Banished Gothamite

Dating with Steve Harrington was bliss, it truly was. He was a kind man, always a loyal gentleman. He was protective and was always there for you – physically and emotionally. He was funny and so incredibly charming.

By definition, he was the perfect man.

But with all of his perfections, he had one singular flaw. His stubbornness.

Steve Harrington was as hard headed as a brick wall.

And you? Well, you could almost give him a run for his money.

Any normal day for you two was loving. Except for today.

Today, Steve seemed to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. He claimed you hogged the blankets all night, even though it was his monster feet who kicked them to the floor.

At first it felt like tired bickering. Once the sleep washed away from him and he got a little bit of food in his tummy, all would be well.

Wrong.

At breakfast, you argued about who’s turn it was to do the dishes. You told him everything in the sink was left by him the night before – he argued that your name was next on the chore list.

You argued about how he forgot to make the coffee for the morning. He argued that you could’ve done it too – even though he’s always done it.

You argued over his misplaced keys. Over what time Nancy said to meet at the station. Over who gets to drive – this one was entirely your fault considering you don’t even like to drive, but he was really pissing you off.

The car ride there was spent with your arms crossed tight and your legs tucked into the passenger door – away from his touch – and his fingers gripping the wheel so tight, his knuckles whitened. By the time you two made it into the station, you both angrily agreed not to talk to each other.

It’s pettiness and stress masked as arguments about nothing. The tension between you two was palpable and the group picks up on it quickly.

You’re all standing around the common room, ready to disperse into your own jobs. You and Steve always go with Dustin to monitor Hopper – leaving everyone else back at the station to take care of things.

You’re dreading the idea of sitting in the pre-existing  tension between Steve and Dustin, and it doesn’t help the fact that you’re now arguing with him too.

You move to grab your jacket when he speaks up.

“Not you.” Steve says, his voice firm but cold. You blink up at him. “Byers is taking your spot tonight,”  

You laugh incredulously. “Wha – Jonathan?”

He nods down at you, zipping up his own jacket. “He knows how to handle the navigation,”

Your face pinches at his answer. “So do I,”

Steve avoids your eyes as he gathers the rest of his things. It’s not because of shame or fear, but from annoyance. “Do you?”

Your eyes narrow and you can feel the fury bubbling in your chest. “Do I?” You repeat. “You know what Steve, you really have to get over whatever bug crawled up your ass today, alright? You’re acting like –.”

Steve cuts you off before you can finish.

“No, do you know what?” He slams his walkie down on the cushion of the couch. When his eyes meet yours, they’re dark and clouded. There’s not a trace of patience or love in them and for a moment, that scares you. “This isn’t about you. Who knows how many more chances we’re gonna get if this goes wrong and the last thing I need is you fucking up the navigation. So for once, I need you to listen to what I’m saying and quit nagging me, alright?”

Everything around you seems to still.

All that you can focus on is the irritation covering your boyfriends face and for the first time, maybe ever, it’s all aimed at you. For whatever reason, he seems to think you’re the root cause of his sour mood today.

So what if you don’t have the best track record with reading the map? Steve’s lived in his town his entire damn life, he should know the streets by now.

It’s not just frustration you feel anymore. Now it’s shame and insecurity and embarrassment. Shame because apparently, you nag him enough for him to remember. Insecure because you couldn’t even guess how long he’s been holding this in. And embarrassed because everyone around you has also stilled – now staring at the two of you like you’re a pair of animals in a cage.

That thought angers you even more.

Your jaw clenches so hard you can almost hear your teeth grinding against each other and you can feel the way your nails dig into the skin of your palms as a way to calm yourself down.

Steve stares back down at you and after a beat of silence, he seems to register exactly what he said. His eyes flutter shut and he sighs, raising his hand to gently grasp your hand.

Your face is steel as you take a step back before he can reach you. You won’t cause a scene and you also won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt you just now.

“You should go then.” You tell him. He grimaces at your cold tone and makes no move to leave.

He says your name gently. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just – just come with and we can –.”

You cut him off this time. “No thanks, I wouldn’t want to fuck up the navigation again.”

Steve’s shoulders deflate when you echo his earlier words.

It looks like he’s ready to say something else but before he can, you’re spinning on your heels and downstairs to the basement to meet with Joyce at the intercom. You can feel his eyes following you as you disappear but not once do you turn or falter.

It didn’t matter what was causing his sudden attitude change. You were done trying to be empathetic and understanding. He wasn’t about to use you as an emotional punching bag – if he didn’t want to be around you then you would give him that.

It’s hours later when Steve finally arrives back at the station. In that time, his voice cracked over the intercom a few times with updates about movements and any military activity. Each time you ignored the pang in your chest and let Robin respond.

The crawl ended up being just another tally mark under the dead end section and you all began to filter home, completely defeated.

Steve didn’t offer any words as you climbed into the car together, but neither did you. It was still tense but not as tense as when he left. His foul mood is still obvious but it’s no longer white hot anger. It gives you a little bit of hope.

When you finally make it home, it’s after 10. He still hasn’t spoken to you but he lets you shower first, and you take the opportunity to try and get rid of your own anger.

You weren’t sure if he really cared it wasn’t your voice he was hearing. It didn’t seem like he cared about your absence in the van, but then again it wasn’t the focus of the night. His earlier words rang in your head.

It’s not about you.

Yet here you were, making it about you.

You’re smart enough to realize his blow up had little to do with you. It was a culmination of stress of the crawls, stress from his newly strained relationship with Dustin, stress from everything. You were just the only constant in his life and it seemed like you were the best thing to take it out on.

It doesn’t make it right, but at least you understand.

Still, you’re annoyed at the very least.

But you two have made a promise years ago – to never fall asleep mad and with the way exhaustion is clawing at you, you’re ready to climb into bed and apologize for arguing all day. It’s nothing a few sweet words and a few more sweeter kisses can’t fix and the more you think about it, the more you crave it.

Fighting with Steve was one of your least favorite things in the world.

You quickly clean your mess in the bathroom and change for bed but when you step out of the bathroom and into your shared room, you freeze.

It’s not the darkness or the quietness that stops you. It’s the fact that Steve is already on his side of the bed, his back turned towards your side and asleep.

That asshole actually fell asleep.

You stand there, five feet away from him, in complete disbelief. It was his stupid idea to promise that and he’s the one who broke it first.

Your newly dissolved anger reignites and this time, it’s scorching. You have to fight the urge to abuse him with your pillow as you look at his sleeping frame. You’ve spent the last few hours trying to think of ways to make up with him and he’s just sleeping.

Your body is tense as you finally climb into bed. You make it a point to leave as much distance between your bodies you can without falling off the bed.

Steve is unmoving as you settle on your side and it angers you even more.

Now it’s not just the arguments from today. It’s everything.

It’s the arguing, it’s his careless words from earlier, it’s the coldness you’ve been getting from him all day, it’s the short temper he’s met you with.

You feel small and almost like you mean nothing to him. It’s a stretch considering all he actually did was fall asleep but damnnit, it’s the principle of it all.

Before you know it, tears are slipping from your eyes and soaking the pillow beneath your cheek. You bite your lip to keep the sounds as muffled as possible because the last thing you want is for him to see you cry.

For the first night in your entire relationship, you don’t want to be anywhere near him.

You’re not sure how much time passes when you finally stop crying.

You feel pathetic for it but it’s not out of sadness – because he didn’t hurt your feelings (he did) – it’s because you’re just frustrated about the whole thing.

He’s laid beside you, peaceful and still as he lets his body loosen and forget all its troubles. All the while, you’ve been lying here crying.

There hasn’t been a second where your frustration has even slightly dwindled. Instead, it keeps building and your exhaustion isn’t helping matters.

The sound of Steve’s slow and even breathing behind you is enough to make you break. You don’t take a second to rethink things before you’re shoving the blankets off of you and snatching your pillow in one hand.

You trudge into the darkness downstairs and throw your pillow against the couch. You pull the blanket that rests over the back cushion and settle into the couch.

It’s achingly lonely down here but somehow it feels better than trying to stay beside Steve. You know you’ll wake up in an even worse mood because of how uncomfortable the couch is. The cushions are lumpy, it’s almost too short for your body, it’s colder down here without the warmth of Steve comforting you.

Still, you force yourself comfortable and take another chance at sleep.

Upstairs, Steve’s subconscious has him flipping over in his sleep and his arms instinctively reach out for you. His hand slides across your side of the bed, ready to grab your waist and pull you into his chest but he feels nothing.

His eyes flutter open at the feeling of emptiness beneath his palm. It takes him a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the room but when he finally does, he sees your side of the bed is empty and cold.

He leans up on his elbow then, taking a quick glance at the bathroom but the light is off and the door is shut. He scans the rest of the room but is met with nothing. It doesn’t really register for him until he realizes your pillow is also gone.

He feels his stomach twist with nerves before he pulls himself out of bed.

His feet pad against the hardwood floor of your shared home as he makes his way out of the bedroom. The rest of the house is quiet and dark – he almost worries you left entirely.

He makes his way down the steps, into the living room and that’s when he finally sees you.

Steve feels guilt hit him like a truck when he sees your small frame squished uncomfortably on the couch. You’re lying on your side, knees curled into your chest and a small throw blanket covering your body.

He hates seeing you like this and even more, he hates being the cause of it. He knows without a doubt it’s his fault. He knew what he said earlier was cruel and completely uncalled for – and he didn’t blame you for a second when you chose not to talk to him over the radio.

When he got back and saw how angry you still were, he felt like the best thing to do was give you space. He’d been blowing up over the tiniest things all day, the least he could do was give you time to yourself.

So when he climbed into bed, it wasn’t to break his promise – it actually wasn’t even on his mind. He just didn’t want to overwhelm or upset you even more.

Obviously that was the wrong choice.

His feet pull him towards you and he bends down so he can lift you up. He carefully pulls the blanket from you and slides one arm beneath your neck. He’s ready to slide the other under your knees when you begin to stir.

Your head turns, lashes fluttering against the skin of your cheeks as you try to focus on what woke you up. There’s a softness in your eyes, one personally reserved for your boyfriend and he feels his heart ache at the sight.

But just as fast as it appeared, it’s gone when you blink.

You pull away from his hold and Steve lets his arms fall to his sides.

“What?” Sleepiness laces your voice but he picks up on the anger beneath it.

He swallows and kneels beside the couch so he’s eye level with you. “Come back to bed,” He whispers.

“I’m comfortable here,” You lie easily. Your hands grab the blanket at your feet and pull it back up to cover yourself, just before you shift to turn away from him.

Steve stares at the back of your head for a moment, immediately missing the sight of your beautiful face.

“Baby..” He sighs. He’s ready to argue more but you cut him off.

“I don’t want to sleep next to you, Steve.” Your voice is detached and cold.

His heart cracks at your response.

His ego tells him to walk away. To leave you to deal with your temper tantrum and to enjoy the bed to himself.

He’s never ignored a thought so quickly.

“Then let me sleep on the couch. You go to bed, babe,” He offers softly.

Your anger aimed at him and your exhaustion has you groaning into the air. You twist your head just enough to face him.

“Just forget it, Steve. I want to sleep.”

Steve feels his own stubbornness filter back. “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.” He says your name firmly – like a parent scolding a child.

You glare at him, your eyes so dark, there may as well be daggers shooing out of them.

“Why not? You were sleeping so peacefully a few minutes ago. Go back and do it again,” You huff before turning your head to face the cushion again.

Steve’s jaw clenches, not from anger but from more guilt. He never wanted to make you feel like this – like you didn’t matter.

Carefully, he moves to sit on the couch with you. You grumble something like go away but he ignores it. He brings his hand up to cup your cheek, and you try to pull away but his hold is firm.

“I’m sorry, baby,” He whispers, his thumb stroking over the apple of your cheeks. It’s a little damp and sticky from your earlier tears you didn’t even bother to wipe away. He watches the way you avoid his gaze and the way your jaw ticks. “I shouldn’t have spent all day arguing with you, and I definitely shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I was pissed off about these crawls and the way Henderson’s been acting lately and I took it out on you,” His voice is so soft and gentle – it’s a dangerous contrast to how he spoke earlier. “You didn’t deserve that, baby and I’m sorry.”

Your eyes gloss over again at his apology and you can slowly feel your resolve break. You’re so tired and all you want is to wrap yourself in his arms again.

But you’re still pissed.

“I’m not your punching bag, Steve.” You say firmly. There’s a hint of a waver in your tone but he doesn’t catch it. He nods, his eyes sad and regretful.

“I know you’re not,”

“And you don’t get to take it out on me every time you’re pissed off.”

He nods again. “I won’t, I promise.”

