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

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

Until it lands on him.

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

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

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

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

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

Dead silence for a beat. Then the room erupts.

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

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

“Gross. Who the hell admits that?”

“Pervert.”

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

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

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

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

He glances down, eyebrows rising.

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

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

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

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

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

“Run.”

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

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

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

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

He finds you in a heartbeat, clutching your hand.

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

You drop your shoes on the ground.

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

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

“Color?” he checks in almost softly.

“Green,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push his chest away but he’s unmovable.

“Color?” he asks against your mouth.

“Green,” you repeat.

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

You make a sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.”

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

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

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

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

Eddie chuckles and looks around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay like this?”

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

“What’s your name, Red?”

“Better keep it this way.”

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

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

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

“See you again soon.”

Eddie’s POV:

My three-day trial period ended up being much longer than I had hoped, two months to be exact. I’m not complaining, though. I expected her to last a day and a half before she realized this was all one big mistake and ship back to her apartment in Chicago. But to my surprise, she stayed. 

We fell back into old habits quickly, quicker than I ever anticipated. Outstretched on her floor, writing songs, swapping lyrics and melodies in the same spots that the carpet was indented from years of occupying them. Nights at the Hideout, Corroded Coffin irritating Deb while she’s off at the bar, coaxing Deb from pulling the plug on us. Catching up on our years apart, her showing me all of her new tattoos, her inspecting my body to find mine. 

Her mom has begun to come around to the idea of me. She’s still weary, understandably so; my father and I have burned her family in more ways than one. She’s putting on her strongest act for her daughter's sake, hosting dinners and waving hi if she catches me in the street. It’s not much, but it’s a start. 

Wayne’s happier than ever that she’s back, practically bribing her to stay around longer, giving small gifts when she comes over: cigarettes, her favorite wine (which is insane because Wayne doesn’t do wine), and Chili dinners because he remembers those are her favorites. He’s been moving around me differently, too, interrogating me daily to see if I’m “treating her right.” And yeah, you bet your ass I am. I’m not letting go of her again, not while I’m still breathing. 

A week into our second month together, we’re sprawled across her bed doing nothing in particular, just holding the space together. Her mom’s off at the hospital working during the day, which is why we spend most of the time at her place. 

“This is…nice,” she hums into my chest, nuzzling her head in more. I nod in agreement, landing a quick peck on the top of her head. The moment feels like what I could only describe as a dream, in the least dramatic way possible. But just like all dreams, they come to an end.

A knock at the front door jolts us back into reality, her sighing and wining, “For fucks sake, what now?” She hops onto her elbows, kissing me once and sliding out of bed. 

I hear the front door open, and a muffled male’s voice, something between anger and panic. I lean up onto my elbows, trying to listen in more, but it’s too late, the front door closes. She shuffles back into the room, eyebrow raised. 

“Feeling nosy, huh?” she says, leaning against the doorframe. 

I shift and shove my nose in the air, “Nope.”

She chuckles, walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Right. Anyway, uh– that was our rhythm guitarist. His kid sister is sick, and he needs to take some time off–” she cuts herself off, looking down at her hands. 

“You don’t have to say yes, I know you got your own shit going on with Corroded Coffin. But, we need a talented guitarist, like ASAP. And you’re the only other one I know so–”

“ –talented huh?” I cut her off, smirking and sliding closer to her. I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, lifting her face with my thumb, “I would be honored to help out.”

Her eyes widen, a slight smile beginning to form, “Promise?” 

I nod, tilting my head, “Promise.” 

She jumps on top of me, arms wrapping around my neck, peppering kisses all over my face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she squeals in between them. 

She stops and kisses me once more on the nose, then says, “We have practice in two hours, by the way.” 

My eyes narrow, “...you’re kidding?” 

She shakes her head, wiggling free from my grasp, “Nope! Get ready, Munson, it’s forty-five minutes away in Fort Wayne.” 

I shoot up, chasing behind her and spinning her from the waist. She lets out a surprised laugh, hands instinctively landing on my shoulders as I pull her back into me, her hair falling into her face in that way I’ve been quietly obsessed with since we were kids.

“Forty-five minutes?” I echo, narrowing my eyes at her like she just personally offended me. “You’re telling me you volunteered me for a job and didn’t think to mention the drive?”

She shrugs, way too casual for someone who just upended my afternoon, fingers toying with the hem of my shirt like she knows she’s about to get away with it. “You said you were honored.”

“I am,” I say quickly, then lean in just a little closer, dropping my voice, “I just didn’t realize ‘honored’ came with a commute.”

She grins at that, bright and a little smug, and it does something stupid to my chest that I’m not even gonna pretend to unpack right now.

“You’ll survive,” she says, poking my chest once for emphasis. “You used to bike farther than that just to come see me.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, catching her wrist before she can pull away completely, tugging her back into me. “And look where that got me.”

She laughs again, softer this time, like it’s just for me, and it settles something in the room that I didn’t even realize had been shifting. For a second, we just stand there. Close. Too close to be nothing. Not close enough to be everything yet.

Then she leans up, presses a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth like she’s rewarding me for something, and slips out of my grip before I can steal another one.

“Keys,” she says, already halfway to her dresser, rummaging through a pile of things that somehow only she understands. “We’re taking my car, and you’re driving.”

I blink. “Why am I driving?”

“Because,” she says, tossing the keys in my direction without looking, “you drive like a grandma, and I’d like to arrive alive.”

I catch them on instinct, scoffing. “I do not drive like a grandma.”

She glances over her shoulder, one brow raised. “You fully stopped at a yellow light yesterday.”

“That’s called being responsible,” I shoot back, grabbing my jacket from the chair. “Some of us value our lives.”

She hums like she’s unconvinced, already pulling on her boots, laces half-tied in that rushed way she always does when she’s excited about something.

I watch her for a second longer than I probably should. The way she moves, the way she talks, the way she’s just—here. Still here. Two months in, and I’m still waiting for the part where I wake up, and she’s gone again. Hasn’t happened yet. Not gonna happen. Not this time.

“You coming, Munson?” she calls, already at the door.

I shake myself out of it, rolling my shoulders like I can physically push the thought away, and follow her out, locking the door behind us out of habit more than anything.

“Yeah,” I grin, bumping her shoulder back. “You’re gonna regret putting me behind the wheel, sweetheart.”

She bumps her shoulder into mine as we walk, just hard enough to throw me off balance.

Your POV: 

The studio smells different from what practice spaces usually do.

Cleaner. Sharper. Like everything in here matters more than it’s supposed to. Wires run in straight lines instead of tangled piles, amps are set where they’re meant to be instead of wherever they fit, and the mics—there are too many mics for this to be a normal practice.

You don’t say anything.

Not when Eddie steps in behind you, not when his footsteps slow just slightly, not when you can feel him clocking it all before he even says a word.

Dick’s already there, arms crossed, eyes on you the second you walk in.

“Hey,” he says, pushing off the wall.

“I need a second.”

You nod, stepping away before Eddie can ask, before he can say it out loud.

“What?” you mutter once you’re out of earshot, crossing your arms.

Dick doesn’t waste time. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone new in today.”

“He’s filling in,” you say. “Chuck’s out.”

“That’s not the point,” he replies, lowering his voice. “We’re on a schedule. You can’t just swap people in without warning me.”

“He’s not just anyone,” you push back. “He can handle it.”

Dick studies you for a second, then glances past you toward Eddie, like he’s trying to size him up from a distance.

“He better,” he says. “Because we’re not burning studio time on a gamble.”

“We won’t,” you reply.

He nods once. “Get him set up.”

You turn back to Eddie. He’s standing near the door, eyes moving between the equipment, the mics, the glass window into the booth, like he’s trying to decide if he’s reading it right.

“You didn’t say anything about this,” he says.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

He lets out a short breath, gesturing around you. “About it not being practice.” There it is.

You step closer, keeping your voice low. “It’s fine.”

He shakes his head once, not convinced. “This isn’t ‘fine,’ sweetheart. This is—” he gestures again, searching, “—real.”

You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your mouth. “Yeah,” you say. “It is.”

His eyes flick back to yours, something uncertain sitting there now, something you haven’t seen on him in a long time. “You should’ve told me.”

“I knew you’d overthink it,” you reply, nudging his arm lightly. “You’re good, Eddie. Like—actually good.”

“That’s not the same, and you know it,” he mutters.

You step closer again, reaching up, hooking your finger under his chin just enough to make him look at you. “Hey,” you say, softer now. “It’s just us. Same as always. You, me, a song.”

There’s a pause. He exhales, then nods. “Okay.”

When you walk into the room, everything shifts. The band’s already there, scattered around like they always are, tuning, talking, half-focused until you step in. Heads turn, attention snapping into place, curiosity following right behind it.

“Yo,” the drummer calls, lifting a hand. “About time.”

“Hi,” you say, setting your bag down. “This is Eddie—he’s filling in for Chuck.”

A few nods. A couple of “hey”s. Normal. For all of about two seconds. The bassist squints slightly, looking between the two of you, something ticking in the back of her head.

“Wait,” she says slowly, stepping closer. “Hold on.”

You already don’t like where this is going. “Isn’t this—” she gestures between you, then points toward Eddie’s arm, “—the All I Wanted guy?”

Your stomach drops. “No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “You’re reaching.”

She doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes flick down again, more focused this time. “Dude,” she says, pointing now, “that’s the same tattoo.”

Eddie glances down instinctively, like he forgot it was even there.

“Dragon, right?” the bassist adds.

Eddie scoffs, automatically. “It’s a wyvern.”

And that—that’s it. The bassist lets out a short laugh, stepping back like he just solved something.

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s him.”

You close your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to feel it. Then open them again. Because now—everyone knows.

The bassist exhales through her nose, shaking her head like she’s half amused, half impressed, then gestures toward the amps.

“Alright,” she says, dragging the word out slightly. “Okay, Eddie.” You don’t like the tone. Not yet.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The room shifts. Everyone’s a little more attentive now, a little quieter, like this just became something else. Not just a fill-in. Not just a practice. A test.

You glance at Eddie. He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, he rolls his shoulders once, slow, like he’s settling into something familiar, something that doesn’t belong to the room or the pressure or any of this. Just him.

He reaches for the guitar, fingers brushing over it like he’s already mapping it out in his head, like he doesn’t need time to adjust, just a second to feel it. Then he looks up.

Finds you, just for a second. That same look. The one that says you and me before anything else. Your chest tightens. He smirks slightly after, something a little cocky settling in now, like the nerves didn’t win, like they never really had a chance to.

“Careful,” he says, plugging in, glancing toward the bassist. “You might regret asking.”

The bassist huffs out a quiet laugh, stepping back. “Yeah?” she replies. “I doubt it.”

Eddie doesn’t answer. He just starts playing. And within seconds—you know, and they do too.

He doesn’t stop right away. He lets the last note ring out, fingers still on the strings like he’s deciding whether or not to push it further, like he could if he wanted to. The room stays quiet for a second longer than it should, the kind of quiet that means everyone’s thinking the same thing but no one’s said it yet.

Then, a crackle from the speakers overhead. “Alright,” Dick’s voice cuts in from the control booth, dry, unimpressed in that way that means he’s very much impressed. “We get it. He’s good.”

The tension breaks just slightly. The drummer lets out a low whistle. The bassist nods once, slower now, like she’s recalibrating whatever she thought this was going to be.

Eddie glances at you. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Dick continues, voice sharper now, slipping back into business. “But we’ve got a problem.”

A collective groan ripples through the room. “Of course we do,” the drummer mutters under his breath.

“You’re tight,” Dick says. “Clean. Consistent.”

There’s a pause.

“Too consistent.”

You straighten slightly.

“That’s not a bad thing,” the bassist shoots back immediately, crossing her arms. “We have a sound. That’s the point.”

“It is,” Dick agrees. “Until every track starts bleeding into the next one.” No one answers right away.

“You need range,” he adds. “Something that breaks it up. Something that doesn’t sound like you’re playing the same song five different ways.”

“That’s not what we’re doing,” the drummer argues, sitting up straighter now.

“Isn’t it?” Dick replies.

The room settles after Dick’s voice cuts out. Not quiet. Just waiting.

You can feel it, that slight shift under everything, the kind that means something isn’t landing the way it should. The bassist’s still got her arms crossed, the drummer tapping his sticks against his knee like he’s thinking too hard about it, and for a second, no one moves.

You exhale, then turn. “We’re doing In My Room,” you say, like it’s already decided.

The drummer’s head tilts. “We haven’t played that in—what—weeks?”

