarters into a jukebox and fighting over what song was going to play.

Eventually though, you woke up. Eddie's first thought was how out of place you looked. He knew what your life was like: the large room, the fancy bed, the full kitchen. Then compare it to Eddie's? The makeshift bed, the stale cereal and the fact he had to sleep in the living room? Felt like two different worlds. Yet here you were, staying with Eddie. It had taken some convincing on Eddie's part to get Wayne on board. He didn't exactly want Eddie making a habit of bringing girls to sleep over, however when Wayne heard Eddie talk about you, he had a feeling that Eddie was serious about you.

"Ah, my sleeping beauty is finally awake," Eddie murmured affectionately. The usual dramatic flair was toned down and it felt like a show only you were meant to see. This softer, less brash version of Eddie. You playfully swat him though, not even bothering to hide your smile. "Can a girl not sleep now?" you ask sarcastically as, at this point, sarcasm might as well be your love language. "When a fine lady likes you deprives her boyfriend of her presence, I do believe that I earn the right to complain." And there it was, Eddie's dramatics. Back early in the morning light as if it were never gone. As stupid as it was, it did cause your heart to stutter a little bit. You'd always had a weak spot for Eddie's dramatics. "Well then, I'm pretty sure this fine lady knows how to make up for that," you murmer softly, hooking a leg over his. It was Eddie's turn for his heart to stutter a little and his breath to hitch.

Every little movement you made was sultry, like you knew what you were doing and how to get the perfect reaction from him. Fingers tracing his tattoos, gentle breath against his neck, and barely there kisses. Eddie was already growing weak in the knees. At this point, you were practically straddling Eddie and as he looked up at you, he was convinced he'd failed death saving throws and went to heaven. Your smirk, the way were sat on him, the way his shirt was riding up to reveal the pair of boxer shorts he'd lent you, it was all just so, perfect.

"I haven't even started yet," you smirk, leaning down towards Eddie's lips. His hands reach up to cup your breast as your hair fell around the two of you, creating a shield for your faces. Lips met softly at first, still half asleep and slightly clumsy, before it picked up in intensity. Yeah, Eddie really had died and gone to heaven.

All of this was rather abruptly interrupted by the sound of the trailer door opening. The sound of a potential home invasion was a total boner killer. So as much as Eddie would've loved to keep making out, the threat of the trailer being broken into was, reluctantly, more important. Footsteps creaked, not that it was an achievement though. In a cheap place like this, any movement could be heard. Eddie couldn't do much - not with you sat on top of him. Any plan of him playing hero went out the window, along with his chances of taking those kisses any further. The two of you remained frozen still. The footsteps were measured, as if the unknown visitor was carefully looking for something. If they wanted something of value, they were out of luck. The most valuable thing in this trailer was the drugs that Eddie would sell. Even then, it was only worth good money if you knew who to sell to.

"Eddie? You here?" a familiar voice called out. The two of you let out a sigh of relief as you both recognised the voice. "Henderson?" you asked Eddie, even though you were certain that it was Dustin who'd interrupted. "Henderson," Eddie confirmed with a nod of his head. At this point, Dustin might as well be your child. Somehow, the two of you had ended up adopting him, fostering his love for science, dungeons and dragons and fantasy. Although, most would use the word corrupt instead of fostering his love. "We're in the living room, Henderson," Eddie called out.

Due to the trailers small size, it didn't take long for Dustin to walk in on the two of you. That also meant that there wasn't any time to climb off of Eddie; Dustin had walked in on a scene that looked very reminiscent of the magazines that were stuffed under Eddie's mattress. Not that Dustin even noticed to begin with - he was too busy on his walkie talkie, arguing with Mike about something Eddie really didn't bother to catch. "We still on for that extra session today?" Dustin asked, stuffing his walkie talkie in his bag. "Uh… Yeah," Eddie nodded, racking his brain to try and remember when he'd agreed to that. Probably before he knew you were staying the night. "Just, give me a chance to get ready." With a smirk on your face, you kissed Eddie's neck and rolled off him, letting Eddie get up to throw some clothes on and set up his dungeons and dragons game.

Laying alone now on the mattress, you watched as Eddie trudge off to find clothes and as Dustin started setting his things up. You smiled to yourself. It really felt like Eddie had adopted the Hellfire kids but especially Dustin. So, as Eddie's girlfriend, it was almost like you felt a maternal urge over the kids too. They weren't just Eddie's kids, they were yours now too. "You eaten this morning, Henderson?" you asked, looking over at Dustin again. He hummed and mumbled something under his breath that sounded like a yeah but you knew better. DND consumed their brains - food would definitely be a last priority.

Eddie looked up from his desk and smiled at the pretty girl in front of him. He didn't know much about her, just aware she was as quiet as a mouse and beautiful.

"Hi," he replied. His smile was warm and inviting, once her stomach fluttered she panicked and walked out of the classroom. Eddie looked at the empty spot in front of him, a little confused.

~

Then she tried again. He was trying to shove everything in his locker before it fell back out, slamming it shut with a victory smile.

"Hi, Eddie!"

Eddie smiled as she stood near him. He eyed her cute outfit and the shyness in her eyes. "Hi, Y/N!" The sound of her name coming from his lips made her cheeks flush. She opened her mouth to say more but his brown eyes made her nervous.

"Bye!" She squeaked and walked away. Eddie watched until she disappeared around the corner, the smile still on his face.

~

Did she try again? Yes, yes she did. It seemed every time she tried, she slowly made progress by adding more words. But once he replied, she was gone in a flash.

~

"Hi!"

"Hi!"

~

"Hi"

"Hi"

~

"Hi...uh hi"

"Hi times two"

~

Eddie wasn't quite sure what she was doing. He knew she was shy, and figured he made her nervous. He found it adorable that she was scurry away from him then came back the next day and tried again. He was curious as to why out of everyone, she wanted to talk to him. Then that led him to wonder if she had a crush. At first, he laughed it off, there was no way she had a crush on him. But he began to notice she looked at him....a lot. Which he very much enjoyed, he liked the way she looked away and hid away when he caught her.