Your eyes narrow, but it’s not as angry this time. “And you’re not allowed to go to bed without me again.”

Steve breaks a smile at your words but quickly tries to cover it, worried you’re not ready to joke with him again. It technically was meant to be lighthearted but the sentiment was serious.

“I’ll stay awake forever if you asked me too, baby,” He responds, his hand gently stroking your skin.

You roll your eyes at his theatrics, but he doesn’t miss the ghost of a smile on your lips.

He leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss. He doesn’t try to deepen it – just lets you both feel the other close and intimate. When he pulls away, he leans his forehead against yours. “I really am sorry, baby.” He whispers.

You nod gently. “I know,” You bring your own palm up to his cheek this time and he plants a kiss to your palm before letting himself lean onto your hold.

It’s quiet for a few seconds as you hold each other before you speak up.

“Can you carry me to bed now?” You breathe out, a smile plastered across your face. Steve grins down at you and within seconds, you’re in his arms bridal style. You gasp in surprise from his swiftness and he’s easily carrying you up the stairs.

"Okay."

But you didn't move. Just kept staring at your hands.

Jason made a decision he'd probably regret. "Come on. I know a place you can clean up."

You followed him without question, which should have been a red flag. Normal people didn't follow strange vigilantes to secondary locations. Normal people had self-preservation instincts.

You, apparently, did not.

The safe house was sparse. Weapons cache, first aid kit, a bathroom that had seen better days. You stood in the doorway like you weren't sure you had permission to enter.

"Bathroom's there," Jason said, pulling off his helmet. "Towels under the sink. Take your time."

You stared at him—at his face, now visible—and something flickered in your expression. Recognition, maybe. Or just exhaustion.

"You're Jason Todd," you said quietly.

His hand went to his gun automatically. "How do you—"

"I grew up in Crime Alley. Everyone knows the story." You moved toward the bathroom. "Robin who died. Came back angry. I get it."

You closed the door before he could respond.

Jason stood there, thrown off balance in a way that didn't happen often. You knew who he was—or at least who he'd been—and you didn't seem afraid. Didn't seem impressed. Just... tired.

He heard the water running. Heard you moving around. And for some reason he couldn't articulate, he stayed. Waited.

When you emerged twenty minutes later, the blood was gone. Your hands were raw from scrubbing. You looked slightly more human but no less haunted.

"Better?" Jason asked.

"Cleaner, anyway." You leaned against the wall. "Thank you. For this. You didn't have to."

"Yeah, well. Crime Alley looks after its own."

"Is that what we are? Crime Alley's own?"

"Aren't we?"

You smiled, small and sad. "I guess we are."

Something passed between you in that moment. Recognition of shared damage. Shared survival. The particular exhaustion that came from growing up in a place that chewed people up and spat them out broken.

"You got somewhere to go?" Jason asked.

"An apartment. It's not much, but it's mine."

"You need a ride?"

"I'm three blocks away. I can walk."

"Not alone. Not looking like that." You looked down at your clothes—still bloodstained despite your attempts to clean up. Jason grabbed a spare hoodie from a duffel. "Here. Cover the worst of it."

You took it, pulling it on. It was massive on you, hanging past your hips. Jason tried not to notice how you pulled the sleeves over your hands, how you buried your nose in the collar for just a second like you were checking if it smelled like safety.

"I'll walk you," he said.

"You don't have to—"

"I know. I'm doing it anyway."

You didn't argue. Just followed him back out into the night.

Your apartment was exactly what he'd expected. Tiny. Clean despite the building's decay. Books stacked everywhere—on shelves, the floor, the windowsill. A life built in the margins of someone else's city.

"This is me," you said at the door.

"Lock it. All the locks."

"I always do."

Jason should have left. Should have considered this a good deed done, moved on to the next crisis. But something made him hesitate.

"What happened tonight?" He asked. "In the alley."

You were quiet for a long moment. Then: "Someone tried to hurt someone I care about. I stopped them. Permanently."

"You kill them?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah. It does."

You met his eyes. "Then yes. I killed them. And I'd do it again. Does that make me a monster?"

"No," Jason said quietly. "It makes you someone who protects what's theirs."

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

"Every day."

You smiled again, that same sad smile. "We're quite a pair, aren't we? The dead boy and the killer girl."

"I'm not dead."

"No. But you were. And that changes you. Changes how you see the world." You leaned against your doorframe. "I can see it in you. The way you move like you're still surprised your body works. The way you look at people like you're cataloging their weaknesses. The way you carry death around like a second skin."

"You're very observant."

"I had to be. To survive."

"And now?"

"Now I'm still surviving. Just with more blood on my hands." You pulled his hoodie tighter around yourself. "Thank you. For tonight. For not asking questions I don't want to answer."

"Keep the hoodie. Looks better on you anyway."

You glanced down at it. "I'll wash it. Get it back to you."

"Don't worry about it. I know where to find you if I need it."

It was only after Jason left, after he'd made it back to his own safehouse, that he realized what he'd implied. That he'd be back. That this wasn't over.

And the strangest part was, he wanted to go back.

Wanted to see you again. Understand the sadness in your eyes. Figure out what had driven you to kill someone in an alley.

He was in trouble.

He saw you again three weeks later.

Not on purpose. He was on patrol, breaking up a trafficking ring, when he spotted you in the crowd that had gathered. You were standing at the edge, watching with that same flat affect.

When his eyes met yours, you didn't look away. Just nodded once, like acknowledging a shared secret.

After the arrests, after the victims were safe and the perpetrators were bleeding on the ground, Jason found you still there.

"You waiting for someone?" He asked.

"Maybe." You tilted your head. "You make a habit of breaking up trafficking rings?"

"It's Tuesday. Trafficking is a Tuesday thing."

Despite everything, you almost smiled. "What's Wednesday?"

"Depends. What needs breaking?"

"Everything, usually."

Jason found himself smiling back behind his helmet. "You got plans tonight?"

"Why? You offering?"

"Roof of my building has a decent view. Beer's cheap. Company's free."

You studied him for a long moment. "Is this a date?"

"It's a beer on a roof. You can call it whatever you want."

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Beer sounds good."

The roof became a habit.

Once a week, sometimes twice, you'd meet Jason there. You'd drink terrible beer and talk about nothing and everything. He learned you worked at a bookstore in the Bowery. That you'd lived in Crime Alley your whole life. That your parents were dead—overdose, when you were fourteen—and you'd been on your own ever since.

You learned he'd been Robin. That he'd died. That he'd come back wrong and angry and couldn't quite figure out how to be right again.

"You don't seem wrong," you said one night, three beers in and relaxed in a way you rarely were.

"Trust me, I am."

"We're all wrong in some way. Gotham makes sure of that." You picked at your beer label. "But you're trying. That counts for something."

"Is it trying if I still want to kill half the people I encounter?"

"As long as you don't actually do it? Yeah. That's called restraint. It's admirable."

Jason laughed, bitter and sharp. "Admirable. Right."

"I'm serious." You looked at him directly. "You died. You came back. You could have burned this whole city down. But instead you're here, trying to protect the people who live in it. Even when they don't deserve it. Even when it would be easier to let them burn."

"Maybe I'm just too stubborn to quit."

"Maybe. Or maybe you're better than you think you are."

The words settled into his chest, warm and uncomfortable. Because you said them like you meant them. Like you saw something in him worth believing in.

"You don't know me," he said roughly.

"I know enough."

"Yeah? What do you know?"

You were quiet for a moment, considering. Then: "I know you came back from death angrier than you left. I know you kill sometimes and lose sleep over it other times. I know you protect Crime Alley like it's yours to protect. I know you're kind to people who don't expect kindness. I know you let me sit on your roof and drink your beer even though I'm probably terrible company."

"You're not terrible company."

"I killed someone, Jason. In an alley. With my bare hands. That's not exactly 'good company' material."

"Did they deserve it?"

"Does that matter?"

"To me? Yeah."

You met his eyes. "They were hurting someone I loved. Someone who couldn't fight back. So I fought back for them."

"Then yeah. They deserved it."

"Just like that? No moral quandary? No 'thou shalt not kill'?"

"I died once. Came back. Killed a lot of people. I don't get to judge." He paused. "Besides, some people need killing. That's just reality in this city."

"That's a bleak worldview."

"It's an honest one."

You smiled, sad and understanding. "Yeah. I guess it is."

The first time Jason kissed you, it was an accident.

You'd been drinking. Not drunk, but loose. Relaxed. You'd been talking about something—he couldn't even remember what—and you'd laughed. Actually laughed, bright and real and so unexpected that he'd turned to look at you.

And you'd been closer than he'd realized.

And then his lips were on yours.

For a heartbeat, you froze. Then you were kissing him back, hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer like you were afraid he'd disappear.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.

"That was—" you started.

"A mistake?" Jason finished.

"I was going to say 'unexpected.'" You were still close, foreheads almost touching. "Was it a mistake?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"No. But I don't know what I want it to be either."

"Then let's not define it. Let's just—" He gestured helplessly. "—be."

"Be," you repeated. "Okay. We can be."

He kissed you again, slower this time. Deliberate. And you melted into him like you'd been waiting for permission.

Being with you was both easier and harder than Jason expected.

Easier because you understood. The anger. The damage. The way Gotham left scars that never quite healed. You didn't ask him to be different, better, fixed. You took him as he was—broken and trying.

Harder because you were just as damaged. Just as broken. And Jason found himself wanting to fix you the way he couldn't fix himself. Wanting to protect you from everything, including yourself.

"You don't have to save me," you said one night, reading his thoughts in the way you'd gotten good at. "I'm not looking for a hero."

"I'm not a hero."

"I know. That's why I like you." You traced patterns on his chest, both of you tangled in his bed. "Heroes are exhausting. They want to fix things. Make things better. But you just—you let things be broken. Let me be broken. That's a relief."

"You're not broken."

"Yes, I am. We both are. And that's okay." You propped yourself up on one elbow. "I don't need you to save me, Jason. I just need you to be here. In the mess. With me."

"I can do that."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

It was a lie. Because he was already trying to save you. Already planning how to make your life better, easier, safer. Already falling into old patterns of protection and control.

He just didn't realize it yet.

The first crack appeared three months in.

Jason came back from patrol to find you in his safehouse, sitting in the dark, covered in blood again.

"What happened?" He was across the room in seconds, checking you for injuries. "Are you hurt?"

"Not my blood."

"Whose?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it fucking matters!" His voice rose. "What did you do?"

You finally looked at him, and your eyes were empty. "What I had to."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

Jason forced himself to breathe. To think. "Who was it?"

"Someone who deserved it."

"That's not good enough—"

"It has to be." You stood, moving toward the bathroom. "I'm going to clean up."

"We're not done talking about this."

"Yes, we are."

You closed the bathroom door. Jason heard the water running. Heard you moving around. And felt something cold settle in his chest.

This was familiar. The evasion. The shutdown. The refusal to let anyone in.

He'd done it himself countless times.

But watching you do it—watching you pull away—made him understand why it drove Bruce crazy. Why Dick kept pushing. Why people who cared couldn't just let you be broken in peace.

When you emerged, clean and wearing one of his shirts, Jason was waiting.

"Talk to me," he said.

"There's nothing to say."

"Bullshit. You killed someone. Again. That's something."

"And? You kill people."

"When I have to. For a reason. Not just—" He gestured helplessly. "—randomly."

"It wasn't random." Your voice was flat. "They hurt someone."

"Who?"

"A kid. In Crime Alley. He was twelve. And they—" Your voice cracked slightly. "They were hurting him. So I stopped them."

Jason felt his anger deflate. "Okay. Okay, I get that. But you can't just—you can't keep doing this. Keep killing people and not talking about it."

"Why not? You do."

"That's different—"

"How? How is it different?" You moved closer. "You kill. I kill. We both have our reasons. We both live with it. Why do you get to do it in silence but I have to explain myself?"

"Because I'm worried about you!"

The words hung in the air.

You stared at him. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't worry. Don't care. Don't try to save me." You backed away. "I told you. I don't need saving."

"Everyone needs someone—"

"No. I need you to accept that this is who I am. This is what I do. I protect people. And sometimes that means killing the people who hurt them." Your eyes were hard. "If you can't handle that, then we should end this now."

"I'm not trying to change you—"

"Yes, you are. You're trying to make me explain. Justify. Feel guilty. But I don't feel guilty. I feel relief. Because one more monster is dead and one more kid is safe. That's it. That's all there is."

Jason recognized the defensive walls going up. Had built enough of them himself. But he couldn't seem to stop pushing.

"You can't keep living like this. Can't keep taking justice into your own hands—"

"That's literally what you do every night."

