-> FREAK THERAPY MASTERLIST HERE
pairings: Eddie Munson x oc
summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.
general warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.
The bar smelled like old wood and too much beer. My band was somewhere in the mess, laughing too loud, chasing shots, trying to out-drink the crew guys. Typical post-show chaos.
I’d had two beers already, which meant I was at that sweet spot between relaxed and dangerously sentimental, and still it wasn’t enough to wrap my head around the fact that she was sitting next to me. Breathing the same smoke-choked Chicago bar air.
Five years since I’d last seen her, and she was somehow… more. Thirty looked like it had been invented for her. Darker hair pulled back, those glasses perched on her nose (glasses! Like she needed another weapon), a black suit sharper than my guitar strings, hugging her like it had been designed by someone who worshiped her legs, and this profume...vanilla, warm. The kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat and whispered, you can’t afford me.
Untouchable. That’s what she looked like, somehow even more out of my league.
But I’d seen her without the armor, without the suits, without anything at all. Messy, soft and small in my arms. Mine, once. That memory burned hotter than the whiskey she was tipping back now, neat, not even flinching as if it were water. She sipped it elegant as hell. Meanwhile, I was gripping my beer like a middle-schooler sneaking his first drink.
She set the glass down with the faint clink of ice against crystal, and I realized I’d been staring because she caught me, of course she did, and gave me the smallest smile.
Lady, excuse me? Strange? STRANGE?
I scoffed, leaning on the bar. “I’m about three seconds away from a goddamn heart attack. You better know CPR, because this might be it for me.”
Her smile curved wider, and she leaned in, elbow propped on the bar, chin resting in her hand, eyes fixed on me. And that’s when I noticed it, her gaze lingered. Not on my curls, not on my eyes. Lower, the scruff. The pathetic excuse for a beard I’d been too lazy to shave.
She liked it, I could see it, the tiniest spark of approval in her eyes. Mental note: do not shave. Ever. This was officially part of my arsenal now.
She opened her mouth to say something, but then, of course, he showed up.
A heavy arm slammed around my neck like a goddamn anaconda, nearly knocking me off the stool. It was Vince, our lead singer, grinning like the devil himself. Blonde, pretty in that trashy, rock-god way, already half gone on whatever he’d been pouring down his throat all night.
He leaned into me, peering past my curls to get a better look at her.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled, loud enough to make the bartender flinch. “So Eddie, my man, did you just land us a new manager? Because if that’s the case, she can manage me anytime.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw my own brain. Perfect. Just perfect. The one time in my life I had a cinematic, soul-crushing reunion with the only woman who’d ever actually mattered, Vince had to crash it smelling like a distillery dumpster.
I was already winding up a snarky comeback, but she beat me to it.
Her voice was smooth, clinical almost. Not a flinch, nothing.
“You must be the frontman.” She extended her hand like she was greeting royalty at a gala, not a man who just implied she should ‘manage’ him. “Congratulations on the show. Your tone in the last song, it carried better than on the record. That’s rare live.”
His eyes went wide, almost reverent, like she’d just complimented the shape of his… ego.
He looked at her hand like it had been handed down by God himself, then scrambled to grab it.
Meanwhile, I was still trapped in his chokehold, trying not to laugh at the sight of Mr. “I’ve Slept With Every Groupie in the Midwest,” suddenly reduced to a choir boy in front of her.
Finally, I cleared my throat and said, “Vince, uh… this is Marissa. My therapist. From high school. You know...the one I told you about.”
Silence. Vince blinked once. Twice. Then his jaw dropped so fast I thought it might hit the bar. “No. Fucking. Way.” He yanked his hand back, slapped the bar top so hard the glasses rattled “YOU’RE HER?!”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, half mortified and half entirely ready to strangle him.
Her eyes flicked between us, bright with amusement, a little glossy from the whiskey, like she was enjoying the spectacle of two idiots performing for her attention. Which, to be fair, was exactly what was happening. Vince loosened his grip on me at last, slumping forward onto the bar, elbow propped, forehead in his hand like some tragic poet. Then, with a grin spreading across his pretty-boy face, he lifted his head.
“You know,” he slurred, pointing a lazy finger at her, “that ballad Munson wrote about you? Not even half as beautiful as the real thing.”
If my eyes rolled any harder again, they’d leave orbit. Because damn it, it was my song. My words, my bleeding chest cracked open on paper, and now this idiot was using it like a pickup line.
That was peak Vince. The kind of greasy line that would’ve gotten him laid in record time with any other woman in the room.
Marissa, of course, didn’t flinch. Didn’t even roll her eyes. She just smiled politely and said, “I never imagined anyone would ever write a song for me. Thank you for the way you sing it, really. It was… moving. I got emotional hearing it tonight.”
And just like that, Vince was gone. A pile of blonde hair and worshipping eyes puddled at her feet. For once, the man was speechless. (And trust me, that was a historic moment.)
It should’ve been funny. Hell, it was funny. But instead of laughing, I felt this nasty little twist in my gut. Because those goddamn beautiful words, should’ve been aimed at me.
I shifted on my stool, tightening my grip on the beer, trying not to imagine smashing the empty bottle over Vince’s smug skull just to clear some space at the bar.
Vince blinked, snapped out of his trance, then smirked in that greasy, Don Juan way he thought was irresistible. “So…” He dragged the word out, leaning closer. “You ever do private sessions?”
I nearly choked. Oh, Christ. To me, that was clearly a dick joke. To her poor, innocent, doesn’t-know-the-devil-she’s-talking-to, it was an actual question.
She tilted her head, thoughtful. “I’m not sure you could afford my private rates.” Then she took another sip of whiskey, elegant as ever.
I swear I heard something crack. Not her voice, Vince’s ego.
His face darkened, the alcohol flipping his mood like a switch. I knew that look. I’d seen it too many nights on tour: drunk Vince going from class clown to loaded gun in about two seconds flat.
And then he went and proved me right.
“Well...” he fired off without thinking, “Why don't you try to break my buddy’s heart again tonight, huh? So maybe he’ll write another hit and I’ll have enough cash to pay for your fancy therapy.”
The words hit like a cymbal crash. Too loud. Too cruel.
The air between us dropped ten degrees. She set her glass down slowly, eyes fixed on the ice clinking inside. Her shoulders dipped just enough for me to see it...hurt. Real hurt.
And me? I turned and glared at Vince, every ounce of beer-fueled patience gone.
I leaned in, jaw tight, my voice low enough only for him.
“Hey, man—why don’t you go… I don’t know, find a bathroom and snort something off the sink like you usually do? Leave us mortals to our drinks.”
I gave him a shove with my shoulder, not enough to start a fight, just enough to knock him off balance.
He blinked at me, confused, like I’d just spoken another language. “What? What’d I say?”
I stared at him, every ounce of humor gone. “Go. Away. Man.”
Something in my tone must’ve clicked through the Jack Daniels fog, because he raised his hands like I’d pulled a gun on him. “Alright, alright. Jesus.” He staggered back, muttering under his breath about people being too sensitive, before disappearing into the chaos of the room.
When I turned back, she still hadn’t looked up. Still there, spinning her glass slowly, watching the ice swirl. All I could think, like every goddamn time she looked anything close to sad, was how badly I wanted to pull her into me, bury her against my chest until she remembered she was untouchable.
“He drinks too much,” I muttered, softer now, leaning closer. “Makes him stupid. Don’t take it personal.”
Finally, she shook her head, a small, almost bitter smile ghosting across her lips. “No. That was my fault. I shouldn’t have said he couldn’t afford my sessions,” she sighed, eyes still on the melting ice. “I work with artists. I should know better than anyone how fragile their egos can be.”
Christ. Of course. She was blaming herself for Vince being Vince.
I dragged a hand through my hair, needing to shake off the heaviness. No way in hell I was letting Vince’s drunken grenade be the last word.
“Oh so…” I tilted my head at her, letting my eyes run over the suit, the glasses, the whole expensive-package vibe. “You went back to it, huh? Therapy...and you’ve got artists on your couch now.” I raised my brows, smirking. “That’s gotta be a special kind of hell.”
Her lips curved the tiniest bit as she lifted her glass again. “It is.” She sipped. “But… I can’t complain.”
“I’ll bet,” I muttered, tipping back my beer and squinting at her over the rim. “You look exactly like one of those smug, annoying rich women who has a housekeeper and a husband that plays golf on weekends.”
Her head snapped toward me, eyes wide, mouth open like I’d just slapped her with a glove in some Victorian duel. But the corners of her lips betrayed her, tugging upward even as she tried to glare.
I grinned, triumphant. “What? Did I nail it?”
She shook her head slowly, mock disbelief in her eyes. “I’ll try to ignore the blatant insult.” Then, softer, with a spark of mischief: “But you almost got it right. I was engaged until not too long ago.”
That landed straight in my ribcage. My smile twitched, but I forced it to stay, hiding the sting the way I always had. “Engaged, huh?” I leaned back, feigning nonchalance. “What happened? Lemme guess—was he a client?”
Her gasp was immediate, followed by a sharp smack to my shoulder. “Fuck you!” she laughed, cheeks pink, eyes bright.
I barked out a laugh, rubbing the spot dramatically. “Ow! Assault! Right here in front of witnesses.”
She was biting back the smile that couldn’t quite hide. And for a second, it was like we were back in those old days, like nothing had changed at all.
She must’ve seen the question forming again in my eyes because she rushed on, her tone brisk, like she was giving me a case study, not her life.
“No, he was an attorney. Older...a good man, really. I just… pulled back at the last minute. I wasn’t ready.”
That was it. No drama, just the clean slice of words. She shut the door on the subject, like she didn’t want me peeking through the cracks.
And before I could even breathe a follow-up, she tilted her head, eyes glossy from the whiskey, a sly little smile tugging at her lips. “And you? Where are your groupies, Munson?”
That right there? The golden ticket served up on a silver platter.
I leaned back against the bar stool like I was on the cover of Rolling Stone, chest puffed out, dragging in the deepest breath of my life. Real dramatic.
“Well,” I said, letting it hang in the air “I don’t think I’m quite famous enough yet for the full groupie experience.” I paused, because timing was everything. Then I let the grin creep across my face, slow and cocky. “But… let’s just say being the guitarist in a rock band does give me a little more…” I twirled my hand in the air, searching for the word, “…visibility. You know. It’s the whole rockstar aura thing. Girls kinda… love it.” I added the tiniest shoulder shrug for effect. Casual. (Inside, I was basically high-fiving myself for pulling off such a flawless performance.)
She didn’t even blink. Just sipped her whiskey with the poise of a queen humoring a court jester, then set the glass down and said: “Sure.”
Well, excuse me, Your Majesty. Not exactly the thunderous applause I was expecting for my little one-man show. But fine. You don’t wanna play impressed? I’ve got ammo.
“Even the ones you’d never expect,” I said, leaning in like I was about to spill state secrets.
Her brow arched over the rim of those glasses, amused but skeptical.
“You remember Jason Carver?”
“Yeah,” she said, dry. “Think I’ll remember him forever.”
“Good,” I grinned, teeth and all. “Because you’re gonna love this. His girl—well, ex-girl now—Chrissy Cunningham, queen of the cheer squad, Hawkins’ very own golden Barbie? Turns out she had this deep, dark weakness for musicians.”
I let the words hang in the smoky air for maximum effect. “I swear to God, I didn’t have to lift a finger. I came back from our first baby tour, still smelling like cheap motels, and she just—bam.” I clapped my hands together. “Threw herself right at me. While she was still with Carver, too.”
She tried. God, she tried to keep her face neutral, sipping her drink, eyes steady. But I saw it, that tiny flicker. That micro-expression she tried to smother behind her glass. She hated it. Hated the thought of some blonde beauty wrapped around me, and if I hadn’t been half-drunk and fully pathetic, I would’ve been nicer about it.
But god, it was delicious.
She masked it quick because she was a pro, after all, and set the glass down with deliberate care and said evenly, “Oh well. You got your revenge on Jason in the end.”
I leaned back on my stool, smirk curling across my mouth, heat buzzing in my chest because I’d caught her. “Oh, yeah,” I drawled, tapping the bar with two fingers.
After a few moment, she tossed back the last of her whiskey, glanced at the slim watch on her wrist, and sighed. “I should go,” she said, voice almost apologetic.
What? No, no, no. That was it? That was how the night ended? In the little movie I’d been running in my head, we weren’t even halfway through. There was supposed to be another round, another laugh, maybe even one of those bad decisions that kept you alive for years after. Not this.