He tried his best not to seem scary, he'd give her smiles and only gaze at her softly. He hoped it would make her comfortable enough to get out the words she wanted. He sometimes spoke first, but she didn't carry the conversation very far. If his suspicion was right, he was happy. He found her cute, and if she liked him, he'd be eager to see where things could go. He was curious to learn more about her and see what kind of person she was.

~~~

Y/N was unaware that Eddie was behind her when she closed her locker. She turned around and jumped.

"If we skip the hi part, can I ask you out before you run away?"

She was in shock, and believed she did not hear him right. Y/N barely could speak any words to Eddie, how did she make a good impression?

"I-uh," she stuttered

"Please, don't be nervous!" Eddie tried to calm her down and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Unaware that his touch made her heart race and she felt like she swallowed her tongue. "I want to talk to you. I enjoy our small interactions." She calmed down at his smile. She tried to shake off her nerves and smiled back at him.

"I'm Y/N. I think you should know that before you ask anything," he laughed at her comment and she felt pride in her chest. He removed his hands and she tried not to miss it.

"Nice to formally meet you, I'm Eddie Munson. Are you free tonight? Maybe grab something to eat?' he shrugged and placed his hands in his pockets. He figured he'd make the move for her, but now he was worried maybe that wasn't what she wanted.

"I'd love to," Y/N smiled.

"You have a pen?" He asked, because he knew he didn't have shit in his empty backpack. She nodded and quickly dug into her bag and pulled out a black pen. "May I?" He grabbed the pen and nodded to her hand.

"Oh! Go ahead," she said and placed her hand in front of him. She tried to control herself as his skin touched hers. The pen tickled her skin as he wrote down his number.

"Call me when you get home and we'll plan the details," he said. She didn't miss that he placed the pen in his pocket.

"Okay, yeah," she excitedly nodded. He gave her a cheeky smile and a nod that made her internally scream. Once he disappeared, she looked at her hand and squealed. All digits scribbled in his handwriting on her hand.

Eddie smiled as he heard the squeal from around the corner. He let out the breath he had held and was impressed by how well he had faked that confidence. He walked to his van and cringed at the smell. He made a mental note to steal an air freshener from a gas station on the way home.

Returning to your bedroom, you sat at your vanity, covered in makeup products of all types, the surface stained with black smudges and everything else you put on each day.

Staring at yourself in your vanity mirror, you glanced at Eddie, still asleep, but pulled into a tight ball, foot poking out from beneath the covers, toenails painted black, courtesy of you.

You tightened the towel around yourself, contemplating whether you wanted to put on your makeup. There was a slight feeling of insecurity at the thought of Eddie seeing you without your makeup—it was a drastic change from your natural face, but he loved seeing you either way.

Each day, when he came by to pick you up, he'd comment on your immaculately made face, eyebrows thin as pencils, nose contoured with shades of gray, eyelashes huge and dramatic, but wispy and flowing when you smiled shyly at Eddie.

"You look so stunning, baby." Eddie called, stepping out of his van, arms wide as you walked into him. He was careful not to mess up your hair or your black lipstick as he kissed you.

His rings clinked against the spiked belt you wore, the warmth of his fingers combating against the chillyness of your bare waist.

The memory made your heart squeeze, and you ran a hand over your face, sighing heavily, and spinning around in your chair to watch him.

Eddie could feel your stare, because without opening his eyes, he said, "what, you freak? Why are you watching me in my sleep?" The humor in his tone made you laugh despite your beating heart, and you shrugged, "you snore really loud."

He scoffed, twisting onto his back, arms splayed beneath his head. Eddie's chest rose with a large breath, then he stared at your ceiling, covered in vines, posters, and every little island of interest you had.

"I don't snore, baby. You, on the other hand..." his words trailed off, and when he heard your laugh, his eyes opened, mission accomplished. Eddie pushed his hair from his face, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked.

"Did you already shower?" He'd yet to look at you, and frustration bubbled because you wanted to get it over with, revel in his attention, whether it be bad or good, but Eddie was glazed over in thought, awaiting your answer.

"Yes. I felt sticky and sweaty, and you were snoring too loud to notice me leave." You pushed up and crawled onto the bed, slowly but surely, towel forgotten on the floor, and that's when Eddie looked at you.

He didn't say anything at first, but you could see surprise growing in his gaze, a breath choking in his throat, eyes wide and big and brown. You straddled his waist, almost immediately feeling him harden beneath you, but you didn't move.

"Baby, your makeup." He motioned to your face, hands threaded through yours, and you nodded. "Are you surprised?" Your voice was low, and just barely a whisper, but Eddie nodded, eyes drifting from your lips to your nose, to your cheeks.

"You're so...georgeous." He muttered, and you had half a mind to not believe him, remembering your swollen face from sleep, but Eddie reached up, finger tracing the outline of your lips.

"Are you just saying that because—" Eddie shook his head rapidly, and you placed your hand over his chest, feeling the rapid pitter-patter of his heart.

"No, I'm not. You're, like, the prettiest person I've ever seen. Even better when you don't have makeup on." Eddie's hand drifted over your hair and down your spine, face bright when you shivered.

"And there's something I want to do." He called, gripping your hips, leaving indents from his nails.

"What?" You muttered, nipples hard from the cold, but they ached when Eddie squeezed them, dick twitching beneath you as you moaned.

Eddie tells himself not to look. Which, of course, means he does.

Over and over. A twitch of his head, a flick of his eyes.

Still, nothing.

The cafeteria hums around him—clattering trays, bursts of laughter, the scrape of chairs on linoleum—but it all sounds muffled, underwater.

His sandwich sits untouched. Too much bread. Too dry. He stares at the condensation on his soda can instead, biting his nails, knees bouncing hard enough to rattle the table. Gareth’s talking about the new Mötley Crüe album again—something about the mix being trash—but his eyes keep drifting across the room, landing on that same stupid vacant spot.

You weren’t there Monday. Or Tuesday.

Now it’s Wednesday, and he’s starting to wonder if it’s something more than just bad timing or an off week.

You’re not the type to skip. Not like him. You do your work. You care. 

You don’t just…. disappear.

His knee is bouncing again. He can feel it, the imbalance. Like the floor is tilting and he can’t find his footing again without the soft murmur of your voice finding him from across the cafeteria.

And then—god—he’s back there again. 

Sunday. The day after your party.

The diner. The walk to his van.

The rain.

Not a drizzle. Not summer mist. This was biblical. Thunder growling low like the sky had a grudge. Pavement steaming, gutters choking on runoff. 

But you had just smiled. Stood there with your palms turned up while the sky split open in two above you.  

You, in your soaked shirt and storm-tangled hair, laughing like it was all some kind of gift.

He can still see it—rain beading on your lashes, hair plastered to your cheeks—shining under the streetlights like some half-drowned daydream.

He remembers the way you had looked up. Like the storm was yours.

You said you were fine.

You always say you’re fine.

But now it’s fucking Wednesday, and you’re still not here, and his stomach feels like it’s trying to turn itself inside out.

By sixth period, Eddie is practically vibrating out of his skin.

His leg won’t stop shaking. He chews the butt of a pencil clean off. All the what-ifs are crawling up his spine like ice water.

And when the final bell rings, he’s up and moving before the sound finishes echoing.

He corners Chrissy Cunningham by her locker like a man chasing his last breath.

She’s folding a jacket over her arm when he approaches, and he blurts out your name before he even says hello.

“Do you know if she’s like, out of town, or something?”

Too fast. Too desperate. He knows it, hears it, doesn’t care.

“I mean, not that I think something happened, it’s not like—” he exhales sharply. “Shit. Sorry. Sorry. Rambling.”

He rubs the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off, but it doesn’t land.

Chrissy blinks. Cautious, kind. Her brow arches as she slides a textbook into her bag.

“Hey… Eddie. Yeah, she’s okay. Just sick. Caught something after the party.”

The words hit like cold water.

Sick. From the rain. After that night.

Shit.  

Shit shit shit.

I’ll be fine Eddie, c’mon!

He’s a fucking idiot.

“She’s sick.” He echoes numbly.

Chrissy nods. “Just a cold, I think. I was gonna check in on her, drop by with homework after practice.”

“Right. Yeah. Cool. Awesome.” He nods like he’s trying to shake loose the panic in his chest. “That’s... that’s good.”

But he doesn’t leave.

Still clutching his bag strap, mouth half-open, hand twitching at his side like it’s got more to say.

Chrissy watches him for a beat, then tilts her head, eyes softening. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a bundle—a blue binder with your name written in pen, some loose-leaf sheets, and a paperback copy of Jane Eyre, corners soft from wear.

“You know what?” She says. “I’ve got cheer today, so I might be late getting over there. You should take this. Probably better if she gets it sooner.”

She hands it over without hesitation.

He stares at it like she’s holding something radioactive.

“You sure?”  

“Yeah. She’d probably rather see you anyway.”

And of course, his dumbass ego soaks that one right up. 

He nods tightly. His fingers curl around the stack, careful not to smudge your notes or dog-ear a page you hadn’t marked yet.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. 

She stalls for a bit, pursing her lips, then just smiles.

“Of course. See you around, Eddie.”

He sits with your things for a while in the van. 

Puts a seatbelt over the stack on the passenger seat. Like that’ll keep them safe.

Your things. In his hands.

The weight of it feels heavier than anything he’s carried all day.

He stares at the binder sitting on top, at the scrawl of your handwriting on the corner of a worksheet.

He thinks about the sound of your laughter in the rain.

And then, finally, he turns the ignition.

By the time he pulls into your driveway, his hands are raw from gripping the wheel. 

The houses on this side of town don’t creak like the ones he’s used to. They don’t buzz with bad wiring or smell like gasoline and mildew. Even the air feels different here—green, fresh, as if the lawns have their own oxygen supply. It’s the kind of neighborhood where people trim their hedges and return all their borrowed Tupperware.

He shouldn’t be here.

The second his feet hit your porch, he feels it—the eyes. Blinds shifting, heads turning. His van is probably already on the HOA blacklist.

Still, he knocks. Twice. Measured.

Waits.

No answer.

He shifts his weight, your binder slick against his palm. 

Knocks again. Three quick raps this time. 

Still nothing.

His heart starts climbing his ribs.

You’re probably sleeping.

Or in the shower.

Or maybe you’re not even home.

Maybe Chrissy was wrong.

Maybe—

A sudden, sharp bark explodes behind him.

Eddie flinches hard, twisting toward the source—a fence just a few feet to his right, with a dog pressed up against the slats, snarling like Eddie’s a threat to national security.

“Jesus H Christ!” He hisses, stumbling back a step, nearly dropping your things. The dog barks again, more insistent this time, loud enough to stir the whole neighborhood.

Eddie backs off. 

He ends up squatting down on your curb, your binder tucked in his lap, knees bouncing like mad.

He sits there for a while before his mind starts running again, feeling the quiet weight of judgment pressing in.

Fuck.

This is how he ends up in a police report.

Strange boy in denim vest loitering at front door, agitating family pets. Possible drug activity.

He should leave.

He should. 

He could just drop off your things on your porch. Slide it under the mat. Take it back to Chrissy so that she can bring it over instead. 

But something grips in his stomach and twists, refusing to let go.

So he gets back up. Slaps his palms against his knees for courage. 

The third knock leaves his knuckles cold against the door.

Still no answer.

The dog next door won’t shut up, and Eddie can feel the neighborhood turning its collective head toward him. Measuring his hair and rings and ripped jeans against the clean porches and American flags of this picture-perfect cul-de-sac.

He shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not standing on your porch like a stray mutt with a stack of your homework and the full weight of his anxiety strapped to his chest.