"I'm trained—"

"And I'm not? I grew up in Crime Alley. I've been fighting since I was old enough to make a fist. I don't need training. I need you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"I do trust you—"

"No, you don't. You trust that I need saving. That I'm broken enough to need fixing. But I don't want to be fixed, Jason. I want to be accepted. As is. Broken and bloody and doing what I have to do to survive in this city."

She grabbed her jacket. "I'm going home."

"Don't leave like this—"

"I'm not leaving. I'm giving us space before we say things we can't take back." You paused at the door. "I care about you. But I can't be with someone who's trying to save me. I've been saved before. It never ends well."

You left.

Jason stood in his empty safehouse, surrounded by weapons and blood and the ghost of your words, and wondered when trying to care had become trying to control.

You didn't come to the roof for two weeks.

Jason told himself it was fine. That you needed space. That he needed space. That maybe this thing between you had always had an expiration date.

But he missed you.

Missed your quiet understanding. The way you laughed at his dark jokes. How you fit against his side on the roof. The rare moments when you let your guard down and showed him the person underneath the armor.

He missed you, and he didn't know how to fix it.

On week three, he found you in Crime Alley. You were walking home from work, hood up, hands in pockets. You looked tired.

"Hey," he said, dropping down from a fire escape.

You didn't startle. Just looked at him with those too-old eyes. "Hey."

"Can we talk?"

"About what?"

"About how I'm an idiot."

Despite everything, your lips twitched. "That's a long conversation."

"I've got time."

You sighed. "Jason—"

"I'm sorry. For trying to save you. For pushing when you told me not to. For making you feel like I didn't accept who you are." He stepped closer. "You were right. I was trying to fix you. Because that's what I do. I see broken things and I want to make them whole. But you're not broken. You're just—"

"Surviving," you finished quietly.

"Yeah. And I should have respected that."

You were quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm sorry too. For shutting you out. For running. For—" You stopped. "I'm not good at this. At letting people in. At trusting that they won't try to change me."

"I don't want to change you."

"Then what do you want?"

Jason thought about it. Really thought. "I want to be with you. In whatever way you'll let me. I want to sit on roofs and drink cheap beer and listen to you talk about books. I want to be someone you can come to when you're covered in blood. I want—" His voice dropped. "I want to be here. In the mess. With you. Like you said."

"Even though I kill people?"

"Even though. As long as you understand I might worry. Might ask questions. Not because I'm trying to control you, but because I care what happens to you."

"And if I can't promise I'll change?"

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking you to let me in. Even a little."

You studied him for a long moment. Then you crossed the distance between you and kissed him.

It was different from before. Softer. Less desperate. More certain.

When you pulled back, you were almost smiling. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We can try. Again. Differently." You took his hand. "But Jason? I meant what I said. I don't need saving. And I won't change who I am. Not even for you."

"I know. And I love you anyway."

The words escaped before he could stop them.

You froze. "What?"

"I—" Jason wanted to take it back. But he'd never been good at lying to you. "I love you. Broken and bloody and exactly as you are. I love you."

Your eyes were suspiciously wet. "You're an idiot."

"I know."

"No, you don't understand. You're an idiot because—" You laughed, choked and real. "—because I love you too. Have for a while. And it's terrifying and stupid and completely impractical."

"Most good things are."

"We're a disaster."

"Probably."

"We're going to hurt each other."

"Definitely."

"And you still want this?"

Jason pulled you closer. "Until the sun don't shine. Until the breath leaves our lungs. However long we get."

You buried your face in his chest. "That's the most fucked up romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"It's a fucked up kind of love."

"Yeah." You looked up at him. "But it's ours."

He kissed you again, there in Crime Alley, in the place that made you both, and thought that maybe broken things could fit together if they broke in the right places.

Maybe salvation wasn't about fixing.

Maybe it was just about being there when the dust settled.

Maybe it was just about loving someone exactly as they were, blood and all.

Loving you was like living in a dust bowl.

Beautiful and terrible. Harsh and unforgiving. But somehow, impossibly, alive.

You didn't change. Didn't stop killing people who hurt the vulnerable. Didn't stop coming home covered in blood. Didn't stop shutting down when things got too hard.

But you let Jason in. Slowly. Carefully.

You told him about the kid you'd saved—the one who'd made you kill. How he reminded you of yourself at that age. Alone and scared and convinced no one cared enough to help.

You told him about your parents. The neglect. The eventual overdose that left you fourteen and alone. The years of scraping by.

You told him things you'd never told anyone.

And Jason held them. Held you. Didn't try to fix or change or save. Just listened and loved and stayed.

In return, he told you about the warehouse. The crowbar. The explosion. Waking up in a coffin. The rage that consumed him. The fear that he'd never be more than the violence done to him.

And you listened. Didn't judge. Didn't pity. Just accepted him, rage and all.

It wasn't perfect. You fought. Sometimes about killing, sometimes about nothing, sometimes about everything. You both had too much damage, too many triggers, too many walls.

But you always came back.

Always found your way to that roof. To cheap beer and honest conversation. To each other.

Six months in, you moved into his safehouse.

Not officially. But your books started appearing on his shelves. Your clothes mixed with his. You fell asleep in his bed more nights than not.

"This is very domestic," you observed one night, both of you cooking dinner in companionable silence.

"Is that okay?"

"It's weird. But yeah. It's okay." You stirred the pasta. "I never thought I'd have this. Someone to come home to. Someone who knows the worst parts of me and stays anyway."

"Same."

"We're quite the pair."

"Disaster loves company."

You laughed, and Jason thought that maybe this was what healing looked like. Not fixing the broken parts. Just learning to live with them. Together.

The first time you killed someone while on patrol with him, Jason understood.

Some trafficker had a kid—couldn't have been more than ten—chained in a basement. You'd found them. Freed the kid. And then, before Jason could stop you, you'd put a bullet in the trafficker's head.

Clean. Efficient. No hesitation.

"He would've done it again," you said simply. "To another kid. And another. Better this way."

Jason should have argued. Should have said something about mercy, justice, the law.

Instead, he said, "Headshot was clean. Good aim."

You looked at him, surprised. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. If you're going to do it, do it right. No suffering. Just done."

"I thought you'd be mad."

"I'm a lot of things. But a hypocrite isn't one of them. If I can kill, so can you. As long as—" He stopped.

"As long as what?"

"As long as you can live with it after. That's the real cost. Not the act. The living with it."

You nodded slowly. "I can live with it. Easier than living with knowing I let another kid get hurt."

"Then we're good."

You kissed him then, there in the basement with a body cooling nearby, and Jason thought that this was the most honest thing he'd ever had.

No pretense. No judgment. Just two broken people trying to protect the things they loved in the only ways they knew how.

Bruce found out about you on month eight.

He showed up at the safehouse unannounced. Found you and Jason eating breakfast. You in one of Jason's shirts. Very clearly having spent the night.

"Todd," Bruce said. "We need to talk."

You stood immediately. "I'll go."

"Stay," Jason said. Then, to Bruce: "Whatever you need to say, you can say in front of her."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "And she is?"

"Someone I care about. That's all you need to know."

"I ran her background—"

"Of course you did."

"—and she's flagged in three unsolved murders in Crime Alley."

The air went cold.

"Flagged isn't charged," you said calmly. "And unsolved means you have no proof."

"I'm not GCPD. I don't need proof." Bruce looked at Jason. "You know what she is."

"Yeah. I do."

"And you're okay with this?"

"She protects people. In her own way. Same as me. Same as you, once upon a time, before you got all sanctimonious about it."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "She's dangerous—"

"So am I. So are you. Everyone in our lives is dangerous in some way. That's the cost of being Bats." Jason moved to stand beside you. "She's mine. And she's not going anywhere. So you can either accept that or leave."

Bruce looked between you. Then, finally, he sighed. "I don't like this."

"You don't have to. But you do have to respect it."

Bruce nodded slowly. "Fine. But if this becomes a problem—"

"It won't."

After Bruce left, you turned to Jason. "That was—"

"Necessary. He needed to know I'm serious about you."

"Are you? Serious?"

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think this is real. Sometimes I think it's just two broken people clinging to each other because we're afraid to be alone."

Jason cupped your face. "Maybe it's both. Maybe we are broken people who found each other. But that doesn't make it less real. Doesn't make what I feel for you less true."

"And what do you feel?"

"Like I'd burn this whole city down if someone hurt you. Like you're the only good thing I've got. Like I want to keep you. Forever. However long that is."

You kissed him, deep and desperate. "Forever sounds good. Terrifying, but good."

"We can do terrifying."

"Yeah. We can."

A year in, Jason woke up to find you sitting by the window, watching the sunrise over Crime Alley.

"Can't sleep?" He asked.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

You turned to look at him. "About how a year ago I was alone. Convinced I'd always be alone. And now I'm here. With you. And it's—" You stopped, struggling for words. "It's the closest to happy I've ever been."

Jason joined you at the window. "Same."

"Even though we're both disasters?"

"Especially because we're both disasters. Makes sense somehow."

You leaned against him, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. Below, Crime Alley was waking up. The city that made you both. Broke you both. Brought you together.

"I killed someone last week," you said quietly. "Drug dealer trying to recruit middle schoolers. Figured you should know."

"Okay."

"That's it? Just okay?"

"You do what you have to. I'm not going to judge."

"You're not worried I'm becoming a monster?"

"No. Because monsters don't worry about being monsters." He kissed the top of your head. "You're just someone trying to protect people in the only way you know how. Same as me."

"We're both going to hell, you know."

"Probably. But at least we'll go together."

You laughed, soft and real. "Together sounds good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You stayed like that as the sun rose over Gotham. Two broken people who'd found something like wholeness in each other. Not fixed. Not saved. Just accepted.

Loved exactly as you were.

Blood and all.

Until the sun don't shine.

Until the breath leaves your lungs.

"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."

His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."

Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.

"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."

His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.

"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."

"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.

"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."

"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.

"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.

It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.

"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."

Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.

After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.

"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."

You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"

"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."

Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"

"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."

Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."

It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.

From: [email protected] Subject: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below. - I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this. - As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void. - Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person. As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.

Regards, Damian.

You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated. - I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate. - Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session. - As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday! Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!

Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.

This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.

Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.

"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.

You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."

His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."

You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."

He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."

"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"

He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."

"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"

"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."

"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."

He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."

"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."

He raises a brow. "Expired?"

Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."

He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"

Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."

His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”

Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”

His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.

Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”

“This movie is non-sensical.”

“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.

He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”

“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”

“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”

“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”

His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”

“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”

He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.

A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.

“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”

He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”

“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”

His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”

You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”

“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.

“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”

When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reminder on Friday Meetings

You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.

Regards, Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)

Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings

I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.

Regards, Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.) Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.

The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.

Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.

“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”

He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.

You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.

You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.

“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”

His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”

You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.

“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”

“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”

You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”

“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.

The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.

”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”

His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”

You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”

He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”

He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”

“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”

You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”

He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.

“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”

You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.

Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.

"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.

"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.

"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"

"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.

You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."

"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.

"But you don't." You remind him.

Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"

Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."

You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"

He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.

His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."

"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."

His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."

"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."

He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."

"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."

His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."

You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."

Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.

"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.

You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.

"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."

His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.

Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.

"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."

Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."

Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.

Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.

You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.

What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?

The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.

You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.

You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?

You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.

You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.

"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."

He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."

Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.

"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."

His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."

He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."

Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.

He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.

Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.

Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.

The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.

"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.

The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.

"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"

Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."

"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"

You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.

Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.

"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.

"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.

She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."

You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.

"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"

Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.

"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."

"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"

"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."

You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.

It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.

You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.

“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."

Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.

"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.

The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."

Your brows furrow. "On?"

"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."

You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."

“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."

A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.

“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”

The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.

Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”

She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”

“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."

"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."

We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.

“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”

She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”

Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”

Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”

Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”

“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”

That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all your taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."

She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.

"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”

Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”

She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.

The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.

“What did you say to her?”

“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.

His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"

You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.

“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“

A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.

Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.

"You stay away from her." Damian growls.

"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"

Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."

“Damian!” You shout.

That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.

His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.

Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.

His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.

Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.

“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.

“He was hurting you.”

“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”

His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”

Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.

“Not a real one.”

He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.

“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”

“Damian—”

“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”

“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”

His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.

“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”

His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.

“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”

His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”

“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."

"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”

“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."

“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”

“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”

“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."

"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."

He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.

"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."

"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."

The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.

It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.

He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.

“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."

You sit back against the cushions, taking a long drag, feeling the smoke curling down your throat, around your lungs. Don’t gotta be high to appreciate how pretty your boy is, all long arms and knees akimbo as he sits cross-legged to load the VCR.

“Gonna turn me to stone,” he says, feeling your eyes boring into the back of his skull. 