“Already?” I blurted, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “It’s not even that late.”
She didn’t even look at me, eyes still on her watch like it was a lifeline, and asked, “How long are you staying in Chicago?”
I blinked. “Uh… flight’s tomorrow night. Off to the next city.”
She was working out some kind of equation in her head, weighing variables only she could see. She wanted to stay, I could feel it in my bones, but something chained her in place. Something I couldn’t see, couldn’t name.
Finally, she nodded, decisive. “Alright. I just need to make a phone call.”
And just like that, she slid off the stool, bag slung over her shoulder, walking toward the door with her hand digging inside for her phone.
I watched her go, frowning like a fool. My eyes dropped—yeah, sue me—because the skirt hugged her ass in a way that should’ve been illegal, and I was still just a man. I dragged my eyes up to the clock. Midnight on the dot.
My gaze dropped back down and landed on the table below, where Vince sat slouched in his chair. He caught my eye, lifted his hand, and flipped me the bird with the gravitas of a priest delivering a benediction.
I returned it with equal solemnity, like two knights saluting across a battlefield, then turned back to my beer. Drained it in three gulps, the taste bitter, the burn not nearly enough to dull the gnawing in my chest.
A phone call. At midnight. Couldn’t be work. Not unless her clients were actual vampires. Which left… what? A boyfriend? Some poor bastard waiting somewhere, clueless that tonight should’ve been mine. Just the thought of it made my stomach twist and heat crawl up my throat.
Because if she walked out of here and I lost my chance to taste those five-years-ago nights again, the kind that left you sweating, wrecked, barely breathing, I didn’t think I’d survive it.
Curiosity was clawing me open from the inside.
So I grabbed my cigarettes, shoved off the stool, and pushed through the bar’s heavy door.
The night air slapped me in the face, cool and sharp. She was there, back to me, phone pressed to her ear. Her other hand rummaged absently through her bag, shoulders tense.
I lit a cigarette, leaned against the doorway like I had all the time in the world, and watched her.
Whoever was on the other end, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I couldn’t stop myself either.
“…yeah, I know it’s late,” she was saying, her voice low but clipped, professional almost. “...I’ll pay extra, of course. Just, don’t leave until morning...in the room, yeah”
I narrowed my eyes, smoke curling from my lips. Not exactly sweet nothings. And the way she said it? More like she was hiring a hitman than talking to a boyfriend.
But before I could string together the possibilities, her tone shifted like, drastically. From brisk and businesslike to soft, almost melting. “That's so nice of you...” she whispered, lips curving in a smile I could see even from where I stood. “I’ll see you in the morning, alright?...yes...thank you so much...love you, bye”
My stomach knotted. Jesus Christ. That wasn’t just a boyfriend. Nobody talked like that unless they were in deep.
The hard plastic clack of the phone snapping shut cut me out of the thought spiral. She shoved the brick back into her purse and turned only to nearly jump when she saw me in the doorway, smoke curling lazily around my face.
For a split second, she looked guilty. Caught. Like I’d overheard something I wasn’t supposed to. Which… I had.
I tilted my head, kept my tone even. “All good?”
“Ehm—yeah,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her hand fluttered in the air like she was shooing away something invisible. “You know… responsibilities.”
Responsibilities. Right. Real specific. That explained absolutely nothing. I just gave one short nod, the kind that said fine, I won’t push, even as my brain clawed itself raw with questions.
I held out the cigarette between two fingers.
She hesitated a beat, then stepped closer, plucking it from my hand. She dragged in, exhaled, the glow lighting her face for half a second before fading back into shadow.
Her other arm wrapped tight around her waist against the chill, and I bit down the urge to throw my jacket over her shoulders like some idiot knight.
We passed the cigarette back and forth in silence, the smoke curling between us. Every time her lips brushed the filter, I had to look away, because Christ, I was one wrong move away from combusting.
When it was nearly done, I held it out for her. She reached with elegant fingers, rings catching the streetlight and I just curled my fingers back with a grin.
Her brows lifted. The corners of her mouth twitched like she knew exactly what game I was playing. She leaned closer, trying again. I pulled back further.
“Stop,” she said, soft but firm while grinning , like she was scolding a kid stealing cookies.
I drew my arm back further, until she had no choice but to lean in after it. When her fingers stretched again, I went full bastard and lifted my arm higher.
Her eyes narrowed, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “Really?”
“Really,” I said, smirk plastered on my face.
She had to rise onto her toes, close enough now that the heat of her body grazed mine, enough that I knew she could smell the beer on my breath. That’s when I finally let her take it, brushing her fingertips with mine like it was some kind of accident.
And god, the look she gave me then? The kind that said I see you, Munson. I see every stupid trick you think you’re pulling.
She brought the cigarette to her lips, eyes locked on mine as she inhaled. Pure theater. She didn’t even break eye contact when she exhaled. I didn’t move either, just stood there with that cocky stillness I’d spent the last years practicing.
She finally broke it, her voice low, warm, close enough that it tickled against my collar. “I didn't say thank you directly, for the song”
Oh, now she wanted to go sentimental? Cute. “Well, you seemed pretty busy showering Vince with compliments instead.”
Her lips curved sly. “Mhm. Maybe I was just trying to get a reaction out of you.” A beat. “The same way you were, with Chrissy.”
My grin spread, sharp and stupid. She was the only person alive who could out-psychoanalyze me mid-seduction.
“Well?” I asked, leaning closer, voice low, teasing. “Did it work?”
She tilted her head, smile dancing in her eyes. “A little,” she said, rolling the words like a coin between her teeth. Then she shrugged, putting on this mock-humble tone.
“But then I thought… you know… I’d bet you didn’t write her a song.”
My grin spread slow and feral, because damn if she didn’t know how to lob a grenade right into my chest
She flicked the cigarette down, the ember dying with a hiss as she ground it under her heel. When she lifted her head again, she was still so close I could feel the ghost of her breath.
Even in those heels, she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes. And suddenly she wasn’t smirking anymore. Her whole face had softened, eyes steady, warm. “No, really” she said quietly “That song is beautiful. It's...everything we were, and everything we couldn’t be.”
Her words hit harder than any crowd screaming my lyrics back at me. She’d heard it exactly the way I wrote it, exactly the way I’d meant it.
Before I could even process that, her hand came up. Just her thumb, brushing the scruff of my cheek, soft like she’d been dying to touch me and finally gave in. My heart went off like a drum solo but I stayed still. I let her. Because she was a cat, always had been. Skittish, proud, impossible to chase. The only way was to wait, to let her come closer on her own terms.
And then she leaned in, and for one dizzy second I thought she was about to kiss me, but instead she dropped her face into the curve of my neck and wrapped her arms around me, tight. So goddamn tight I almost staggered.
And fuck if I didn’t melt right there on the spot.
I didn’t even hesitate. My arms went around her instantly, instinct taking over. I pulled her in like I’d been waiting years to do it, because I had. Eyes shut, holding on like she might vanish again. She was all warm suit fabric and perfume, I pressed so close it almost hurt, and I didn’t care. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted her to feel me everywhere.
We stayed like that for what felt like forever, clinging to each other like the world outside didn’t exist. Neither of us seemed willing to loosen first. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, frantic and steady all at once.
Eventually I loosened my hold, just enough to let her breathe, but I kept one arm hooked around her, refusing to let her drift too far. She leaned back a little, just enough to look up at me.
Her armor cracked wide open right in front of me. Behind those glasses, her eyes were unguarded, glassy with whiskey and something softer. She was her again—sweet, fragile, mine.
A rebel strand of hair had slipped from the bun, brushing against her cheek like it wanted to betray her. I couldn’t help it, I lifted a hand and tugged at the loose elastic holding the rest. She didn’t stop me. Just watched, those deer-soft eyes locked on mine, as the band snapped free and her hair spilled down, darker and longer than I remembered. A goddamn waterfall. I let my fingers drift through it, gentle, and her eyelids fluttered, slow and heavy.
Then my hand slid higher, brushing over her temple, and I caught the edge of her glasses. I pulled them off, folded them shut, and held them loosely in my hand. And there she was. The girl I’d written songs about. The one who once looked at me like I was the only man on earth.
She stared up at me in the same way now, while my knuckles grazed her cheek.
Her voice came soft, breaking the silence. “We can’t do this. It can’t happen.”
I didn’t flinch, because her body told me something else entirely. “Why not?” I murmured, steady, calm, even though inside I was burning alive.
Her throat bobbed as she leaned into my hand, betraying herself completely. Still, she whispered, broken and small: “Because tomorrow… you’re the one who leaves. And I can’t go through it again.”
I held her gaze and kept my voice calm, like I was trying to coax her off a ledge. “It’s not the same. We can figure it out now, find ways—”
But she cut me off, sharp and sure. “No. We can’t.”
That was it, no compromise. And suddenly the only explanation that made sense slammed into me like a fist: there was someone else.
For years, I’d convinced myself she’d moved on easily. That she’d left me behind like an old tour T-shirt—maybe once in a while she’d stumble across the memory of me, smirk faintly, then get back to her shiny perfect life.
But looking at her now, raw and cracked open, I knew better. She’d hurt just as much as I had and was just scared.
Which only made me want her more. Because if she’d suffered the way I had, then she knew what this was. And no phantom boyfriend, no fear, no five missing years was gonna keep me from holding her tonight.
So why not try? Why not fucking try, when the universe had been cruel enough to give us a second shot?
My thumb grazed along her cheek. “Okay,” I said softly “Here’s the deal. We head back inside, have another drink, then I drag you to McDonald’s, ‘cause it’s obvious it’s been way too long since you let yourself near actual garbage food...and then we decide.”
She snorted, shaking her head “You really think you’re gonna convince me by getting me drunker?”
I shrugged, let the smallest smile tug at my mouth. “What can I say? Lowered inhibitions work wonders for my odds.”
Yeah, turns out my plan had worked a little too well.
One more whiskey and all her carefully built walls crumbled like wet paper.
We were both drunk, her more than me, though I wasn’t exactly winning any sobriety contests.
We didn’t even make it to McDonald’s. Hell, we didn’t even make it past the backseat of the taxi without her mouth on mine, hands in my hair like she was making up for all five lost years in one go. By the time she told the driver to change the address, we were gone. Completely gone.
Now we were pressed against her apartment door, both of us laughing into each other’s mouths, half-drunk and half-crazy. She was digging through her bag with one hand, cursing under her breath, and I couldn’t stop kissing her long enough to give her room to breathe.
Her taste was whiskey and smoke and something that was just her. My hands were everywhere—waist, back, tangling in her hair.
She finally fished the keys out, fumbling them toward the lock, and I almost laughed into the crook of her neck when she missed.
Christ, she couldn’t even aim straight. Maybe I wasn’t helping, because I shoved her hair aside and pressed my mouth to the line of her throat. Her pulse was hammering so hard I felt it against my lips.
I was furious at the alcohol, because tomorrow I’d only get pieces of this night, blurry edges instead of sharp focus. This was the kind of thing I wanted to memorize, to burn into me. Like the scrape of her ring when her hand gripped the back of my neck, the little groan she made when I bit her collarbone.
She finally shoved the key home with a triumphant little gasp, but I still didn’t let her go. My mouth stayed on her neck, as I shoved us both forward, one hand flat at her hip, steering her through the doorway like I’d lived there all my life.
She stumbled forward a step, laughing breathless, and I kicked the door shut behind us with the heel of my boot without breaking stride.
My hips found her ass, pressing against her without shame, and she didn’t protest, just pressed back.
I barely registered the dark room, just enough to clock some shiny countertop thing by the stove, one of those kitchen islands or whatever the hell rich people called it. Perfect height, perfect surface. My brain went caveman in an instant. I shoved her toward it, palms greedy on her waist, her heels clicking against the floor until she bumped right into the edge with a soft gasp.
My lips never left her skin, dragging hot over the slope of her neck while my hand slid up, wrapping around her throat to keep her head tipped, exactly where I wanted her.
She arched against, bending slightly forward over the countertop, palms flat against the glossy surface. My hand was already fumbling down, clumsy as hell, trying to hike her tight skirt up, but before I could get anywhere she gasped it out, all shaky and sweet:
I groaned into her throat, frustration clawing at me. “Why the hell not?” My hand just changed course, sliding up instead, closing over her breast through the fabric of that perfect black suit.
She moaned, but still managed to get out “Bedroom.”