“Twice,” the bassist adds. “Maybe.”

“Yeah,” you nod, already reaching for the acoustic. “And?”

They exchange a look, then a shrug. “Alright,” the drummer mutters, adjusting himself behind the kit.

You settle onto the stool, guitar resting against your thigh, fingers hovering over the strings for just a second before you start.

It’s softer right away, stripped down in a way that feels almost too exposed at first, like you’re letting them see something you don’t usually hand over that easily.

But it works. It always did.

“I want your things in my room. I miss you all of the time. ”

The words come out low, controlled, like they belong in a smaller space than this, like they were meant for something quieter than a full band room. No one jumps in right away. They listen.

The bassist first—of course—testing the waters, fingers finding something lighter than what she’s used to playing, something that follows instead of leads.

The drummer comes in next, barely there, a soft tap that feels more like a heartbeat than a rhythm.

It builds. Not louder. Just fuller. You don’t look up yet. You don’t need to. Eddie’s still for a second longer than the rest, standing there with the guitar in his hands like he’s mapping it out, like he’s listening closer than anyone else in the room.

Then he finds it. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But close enough that it doesn’t matter.

He slips in under it, not over, not trying to take control, just layering into what’s already there like he’s been playing it longer than he has, like he understands the shape of it even if it’s new to him.

You can feel his eyes on you, staring you down with that same infatuation you fell for years ago.  And he adjusts on instinct, picking up on where you’re going before you even get there, following the small changes, the slight pull in tempo, the way your voice dips on the next line—

“I’d slit my own throat, just to see, if you’d mourn me…”

It clicks. All of it. The band tightens around it, not forced, not over-rehearsed, just natural, like this is what Dick was talking about, like this is the space you were missing.

And Eddie? Eddie fits into it like he was always meant to be there. Like magic. The last note lingers a little longer than you expect, the room holding onto it before it finally fades, and for a second, no one says anything.

No one moves. Even the booth stays quiet. And then, a soft crackle overhead. “…yeah,” Dick’s voice comes through, quieter this time. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

You don’t look up. You don’t break it. Because for the first time since you walked in, it feels right. 

Eddie’s POV:

It doesn’t feel real at first. Not in the way I expected it to, anyway. I thought it’d be all pressure, all eyes on me, waiting for me to screw it up, but instead it’s just music. Same as it’s always been. Same as it was when we were kids, sitting on her floor with a notebook between us and nothing else to prove.

Except now there’s a mic in front of it. Now there’s glass between us and someone listening. Now it matters.

We run another track after that, something louder this time, closer to what they’ve been doing before. It kicks in fast, no warning, drums sharper, bass heavier, and I follow it instinctively, fingers moving before I can second-guess anything, before I can overthink it into something worse.

She glances at me halfway through. Just once. That same look. Like she’s checking if I’m still there. Like she knows I am. 

And I stay with her, matching it beat for beat, pushing when she pushes, pulling back when she does, finding the edges of it without stepping over them. It’s not perfect, not clean the way Dick probably wants it, but it’s alive in a way the first run wasn’t.

And judging by the way the room shifts when we finish, they feel it too.

“Alright,” Dick’s voice crackles through again. “That one—keep that.”

That’s the closest thing to praise I think we’re getting. I huff out a quiet laugh under my breath, rolling my shoulders like I can shake off the leftover adrenaline, setting the guitar down for a second like I need to remind myself where I am.

Because this isn’t Hawkins. Not really. This is hers.

The tension breaks after that. Not completely, but enough that people start moving again, adjusting things, grabbing water, talking like we didn’t just spend the last hour pretending this wasn’t something bigger than it is.

“Alright,” the bassist says, stepping forward, wiping her hands on her jeans. “We should probably actually introduce ourselves before we keep going like this.”

I nod once, pushing off the amp I’d been leaning against. “Yeah, probably,” I mutter.

She sticks her hand out. “Lily.”

I take it, firm, quick. “Eddie.”

“I know,” she says, smirking just slightly, like she’s still thinking about earlier. “Wyvern.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not my entire personality.”

“Debatable,” she shoots back. I almost smile.

The drummer steps up next, spinning a stick between his fingers like he’s been waiting for his turn. “Asher,” he says. “And for the record, I didn’t recognize you.”

“Wow,” I deadpan. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

He grins. “Give me time.”

She hovers just off to the side, watching it, not jumping in, just there. And for a second, it feels weirdly normal. Like I’ve been doing this with them longer than I have. Like, I didn’t just walk into it a couple of hours ago, like I didn’t almost lose it entirely two years ago.

Dick comes down a few minutes later.

You can hear him before you see him, the door opening behind the glass, footsteps slower, more deliberate than the rest of ours. He walks in like he owns the place, because he kinda does, and stops just short of the group, his attention landing on me immediately.

“Eddie, right?”

“Yeah,” I nod.

He studies me for a second. Not in a friendly way. Not unfriendly either.

“You kept up,” he says finally.

I shrug slightly. “That’s the goal.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, like that’s the answer he was looking for.

“We don’t have time to ease people in,” he adds. “What you did in there—” he gestures back toward the booth, “—that’s the baseline. Not the exception.”

“Got it,” I reply.

Another pause. Then, “You planning on sticking around?” he asks.

That lands a little heavier than it should. I glance at her without thinking. Just for a second. Then back at him.

“Yeah,” I say. “I am.”

He nods once, like that’s enough, like he’s already decided what he needs to know about me. “Good,” he says. “Don’t make me regret it.”

We end up at some random bar after. Not the Hideout. Not anywhere I recognize. Just a place with sticky floors, dim lighting, and a jukebox that’s either broken or stuck in a loop of songs nobody asked for. The kind of place that pretends it doesn’t care what it is, which somehow makes it work.

It’s loud. Not overwhelming, just enough to fill the space between us so nothing feels too heavy after everything that just happened.

“First round’s on me,” Asher says, already halfway to the bar before anyone can argue.

“Bold,” Lily calls after him. “You don’t even know what we drink.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he shoots back.

I huff out a laugh, leaning against the table, watching him go like I’ve known him longer than a couple of hours. He moves easily, talks easily, the kind of person that doesn’t make you work to keep up. I like that. He comes back a minute later with a handful of drinks, sliding one toward me without asking.

“Beer,” he says. “Felt right.”

I glance at it, then at him. “You profiling me?”

“Absolutely,” he replies. “You look like you’d be offended if I handed you anything else.”

He’s not wrong. I take a sip, nodding once. “Alright,” I admit. “You’re not terrible at this.”

“High praise,” he says, clinking his glass lightly against mine.

We fall into it easily after that.

Talking over each other, laughing at dumb shit, him asking about Corroded Coffin like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day, me asking how long he’s been putting up with Lily, which earns me a shove from across the table and a “watch it” that doesn’t have any real bite to it.

She’s next to me, shoulder brushing mine every time she shifts, close enough that I don’t have to look to know she’s there. I still do. Every once in a while. Just to check. Just to make sure.

Asher leans back in his chair at one point, looking between the two of us like he’s piecing something together he’s not gonna say out loud.

“Yeah,” he mutters, mostly to himself, taking another sip. “This makes sense.”

I don’t ask what he means. I don’t think I want to know. Instead, I lean back, stretching my arm across the back of her chair like it belongs there, like I’ve been doing it all night, like it’s nothing.

Your POV: 

The bar settles into something softer after the first round. Not quieter, just easier, like the edge has worn off now that everyone’s had a drink and the adrenaline from the studio has somewhere to go. The boys drift off not long after, Asher dragging Eddie toward the dartboard with way too much confidence, already talking shit before the game even starts.

“You’re gonna lose,” Eddie calls, grabbing a dart.

“In your dreams,” Asher shoots back. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Practicing darts?” Eddie scoffs. “What are you, forty?”

You shake your head, smiling into your drink as Lily leans back beside you, watching them with the kind of fond disbelief that says she’s seen this before.

“God,” she mutters. “They’re insufferable.”

“Give it five minutes,” you reply. “It’ll get worse.”

She snorts, taking a sip before her attention shifts back to you, something a little more curious settling in her expression now. 

“So,” she says, dragging it out slightly.

You glance at her, already knowing where this is going. “So,” you echo.

She tilts her head, eyes flicking briefly toward Eddie before landing back on you. “You two,” she says, gesturing loosely between you and the dartboard. “What’s the deal? Are we doing a ‘back together again’ situation or…?”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you glance back at him. He’s arguing about the rules now. Of course he is.

“He’s on a trial run,” you say, casual, like it’s nothing. “Might get off the bench soon if he behaves.”

Lily lets out a laugh, leaning forward slightly. “Oh my god, you’re insane.”

“It’s a very exclusive position,” you shrug. “High standards.”

“Clearly,” she grins, then nudges your arm lightly. “I mean, I get it. You’ve got history. Just—”

She pauses, taking another sip, then adds with a smirk, “bands with couples? Dangerous game.”

You raise a brow. “That so?”

She nods toward the dartboard, where Asher’s now dramatically celebrating something that absolutely did not warrant that level of reaction. “That’s him and me,” she says. “We’re fine, obviously, but—” she lifts her glass slightly, “—one bad rehearsal away from full Fleetwood Mac.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “We’re not that bad.”

“Yet,” she says, quick, but still smiling. The word doesn’t land heavily. Just teasing.

You glance back over at Eddie again, catching the way he looks over at you mid-argument, like he was already checking, like he always does. Your chest tightens. Just a little.

You look back at Lily, lifting your glass. “We’ll keep it under control,” you say.

She clinks hers against yours. “Sure you will.”

You don’t even get to finish your drink before Asher’s voice cuts across the bar. “Alright, enough talking,” he calls. “We need teams.”

You glance over, already suspicious. “For what?”

“Pool,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Come on.”

Lily groans. “Oh, this is a terrible idea.”

“Scared?” Asher shoots back. She flips him off without even looking.

You sigh, setting your glass down. “I don’t even play.”

That’s a lie. A good one. Eddie glances at you. Just for a second. And you see it. That flicker. He gets it immediately. “Yeah,” he adds, way too convincing. “We’re gonna get destroyed.”

Asher grins. “Perfect.”

Five minutes later, you’re holding a cue stick like you’ve never seen one before in your life. “Okay,” you mutter, squinting at the table like it personally offended you. “So I just… hit it?”

Lily narrows her eyes. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” you say, completely straight-faced.

Behind you, Eddie steps in closer. Too close. Not that you’re complaining.

“Nah, you’ve got it,” he says, voice low near your ear, hands hovering just enough to guide but not fully touch. “Just—line it up here…”

He adjusts your stance slightly, nudging your shoulder, then your hand, like he’s actually teaching you something. It would be believable if you didn’t both know exactly what you were doing. “Like this?” you ask, glancing back at him.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Perfect.”

You hit. The ball sinks clean. You blink, like you’re surprised. “Oh.”

Asher frowns immediately. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Has to be,” Eddie agrees, way too seriously. 

It keeps going like that. You miss just enough to make it believable. Eddie plays a little sloppily when he has to; he scratches once, just to sell it. Lily starts catching on halfway through, her eyes narrowing more and more with each shot that’s just a little too clean for someone who “doesn’t play.”

“Okay,” she mutters at one point. “Something’s not right.”

“Wow,” you say, offended. “I’m trying my best.” Eddie snorts behind you. You nudge him with your elbow.

“Be supportive.”

“I am,” he replies. “I think you’re doing great.”

By the time the game ends, you and Eddie win. Of course you do.

Asher stares at the table like it betrayed him. “No way.”

Lily points at you. “You’re lying.”

You hold your hands up. “About what?”

“You’ve played before.”

“Define ‘played.’”

Eddie loses it at that, laughing under his breath as he leans against the table.

“Pay up,” you add, way too casually.

Asher groans, digging into his pocket. “This is a scam.”

“It’s not a scam,” you say, already taking the cash he hands over. “It’s a learning experience.”

“For you, maybe,” Lily mutters, shaking her head.

You split the money without even thinking, handing half to Eddie. He looks at it, then at you. Then laughs, softer this time. “Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “If Rus and Al could see us now…”

You grin, bumping your shoulder into his. “They’d be a little proud.”

“A little?” he repeats, raising a brow. “They’d be taking us to every bar in Indiana to do the same routine.”

You laugh, leaning into him just slightly, the moment settling into something warm, something easy. Something that feels familiar, too familiar. But this time, you don’t pull away.

Eddie disappears for a second after the game. You don’t think much of it until he comes back with another round, setting the drinks down with a little more flair than necessary, like he’s trying to make a point.

“On the house,” he says.