You stare at him harder, memorizing the slope of his nose, backlit by the TV static, the dark shape of his brow. “Hissss.”

The smoke pours from your nose with the noise. The TV pops to life, and Eddie turns away to walk on his knees towards you as you gasp- “Hey. How’d you do that?”

On the screen, a recorded version of the Times Square ball drop plays, just minutes before the event you’d all watched at Hank’s.

“I have my devious little ways,” Eddie says, slotting his knelt form between your legs, taking the joint while you’re distracted to place it on the coffee table ashtray. “Wanted to show you what I wish I coulda done, at midnight.”

He brings your hand up to kiss the back of it, your other going to his neck, thumb poking into the divots of his dimples as he grins. 

“You’re sweet.”

“Can be.” Eddie shrugs but looks very pleased with himself, and your praise, leaning his cheek into your hand.

The countdown on the tape hasn’t started yet but you can’t wait to kiss him, leaning forward as Eddie raises up a bit to meet you halfway. 

Your lips touch, soft and gentle, Eddie’s plush bottom one fitting perfectly between the crease of yours- you can feel your heartbeat quicken, and his, too, just under his jaw where your fingers rest. 

It hasn’t gotten old, yet, and you hope it never will. 

Kissing Eddie always feels just as exciting as the first time; you’ve spent enough of your life denying the simple act, and never knew how much you craved it until the access tap got turned on full blast.

“Gotta tell you something.” You’re lip to lip but pull back just enough to let your breath coast over his mouth, can feel his smile as his hands drop to your waist.

“Tell me anything. Two minutes to midnight, better get it off your chest.”

There are muted, euphoric screams from the crowd in New York as you swallow, feeling lightheaded but sure of your next words- so sure, in fact, that you look Eddie right in the face as you say it.

“I love you.”

Eddie blinks. A slow sweep of those stupidly long lashes, dark chocolate eyes that are crinkling at the edges, his hands tightening at the words, he’s shaking with emotion-

no, not emotion. Laughter.

Eddie is laughing at you, after you just said you love him. 

You know he isn’t intending to be cruel, and seeing Eddie laugh is making you crack a smile, because, okay, whatever, maybe the situation is a bit ridiculous, and he wasn’t expecting it, and you can share in the humor.

“You don’t have to say it back,” you start, but Eddie shakes his head, unable to wipe the grin from his face but clearly trying to bring himself back down.

“Okay.” He nods, playing at serious. “Sure. Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Then he’s leaning in again, tilting his chin up for another kiss, and you start to feel the situation’s a bit off, moving back with a frown.

“I’m not- I thought you’d be, y’know, a bit more enthused about this.” Your hands drop to the inside of Eddie’s arms, tracing over his puppetmaster tattoo, feeling like your own strings are being yanked around. “I mean. What with my whole… lack of commitment. Thing.”

“Oh, I am enthused,” Eddie counters, still with that same, dopey smile that’s starting to get under your skin because it means he knows something you don’t. “I guess it’s just a little funny, hearing it for a second time.”

“What?” You gape at the boy halfway in your lap, brows shoving together, heated confusion churning through your body. “I- what the fuck. That’s the first time I’ve said anything like that to you.”

“Nah,” Eddie says, a bit gentler this time, his thumbs working underneath the hem of your shirt to seek out bare skin. “Christmas night. Wayne’s place. The old man was out with his drinking buddies, you and me broke into his whiskey, and you said it right before goin’ to sleep.”

There’s a hazy, booze-blanketed memory that resurfaces for you now, rippling like the surface of a pond. A soft quilt being tucked around your form, a kiss to the top of your head, some drunken, murmured words to Eddie before he left your room for the night. 

It hurts, that the memory isn’t even fully there for you. 

As embarrassing as it is, not being the one to remember, you don’t retreat into yourself or try to edge around the topic like you would’ve in the past. It only serves to make this moment more real.

“Eddie.” You lift both your hands to the side of Eddie’s face, holding him there and still between your hands, looking earnestly no matter how much it scares you to feel, this much- “Even though I meant it then, I was drunk. But I’m not now- had a single hit, I’m pretty much sober. And I mean it.”

You can see the waves of emotion cascade over Eddie as he processes this, like someone tossed a rock past the surface that dislodged some long-buried something.

“Say it again,” he pleads, voice just above a whisper, eyes still locked with yours. 

“I love you.”

“Holy shit.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to be open-mouthed, to gasp, clutching at your sides like if he let go you might float up into nothingness, eyes shimmering over with fresh tears. “You really mean it?”

“Yes,” you breathe a laugh into the word, stroking your thumbs over the apples of each of his flushed cheeks. “I really mean it. Have for awhile, just haven’t had the guts to saymmph-”

His mouth is on yours, noses bumping in his eagerness, hand cupping the back of your head to pull you in deeper- you think if he could swallow you whole, right now, he would. 

Not like you’re far behind on that sentiment; you’re pulling Eddie in just as much, an audible wet noise as your tongues slip in and out of each other’s mouths, your ankles fitting to cross at the small of Eddie’s back as he practically consumes you with this kiss that feels endless.

Your brain is catching up to your body, arms over Eddie’s shoulders now, but still pulling back a fraction to rest the tip of your nose on his, pulling in a shaky breath- “And you don’t- like I said, earlier, you don’t have to say it b-”

“Oh, shut up.” With exasperation, Eddie dips forward to lap into your mouth again, letting his teeth sink into the plush of your bottom lip before kissing it better- “Been wanting to say it back for months. Strongest thing I felt in years, you make me so…”

Eddie’s chest stutters against yours, and when he pulls back to look at you again, there’s a tear that escapes his left eye, splashes onto your knuckle just below as he finishes, “...happy. And insane. And in love. I love you.”

There’s a sudden, lurching feeling that happens so often, that can spiral quick into self-loathing if you’re not quick to course correct- guilt starts to simmer at the fact that you’ve made Eddie wait so long.

It’s taken you years just to say these three little words, and if you were different, changed, somehow, you’d be a better fit, that Eddie deserves better-

“Hey.” His voice cuts through to the core of your swirling thoughts, eyes flitting over your changing expressions like he’s reading an open book. “It’s okay. Whatever you’re thinking- it’s probably the opposite. Gotta think happy thoughts when I tell you I love you- it’s conditioning, or some shit.”

This gets you to crack a smile, but it’s not enough to completely quell your worry. “I’m sorry. I really am. I know you don’t like when I apologize for being myself, or whatever, but-”

Eddie moves with impressive speed and precision, a hand at your back to cushion the blow as he flips you flat against the couch. A startled uumphf is knocked from your mouth again, until Eddie kisses the noise away, form stretched over yours with delicious weight.

“Sounds like you already know the answer,” he says, low and slow at your ear, bringing his hand up to palm over your breast. 

Your chest pushes up into the touch automatically, and Eddie tsks, half devil and half angel hovering an inch from your face, unspooled black curls taking up most of the frame. “Say it again.”

With your ankles still snugly wrapped, you pull Eddie’s pelvis low enough to rock against yours, feeling the stiff shape of his cock brushing through the layers at your heated core, watching as the pleasure twists his features and settles into a simmer. 

“I love you. I love you, I love you, I love-”

“Fuck. Fuck.” 

He’s mindlessly rutting now, cock kicking at the words, arms caged around your head as you squeeze at his shoulders, urging him quicker, closer-

It’s not an apology, but you want the feeling of amends to be imbued into every movement. A tender stroke to the back of Eddie’s head, a kiss pressed into the hollow of his throat, invitations laid bare- all to say, I’m yours. No one else can have me like this. Just you. 

It’s not absolution, but you feel the intensity of Eddie’s emotions as you murmur the words on repeat. I love you I love you I love you becomes the gospel you both revere; there are cheers tinny and far away on the screen as Eddie slips your underwear to the side, seeking your warm, wet muscle with two fingers.

He fits like he always has- perfect. Not just like he was made for you, but like you’d both put in the work to make it so. 

Eddie licks the sweat from your clavicle and works you up on his fingers before shoving his briefs down, lining himself up, and sliding home.

Your back arches again, fully off the back of the couch, into Eddie’s strong, waiting arms- “I’ve got you,” he rasps, pushing in until you feel the head of his cock nudging deep. “I love you. Love you.”

Two hours ago in Times Square, the midnight of a new year dawns. 

You and your boy christen it with the sacredness of two people, in admittance of love, for the first time.

___

Another month of being in love quietly passes.

You’re sat on the couch with a dogeared paperback in your lap, while Eddie is on the floor in front of you, guitar strings humming. 

His back- pressed against the flat of your legs- is vibrating with musical tone as he runs through an acoustic version of Corroded’s set list for a gig this weekend.

You read the same line for a seventh time then give up, voicing aloud to the back of Eddie’s head- “I was thinking we should get a bigger bed.”

His fingers stay plucking on the strings but he interrupts his own mumbled flow of lyrics to hum, thoughtful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Your mattress is too small, and mine is hardly better at fitting us both.” 

Eddie’s hand climbs the frets. “Can’t see why I’d want to shell out for that expense when I actually like how it feels to be inside your skin.”

You laugh, sock feet wiggling under the seat of his jeans. “Shut up, you know I like it too. But- I’m actually serious. I’ll pay for my half, and you-”

Eddie turns over his shoulder to look at you quick enough to breach whiplash territory. “Your- your half?”

“...yes?” You weren’t expecting this topic to be met with such surprise. In your own mind, this is simply the next step, the thing that just makes good sense to do. 

The book flutters as you toss it to the coffee table, freeing up your hands to lay out the logistics as you speak. “We’re already spending the majority of our nights in each other’s beds, right? Our closets are basically meshed. So are our dressers. Mind as well make the switch, and a comfier one, at that. Your room, my room, doesn’t matter to me- we should combine and conquer. Fix up whatever’s left into a spare.”

Eddie’s eyes are flicking between yours like he’s trying to read your mind again. He attempts to swallow his shock when it’s clear that’s making you cagey. “Ohh-kay. Wow. Yeah, that’s- that makes sense. Uh. What if someone comes over and- y’know- uses their eyes to see?”

This is the part of the scenario you’ve given less thought to. Bizarre, for someone with no less than four separate planners. 

Maybe you just don’t care who sees. Not anymore. 

But that’s a statement that feels like a landslide so instead you shrug, playing it very cool and very safe- “We can explain away just about anything on the basis of you being a Freak, capital F.”

Eddie’s grin is a slow, crawling thing that’s all teeth by the end. “How very economical of you.”

He doesn’t see the throw pillow coming; it whaps against the back of his head and you speak over his indignant squawk. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up- all the way to the mattress store. Should make yourself useful and take us tomorrow.”

Eddie rests the neck of his guitar against the coffee table and pushes up from the floor to settle into the cushion at your side, still grinning. “I ain’t laughing.”

“No,” you agree, reaching out for his face, settling your grip around his chin and feeling the divots of his dimples at either side as you squeeze, playfully. “Somehow this is worse.”

It’s nearly time for your Thursday night ritual- getting stoned, watching Perry Mason reruns on mute, and making up the voices for the onscreen characters. Eddie is the best at it, but he’ll pout if you don’t contribute, too. 

You clamber into his lap and his arms encircle you, his chin fitting to the top of your head. Affection comes easier these days and you’re reveling in it, this new space that affords you some bravery and a lot of touch. 

“Could go for ice cream, after the boring store.” Eddie’s voice buzzes comfort through your skull. “We’re gonna be dog tired after jumping on all those mattresses.”

Your cheek is pressed to Eddie’s chest, and the warmth of him leaks through. As it often does. Into everything. 

The brassy orchestral swell of Perry Mason’s theme song lifts from the speakers. Your eyes shutter closed, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine it. 

The day you’ll have tomorrow, the jokes and teasing and the happiness shared; the long drive and the open road and Eddie at your side. Sunshine and a brand new mattress and the sweetness of cold sugar melting into your tongue. 

___

Nothing changes. Everything changes. 

Somehow, you find yourself existing in a grey area, when previously all that you’ve known and held dear has been black and white. 

Eddie is still the same Eddie. Loving and attentive, goofy and sweet. 

He still hides his physical affection when you’re with friends but sneaks in touches beneath tables and between times when no one’s looking. 

The fucking is different. 

It’s the same rhythm, the same knowledge of each other’s bodies, but with new intention. New purpose. 

Now, there’s a ragged and intense loop of I love yous saturating your mind and mouth during every act of intimacy. It used to feel easy; leaving the feelings at the door, going to work without ruminating on what might be waiting for you at home.