Yet still—he just cannot bring himself to leave.

He adjusts your things under one arm, sighing softly. Knocks one last time. 

And just when he’s about to give up—

The door creaks.

And there you are.

Backlit by the dim glow of your hallway, wrapped in a hoodie that’s comically too big—sleeves past your fingers, hem like a dress.

Your eyes are puffy. Cheeks blotchy from sleep and heat. Your hair's a wild tangle, part of it stuck to your forehead. You’re pale and flushed at the same time, like someone painted you with fever.

You look like hell.

And still the most beautiful thing he’s seen all week.

You squint up at him like you're seeing through water.

“E-Eddie?”

The sound of your voice—thin, fragile, confused—slices through his chest.

And then, before he can answer, you step forward on unsteady legs and press your face into his middle, arms wrapping clumsily around his waist.

“You’re here,” you mumble, voice muffled by his shirt. “...Eddie.”

Eddie goes very still.

You’re hugging him. In broad daylight. On your porch. 

And your body is hot. Too hot. Feverish heat rolling off in waves. You’re trembling, clutching to his shirt like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

His arms hover for a beat. Then settle, gently. One hand on your back, the other between your shoulder blades, unsure if you’re going to pass out on him or pull away.

Eddie tries to speak. Really tries. But all that comes out is a kind of breathy laugh—half relief, half nervous static.

“Y-yeah,” he finally manages. “I’m here.”

You hum against his chest like that’s all you needed to hear. Cheek pressed flat against his stomach, eyes closed like the effort of keeping them open is too much. He can feel the warmth of your skin even through all the layers—and now that he’s this close, really seeing you, his heart gives a hard thump of panic.

“You’re burning up.” He murmurs, brows furrowing.

One hand slips up, tentative, brushing your hair back from your face. His fingertips touch your forehead—damp and blazing. His frown deepens.

Shit.

You’re really sick.

Like, should be in bed instead of answering the door and hugging him, sick.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You feel like you’re gonna melt.”

But you just sway a little in his arms and nuzzle closer. Mumble his name again as if the sound of it is helping you stay awake. 

“Didn’ think you’d come…” you murmur, blinking slow. “You’re… really here.”

And Eddie—he doesn’t know what to do with that. So he just stands there awhile, holding you, one hand pressed lightly to your burning forehead, the other curled around your back, heart jackhammering against his ribs.

He wants to laugh. Or cry. Or lift you into his arms and carry you inside like a scene from one of those stupid romance movies Harrington pretends not to enjoy. 

Instead, he swallows hard and clears his throat.

“I brought your things,” he says, because it’s the only thing that makes sense. “Homework and stuff.”

You mumble something into his shirt that sounds like ‘you’re better than homework,’ and his knees almost buckle. 

“Okay, come on,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Let’s get you back inside before you faint or your neighbor calls the cops on me for kidnapping a fever gremlin.”

You giggle softly, letting him gently shuffle you backward. 

He kicks the door behind him with the heel of his shoe.

And even though your house is quiet and dim, filled with the unfamiliar scent of polished wood and something floral he can’t quite place, Eddie feels something in his chest ease for the first time all week.

You’re here.

You’re okay, mostly.

And you wanted him here.

He holds onto that, just as tightly as he holds onto you.

Up the stairs. Step by aching step.

You lean more and more of your weight on him as you go, mumbling half-coherent words into his side.

You feel like a wobbly space heater under his arm. Unsteady, lopsided. Like your body can’t decide where it starts and where it ends.

He murmurs soft encouragements into your hair every step of the way:

“I got you.”

“Don’t faceplant on me, ‘kay?”

“Almost there.”

“C’mon, one more step.”

You giggle sleepily the whole time, delirious, cotton-mouthed, your cheek pressed somewhere near his ribs. You’re not really walking anymore—more like leaning while he does the navigating, his free hand gripping the banister as he guides you step by careful step.

By the time he eases you onto your bed, his arms are quivering. 

And only when your back touches the mattress does he realize—he’s in your room. 

It smells like you. Like warmth and sleep and lemon tea. Posters on the wall. Open books on the nightstand. A chipped mug holding colorful pens. 

A wildflower, delicate and sun-faded, pressed flat between the pages of a heavy book on your nightstand, peeking out like a secret.

His heart stutters when he realizes it’s that flower. The one he picked for you weeks ago at the base of Skull Rock. You’d smiled and tucked it into your copy of Jane Eyre like it meant something.

And it hits him all at once, sudden and blinding:

He’s in your room. 

Where you sleep. Where you dream. Where you listen to music and lay on your stomach and scribble in the margins of your homework.

Where you cry when no one’s watching and sing when no one’s listening. 

Where you press flowers into books and don’t tell anyone why. 

Where you’re entirely yourself, in a way the rest of the world never gets to see.

And now he’s standing right in the middle of it—muddy Reeboks and all—like a bull in a sacred china shop. 

He kneels beside your bed, heartbeat loud in his ears. 

Your blankets are a mess, pillows kicked half off the mattress. You’ve sunk deep into the sheets with a sigh, cheeks flushed, fever-pink against pale linens.

He pushes your hair off your face with a shaky hand. 

You lean into it, blinking slow and heavy-lidded.

Then, like it costs you effort but you’d spend it anyway, your mouth tilts into this soft, syrupy smile.

And Eddie—Eddie’s not built for this. Not for the way your leaning into his palm and looking at him like he’d hung the fucking moon. 

Like it’s safe. Like he’s safe.

“You have a thermometer?” He clears his throat, glancing around your room. 

Your gaze lingers on his mouth for a second before drifting to the nightstand.

He sees it, next to a half-empty bottle of Robitussin and a pile of tissues. Picks it up with careful fingers, holding it in front of you with a raised brow.  

“Ready?”

You nod, parting your lips obediently. 

And Jesus—fuck him and fuck his heart for stuttering at that.  

His fingers graze the corner of your mouth as he eases it in.

Your lips are dry. Your breath is warm. Your lashes flutter.

And after about a minute you start to grow restless, giggling and mumbling incoherently around the glass.

“Sssh, don’t talk,” he frowns, trying not to meet your eyes. “Almost done. Be good, ‘kay?”

His throat immediately goes dry.

Be good.

Christ.

What is wrong with him?

You blink up at him, like you’re trying to process the command. Then you nod, slow and wobbly, lips curving around the thermometer.

Submissive in a way that has nothing to do with anything carnal, and yet—

And yet.

He swears quietly under his breath and tries to focus on the ticking numbers, watching the mercury rise.   

Three minutes.

Three minutes of trying not to stare at your throat. Or your hands curled near your chest. Or the delicate pulse fluttering at your temple like butterfly wings.

When he finally slips the thermometer from your lips, checking the reading, his stomach drops.  

Shit.

You smile faintly, not even looking. “Bad?”

“Yeah,” he nods, voice tight. “Real bad.” 

He immediately grabs the medicine bottle from the nightstand, unscrews the cap, and starts measuring. You’re blinking slow again, head tipping back.

“Hey, stay with me, okay? When’s the last time you took this?”

“Mmm... las’ night.”

His jaw tightens. “Should’ve had more hours ago.”

He gets the dose ready and reaches for you, only to stop short when you make this little face, nose wrinkling in a quiet grimace. 

“No,” you mumble. Petulant, sweet.

“Really?” he asks, head tilting. There’s a smirk ghosting his lips now, just enough to tease. “I know it tastes like ass. But you need it.”

Your gaze wanders again—unfocused, dreamy.

Then, whisper-soft, you ask:

“Kisses after?”

His heart just about seizes. The cap in his hand stills mid-air. His chest tightens like something just wrapped around it and yanked.

For one agonizing second he doesn’t breathe—just stares at you, bottle searing into his palm, heart somewhere near his throat.

Then you smile, small and dazed. “…kidding.”

He clears his throat. Looks away fast. His ears are bright red.

“Hilarious,” he mutters, pretending to busy himself with the medicine because he doesn’t trust what he might do if he looks up. “Very funny.”

He lifts the cap to your lips, hand trembling. 

“Open.”

You do. 

You sip slow, face scrunching like you’re swallowing gasoline. He watches the line of your throat as you gulp it down. Your tongue licking the corner of your mouth, brows scrunching as the taste hits.

He could kiss the expression off you, if he let himself.

“Toughest girl I know,” he teases, absently brushing the underside of your jaw as he pulls back. 

“Mhm,” you hum, smiling proudly. Your head sinks back into the pillow like it’s gravity pulling you under.

He watches you for a long moment, then. The way your lashes rest against your cheeks, the way the tension fades from your shoulders. You look... younger like this. Bare. Unarmored.

And then it hits him—you were the one to answer the door. 

“Hey,” he murmurs gently. “Where are your folks?”

Your lips press into a thin line. “Outta town.”

He frowns. “Still?”

A small nod. Sad, maybe. Barely there.

His jaw works as he glances down at his wrist—almost 5.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Your eyelids flutter. Head shakes no.

“Jesus,” he breathes, standing up. “Alright. No more meds on an empty stomach. Gonna make you something to eat, okay?”

You stir immediately at his words. Eyes barely open but searching for him anyway, glassy and unfocused. The covers rustle as you shift, arms sluggishly pushing out from the tangle of sheets, fumbling in the air like you’re trying to find something in the dark.

“Wait,” you rasp, voice thin and hoarse and far too small for how much space it takes up in his heart. “Don’t go.”

He freezes.

“You were gone,” you mumble. “Don’t… don’t want you gone.”

Then quieter, so soft he almost doesn’t catch it, like it was meant for the pillow, not for him:

“Missed you.”

Something in him buckles. Just caves in. 

He immediately drops back down, reaching for your arms. Palms pressed flat against overheated skin, gliding up and down, trying to get you to relax again. 

You’re not dying. He knows that. But god, the way you reach for him like he’s the only solid thing left—it scrapes something raw in him.

“Yeah,” he nods, voice low. “Me too.”

He could say more. He could say—I’ve spent the last three days staring at your table instead of eating, or, I’ve bombed two quizzes ‘cause I couldn’t stop thinking about you during class—but instead he just lets out a sigh, stroking the back of your hand. 

You paw at the blanket, reaching again, eyes half-lidded.

You never ask for things. Not like this.

“I’m not going anywhere, promise” he murmurs. “I’ll make you something to eat and I’ll be right back.”

Inside, he hears his heart split quietly in two.

This part of you, this soft, fragile, reaching part—it’s new. 

The versions of you he’s seen before, they never let themselves be this unguarded. You’re always composed, clever. A little sharp when you want to be. And even when you’re hurting, you still carry it with your chin up, swallowing it down so it never becomes anyone else’s burden.

But right now, you’re warm and needy and unfiltered, and it’s doing something to his brain he doesn’t want to think about. 

Carving something up inside his chest. Something he’s not sure he’s allowed to name.

You want him here.

You need him here.

You missed him.

He smooths your hair back again, letting his hand linger for longer than it needs to.

He doesn’t kiss you.

But god, he could.

He could kiss your forehead and pull the blanket up higher and hold you until you fall asleep again. He wants so desperately to say it back—not me too but I missed you too, in ways I don’t even know how to carry.

Instead, he reaches down, tugging gently at his ring finger.

His old mood ring—round black stone in the center, silver filigree curling around the band like vines. A little tarnished, a little beat-up. 

He twists it free, placing it in your open palm and closing your fingers around it.

“There,” he murmurs softly. “Collateral.”

Your brows twitch. “’s your ring.”

“Yep,” he grins, tapping your closed fist. “Don’t lose it. That thing’s older than I am. If you lose it, a very grumpy ghost might start following you around.”

You giggle, soft and drowsy. He thinks about what he’d give just to keep hearing that sound for the rest of his life.

“Hold onto that for me, ‘kay? Stay awake, keep it safe. I’ll be back in ten, promise.”

You hum, finally laying back, tucking the ring close to your chest like it’s the most important thing in the room.

He wants to lean the rest of the way down and press a kiss to your temple.