I grunted like an animal, pure frustration tearing out of me, then without warning I scooped her up, arms under her thighs, bridal-style. No warning, no finesse. She shrieked, arms flying around my neck like I’d just kidnapped her.
I started down the dark hallway while she covered my face in messy little kisses, jaw, cheek, nose, hell, even my eyelid at one point. I could barely see where the fuck I was going, drunk, hard and dying to get her flat on a bed before I lost my goddamn mind.
First door. I shifted her up in my grip, managed to free one hand, fumbled with the knob. She broke from my mouth just long enough to murmur against my ear, breathless, “That’s the bathroom.”
I cursed almost tripping over my own boots as I staggered further down the hall.
She was too busy dragging my mouth back to hers, tongue sliding against mine, to care where the hell we were headed. I powered down the hallway, convincing myself the last door had to be her bedroom.
Because if it wasn’t? I was ready to drop her right on the carpet and take her there.
I stumbled on a rug, nearly lost my footing “Jesus fucking Christ—” I tightened my grip, heart hammering like I’d just dodged death.
She only laughed into my mouth, the sound buzzing against my lips.
The last door opened and, hallelujah, it was the bedroom. The place was dark, only a slice of city light cutting through the blinds and I could tell from the outline of shadows that it was bigger than my van. Bigger than my whole life, honestly.
I set her down and she didn’t let go, her mouth glued to mine while her free hand reached back, shuting the door with a soft click. The sound felt final, like the world had just locked us in.
Her hands drifted lower, fumbling at her own buttons, tugging at the jacket over her chest.
But I grabbed her hands, panting against her mouth. “No. Don’t take it off.”
She blinked, pulling back just a fraction. Her eyes glistened with alcohol, her lips swollen and red, hair wild around her face. The suit hugged her body so perfectly it was obscene. She looked like every dirty dream I’d ever had, stitched together and standing in front of me.
“No?” Malicious little spark in her eyes.
Then, Jesus fucking Christ, she sank. Slowly, deliberately, lowering herself to her knees. My breath caught as her hands dragged over me on the way, chest to stomach, until they landed at my hips. I swear I almost blacked out.
“You like it, huh? Me in my work clothes?” she murmured, biting her lip.
All I managed was a dumb nod. Jesus, I was supposed to be a rockstar, a man who should be able to work a crowd of thousand, and here I was, mute.
Her smirk curved sharper “You know what this is?” Her words slurred a little. Meanwhile, her fingers were already working at my belt, clumsy but determined. “It's…hang on” she paused, scrunching her nose like she had to drag the word out of some dusty corner of her brain. “Right. It’s… displacement. No, transference. Yeah.” She tapped my hip with one finger, proud of herself. "You don’t just want me, you want the…symbol.” She circled a hand vaguely in the air, nearly missing my belt loop on the way. “Authority. The role. You wanna…possess me, not just as me, but as the professional identity. The whole suit package.” Her fingers slipped the last loop of my belt while she let out a soft drunken giggle, before adding “Textbook Freud, baby. Absolutely textbook.”
I probably looked like a cartoon wolf, mouth hanging open, tongue nearly rolling out. The only thing missing was drool.
There she was, unbuttoning my belt while giving me a fucking lecture. And all I could think was:
She is literally diagnosing my kinks while undressing me on her knees. Hot. Smart. Drunk. This is it. This is how I die. RIP Eddie Munson. Cause of death: horny psychology.
Then, calm as a doctor asking me to breathe deep, she said, “Can you close your eyes for me, Eddie?”
And I did. Like the dumbest, most obedient dog in the world. Immediate compliance. God, I was pathetic.
After a few moments of nothing, I heard her moving and a hand dragged slow up my thigh, palm hot through the fabric, and my whole body lit up like a pinball machine. Then her voice came almost like a purr but still with that clinical tone that made me want to drop dead on the spot. “Good. Stay still. Feel the tension. Sit with it. That’s what you want most… isn’t it?”
Christ almighty. She was turning my dick into a therapy session.
Not exactly the sound of heaven I’d been expecting.
And what do I find? Not her worshipping me. Nope. She was flat on her back across this massive white rug, black suit stark against it, holding a goddamn Polaroid camera. The photo was sliding out, not even developed yet, and she wheezed, heels kicking uselessly in the air.
Meanwhile I stood there, belt hanging open, dick straining against my jeans, face probably contorted like a man getting electrocuted. And now it was all on film.
“You—oh my God—your face!” she howled, clutching her stomach, camera still in hand.
I snapped out of my shock, indignation bubbling up with my arousal. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. Give me that.”
Her eyes went wide, then wicked, and she rolled to the side, clutching the camera to her chest. “No way!”
“Oh, yes way” I lunged, and suddenly we were wrestling on that plush white rug like two drunk idiots on a college dorm floor. She twisted, kicked, tried to squirm free, laughing the whole time, while I growled and grabbed at her wrist.
“Eddie—stop—” she shrieked between giggles. Finally, the camera slipped from her grip and thudded onto the rug somewhere out of reach, but the photo itself fluttered loose. She reached for it but too slow. I snatched it first, triumphant, and pinned her wrist above her head with one hand, shoving the picture out of her sight with the other.
“Mine,” I panted, grinning down at her like I'd just won a war.
She wriggled beneath me, still laughing, still fighting, but weaker now, softer, the sound catching on a gasp when I ducked down and sank my teeth into her neck.
She let out this sharp, startled little ah! when my teeth sank in, her whole body jolting under me. I didn’t stop—just dragged it into a mark, deep, until I knew she’d be cursing me in the mirror tomorrow morning.
Her back arched instantly, pressing up into me like her body couldn’t help itself. My free hand clawed at the hem of that tight little skirt, and when fabric didn’t cooperate, I yanked it higher, up until it bunched at her waist. I had no patience left. Just need.
And then my palm slid exactly where I wanted, between her thighs. One touch and I felt it. Heat. Damp through the lace, like she’d been waiting for this all night.
I lifted my head, forcing myself to look. Her mouth was open, lips shining, chest heaving like she’d run a marathon. Her cheeks flushed red, eyes glazed, and she looked so goddamn wrecked already.
Finally. Finally she wasn’t the one pulling the strings. She wasn’t smirking up at me with all her clever little games and Freudian bullshit. She was pinned, mine to take apart.
I leaned in close, enough that my lips brushed hers without sealing it, just letting our breaths tangle hot and shaky between us. My fingers pressed firmer against the soaked fabric and I watched her twitch with every brush. “So tell me, doc,” I whispered, my voice rasping between us, “What’s this called in psychology, huh? When you’re already dripping before I even get my hand on you?”
She didn’t answer my question. Not with words anyway. Her back just arched more, spine bowing off the rug as a broken little sound fell out of her throat, like a plea.
I kissed the corner of her mouth, lips brushing the curve of her cheek. “Open this for me, baby,” I murmured, tugging at the lapel of her jacket.
She did. Instantly. No hesitation, no questions. Just those shaky hands fumbling at the buttons to please me. Which, let’s be real, hit me straight in the fucking ego because two minutes ago I was her obedient little mutt with my eyes closed, and now here she was panting under me, obeying like her life depended on it.
I scrambled upright, ripped my shirt off so fast I nearly got stuck in it (sexy as hell, Munson, ten points), then shoved my jeans down, kicking them away with my boots. Clothes scattered everywhere, probably knocking over her fancy shit.
When I looked back down at her, I almost came just for the view.
The jacket was wide open, hanging off her shoulders. Black bra underneath, tight and perfect, her breasts practically begging for my mouth. Skirt still rucked indecen high, panties halfway down her thighs, her hand pushing them lower like she was in a goddamn race. I helped,tugged them the rest of the way, flung them aside, and dropped back over her, caging her in.
One greedy hand shoved her bra down, not even bothering with the clasp, just enough to get what I wanted. And then my mouth was there, sucking, my stubble rasped against the soft skin.
Her gasp broke into a curse, nails digging into my scalp. “This...this beard is driving me fucking insane.”
I smirked against her, lips still wrapped around her nipple.
Meanwhile, my other hand slid back down, fingers parting her thighs, and Jesus—she was drenched. Hot, slick, pulsing under my fingers like her body was begging me.
Two fingers slid into her and it was like being swallowed whole. Tight, wet and warm. My mouth stayed latched on her breast, sucking greedily and her whole body writhed under me. Her thighs shifted restlessly against my hand, hips lifting off the rug, chasing every curl of my fingers. Each little sound that fell from her lips went straight down. I was dying for her, every nerve begging to bury myself inside, but no, she wasn’t ready. I wanted her wrecked first. I wanted her to know who the hell had her now.
I sped up, fingers pumping faster, curling just right until I felt her tighten. Her nails dragged through my hair, caught hard against my scalp, her breath ragged and uneven.
And that’s when I pulled my mouth from her breast.
Her eyes shot open, dazed and desperate, lips parted, cheeks flushed bright red. I hovered above her, fingers still buried deep, and rasped against her mouth, “What do you want, sweetheart?”
For a second, she couldn’t even speak. Just stared at me, trembling, breathless, eyes wild. Then finally, voice cracking:
Fuck me. That one last word nearly took me out. “Well,” I muttered, curling my fingers one last time before sliding them free, “when you beg that nice…”
Her whole body shuddered at the loss, her chest heaving, hands scrambling for me like she couldn’t stand the space.
And me? I was already tearing my boxers down, clumsy, graceless, almost tripping in my own rush, because if I didn’t get inside her right then, I was going to fucking combust.
I crawled back over her, lining myself up between her thighs while she was still trembling from my fingers.
One hand braced beside her head, the other guiding myself lower, I pushed forward slowly.
The second I slid into her, heat slammed into me, tight and slick and fucking perfect. My eyes rolled back in my skull.
She clenched around me, molten, pulling me in deeper until every nerve ending lit up at once.
I’d been with women over the last years, too many, if I was honest. Random faces, blurry nights, nameless bodies that barely registered. Not a single one of them touched this. Not even close. This wasn’t just sex...it was homecoming, collision, annihilation all in one.
She arched against me instantly, legs clamping tighter around my hips, dragging me deeper like she’d been starving for this as much as I had. Her eyes shut, lips parted, and what came out of her mouth was pure drunken poetry.
“Holy...Christ—you’re too—God...GOD!...too much” She kept going, strings of broken syllables tumbling out, like her brain couldn’t keep up with her body.
My breath stuttered, my hips already rocking into her. Each thrust sent sparks shooting down my spine, left me shaking from the effort of holding back.
I didn’t remember her being this vocal. Not back then. Maybe it was the booze loosening her tongue, or maybe she’d just been hiding this wild side all along. Either way, it was hot as hell.
I’d kill for a Polaroid of us right now. Frame it. Hang it up and call it art, because It was obscene. Clinical lines of a work outfit, ruined just enough to expose everything I wanted. And me? Naked, hair wild, rutting into her like I was trying to fuck years of frustration out of both of us.
I dropped down, chest pressed to hers, face buried in her neck. My hair stuck to her damp skin, and she arched under me, clawing at my back hard enough to sting, her nails scoring lines. Every time my hips slammed forward, she cried out.
Animal noises ripped out of me too, grunts, growls, half curses muffled against her throat. I couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. My hips just kept grinding forward, sharper, harder.
Five years wasted. And now here we were, drunk, ruined, tangled on her expensive rug, tearing each other apart like we’d die if we let go.
I pushed up on my arms, just to look down at her, because hell, I couldn’t not.
Her jacket hung open showing sweat running down her flushed throat. Only one breast was bared, just the one I’d freed earlier, and it bounced with every slam of my hips.
She surprised the life out of me when her hand came up, covering it to cup herself, while her back arched hard against the rug, head tipping back like she was offering her whole throat to me. It was the dirtiest, hottest thing I’d ever seen.
Every push forward had her babbling, words spilling out unfiltered, drunk, half nonsense but goddamn perfect. Over and over, like a chant, like she was praying.
My arm near her head shifted, hand dragging up until my thumb found her mouth. Couldn’t resist. I pressed it to her lips, just testing.
She didn’t even hesitate.
Her mouth opened, sucking me in like it was second nature. No thought, just pure instinct, like a kid given a pacifier. Her cheeks hollowed, tongue pressing under the pad of my thumb, and Jesus H. Christ—my hips stuttered, rhythm breaking apart instantly. Because how the fuck was I supposed to stay sane while she was sucking me off with her mouth and clenching down on me like that?
“....you’ve gotta be kidding me,” I groaned, head dropping forward. My hair fell in my face, and I could barely see through the haze of lust. “You’re gonna kill me, baby....you’re actually trying to end my life.”