Lily raises a brow. “This is not your house.”

“On your house,” he corrects, nodding toward the money still sitting on the table. “Courtesy of your poor decision-making.”

Asher groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You are never hustling me again.”

“You say that now,” you mutter, lifting your drink.

Eddie drops into the chair beside you, knee knocking into yours under the table like it belongs there, like it always has. It settles easily. Too easy. Lily watches the two of you for a second, then shakes her head like she’s putting something together.

“Okay,” she says, leaning forward. “Serious question.” You already don’t trust it.

“Where did you two actually learn to play like that?”

You and Eddie glance at each other. And then you both start laughing. Not loud, not dramatic, just that shared kind of laugh that comes from the same place, the same memory, the same, of course.

“Oh my god,” you say, shaking your head. “You wanna take this or—”

“Nah, I got it,” Eddie grins, leaning forward, elbows on the table like he’s about to tell the best story of his life. “Alright, so—picture this.”

“This is gonna be bad,” Asher mutters.

“It’s gonna be accurate,” Eddie corrects.

You snort.

“Our dads,” he continues, pointing between the two of you, “were not—how do I put this—great influences.”

“Terrible,” you add.

“Criminally terrible,” he nods.

Lily blinks. “Wait—actually?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, taking a sip like it’s not a big deal. “Pool halls, bars, anywhere they could make money off someone dumber than them.”

“Which,” Eddie cuts in, “was most people.”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder. “They used to drag us with them,” you continue, “because, you know, parenting.”

“As one does,” Asher deadpans.

“So we’d just sit there,” Eddie says, gesturing vaguely, “watching them cheat people out of cash, night after night, learning all the little tricks.”

“Angles,” you add.

“Distractions,” he continues.

“Looking like you don’t know what you’re doing,” you finish.

Lily stares at you. “So you were hustling us.”

You tilt your head. “We prefer ‘honoring our roots.’”

Asher groans. “Unbelievable.”

Eddie leans back, satisfied. “And that, my friends, is how you lose money to two people who definitely shouldn’t be trusted.”

“Noted,” Lily mutters.

You stay longer than you planned.

Long enough for the drinks to blur a little, for the laughter to come easier, for the night to settle into something warm and unguarded. At some point, Asher and Lily drift ahead, arguing about something stupid as they head toward the door, leaving you and Eddie a step behind. It’s quieter out here. Cooler.

The kind of air that makes everything feel just a little more real. You dig your keys out of your bag as you walk, the familiar weight of them grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

Eddie glances over at you, something amused flickering across his face. “Hey,” he says, nodding toward your car. “Does it still do the thing?”

You pause halfway to the door, already smiling. “The thing?”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer, a grin pulling at his mouth. “The completely normal, definitely not concerning thing where your door refuses to open like a normal car.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, my god.”

“Don’t ‘oh my god’ me,” he continues. “I’m just asking if I need to brace myself.”

You walk over to the passenger side and kick the lower panel of the back door sharply with your boot. It flies open immediately. Eddie lights up.

“No way,” he laughs, stepping closer. “It still does it?”

“Of course it does,” you say. “Why would that change?”

He runs a hand over the door like he’s inspecting it, like it’s a piece of history instead of a barely functioning vehicle. “This thing should not be road legal.”

“It wasn’t when I got it,” you shrug.

Lily pauses halfway to her own car. “Wait—what?”

You lean casually against the hood. “My dad stole it for my sixteenth birthday.”

“…you’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Eddie snorts, stepping in beside you. “’64 Dodge Dart,” he adds, almost proudly. “Ran like hell for about three months.”

“Then Ronnie crashed her bike into it,” you continue, gesturing toward the door. “Right there.”

“Completely wiped out,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “Took the door with her.”

“And now,” you finish, kicking it again lightly for emphasis, “this is the only way it opens.”

Lily stares at you. Asher looks impressed. “That is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard,” Lily says.

“Thank you,” you reply.

Eddie leans against the car beside you, shoulder brushing yours again, quieter now. “Still drives, though,” he says.

You glance at him. “Yeah,” you nod. “Still drives.”

He smiles. And for a second, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Eddie’s POV: 

The car sounds the same. That’s the first thing I noticed. 

Same low hum under everything, same slight rattle when she goes a little too fast over a bump, same way the whole thing feels like it could fall apart at any second but never actually does. It’s stupid, the stuff your brain latches onto, but it makes something in my chest loosen just a little.

Like I’ve been here before. Like, I didn’t mess it all up the first time. She’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers tapping lightly to whatever’s playing on the radio. I’m not even paying attention to the song, not really, because I’m too busy noticing everything else.

The way her hair falls when she turns her head. The way she leans forward just slightly when she focuses. The way this—all of this—feels dangerously familiar. My hand ends up on her thigh without me really thinking about it. Just like it used always to be. I half expect her to move it. She doesn’t. Doesn’t even look down. Just keeps driving, like it’s normal, like it’s nothing. Which somehow makes it worse. Better. Both. I dunno. 

I swallow, dragging my thumb just slightly against the fabric of her jeans, testing it, like I’m waiting for her to pull away, to remind me that this isn’t what it was before. She doesn’t. Of course, she doesn’t. And now I’m stuck here, overthinking it anyway. Typical.

We pass the sign for Hawkins not long after. That’s when it hits me again, harder this time. The weight of it. Being back. Being here with her. The way everything’s lining up just a little too perfectly, like I don’t trust it yet, like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I clear my throat. Bad sign. “Hey,” I say, a little quieter than I meant to.

She hums in response, glancing at me for half a second before looking back at the road. “Yeah?”

I hesitate. Then— “So,” I start, forcing a small smirk like I’m not overthinking this at all, like I didn’t just spend the last ten minutes talking myself in and out of it. “When am I getting off the bench?”

She freezes. Not completely. Just enough. Her eyes flick to me again, sharper this time, something amused already creeping in. “Oh,” she says, dragging it out slightly. “Now you have perfect hearing?”

I grin despite myself, leaning back in the seat like I didn’t absolutely catch every word earlier. “Selective,” I correct. “I tune in when it matters.”

She huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head, but there’s something softer sitting under it now, something less deflective than before. “Please,” she mutters. “You were definitely eavesdropping.”

“I prefer ‘actively listening,’” I shoot back.

“Of course you do.”

I let my hand stay where it is, thumb brushing just slightly again without thinking, a little bolder this time, now that she hasn’t moved it.

“So?” I press, quieter now. “What’s the verdict?”

She glances at me again. Longer this time. And there’s something in her expression—something teasing, yeah, but something else too. Something that feels a little too close to an answer I’m not sure I’m ready for.

“You’re doing okay so far,” she says.

I narrow my eyes. “Just okay?”

“Don’t push it,” she shoots back, but she’s smiling now.

I shake my head, huffing out a quiet laugh as I look out the window for a second, trying to play it off like that didn’t hit harder than it should have. “Alright,” I mutter. “I’ll take it.”

She slows the car slightly as we get closer to town, the streetlights starting to look familiar in a way that settles into something deeper than I want to admit.

“You’ll know when you’re off the bench,” she adds after a second.

I glance back at her.

“Yeah?” I ask.

She nods, eyes still on the road, but there’s a small smile tugging at her mouth now. “Yeah.”

That’s enough. For now. I lean back into the seat, letting my hand rest a little more comfortably against her thigh, like I’ve earned it, like I’m not going anywhere this time. Not if I can help it. And for once, I don’t feel like I’m chasing it. I feel like I’m getting closer.

Wayne’s truck isn’t in the driveway when we pull up. “Looks like you’re outta luck,” I say, nodding toward the empty spot like I’m not already doing the math in my head. “Responsible adult not present. Real tragedy.”

She glances at it, then at me, one brow lifting slightly. “Wow,” she says. “How will I ever recover?”

“Thoughts and prayers,” I mutter, unlocking the door.

The trailer smells the same. Coffee, faint smoke, something warm and lived-in that never really leaves, no matter how long you’re gone. I step inside first, flicking on the light, half expecting it to feel different with her here again. It doesn’t. If anything, it feels more right than it has in a long time.

“Home sweet home,” I say, kicking the door shut behind us.

She steps in like she remembers where everything is, dropping her bag near the couch without asking, eyes scanning the place in that quiet way she does when she’s taking something in. “You didn’t clean,” she notes.

I scoff. “I absolutely cleaned.”

She points at the table. There’s a stack of something I meant to deal with.

“Selective cleaning,” I correct.

She laughs, shaking her head, and it settles into the space so easily it almost throws me off.

She ends up on my bed, cross-legged with my guitar in her lap like she’s been playing it for years—which, technically, she has, and I’m stretched out beside her, watching her fingers move like I don’t already know what she’s about to play.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.

“I’m observing,” I reply.

“You’re staring.”

“Semantics.”

We trade like we used to. Chords, lines, dumb ideas that turn into something halfway decent if we don’t think too hard about it. At some point, she leans back against the wall, and I shift closer without even realizing it, shoulder brushing hers, then staying there. We don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about anything that matters, really. Not much talking comes at this next part. 

The air in the trailer feels thicker now, like the walls know exactly what’s about to happen and they’re leaning in to watch. She sets the guitar aside carefully, like it’s something fragile, and the second her hands are empty I feel the shift. That old pull, the one that never really went away, tightens low in my gut. I don’t ask. I just move.

My palm slides along her thigh, slow at first, testing, because even if we’ve done this dance before, the time apart makes everything feel brand new and dangerous. She doesn’t pull away. Instead she turns toward me, knees falling open just enough that I can slot myself between them when I push up on one elbow.

“Still observing?” she asks, voice a little breathy already, and fuck if that doesn’t go straight to my groin, I don't know what else would.

“Something like that,” I murmur, leaning in until my mouth is right against her ear. “Been thinking about this stupid bed and how you used to sound in it.”

Her breath catches. Good.

I kiss her before she can fire back, messy and hungry because that’s how it always was with us: never polite, never careful. My hand finds the hem of her shirt and drags it up, fingers skimming bare skin that’s warmer than I remember. She arches into the touch like her body still knows mine by heart, and that alone makes me groan against her mouth.

Clothes come off in pieces. My shirt first, then hers. I take my time with her bra, thumbs brushing the underside of her tits before I finally get the clasp open and toss it somewhere toward the floor. When I get my mouth on her, sucking one nipple between my teeth just hard enough to make her hiss, her fingers twist into my hair and tug—hard.

“Eddie—” It’s half warning, half plea, and I grin against her skin because I know that tone. She wants it rough tonight. The kind of rough we used to chase when the world felt too heavy, and the only thing that made sense was fucking each other stupid.

I bite down a little harder, then soothe it with my tongue, and her hips roll up against me like she can’t help it. My free hand slides down, popping the button on her jeans and shoving them low enough that I can get my fingers inside her underwear. She’s already wet, slick heat that makes my cock twitch hard against the zipper of my own jeans.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” I rasp, circling her clit with two fingers, slow and deliberate. “Missed this. Missed how fucking greedy you get for me.”

She makes this soft, broken sound that goes right through me. I keep the pressure light, teasing, until her thighs start to tremble and she’s grinding down on my hand like she’s trying to take what I’m not quite giving yet.

I pull back just enough to look at her face: flushed, lips parted, eyes dark and locked on mine. There’s that spark again, the one that says she still owns every filthy corner of my brain.

“On your knees,” I tell her, voice low and rough. Not a question.

She hesitates for half a second, just long enough to make it interesting, then she moves. Turns over, ass up, knees spread, cheek pressed to my pillow like she belongs there. The sight of her like that, back arched, waiting, hits me in a place too embarrassing to mention.

I shove my jeans down and kick them off, stroking myself once, twice, while I take in the view. Then I’m behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other guiding my cock through her folds, teasing her entrance without pushing in.

“Tell me you want it,” I say, because I need to hear it. Need to know this isn’t just an old habit.

She pushes back against me, impatient. “Eddie, fuck—yes. I want you. Please.” That’s all it takes.

I thrust in hard, one smooth stroke until I’m buried to the hilt. The sound she makes is pure sin, and I have to clench my jaw so I don’t come right then like some desperate teenager. She’s tight, hot, perfect, clenching around me like her body’s trying to keep me there forever.

I don’t start slow. Can’t. My hips snap forward, setting a brutal rhythm that has the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, filthy beat. One hand stays on her hip, the other slides up her back and fists in her hair, tugging just enough to lift her head off the pillow.

“Fuck, listen to you,” I growl, leaning over her so my chest presses to her back, mouth at her ear again. “Taking me so good. Always did, didn’t you? Even when you pretended you hated me.”