He doesn’t.

Your kitchen is eerily quiet.

Too quiet.

Eddie flips on the light, but it doesn’t buzz and sputter like the one in his trailer—just gives off a low, sterile hum, casting the pristine white cabinets in this sickly, yellow jaundice.  

He runs the sink, splashing cold water onto his face—once, twice—before letting it drip from his jaw like maybe it’ll shock his thoughts straight.  

It doesn’t.

He rubs the water into the back of his neck anyway. Breathes hard through his nose. Keeps moving.

Fridge first.

It greets him with a hollow rattle and a puff of cold air that smells faintly of takeout. 

Inside: a nearly-empty ketchup bottle. A sad squeeze of mustard. A limp celery stalk browning at the tips. One lonely slice of American cheese, stuffed into a baggie with the kind of care no one bothered to give anything else in here.

His jaw ticks.

The fridge door slams shut a little too hard.

His hands are starting to buzz again, restless. Not like stage-fright or a comedown, but the specific kind of agitation that comes when something’s wrong and he can’t fix it fast enough.

He checks the cabinets. The first one’s got a steel cocktail shaker, way too many martini glasses, and a bunch of copper-plated gadgets no one needs. The second: rows and rows of spices he’s never seen before in his life. Salt from the Himalayas, paprika smoked three ways. Twenty kinds of dried herbs, none of which are even remotely used.

Not a single goddamn thing to eat.

A tight, hissing breath leaks out through his teeth, his mind flashing to the faceless image of your parents. 

Who the hell owns this many spices and no food?

Third try—there. Tucked way in the back, buried behind an expired box of pasta shells and something that might’ve once been instant grits:

Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup

Shining like a goddamn beacon of light.

He holds the can between his palms and kisses it, sending a silent prayer. 

Then he gets to work. 

Pot. Can opener. Bowl. Spoon. Glass of water, half full. He checks it twice for smudges before setting it on the tray.

And the tray—it comes naturally. He fishes it out from under the sink like it’s instinct. Like he’s done this before a hundred times. 

Only not here. Only not for you.

He sets it all up, methodical and careful.

His hands won’t stop shaking.

So he makes them busy.

Clinks the spoon against the counter. Lets the drawer doors slam. Taps his rings against the pot handle as it heats. Makes just enough noise so that if you’re listening upstairs, through fevered half-sleep, you’ll know he hasn’t left. That he’s still here. 

He stirs the soup, tastes it, blows on it even though it doesn’t need it. Finds the last slice of bread behind the toaster, peels the crust off and toasts it soft—not crunchy, just warm—because he’s not sure your throat could take anything rougher. 

Every movement feels heavy and momentous.

Because you need to eat.

You need to get better.

You said you missed him.

That last part keeps looping in his brain like a skipping record.

He doesn’t know what to do with it. Can’t shake it. Can’t set it down.

So he sets the tray down instead. Soup, bread, water, spoon. A folded paper towel. Even a little napkin tucked under the edge because it felt like something he should do.

Something a mom would do.

Christ.

When he heads back upstairs, being careful not to spill, he lets his feet fall heavy on purpose. Wants you to hear him coming. Wants you to know he didn’t go far.

The door creaks as he nudges it open with his elbow.

You’re still there, half-curled in a limp cocoon of tangled sheets and heat. His ring is around your index finger now, fist curled tight against your chest like you’re holding a stuffed animal.  

Your eyes lift, slow and glassy, then grow wide once you spot him in the doorway.

Like he’s walked in with a miracle instead of old soup from a can.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, edging toward the bed. “This is all I could cook.”

“S’okay,” you mumble, trying to sit up. Your voice is frayed, soft. You’re bleary-eyed and flushed, hair sticking up like it’s been electrocuted—yet somehow you still look stunning.

Not in a radiant or graceful or polished way.

Just real. And soft. And so far from how he’s used to seeing you, it knocks the breath from his lungs.

One of your hands fumbles with the comforter, like you’re trying to be more present, sit straighter, show him you’re fine. But you can’t quite get there.

He crouches beside the bed.

“Hey,” he says gently, voice quiet as he studies you—your color, your posture, the faint tremble in your hands.

Your skin has that over-warm sheen again. Fever clinging to you like sweat.

You blink back at him. 

“You came back.”

His chest caves a little at the edges—and yeah, okay, that’s not gonna stop anytime soon.

“‘Course I did.” He says, setting the tray down on your nightstand. “Told you I would.”

You smile, woozy and warm, eyes heavy. And it makes his brows crinkle, because he can see how much effort it’s costing you just to stay awake. Because he’d told you to. 

“I made you soup,” he says, adjusting the pillow behind you. His hand brushes your neck as he does—you’re still burning up. “Well, soup-flavored water. Courtesy of Grandma Campbell.”

That earns a soft hum from you. A crinkle of your nose. And god help him, he grins like an idiot just to see it.

He places the bowl in your lap with careful fingers.

You eat. One bite. Then another.

Three total before the spoon clinks against the side. Your hand goes slack. You sigh.

Eddie watches from the edge of the bed, fist pressed against his cheek, jaw working.

He tilts his head. “That’s it?”

You nod, eyes flutttering. “I’m full.”

You say it with this soft, sleepy defiance, like a kid trying to weasel out of bed time.  

It’s almost cute.

Almost.

Except you still look pale, and your lips are dry, and you’re trembling a little because of the chills and god-knows-how-little water you’ve had the last two days.

Then, with a whispered sigh, you shuffle the bowl away from you, brows furrowed as you murmur a quiet “sorry.”

And he frowns at that, because you’re doing that thing again. Folding in on yourself. Shrinking into something palatable.

Like if you go small enough, sweet enough, the world might go easy on you.

He wonders who taught you that. What kind of world made you believe that’s the way to stay safe. 

He hates them for it. Whoever it is, wherever they are. For all of it.

His fingers twitch.

Not now. No room for that now.

Not when your parents are still nowhere, and your fridge is empty, and your cupboards are filled with nothing but useless fucking powders that incite a rage so deep and unfathomable inside him.

Now, he leans in. Brushes your wrist—still too hot, still wrong. 

“You need to eat more than that,” he says, voice low, trying to keep the sharp edges out. “Please.”

You make a soft noise in protest. Your arm slides across your stomach, eyes drooping like your lashes are too heavy.

He doesn’t stop to think about it.

Just gently lifts the bowl from your lap and sets it on the tray.

Then—slowly, carefully—tucks two fingers under your chin and tilts your head to face him. 

You don’t fight it.

Whether it’s because you don’t want to, or because you’re too tired to push back, you let him.

You let him.

Then your eyes open.

And it guts him, that slow, groggy blink you give—like the light is too sharp, like it’s trying to hurt you. It shouldn’t make his chest ache like this. Shouldn’t make his palms itch with this raw, wretched fucking need to make everything soft and small and manageable for you. 

All these feelings he has no fucking right to feel.

“Hey,” he says, nodding like the ground isn’t slipping beneath him. Swallows around something thick. “I know you don’t feel like it, but you’ve gotta eat a little more.”

You groan faintly. “But I did.”

“Three bites isn’t food, that’s a taste test.” He says, softening it with a smile. “If you don’t eat, that medicine’s gonna mess you up worse.”

You try to turn your face away. He gently guides it back.

“Hey.” Quieter now. Firm. “Look at me.”

You do.

And fuck, he wishes you hadn’t.

Because up close like this, there’s nowhere to hide from the details. The fever-glass shine in your eyes. The way exhaustion sits like a bruise under your skin.  

He hates how hot your skin feels under his fingers. Hates how heavy your gaze is. 

But what hits hardest is that flicker behind your lashes. Not resistance. Not even frustration.

Relief.

Like you wanted this. Like some aching part of you needed someone to take the wheel for a minute.

And maybe that’s what shoves him over the edge. Makes him lean too far into something he’s not supposed to name.

Falling like gravity, too fast to catch:

“Just do this for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Can you be good for me?”

It drops like a stone.

He hears it in the silence after. The thud of it echoing in the space between your breaths.

Your lashes flutter. Your fingers twitch.

His heart stutters like a misfired engine, catching hard in his chest and jerking painfully against his ribs. Shame blooms hot and fast, unspooling like a thread pulled too tight, threatening to snap.

Too much. Too fucking much.

What are you doing, Munson?

You’re supposed to be safe. He’s supposed to be helping. 

But then—

You reach for the bowl. 

He freezes, watching you scoop another weak bite, barely holding the utensil steady, and guide it to your lips. You chew. Swallow. Then another. And another.

By the fourth bite, your arm gives out a little. The spoon dips, pauses mid-air before clattering back into the bowl. You let out a small, tired sigh and glance up at him through your lashes.

Your bottom lip juts out, just a little.  

“’s heavy.” You mumble, eyes flicking to the spoon like it’s personally wronged you.

And god help him, you’re pouting on purpose now.

His mouth twitches. It could’ve been a smile—might’ve even been a laugh—if his chest didn’t feel like it was strangled in knots.

“What, you need me to feed it to you?” he jokes, trying to keep it light. Something to cover up the slow implosion happening inside his ribcage. 

But then you look up. 

And you nod.

Not even a single iota of irony in your expression. 

Fuck.

“No, I—I was…” he starts, but the words catch halfway out of his throat.

He was what? Making a dumb joke? Pretending he hasn’t already crossed five different lines in the last ten minutes? 

It’s the look on your face that stops him cold. Soft, honest. Expectant in the most devastating way. Like if he follows through on whatever he was about to say, you’ll fold in on yourself.  

So he doesn’t.

Just grits his teeth, reaches out, and starts feeding you instead.

He tells himself it’s practical. Necessary. That it’s just food and you’re sick and someone has to make sure you eat. 

But it doesn’t feel like just food.

Not with the way you part your lips for him, obedient and trusting. Not with the way your gaze lingers on his face every time the spoon leaves your mouth.

A small droplet rolls down your chin. You giggle. He grabs a napkin, carefully dabs it away.

“There you go,” he murmurs, because he has to say something. Has to pretend like his chest isn’t splintering every time your mouth opens for another spoonful. “Easy.”

But it’s not easy.

It’s starting to feel like that first night with you all over again. The one with the pizza bagels and the UNO cards and the ecstasy.

Because no matter how much he tells himself that it’s been long enough, that there’s history now, that you know him well enough that he can’t knock this off balance anymore—it still hits the same.

Still knocks the wind out of him in the exact same place.

And he hates that it does. Hates that some part of him still braces for the fall. Feeling like he’s borrowing something he’s not sure he’s earned. That every ounce of trust you give feels like a loan he’ll never be able to repay.

He should be focused on your fever. Your meds. Fluids and electrolytes and practical, measurable things.

But instead, all he can think about is how your eyes keep flicking up at him between bites.

Soft, quiet, waiting.

Like you’re expecting something.

His throat closes.

He’s falling—spirals leading down, down—everything else receding into static around one singular, terrible, magnetic thought:

“That’s my girl.”

And fuck. 

That—that one is a mistake. 

He flinches the moment it hits the air, like someone else said it with his voice. 

Slipped off his tongue too easily, too gently, like it belonged there. Like it didn’t just split the line he’s been trying so hard to hold.

No, he shouldn’t have said that.

Not now. Not like this.

Not when you’ve barely eaten in two days and you’re just trying to fucking survive and not be alone.

He goes completely still. 

Spoon in hand, frozen mid-air. Waiting for the fallout.

Then—

You lean forward. Mouth open, wordlessly letting him feed you again. 

And Eddie stays exactly where he is, gripping the bowl so tight it could crack under his palm, shame burning like acid in his throat.

Still falling. 

Each sluggish bite, each slow blink pulls the knot tighter around his chest. 

A knot woven from guilt and shame and the aching knowledge that he wants—desperately—to be needed by you like this, even if he knows he shouldn’t.

Because he likes this.

Likes that you’re letting him in. Letting him take care of you.