I slid my thumb out of her mouth, slick with spit, and threaded my hand into her hair instead, holding her there under me. My thrusts picked up, sharper, faster, the kind of pace that said I was seconds from the edge whether I wanted to admit it or not.
I dropped my face to hers, cheek scraping hers, whispering against her skin, ragged, broken.
“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”
Nothing. No answer. No sound but her shallow gasps.
I pulled back just enough to look at her, and my stomach lurched. Her eyes weren’t locked on me, they were half-shut, glazed.
“Baby…” I panted, desperation cutting the word in half, “inside?”
She blinked at me, unfocused, and whispered hoarse, “...what?” Like she didn’t understand English anymore.
Christ. I tried again, choking on it. “I’m—Jesus—You want me inside?”
Her whole body went rigid under me. Eyes flew open wide, glassy with terror. Her hands shoved at my shoulders, frantic, shaking.
“No! No—nononono—” Her voice cracked, thin with panic, her palms shoving me like I’d burned her.
“Whoa—hey—hey, okay, okay!” I yanked back instantly, pulling out of her, hand up like surrender. The heat, the fire, the haze of booze it all evaporated in a heartbeat. I was stone cold sober watching her come apart.
Breath tearing out of her in ragged gasps that didn’t sound human. Her chest heaved like she couldn’t get air, pupils blown wide, face pale under the flush of sweat, like she was about to pass out. “I don’t want to—I can’t—” she stammered, voice breaking, words spilling out in pieces like she couldn’t string them together.
“Shit—hey, hey, look at me,” I rasped, crouching close but not touching, because every time I tried to reach her she flinched hard like my hand was a knife. My gut twisted so bad I thought I’d puke.
Her breathing got worse, fast and shallow, little gasps like she was drowning. Her hands clutched at the rug, then at her own chest like she was trying to rip her heart out.
“Baby, you’re okay—you’re safe, I swear—you’re with me.” My voice cracked, useless, my own pulse racing out of control. I didn’t have a degree or shit, but I’d seen it before, kids in Hawkins high freaking out, guys in the crowd at shows hyperventilating till they puked. This was that...except worse, because it was her.
And I had no idea how to fix it.
Her eyes darted wild, not even landing on me, tears gathering but not falling. “No—I don’t want—don’t—”
“I’m not—I’m not doing anything to you, okay? I stopped” My hands hovered over her arms, aching to hold her, but every inch of me screamed not to make it worse. I felt helpless, useless.
The rug scratched my knees, sweat dripped down my back, my cock hung heavy and forgotten between us. None of it mattered. The only thing in my head was help her, help her, help her.
“You know me baby, I’d never hurt you, never. Just—just breathe...please, calm down”
For a second, it was like I was talking to a wall. Her eyes weren’t on me, weren’t on anything, just staring through me like I was smoke.
Then slowly her sheaky hand lifted off the floor, pressing flat against her own sternum. Her lips moved, soundless at first, then whispering in broken pieces: “One… two… three…”
Counting. Christ, she was counting.
Her eyes squeezed shut, lashes wet, and she dragged in one shaky breath, then let it out hard, almost a sob. Again—inhale, exhale, numbers under her breath like a lifeline.
And me? I just hovered there like an idiot, chest caving in, watching her claw her way back piece by piece.
Finally, her breathing slowed, still uneven, but no longer sharp. Her fingers trembled where they pressed over her heart, and her eyes cracked open, glassy but focused now. On me.
The tight fist around my lungs loosened. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and, slow as hell, I let myself move. My hand crept up, cautious, until my fingers brushed back the damp strands plastered to her temple.
“Jesus…” My voice was hoarse, torn up. “You scared the shit outta me.”
Her skin burned under my touch, sweat-slick and trembling, but she didn’t flinch this time. Didn’t shove me away.
Her lips parted, voice thin and broken. “...sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I murmured back, shaking my head like I could erase the word from the air.
I bent down, pressed my mouth to her cheek, soft, lingering. Then I stayed there, forehead resting against her temple, breathing her in.
Hours later, she was out cold. Me? Not a fucking chance.
Every time my eyes started to shut, I jolted awake again just to check she was breathing normal. Couldn’t stop myself. That image of her gasping, clutching at herself like she was dying, it had me by the throat.
Earlier at some point, after she’d calmed down enough to stop trembling, I’d wrestled her out of that damn black skirt suit. Thought it looked hot as hell on her, now I fucking hated the thing. Zippers, clasps, layers on layers, like it was designed by Satan just to piss me off. I ended up tossing it away with the rest of my clothes, like I never wanted to see the damn thing again.
She hadn’t fought me when I lifted her off the rug. Just melted into my arms, dead weight, head against my shoulder. I laid her down on that ridiculous big bed, piled with too many little useless pillows that I ended up throwing across the room. She was out the second her head hit the sheets, mouth slack, makeup smudged down her eyes.
I laid there next to her, stroking her hair, untangling the strands where they clung to her face. Her breathing had evened out, soft and steady now, but it didn’t stop the guilt gnawing me alive. I’d wanted her wrecked, and I got it, but not the way I meant.
And the worst part? I had no goddamn clue what the hell had triggered it.
My head kept circling back to five years ago, to that night she’d told me about the teacher in Hawkings high. How he’d taken advantage of her when she was too young, too trusting. My stomach churned just remembering it. Maybe that’s what cracked open tonight. Maybe me asking—stupid, selfish—if I could finish inside her had snapped something loose.
But fuck, it didn’t add up. It didn’t feel like that. There was something else, buried deeper, and I couldn’t reach it.
So there I was, in the dark of her stupidly big room, sheets tangled around my waist, staring at her like an idiot while my brain tore itself in circles.
But that’s when I heard it.
A sound. Outside the bedroom door, low and muffled.
My eyes snapped up, every nerve in me going tight.
Because of course. Why wouldn’t this mansion of hers decide to get spooky as fuck the one night I already felt like I was losing my mind?
Or maybe thieves. Because why wouldn’t they come rob? It made sense. People robbed places like this. I’d never had to worry about that in my little shithole trailer. But here? Hell yeah. Big house, closed-off windows, screaming “come take my diamonds.”
So, naturally, I did the logical thing. Slipped out of bed as quiet as I could, pawed through the heap of clothes on the white rug until I found my boxers, and pulled them on. Nothing like creeping into danger in your underwear. Real heroic shit.
The hall stretched long and dim, just this faint gray glow leaking in from the cracks of the blackout curtains. At the end, a soft light flickered. Kitchen, maybe.
I pressed myself to the wall, creeping slow, every step careful. Which, in hindsight, was stupid as hell. No weapon, no plan. What was I gonna do? Distract him with my hair?
I edged up to the doorway, leaned just far enough to peek around the frame.
Not a dude in black ski mask, not a knife-wielding psycho.
Standing there, back to me, setting something down on the table like she owned the place.
“What the fuck?” I whispered.
Maybe she was her roommate? Some long-lost auntie who lived here rent-free? Didn’t seem like her style, but what the hell did I know about her life anyway?
The woman moved quiet, deliberate, like she didn’t want to wake anyone. She was maybe mid-forties, skin warm brown, hair tied up neat, cardigan slipping off her shoulder.
When she finally turned and spotted me, she jumped like I’d fired a gun. “Oh!” she gasped, hand to her chest. “So sorry, sir.”
I blinked at her, still plastered half-naked to the doorframe, brain trying to reboot.
She hurried to gather her bag, eyes dropping to the floor like she was embarrassed to even exist. Which, yeah, hard to blame her, given the fact I was standing there in nothing but boxers and sex hair.
“I didn’t mean to wake anyone,” she whispered. “I just… I wanted to leave these out”
She motioned at the table. A plate. Muffins. Like twelve of them.
“We made them yesterday,” she went on quickly, eyes still down. “...Dr. Cole's favorites”
Doctor Cole. That meant Marissa, right?
I just nodded like a moron, because none of this was making sense. “We made them”? Who the hell was “we”? And why the fuck was this lady in the house at dawn?
Housekeeper? Maid? Pastry fairy?
She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder, still avoiding my eyes, and murmured, “Okay. I go now. Sorry again, sir. Please… tell Miss Cole I said goodbye.”
And then, with one last awkward smile, she slipped past me and closed the front door behind her slowly.
Leaving me alone. In the kitchen, staring at muffins.
I scratched the back of my neck before padding over, bare feet silent on the tile, eyes fixed on the muffins like they were the only sane thing in this house.
Had I underestimated her? Hell yes.
She didn’t just have money. She had a maid who baked her muffins and called her Miss Cole, like she was some Victorian duchess. And me? I got tagged “sir,” which was hilarious, because I looked about as far from a sir as a guy could get.
Rich people, man. They had a whole different operating system.
Still, the muffins smelled insane. Blueberry, maybe? My stomach answered for me. I grabbed one, shoved it in my mouth like some starving raccoon.
I chewed, wandering around her kitchen, eyeing the perfect cabinets, the glossy counters, the kind of fridge you could probably hide a body in. Every damn thing gleamed. It was so spotless it made me itch, like I should apologize just for breathing near it.
But then I turned, still chewing, and...
Half a muffin hung out of my mouth, my jaw stuck mid-bite.
Because there, at the mouth of the hallway, stood… someone.
Or maybe… a ghost shaped like a kid.
Small, still, just standing there in footie pajamas covered in little cartoon doodles. A toy car clutched tight in one fist, pressed against his mouth like a shield. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at me.
The hairs on my arms stood up.
Okay. No. Nope. That wasn’t a kid. That was an apparition. A full-blown haunted-house special. Because there was no way in hell I wouldn’t have heard him coming. No way he’d just materialize like that, dead quiet, eyes locked on me like he was weighing my soul.
I swallowed hard, muffin sticking in my throat. My brain was too fried to compute, still spinning from panic attacks, lack of sleep and mystery maids.
The silence cracked first from him. Not echo-y ghost shit or demon Latin but a tiny voice, soft, sweet in a way that punched me straight in the chest.
I blinked at him, brain scrambling.
Okay. Right. The lady. The muffin fairy. She’d forgotten her kid here. Left him standing in the hall.
I glanced around the kitchen, half-expecting her to pop back in and scoop him up with an “Oops, my bad, forgot the child!”
But my eyes snagged on the fridge.
A cluster of post-its slapped on the stainless steel door, dates, phone numbers, little reminders in neat handwriting. And dead center, pinned under a flower magnet, was a photo.
Marissa. Sitting at the bottom of a playground slide, hair wild, makeup-free, sunglasses pushed up in her hair. And in her lap...him. This exact kid. Cheeks flushed, both tongues sticking out, her arm wrapped around him like she was never letting go.
The room tilted. My chest squeezed so hard it knocked the breath out of me.
I set the muffin down fast, hand gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping me upright. Heart hammering loud enough I swore the kid could hear it.
Mother. She was a mother. Her, the woman I’d spent five years trying not to drown over, had built a whole life that had nothing to do with me.
My eyes bounced between the photo and the boy standing there in his pajamas. Over and over, like my brain was refusing to process the math. Same kid. Same eyes. Same everything.
“Your…” My voice cracked, dry as sandpaper. I swallowed, tried again unsteady. “Your mom’s… sleeping.”
The boy nodded, toy still pressed to his mouth, and just kept staring at me.
Then finally, muffled but clear: “Are you… mommy’s friend?”
Christ. I nodded, because what the hell else was I supposed to do? Friend. Sure. Ex? Not really. Whatever I was, it didn’t have a name that made sense in kindergarten vocabulary.
But the nod barely landed before my brain spun out again.
Where the hell had he even been all night? We’d been tearing each other apart on that rug like animals. He couldn’t have just been… here. Not awake, not listening. Right?
Except, my gut lurched, she had shut the bedroom door. Even drunk, she’d been careful. Not with me, but with that. With him.
And then it hit me, like a brick to the teeth. That phone call outside the club. The one I thought was her sweet-talking some guy.
She’d said something like “I’ll pay you extra if you stay the whole night.”
The woman in the kitchen hadn’t been the maid. She’d been here watching him.
And suddenly, her panic when I asked if I could finish inside made terrifying, awful sense. Because last time someone finished inside her… this happened. This kid.
But—no. Wait. That couldn’t be right.
Five years ago, she’d told me doctors said it was practically impossible for her. I remembered it clear as day. The way she’d laughed bitterly about it, like she’d already made peace with never having kids.
The kid’s gaze flicked from me to the half-eaten muffin abandoned on the table. Back to me. Expectant.