She moans louder at that, pushing back to meet every thrust, and I feel her start to flutter around my cock. Close already. Greedy girl.

I reach around with my free hand and find her clit, rubbing tight, mean little circles while I keep pounding into her. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Wanna feel you come on my cock like you used to.”

Her whole body goes tense, then shudders hard as she comes with my name on her lips, clenching down so tight it drags me right over the edge with her. I bury myself deep and spill inside her, groaning into her neck, hips jerking through the aftershocks until we’re both trembling and spent.

For a minute, we just stay like that, breathing hard, my forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. Then I ease out of her slowly, pulling her down with me so she’s tucked against my chest, skin sticky and warm.

I press a lazy kiss to her temple, fingers tracing idle patterns on her hip like I’m memorizing her all over again. “Still think I didn’t clean?” I mutter, voice wrecked.

She laughs, soft and breathless, and the sound settles somewhere deep in my ribs where it’s always belonged. Yeah. We’re not talking about anything that matters tonight. But maybe… maybe tomorrow we will.

Your POV:

You wake up slowly. Not all at once, not like something startles you into it, just a gradual awareness, the kind that comes with warmth first, then sound, then memory. The trailer is quiet. Too quiet for Wayne to be home. That registers somewhere in the back of your mind, but not enough to matter yet. What matters is him.

Your cheek is pressed against his chest, his arm draped lazily over your waist like it ended up there sometime in the middle of the night and never left. His breathing is slow, steady, the kind of rhythm that pulls you back in if you let it.

For a second, you just stay there. Still. Letting it settle. Because this is new. Not the closeness. Not the familiarity. But the way it feels now. Softer. Quieter. Less like something you’re chasing and more like something you’ve already caught.

Your fingers trace lightly against his shirt, absentminded, not enough to wake him. You don’t want to wake him yet. Not when he looks like this. Not when everything feels this easy.

You tilt your head slightly, looking up at him. His hair’s a mess, mouth parted just slightly, completely unaware of you watching him like this. You used to do this all the time. Back then. Before everything got complicated. Before you left.

Your chest tightens just a little. Not enough to ruin it. Just enough to remind you it’s real. He shifts slightly under you, something in his expression changing before his eyes even open, like he can feel you there, like he always could.

“…you’re staring,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You smile. “I’m observing.”

His eyes crack open, barely, just enough to look at you. “Creepy.”

“You love it.”

He hums, not denying it, tightening his arm around you just slightly, pulling you in closer like that’s the easiest answer he’s got. You let him. 

By the time you leave, the sun’s higher. Later than you meant to stay. The air’s cooler than it was the night before, the kind that wakes you up just enough as you step outside, keys already in your hand, Eddie trailing behind you like he’s still halfway in the moment you just left.

“Hideout tonight,” he says, like a reminder, like you’d forget.

“I know,” you reply, unlocking the car.

He lingers for a second. A small grin creeps up, causing your body to flutter more than you’d like to admit. You hesitate, then scamper over quickly, landing one kiss before you walk back, head tilted over your shoulder. He just stands on the stairs, that stupid smile you fell for in the first place cemented all over his face. 

The Hideout is louder than usual. Packed in a way that feels earned, like word got around, like people showed up expecting something. Lily and Asher are already there when you walk in, waving you over like they’ve been waiting.

“You’re late,” Lily says.

“You’re early,” you shoot back.

Asher grins. “We’re supportive.”

“Sure you are.”

You settle in near the side of the stage, arms crossed, familiar position, familiar view. It feels different tonight, though. Not in a bad way. Just heightened.

Eddie catches your eye before they start. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something steadier than before, something a little more certain, and you feel it before you even realize you’re reacting to it.

Then they start, and it’s good. Better than you expected, if you’re being honest. He’s different tonight, looser, more confident. Like something clicked into place and stayed there. The band feeds off it, the crowd feeds off it, and you find yourself leaning forward just slightly without meaning to, watching him the same way you always have.

Like you’re looking for something. Or remembering it. They finish strong, and the room reacts. And for a second, everything feels right. You exhale, shifting your weight, letting your gaze drift toward the bar. And that’s when you see her.

Fucking Paige. 

Sitting there like she’s been there the whole time. Like she didn’t just walk into something that isn’t hers anymore. Your stomach drops. Because just like that—the past isn’t in the past anymore.

Your jaw tightens slightly, your posture straightening without you realizing it, like your body already knows what this is before your brain fully catches up. Because of course she’s here. Of course, it couldn’t just be easy. Of fucking course.

You don’t look away, not this time. You just stand there, watching her for a second too long, the noise of the room fading out again, something sharper settling in its place. Something steadier. Something that doesn’t shake the way it used to.

Because you’re not that girl anymore.

You don’t realize how hard you’re staring until Lily shifts beside you. Not subtle about it, either. She follows your line of sight, squinting slightly as she leans forward, trying to place whatever—or whoever—has your attention locked like that.

“…okay,” she mutters. “Who are you staring daggers into?”

You don’t answer right away, don’t look away either. Just tilt your glass slightly in that direction, subtle but not subtle enough, your voice quieter now, steadier than you feel. “Paige.”

It clicks immediately. You see it in her face—the recognition, the oh. Then it comes.

“Oh.” But it’s not soft, it’s not concerned. It’s sharp. Interested.

Lily straightens in her seat, eyes flicking back to Paige, then to you, then back again like she’s sizing the whole situation up in real time.

“That’s her?” she asks. You nod once, and that’s all it takes.

“Okay,” she says, setting her drink down with purpose. “Absolutely not.”

You blink. “Lily—”

“No,” she cuts in, already sliding out of her seat. “You told me about her. That’s her?”

Asher appears out of nowhere like he’s been waiting for something to happen all night, glancing between the two of you. “What’d I miss?”

“That’s Paige,” Lily says, pointing without shame.

Asher looks. Then— “Oh, I don’t like that.”

You huff out a quiet laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you stand, smoothing your hands over your jeans like that’s going to ground you. “It’s fine,” you say. It’s not. But you’re not avoiding it. Not anymore.

“Uh-uh,” Lily mutters, already moving with you. “We’re not doing the ‘it’s fine’ thing. We’re doing the ‘go say something’ thing.”

Asher nods immediately. “Yeah, this feels like a group activity.”

“You are not making this a group activity,” you mutter. Too late. They’re already with you, right on your heels.

Paige notices you before you even reach the bar. She turns slightly on her stool, already watching you like she’s been waiting for this, like she’s curious to see what version of you shows up.

You don't slow down; if anything, you pick up the pace. You dead stop in front of her, close, but not close enough to feel like you're stepping into anything.

"Hi," you say. Calm. Easy.

She looks you up and down slowly, taking her time with it, like she's flipping through an old version of you and trying to decide if she liked that one better.

“Well,” she says, lips curling slightly. “Look who finally came back.”

You tilt your head. “Same to you,” you reply. “Thought business was booming in California.” Lily goes slightly still beside you.

Paige’s smile tightens just a fraction. “I didn’t realize you were still… doing this,” she adds, gesturing vaguely toward the stage. "The whole band thing."

You follow her gaze for half a second, then back. “Yeah,” you say. “Turns out I'm good at it.”

Paige hums, taking a sip of her drink like she’s unfazed.

“Must be nice,” she says. "Having things just... fall into place like that."

You almost smile. “Yeah,” you reply. “It definitely helps when you don't have to sleep your way into a deal. Too bad about that, though. Hope your boss took it okay.”

Lily fully turns away, covering her mouth. Asher actually chokes this time.

Paige stills, tightening her jaw just enough for you to know you'd gotten under her skin.

"Wow," she says, quieter now. "Still bitter."

You shrug.

"Not really," you say. "Just like to be honest. Like you were that day at the music store. Eye-opening stuff, really."

There's no emotion or heat in your voice, nothing for her to grab onto. Just truth.

Paige exhales slowly, like she's trying to decide if it's worth it to keep going. It's not, by the way. You already won. So, you hold her gaze for one more second, then step back. Done.

You turn, Lily immediately grabbing your arm. “I’m obsessed with you,” she whispers.

“Relax,” you mutter.

Asher shakes his head. “That was brutal.”

You don’t respond. Not really. Your eyes drift back to the stage—and Eddie’s already looking at you.

Eddie’s POV: 

I don’t hear what’s said at first, not really, anyway. Gareth’s talking, Jeff’s messing with something on his amp, and I’m nodding along like I’m listening, but my eyes keep drifting—back to the same spot, over and over, like I’ve got a magnet stuck in my head, and she’s the only thing pulling it.

I catch it halfway through the shift. The way Lily’s angled, the way Asher’s trying not to laugh, the way she’s standing—still, steady, not backing down from anything.

And then—her. Paige.

Sitting there like she didn’t just walk into something that isn’t hers anymore. My jaw tightens. Gareth says something, but I don’t answer.

“—you good?” he asks, finally noticing.

“Yeah,” I mutter, already stepping back from the mic. “Be right back.” I don’t wait for a response. I don’t need one.

She’s already walking back when I reach them. Lily’s grinning like she just witnessed something life-changing, Asher’s shaking his head, and she—she looks fine. Better than fine.

Which somehow makes everything in me settle and spike at the same time. “There you are,” I say, stepping in without thinking, my hand landing at her waist like it belongs there. Because it does. Because it always did.

She glances at me, just briefly, like she’s clocking it, like she knows exactly what I’m doing. But she doesn’t move away, and that’s enough.

“What’d I miss?” I ask, voice light, but my eyes are already moving past her—locking on Paige.

She’s standing now, drink still in her hand, posture just a little too deliberate as she walks over like she’s got something left to prove. “Hey,” she says.

I don’t smile, I don’t soften. “Hey,” I echo, flat.

She looks between us, taking in the way my hand hasn’t moved, the way she’s still standing close enough that I don’t have to reach for her. Good.

“Didn’t know you were playing tonight,” Paige says, directing it at me, but not really looking at me.

“Yeah,” I shrug. “I do that.” She hums, like that’s not what she meant.

“I heard,” she adds, glancing at her, “you’ve been busy.”

My hand shifts slightly at her waist, thumb brushing once without thinking. “Yeah,” I say. “We have.”

Paige’s eyes flick down, then back up. There’s a pause. The kind that’s supposed to mean something, but I don’t let it. 

“So,” Paige says, tilting her head slightly, voice light but not really, “this is—what? Back together again?”

I let out a quiet breath through my nose, not quite a laugh. “Something like that,” I say.

She hums, dragging it out, like she’s deciding how much she wants to push. “That was fast.” There it is. I shift just slightly, my hand tightening at her waist without thinking, thumb brushing once like I’m grounding myself in it, in her, instead of this.

“Yeah,” I reply, voice even. “Guess I just remembered what actually mattered.”

That lands. A flicker—small, quick—but it’s there. Paige’s smile doesn’t drop, but it tightens, just enough to give it away.

“Right,” she says, lifting her glass slightly. “Took you long enough.”

I shrug. “Yeah,” I say. “Had to get it wrong first.”

Lily makes a noise behind me that sounds like she just got punched in the chest.

Paige stills, just for a second. Then recovers, like she’s trying to smooth it over, pretending it didn’t hit the way it did.

“Well,” she says, a little sharper now, “glad you figured it out.”

I nod once. “Me too.”

There’s nothing left there, not for me. Not anymore. She lingers for half a second, like she wants to say something else, like she’s deciding whether it’s worth it. Then she turns, because it’s not. 

The second she’s out of earshot, I exhale. Didn’t realize I was holding it. Typical.

Lily immediately leans in. “Oh my god.”

“Do not start,” I mutter.

Asher’s grinning. “No, no—she’s right, that was insane.”

I ignore them. Instead, I glance down at her, my hand still at her waist like I forgot to move it. “Y’alright?” I ask, quieter now. Because that’s what matters. Not Paige. Not any of it. Just—her. And whether she’s still here. With me.

She looks up at me and smiles, way too easily.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm fine."

I nod like I believe her, like I don't already recognize that look. Because technically, she is fine. But she's also got that thing going on, the one I haven't seen in a while, but I remember it clear as day.

The tightness around her eyes, her jaw setting slightly when she's not talking, the way she keeps it together in the moment, then circles back to it later. It's her we're definitely talking about this later, face. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't already preparing for it. Not dreading it, just bracing my bearings.

Because that's just how she is. She doesn't explode, she remembers, and lets it surface when she's ready. My thumb brushes lightly against her side, small, absent, like I'm reminding her I'm here without making a big deal out of it.