Now, you’re lucky to get three consecutive minutes of not thinking about Eddie during your shifts at the bookshop. Memories of the previous night’s activities will surface at the most inconvenient times, making you physically hot under the collar, the ghost of his touch like a lingering brand.

Eddie occupies your mind. He fills all the empty spaces, and for the first time, there’s no fear mixed in with the thoughts. Keeping him close in memory feels less like a warning sign and more like a security blanket. 

It feels so good to feel it all- the wanting, the longing, the arousal- without the sharp edges of Rules to hold you back. 

You’ve been having one of those days, today- all shift long you’ve been burning and buzzing with the need. 

You beat Eddie home by a few minutes and the moment you’re inside the apartment everything on you begs to be parted. Your work bag hits the floor with a thud, followed by your tennis shoes, your jacket that gets tossed without care towards the couch. 

It’s practically a mess. You allow yourself the luxury. 

By the time Eddie walks in you’ve just managed to pull off your jeans, where you stand in the middle of the carpet amongst the wreck of undressing. 

Eddie barely has time to raise his eyebrows and set his guitar case next to your work bag before he’s being walked backwards, pushed against the wood of the front door by your hands. 

He’s fresh from rehearsals, smelling like sweet sweat and hormonal electricity as your hands roam the ribbed contours between his leather jacket and t-shirt. There’s black pencil liner smudged around his eyes and it’s all driving you fucking crazy. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, but does nothing to stop you from burying your nose behind his ear and inhaling deeply. “Been wound up without me?”

“Something like that.” You want to bite him, hard, but settle for kissing your way towards his adam’s apple and grazing your teeth against the shape of it. 

Eddie shudders, clinging to your low back, pulling you in closer. You wish he’d unzip his skin and let you in- really, it’s the least he could do to satiate your craving. 

The fuck me right here in this hallway line is about to be crossed so you detach yourself from Eddie even though the space instantly hurts, and turn for the first room on the left.

The new king bed sits comfortably under the window, with just enough floor space for a dresser and bookshelf. You slip your undies free as Eddie rounds the corner, scrambling to catch up, watching you with a slightly dazed expression. 

“Ovulation.” You shrug off his unvoiced question as to the nature of your desire, because deniability comes easy, and so do excuses. 

And then you remember you’re trying to be better about this, about letting him in. So as Eddie shrugs his coat off and pulls his shirt over his head you take a few steps backwards, letting your thighs hit the back of the mattress, adding-

“And you. It's mostly you. I’m really into you.”

Eddie temporarily gets his head stuck in the hole of his shirt but rips it free with a full-bodied shake, hair frizzing in every direction as he grins (leers) at you.

“Well, shit, baby, what a coincidence.” He doffs an invisible cap and bows deeply, with faux grandiosity. “Seems we’ve got the same idea.”

Jesus, what a fucking dork. You’re about to explode without his touch. 

“Yeah, yeah.” The sarcasm can’t mask the adoration in your tone. Your knees part, and Eddie’s eyes drop to the space between your legs. Got him. “I’m in love with you and you can laugh it up later- fuck me like you mean it, now.”

There’s a flush already settling across the apples of his cheeks as Eddie sinks to his knees, reaching for yours. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

He eats you out with fervor, with the hunger of a starving man- like maybe he, too, has been aching for this all day. Using the memories of you like sucking candy until he can come home to taste the real thing, straight from the source. 

Eddie fucks you with his tongue and fingers and doesn’t stop until you’re heaving with a second orgasm; he crawls up the length of your body and flattens you to the quilttop with kisses.

You draw him into yourself, words that mean nothing and everything on a shuddering loop- I need you, need you, so much- until the tides turn into a chorus of nothing but I love you I love you love you…!

Eddie answers. Sinks inside of you and kisses the words into your mouth. You have me, baby. All of me. Promise. I love you. I’ll give you anything. 

He fucks into you from behind, front molded to the curve of your back as you’re tipped on your side. There’s a tickle of his lashes at your jaw, his chin resting on your shoulder where it’s hooked- he wants to watch his cock disappear and reappear, coated in your slick. 

Eddie’s left arm spans your chest, holding you steady as his hips smack forwards in a hypnotic thrusting pattern. His right wrist presses firmly against that soft spot just below your tummy, while the middle fingers of his hand are working fast, wet circles over your clit. 

You’re making noises you’ve never heard yourself make before- weepy, fucked-out moans that crawl unbidden from your throat, punctuated by a sharp gasp every time Eddie’s hips snap forwards. 

He kisses behind your ear, murmuring something about how pretty you sound and drawing back just enough to watch your expressions. His half-lidded eyes are drinking in every minute twitch and feeling that passes over your face.

You can’t help but react authentically. There’s a small part of you that wants a shoulder to burrow into, or a pillow to cover your face- make this a step removed, less intimate, some breathing space-

but if seeing the look he’s fucking onto your face is some sort of reward for Eddie, you figure he’s more than earned it by now. The shape of your face is etched plain with the pleasure and euphoria that’s being built up in your body. 

From him. For him. 

It’s a practice in vulnerability. An opportunity to stretch your comfort zone, to move that goal post just a bit further. 

Your brows pinch together, eyes slamming shut when Eddie angles the head of his cock to stroke perfectly against the spot that makes everything tighten and swell. His hips falter as he watches the pleasure course through you, and then he’s talking you through your fifth orgasm of the night with desperate, throaty encouragement-

That’s it sweetheart- fuck, yes. Fuck. Feels so good, you’re doin’ so good- fuck me. Tha’s it. I’ve got you, I’ve got you- ‘m right here. I love you. Love you. 

And in the aftermath, more tenderness awaits. 

Instead of making a guilt-ridden retreat to your own room and cleaning up amidst crashing hormones, you get to share the small bathroom space with Eddie. You pee while he brushes his teeth at the sink, spluttering on a mouthful of toothpaste when your foot pokes into his side teasingly. 

You grab the water glasses, he grabs the snacks. The routine is a familiar pattern that soothes- Eddie likes you tucked under his left arm and against the headboard so he can eat out of your hand, and feed you with the other.

You stopped worrying about bed crumbs a long time ago. Nothing a quick wash won’t fix, and you’re loath to break the post-sex tradition of eating in comfort. 

There’s no need for complications before sleeping, anymore. Not when Eddie is such a warm and solid comfort beneath the shared sheets. 

In the morning, sunrise filters softly through the east-facing window. It’s a rare joint day off for the both of you, and Eddie is taking his time waking up.

He holds you in his arms, petting up and down your sides in long, sweeping strokes, absently running his lips across your forehead. His husky voice vibrates through the top of your skull as he lists out options for the day. 

“Could go bother Stevie Boy at work. Or to the theaters- there’s nothing good on, I already checked, but we like the bad ones sometimes. Nice big screen to throw popcorn at.”

You’re not sure why this moment, of all the moments, prompts a realization so sudden and true it makes you sit up. It’s just the way of things, sometimes. 

Maybe it’s the way Eddie is touching you- unguarded and for no purpose other than to feel the slide of your skin against his. Maybe it’s the casualness with which he suggests plans- something that used to be so difficult for your system to adjust to. 

“Oh my god.”

Eddie was already curious when you sat up out of his arms and now his brows raise, looking up at you from where his dark hair is splayed across the pillow. “What?”

“You’re, like, my-” the word gets snagged. You clear your throat. “-boyfriend.”

The dawning starts to touch every part of your mind. It’s like the sun is rising on every memory, every source of affection with stunning clarity. 

All your planning and compulsive carefulness that has been falling to the wayside recently has brought you here, to an epiphany about two years late. 

Eddie sits up, too. Hand slipping to steady over your hip. “I mean. Not really. I’m just some guy you sleep with who lives in your apartment.”

He’s teasing, but there’s a cautious tone to his words. A tone that makes you think he’s trying to be careful for your benefit. 

“No, Eddie- like, actually. Think about it.” You blink at the wall behind Eddie’s shoulder where an Iron Maiden poster hangs next to an ecology identification sheet. “We split the rent. We eat together, we live together, we share the same bed every night- oh my god.”

Boyfriend swims into your consciousness and floats about. 

How could you not have seen it before?

Eddie had gone still with the flow of your words but now he squeezes at your hip, still using that low tone as if you’ll spook with anything else- “Hey. It’s okay, sweetheart. We can call it whatever you want. Okay? I don’t care, seriously.”

You’re still staring at the posters on the wall. Trying to make it all make sense. 

Eddie must be itching under the silence because he asks, after a few moments- “What are you thinking?”

“I… I’m thinking I need a second.”

You get up and Eddie’s hand slides from your side and you can’t look at his face or it’ll break you into a million pieces so you beeline to the bathroom without looking back.

The door shuts behind you. The tiles are gleaming, freshly mopped, so you ease yourself to sit against the wall opposite the sink and stare vacantly.

A memory surfaces. 

June in Vegas, years ago, air thick with humidity even at midnight.

A diner, the sugar-sweet taste of syrup and waffles. The ink drying on the fake marriage license between you and Eddie on the formica. 

Wedding Waffle Special! 

It was only funny because you were such good friends, two people who’d never really get married- only for the night. Only for the gag of getting free food. 

Eddie has asked you, then, after forking a whole waffle and taking a drunken bite- What’s so bad about being real-married?

The question added a sharp edge to your liquored soft-stupor. You’d given him a real answer- Because then everyone would know. 

Eddie had looked crestfallen. Like a piece of his heart got chipped off. 

You’d tried to add some lightness, with all the clumsiness that drink afforded. You’d tried to assure, It’s not ‘cuz of you, it’s me, I can’t-

But Eddie had recovered quickly. Shoved a giant piece of chocolate chip waffle towards your face and declared a Waffle War, and the moment was churned over and forgotten.

Until now. Until you’re back in your body, tiles cold beneath you, twisting the bracelet you’ve worn every day since Christmas around and around your left wrist.

The silver charm with the letter E hasn’t tarnished at all. Even after all the times you’ve fitted your thumb over the letter to press the grooves into your skin.

Maybe, some part of you has always known. And this is just the breaking-open part of a bigger story.

It’s been about ten minutes or so since your thoughts have been tumbling in the bathroom and you wonder if Eddie is silently panicking on the other side of the wall.

Then again- he’s used to your rhythms. Your moods. While Eddie is very much a verbal processor, you often need some space and quiet to sort through your own interiority. 

Eddie has been more than patient with this. With you. 

The thought of him is motivating enough to send you into action, using the sink’s edge to pull yourself to standing and walking back into the room.

Eddie’s lying back again, lush forest of curls still fanned against his pillow; the bedside drawer is half-open and there’s a cigarette being fidgeted between his fingers.

He doesn’t smoke indoors anymore, and has evidently been waiting for you to return- you’ve always enjoyed the ritual of hanging out under the apartment building’s awning with him. Bundling yourself up in his winter coat and watching as he exhales hazy clouds that lift into the air and disperse, somewhere unseen.

The two of you have formed into each other’s lives so gradually but so completely that it would now be agony to separate. 

You sit on the mattress to the right of Eddie’s hip. He smiles, close-lipped but still with the wink of dimples on either side. 

“I do my best thinking in the bathroom, too. Most of my campaigns were built on that porcelain throne.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be disgusting when I’m trying to say something.” Your irritation isn’t real and Eddie knows it, grinning with all his teeth when you reach out to spin a lock of his hair through your fingers.

Your voice is quiet but firm. “You’ve been my boyfriend this whole time, and you haven’t cared that I didn’t let you tell anyone?”

Eddie fiddles more with the cigarette, considering this. Watching you with those bittersweet cocoa eyes. Melting when your finger brushes against his neck.

“I mean- I’ve cared. But I care about you more. The mostest, if you will.”

He shrugs, but you’re not ready to brush past this. Words feel so heavy- how do you sum up a culmination of years of wanting? Of years dedicated to senseless Rules?

So you don’t say anything. Instead, you lean down to press your lips to his.

The feeling of his cupid’s bow, the plush pout beneath- the novelty still hasn’t worn off.

You can’t believe you’ve denied this and other simple pleasures for so long. Maybe it was always meant to be this easy, this peaceful.

When you pull back there are tears beginning to shimmer in your eyes, and Eddie has the beginnings of a concerned frown so you laugh through the sadness- 

“God. You must be seriously obsessed with me to put up with all this shit. Rules and everything.”

Eddie laughs, too, relieved you aren’t overly upset, tossing the cigarette back to the drawer so he can pull you into himself again. “That’s putting it lightly, sweetheart. I’d lick the bottom of your shoe for breakfast every day if you’d let me.”

“Gross.” You sniffle against the soft cotton of his sleep shirt. Cheek squished to the flat of his breastbone, the steady thwump-thwump of his heart in your ear. “Thanks for staying with me even after I acted insane.”