“You want it?” My hands felt stupid, heavy, but I picked it up. Held it out.
He hesitated, rocking a little on his socked feet, eyes flicking from me to the muffin. But then, one cautious step at a time, he padded closer and reached out with the hand not clutching that little car, tiny fingers closing around the muffin.
Up close, I saw the curls. Wild little loops sticking up at the crown of his head, same color as hers.
He took a bite, crumbs scattering on his pajamas, eyes still on me like he was cataloguing every move.
I crouched down, knees popping like an old man, forearms resting on my thighs so I could look him straight in those big, watchful eyes. Felt less like I was meeting a kid and more like I was facing trial.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
He chewed, swallowed, then looked right at me and said, “Ozzy.”
Everything inside me stopped. My stomach dropped so fast it was like an elevator cable had snapped. I thought maybe I’d misheard him. Maybe he’d said “Ollie” or “Austin” or literally anything else that didn’t sound like it had been ripped straight out of my chest.
Sure, plenty of kids out there were named Ozzy. Cute name, rock star vibe, parents wanted to feel edgy. Right? Just a coincidence. Just—
Except my brain didn’t buy it.
Because five years ago, in Hawkings, a stray black cat had started hanging around the parking lot. Scruffy, mean little bastard, but I’d fed him until he stuck. Named him Ozzy because, well, you know. And she’d loved that cat. I still saw it when I closed my eyes: her, the morning after our first time, hair tangled, naked, with Ozzy perched across her chest. That image had burned itself into me so deep I could sketch it blindfolded.
And now here was this kid. Her kid. Saying that name.
Why? Out of every name in the goddamn universe, why that one?
Sure, maybe she just liked it. Maybe she’d been a secret Sabbath superfan all along. Or maybe my heart was trying to jackhammer its way out of my ribcage because deep down I already knew what it meant.
My voice came out shaky, unsure. “How old are you, buddy?”
His whole face brightened, like it was the best question he’d ever been asked. He dropped the toy car onto the floor with a soft clatter, held up his little fist proudly, and then, one by one, uncurled each finger.
Five fingers spread wide, right in front of me.
I stared at that tiny hand while I had to fight the urge to sit straight on the floor before I blacked out.
Because five years just happened to line up perfectly with the last time we’d been together. That last night in the van when she’d begged me not to pull out. Because it was okay, it didn’t matter, the doctors had said it was impossible.
But Wait. Hold on. My brain scrambled for a loophole, any loophole.
She’d come straight here after Hawkins, hadn’t she? Chicago. New city, new job, new life. She’d told me herself at that bar, she’d been engaged. Engaged. Maybe she’d gotten knocked up right after Hawkins. Not impossible.
The thought slammed into my mouth before my brain could stop it.
“Your… your dad. He’s an attorney, right?”
The kid blinked at me. Blank as a chalkboard. Like I’d just asked him to solve quantum physics. Muffin crumbs on his chin, staring at me like I was the idiot here.
Shit. Okay. Simplify, Munson.
He just shrugged. Bit into the muffin again. Like this was a casual Tuesday morning and not me actively short-circuiting in his kitchen.
I could feel my pulse in my ears. “You don’t… you don’t know?” My voice was thin, desperate.
The kid shook his head. Crumbs rained down his pajamas.
“You don’t… know your dad?”
Another shake of the head. Casual. Easy. Like he didn’t even realize he was ripping my entire ribcage open.
I sat down hard, ass hitting the floor, back against the table leg.
My hands clawed through my hair, pulling at the roots, anything to ground myself. Anything to not look straight into those goddamn eyes.
Because they were my eyes. My curls. My goddamn face, just… smaller. Softer. Innocent. Like Wayne’s old wallet photo of me had come to life and started eating muffins in front of me.
I pressed my palms over my face, dragged them down. My voice came out raw, broken around the edges. “Didn’t your mom… didn’t she tell you anything about your dad?”
He chewed. Chewed forever, slow as molasses, every second killing me. Swallowed finally, then said through a mouthful of crumbs, “No. But she said one day I’ll meet him.”
And that was it. That was the knife. Clean between the ribs, straight through.
I slid lower, head falling forward, elbows on my knees, hands gripping my hair so hard it hurt. Tried to breathe, but my chest had gone hollow. My eyes burned holes into the floor.
Because there it was. The truth, simple as a kid’s shrug.
Christ. I was going to be sick.
“Fuck,” I hissed, palms digging into my eyes. The word came out cracked, pathetic, more sob than curse. My throat burned, my chest ached, and I couldn’t tell if I wanted to scream, puke, or just curl up on the kitchen tile and never move again.
Why hadn’t she told me? Why the hell hadn’t she told me?
My head spun with it, looping, gnawing at the edges of sanity. Maybe I was still drunk and this was some whiskey-soaked nightmare, my brain punishing me for every bad decision I’d made in the last years. Because that made more sense than this.
I laughed. Bitter, broken, one sharp exhale that hurt on the way out. My hands fisted so hard my scalp screamed. My lips moved without meaning to, whispers under my breath—impossible, no way, fuck, no, no, no.
And then, light and warm. A small little hand, soft as anything, pressed against my shoulder.
I froze. Slowly lifted my head.
My hair stuck up in every direction, my eyes burned, wet, raw. And there he was, right in front of me, watching me like even at five years old he understood this was one of those moments that carved itself into bone.
“Wanna see how fast my car goes?” he asked.
Not a question about why a stranger was losing his shit on his kitchen floor.
Something cracked open in me then, deeper than all the panic. This kid, this little boy with my curls and my eyes, he was trying to fix it. Trying to pull me out of the dark with the only thing he had: a toy car.
My mouth twisted into something that was half a smile, half a grimace. My voice cracked when I managed a nod. “Yeah.”
That was all the permission he needed. He set the muffin wrapper carefully on the floor then bolted for the hallway with a burst of excitement that made my chest ache worse.
“Watch!” he called, dropping down to the tiles. He set the little car down, pulled it back until the wheels screamed in protest, then let it rip.
The thing tore across the kitchen floor like a bat out of hell, plastic wheels shrieking against the spotless tiles, loud enough to wake the dead.
I didn’t even look down when it smacked straight into my bare thigh. Just sat there, chest heaving, eyes locked on the tiny figure crouched in the hall, grinning like he’d just pulled off the trick of the century.
He came running back, socks sliding on the tile, cheeks flushed. He skidded to a stop right in front of me, grinning so wide I thought his face might split.
“See?!” he said, breathless. “It’s sooo fast, right?”
His excitement hit me like a punch. I picked up the little car and didn’t even really look at it. Just turned it in my fingers once, numb, and handed it back.
“Yeah,” I rasped. “Fastest thing I’ve ever seen.”
That was apparently the magic key. The kid lit up, clutching the car to his chest, then plopped down right in front of me like I was his new audience.
“Mami gave it to me for Christmas,” he said proudly “But now I got two ‘cause she already gave me one for my birthday, but that one wasn’t fast like this one, ‘cause the wheels—see?—they don’t go like this—” He demonstrated, dragging it back and forth, wheels shrieking. “—this one goes like whooooosh! Faster than Luca’s car, and—”
He kept going. And going. His little voice tripped over itself, words piling on top of each other with no breaks, pure five-year-old chaos.
And me? I just stared. Blank. Numb.
I couldn’t follow a damn word. Because every time he said “Mami” or laughed at his own story, my brain punched the same thought into me like a broken record.
Not a random kid. Not a maybe.
I was somebody’s father. The longer I sat there, the worse it got. The realization crawled under my skin, gnawed at my ribs. My chest kept tightening like it was about to implode.
The kid kept talking, dragging the car in lazy loops between us. I couldn’t tell how long it went on. Could’ve been two minutes, could’ve been an hour. Time didn’t exist anymore. Just the sound of his voice and the spiral in my skull.
Frozen at the end of the corridor like she’d stepped into a crime scene.
She’d pulled on a black nightgown, thin straps cutting across her shoulders, fabric falling loose around her knees. Still messy, raw, but somehow...still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
She was pale. White as a sheet. Eyes blown wide, lips parted like she’d just been punched in the gut. Because maybe she had. Because she’d seen my face, seen exactly what I’d figured out, and understood instantly that the lie, the silence, the years, were over.
The kid noticed too. He twisted around, saw her, and his whole face split open with joy.
“Mami!” he shouted, high and thrilled, and bolted for her like his little legs couldn’t carry him fast enough.
He collided with her knees, wrapped himself around her, babbling something muffled against her nightgown.
But her eyes weren’t on him.
We just stared across the kitchen tiles, like two people standing on the edge of the same cliff. Both pale, both looking like we might pass out.
“Mami?” the kid piped up again, tugging at her nightgown like she hadn’t heard him.
Finally, she blinked, dragged her gaze down to him. Her voice was hoarse, trembling like it might break.
“Baby, it’s early. You should still be in bed.”
She crouched, brushed a hand through his curls, pressed a kiss to his cheek like this was just another ordinary day. Like I wasn’t two feet away falling apart.
“If you go back to bed now,” she whispered, “when you wake up, I’ll take you to the park. We’ll play, just you and me.”
That did it. His pout vanished. “Okaayyyy.”
He shuffled off toward the bedroom, dragging his car with him. Halfway down the hall he turned, lifted his little hand, and waved at me.
My throat worked around broken glass, but I managed to lift my own hand back. Mechanical. A reflex.
He beamed and disappeared into the room, the door clicking shut.
Ice-cold, suffocating silence.
She straightened slowly, still pale. I could see the fear in her eyes, the kind that said she already knew the question I was about to ask.
My voice came out sharper than I meant, low and hard, but steady.
Her face cracked. Heartbreak written clean across it. The faint bruise blooming on her neck— my mark from last night—only made it worse. She rubbed her hands down her face, voice shredded when she finally forced it out.
“You weren’t supposed to find out like this.”
My laugh ripped out of me, harsh and hollow. “What the fuck? Oh, yeah, great plan Marissa. Keep the big reveal until, what?! His eighteenth birthday? Graduation? Maybe let me find out when I’m old and he’s calling someone else Dad? Fantastic fucking strategy, really.”
My legs moved before my brain caught up. Heavy, furious strides that carried me straight past her. Straight for the bedroom.
I dropped to my knee on the rug, hands shaking as I grabbed at denim and leather, pathetic, scrambling to pull myself back into my armor. Jeans, shirt, socks. Shoving myself into them like it would save me from drowning.
“Eddie,” she said behind me, voice broken, but I couldn’t look. Wouldn’t.
The only thing I knew with any certainty was that I had to get the hell out of that apartment before I screamed or broke something.
My chest heaved, hands shaking as I pulled my shirt over my head. My own voice rang in my skull, sharp and vicious:
Five years. Five fucking years. And not a word. Not a fucking syllable.
When I pushed to my feet, she was still there standing in the doorway, clutching the frame like it was the only thing holding her upright. I brushed past, jaw locked, chest heavy, the scent of her perfume clawing at me like a ghost.
“Eddie,” she whispered again. Cracked right down the middle.
It hit my back like a knife. My chest clenched, traitor that it was, but my feet didn’t stop. Rage had me by the throat, dragging me forward.
The door was just a few strides away when I felt her hand on me. Small. Shaking. Wrapping around my arm like it had every right to still claim me.
I froze. Not because I wanted to, because my body betrayed me.
Her voice came low “It’s 2214. Fourth floor. Apartment B.”
A pause. A breath like glass shattering. “For when you come back.”
My head snapped forward, eyes locked on the door. My teeth ground together so hard my jaw ached.
Of course she thought she still had me figured out. Like she could read the map of my skull, chart every step before I made it. Like she knew damn well I’d be back.
I didn’t turn. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing my face, of catching the war ripping me apart from the inside.
I just shoved the door open, stepped into the hall, and slammed it shut behind me, letting the whole building know I was pissed.
Of course, she was right.
Hours later, there I was. Standing in front of her door again like the dumbest bastard alive.
The clock above the fancy elevator said it was barely eight in the morning. Which meant I still had hours before the flight, before Corroded Coffin had to drag our asses to the next city to play warm-up monkeys for the bigger band.
I’d burned the hours since I stormed out wandering through a half-dead Chicago at dawn. I walked until my legs ached, screamed until my throat burned, cried like some back-alley lunatic, and punted a dumpster hard enough to make my toes throb. Class act, real rockstar behavior.
And then, like the unstable psycho I am, I bought a coffee. Sat there on a plastic chair, sipping something watery and bitter, it hit like a resurrection. Suddenly the world wasn’t quite as lethal.