"Alright," I say, softer now. "C'mon." I just guide her back to the table, hand still at her waist, not letting go yet. Not this time, especially when I know that smile doesn't mean she's okay. Just that she's holding it together, for now.

gah, i feel so maternal towards this story. i decided to change povs to both sides. let me know if you guys want to see anything else! i'm all ears<33 part 3 will be out soon-ish.

The club was more packed than I anticipated. Not something I'm particularly mad about, but definitely something I wished I had more time to mentally prepare for. I should have known better anyway, any rock club that lets underage kids slide by without even a dent in their wallet should've been more than a dead giveaway. But Gareth practically begged us to go, and who am I to let my favorite kid down?

He walks over, grinning ear to ear, two plastic cups of beer in hand, Jeff and Dougie following behind him. "Here you are," he says, passing me what I can only assume to be the cheapest draft available. I take a sip, confirming my suspicions.

"Band should be on in thirty," He says, nodding towards the stage, "Just got some opener. Never heard of them, but I heard they were pretty legit."

"Sunset Foley" was a local-ish band from Indianapolis that made it semi-big a couple of years back. Gareth idolizes, no, worships them, hoping Corroded Coffin would one day catch just a glimpse of the same amount of attention.

But who am I to judge? I, of course, want the same thing, if not more than he does. Nobody more than me would love to catch a deal and escape from the town that despises me more than I do. Which is saying something, because I really fucking despise it.

The lights begin to fade in and out, indicating that the opener was about to begin. A wave of bodies begins to shift forward, causing me to stumble and lose my bearings. Whoever this opener was, they must be pretty damn legit to have people shoving each other to be at the barricade. Then the curtain opens, revealing five dark silhouettes staring back at the crowd.

Before the overhead light shines above them, the front (person?) rings out the opening note, causing an excited roar to wave over the crowd. They play another note, then another, causing something ugly to creep over me. I know this song. Why do I know this song? Then, the overhead light turns on, answering my question for me.

I know this band, hell, I helped create this band. She's at the front, guitar slung over her shoulder, face stern, staring into the crowd. "She," being my ex-girlfriend, who can only be described as "the one that got away" in the least dramatic way possible.

"Hello, my loyal subjects," she rasps into the mic, causing another wave of screams. She chuckles, plucking out a few more chords, then, "This one's called Tonight." And just like that, she rips into it.

No hesitation. No warning. Just straight into the deep end like she always used to do, like she used to drag me into things I wasn’t ready for and somehow make it feel like I’d been waiting my whole life for it.

The guitar snarls under her hands, sharp and mean, the kind of sound that sticks to your ribs and vibrates there. The crowd eats it up instantly, bodies pressing closer, hands reaching, like she’s something holy and they’re all dying for a piece. I can’t move.

I’m rooted to the sticky floor, cheap beer sloshing in my cup, staring at her like I’ve just seen a ghost claw its way out of the past and pick up a fucking guitar. She’s different. No, that’s not right. She’s more.

More confident, more dangerous, more everything that made me fall for her in the first place, just sharpened into something that could probably ruin a man if he got too close. Her voice cuts through the noise, low and haunting, wrapping around the lyrics like she’s lived every single word ten times over.

I know the way her fingers move on that fretboard. I know the slight tilt of her head when she hits a note just right. I know the look in her eyes when she’s somewhere else entirely, lost in the music. I used to be the one who pulled her out of that.

Now I’m just another idiot in the crowd watching her disappear into it. "Jesus Christ," Gareth mutters next to me, completely oblivious to the internal crisis currently ripping me apart, "They’re insane."

Yeah, yeah, they are. Because she is. And I can’t even tell if she’s noticed me yet, not with the lights blasting down and the crowd practically swallowing the stage whole, but there’s this sick, twisting feeling in my gut that says it doesn’t matter.

Because even if she hasn’t—she will. Her eyes sweep over the crowd once, quick, practiced, detached. Then they stop. Right on me.

And it’s like getting hit square in the chest with something heavy and unforgiving, knocking the air clean out of my lungs. There’s no double take, no confusion, no soft recognition. She knows exactly who she’s looking at.

Her expression doesn’t change, not really, but there’s something there, buried just beneath the surface. Something sharp. Something that feels a hell of a lot like a challenge. Her fingers never falter. Her voice doesn’t shake.

If anything, she leans into it harder, like seeing me just poured gasoline on whatever fire she’s got burning inside her. And I—I’m stuck.

Staring back like an idiot, like a guy who thought he’d moved on, who thought he buried all of this somewhere deep enough that it wouldn’t come crawling back out in the middle of a crowded club. Guess I was wrong. Because here she is. On a stage. Singing a song I’ve never heard before, like it’s meant for me.

The last note rings out like a warning shot, echoing through the club before it’s swallowed whole by the crowd erupting in cheers. Whistles, screams, people practically losing their minds like they’ve just witnessed something life-altering.

Maybe they have. I haven’t moved. I don’t even think I’ve breathed.

She stands there for a second, chest rising and falling, fingers still curled around the neck of her guitar like she might just launch into something else without giving anyone a second to recover. God, I remember that about her. Never letting a moment settle. Always chasing the next high, the next sound, the next feeling.

Her tongue drags over her bottom lip as she steps up to the mic again, adjusting it slightly. And then she smiles. Not sweet. Not soft. Sharp.

"Glad you liked that one," she says, voice rough around the edges, like the song’s still sitting in her throat. The crowd roars back at her, completely wrapped around her finger, and she just huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head like she’s both amused and completely in control.

Then—"This next song," she starts, slower now, eyes scanning the crowd again, "is about the first guy who ever broke my heart."

The place goes feral. Of course it does. Everyone loves a little heartbreak, especially when it’s wrapped up in distortion and pretty lyrics. My stomach drops straight through the floor.

"Which," she continues, pausing just long enough to build it up, dragging it out like she used to when she knew she had everyone’s attention, "is perfect…" Her eyes find mine again. No hesitation this time. No doubt. "…because he’s here tonight."

I swear my heart just stops. Not slows, not stutters, just fucking stops. There’s a ringing in my ears that has nothing to do with the amps, and for a second, everything around me fades out, like the whole damn room is holding its breath right along with me.

Everything in me goes still. Jeff lets out a low whistle beside me, shaking his head like he’s entertained, like this is just some dramatic stage bit and not—not this. Not me.

She holds my gaze for one more second, something unreadable flickering there, then she turns, finally, nodding to her band. "This one is All I Wanted."

Her fingers brush the strings, soft, controlled, the kind of opening that doesn’t demand attention so much as it steals it.

She leans into the mic.

"Think of me when you’re out…"

Quiet. Too quiet for a room like this. But it doesn’t matter. Because everyone hears it. I hear it.

"…when you’re out there… I'll beg you nice from my knees."

And Jesus, it sticks. It sinks in somewhere deep and ugly, somewhere I’ve been trying not to look at for a long time now, because I know that tone. I know the way she lets the words breathe like that, like they’re fragile, like they might break if she pushes too hard. Like they mean something.

My grip tightens around the cup in my hand, plastic bending under my fingers as the rest of the band eases in behind her, slow and steady, building something I can already tell is gonna hurt like hell.

She doesn’t look at me yet. Not again. Which somehow makes it worse. Because now I’m waiting for it. Waiting for the second, she decides I deserve it.

"And when the world treats you way too fairly, well, it's a shame I'm a dream."

Fuck. The words hit harder than they should, dragging something up with it, something I don’t want to name, don’t want to touch, but it’s there anyway, sitting heavy in my chest like it’s got every right to be.

The music swells. Not all at once. Gradual, like a warning. And then it snaps.

The chorus crashes in, loud and unforgiving, and she goes with it, voice opening up in a way that makes the whole damn room feel too small to hold it. It’s powerful, yeah, but it’s controlled. Every note lands exactly where it should, no strain, no slip, just this raw, practiced precision that cuts straight through everything else.

I’ve heard her sing at least a hundred times. In her room, on the edge of my bed, messing around with half-finished ideas and laughing when she forgot the words.

This? This isn’t that. This is something bigger. Something sharper. Something that doesn’t need me.

Her breath control is insane, stretching lines out just enough to make them ache before pulling them back in, never losing grip on the melody, never losing that edge underneath it all. It’s clean, but it’s not empty. There’s weight to it. History.

Like every word cost her something. Gareth’s talking again, I think, hyped, impressed, completely unaware that I’m standing here getting torn apart piece by piece, but I don’t hear him. Can’t.

Because she finally looks at me again. Right in the middle of it. Like she knew exactly when it would hit the hardest. And I swear— I swear she leans into it just a little more when she does. Like she wants me to feel it. Every single second of it.

The rest of the song blurs together in the worst way. Not because it’s forgettable, because it’s not. Because every second of it feels too sharp, too close, like it’s pressing in on something I’ve spent a long time pretending wasn’t there anymore. By the time it ends, the crowd is losing their minds again, screaming her name, reaching for her like she’s something untouchable, something bigger than this shitty little club.

And she just stands there for a second, breathing it in. Not overwhelmed. Not surprised. Like she expected it. Like she earned it.

She pushes her hair back, adjusts the strap of her guitar, and there’s this brief moment where I think maybe that’s it. Maybe she’ll step back, maybe they’ll thank the crowd, maybe I’ll get a second to actually think instead of just—feeling. But then she leans back into the mic, voice a little lower now, a little quieter, like she’s letting the room come down with her instead of dragging it higher.

"This is our last one," she says, almost offhand, like it’s not about to wreck me just as bad as the last two. A few cheers ripple through the crowd, disappointed but still hungry, still hanging on every word she says.

She doesn’t look at me this time. Not once. Which should be a relief. It’s not.

The opening is softer than anything else they’ve played. Clean guitar, almost delicate, the kind of sound that makes people lean in instead of push forward. The energy in the room shifts with it, less chaotic, more… focused. Like everyone collectively realizes they’re about to hear something that actually matters. And then she starts singing.

It’s different. Still her, still that same control, that same precision, but there’s something stripped back about it, something that feels a little too honest, a little too close to the bone. No theatrics, no edge to hide behind, just this quiet kind of hurt that settles in your chest before you even realize what it’s doing.

The lyrics aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They linger. Lines about never quite being enough, about trying to shrink yourself into something someone else could love, about giving and giving until there’s nothing left that’s actually yours anymore. It’s not angry, not really. It’s worse than that.

It’s resigned. And that—that hits different. Because I remember that version of her too. The one who’d laugh things off, who’d say it was fine, who’d pretend she didn’t need more even when it was written all over her face that she did. The one I didn’t listen to.

Her voice carries through the room like a thread, steady, unwavering, wrapping around every word like she’s finally letting herself say the things she never did back then. There’s no break, no crack, just this quiet kind of control that somehow makes it feel even more real.

Like she’s already processed it. Like she’s already moved on. And I’m just now catching up. The band builds around her slowly, careful not to overpower it, letting her stay at the center of everything, and she holds it there effortlessly. No slipping, no second-guessing, just… certainty.

That’s the word. She sounds certain. Certain that she deserved better. Certain that she knows it now. By the time the last chorus rolls in, it’s still not explosive, not like the last song, but it doesn’t need to be. It swells just enough, lifts just enough, her voice rising with it in this controlled, aching way that makes the whole thing feel final.

Like a closing statement. Like a line drawn clean across something that used to be messy. And then it ends. No dramatic cutoff. No big finish. Just the last note fading out into something quiet and settled, like it’s already made its point and doesn’t need to prove anything else.

For a second, the room is still. Then it erupts. Louder than before, somehow. People shouting, clapping, stomping, completely losing it, and she just nods once, a small, satisfied thing, like she’s acknowledging it without letting it get to her. Her bandmates are grinning, hyped, riding the high of it, but she—she’s already stepping back.

Already unplugging. Already moving. And then she’s off the stage. No lingering. No waving. Just gone. The crowd parts for her without even realizing it, bodies shifting as she cuts through, head down, focused, like she’s got somewhere to be and no time to waste getting there.

Straight toward—Me. My chest tightens. I don’t move. I don’t even think I can if I tried. She gets closer, weaving through people like it’s second nature, like she’s done this a hundred times before, and maybe she has. Maybe this is just another night for her, another show, another crowd, another run-in with the past.

She doesn’t look at me. Not once. Not even when she’s right in front of me, close enough that I can see the sweat on her skin, the smudged liner under her eyes, the way her jaw is set just a little too tight.

For a second, just a second, I think she’s gonna pass me. Just walk right by like I’m nothing, like I don’t matter. And then her shoulder slams into mine. Not hard enough to knock me over. Just enough.