Eddie grows quiet at your words, even as his hands continue in their wandering path against your back. He doesn’t take the easy set-up of a joke like you thought he might.

Instead, he kisses your forehead. “Y’know, you got this idea somewhere along the way that you’re this, like, totally unlovable person.”

Your turn to grow still and quiet. Eddie kisses at your brow this time, and speaks again- meaningfully soft-

“You may be neurotic, and- uh. Unique in your way of thinking. But you were never hard to love.”

___

As the end of spring approaches, so does the annual Munson Farms Harvest and Hoopla (titled, once again, by Robin). It started with just you and Eddie, traveling the few hours east and staying the weekend to help Wayne with the excess of his farm-grown goods.

In its fifth year, Harvest and Hoopla involves just about everyone you and Eddie know. It’s a tradition that now spreads over a three-day weekend and ends Sunday evening with a big outdoor BBQ.

Your cousin Max and her best friend Jane will take the train to the Byers’ place, while the Sinclairs and Hendersons are caravaning together. Which means Nancy, Robin, and Steve will hitch a ride with you and Eddie.

Everything hinges on this coming Friday. 

At the beginning of the week, you’re sick with excitement. Eddie lugs storage containers from the basement under your instruction, and helps where he can to organize for everyone’s arrival. 

There’s cleaning that needs to be done, and novelty t-shirts to spray paint with the homemade MFHH logo, and packing and sorting and endless over-the-phone coordination. 

On Wednesday evening, Eddie calls it. He plies you into relaxation mode with a freshly-rolled joint and Breakfast Club on VHS, under strict orders to Chill the fuck out. 

He’s good at knowing what you need. When to use a soft touch, or a firm hand. 

You’re good at knowing his needs, too. 

Bender’s mouthing off to Claire onscreen and your mouth is wandering- up the side of Eddie’s neck, under his jaw, the squirm of his thigh pinned beneath your hand. 

It always feels good to touch Eddie but even better when you’re both high. His droopy, red-rimmed eyes watching your every move; his fingers slipping beneath your shirt, seeking skin; the soft, whining pants from his lips to yours. 

You sink your teeth into the stretch of his shoulder, clamping hard and long enough for a deep bruise. Eddie’s sweat is sweet against your tongue as he groans. 

“Wanna mark you up.” You’re licking over the indents of your own teeth, following the line of his muscle down, down, until you’re slipping from his lap to kneel at the carpet. 

Eddie’s gripping your elbows, watching as if in a trance- a flush has settled at his cheeks. Temples dewed with sweat. When you mouth over the hard line of his clothed cock he hisses sharply, air through his teeth and a curse to follow- “Fuck. Oh, fuck.”

You continue like he hasn’t spoken at all, fitting a hand over the trembling plane of his stomach to hold the edge of his shirt up; there’s a perfect dark trail of hair disappearing behind the line of his sweats. 

Saliva begins to pool before you swallow to speak. “Gonna make you mine. Make everyone know it.”

Eddie makes a noise that’s half whimper, half shout, strangled with pleasure as your teeth find a home again in the plush fat of his abdomen. You make your way across the lower band of his stomach with meticulous pressure, just the right amount to leave behind marks meant for lasting.

“I want to start telling people.” You rest the apple of your cheek at the inner thigh of Eddie’s jeans, eyes flicking up briefly to gauge his reaction to this declaration- he was already a wreck. 

Chest stuttering, nails digging into the skin of your elbows. Jaw dropped loose enough to part his lips. Cock leaking pre into the fabric under your right palm. 

Eddie exhales, disrupting the curls that have stuck to his neck with the perspiration. Sucks in air, then asks with desperate hope- “Really?”

You work the bridge of your hand along the length of his dick, which throbs in response. “Really. Should wear your shorts to the river this weekend. Let everyone see the way you let me mark you up like a whore-”

“Holy fucking shit-” Eddie’s stomach jolts under your hand, and so does his cock. 

It’s your words alone that have him coming, nearly untouched, hunching forward and pulling you into himself as the orgasm curls his spine and races through his limbs.

He chants a mixture of your name and more fucks, and when the last of his cum is thoroughly wrung out into the wet fabric of his jeans you move-tilt upwards to kiss him. 

Your tongue slots against the grooves and contours of his mouth, all that leftover pleasure still simmering in every pore and atom, hand held at the back of his neck to keep him in place. His hair is silky from the oatmeal and coconut shampoo you’ve been buying special for him.

Mine. It’s another word that brands, on a cosmic level. 

___

It’s one thing to talk about a new way of living. It’s another entirely to actually live it. 

By Thursday morning, your excitement for the trip and the truth being loosed has been completely taken over by anxiety. 

It feels like a sickness. Like your happiness and fear are two pieces of duct tape slapped together, sticky and messy and impossible to separate. 

To combat the chaotic interior of your mind, the anxiety often manifests in habitual cleaning. You can’t explain why- it just feels good to distract yourself with. 

When you’re working up a sweat against the fridge shelves or kneeling to bleach the baseboards, it’s hard to remember what had been plaguing you in the first place. The physical exertion is a craving while the ensuing pain is penance. 

It’s Thursday and you’ve pulled out all the stops- scrubbing the countertops until they gleam, using a toothbrush against the grout in the bathroom, spending an hour on your hands and knees at one last attempt to lift the mysterious discolored stain in the corner of the living area carpet. 

It’s not working. None of it’s working. 

You’re elbow deep in a sink full of hot water, hands bare and gloveless, sloughing off the light layer of grime from each of the removable oven burners in turn as the others soak. 

The kitchen smells like bleach and lemon antiseptic. There’s a frantic energy that buzzes below the surface of your skin, zipping and snapping about with no relief.

Your hands are rough and cracked and the tiny cuts are the only things that make you feel, that tether you to reality- those flecked-sharp bits of pain that cut through the fog of anxiousness are more than welcome. 

Becca, in her spare time between work and higher education, has been inviting you over for weekly tea chats. Becca- with all her kindness and half of a psych degree- opens heavy textbooks and manuals across the surface of her coffee table and stresses every time that her opinion is not meant to be taken as an actual medical diagnosis, nor is it meant to ‘fix’ something that isn’t broken.

She’s very easy to talk to, and she’s going to make a great therapist someday. Becca’s been a treasure trove of information, especially in the ways of understanding yourself; she’s talked about coping mechanisms, intrusive thoughts, obsessions and compulsions- all these things you’ve been experiencing but have had no equivalent words to match until now. 

Becca and her deep river of empathy. Her quick but knowing smiles whenever you bring up Eddie, which leads you to suspect she probably knows more about it than you’d care to give thought to.

You wish desperately that she could join in the group trip- it would be so nice to have someone who understands your eccentricities like her- but Becca's already left for her own spring break vacation with her family. 

Having the clinical explanation for your symptoms is helpful, sure, but no amount of intellect applied can take away the roiling nausea from the anxious-dial currently turned up to ten. 

As much as you can say the words I am having an obsessive-compulsive episode due to the stress of change and truly believe them, there’s nothing to be done but try and ride the wave the best you know how. 

There’s a lump of hard ginger candy in the pocket of your cheek, all the square edges worn smooth and small in the last thirty minutes. One of the few things that has historically helped the chronic nausea that comes with constant intensive worry. 

The last of it gets crunched between your molars and you swallow down the crystals, indulging in a bit of fantasy by imagining they’re going to heal you completely. The silent-freeze style of panic attack is being kept at bay but just barely as you drain the sink and begin rinsing the metal spirals under a stream of fresh tap water. 

The front door creaks open then shuts with a bang. There’s a scuffle of Eddie’s sneakers against the mat, and he’s whistling as he rounds the corner. “Okey doke, big cooler from scary basement acquired. We’re gonna have the snack space to sustain an army on this road trip. What time is Rob s’posed to show?”

“Twenty minutes. Will you check the milk?”

Robin doesn’t even drink milk. 

Robin is coming in less than half an hour to spend the night and help with the pre-dawn packing checklist tomorrow before pretty much everyone in the world you hold dear will be all in one place and Robin doesn’t even drink milk and still, you’re thinking about it, the lone carton in the fridge that may or may not have spoiled since breakfast an hour ago. 

“Sure,” Eddie says, and it doesn’t even sound like he’s humoring you. Which somehow feels worse. 

The sound of the plastic fridge seal peels and breaks, then there’s the twist of a cap, two quick inhales, and Eddie says mildly- “Smells like milk to me.”

The fridge closes again. If you were You from six months ago, you’d be shouldering past Eddie to throw the milk away yourself. Tip it right down the drain with mania disguised as a joke about how Eddie’s nose must be off. 

Trust is a great thing to have. It’s been fought for and hard-won on both sides and it means you don’t turn tail and run when Eddie comes behind you at the sink to drop his chin to your shoulder. 

“How come you’re not wearin’ any gloves? I got you those sexy pink ones from the five and dime for a reason.”

You wish you could laugh. The tap is cool over your fingers as you work the grime out from beneath your individual nail beds, head tilting to lean against Eddie’s in silent apology. “Dunno. I forgot.”

Eddie’s sigh coasts warm over the right side of your neck. “Trouble. How ‘bout you wash up.”

The warmth of his body fit to yours leaves along with him as you wash your hands, wincing slightly at the sting of soap on fresh wounds. There’s a nail brush nearby and you use it brusquely against the underside of your nails; your movements are harsh with autopiloted instinct as you stare through the east-facing window towards the blacktop parking lot. 

Robin’s car will be pulling into that empty spot, soon. 

Eddie is back with hands soft against your hips as he turns you away from the sink, towards himself, holding out a dishtowel for your wet hands.

You dry them. Eddie takes the towel and places his palms up between your bodies, waiting patiently. You oblige, slipping your palms against the calloused flats of his own and letting your fingertips trail on the insides of his wrists. 

Eddie lets go of your right hand to reach into his back jeans pocket and surfaces with a tube of lotion (must’ve snagged it from the bathroom, sneaky), of which he uncaps to set a cool stripe across the arch of your left knuckles. 

He starts working in the moisturizer with the warmth and pressure of his own hands, thumbs running parallel down the fine bones in the back of your hand, then sliding to the meat of your palm muscle. Then along the lines of each finger, individually, pulling with just the right amount of careful strength.

The lotion heats to the same temperature of your skin and so do Eddie’s rings. He’s using the good stuff on you- unscented, the special brand he saves for tattoo aftercare, which is probably why it doesn’t hurt your nicks. 

It’s not until he’s moved on to your other hand that Eddie speaks. “We don’t have to do this today. You don’t have to do this today, I mean.”

His thumb coasts up the side ridge of your pinky, then back down. Kneading and filling the silence with touch. 

You’re thinking. You’re thinking about the conversation you and Eddie had earlier this week about who will be the first to know- which person, out of everyone in your friend group, can be trusted with this bombshell of news and information. 

And you both agreed. It has to be Robin. 

Not only does she have a passion for gossip, she’s also the safest bet when it comes to passing along the message through the group in a meaningful way. Robin is where you and Eddie began- it’s her you have to thank for the introduction in the first place. 

Robin who was so thrilled when the roommate situation ended up working out. Robin who cheered you on from the sidelines, who hasn’t held back any part of herself since you met her on the first day of freshman campus classes a lifetime ago. 

Robin who has been your best friend. Robin who has surely felt the growing distance every time you’ve declined plans to hang in the last few months, too sick with secret to face her.

She’s got the most to lose. The one who stands the most to be hurt by this lie you’ve started and maintained, tended to like a fucked up garden all these years. 

Eddie pulls you from the spiral of thoughts again, brow furrowing as he finds another section of your skin split across the knuckle. “We’ve already been doing a sick job on the whole ‘clandestine dalliance’ thing. What’s a few more months? Who cares if-”

“I care.”

Your interruption comes out more wobbly than intended but the truth of it solidifies as soon as you speak the words aloud. A ragged breath is sucked through your lungs and the rest of it leaves in a rush, a flood of shaky insistence as you stare at the constant movement of Eddie’s fingers instead of his face. 

“I care. I want- I really want to start telling people. Our people.”

Your gaze climbs, braver now, taking in the ripped sides of Eddie’s cropped tanktop, the stretched-out collar hanging loosely around the base of his neck. He looks so handsome, in a way that almost hurts to behold. Sweat has dampened the baby hairs at his forehead and temples and sticks to his skin in whorls, entire constellations in miniature. 

And the bruises. The scraped-up skin nipped into the column of his throat, the faint line of your teeth still visible from last night’s activities, brutal and delicate- he’s wearing them proudly today. 

This boy is yours. Not in the way of ownership or control, but rather belonging. Him to you, you to him. 