By the time I circled back here, I’d lost about ten kilos of rage.
I wasn’t even that mad at her anymore. Not the way I had been. Somewhere between kicking metal and sipping burnt coffee, the fury bled out, left me hollow. Gave me space to think. And the truth? She’d had reasons. Christ, she’d had plenty.
Back then, I was twenty-one, fresh out of high school, broke as hell. No job, no plan, no clue. If she’d told me then, what could I have given them? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. So yeah. How could I blame her?
Didn’t mean it didn’t sting. Didn’t mean I wasn’t still bruised raw. But the edge was gone. The fire was embers.
I raised my hand and knocked.
The door opened quicker than I expected. She was standing there like she hadn’t moved an inch since I left. Paler, black nightgown still hanging off her shoulders, dark circles carved under her eyes.
But the second she saw me, her face softened and she moved before I could blink, arms around my neck, pressing herself against me.
For a second I froze, caught off guard. Then my eyes slid shut and I let one hand settle weakly on her back. Not tight, just enough to say, Yeah, I’m still here. For now.
Then she pulled back. And her hand was on my cheek, thumb brushing across the stubble like she had any right to still touch me that way. My chest ached. My jaw locked.
I heard my own voice come out low, scratchy.
Her answer was instant. No hesitation, no pause, just a breath and a nod. “Of course.”
The kid was still asleep when we slipped into his room.
Figures. Five a.m. muffin heist, few minutes car show, then he’s out cold again like nothing happened. Must’ve inherited his mother’s talent for selective chaos.
I stopped just past the doorway. His world hit me in the face. Bright walls, stuffed animals piled high and some superhero bedsheets that looked like they’d been through more battles than me.
And there he was. Curled on his side in the middle of it all, fists tucked under his cheek, curls glued to his forehead. Like the universe decided to take every single weak spot I had and wrap it up in one small boy.
I moved closer and crouched next to the bed. Christ, I must’ve looked ridiculous—big, all leather and rings—kneeling in a sea of stuffed animals.
I leaned in, careful, and brushed a curl back from his forehead.
Nothing. Not a twitch. Dead asleep, like he hadn’t just turned my entire world inside out.
“He’s a heavy sleeper,” she whispered from the doorway.
Yeah. I could see that, exactly like her.
I stayed there longer than I should have. Just…watching him existing. Every inhale of his chest felt like a punch. My blood was in his veins, my curls tangled in his hair.
He was mine, my son. The words felt foreign in my head, like they belonged to someone else’s story. Someone better. Someone who hadn’t just screamed himself hoarse in a Chicago alley.
Eventually, I dragged myself back up, careful not to make a sound. I turned—
Still leaning on the door, silent tears streaking down her face, like she was determined not to let a single sound ruin the picture. She stayed there quietly falling apart while I touched our kid for the first time, watching us like her heart had been ripped open and stitched back together at the same time. Silently taking it all in like she had for years...quiet, swallowing it down so everyone else never felt the weight. Exactly what a mother does.
I should’ve been furious still, with a speech loaded, some killer one-liner about lies and secrets and wasted years. But looking at her like that, broken, beautiful, bleeding inside without making a sound, I couldn’t do it.
Couldn’t stop myself. My hand came up, thumb swiping one of those tears away as I passed. She closed her eyes like the touch hurt and healed all at once.
I let go before I made a bigger fool of myself and stepped past her into the hall.
She closed the kid’s door carefully and we ended up on the couch, side by side. Just sitting there like two idiots waiting for the universe to hand us a script.
She drew in a long breath, like she had to steel herself just to speak. Her hands wouldn’t stay still, fingers knotting and unknotting in her lap. “When I found out,” she started quietly, “I was already four months in.”
My head snapped a little, but I stayed silent. Just watched her hands move, watched her throat work.
“I didn’t even know before that, didn’t even think it was possible. I mean—” Her lips twisted bitter. “Doctors had told me it was… ‘highly unlikely.’ So, when it happened, I—” She shook her head. “I didn’t know what to do. I’d just gone back to university, I didn’t have money. So I had two choices: go back to Hawkins, where everyone already thought the worst of me, where my career was already dead in the water… or stay here. Keep studying. Try to build something.”
Her eyes flicked toward me like she was bracing for impact. I kept my face blank, or tried to. Poker face, Munson, don’t let her see the cards.
She swallowed and kept going. “My parents said they’d help if I stayed in Chicago. So I stayed. It felt like the best choice. For everyone. Even for you.”
She looked down at her hands, voice dropping. “Because it wasn’t your fault. You were so young. And the last time we…” She trailed, choked a little. “I told you to—” Another swallow, sharp and hard “It was my call, not yours.”
My jaw flexed, but I stayed still, listening.
Her fingers twisted tighter. “Two years later, I had a little saved so I went back to Hawkins to try and find you. I went to the van, but you and your uncle weren’t there. I drove around, asked for you friends. I found Dustin Henderson.”
“He told me you were on tour,” she whispered. “He gave me tapes, your songs. Said you were doing it, really doing it.” She rubbed at her neck, the gesture small, broken. “And I thought… maybe it was better this way. That you deserved to live your dream without me weighing you down.” Her voice cracked on the next words. “Maybe I was wrong...I don’t know. But I thought it was right. I told Dustin not to tell you, about me and Ozzy”
She bowed her head then, hair slipping forward, hiding her face. Couldn’t look at me.
Meanwhile my brain was a goddamn circus.
Oh thanks babe, really thoughtful of you to erase me from my own kid’s life so I could jam power chords in shitty clubs without feeling “weighed down.”
Part of me wanted to let out a real hysterical wild laughter, because she’d mapped out my whole life like some kind of twisted guardian angel. Oh, let Eddie chase the dream, he’s too broke and stupid to be a dad anyway. Real flattering vote of confidence.
Another part of me wanted to break something. Dustin’s nose, maybe.
But mostly? Mostly I wanted to fold in half and disappear. Because she wasn’t wrong. She was right. Back then I would’ve been a disaster. She knew it. I knew it.
Didn’t make it hurt any less, though.
So I sat there, still, silent, staring straight ahead. My face was stone, but my insides were sludge.
The logic was there but it didn’t stop the pain ripping through me every time I pictured all the years I’d lost.
And the worst part? A chunk of me felt guilty for even being angry. She’d gone through hell, carried the weight alone, built herself back brick by brick while raising a kid who looked happy, healthy, whole. She’d done the right thing.
So why the hell was I sitting there wanting to scream at her, when all she’d done was survive?
My hand moved before my brain caught up. I reached over and caught hers, still twisted up in the other, and pried it free. Laced my fingers with hers, gave it a squeeze.
She froze. Not looking at me, just staring down at where our hands met.
My voice came out low, gravel scraping my throat. “Did it hurt?” A pause, then steadier. “When you had him?”
Her throat worked, then she nodded, the tiniest dip of her chin. “Excruciating,” she whispered, barely audible.
My chest locked up. That rock that’d been lodged in there since dawn, it shifted, but not in the good way. More like it ground deeper.
I should've been there, with her.
She went on, soft, eyes still locked on our palms. “The pregnancy was risky from the start,” she murmured. “He’s… practically a miracle.”
Her thumb brushed over my knuckles, slow “And you known, all that pain...and then he came out looking exactly like his father.” She gave a weak huff, like it was supposed to be a joke.
But it landed like a brick to the chest. No smile. Just me sitting there with my heart ricocheting off my ribs, feeling like I should get up, storm into the street, and scream until my lungs tore again.
The words were still clanging in my skull when I forced another out. “So after Hawkins, when you came back, and decided not to tell me, you met the lawyer?”
Her chin dipped once, slow. “Yeah.”
“And you said yes to him?” I pushed, voice flat.
Her eyes stayed down like she was bracing herself for judgment. “Only for Ozzy. I thought… he needed someone steady. A dad. And I tried. But I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t love him.”
Right. Of course. It made sense. Hell, it made perfect sense. A woman like her, of course she’d line up with a guy who had a salary and a mortgage, someone who didn’t live out of a van and call power chords a career. And for the kid? Yeah. Why wouldn’t she want him raised by someone reliable, respectable, normal?
Fucksake, who needs love when you can have health insurance? Stability, that was the jackpot.
While my brain spiraled into hell, I sat there chewing the inside of my cheek, imagining futures where I fit nowhere.
Then finally, because I couldn’t stand the silence, I let it out. “I can’t leave the band,” I said, voice flat, heavier than I meant it. “It’s the only thing I know how to do.”
Her head snapped up like I’d slapped her. First time her eyes had actually locked on mine since the door. “No,” she said fiercely, shaking her head. “Absolutely not. You don’t leave. You’ve worked too hard. You keep going.”
I let out a humorless laugh, rubbing my jaw. “Yeah, sure. But what if it doesn’t last, huh? What if the next record tanks and I’m back in Hawkins with empty hands and a bruised ego? Or worse—what if it does last, and I spend the rest of my life on planes, never home, never here? Either way, there’s no winning hand. Just like five years ago. You were right. There’s no solution.”
I didn’t mean to snap, but it came out sharp anyway. Not at her, just at the cosmic joke of it all. But she still flinched, like it hit her anyway. And what the hell could she even say to that? Nothing.
So I kept digging, because apparently I enjoy stabbing myself repeatedly. “Maybe the best thing is for you to have the guts to let me go. Let yourself fall in love with someone else, someone who can actually stand here and be a dad every day, not just when his schedule allow.”
The words nearly killed me coming out. Felt like tearing out my own ribcage and tossing it in her lap.
Her eyes filled instantly, tears welling until they spilled. She gripped my hand like it was the only thing keeping her above water. Her voice trembled, soft but steady enough to cut.
“But you are his father.” Her throat bobbed hard. “And we’re here. The door will always be open to you.”
One nod. That’s all I gave her. Because if I said anything else, I’d break.
My body screamed to pull her in, bury myself in her hair. But the other half of me wanted to bolt for the exit, to never look back. Because yeah, I loved her so bad it felt terminal, but I didn’t trust her anymore.
So I sat there, stuck in the wreckage, holding her hand like it was both a lifeline and a chain.
Three years later. 1994. Seattle.
It wasn’t just a festival. It was THE festival. A traveling circus of noise, where bands either proved they belonged on the altar of the ‘90s or got chewed up and spat out by the crowd before the first chorus. And somehow—by some cosmic clerical error—Corroded Coffin had made it onto the lineup.
Me. My band. On the same bill as giants.
It was my twenty-ninth birthday, and I should’ve been on top of the goddamn world. We’d just finished soundcheck and it had been a fucking thunderstorm. The stage felt bigger than Hawkins itself, lights blinding, speakers like walls.
I’d shaken hands with Metallica that morning. Metallica. The guys who turned me into the headbanging, leather-clad menace I became. I tried to play it cool and failed miserably. James Hetfield himself had clapped me on the shoulder like I was an equal. Me. Eddie “Failed-High-School-Twice” Munson.
Now I was in the dressing room, leather sticking to my thighs, waiting for the call to head out for the final instrument check before showtime. A hundred thousand voices outside. Groupies lurking in the halls. And me sitting there, staring at the floor like a jackass.
I should’ve been buzzing. Instead, I felt hollow.
Eight years. Eight years since the first time I’d met her, and it was like a curse, hadn’t gone a single goddamn day without thinking about her. Not once. She was stitched into my skull, my veins.
And now, it wasn’t just her anymore. There was another ghost kicking around up there. Small, curly-haired, eyes too much like mine. My kid.
I asked myself daily if I’d screwed up choosing this life, chasing stages instead of sticking around, chasing a paycheck instead of a bedtime story.
Was I doing the right thing? Staying out here, chosing this? Or was I just repeating history, another Munson screwing up the chance to be better?
My spiral got cut short by a cardboard box sitting on the couch, marker scrawled across the top: Happy Birthday, fucker. in Jeff’s handwriting.
I snorted and ripped the tape, flipping it open.
Inside a shiny pack of condoms.
I laughed, actually laughed. Apparently, and their idea of celebrating my day was making sure I didn’t reproduce again.
Idiots. My idiots. Couldn’t help but love them.
Even if my head was miles away.
That's why the smile didn’t stick. Because behind the glory, the laughter, the noise outside, I still felt that same goddamn pull. Same question chewing at me.
What the hell was I doing here, when everything I really wanted was thousands of miles away?
Some random crew guy stuck his head into the dressing room. “Munson? They need you in the big hall.”
