“Absolutely not, those are clearly Wayne’s,” He lies, reaching to snatch the box away.

You twist out of reach with the reflexes of someone highly motivated by the promise of blackmail material. “Wayne wrote a letter in crayon asking for an Atari?” you say, eyebrows up, flipping through the stack of age-wrinkled papers.

“He’s young at heart?” Eddie attempts, lunging for the box a second time.

You flick to a different letter adorned with crayon drawings and messy handwriting, “Oh these are so cute, I almost forgot you didn’t just spawn in fully formed—leather jacket, bad attitude, and all.”

“It’s not cute,” he huffs, making another grab for the box and missing as you pivot away again. “And it’s actually a federal crime to read other people’s post, so unless your name’s Santa Claus, you’re doing time, babe.”

“Awww, look you’re asking for a toy guitar so you can be Tony Iommi. Wow, this is precious, I didn’t know you used to go as Edward,” You coo, immensely enjoying this image of him.

He closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength. “I swear, if you keep reading those, I’m calling the cops.”

“On me?”

“Yes.”

“For federal mail fraud.”

“Almost, federal mail fraud, emotional terrorism and blackmail. That’s at least forty years, you’re going to the slammer, sweetheart.”

“Would you wait for me? Maybe a conjugal visit?” You leer, stepping into his space.

Eddie’s eyes fly open. He looks at you like you are the one who just committed a federal crime. “Conjugal—? You think you’re getting perks in prison after emotionally waterboarding me with my own childhood?”

You shrug, inching closer, smugness radiating. “You never know. Maybe the warden’s a romantic.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters, backing up a step as you stalk forward, “I am not role‑playing prison guard and inmate with you over my letters to Santa.”

You tilt your head. “Not even if I ask nicely?”

He falters—visibly. Your grin widens.

“That’s not fair,” he whispers like you’ve struck a mortal blow. He looks up, gaze fixed on the ceiling refusing to look at you.

You tap a finger to his chest. “Neither is forty years in the slammer, babe.”

He splutters. “You committed mail fraud!” Eddie claps a hand over his face to hide the blush creeping up his neck. “I hate you. I hate you so much.”

You hum. “Yet here you are, backing yourself against the counter like you want that conjugal visit to start early.”

“I— I’m not— that’s not—” he stammers, hands flailing uselessly.

You plant the box on the table beside him, lean in, and whisper, “Edward Munson. Baby guitarist. Future metal icon. Lover of glitter stickers.”

“Stop,” he begs, voice cracking. “You’re evil, vile actually.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth—quick, triumphant.

“Then maybe,” you murmur, “you should stop giving me so much material.”

He groans again, arms looping hesitantly, helplessly, around your waist as he gives in. “Unbelievable. I’m being seduced with my own humiliation.”

“Mmhmm.”

“That’s messed up.”

“Mmhmm.”

“…I’m into it.”

“Parts, you know I heard the host’s real handsome,” You mumble back, fingers inching under his shirt collar.

He grins, but it quickly sours as you finish your joke with, “think you could snag me her number?”

He awards you an eye roll with an exaggerated scoff, feigning outrage, “I miss when you were funny,” He laments, cold fingers sneaking under your jumper to misappropriate your warmth.

You laugh, shifting up to press him closer, you’re sure you’re almost one being as you tangle your arms around his neck. “Oh, you missed me. That's really embarrassing for you, Babe.”

You can’t see his face, but you feel the smile against your cheek, warm and smug.

He nudges your jaw until you tilt for him, nose brushing yours as he slots closer. “You know that scene in Aliens?” he murmurs. “The part where the thing just… latches onto that guy’s face? That’s totally you. Total facehugger.”

You open your mouth to huff at him, but he catches it, pressing a series of soft slow kisses against your lips, crushing you into the mattress as he swallows whatever protest you were mustering.

You’ve forgotten to be vexed by the time he wakes in the morning. It’s a mess of sheets and tangled limbs as you endeavour onto his lap.

He blinks up at you, squinting like you’re too bright to look at directly. “You know I gotta go, pretty girl,” he soothes, voice still coated in sleep. His fingers drift into your hair, slow and automatic, massaging your scalp in that way that turns you to warm putty. “C’mon, Beautiful, I got responsibilities. You gotta let me up.”

You press your palm against his forehead, a frown of mock concern creasing your features, “Oh no,” you whisper, “you’re burning up.”

He snorts, but you shush him with a stern shake of your head.

“Seems pretty serious,” you continue, prodding him scientifically, “you better stay here.”

Steve laughs, the sound rough and warm in his chest. “Serious, huh? You think I’ll live?”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, continuing your very serious diagnosis. “Up in the air. Very touch and go. You better stay for observation until further notice.”

He grins, his hands sliding to your hips as if they belong there. “Observation,” he echoes, amused.

“Absolutely.” You nod solemnly. “Way too sick to queue Foreigner.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to come? I wouldn’t want to intrude.” You hum, stealing a tape from his pile, busying yourself to avoid his warm gaze.

“It’s my car and I promise you that you’re the least intrusive person to sit in my front seat,” He laughs brightly, ducking to meet your gaze. “You gotta come, Dustin’s still banned from my front seat for spilling coke all over my dashboard.” He sneaks a hand behind your neck, thumb tracing the underside of your jaw, “C’mon, it’ll be fun, I’ll buy you a ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate, maybe I’ll throw in marshmallows if you’re nice enough to me,” he says, sounding like he’s flirting. You roll your eyes and he knows he’s won, grinning as he releases you, turning back to his tapes.

Steve’s earlier than he’d said, the car is still humming as he waits till you’re clear of the front door before he’s leaning over the console to push the passenger side door open. “Look at you,” he announces, voice warm against the bite of the wind, “being all punctual. Proud of you.” He taps the top of the door, coaxing you in.

“You’re early,” you counter, sliding into the seat. The heater’s already on, warm air curling around your legs, and his music is playing low, it sounds like one of Robin’s tapes, he must have dropped her off to her band thing.

He shrugs as he pulls away from the curb. “Yeah, well. Figured if you bailed I could guilt-trip you in person.”

You snort. “You really think I’d bail after you promised me overpriced hot chocolate?”

“Ah, so that’s what sealed the deal,” he says, pointing a gloved finger your way. “Not my charming personality. Or my car. Or my—”

“Steve.” You make a noise of disapproval.

“—incredibly impressive driving record,” he finishes, smirking at your interruption. “What’d you think I was gonna say?” He grins, far too enamoured with his own joke.

You roll your eyes, except you’re smiling and he sees it.

He bumps his shoulder lightly into yours across the console before focusing back on the road. It’s comfortable, warm despite the frost creeping across the windows.

It’s dark by the time you reach the Christmas market after stopping to pick up Lucas, Max and Dustin. You’re almost glad for the delay, it looks so much prettier in the dark, string lights draped over the streetlights taking up all available space.