You want to make your claims and intentions clear. You want to be able to kiss your boy, your lovely boy, in public. In front of friends and family and god and anyone else who cares to look. 

You want to hold Eddie’s hand at a party and not have to separate yourself from him for the whole night because this way of living has been so lonely, and so sad.

And you know, too, that this weighs on Eddie just as heavy. And that he’s been carrying the emotional weight of this for much longer than you, even if he’s never once made you feel badly for it.

Eddie’s eyes flick to yours when the pause in your speech stretches. 

Being looked at by him, especially this close and intensely, has always felt like stepping into a sunbeam. 

As if you’ve been traversing a cool, dark forest, and suddenly- light. Warmth beyond measure. Golden-brown pools of color so rich they beg you to stay awhile. 

“It’s important to me.” You’re whispering, as if the moment might be disturbed and scatter to the wind with any other volume. “It’s important to you, I know, but it’s important to me, too. We belong together and I want- I need- people to know.”

“Whatever you need,” Eddie answers, adopting your same tone. Still massaging against the muscles of your hand like he’s trying to move the stuck feelings from your body. A smile curling at the corner of his mouth, the outline of a dimple betraying the relaxed demeanor he’s trying to keep up for you. “Whatever you wanna do, baby. I’ll back you a thousand percent. A million.”

You know it’s true. You feel the honesty in a place that rings deep. 

Eddie lifts both your hands and meets them halfway to press a kiss to the tender skin of your wrists, one each. Lips soft and pillowed against the thudding of your heart pulse. 

There’s a childish part of you that kicks out in tantrum, that wants to whine Quit being so nice to me! and maybe shove Eddie, just a little, like you’re in middle school stunted with a puppy crush.

But you don’t. You let the feeling of Eddie’s lips on your skin sink in and then you’re pulling Eddie towards you, burying your face in the spot of his neck that smells the most like home, humming a pleased note as his arms wrap and squeeze just how you like. 

“A million percent is a lot,” you murmur. 

Eddie snorts a laugh. The curve of his smile presses against the crown of your head as he replies- “Yeah, well. As previously established. Obsession of one said Freak will get you into the millions, every time.”

___

Robin arrives, and for a few hours, it’s just like old times.

She’s been busy at the record store an hour from here, with her and Steve’s new managerial statuses meaning less time to hang out or attend apartment parties. The last time you saw each other was over a month ago, and just in passing- your joy for the unfiltered togetherness cannot be understated.

Robin sits at the breakfast bar to help pack the cooler for tomorrow’s road trip, taking it upon herself to make Steve’s lunch (“He’s so picky and so spoiled,” she’d complained, even while lovingly cutting the crusts off a dry turkey sandwich). 

Between the three of you there’s months worth of local gossip and you spend hours catching up, laughing at each other, feeling the rising pitch of stories and voices like a happy storm. 

And even though you’re so glad Robin is here, real and in front of you instead of just a voice down the phone line, the secret starts permeating into everything. 

As it has before. As it will continue to do. 

It feels like a balloon is slowly swelling behind your breastbone, threatening to suffocate the air from your lungs until you’re choking on the surface words. Until you take the needle of truth to the looming, rounded edge of hiding and it all pops in one go. 

You’ve been putting it off and putting it off. Unable to find the exact right time, the perfect pause in conversation; a few times, you’ve widened your eyes at Eddie over the back of Robin’s turned head, a panicked indicator- Help! What the fuck am I doing?!

Each time, Eddie has given you a wink. A quick, subtle response. For the heat of your mind, a cool balm- It’s okay, honey. On your terms.

You’re not even sure what the fucking terms are, anymore. 

You’re used to rules and structure and building solid walls around the tenderest parts of yourself and while it’s been easier, recently, to shift that thinking under Eddie’s care- it feels so much more daunting to do it again. Regardless of how much you love Robin, or how truly safe you feel with her.

Eddie senses your discomfort and offers up a freshly-rolled joint to the group, and soon you’re all lazing about in the living room as it gets hazier with each puff and pass. 

Robin brought the new Sinead O’Connor album as a surprise and the record spins as the talking gets louder, slipping quickly into the bright hilarity that only a good sativa blend can bring.

The A-side clicks off and no one notices, especially not you, leaning into Robin with a giggle fit so intense you’re practically in her lap. Neither of you can even remember what was so funny in the first place but it all just feels so good, so good to be able to find silliness and hear Robin’s laughter again. 

Eventually Eddie stands from his corner chair with a loud clap of his hands and declares with a grin, “I’m sick of you two giggle monsters- how ‘bout you scurry down the corner to pick up some snacks? Make yourselves useful.”

After much more giggling, and a lazy middle finger thrown Eddie’s way (courtesy of Robin), the two of you move with jellied limbs to shove feet into sneakers and arms into coats.

Eddie follows you both to the entryway, procuring a crumpled ten dollar bill from his jeans pocket to tuck it with a flourish into the pocket of your denim jacket. He winks again- “Don’t spend it on drugs, kids-” then reaches for your collar to smooth it out.

Robin laughs again, her hand already on the front doorknob. You nearly lean in for a kiss out of habit but stop yourself halfway, an aborted movement that’s clumsy with weed, covering the strangeness by reaching for Eddie’s own stretched collar to repeat the movement. 

As you follow in Robin’s path out the door, you take one last glance at Eddie, who smiles big and gives you a dorky two thumbs up. 

You hope with a deep ardency that this will be the last time you ever have to deny him a thing.

___

The walk to PJ’s Corner Store is only a few blocks but the two of you make a meal of it all the same. 

In the soft light of the low sun, the neighborhood is alight with pre-suppertime ritual. 

Kids on spring break holler to one another from across the street, zipping from sidewalks to empty curbs on bikes and rollerskates. There are neighbors that nod to you from their porches, smoking cigarettes or watering their flower pots. 

The air is sweet and cool as Robin loops her arm through yours, bumping against your shoulder happily as you fall into step. She’s recounting her latest disaster in the dating world- a story that is sprawling and somehow involves two NDAs- and your laughter is shaking her frame, too. 

A shuddering of souls that reminds you of your college years, sneaking off campus to get drunk as skunks and coming back to dance under the moonlight on the quad grass.

Robin’s hair is longer than when you last saw her, done in messy, looped braids that swing and shift from each of her shoulders in animated speech. The familiar rasp-squeak of her excited voice, the way her hands lift to outline the shape of her words- it all feels like home. 

One block from the corner there’s a copse of trees that create a miniature forest, too overgrown for a proper park but lovely to look at all the same. Robin drags you both to a halt and faces the greenery, still talking, bright eyes the color of a clear morning sky dancing around the treeline. 

You rest your head against her shoulder, still connected by the elbows. The sound of her voice vibrates through your mind, and somewhere near the end of her story you find the courage to ask- 

“So are you seeing anyone now?”

She giggles. Squeezes at your hand in solidarity. 

“No. I’ve been getting myself into too much trouble recently- Steve says it’s ‘cuz I haven’t found ‘The One’ yet and I’ll feel differently when I do but oh, my god, what the hell does a permanent burnout bachelor like him know about true love?”

Robin breathes a deep sigh that you feel, too, then says in a voice that betrays her utter fondness- 

“We have got to find him a nice person to settle down with. I’m tired of his long white jock socks and one night stands being everywhere when I get home. Steve’s the type of guy who needs someone to love. Not that I find that so terribly unrelatable- but, y’know what I mean about his needs. He’s a guy destined for sweet, sweet monogamy.”

Something in her words makes your stomach twist in recognition. A familiarity, a longing long-buried that begins to unwind itself in hopeful tendrils.

Before you can speak Robin starts laughing again, a memory that has her bending forwards with the force of it even as you tug on her arm, begging to be let in on the joke- “What? What is it?”

“Oh my god-” Robin straightens again as she struggles to breathe around her fit of giggling. “Speaking of. Someone really went to town on Munson. Did you see his neck? Looks like he got strangled by a goddamn creature of the deep!”

Robin must interpret your sudden silence as revulsion because she drops your arm in favor of taking both your shoulders, eyes wide- “Oh, jesus, please tell me you didn’t have to listen to the deeds being done. Eugh! I can’t believe you’ve lived with such thin walls this whole time. It must be-”

You can’t hear the rest of that sentence because the noise in your own ears is like a tidal wave, a rush and roar of drowning until you break the surface, still frozen in place but with a sharp gasp for air, voice barely above a whisper but saying it anyways-

“It was me. I did it.”

The humor in Robin’s countenance falters, sputters out as she lets her hands fall. She blinks, confused- “Huh? What do you mean?”

In this moment, you find you were wrong about the shape of your secret. It doesn’t pop in one swift, clean motion; instead, the pierce of your words leave the rest to hiss and leak out.

The truth is messy. It jolts from you like a car with a shitty transmission. 

It makes you cry, tears beginning to stream as your voice warbles with the last bit of bravery you can summon.

“It was me. I did that, to Eddie, because he- me and him, we’re- I’m in love with him. Have been, for a long time, and we’ve been- I’m so, so sorry, for keeping this from you- for lying about it- this whole time-”

And then Robin is hugging you. Pulling you in tight, squeezing around your ribs like she’s trying to excise the sadness and fear. 

Her voice in your ear, so bright with happiness that it takes some of the panic away- “Hey, hey, please don’t cry! I’m not mad, like, at all! It’s okay. It’s totally cool. I kinda knew already, so it’s not such a shock-”

“You knew?” is all you think to say, tears wetting the sleeve of her t-shirt.

“Well, yeah-” Robin pulls back, face alight with grinning as she points to your bracelet. “You weren’t exactly subtle about it, babe.”

“Oh my god.” You manage a small laugh through your tears. The relief washes over you in waves. You did it! You told her!

“And I didn’t know the whole time,” Robin clarifies, still holding you kindly by the shoulders like she’s worried you’ll tip over without the support. “I just… had my suspicions. And maybe placed a running bet with Steve like… two years ago.”

“Oh my god.” Your hands slip over Robin’s elbows as she makes a yikes expression, cringing when you ask- “Does Steve know, too?”

“Of course not. He’s none too observant, bless his little hairsprayed heart.” Robin’s rubbing circles against your shoulders with her thumbs, trying to soothe the ache of release. “And it’s not like I was trying to convince him of anything- he totally doesn’t believe the two of you are hooking up, like, at all, and I figured it was easy money.”

“You’re sick.”

“So are you. I’m willing to split the profits.” Robin grins when you do the same back at her, and then she’s giving you a little shake, teeth practically gritted in excitement- “Holy shit. This is better than I could’ve imagined- I didn’t know you were in boyfriend territory!”

Somehow, this word doesn’t sound so scary when Robin says it. Boyfriend feels comfortable, and almost too simplistic for the feelings you’ve got for Eddie.

“What’s he like?” Robin asks, looping her arm in yours once again, starting to trail up the sidewalk with renewed energy. “Y’know, when he’s not, like, performing for a group of us.”

This is what you’ve missed out on, the thing that you’ve been wishing for. The sharing, the friendship outside of your relationship- it feels so good to tell Robin all about what sort of person Eddie is. What he means to you, how he’s cared for you in the past few years.

The blacktop of PJ’s parking lot is in sight as you’re bookending the conversation. “-and he’s just really, really kind. Much more patient than I deserve, most days. And I’m super, sickeningly in love with him and I’m so glad you’re the first person I’ve told.”

Robin is fighting her own tears by the time her sneakers crunch against the lot. She pauses to hold you at arm’s length again, and tells you in a serious tone- “I’m honored. Truly. And I want you to know your secret is safe with me, and that I’m pretty sure not even Soviet torture methods could break through. I won’t even tell Steve, if you don’t want.”

“Thanks, Robin.” You mean it. “But- I actually want to start telling people. You were just first on my list.”

Her face crumples, the corners of her lips downturned like she’s pushing away the urge to cry. Instead, she hugs you again, with a force that means safety.

“Oh, shit.” Robin swears as she pulls away, eyebrows shooting up- “You’re gonna have to tell Mr. Munson before you show up to the farm and start sharing the same bedroom.”

A mild horror washes over you at the thought, but then is easily brushed away with a dismissive wave of your hand. "That's Eddie’s problem now. What else are boyfriends for?”

Robin squeals her delight, hands gripping yours as she pulls you towards the front doors of the corner store. There’s a twinkle in her eye that suggests a whole new world of mischief has just been opened for her. 

“Exactly right!”

Epilogue

The sun is setting on the third night of the Munson Farms Harvest and Hoopla, and fireflies are beginning to blink to life against the dusky landscape. 

Wayne’s property is only six hours east of the city but the air itself feels otherworldly. Lush, cleaner, with no smog or traffic-fueled smells having touched the greenery of this place. 