I dragged myself up and followed him outside until he pushed open a pair of double doors.
And suddenly I was in this cavernous rehearsal space, a whole orchestra of chaos. Every band had someone noodling, smashing snares, screaming into dead mics. My guys were already there, grinning like hyenas.
Vince was in the middle of it, mic in hand and the second he saw me, he gasped into it dramatically. “EDDIE MUNSON!” His voice boomed through the PA, arms stretched to the heavens.
“What are you doing here, man? We already started—we thought you were here the whole time!”
I frowned, “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I asked distracted, scanning the floor for my guitar and trying to make sense of whatever circus Vince was pulling this time.
He gave me one of his grins, before stepping aside.
“Sorry, brother. It’s just...you two are like twins.”
Toy guitar slung across his little body, a Corroded Coffin shirt swallowed him whole, hanging off his skinny frame like a tent, curls a bit longer than I remembered, wild like mine. And on his face? A pair of ridiculous fire-engine-red sunglasses that were clearly Vince’s, sliding down his nose as he tried to push them up with one finger.
He strummed the plastic strings, totally serious, before his face split into the brightest grin in the world.
And that was it, the kill shot. My chest cracked wide open.
Two fucking months. That’s how long it had been. And it was enough for him to look older, taller, different. Like I’d blinked and missed it, again.
We’d been trying, me and Marissa. Three years of trying. Red-eye flights, her dragging Ozzy through airports, me sneaking in and out of Chicago between shows, fights over nothing because we were exhausted. Jet lag, missed holidays, promises that bent but never broke. Somehow, the love never cracked. If anything, it welded tighter.
But fuck, it was hard. Hard in ways I didn’t even have words for.
Before I could even move, he was barreling toward me, toy guitar bouncing against his side, nearly wiping out on a cable but recovering with pure eight-year-old determination.
I dropped to my knees just as he collided with me, scooping him up and spinning him until his squeals drowned out the amps. He was heavier, legs clamping around my waist, arms locked tight around my neck.
I didn't care if every metal god in the building thought I looked soft. I squeezed my kid, burying my nose in his curls, breathing him in like oxygen. “Jesus Oz,” I whispered, voice cracking before I could swallow it down. “I missed you man.” My throat burned, eyes stinging, because holy shit...he was here.
I set him against my hip, brushing the curls back from his face. “Jesus, you’re bigger every damn time. What are they feeding you in Chicago, bricks?”
He shoved the sunglasses up his nose and gave me a cocky little smirk, the gap from a missing tooth making him look both ridiculous and impossibly cool. “You know, dad? I skipped school for this”
“Oh, perfect. Your mom lets you ditch class, and your dad got held back twice. We’re building one hell of an academic dynasty here, kid”
He leaned back in my arms, smirk turning razor-sharp. “So… does that mean when I fail math, you’ll be proud of me?”
“Proud as hell,” I said, straight-faced. “We’ll get matching F’s framed. Hang ‘em up in the living room”
He giggled and shot back, “Cool. Maybe one day I’ll beat your record and fail three times.”
“Now that,” I said, tapping his nose, “is the kind of ambition the Munsons are known for.”
He puffed out his chest like he’d just won an award, and it was just like looking in a goddamn mirror.
I kissed his temple without thinking, then glanced around. “Alright, little man. You’ve made your grand entrance, you’ve ruined your chances for Harvard… but where the hell is your mother?”
A voice, smooth and sharp, cut in from behind me.
My stomach flipped before I even turned.
Hair a little messy from travel, dark circles under her eyes that no amount of makeup could hide. But she was smiling—soft, the kind of smile that punched straight through my ribs. An all-access pass glinted against her chest.
I let out a breath that came out half a laugh. “Ah, my doctor,” I said, still holding Ozzy with one arm as I pulled her closer with the other. “Perfect timing. I was just about to spiral into a full-blown depression.”
I didn’t wait, just leaned in and kissed her, right there in front of everyone. Didn’t care.
Against my chest, Ozzy groaned loud enough for the whole hall to hear. When I pulled back, I caught him making the fake-vomit gesture, aiming it at his favorite accomplice. Vince, of course, mimed dropping dead on the spot.
I leaned back in, my forehead brushing hers. “So…” I murmured, voice low enough for only her. “These… what did you call them? ‘Unmovable plans’? Guess they weren’t that unmovable after all.”
Her hand pressed flat against my chest, right over the frantic thump of my heart.
“I didn’t lie, I have to leave tomorrow ” she said softly.
Before I could protest, she tilted her head toward Ozzy, still perched on my hip. “But the big boy here is staying with you.”
Her hand was still warm against my chest, and Jesus, I didn’t even glance at Ozzy anymore. Every time she was near me, it was the same goddamn spell, like she had me on strings.
“So we’ve only have one night, uh?” My mouth curved, a grin with too much hunger behind it. “Well… lucky for us we’re pros at making the best of just one night.”
Ozzy let out a dramatic groan and started wriggling in my arms like he couldn’t take one more second of his parents flirting. I loosened my grip and let him slide down, his sneakers hitting the floor as he bolted away.
I barely noticed. She still had me, always.
I saw a sly spark lighting up her face. “Yeah” she said softly, and the smile widened. “But before I’ve got other plans for you. And they don’t include me.”
I blinked, already shaking my head. “Then I don’t wanna do ‘em.”
“Yes, you do,” she murmured, smug as hell. She slipped her fingers between mine “Come on, I’ve got another gift for you.”
I was ready to follow her straight out the door when Vince’s voice exploded through the hall like a goddamn air raid siren.
He clutched the mic like he was calling court in session. “You’ve had your little tear-jerker reunion, very moving, applause all around. But if it’s not too much trouble—could you please return my lead guitarist? if you’ll allow me, we have a crowd to entertain.”
She just let him finish his whole dramatic meltdown, then painfully slowly like a queen pulling her sword, she raised one elegant hand.
Ozzy, now stationed by Vince’s side, gasped so loud, slapping his hands over his mouth like he’d just witnessed a murder. Then, of course, he started giggling like a maniac.
I couldn’t stop grinning as she laced her fingers through mine and tugged me out.
She pulled me through the maze of wires and crates, until we ended up tucked behind a black curtain at the far edge of backstage.
The roar of the crowd was louder here, a tidal wave waiting to crash. I could feel it in my chest.
She stopped, placed her hands on my shoulders, turned me so I was square to the stage curtain. Then, with that same sly sparkle in her eye, she pointed. “Look.”
I squinted out through the slit in the fabric, my eyes sweeping over the endless sea of bodies. A hundred thousand maniacs sweating, some screaming for the music to start. My pulse jumped just watching them.
“Uh…” I blinked at her. “Yeah, sweetheart, I see the crowd”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she shoved two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle so sharp and loud it could’ve cut glass.
I flinched. “Jesus, are you trying to deafen me before the gig?”
And then a cluster of arms started windmilling near the front rail, just under the stage. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make sense of the blur of faces.
My stomach dropped straight through the goddamn floor.
Every single one of the little gremlins, only they weren’t little anymore. Taller, older, stretched out in ways that made my brain short-circuit. Dustin, Mike, Sinclair the whole damn gang. They looked like someone had hit fast-forward on life while I wasn’t paying attention.
Mike threw up the horns at me, Dustin cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed something that sounded like “Dungeon Master!” and I nearly fucking choked.
I dragged my hand over my face, half laughing, half trying not to lose it. “No fucking way. No goddamn way. You’ve gotta be kidding me…”
Front and center, planted like a tree against the barricade, cigarette hanging from his mouth. Wayne.
Beard whiter than I remembered, lines deeper in his face, but it was him. Solid. Unshakable. My uncle. My old man.
I swore my knees almost gave out right there.
“Oh, fuck me sideways,” I muttered, pressing a hand over my mouth. I glanced at her “You brought the Hellfire Club and Wayne to Lollapalooza? What are you, a witch?”
She didn’t just give me a birthday gift, she gave me every goddamn piece of my heart all in one place.
She just shrugged, with spark dancing in her eyes. “All I did was pay for a couple plane tickets from Hawkins. The festival organizer happens to be one of my clients, so… front row was easy.” she said, all nonchalance.
Like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just resurrected ghosts and handed them back to me wrapped in a bow.
I shook my head, laughing under my breath, because Christ.
She leaned in then, close enough that her perfume cut straight through my soul. Her lips brushed mine in the softest kiss, and when she pulled back she whispered, “Happy birthday, rockstar.”
Yeah, like I had any words left after that. My only answer was another kiss, deeper this time, one hand fisting in her hair while the other locked her against me.
When I finally came up for air, she stayed close, her breath warm against my lips.
“So after the concert,” she murmured, “Wayne, Ozzy and I are going to take a little trip around Seattle. Give the kid some time with his grandpa…”
She smirked. “Which means you’ll have a hotel room full of your old Hellfire boys waiting for you. Little late-night D&D, just like the old days. And after that—” her smile turned soft and her voice intimate “tonight is just you and me.”
For a second I just stood there, staring like a moron shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re stacking this much heaven on me in one day?” I swallowed, voice cracking around the edges. “No other day in my life will ever top this. I could drop dead tomorrow and still call it a win.”
That was when her expression shifted. The sparkle dimmed, not gone, but softer. She tilted her head, eyes catching mine in a way that told me she was about to gut me clean open.
“Well,” she said carefully, “I still owe you for those five years.”
I knew exactly what she meant. Five years of Ozzy’s life she’d kept from me. Five years I’d never get back. The guilt she carried was stitched into her every word.
I shook my head before she could sink into it. “Debt paid,” I told her, firm, like if I said it hard enough it’d erase the weight she kept dragging around.
But she didn’t let it go. Her hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, holding me there, eyes digging into mine. “So you trust me now?” she asked. Not playful. Just vulnerable in a way she rarely let anyone see.
My hand found her back, sliding slow over the line of her spine “Of course I trust you, baby” I said, without jokes, just the truth, heavy and bare between us.
She blinked at me, like she was trying to decide if she could believe it. And maybe that hurt most of all, that she even had to wonder.
So I did the only thing I know how to do when shit gets too real. I cracked it open. Let out a crooked grin. “Although… if not trusting you means you’re gonna keep pulling stunts like this, then maybe I should reconsider. You’re setting the bar too fucking high, doc”
That earned me the smile. The real one. The kind that used to undo me in high school and still knocked the wind out of me now.
She curled into me then, arms wrapping around my middle, her cheek pressing against my chest. And I held her, because how the hell could I not? Everything I’d ever wanted, right here, wrapped up in one impossible woman.
That day felt like a fever dream I never wanted to wake up from.
The show had gone off like a goddamn bomb, an army of voices screaming our songs back at us, lights blazing, a sea of bodies moving like one beast. but all I saw was my tiny kingdom under the stage lights. My family. My people.
Wayne snapping pictures with that old camera of his like it was ʼ85 again. Ozzy, on Mike’s bony shoulders, sticking his tongue out and screaming “ROCK N’ ROLL!” every five seconds. Marissa, shaking her head with that crooked smile behind her sunglasses every time another bra sailed my way, until I hung one off my guitar neck like a proud little degenerate.
Sure, she smiled...didn’t exactly go wild for Corroded Coffin. But after I’d played my set, cleaned up backstage, and finally made it back out? Holy hell. Guns N’ Roses came on, and she absolutely lost her shit. Jumping, screaming, hair everywhere. I just stood there watching her, thinking you know, fair enough. I wasn’t Slash.
The rest of the day blurred into perfection. I stayed with them in the crowd, arms around Ozzy and her during the ballads, thrashing with the Hellfire boys when the heavy stuff hit, slinging an arm around Wayne and shouting in his ear, “Eardrums still intact, old man?” until he smacked me upside the head.
And hell, I even got my D&D fix. The Hellfire Club piled into my hotel room, pizza boxes, dice everywhere, arguing over initiative like nothing had changed. I DM’d until my voice was shot, watched them roll Nat 1s like it was tradition, and for a couple hours, it was like Hawkins had never let me go.
But no rush of feeling twenty again with the guys, no glory or stage, no ocean of screaming fans could touch the best sound I’d heard all damn day, the soft, broken little moans spilling out of Marissa under me.
I’d spent what felt like hours buried between her thighs, refusing to come up until she was trembling, clutching at my hair, whispering my name like a prayer. And when I finally slid inside her, I did it slow, careful, because she was tired, I could see it in the way her body melted beneath mine. Hell, I was tired too, but I couldn’t not hold her close, couldn’t not whisper a rough, shaky “I fucking love you” against her lips as I rocked into her.