My breath catches, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t say a word. Just keeps walking, disappearing into the crowd like she didn’t just completely knock the air out of my lungs without even looking at me while she did it.

And I’m left standing there, frozen, beer forgotten in my hand, heart doing something uneven and stupid in my chest, staring after her like an idiot. Like, I didn’t deserve that. Like, I didn’t have it coming.

I’m still standing there like an idiot when Jeff finally looks from me to the stage, then back to me again, eyes narrowing like something’s not adding up right in his head. He squints, really looks this time, like he’s rewinding the last twenty minutes and catching details he missed the first go around.

Then it clicks, I can see it happen in real time, Jeff's whole expression shifting from entertained to something a little more cautious, a little more curious. “Wait,” he says, dragging the word out slow, like he’s testing it, “that’s— Munson, that’s your—” He doesn’t finish it, but he doesn’t need to, because the look he gives me says the rest.

Gareth goes a little still next to him, the pieces falling together a second later, and then he’s groaning under his breath, dragging a hand down his face like he just realized he accidentally walked us straight into a landmine. “Oh, shit,” he mutters, glancing between me and the stage like maybe this can still be undone if he tries hard enough, “man, I didn’t— I swear I didn’t know that was her band, I just heard they were good, I thought—”

He cuts himself off, because what’s he even supposed to say to that, sorry I brought you to the worst possible place you could’ve been tonight? I huff out something that might be a laugh, might be me just trying to breathe normally again, and shrug one shoulder like it’s not a big deal, like I’m not still feeling the ghost of her shoulder slamming into mine.

“It’s fine,” I say, voice coming out rougher than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back, because it’s easier than explaining the way my chest still feels like it’s been cracked open and left to rot. Jeff watches me for a second longer, like he’s deciding whether to push it or not, but then the next band starts setting up, and the crowd shifts again, pulling his attention away just enough to let me off the hook.

Gareth claps me on the back, a little too hard, a little too apologetic, and then they’re both turning toward the stage, trying to pretend this is just another night, just another show. I try to follow their lead, I really do, but it’s a little hard to act normal when the past just sang directly at you for thirty straight minutes.

I catch sight of her again across the room, off to the side of the stage with the rest of her band, tucked just far enough back that she’s not the center of attention anymore but still close enough to feel the music.

She’s not looking at me, not even close, laughing at something one of her bandmates says, head tipped back, shoulders loose in a way that feels so different from the way she held herself on stage. The next band kicks in, louder, messier, and she just moves with it, like it’s nothing, like she’s not fresh off a set that had half the room ready to worship her, like she didn’t just rip me apart and walk away without blinking.

She’s dancing.

Not performative, not for anyone else, just for her, eyes half-lidded, body swaying with the music like she’s shaking something off, like she’s letting it all go now that it’s out there. One of her bandmates spins her once, quick and careless, and she laughs, real and easy, not a trace of whatever she was carrying on stage left in it. It hits me then, sharp and sudden, that she’s fine, or at least she’s better, better than she was, better than when she was with me, and there’s something about that that sits weird in my chest, like I’m relieved and sick about it all at once.

I don’t realize how long I’ve been staring until Jeff nudges me again, saying something I don’t quite catch, but I nod anyway, forcing my eyes back to the stage, pretending like I’m paying attention to anything other than her.

It doesn’t really work, because every time the crowd shifts, I catch another glimpse, another flash of her laughing, her moving, her existing in a space that doesn’t include me anymore. By the time the set ends, I’m restless in a way I can’t quite explain, like staying inside that room any longer is gonna do something irreversible to me.

So I step out.

The air outside is colder than I expect, cutting through the heat that’s been sitting on my skin since we got here, and I take a second, leaning against the side of the building, lighting a cigarette just to have something to do with my hands.

The muffled bass from inside bleeds through the walls, steady and distant, and for a second, it almost feels like I can pretend none of that just happened, like I didn’t just get dragged back into something I thought was long over.

“Still bite when you’re nervous?”

Her voice hits before I even see her. I freeze, lighter still in my hand, then glance over, and there she is, a few feet away, leaning against the wall like she’s been there the whole time, like she didn’t just materialize out of thin air to ruin what little composure I managed to scrape together.

She looks the same and not at all, stage makeup a little smudged, hair a mess from the set, but her eyes—those haven’t changed.

“Only when provoked,” I shoot back, because apparently my mouth still works even when the rest of me doesn’t, flicking the lighter shut and tucking it away like I need the distraction. There’s a beat where neither of us moves, the space between us feeling a lot smaller than it should, a lot heavier than it used to.

I glance down, then back at her, letting out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh. “I deserved that,” I add, nodding slightly, because there’s no point pretending otherwise, not with her, not with the way she’s looking at me like she can see straight through whatever bullshit I might try to hide behind. “The whole… public execution thing, very on brand for you.”

Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite anything soft, and she pushes off the wall just enough to shift her weight, crossing her arms like she’s settling in for something she’s not sure she wants to have.

“You always did like an audience,” she says, voice even, but there’s an edge to it that feels familiar, like something we used to dance around all the time without ever really saying out loud.

“Yeah,” I admit, dragging in a breath that tastes like smoke and something else I can’t quite name, meeting her eyes without looking away this time. “Guess I just didn’t think I’d be on the receiving end.”

She tilts her head just slightly, studying me in that way she used to, like she’s flipping through pages I didn’t realize were still open, like she’s looking for something specific and already knows where to find it.

There’s a moment where I think maybe she’s gonna let it sit there, let the tension do all the talking for us, but of course she doesn’t, she never really did. Her gaze flicks down for half a second, then back up, sharp and deliberate. “So,” she says, voice almost casual, almost careless, “how’s Paige?”

My jaw tightens before I can stop it, fingers curling a little around the cigarette like it suddenly weighs more than it did a second ago. I let out a quiet breath through my nose, shaking my head once, more to myself than anything. “You already know the answer to that,” I say, because there’s no point playing dumb, not with her, not when she’s always been ten steps ahead of me when it comes to this kind of thing.

Her expression doesn’t change much, but there’s something in her eyes that shifts, something small and sharp that tells me I’m right, that she didn’t ask because she didn’t know. She asked because she wanted to hear me say it, wanted to see if I would. “Humor me,” she replies, softer now, but not kinder, not really, just steadier, like she’s bracing for something she’s already decided she doesn’t care about.

I huff out something that might be a laugh, might just be me stalling, dragging a hand through my hair before I answer. “She’s in California,” I say finally, words sitting heavy on my tongue, “doing the whole… industry thing, chasing deals, playing shows, all that.” I shrug one shoulder, like it doesn’t matter, like it didn’t matter, like I didn’t blow up my entire life here for the promise of something bigger out there.

Her lips press together for a second, not quite a reaction, but not nothing either, and she nods once, slow, like she’s filing it away, confirming something she already knew. “Right,” she says, glancing off to the side like the parking lot suddenly got a lot more interesting, “California.”

There’s a silence that follows that feels heavier than anything we’ve said so far, thick and uncomfortable, full of everything we’re not saying, everything we never really did.

I shift my weight, flicking ash onto the pavement, watching it scatter just to give myself something to focus on that isn’t her standing right in front of me. “It didn’t—” I start, then stop, because I don’t even know how to finish that sentence without it sounding like bullshit.

Her eyes snap back to mine before I can try again, something a little harder settling in them now, something a little more grounded. “Didn’t what?” she asks, not pushing, not raising her voice, just… asking, like she’s giving me the space to dig my own grave if I really want to.

I exhale slowly, shaking my head again, a little sharper this time. “Didn’t turn out the way I thought it would,” I settle on, because it’s the truth, even if it’s not the whole truth, even if it’s missing the part where I thought it would be worth it. Where I thought she’d understand. Where I thought— I don’t know what I thought.

She lets that sit for a second, watching me like she’s weighing it, like she’s deciding if it’s worth anything at all. Then she huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but without any humor in it. “Yeah,” she says, nodding once more, “funny how that works.”

There’s no yelling. No scene. No dramatic explosion like there probably should be. Just that.

Just her standing there, steady and sure in a way she never used to be, looking at me like I’m something she’s already moved past, something she doesn’t need to carry anymore. And somehow— that hurts worse than anything else she could’ve said.

Her mouth pulls into something almost amused, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, doesn’t soften anything about the way she’s looking at me.

There’s a moment where it feels like she might say something real, something honest, something that actually digs into all the shit sitting between us, but instead she just exhales through her nose and shakes her head once.

“Well,” she says, pushing off the wall fully now, brushing past me just enough to feel it without making it obvious this time, “hope California was everything you wanted.”

It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be. Because it hits anyway, clean and deliberate, like she’s tying a bow on the whole thing, like she’s done letting it take up space.

I open my mouth, like I might say something back, something clever or cutting or at the very least something that doesn’t make me look like a complete idiot standing here with nothing to show for myself, but nothing comes out.

And she doesn’t wait for it, doesn’t linger, just keeps walking, disappearing around the corner of the building and out of sight like she did it a thousand times before, like leaving me behind is second nature now.

Yeah. Guess it probably is.

The door behind me swings open a minute later, loud and careless, and I don’t even have to turn around to know it’s them. Gareth’s voice cuts through first, already halfway into a question before he’s even fully outside, Jeff and Dougie trailing behind him like they’re trying to piece things together just from the look on my face.

“Dude, what the hell was that?” Gareth asks, coming up beside me, eyes wide, like he just watched something he doesn’t totally understand but knows was important. “You two looked like you were about to either kiss or kill each other.”

I let out a short breath, flicking the rest of my cigarette to the ground and crushing it under my boot, buying myself a second, two seconds, anything to not have to answer that properly. “Nothing,” I say finally, shrugging one shoulder like it’s no big deal, like it didn’t just feel like my entire past walked up and punched me square in the chest.

Jeff gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it for a second. Dougie glances between us like he’s waiting for someone to elaborate, but I don’t. I don’t give them anything else.

Because what am I supposed to say? That I had something good, and I traded it for a maybe?

That I got it in my head that I was meant for something bigger, something louder, something that would finally prove everyone in this godforsaken town wrong about me, and when Paige showed up talking about connections and studios and California like it was all just waiting for me if I was willing to take the jump, I didn’t think twice?

Or maybe I did. Maybe that’s the worst part.

Because she had her own thing going, her own band, her own shot at something real, not huge, not glamorous, but hers, something she built from the ground up, and I remember being proud of her for it, I do. I remember sitting there, watching her play some shitty little gig and thinking, yeah, that’s mine, that’s my girl up there.

And then somewhere along the way, that feeling twisted into something else. Something uglier. Jealousy, maybe.

Because she was getting there on her own, and I was still stuck, still clawing at the same walls, still waiting for something to happen instead of making it happen. Paige saw that, I think, saw exactly where to wedge herself in, all promises and big ideas, talking about record deals like they were already signed, like all I had to do was choose.

So I did. Chose wrong.

She— the girl I just watched up on that stage— she knew something was off before anything even happened, I could tell. She wasn’t stupid, never was, always a step ahead even when she pretended not to be. But she didn’t say anything, not at first, not until Paige decided to take matters into her own hands, got involved where she shouldn’t have, said things she didn’t need to say just to make sure there was no going back.

And there wasn’t. Not after that.

“Munson,” Gareth presses again, softer this time, like he’s trying to be careful with it now, like he realizes there’s more here than he thought, “that didn’t look like nothing.”

I glance up at him, then at Jeff, then Dougie, all of them waiting, and for a second I consider it, consider telling them the whole thing, laying it out so it makes sense outside of my own head.

But instead, I just shake my head once, shoving my hands into my pockets. “It’s nothing,” I repeat, quieter this time, as if I say it enough, maybe it’ll start to feel true. It doesn’t.

The Hideout smells exactly the same.

Stale beer, old wood, something faintly burnt that’s probably been baked into the walls since before I was born, and for once, it doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels familiar. Safe, even. We’re halfway through setting up, amps humming low, Gareth fiddling with his snare like his life depends on it, Jeff arguing with Dougie about something that doesn’t matter, and for a second, I almost forget about last night. Almost.

The door creaks open behind us, that same tired hinge whining like it always does, and I don’t think anything of it at first. People come and go here all the time, especially on nights like this. But then Deb’s voice cuts through the room, bright and surprised in a way I don’t hear often.

“Well, I’ll be damned—look at you!” I turn before I can stop myself. And there she is.