The rocking porch bench creaks steadily under your weight as you tip back and forth, wood-slatted porch solid beneath the soles of your sneakers. 

Ceremony calls for a barbeque on the final night at the farm, an enjoyment of all the hard work and another successful harvest. Steve and Nancy are muttering over the grill’s propane tank a few yards away while Robin and the kids are spread around the front lawn, entertaining themselves in various groupings before supper starts up.

The screen door to the house creak-bangs. A moment later Eddie settles into the seat beside you with two cold beers in hand. 

You take his offering, clinking the neck of yours to the neck of his, and when Eddie lays his arm across the back of the bench you scoot in closer to his side. Humming a pleased note when his hand cups the breadth of your shoulder and begins to rub circles into the muscles there. 

He’s wearing another of his black cutoff tanktops tonight- the last piece of clean clothing thanks to his lawless packing. Whenever he shifts you can see the beginnings of a farmer’s tan, the clear delineation of colors between marble-white and toasted Wonder bread. 

Eddie should count himself very lucky he’s had you to fuss over his sunscreen usage every morning, otherwise his skin would be closer to that of an Indiana Cherry. 

Eddie is watching the cluster of boys at the treeline with faint amusement; there are shouts and cheers, a tourney in miniature as Mike and Lucas bat at each other with walnut sticks that have been stripped of their leaves to make for better swords. 

There’s a whole new spray of freckles against the underside of Eddie’s jaw. A spot that begs for kissing.

You clear your throat of the need to feel his skin under your lips and settle on a question, instead. “How’s Wayne?” 

The days here have been so full, so deliriously busy and happy and brimming with people and work that you and Eddie have been hitting the same sheets sated but exhausted at the end of each night, no time for pillow talk. 

And while you’ve missed the usual quiet intimacies, you’ve been finding him in your dreams. Waking up early just to cuddle against his sleepy form while he holds you, soaking in the precious few minutes before suiting up for the orchards again. 

Eddie takes a long pull of his beer. He finds a tense spot in your neck with his thumb and presses into it, firm but careful. “Wayne’s good. Happy to have company. He doesn’t get out much, ‘sides seeing his fishing or drinking buddies. Nothin’ like a little chaos to shake it up.”

“And… what was it like? To tell him about us, I mean.” Your thumbnail fits to the edge of the beer label, peeling as your heart patters in wait. 

Eddie snorts, shifts with the memory, pulling you in closer to his side with the movement. “Wayne said he knew the whole time, which is a goddamn lie. No way that old man was wise to it. Prob’ly said it just to tick me off.”

You give Eddie a sideways glance and realize he’s nearly blushing. The fondness buried just below the surface of his words unveiling the younger boy he becomes when stepping foot onto his uncle’s farm; a return to his roots. 

There’s an ease to his nature here that isn’t always apparent in your shared city-living. A looser, more lithe energy that beckons his tongue to slip back into countryside accents and adages. 

“Jesus,” you say, unable to help the trembling laugh that escapes, even as Eddie turns to raise his brow in question. “Wow. I thought it was surely only me that was gonna spin out over telling everyone. Turns out it’s you, too.”

Eddie splutters, indignant, rolling his eyes before snapping at you playfully with his teeth like an oversized puppy- “Hey! I’m not spinning out. I’m totally cool as a cucumber knowing my old man knows I’m warming your bed. Totally, totally cool-”

“Gross,” you chide, poking an elbow into his ribs that he can’t dodge. 

Eddie sneaks a kiss behind your ear while your face is turned towards his and withdraws, casual again- “And I’m pretty sure Red claimed the same, so you’re not one to talk.”

Your turn for an eye roll, a scoff, remembering Max’s triumphant grin among the clamor of enthusiastic teenagers at the news of their DM’s newest partnership. She’d slipped to your side once the noise had died down and gave you a fierce, unexpected hug, then whispered- “I called it.”

“She didn’t call shit.” You’re just as indignant, slipping both your legs over the seat of Eddie’s closest knee. “And neither did Wayne, or Robin- we’ve been so great at hiding it.”

It’s sarcasm, and Eddie reads your tone like a favorite book. His thumb rests at the hidden nape of your neck as he nods- “Right. ‘S what I said.”

Your arm slips around his middle, fingertips steady at the mouth of your beer while the crown of your head budges up to the side of his jaw. A long, dreamy sigh leaves your lungs, then a concession- “Maybe we were more transparent than we knew. Maybe we were never supposed to hide this.” 

Eddie responds by kissing the top of your head, and swiping goosebumps across the back of your neck. “Yeah. And y’know, having it out in the open might be more trouble than it’s worth. Wayne’s gonna be a pain in the ass about us getting hitched. Havin’ his grandbabies. We’ll have to fend him off with a sword.”

“Yeah right.” You lift your head from the comfort of Eddie’s to take another long sip of your beer, squinting sideways at your boy. “You know you’re not allowed to have swords after what happened to my wall last year. And besides. I can handle it.”

Eddie smiles at you, gives you a look like you’re the only reason he’s upright and breathing. 

There’s no need for Rules anymore. No more walls around the softest parts of your mind- walls that were structured to hold you together but were actually breaking you apart.

You’re sitting on the porch of the house where you first told Eddie you loved him, and though you don’t remember it, you’re sure you’ve made up for it a thousand times over. A pattern you want to repeat and repeat until the meter swings so far in the other direction that Eddie will never again have to guess at what’s in your head. 

The feeling is enormous. You don’t shy from it.

“I love you,” you murmur. Simple and honest. 

Eddie’s smile is sideways, heavy with the weight of it. He demures, looks down and then up at you through those long, deerlike lashes- “Love? Little ol’ me?”

You lean in and press your lips to his. It’s a soft, quiet kiss, one that you hope is worth a couple thousand words. 

There’s a far-off shout of Get a room! from your cousin, a tittering giggle from Jane, some of the boys catching on and whooping in teasing bursts, a brief reprieve from their all-consuming play.

You throw a middle finger in the vague direction of Max and Eddie is grinning so wide you can feel the neat row of his teeth between your lips before you pull back just to see the pink tinge at the apples of his cheeks. 

He meets you halfway for another kiss. 

For a blissful moment, it’s just the sound of the cicadas, you, and Eddie- and everything feels just right. 

Your heart absolutely stopped for a second. What? You can’t even hear your own voice.

He laughs. Nothing serious. He’s just worried you’re hungry.

Huh? Your voice is still raspy from sleep.

Just come.

So now you’re here, climbing the stairs to the VIP lounge. And it’s just your luck that someone is guarding the door.

He scans you up and down, then shuffles a bit closer to block the entrance.

"Hi, um, my friends are inside waiting for me."

He raises a brow. "Sure.”

"Yeah," you insist. "Roy and Jason—"

His face falls. "You’re Jason’s girl?"

"Sorry?" You blink twice. "What do you mean—"

But you’re interrupted for a second time. You frown and check your phone again, to see if there are any missed calls. There’s not.

The man turns around and taps his earpiece. A moment later, he spins back to you, smiling brightly. "You can absolutely come in." He opens the door for you. "Jason’s girl."

You mumble a thanks, still very weirded out by the whole experience.

The second you step inside, all eyes snap to you. Granted, there are only five other people besides Roy and Jason, but it’s still very weird for everyone to be tracking your movements and whispering to each other.

You ignore the stares and make your way to the boys’ table in the corner of the room. Just where Jay would’ve chosen it— away from any potential threats.

"Roy! Jason!" you call.

Jason is rambling to Roy, waving his hands around and smiling brightly. But the second he hears you, his whole body freezes. Even his hands stop mid-gesture. His pretty green eyes immediately start scanning the room until they land on you.

And then he waddles. He waddles toward you. His movements are clumsy as he tries to grab you, nearly walking straight into a decorative plant.

"Baby!"

You catch him just as he’s about to collapse on top of you. Struggling to support his weight, you try to steady him.

He lets you. Then he picks you up.

He kisses you on the nose, and all you can do is blink in confusion before he throws you over his shoulder.

"Jason?" you whisper-yell. "Put me down right now."

"Nuh-uh." He sounds smug. "Can’t."

The world flips again as he plops you down beside him on the velvet couch. Now you’re sandwiched between the two of them.

You look at Roy, raising a brow. "What did you even give him?"

He smirks, raising his hands innocently. "He said he could handle it."

Jason is playing with your hair. He tugs on a strand before curling it around his index finger.

"Why is everyone looking at us?"

Roy laughs, bright and loud. "Jason couldn’t stop telling everyone about you. The cocktail guy, the—"

"Bouncer?"

He snaps his fingers. "Yeah." Roy grins. "You know, I thought he'd eventually run out of facts."

You blink. "Facts?"

"Oh, yeah." He starts counting on his fingers. "You brush your teeth for ten minutes— you’re a psycho for that, by the way. You like your toast overly done. You cry at movies, even if they’re not sad. He’s dissected the meaning of all of your favourite songs...”

You’re too dumbfounded to properly answer. Roy continues.

"You apparently have the prettiest smile in the tri-state area."

Jason nods solemnly. "It's true."

Roy whistles. "He's got it bad."

Jason is still playing with your hair. "You’re so pretty."

You turn to him with a smile, brushing his cheek softly. He immediately nuzzles into your touch. "Not as much as you."

He shakes his head. "No, no. You’re ridiculously pretty. Sometimes"— he drops his voice, as if you’re sharing some great secret—"when you smile, I forget how to think. Or when you do anything, really."

He wraps an arm around your waist until there isn’t even an inch of space between you. You can feel every line of his body, the hard muscle beneath his clothes. "My pretty, pretty girl."

You place a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you, Jay."

"And you also make me really hard."

Roy’s laughter is impossible to ignore. He slams a hand on the table, wheezing as he mumbles something between fits of laughter. You see him fumble for his phone out of the corner of your eye.

"Yesterday, for example, when you—"

"Jason," you say sternly.

His face falls. "Don’t be mad at me." He’s frowning now, his big green eyes glossy and wide.

You cup his face. "I’m not angry, baby."

"Oh, okay." He nods slowly. "I’m sorry I told Roy you snore."

"I do not—"

Roy nudges your shoulder. "According to Jason, you do."

Jason nods matter-of-factly. "When I can’t sleep, I listen to you breathe. So yeah. You snore."

Your heart pounds in your chest, steady and hard. You want to kiss him. Not just his lips. Everywhere.

Because who decided kisses on the lips were the most intimate? You’d kiss every scar, every freckle, every crook of his beautiful body. You want to worship him with kisses.

"And you make me soup," Jason continues, completely oblivious to the look of pure love on your face.

Roy blinks. "Okay?"

Jason sighs dramatically. "Not canned soup. Actual homemade soup she spends time and effort making."

"Congratulations.”

He rolls his eyes. "You don’t get it." Then his eyes find yours, unwavering. "But you do. You get me, and you love me."

"Of course I do, Jay.” You smile softly.

Jason smiles before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His eyes flutter shut as you run your fingers through his hair. "You’re my definition of an angel."

The next morning, Jason wakes up with a killer hangover and his entire body wrapped around you.

Then he bumps into Roy in the kitchen. He dies of embarrassment the second Roy holds up his phone to show him something.

The video shows nothing but the club ceiling, dim lighting, and red velvet. The audio, however, is crystal clear.

What if she’s hungry?

Jason physically cringes at the sound of his own whiny, worried voice. He’s never drinking again. Roy is barely holding in his laughter, the phone slightly shaking.

She’s an adult, man.

She forgets to eat. There’s a frustrated grumble. I can’t unlock my phone. Stupid numbers. A brief shuffle. The password is her birthday. You call her.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, pulling out and taking your hands in his. He laces his fingers through yours, squeezing gently once. “We don’t have to.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I want to. I just… I’m anxious.”

“Why?”

You move your face to the side, squeezing his fingers and laughing a little. “You’re just — you’re just so pretty, Steve. Makes me sweat.”

He’s taken aback by this for only a moment, then squeezes your hands a little harder. “So are you. You think I’m not freaking out right now? Hottest person I know under me, so eager for it. I’m blushing. See?”

With the tip of his nose, he tilts your head to look at him. His cheeks are pink, pupils blown, eyes heavily hooded.

You bite back a smile. “You’re so pretty when you blush.”

“Yeah?” he muses. He blissfully forgets that you’re only his friend right now. “You’re prettier. And I’ve got you, yeah? Nice and slow. You say stop and we stop. How’s that sound?”

His thumb brushes against yours, back and forth, your hands pressed gently into the bed.

You nod, eyes full of stars.

“You trust me?”

“More than anyone,” you respond, without hesitation.