That you’re needing him.

And it makes him feel like a fucking monster to admit that.

That a sick, vicious part of him is glad you're weak, just because it means he gets to stay close.

By the time he scrapes the bottom of the bowl, he’s lightheaded. Nearly drops it trying to set it down.

Then he reaches for the water, tipping the glass gently against your lips.

Because this is what he does now, apparently.

Feeding you. Wiping your chin. Praising you.

Calling you his girl—words weighted with something he hasn’t earned, desires he should never bring into a room with you like this.

Soaked in a kind of hunger he keeps buried—dark and familiar and ugly—thrumming through him in places it has no business touching.

When you finally sink back into the pillows with a soft sigh, there’s a new kind of flush in your face. 

Less fever, more something else.

Something unnameable. Something terrifying.

Eddie tries to ignore it. Just shifts forward, unthinking, and uselessly brushes his thumb over your cheek.

Not because you need it. 

But because he wants to. Because he can’t not.

Because he’s scared if he doesn’t keep touching you in these small, safe ways, he’ll reach for something that truly crosses the line.

“You did good.” He whispers.

And when you blink up at him, heavy and uneven, it feels like looking at a version of you he’s not supposed to have. 

Like touching something that doesn’t belong to anyone—not even you.

And he wonders—just like he did that first night—and the one after that, and every night since—how long it’ll take for you to find out what really lives inside his head.

And if, when you do, you’ll still want him to stay.

Your kitchen doesn’t smell like lemon cleaner anymore.

Eddie’s staring at his palms, scrubbing the inside of a mug that’s already clean.

Suds up to his wrists. Water running hot until it stings.

Good. 

He wants it to sting. 

It’s your mug. The one you left on your nightstand, half-full with water he made you sip after your second dose of meds.

Chipped handle. Faded yellow paint. Good Morning, Sunshine peeling off in curls.

He’s checked your fever three times since then. It’s gone down, slow but steady.

He still doesn’t trust it.

A quick glance at his wrist—two hours and change.

Two hours and change since he left your bedside. Since he wrapped you in every blanket in the house, folded a damp towel across your forehead, and tucked a heating pad under your feet. Two hours since he bullied you under the covers, even as you slurred, ‘I feel better now, Eds, swear. The soup cured me,’ then yawned so wide it swallowed the rest of your words whole.

You’d mumbled, half-asleep against the pillow, ‘How’d you even know I was home?’, and he’d told you. 

That he knocked on your door like a maniac for ten minutes and nearly got his throat torn out by your neighbor’s dog.

You'd blinked at him then, smiling.

‘Puddles.’

It had took him a minute to realize what you meant. Then his chest swelled up with so much fondness he didn’t know what to do with it.

‘Puddles, huh? Kinda misleading for a dog that terrifying.’

‘Mm, he’s not terrifying. He’s sweet.’

Another yawn.

‘Like you.’

He didn’t kiss you then. He should’ve.

Instead, he’d scoffed and tugged the blanket up to your chin like a coward.

‘Well, as flattered as I am, Puddles thinks you should sleep. Can’t have you collapsing on him again.’

You’d whined faintly, giving him a weak little pout that nearly won him over, but he’d out-stubborned you. Cocooned you in fleece and cotton until you were giggling, feverish and fading.

Then, half-lost to sleep, still reaching, you’d murmured:

“You always take care’a me, Eds… you’re good for me, always so… good…”

He didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t.

Just stood there, watching your features slacken, watching the crease between your brows smooth out as sleep pulled you under.

Then, when he was sure you couldn’t hear him, he’d whispered back:

‘No, I’m not.’

And when that failed to dull the ache, he’d stepped into the hallway and quietly swung his fists against the wall. Not hard enough to make a dent.

Just enough to feel it.

Try and bleed the ache out of his chest. 

Because this is his fault.

He’s the reason you’re hurting. 

That first hour outside your room, he’d cleaned. 

Anything to keep his hands busy while his mind circled the drain. Wandered every corner of your house, revisiting spots you’d both scrubbed just days ago.

Sunday morning, when everything still felt light. When he showed up bright and early, holding a box of garbage bags and a pair of medical latex gloves. 

‘Eds,’ you’d laughed, ‘We’re just cleaning, not performing surgery.’

He'd wanted to kiss you then, too. Didn’t.

Just followed you around the house like a dog with his tail caught in a song. Vacuumed, swept, bumped your shoulder in the hallway. You’d kept the record player spinning—The Rolling Stones, B-side—and sang just under your breath. Soft, half-forgotten lyrics that made his ears twitch trying to catch them.

By noon, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and spring and sun.

Now?

Now it smells like the polished wood of your dining table and the lavender dish soap by your sink.

Eddie’s still there, scrubbing your clean mug like it owes him something. Uses too much soap. Rinses. Wipes down the counters again. Re-cleans the stovetop. Reaches for another sponge.

He thinks about the confetti he’d helped you clean from between the floobrboards. The sticky red stain from the punch bowl. How you sprayed him with lemon-scented Lysol and shrieked when he chased you through the living room.

Lemon. Laughter. You.

None of it lingers anymore.  

Just wood and lavender.

Eddie shuts off the water.

The mug sits on the drying rack, yellow paint peeling in silence.

Good Morning, Sunshine

He grips the counter, knuckles white, eyes squeezed shut.  

He doesn’t go upstairs. Doesn’t let himself.

Don’t wake her. Don’t check. Don’t look.

But—

What if you’ve gotten worse?

What if your fever’s gone back up? What if he missed something and it’s too late?

Would he have to take you to the hospital? Would he even make it there with how low his tank is?

Would he have to call your parents? Would they blame him? 

Would they be right to?

Should he have made you eat more? Less? 

What if your stomach can’t take it? What if you get sick and choke in your sleep?

Would you hate him if he left to go get you something to eat? Something better than soup?

He thinks of that diner you told him about, the one with your favorite burger. 

Sunday afternoon, when the cleaning was done.

'Seriously, their vanilla shakes should be illegal. C’mon!'

You’d climbed into his van, grinning like summer, and he’d driven. Windows down, warm air spilling in—you’d stuck your head out to shout into the breeze. He couldn't stop smiling.  

You’d sat across from him in a cracked vinyl booth, sipping from a striped straw, your laughter curling between his animated retelling of last week’s Hellfire campaign.

‘I swear. Twenty minutes debating whether or not to open a damn glovebox.’

‘And?’  

‘Nothing! It was just a glovebox.’

You’d smiled so wide he thought he’d forget how to breathe.

And then—

Then the sky cracked open.

He remembers the exact moment it started pouring. When he offered to run outside and pull the van around, and you’d caught his wrist:

‘What if we just… stayed?’

‘In here?’

‘No, silly! In the rain!’

And then you were gone—bolting through the door before he could stop you.

Rain. So much of it.  

April rage. Cold. Breathless. Unforgiving.

It soaked you both before Eddie caught up, laughing.

‘Shit! C’mon, van’s this way!’ 

But you didn’t run.

You stopped.

Stayed.

Tipped your face to the sky, smile blooming like spring as you whispered:

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

He’d looked back at you.  

‘Yeah. Beautiful.’

And you turned to smile at him—rain spilling from your lashes, rivulets trickling into your collarbone—squinting through the downpour as you asked:

‘Have you ever kissed someone in the rain?’

‘Mm, does making out with my hand in the shower count?’

You’d laughed, fingers weaving tight with his, the thunder rumbling above like applause.

And then you kissed him.

Kissed him in the rain with your arms around his neck and your hands in his hair. 

Laughing into his mouth, rain-slicked and sloppy, water clinging to your cheeks and your teeth and your smile. Messy, open-mouthed reveries until the downpour grew so heavy neither of you could tell where one breath ended and the next began.

He kissed you back until his spine hit the cold metal of the van, until your fingers twisted in his jacket and his hair frizzed with humidity and his lungs forgot how to ration air. 

Until the only things left were the taste of your mouth and the sound you made when he tugged your lip between his teeth.    

He kissed you again,

And again,

And again,

Until the clouds rolled overhead,

Until gray gave way to soft blue,

Until thunder softened to birdsong and the world remembered spring,

Until the sky stitched itself whole again.

And still, you didn’t let go.

You stayed—clinging, gasping, laughing into his chest, soaked through and shivering—until he finally coaxed you back into the van. Tried to get his busted heater running and warm the rain from your bones.

He watched you there—wrapped in his jacket, hair dripping onto the collar, lips still pink from kissing him senseless—and thought:

This is it.

Now—

Now he’s on your couch. 

TV muted. Not watching. Barely breathing.

Upstairs, you’re sleeping. 

Trembling. Burning. Hurting.

He checks his watch—almost three hours.

He should check your temperature again. Bring water. Tea, if your ghost-town cabinets have any.

Chamomile. You like chamomile.

After the kiss, when you looked over from the passenger seat, smiling wider than the stretch of sky beyond the windshield.

When you asked if you could dry off at his place.

‘My house still smells like bleach. Plus, it feels way too empty without you.’

You’d borrowed the blow dryer in his bathroom. Clothes on. Nothing scandalous.

Still, the door was cracked open, so he’d stayed in the kitchen around the bend, boiling water and rifling through every cabinet in search of tea.

You’d said chamomile.

He didn’t have chamomile.

Didn’t have much of anything.

So when you emerged around the corner, towel-damp and flushed, he’d offered you a tea-less mug with a sheepish grin.  

‘Sorry, we’re fresh out of tea. Hope you like unflavored hot water.’

He doesn’t have the words to describe how he’d felt then—as you cupped the mug in both hands and smiled, soft and gracious, like it was the kindest thing anyone had ever given you.

‘Are you kidding? I love unflavored hot water.’

Now, he’s found it. 

Chamomile. Unopened box. Back corner of your cabinet. 

He puts the kettle on. Drums the counter. 

Burns his hand when he pours the water. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t feel it. Wants to feel it.

Drops the bag in the mug. Rummages for honey. 

Finds three antique corkscrews and a fondue pot manual with no fondue pot. 

No honey.

Swears under his breath. Slams the cabinet door too hard. 

Of course there’s no fucking honey. Why would there be—

“Eddie?”

Your voice.

His head snaps up. 

You’re at the base of the staircase, swaddled in the blanket he tucked around you hours ago, one corner dragging behind like a cape. Your eyes are a little glassy, your hair still matted.

But you’re standing. Awake. Looking at him.

The relief feels so sharp it borders on pain.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice cracking. Blinks fast, wipes at his face—too late. “You’re up.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is soft, a little sleep-rough. 

You look noticeably better, less flushsed and shaky.

Still, he scans you from crown to ankle.

“How’re you feeling?”

You hesitate, raking a slow hand through your hair, blinking like you’re still waking up.

Your eyes flick to the cabinets, to the half-wet mug in his hand, to the kettle whistling behind him.

“What… what are you doing?”

Eddie follows your gaze, then winces. Sees the chaos for the first time. Every cabinet open, half-ransacked. Counter cluttered with everything he dragged out while looking for the honey. 

The tea bag floats in the mug like something drowned. Lavender soap and steam clings to the air.

“Making you… tea.”  

You blink at him. Then the kettle shrieks louder, and you flinch.

“Eddie,” you say softly, “the kettle.”

He blinks. Jolts.

“Shit—yeah, fuck—sorry.” He fumbles for the handle, nearly burning himself again, and kills the burner. 

The noise cuts off abruptly, like a door slammed shut. The silence it leaves behind is deafening. 

You’re still watching him. Wrapped in your blanket, fingers unclenching from the banister as you shuffle a few steps closer.

Your gaze drops to the mug in his hand. “Is that for me?”

He blinks down at it, like he forgot he was holding it. 

“Yeah. Chamomile.”

You reach for it like it’s something precious. Hands wrappping around the ceramic—still warm, still steeping—as your breath ghosts across the rim.  

“Smells good.” You murmur. 

“Couldn’t find honey. Sorry.”

Your lashes flutter. “No, it’s perfect.”

A beat, then: “Come sit with me?”

His first instinct is to say no—to say he should clean up his mess, re-check your fever, do something useful with his hands instead of washing the same damn mug for thirty minutes.