Standing just inside the doorway like she belongs there, like she’s always belonged there, hair pulled back a little messier than last night, no stage lights, no mic, just her. Deb’s already pulling her into a hug, laughing as she squeezes her tight, and it’s so… normal. So easy. Like there’s no history, no tension, no wreckage trailing behind the two of us.

“Missed this place,” she says, voice lighter now, something warm tucked into it that I haven’t heard in a long time. “Missed you.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Deb waves her off, but she’s smiling, hands still on her shoulders like she doesn’t quite want to let go, “you get up on stages like that and suddenly you remember us little people?”

She laughs, real and unguarded, shaking her head. “Please, this place raised me.” That stings. Because it did.

I watch them for a second too long, something tight settling in my chest again, not as sharp as last night, but there, lingering, like it never really left. Gareth says something behind me, but I don’t catch it, already moving before I’ve fully decided to, feet carrying me across the floor like I’ve got something to prove.

Or maybe like I don’t. Deb spots me before I even get there. Of course she does.

Her eyes flick from me to her and back again, something knowing settling into her expression, and then she sighs, soft but pointed, giving me a look that feels a hell of a lot like a warning. The kind of look that says don’t screw this up before I’ve even opened my mouth.

Yeah. Noted.

“Gonna grab something from the back,” she says suddenly, patting her arm once before stepping away, but not before shooting me one last look over her shoulder, eyebrow raised just enough to make it clear she’s watching. Always is.

And then it’s just us. Again. She doesn’t turn right away, like she knows I’m there, like she felt me coming before I even got close enough to say anything, and for a second I consider backing off, pretending like I was headed somewhere else, like I didn’t walk over here on purpose.

I don’t. “Didn’t think you were the ‘stick around for the local gig’ type,” I say, keeping it light, keeping it easy, leaning against the edge of the bar like I’ve got nowhere else to be.

She finally looks at me. No surprise. No hesitation. Just that same steady gaze that’s been knocking the wind out of me since last night.

“Didn’t think you were the ‘still playing here’ type,” she shoots back, just as easy, just as smooth, crossing her arms loosely like she’s settling into it, like this is nothing.

I huff out a quiet laugh, nodding once like, yeah, fair enough. There’s a beat. “I was gonna watch,” she adds after a second, tone shifting just slightly, not softer, not harsher, just more direct. “If that’s still allowed.”

Something about that lands weird, like it shouldn’t matter but it does, like her standing in the crowd tonight is somehow bigger than it should be.

“Yeah,” I say, pushing off the bar, glancing back toward the stage for half a second before looking at her again, “we usually let people do that.”

Her mouth twitches, almost a smile, but she doesn’t give me the full thing. Of course she doesn’t.

“Good,” she says, nodding once, then tilting her head just slightly, eyes narrowing like she’s sizing me up all over again. “Then I guess I’ll see if you’re still worth watching.”

There it is. Quippy. Mean. Familiar. And I can’t help it. I grin, just a little, something real slipping through despite everything.

“Careful,” I shoot back, stepping away, walking backwards for a second like I don’t quite want to turn my back on her yet, “you might be disappointed.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Yeah. That one sticks. I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking my head as I turn back toward the stage, feeling her eyes on me for a second longer before they finally drop away.

And for the first time since last night— I’m not sure if I want to prove her wrong…or if I already know she’s right.

The lights aren’t much, just a few dim bulbs strung up wrong and a spotlight that flickers if you breathe on it too hard, but when we step up, it still feels like something. Like it always does. Gareth counts us in, Jeff starts the rhythm, and I fall into it easily, muscle memory taking over, fingers moving before my brain can catch up.

For a minute—it’s fine. It’s just another set. Just another night. And then I see her. Not that she's hard to find.

She’s off to the side of the room, not front row, not hiding either, just… there, leaning against one of the support beams, arms crossed loosely like she’s trying to look casual about it. Like she didn’t just walk in here and tilt my entire night off its axis. Her eyes are on me, steady, not intense like last night, not challenging, just watching.

That’s worse. Because now I don’t know what she’s thinking.

We get through the first song clean, second one better, Gareth’s grinning like an idiot, Dougie almost misses a cue but recovers, and the crowd’s into it, a couple people pushing closer to the front, heads nodding along. It should feel good.

It does. But not enough. Not with her standing there like that.

I wipe my hand on my jeans between songs, stepping up to the mic, glancing out over the room like I’m deciding something. I am.

“This next one—” I start, then pause, because I know exactly what I’m about to do and I know it’s a terrible idea.

Which, historically, has never stopped me before. “It’s an old one.”

Gareth looks at me, like he knows. Like he’s already bracing for it. I don’t give him the chance to say anything, just nod once, sharp, and then I turn back to the mic.

“Hope you remember it.” That one’s for her. It has to be. We start.

And the second my fingers hit the strings, I know I’ve already committed too far to take it back. It’s ours. Not Corroded Coffin’s. Not mine. Ours.

A song we wrote sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, arguing over chords and lyrics and whether or not it needed a bridge, her stealing my guitar mid-sentence just to prove a point, me telling her she was wrong even when she wasn’t. It was never finished properly, never played anywhere that mattered.

Until now. My chest tightens as I sing, because I remember every part of it, not just the words, not just the melody, but the way she looked when she first came up with that second verse, the way she laughed when I messed up the timing, the way it felt like we were building something together.

And I walked away from it, from her. The crowd doesn’t know. To them, it’s just another song. But I can feel it. Every note. Every word.

And I don’t look at her at first, because I don’t think I can get through it if I do, but halfway through, I make the mistake anyway. She’s not leaning anymore.

Arms dropped to her sides, head tilted just slightly, like she’s hearing it properly now, like she recognizes it for what it is. There’s something in her expression I can’t quite read, not anger, not softness, something in between, something heavier.

I push through the rest of it harder than I should, voice rougher, fingers pressing down just a little too hard on the strings, like I can force it to mean something different if I just—play it loud enough.

It ends, definitely not clean. Not messy either. Just… finished. There’s a second where the room claps, cheers, someone whistles, but it all feels distant, like it’s happening somewhere else, not here, not to me.

I don’t look at her again, not right away. We finish the set, pack down quicker than usual, Gareth says something about grabbing a drink, Jeff’s already halfway to the bar, Dougie trailing behind him, and I’m just about to follow when—

“She still sounds better when I play it.” Her voice. Right behind me.

I let out a breath, slow, turning just enough to face her, and there she is, closer now, no crowd between us, no stage, no distance to hide behind. Up close, she looks the same as earlier, maybe a little more guarded, maybe a little more I don’t know. Real?

I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head once. “You always did think that,” I shoot back, because it’s easier than anything else I could say, easier than acknowledging the way my chest hasn’t settled since I saw her walk in.

She shrugs one shoulder, like it’s not a big deal, like this isn’t loaded at all. “Because it’s true,” she says, simple, matter-of-fact, like she’s not here to argue about it. There's a pause, both of us looking at each other, trying to figure out where to go next.

“You really played that,” she adds, eyes flicking to mine, something sharper settling in them now, “in here.”

I lean back against the amp behind me, crossing my arms loosely, mirroring her without thinking about it. “Yeah,” I say, nodding once, because there’s no point pretending otherwise, “figured it deserved a better crowd.”

Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite anything nice. “Or you just wanted to prove something.”

There it is. I tilt my head, watching her for a second, then shrug again, slower this time. “Maybe,” I admit, because lying to her has never really worked out in my favor.

She lets that sit, studying me like she’s trying to decide what to do with it, what to do with me, and for a second, it feels like we’re right back there, stuck in that same loop we never quite figured out how to break.

Then she exhales, shaking her head just slightly. “You’re still stubborn,” she says, softer now, but not gentle.

I grin, just a little, because that one—that one I’ll take.

“Yeah,” I reply, pushing off the amp, stepping just a little closer without meaning to, “guess some things don’t change.”

Her eyes flick down, then back up, catching that movement, catching everything, because of course she does.

“No,” she says, holding my gaze this time, steady, unflinching. “They don’t.”

She holds my gaze like she’s waiting. Not for some dumb comeback. Not for me to dodge it. For something real.

And I can feel it, sitting right there at the back of my throat, heavy and unfamiliar, like something I should’ve said a long time ago and just… didn’t.

“I didn’t just play it to prove something,” I say, quieter this time, the words coming out before I can second guess them, before I can shove them down and replace them with something easier.

Her expression shifts. Barely. But enough.

“Then why did you?” she asks, and there’s no bite to it this time, no edge, just—curiosity. Careful. Like she’s testing whether or not I’m actually gonna follow through.

I drag a hand down the back of my neck, glancing off to the side for half a second before looking back at her, because if I don’t look at her, I’m not gonna say it. And for once—I want to.

“Because it’s the only thing I didn’t ruin,” I admit.

It lands between us, heavier than anything else we’ve said tonight, heavier than the songs, the jokes, the half-assed insults we’ve been throwing back and forth like they don’t mean anything.

Because this—this does. She goes still. Not frozen. Just… still. Like she wasn’t expecting that. Like she was ready for anything except the truth.

Her arms uncross slowly, fingers flexing at her sides like she’s grounding herself, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

“You didn’t ruin the song,” she says after a second, voice quieter now, not soft, certainly not forgiving, just honest. “You just… didn’t stay long enough to finish it.”

Yeah.

That sounds about right.

I let out a breath that almost feels like it hurts, nodding once because there’s nothing else to do, nowhere to hide from that one. “Yeah,” I say, low, a little rough around the edges, “story of my life, right?”

Her lips press together, like she wants to say something else, like there’s more sitting there waiting to come out, and for a second, I think this is it. This is where we actually talk.

Where we stop circling it and just—“Eddie!”

Gareth’s voice cuts through it like a knife. I close my eyes for half a second, jaw tightening before I turn, because of course, he picks now, of all times, to barrel over like nothing’s happening, like he didn’t just interrupt something that actually mattered for once.

“Dude, Deb needs you—something about the tab or—” He stops mid-sentence when he clocks her standing there, the look on his face shifting from urgency to immediate regret. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. I didn’t—”

“No, it’s fine,” she says before I can, stepping back just slightly, the moment already slipping through my fingers like it was never meant to stay in the first place. And just like that, it’s gone.

I glance back at her, something frustrated and unfinished sitting heavy in my chest, like I almost got somewhere and then got yanked right back out again. Her expression has changed. Not closed off completely. But not open either. She's guarded again.

“Guess I’ll… let you handle that,” she says, nodding toward Gareth, already taking another step back, putting space between us like it’s safer there, like whatever just almost happened is something she’s not ready to stand in.

“Yeah,” I reply, because what else am I supposed to say now, “guess you will.”

There’s a pause. One of those 'almost' ones. Then she gives me a small, tight nod, turning away before anything else can settle, before I can try and grab onto it again. And she walks off. Again.

Gareth exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the last thirty seconds, rubbing the back of his neck. “I am so sorry, man,” he mutters, wincing like he just kicked a puppy instead of interrupting whatever the hell that was.

I don’t answer right away. Just watch her disappear back into the crowd, that same restless, unfinished feeling crawling back up my chest, worse now, sharper, because I know what it almost was.

Because I felt it. “Yeah,” I say finally, dragging my attention back, shoving my hands into my pockets like that’ll keep everything else from spilling out. “It’s fine.” But it’s not. Not even close.

Rick’s place smells like incense, weed, and something vaguely chemical that I’ve learned not to question.

It’s late enough that the world feels quieter out here, tucked just far enough off the main road that people only come if they mean to, headlights cutting through the trees in slow, deliberate passes. I’m leaning back in the chair behind the counter, boots kicked up, flipping a lighter open and shut like I’ve got nothing better to do, which isn’t entirely wrong. Rick’s in the back, digging through God knows what, muttering to himself about inventory like any of this is organized enough to count.

It’s easy being here. No expectations, no bullshit, just quick deals and quieter nights, the kind of place where nobody asks questions they don’t want answers to. The doors already open. I'm expecting Rick to be cemented on that raggedy couch.

“Rick?” I call, brows pulling together slightly as I creep in, boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. “You trying to air the place out or—”

Her voice cuts in from the other room. “…you’re still running the same shit, huh?”

I freeze. Because there’s no mistaking that. I step across the floor lightly, moving slower now, quieter, like I’m not trying to announce myself just yet, and round the corner into the living room.

There she is.

Leaning against the wall like she’s been here a dozen times before, arms loosely crossed, head tilted just slightly as she looks at Rick like she’s halfway amused, halfway calling him out. He’s standing a few feet in front of her, grinning like he always does when he’s talking to someone he actually likes.