The first time I’d ever said it out loud. Three years together, and I’d been a coward about those words, even when I knew they were true. Because the five years of silence before? That had scarred deep. Even if my head understood, my trust had been left in pieces. But she, piece by piece, had rebuilt it. Stronger. Unshakable.
Now, lying next to her, I saw the proof.
The lamp on the hotel nightstand cast a soft gold glow over her flushed cheeks, the damp sheen on her skin, her hair spilling messy across the pillow. No makeup, no mask, just her. My girl. She was catching her breath, lips parted, still trembling slightly under the white sheets.
I brushed my hand over her hot cheek, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. She sighed, still catching her breath, eyes heavy.
That right there, seeing her spent, vulnerable, satisfied, was the greatest goddamn triumph of the day.
I kept stroking her cheek while the words slipped out, almost a whisper.
“How long was the flight?”
Her eyes fluttered shut, cheek sinking deeper into the pillow. “Only four hours.” she said with voice soft and rasped from exhaustion.
I let out a quiet laugh through my nose. “Then why the hell do you look like you haven’t slept since ’86?”
Her lips curved into the faintest, tired little smile. “Because I worked extra hours to take the day off and surprise you for your birthday.”
Jesus, I wanted to shout to the whole damn hotel how much I loved this woman, but instead I swallowed it back down, kept my voice low, steady.
“You know,” I murmured, brushing a strand of hair off her temple, “I’ve got some surprises for you, too.”
That got her eyes to open, her head shifting slightly on the pillow. “Really? Good news with the band?”
I rolled my eyes. “See, this is exactly why it’s impossible to surprise you. Could you maybe stop reading my damn mind for two seconds and let me have this for once?”
Her smile widened as she whispered “Sorry. Go on.”
“Alright,” I said, shifting onto my side so I was facing her fully, watching her expression like it was the most important thing in the world. “So, you know the band signed that new record deal last month, yeah? Well, besides the obscene amount of cash they threw at us, which is honestly indecent, they asked where we wanted to record the next album.”
Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering in her tired eyes. I grinned.
“And I managed to convince the guys to do it in Chicago.”
I let the words hang there for a second before adding, softer, “Which means… next year I’ll be in Chicago for most of the time. They’ve given us a long break before the next tour cycle.”
I watched her smile grow, slow but unstoppable, like dawn breaking across her face. Her eyes shone, glassy with emotion, and she whispered, “Really? That’s… amazing.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, heart pounding, “but I’m not done yet. So…” I kept my eyes on her “I figured after these three years of absolute hell, we deserve a vacation. So I might’ve taken the liberty of calling your secretary—”
Her head snapped up so fast I thought she’d give herself whiplash. “You what?” she practically squeaked, eyes wide. “Eddie, no. I can’t just not—”
“Shhh.” I pressed a finger gently to her lips, smirking at how panicked she suddenly looked. “No, no, let me finish before you diagnose me with chronic irresponsibility. I canceled your sessions for two weeks next month and booked us a trip to Vegas.”
She just stared at me like I’d grown another head. “Vegas?” she repeated, brows knitting together. “Why Vegas?”
I shrugged, trying to play it cool while my heart jackhammered in my chest. “Because, that’s where rockstars get married.”
That got me her classic side-eye. She tilted her head, lips pressing together like she was trying to read the punchline. “Right. So let me guess, Vince is marrying another model and you need to stand up there as his best man?”
I actually snorted “Thank God, no."
I rolled onto my side, reached toward the nightstand. My hand found the drawer I’d been avoiding opening all night. The little box was right where I’d hidden it, like it had been burning a hole through the wood since the second I’d bought it. I was supposed to give it to her back in Chicago. I didn’t know I’d see her here, tonight. But maybe that was the point, life never gave me the script anyway.
I turned back, propped my chin on her stomach, curls falling into my eyes, I pushed it back just enough so she could see my eyes.
I held it up between two fingers. The ring. Golden band, dark stone set in the middle. Cost too damn much for a guy like me, but when I saw it, it just screamed her, us.
Her eyes went wide “So here’s the deal, doc,” I said, my voice rough trying to keep myself from passing out. “I am not promising to be a normal domesticated male. I am not promising to stop teaching Ozzy bad words. I am definitely not promising to stop hanging bras off my guitar. But—” I wiggled the ring at her, “—I’m fucking crazy about you. Always have been, always will be, I promise you this. So how about you make me the luckiest bastard alive and marry me?”
She just stared at me, eyes huge, lips parted like she’d forgotten how to breathe. Then, slowly, she reached out and plucked the ring from between my fingers. Rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, studying it with her mouth still hanging open.
Then—finally—her lips curved into this tiny smile. “So if I say no,” she murmured, eyes flicking to mine, “you’re not taking me on vacation?”
I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. “Oh, I’ll still take you. But we’re going to Hawkins.”
That got me the exact reaction I wanted—her nose scrunching, that groan she always gave anytime the town’s name came up, but the smile only grew as she shot back, “Well then, I don’t have a choice. Guess I’ll have to say yes.” She tilted her head, eyes glittering, and whispered, “Now get up here.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. My arms braced on either side of her as I crawled up, heart hammering like I was crashing into my first stage dive. She caught my face in her hands, held me steady like I might float away, and when her lips met mine, it was slow, soft, and the single greatest encore of my life.
When we finally pulled apart, she kept her forehead pressed to mine, her breath warm against my lips. And then, quiet but steady, words that made my whole chest ache spilled out of her.
“I fucking love you too, my love.”
Jesus Christ. My heart wasn’t built for that kind of blow.
I leaned down and kissed her again, slow and tender, her fingers still cradling my face.
When I finally pulled back, my grin slipped out before I could stop it.
“So,” I murmured, brushing my nose against hers, “I guess this is the part where I should… y’know… slip it in.”
Her brows shot up, and I bit my lip, smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “The ring, sweetheart. I meant the ring. Jesus, calm down. I’m too damn tired for that,”
“Idiot”, she shaked her head, but her smile betrayed her. She pressed the ring back into my palm and muttered, “Still time to change my mind, you know.”
That got me. I snapped upright with a mock gasp. “Oh, hell no.”
And before she could blink, I grabbed her hand and shoved the band onto her finger with a ridiculous flourish.
Her laughter burst out, filling the room, and I grinned like a lunatic.
“Safe!” I declared, pointing at her hand like I’d just won the game.
She shook her head “How old are you Munson, thirteen?”
“Ah, right—speaking of brats…”
I leaned over to the nightstand, snatched up the clunky hotel phone, and dialed the number I’d memorized earlier—the one for the room Marissa had stuck Ozzy in with the Hellfire boys. Her idea, so she and I could have the room to ourselves tonight.
The line barely rang once before I heard his tiny voice, groggy but wired: “Dad?”
My smile nearly split my face. “She said yes, Oz. We’re going to Vegas.”
There was a beat of silence and then the kid absolutely detonated.
“NO WAY! NO WAY! WE’RE GOING TO VEGAAAAAS!”
The yelling was so loud I yanked the receiver away from my ear with a wince. Even at arm’s length, his screeching filled the room. I held the phone out toward Marissa, and we locked eyes, both of us grinning while our kid lost his goddamn mind on the other end.
Then Ozzy’s voice piped back, breathless: “Can I come to your room now?”
“Absolutely not. Go to sleep” And before he could argue, I slammed the receiver back into the cradle, still grinning.
With a satisfied sigh, I threw myself back onto the bed, burying into Marissa’s arms. She carded her fingers through my hair, soft and steady, and for a few minutes I just lay there, cheek pillowed on her stomach, floating in the warmth of it all.
Then—three sharp knocks at the door.
“Little shit...” I muttered under my breath, before pushing myself upright. I yanked on my boxers as I stalked toward the door.
Behind me, Marissa snorted a laugh into the blankets, shaking her head as she tucked the sheets higher around her body, clearly enjoying the show.
The second I cracked the door open, a blur of curls and skinny limbs shot past me like a bullet.
“WE’RE GOING TO VEGAAAAAS!” Ozzy screamed, launching himself straight onto the bed.
I barely had time to blink before he landed smack between Marissa’s arms, the exact damn spot I’d been lying in not two minutes ago. She let out a soft oof as he collided with her, then started laughing, gathering him against her chest while he bounced with pure eight-year-old mania.
And me? I just stood there at the door, hands on my hips, watching my spot get stolen by a tooth-gap gremlin in Spider-Man pajamas.
I cleared my throat, dropping my voice low, chest puffed out like I was about to hand down a death sentence.
“You didn’t obey your father, kid,” I rumbled, trying to sound like some dark lord of discipline. “Which means… now I’ve gotta punish you. Hand me that leg.”
Ozzy squealed instantly, already thrashing against Marissa’s hold, kicking like a caught fish. “NOOOO!” he howled, burying his face in her side while she laughed.
“Too late!” I barked, throwing myself across the mattress with a dramatic dive. My hands clamped around his skinny ankle before he could wriggle free, and I sank my teeth lightly into his calf through the fabric of his pajamas.
Ozzy lost his goddamn mind. “AAAAH! MOM! HE’S EATING ME!” he screamed, thrashing against Marissa’s grip, while she laughed hard as she tried—and failed—to peel me off him.
I finally let his leg go, sitting back on my knees with an exaggerated huff of outrage.
“Traitor witch” I gasped. “You’re his accomplice!”
Her laugh hitched, eyes wide as she shook her head, but it was too late.
“Attack!” I roared, throwing myself over both of them like some unhinged wrestler.
I buried frantic kisses into Ozzy’s curls while he shrieked like a banshee, peppered Marissa’s forehead, her cheeks, her mouth with quick, ridiculous pecks, my hands sneaking in to tickle Ozzy’s sides until he was convulsing under me.
Their laughter tangled together, high and sweet, vibrating straight through my chest as I kept going, relentless, drunk on the sound.
After a few minutes of full-blown chaos, they both finally tapped out. The kid was panting, face red, hair plastered to his forehead, still giggling every few seconds even as his eyes started to droop. Marissa wasn’t doing much better, chest heaving, her laughter tapering off into soft little sighs.
It didn’t take long. Ten minutes, maybe less, before the room went quiet.
When I lifted my head, they were completely gone.
Ozzy had curled on his side, back pressed against Marissa’s chest, her arms looped around him like he was part of her, her lips brushing the top of his curls. His little hand had drifted out, palm resting against my arm, like even unconscious he didn’t want to let me go.
Every hotel, every city, every time we got lucky enough to be in the same place, this was how it ended.
I lay there, staring at them. My spot was gone, stolen fair and square. And I didn’t even care. Because this? This right here was everything. More than I’d ever dared to want. Every time I caught them like this, it knocked the breath out of me. I thought I’d get used to it someday. Turns out, not a chance.
Knowing now I’d get to see it more, that next year I’d actually be around to watch this every night? My chest could barely hold it.
My throat burned. And it wasn’t from screaming on a stage. It was just… love. Too much of it.
Careful, I leaned forward, brushed the curls off Ozzy’s forehead, and pressed a kiss there. He didn’t stir. Then I shifted, kissed Marissa’s temple, soft as I could.
I reached over, flicked the lamp off, and let the room sink into darkness.
Not too long ago, I was a nobody. A loser flunking out of high school, dealing dime bags, shredding my guitar for the sticky floors of Hawkins dive bars. No plan. No future.
And now? I had a son who thought I hung the moon, a woman who somehow still looked at me like I wasn’t a total idiot, and a ring on her finger that said I’d tricked her into keeping me for good, I had a band with an actual record deal, money and a home to go back to.
So yeah. Somehow, inexplicably, impossibly...I had everything.
And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, I cried like a fucking baby in the dark, silent tears soaking into the pillow while I laughed at myself.
So if you’re wondering how the story ends… it’s right here.
A reformed freak, a stolen family, and the kind of love songs I never thought I’d get to live in.
Lucky bastard doesn’t even begin to cover it.
This is how I picture the Munson family 🥹
Okay… first of all: if you’ve survived this monster of an epilogue, congratulations. You deserve a nap, and maybe a medal. 🏅
I honestly had SO much fun writing this. It was long, chaotic, very Eddie-coded, and I hope it gave you exactly the ending you wanted.
Thank you for screaming in my inbox, for hyping me up, for loving this little messed-up, soft, loud, ridiculous ppl as much as I do.
@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog @clya4 @tigolebittiez @ari-joe @love-anonymous-writer @the-rowanoke @velvetvenusvixen @sammybrrr
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