But then you tilt your head just slightly, eyes soft despite the fever-fog, and he sees it there—tucked in the crinkle of your brow, quiet as breath: 

Worry. 

For him. 

You’re sick, feverish, flushed and miserable, and you’re worried about him.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”

He forgets about the kettle and the cabinets and the clutter, leaving it all behind as you guide him toward the couch.

Trailing after you like a wayward chunk of space debris, pulled helplessly along by the comet-tail of your blanket.

You settle first—gingerly, curling into the corner with a quiet wince. Then you freeze, halfway to pulling the blanket over your knees. 

“Oh—wait,” you frown. “You shouldn’t be near me. I’m probably contagious.”

He stops mid-step, halting like you’d yanked an invisible leash. Something in his chest knots up, tight and hollow and mean.

You shrink slightly, tugging the wool closer to your body. He just stands there, arms stiff at his sides.

Then he says it, quietly:

“…can I still sit close?”

You glance up at him, small furrow between your brows. “Eds…”

“Just—” He clears his throat. “I just wanna check your forehead. Make sure.”

A pause. Longer than he can take. Long enough that his heart starts hammering again, dumb and loud.

Then, finally, a small nod. “Okay.” 

He sinks beside you, careful not to tug on your blanket.   

Then, gently, he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek and lets his callused palm settle across your forehead. 

Warm. Still warm. But not burning.

Better.

Not enough to quiet the storm in his chest.

Your lashes flutter beneath his hand. Not sleepy—watching. Curious. 

He wonders if you can see it. That thing crawling just under his skin.

He doesn't move. Doesn’t drop his hand.

He’s not sure he can.

You’re getting better. He knows that. He’s seen it in your color, in your voice.

But something in him still won’t unclench. 

This is his fault. 

That’s what his brain keeps whispering. 

If he’d gotten you dry clothes at his place, if he’d made you change, if he cranked the heat, gotten extra blankets—

If he hadn’t kissed you for so damn long in the rain.

This is his fault. He’s the reason you’re here. 

You let out a small sniffle, and he finally lets his hand drop into his lap. Curls it into a loose fist.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to…”

His voice trails off. He doesn’t know where that sentence ends.

Your eyes narrow, tired but sharp. 

“Eddie, are you okay?” 

His lips twitch—something that might’ve passed for a smile on a better day.

“You’re the one with the fever.”

“Eddie.”

His name again. Firm this time. A lifeline yanking him back from the edge.

He flinches. 

He wants to tell you everything.

Wants to say how scared he was when you didn’t answer the door. How he thought about picking your lock, sitting there on the curb. How it gutted him to see you pale and shivering in bed. How useless he felt trying to fix a thing he couldn’t even touch.

But he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t know how.

So instead, he offers the one thing he can:

“I can sleep out here tonight. If you want.” 

You go quiet. The silence stretches.

Then you nod.

“Yeah, sure, okay. Just… Eddie?”

He hums, barely. His voice has gone somewhere far away.

“…are you sure you’re okay?”

His fingers twitch. The rings clink quietly in his lap. His eyes blur, fixed on the edge of the blanket where your hand disappears beneath it.

“Yeah,” he lies. “’M fine.”

You shift closer, just a bit.

Then, your hand finds his. Pinky looping gently around his thumb, the ring still swaying around your index finger—a clumsy, lovely echo of him.   

Your voice is barely a whisper when it comes:

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

His eyes flutter shut. The words sink deep.

“I just…” His throat clicks. “I should’ve known.”

And then it spills out. All of it. A messy, breathless, unforgiving torrent.

“I should’ve called. Or checked in. You weren’t at school for three days and you were out in the rain for so long, and I didn’t think, I just—”

“—Eddie.”

He stops. Mid-breath. Shoulders shaking.

You move again. Blanket rustling as you turn to face him fully. He doesn’t follow, just stares at the spot where the fabric pools in your lap.

And then: 

“Edward Munson.”

His full name, in your voice—crisp and unfamiliar—cuts through the spiral like a blade.

He stiffens, looking up at you.

“Sunday was the best day of my life.” 

You sit up straighter, ignoring the blanket as it slips off your shoulders,. Your gaze is steady, spine tall with conviction.

“The best day of my life,” you repeat. “Hands down. No contest.”

He blinks. You keep going. 

“I’ve always wanted to kiss someone in the rain, you know.”

His heart trips.  

“You have?”  

You nod. “Yeah. Ever since I was little. Always thought it’d feel like magic.”

He swallows, fingers twitching where they’re tangled with yours.

“And it did.” You smile, squeezing your pinky around his thumb. “It was perfect.”

He swallows again, thick and tight. And before he can stop himself—before guilt can win or fear can shut it down—he hears his voice crack through the quiet:

“Can I kiss you?”

You blink back at him, eyes heavy but clear.

Then, slowly, a small smile spreads across your face—quiet and tired and unbelievably kind.

“We really shouldn’t,” you whisper. “I’m gonna get you sick.”

And god, even now—even now—you’re still worried about him.

His thumb brushes over the ring looped around your finger. 

His mouth twitches.

And then, softer than a breath:

“…please?”

He hears himself say it. A stranger borrowing his voice. 

Selfish. Unfair. Reckless and dumb and maybe even downright cruel.

But you just purse your lips. Then nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay Eds.”

And the second your lips meet his, he caves.

Leans in too fast, breathes too hard, cups your cheek with too much pressure—messy, trembling, drenched in relief. He kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside you, pouring everything in—fear, guilt, longing, all the things he won’t name. 

You smile against his mouth, trying to pull away, breath catching between hurried kisses.

“Eddie—I’m serious—” you mumble. “You’re gonna get sick.”

But he doesn’t move. Just holds your face in both hands because he can’t bear the thought of letting go.

“I don’t care,” he breathes, voice cracking. “I don’t care, please.”

Your name leaves him in whispered gasps, chased by broken apologies—hot, frantic, raining desperately against your skin.

And then he kisses you. Again. And again. And again. 

Your fist curls in his shirt. His hands tremble where they hold your jaw.

Only when your breath begins to hitch—when the flush of your skin seeps into his palms like a reminder—does he tear himself away.

Rips himself off like a bandage that’s fused to flesh—raw and reluctant and too much all at once.

But he stays close. Nose bumping against yours, both of you gasping in the narrow space between. Still holding you, like his hands haven’t gotten the message his mouth is trying to speak.

His eyes close, tight. He counts your breaths, the rise and fall of your chest, trying to control his own.

And then he breaks.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

Just a quiet crack down the middle:

“…Wayne caught the flu a couple years ago.”

He feels you shift, but he keeps his eyes shut. Keeps talking.

“It got really bad. This one night, he… he couldn’t breathe right, so I took him to the ER.” His voice catches, jaw locking. “Thought I was being paranoid. Just a cough, right?”

He swallows hard. Shakes his head because he can still see it, even in the darkness behind his lids. 

Blinding red. Hospital tiles. Wayne’s wheezing breaths and distant shouts. 

“Turns out it was pneumonia. They kept him there for two weeks. Had him hooked up to all these tubes and wires, and I just remember… I remember watching him try to breathe through this mask and wondering if that was it. If that’s the last thing I was ever gonna get.”

And suddenly, the present peels away.

No couch. No blanket. No flicker of the TV screen.

Just him.

Eighteen years old. Scared out of his fucking mind. Knees bouncing in a stiff plastic chair, fingers yanking at his hair, whispering to a god he hasn’t believed in since he was nine. 

Please, please, just let him be okay. I’ll do anything, I'll change, I’ll quit, I’ll stop being such a screw-up. I’ll be better. I won’t ask for anything ever again, just don’t take him. Take me. I’m the fuck-up. Just not him, not him. Please.

The words slip out before he can decide whether they should.

“…I thought I was gonna lose him.”

And then you're there.

Your arms rising around him like the tide—slow, certain, wrapping him in heat and weight and the gentle crush of comfort. The blanket falls to the floor in a hushed sigh. You tuck your face into the curve of his neck, warm and damp, your breath soft against his pulse.

“I’m sorry.”

He nods against your shoulder, slow and aching.

“You didn’t lose him,” you whisper. “And you’re not gonna lose me.”

He wants to believe you. More than anything. 

Wants to let those words root somewhere deep and immovable. To hold onto the way you say it, like its the most natural truth in the world. 

Because even while wrapped in heat and exhaustion, you’re still the one holding him up.

His fingers find your hair, feeling your warmth seep deep into his chest. Not fever-warmth—though he knows that’s still there—but the kind that lives at the center of things. The kind that says I’m here.

So he stays, too.

Nods a little harder this time, like repetition can make it real. Like if he agreed hard enough, the universe might listen. Might back off. 

Might give him this one thing.    

His hand is still tangled in your hair when he finally speaks again, voice worn soft. 

“You scared the hell out of me.”

He feels the faint smile against his collarbone before he hears your reply.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

A huff of air leaves him—halfway between a laugh and a sob. 

“You looked like death warmed over.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, lashes damp. A weak but pointed brow lifts.

“Wow, Munson. So romantic.”

And despite everything, he grins.  

Crooked and tired, but it’s not a lie this time. 

He gently brushes your hair back from your face, knuckles grazing your forehead. Checks your temperature again without thinking, just needing to feel it—the pulse beneath your temple, the life still humming under your skin.

His gaze flickers to the coffee table, where the mug sits untouched and forgotten.

Chamomile. Your favorite.

“I think your tea’s getting cold,”

You hum softly, reaching down with one hand, the other still draped loosely around his waist.

A small sip. Just enough to taste. Let it settle.

Then your hand lowers, cradling the mug against your chest as you melt back into him. Cheek pressed to his shoulder, head tucked beneath his chin. 

“Feel better already,” you whisper, lips grazing his collar. “Told you you’re good for me.”

He inhales—slow, deep—trying to catch the shape of this moment.

The air reminds him of the rain.

Not the kind that splits, but the kind that comes after. 

The kind that drapes over everything it touches, soaking into skin and soil and all the roots underneath. 

Warm. Gentle. Forgiving.  

Gone is the sterile sting of hospital corridors. No more lemon, or wood, or lavender. 

Now it’s just chamomile and wool. Damp cotton and warm skin.

Just breath and sleep and the lull of a heartbeat against his side. 

Just you.

“Yeah,” he smiles. 

“Maybe.”

a/n: so, i've written plenty of angst before, but something abt this one made me genuinely tear up. not even the part abt wayne, just them kissing in the rain. this chapter really reminded me of how much I adore this version of eddie.

from the bottom of my heart, thank you for following this story and sending me so many kind words about it. it truly means everything to me.

series masterlist | series playlist | general masterlist

@beansboop @fckyeahlames @thehuntresswolf @isaisaloser @dickvic @arabellagreenleaf @ratsematary @marshmellowbabyy @tigolebittiez @pietros-luvr @moon-esque @micheledawn1975 @lemon-sm00thie @huffledor-able541 @imaworm @macbaetwo @m00n-se0ul @bitedownforblood @starloover @richter-raccoon @littletittygothgirl @rosieredcheeks @quinnsharrington

Maybe it’s due to the fact that you’re a little buzzed, but you can’t stop staring at him.

Maybe you just think he’s pretty.

“It’s getting late,” you hum, transfixed by the way he bites his bottom lip in the endearing way that he always does when he’s hyper focused on a task. “If you wanna pass your test tomorrow, you need to study.”

He snorts. You know him well enough to know that he’s saying we could study for the next six fucking hours and I’m still not gonna pass that test without actually saying it.

“Quiz me,” he says without taking his eyes off the tips of his fingers. “This is going to take a while. I can paint my right hand pretty quickly, but the left…”

You stare at him for another moment when you get an idea. If he were to ask, you’d say it’s to speed up the process, but it’s not quite so easy to lie to yourself.

You just want to be closer to him.

You scoot to where he sits near the foot of his bed and hold out your hand for the tiny brush. He freezes and looks up at you with wide doe eyes.

“Let me help you,” you murmur. “And I’ll quiz you, too. Kill two birds with one stone.”

He smirks, passing you the brush. “You always have the best ideas.”

You take his left hand in yours and pull it closer to you, your eyes drawn to the details of his rings as if you haven’t stared at them a thousand times before. With your other hand, you dip the brush back into the nail polish bottle that he still holds in his right hand.

“I know. That’s why you keep me around.”

When you look up, he’s already watching you with a half-dazed expression. “Among other reasons.”

The air suddenly feels heavier. You force yourself to drop your gaze back down to his hand in yours, bringing the brush to the tip of his index finger and mentally willing your hand to stay steady.

You clear your throat. “First question. Define commensalism and give me an example.”

“Too easy,” he laughs lowly. You feel the faint vibration of it from where his hand rests in yours. “It’s a type of symbiotic relationship where one organism benefits but the other isn’t helped or harmed. Like…barnacles on a whale.”

You smile and nod, not taking your eyes off of his fingernail for fear that you’ll smear the black ink across his pale skin. “Good job,” you praise, moving onto his middle finger. “What about mutualism?”

“Also too easy. Mutualism is when both organisms benefit from the relationship. Like bees and flowers. Like coral and algae. And like me and you.”

You freeze, your heart hammering in your chest. “Me and you?” You muse, glancing up at him briefly through your lashes. Maybe it’s the chemicals in the nail polish affecting your ability to think clearly, but you swear his gaze lingers on your lips for a loaded second. “How so?”

He grins, highlighting the crinkles around his eyes. “You know,” he shrugs. “You help me study for a test, I buy you pizza. I let you smoke my weed, I get to stare at you while you paint my fingernails. Win-win situation if you ask me.”

Perhaps it’s not the chemicals making your imagination run wild, then. You’d think you were dreaming if it weren’t for how uncomfortably dry your mouth suddenly feels.

You do what you’re so naturally inclined to do - deflect.

Dropping your gaze again, you move onto the next finger. “Sounds to me like you’re getting the short end of the stick.”

You mentally curse the slight quiver in your voice.

“Pshhh,” he scoffs. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

You shrug, moving onto his pinky nail. It takes every ounce of determination you possess to will your hands not to shake under the intensity of his stare.

“Hey,” he says softly when he realizes that you’re not going to give him a direct answer. Just as you’re finishing up the first coat of paint on his pinky, he takes the brush away from you. You feel you have no choice but to look him in the eye.

He’s looking at you with the same effortless softness as always. That’s what you find the most infuriating about it - he always looks at you just as fondly as he is right now. So why is it suddenly ripping the air from your lungs?

“I do not have the short end of the stick,” he says, almost defensively. “Not when I’ve got you in my room, sitting on my bed, holding my hand in yours. Anyone who isn’t me…that’s who has the short end of the stick.”

“Eddie,” you breathe, your brain short-circuiting. Suddenly, English is a foreign language. It may as well be your first day trying to string two words together.

You don’t have to worry about being speechless for long.

His eyes flicker to your lips again. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Then he shifts closer, his knees brushing against yours as he places the bottle of nail polish and the brush on his bedside table without ever looking away from you.

The Evil Dead playing on his television fades to static white noise as he starts to raise a hand to your face.

“Wait.”

He freezes when his lips are mere inches from yours. You grab his wrist in your hand right before it makes contact with your cheek.

The dejected look on his face is enough to make you wish you could go back in time by about five seconds and bite your stupid tongue.

“Shit,” he murmurs, pulling his hand away immediately. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I thought - I’m not sure what I thought.” He shakes his head, now looking anywhere but at you. “Can we please forget about—”

“No, no, no,” you say quickly, grabbing his wrist again. He tenses beneath your touch, an equal mix of confusion and disappointment on his face. “It’s not that. I want to kiss you. Of course I want to kiss you.”

He gulps. “You do? Then what—?”

“Your nails,” you explain, feeling silly. You just interrupted the kiss that you’ve envisioned more times than you can begin to recount over something as trivial as nail polish. “They’re still wet,” you huff a shaky laugh.

He stares at you with wide eyes. Blinks. Then, his shoulders drop in palpable relief and his lips quirk in amusement. “You really think I care more about my nails than I do kissing you?”

Your cheeks are burning. He’s too sweet. Always been too sweet. You shake your head, more at yourself than anything else. “Don’t want all my hard work to go to waste,” you murmur. “Just..let me. Okay?”

He nods, slow and dazed. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”

With his hands out of the question, he waits. Completely at your mercy.

You lift your other hand, just barely grazing the skin of his jaw before brushing a stray curl away from his face. His eyes flutter closed and he sucks in a sharp breath.

God, he’s pretty. Thick dark lashes against porcelain skin and plush lips that twitch in anticipation of you.

And you don’t intend on making him wait another moment.

The second your lips touch his, he all but sighs into you. His whole body shivers, shoulders trembling as he leans into you as much as he dares without moving his hands from where they hover at your sides.

His lips part under yours with a quiet gasp, and his head tilts just enough to deepen the kiss. You feel the tremor that runs through him when your fingers slide to the back of his neck, the way he tenses like he’s fighting the urge to sink his fingers into your waist, to pull you onto his lap, to touch you anywhere you’ll let him.

A soft whimper escapes him when your teeth scrap along the swell of his bottom lip.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs against your lips, voice trembling with restraint. “Do you know how hard it is to not touch you right now?”

You huff a laugh, flustered and lightheaded. “Just a few more minutes,” you breathe. Then, because you want to touch him every bit as badly as he wants to touch you, you ease yourself onto his lap, steadying yourself with your palms against his chest. Through the fabric of his t-shirt, you feel his heart pounding. “Then you can touch me however you want.”

Another sharp inhale as you bracket your thighs around his waist. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. He swallows hard, his eyes even darker than usual with lust blown pupils as he gazes up at you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your cheeks burn hot at the way he’s looking at you. Awestruck. “You’re dramatic,” you tease. “You know that?”

“Am not,” he huffs, though there’s nothing but fondness in his expression. “I’m being tortured. This is torture.”

Your thumb grazes his cheekbone and he nuzzles the side of his face against your palm.

“….Worth it, though.”

☾𖤓⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ☾𖤓⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

coryo

forest

pliant

in the shower

punishment

sticky n sloppy

fingering

put it back in

don’t look away

hands behind your back

eyes closed

ridin

rough

billy the kid

save a horse, ride a cowboy

feast

good boy

worship

lovemaking

mirror

playful

after a long day

There was a heaviness in your heart. You have always been the epitome of grace and composure, a woman who played her role in the political theater with finesse, albeit your brief upbringing in district 2. However, behind closed doors, the truth unfolded, resulting in you heartbroken and most of all betrayed. You couldn't ignore the letters that would pile up weekly, the gifts, all for him, from someone by the name Lysandra.

Not bothering to knock, knowing it would provoke a reaction from him, you forcefully swung the double doors open. There sat Coriolanus Snow, seemingly unbothered at your entrance. "Is there a problem?" An icy, impersonal tone carried his words, sharp and emotionless.

Your nose flared as you felt a surge of frustration, his lack of concern and emotion fuelling your anger. Besides, you had never stormed into his office unannounced before. Surely, he would question your sudden abruptness and, visibly, your anger.

Your voice, though filled with a trembling resolve, posed the question, "Who is she?" You hold a letter between your fingers, lifting it up to show him. He lifts his head up from his papers. "And why on earth is she sending my husband gifts and-and love letters?" You stammer, throwing the piece of paper with writing and a kiss—in the form of a lipstick mark in a shade of deep red—on his desk; your façade crumbling at your feet.

Snow stares at you before a scoff leaves his lips, leaning back on his chair. "You know how the people admire me, it's likely that whoever it is, she's simply passionate about expressing her feelings to me," Coriolanus shrugs. Your eye twitches at his response. Lies.

"Really? Well, Lysandra is ever so passionate about expressing her undying love for you," You recite the words from her letter as you watch a subtle glint of knowing in his eyes, "She's the only one who has described her so-called affection for you so intimately!"

As you question your husband's loyalty, an unsettling quiet settles around him. His eyes, cold and calculating, hold yours without a trace of vulnerability. The absence of words from his lips becomes a formidable response, leaving an ominous uncertainty lingering in the air.

His office echoed with a tense hush, broken only by a subtle tapping of his fingers against the armrest in a rhythmic patter. "For god's sake, Coryo. Say something! Who is she?" The slip of his nickname makes you swallow.

"I won't entertain your accusation. She's merely an admirer, nothing more! Have you finished exhausting yourself with this matter, wife?" Coriolanus seethes, abruptly standing up as he gathers his papers, opens his drawer, shoves them in, and slams it shut with such force that you swore you felt it in your bones.

"Is there something your hiding from me?" There was a tense silence that followed your question, Snow's features contorted with a mix of frustration and defiance. Avoiding eye contact, he clenched his jaw and emitted a sharp exhale. The air was thick with unspoke tension, revealing an anger that simmered beneath the surface.

"I have nothing to hide from you," He says calmly but you knew damn well there was anything but calmness within him. Annoyed and frustrated at the lack of information, you open your mouth again.

'"Throughout our entire marriage, I have done nothing but showed you how grateful I am that you chose me to marry, a district girl. You helped me build a reputation here in the capitol so that I would finally be respected, and now, I ask just one simple thing of you," As you speak your voice wavers slightly, revealing the depth of emotion behind your words. "Who is she to you?"

In mere seconds, Coriolanus storms past you, a blur of motion, leaving you momentarily bewildered as you blink, only to find yourself in the same spot. "Coriolanus!" You yell, spinning around as you follow him. "I've just had about enough of you for today y/n," He spat as he briskly walked up stairs, you following him. Servants who were around hurriedly walk pass, heads down.

He steps into your shared private chamber, adorned with decadent furnishings and overlooking the Capitol. He walks a couple steps before he just stops. His breath came in heavy, rhythmic waves, his chest rising and falling with urgency, leaving you standing frozen at the entrance.

"You know, I think you should go see your family for a little while," He turns around as you felt your heart drop. "What?" Your voice echoed with a helpless tone. "You heard me, I think your family has been missing you in the districts, go pay them a visit. Tell them how grateful you have been that I chose you as the First Lady of Panem, hm?"

He takes purposeful strides to the next room, filled from top to bottom with expensive, lavish pieces of clothing befitting both him and you. Coriolanus then pulls out a travelling trunk. The thought of you going back to district 2 sent shivers up your spine. You knew that everyone there now thinks of you as a traitor.

"What- No- Coryo, I'm not going-" Coriolanus cuts you off with a yell, tears forming in your eyes, "I think you should! Matter of fact, I'll help you start packing." A loud noise comes from the trunk making contact with the floor making you jump, a sob leaving your lips. The trunk opening as he starts aggressively pulling your clothes from the black velvety hangers, tossing them into the trunk.

"Coryo- please. Don't make me go back there," You fall to you knees in front of the trunk as your shaky hands remove the pieces of clothing from it. "Yeah, well I think a few months in the districts, away from your lavish life here, will make you realise how easy it is that I can send you back there." He forcefully takes your chin in between his thumb and index as your glassy eyes stare back at his icy, raging, blue eyes.

"Please, please don't send me back there-" Your beg becomes interrupted as he drops his grip on you and yells out the door, "Simon! Get the train ready now for Y/n to go back home!" He calls out to his assistant who answers out a "Of course Mr. President," You let out another sob as you rest your head on the pile of clothing.

Coriolanus glances over his shoulder, his breaths lingering in the air, he could hear your quiet pleas. There's a yearning within him, a desire to approach you and envelop you in a reassuring hug, to tell your that everything is alright and that forgives you. Yet, and unyielding pride restrains him, holding him back from acknowledging that what he was doing was wrong.

With one final look, he turns around, leaving you in a crying mess. Coriolanus was going to send you back to district 2 until the hunger games finished, then, he would come get you and hope that your time there made you ponder your actions, although he knew they were quite reasonable.

Your allegiance to your husband shattered when you were forced onto the train, Coriolanus stood a couple metres away from you as you squirm in the peacekeeper's grips. As you made your way back to a place you once called home, a quiet determination settled within you as you hatched a plan that would not only expose Coriolanus' betrayal, but also allow you to reclaim a piece of your shattered identity.

~

As the Reaping day approached, you made a choice that sent shockwaves through the carefully orchestrated world of Panem. With a steady hand, you inscribed your own name on a slip of paper and placed it in the glass ball, committing yourself to the Hunger Games.

On the day of the Reaping, the Capitol Square buzzed with anticipation, the districts, not so much. Coriolanus, very much unaware of his wife's hidden actions, stood in front of the dignitaries on the stage.

The customary ceremony began, the escort pulls a slip pf paper from the glass ball, announcing the male tribute who would face the Capitol's twisted version of justice.

As the tension mounted, the escort unfolded a slip of paper and read aloud, "Y/n Snow." A gasp rippled through the crowd, and Coriolanus's face contorted with disbelief. Time seemed to free as he processed the shock of seeing his wife's name called out. Surely there was a mistake.

The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer, and anger boiled within him, mixing with the shock and confusion as the crowd erupted in whispers. A woman of Capitol elegance was now standing among the district 2 residents.

You weave through the rows of people, maintaining a stoic expression. As you step up on the stage, your eyes land on the camera a couple feet away from you where you know Snow was watching back in the Capitol.

And despite being insanely attracted to power and intelligence, Coryo finds himself focusing all his attention on you

He can’t think of anything else in class other than the way your pretty little face scrunches up because you’re not understanding any of it, or the way your lips pout because you’re beyond lost

You’re just so beautifully stupid and cute and Coryo can’t stop thinking about how he can’t wait to get his claws into you

So at first he starts by tutoring you as way to get closer to you

God knows that you need it, and when he offers of course you accept because hello—everyone knows that Snow is on top

So, he begins to tutor you, and that’s all it is at first

A few flirty remarks here and there, like him telling you your hair looks pretty or your outfit fits you nice

Nothing too crazy, but the more time Coryo spends with you, the more you drive him insane

He has amazing self control because even though he wants to do nothing but grab you and kiss you the entire time you’re talking, he holds himself back

He takes it slow as to not scare you or confuse your dumb little mind. After all, you can only process so much

Which is why he doesn’t actually tutor you—not the hard stuff anyways. He just finds little easy thing for you to accomplish so he can watch as your face lights up when you solve something he’s done a million times before

He builds you up before he plans on breaking you down, before he plans on molding you into his perfect partner

Coryo will gain your trust at first and only when he’s got it will he strike

Like a snake, you don’t even see his plan or see him coming until he’s right there in front of you, poisoning you with his sweet lips and kissing you one day

It comes so sudden for you that you’re shocked, not even kissing him back till he’s squeezing your jaw a little so you let him in

He’ll kiss you deeply so that you can feel what he feels for you, so that you know just how desperately he wants you

Through his lips, he’ll spread his venom, and since you’re not smart enough to even know that you’ve been bit, you fall for it easily

You kiss him back, and your giggles when you pull away make Coryo smirk. He loves seeing you nervous around him and fuck; does he love tasting your pretty lips

Once you start agree to start dating him, it’s already too late for you. And for Coryo, it’s just the beginning

Coryo already has plans that you’re not apart of, but he’s excited to carry them out because you are everything that he needs

He needs someone that won’t question him, that will obey him and do everything he says. He needs to be in charge and with you, he is

Like a good little girl, you do everything Coryo tells you to do. Miss class for him, sit on his lap, stop doing your assignments

Pretty soon, he’s got it to where all you do is hang out with him. Make plans with him. Do things for him

He’s got you wrapped around his finger and you don’t even know it. You’re just so happy with him that you don’t even question it when he tells you to quit

“Leave the academy and I’ll take care of you. I promise,” Is what Coryo says, so you do

You stop attending class, you drop out and slowly you move from your home to be with Coryo in his

It’s a little packed, but you make it work especially with Tigris and his grandmother

They both adore you, though Tigris is a little concerned with you dropping out. She’ll try and persuade you to continue your education but don’t worry—Coryo will never let that happen

When you tell him Tigris’ words, he simply scoffs and tells you that pretty girls like you don’t belong in academics. You don’t belong in that terrible, toxic work force

No, no, you deserve to stay home and to serve him. An easy job, he convinces you, and a soft life

“It’s what you deserve,” He tells you, so you give up on the idea of returning

Instead, you stay at home and wait for Coryo day and night. During the days, you’ll cook, clean and during the nights you’ll be there for him

In the privacy of your now shared bedroom is where he fucks you, the mattress squeaking from how hard he pounds into your tight cunt

Coryo loves it when you whine and beg, crying out how he’s too big for you

He loves to hear you praise him and for you to stroke his ego. With a hand wrapped around your throat, he’ll fuck you until you’re screaming his name into the mattress and until you realize that you belong to him

The love bites and marks he leaves on your thighs are a constant reminder. He tells you that you should be lucky, grateful that you don’t have to use your head anymore

Grateful to have someone like him to take care of you, and you are. Coryo gives you a life that people can only dream about

Once he becomes President of Panem, you’re spoiled with riches that you didn’t even know existed. Diamonds, silks, luxurious foods

Your copy of yesterday’s meeting notes is being printed. A note on top of his stack of reports to read through.

Good morning, sir. A second note next to his coffee cup. Something akin to a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he took the note into his hand, thumb rubbing over the dried ink before tucking it into a box in his desk. The box was nearly full of small notes; he’d have to get another. The coffee cup warmed his hand as he turned to look out the window, sipping in peaceful silence as the first sprinkles of spring rain set in over the Capital. The snow had cleared out early this year and had been replaced with a terrible chill and rain, but the sun returned when he turned to the sound of the door opening.

“Good morning, sir. Your meeting notes as promised. They’d have been here earlier if the new intern hadn’t tried to break the printer last night. I nearly broke my hand trying to unjam it,” you said as you set down the stack of papers precisely in the corner of his desk. He appreciated how much you respected his order of things.

“I assume your hand is intact?” 

“Yes, thank you. Your lunch with the Secretary of Communications is today, and you have a call with the Head Gamemaker at three. Besides that, I’ve tried to give you time to catch up on reports.” He nodded in response, taking in the sight of your winter clothes with a soft look in his eyes. 

“Thank you. Please ensure you get to lunch today. I would prefer not to find my assistant on the floor when she forgets to eat.” You smiled with a firm nod in return.

“Of course, sir. I’ll be outside if you need me.” A small part of him hated watching you walk away, the same part of him that he forced himself to ignore so fiercely. He noticed the color of your skirt, a deep red, and a part of him wondered if you matched his signature jacket on purpose. It wasn’t entirely unlikely; you often had something red on since your first week, and he knew it couldn’t have been a coincidence. 

When he left for lunch, he found your desk empty and a single note left atop your keyboard.

Enjoy your lunch. I’ll be here when you return. He picked up the note to tuck safely into his jacket pocket, another for his collection. He hadn’t realized how protective he’d be of your notes when you started working for him a year ago, but when he couldn’t find the heart to throw them away, it became a growing issue for the space in his desk. You’d never know, but the note you’d left him on your first day was framed and pristine in the back of one of his drawers. Maybe one day, he’d get the courage to display it on his shelf. 

As promised, you were there when he returned and greeted him with a smile that he swore lit up the room. 

“Good afternoon, sir. How was lunch?” your voice was gentle and caring, a comfort unlike anything he’d heard before.

“Productive. His assistant will be reaching out to set another next month. How was your lunch?” He did his best to ask about you even on his busiest days, and how your eyes shined when he did always made it worth it. You told him about the cafe you stopped into during your break from the office with the same smile that took the breath out of his lungs. 

“Their coffee is quite good as well. Perhaps I could bring you one tomorrow to see if you’d like it over the cafe I’ve been getting your coffee from recently.” There it was again. The care you showed him from the first day you entered the office, never once thinking of anyone else there but him. You were a shark when you wanted to be for him, ready to rearrange anyone else’s schedule for his benefit. But to him, you were nothing more than the perfect kind girl he couldn’t help but be grateful for hiring every day. He enjoyed the fire in your eyes when you’d ramble about one of the interns getting in the way of your job and when you triumphantly announced the success of a hard-to-plan meeting. He was entirely infatuated with you, frowned upon or not. 

His call with the Head Gamemaker ran later than expected, the sun setting in the background from the conference room he had stepped into with another senator to discuss plans for the following year’s games. When he came back to your desk empty, a certain melancholy settled deep in his chest. No note was left for him, an uncommon occurrence, and a slight frown pulled on his features before he stepped into his office to finish the day. He wasn’t upset at you; he had nearly forced you to leave the office on time plenty of times. But a voice in his head still begged you to be there when he was. 

A small box sat on his desk, centered perfectly amongst the papers you had clearly straightened for him before leaving. Tied together with a red bow, he sat down to inspect it closer. He imagined your hands tying it so neatly together, and his fingers brushed against the ribbon as if it could cure the ache in his chest that longed to touch your skin. Undoing the ribbon and setting it aside, he relished in the smile that washed over his face. A sticky note stared up at him from where he had taken off the top of the box.

Happy birthday, Mr. Snow. I hope you had a good day. I’ll see you tomorrow. You hadn’t spoken a word about the day. You were perfectly familiar with his disdain for celebration and refrained from the theatrics you knew would drive him crazy. But when you scouted out the new cafe at lunch, you couldn’t help purchasing one small cupcake, knowing he would never indulge in a whole slice of cake. Lightly iced and small enough for him not to deny the sweet treat, he tore off a piece of the cake and imagined your excitement in leaving the gift for him before you left.