“Well, sweetheart, consistency is key,” Rick shoots back, shrugging like it’s nothing, like the place isn’t one bad decision away from getting raided at any given moment. “Besides, people keep coming back, so I must be doing something right.”

She huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head, eyes flicking around the room like she’s taking it all in, like she’s measuring what’s changed and what hasn’t.

“Looks exactly the same,” she says.

Rick snorts. “Yeah, well, don’t fix what ain’t broken,” he replies, then narrows his eyes at her just slightly, like he’s clocking something beneath the surface. “Didn’t expect to see you back here though. Thought you were off chasing something bigger.”

There’s that pause again. Small. But it stretches. She shifts her weight, fingers tugging lightly at the sleeves of her jacket, like she’s grounding herself before she answers.

“Had a couple gigs,” she says first, easy, like it’s the obvious reason, like that’s all there is to it. “Figured I’d stop by, see some old places.”

Rick doesn’t bite. Just waits. Because he knows better. Her jaw tightens just a fraction, eyes dropping for half a second before she exhales.

“My dad’s locked up again.”

It lands heavy in the room, even here, even with everything else this place has seen.

Rick nods slowly, no surprise, no shock, just that same understanding people get when they’ve been around long enough to know how these things go. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his chin, “heard about that. Tough break.”

I go still where I’m standing. Because I know exactly what that means. Her dad is running in the same circles as mine, same dumb schemes, same bad calls, same inevitable ending. I remember the overlap, the way their names got tangled together back then, the kind of trouble that doesn’t just disappear when you walk away from it. I remember what it did to her.

Rick claps a hand on her shoulder, brief but solid. “You need anything, you know where I am,” he says, tone shifting back to something lighter, something easier, like he’s giving her a way out of sitting in it too long. “You’re good here.”

She nods once, small, like she appreciates it but doesn’t want to dwell. And then she turns and sees me. And just like that, everything shifts again.

The air outside Rick’s place is colder than it should be.

Not freezing, not enough to bite, just enough to make everything feel a little sharper, a little clearer than it did inside. The kind of quiet that settles in your bones, broken only by the occasional car passing somewhere too far away to matter. I lean against the side of the house, lighting a cigarette I don’t really want, just to have something to do with my hands.

The door creaks behind me. I don’t turn right away, just take a drag, exhale slowly, like I didn’t already know she followed me out here.

“Didn’t take you for the dramatic exit type,” she says, voice quieter now, stripped of the edge she carries inside, like the night itself took some of it with it.

I huff out something that might be a laugh, flicking ash onto the gravel. “Didn’t feel like third-wheeling whatever that was,” I reply, glancing over at her finally, taking in the way she’s hugging her arms a little tighter now, like the cold actually got to her.

She leans back against the wall a few feet away, not too close, not far enough to pretend we’re strangers either. There’s a pause, not awkward, not comfortable, just there, hanging between us like it always does.

“Bank truck,” she says after a second, like she’s picking up a conversation we never actually started.

I blink, brows pulling together slightly. “What?”

“My dad,” she clarifies, eyes fixed somewhere ahead, not on me. “It wasn’t just ‘locked up again.’ It was a bank truck job. Supposed to be quick, in and out, easy money.” She lets out a quiet breath, something hollow in it. “Went wrong. Obviously.”

Yeah. Obviously.

I nod once, slow, because I know how that goes, how those stories always end, how “easy money” is usually the fastest way to ruin everything. “Was he—” I start, then stop, not sure how to ask without sounding like I’m expecting the worst.

“He’s fine,” she cuts in, like she knows exactly where I was going with that. “As fine as you can be when you get caught holding the bags.” Her mouth twitches, not a smile, not even close. “He wasn’t supposed to be the one in the truck. Plans changed.”

They always do. I drag in another breath of smoke, letting it sit there for a second before I exhale, watching it disappear into the dark. “Sounds about right,” I mutter, more to myself than anything.

She glances at me then, quick, like she caught that, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking without me having to spell it out.

“Your dad ever pull something like that?” she asks, not accusing, not prying, just… connecting dots.

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head once. “Not that specific flavor,” I say, pushing off the wall just enough to shift my weight. “But yeah. Same idea. Big plans, bad execution, everyone else dealing with the fallout.”

Her gaze softens just a fraction at that, not pity, not sympathy, just recognition. “Yeah,” she says, nodding once, like that’s enough explanation for both of us.

There’s another pause. This one is heavier.

“My mom’s dealing with it now,” she adds after a second, voice lower, like it costs her a little more to say this part. “Court stuff, bills, people showing up asking questions she doesn’t have answers to.” She swallows, eyes dropping to the gravel. “She’s not… good with that kind of thing.”

I frown slightly, cigarette forgotten between my fingers. “So you came back to help,” I say, not really a question.

She shrugs, but it’s smaller this time, less careless. “Someone has to,” she replies, like it’s obvious, like there was never another option. That lands. Harder than anything else she’s said. Because of course she did.

Because that’s who she’s always been, even when I pretended not to see it, even when I chose something else over it.

I flick the cigarette down, crushing it under my boot, more force than necessary. “That’s… a lot,” I say, which feels stupidly inadequate, but it’s the truth, and I’m running out of ways to dress things up around her.

She lets out a quiet breath, nodding once. “Yeah,” she says, glancing back toward the house like she’s considering going back inside, like she’s deciding how long she can stand out here with me before it becomes too much.

Then her eyes flick back to mine. “You always were good at disappearing when things got complicated,” she adds. And there it is.

I hold her gaze, not looking away this time, not deflecting, not joking it off like I usually would. “Yeah,” I admit, voice low, steady.

There’s nothing else to say to that. Because she’s not wrong.

The quiet stretches again, like there’s too much sitting between us and neither of us knows where to put it. The house behind us hums faintly, voices and music bleeding through the walls, but out here it feels like its own little pocket of time, like we stepped outside of everything else for a second and now we’re stuck deciding what to do with it.

I drag my hand through my hair, glancing off toward the tree line, toward where the land dips just enough that I know what’s past it without having to see it. It hits me out of nowhere, the way things do when you’re not trying to remember, when your brain just decides to betray you for fun.

“Do you remember the lake?” I ask, like it’s nothing, like I didn’t just pull that straight out of a place I’ve been actively avoiding.

She looks at me like I just flipped a switch. Not confused. Not annoyed. Just, caught.

“The lake?” she repeats, brows pulling together slightly, but there’s something behind it, something already waking up before she even places it.

“Yeah,” I say, pushing off the wall, hands shoving into my pockets because suddenly I don’t know what to do with them, “like, five minutes from here, past Rick’s place, down that stupid little trail that looks like it’s gonna lead you nowhere and then—bam—water, mosquitoes, questionable life choices.”

Her mouth twitches. There it is. Recognition.

“That was our first date,” I add, because of course it was, because of course that’s the one that sticks.

She huffs out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking her head slightly like she’s trying not to give into it. “That wasn’t a date,” she says, but it’s weak, like she already knows she’s losing that argument.

“Oh, please,” I scoff, glancing over at her, “you dragged me out there at, what, midnight? Told me it was ‘important for the experience’ like you were pitching me some life-changing event.”

Her eyes narrow just slightly, but there’s a spark there now, something lighter cutting through everything heavier that’s been sitting between us. “It was important,” she shoots back, a little more bite in it, but not the bad kind, not the kind that cuts, just the kind that reminds me who she used to be when things were easy.

“Yeah, yeah,” I wave her off, grinning despite myself, “important enough that you decided the best way to kick it off was to go skinny dipping in a lake that probably had, like, three different species of bacteria we didn’t have names for.”

“That was your idea,” she fires back immediately. I stop and blink.

“Okay, first of all, absolutely not,” I say, pointing at her like I’ve got a case to prove, “that was one hundred percent you, I was fully prepared to keep all my clothes on like a respectable human being.”

She laughs. Actually laughs. And it hits me harder than it should, because it’s been a minute since I’ve heard that version of it, the one that doesn’t have anything sharp hiding underneath.

“You jumped in first,” she counters, folding her arms again but looser this time, more comfortable.

“Peer pressure,” I shoot back, dead serious, “you were very persuasive, it was a hostile environment, I was young and impressionable—”

“You were not impressionable,” she cuts in, still smiling just slightly, shaking her head like she can’t believe I’m still like this.

“Okay, rude,” I mutter, but there’s no real heat to it, just familiarity. The kind that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.

“And then we drank until you puked,” I add, because I’m not about to let her forget that part.

Her expression drops into something mock-offended, brows lifting. “You puked,” she corrects.

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did,” she says, pointing at me now, like she’s been waiting years to win this argument, “you made it, like, ten minutes before you were leaning over the edge talking about how you were ‘fine’ while actively not being fine.”

I laugh, shaking my head because, yeah, okay, maybe that did happen.

“Details,” I say, waving it off, glancing back toward the trees again, toward where I know the lake still is, probably exactly the same, probably not.

There’s a long pause, and then she follows my gaze, something shifting. “You think it’s still as gross as it was back then?” she asks, quieter now, but not in a sad way, more like she’s testing the idea out loud.

I glance back at her, catching that look, that spark that wasn’t there a few minutes ago, the one that used to get us into trouble more often than not.

“Oh, it’s definitely worse,” I say immediately, pushing off the wall fully now, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth, “probably evolved since we last saw it, developed some kind of defense mechanism against dumb teenagers revisiting their bad decisions.”

Her lips press together, like she’s trying not to smile again, failing miserably. “Sounds like we should go check,” she says, casual, but there’s something in it, something that feels a little too familiar, a little too much like her.

I blink. Just for a second. Because I sure as shit didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect her to be the one to say it.

But there she is, standing there with that same look she used to get right before she convinced me to do something stupid and unforgettable, like none of the last couple days happened, like we didn’t just tear into each other and walk away twice already.

And God help me—I want to say yes. Of course I do. I push my tongue against the inside of my cheek, pretending to think about it for half a second longer than necessary, just to keep some semblance of control.

“Yeah,” I say finally, nodding once, already stepping away from the wall, because who am I kidding, I was never gonna say no to her when she looked at me like that.

“Yeah, we should probably make sure it’s still a health hazard.”

The trail’s quieter than I remember. Or maybe it’s just us.

Boots crunching over dirt and loose gravel, branches brushing too close like they’ve grown in since the last time we were here, like the whole place kept going without us and didn’t bother to ask permission. She walks a step ahead at first, then beside me, then ahead again, like she can’t decide if she wants to lead or not, like she’s trying not to fall into old patterns and doing it anyway.

Her house comes into view through the trees before I even realize we’ve turned off far enough to hit the road. I stop. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“Gonna make a pit stop,” she says over her shoulder, like it’s obvious, like I should’ve expected it, already heading up the short walkway before I can say anything.

“Yeah?” I call after her, shoving my hands into my pockets, rocking back on my heels like I’m not suddenly very aware of where I’m standing.

She glances back, already halfway to the door, that same look in her eye like she’s about to do something slightly irresponsible and doesn’t need my approval to do it. “What, you think we’re going down there sober?” she says, eyebrow raised. Fair.

I huff out a quiet laugh, nodding once. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The door creaks open, and she slips inside like she never left. I hesitate for half a second before following. Because apparently I’m just doing that now. The house smells the same.

Cleaner than Rick’s, obviously, but there’s something familiar about it, something that hits like a memory I didn’t ask for. The kind of place that feels lived in, not staged, not polished, just real. I kick the door shut behind me, glancing around like I’m not cataloging every little thing that hasn’t changed.

Her mom’s in the kitchen. She looks up when we walk in, something soft crossing her face when she sees her, relief, maybe, or just recognition, like she’s been waiting for her to come back through that door for longer than she let on. “Hey, honey,” she says, voice warm but tired around the edges, like it’s been a long couple of weeks.

“Hey,” she replies, already moving toward the cabinets like she’s been here the whole time, like nothing’s out of place.

Her mom’s eyes shift to me. And there it is. That pause. Not unfriendly. But not easy either.

“Eddie,” she says, giving me a small nod, something polite layered over something a little more careful, like she remembers me, remembers enough to not fully relax about it.

“Hi, Mrs. —” I start, then trail off, scratching the back of my neck because suddenly I’m sixteen again and standing in her kitchen for the first time, trying not to knock anything over or say something stupid. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” she says, and she means it, I think, but there’s a weight behind it now, something wary, something that wasn’t there before. Can’t blame her.

Her daughter disappears into the next room, cabinets opening, something clinking, and for a second, it’s just me and her mom standing there in that quiet, both of us very aware of everything that’s not being said. “She told me you were back,” her mom says after a second, voice gentler now, but still measured.

“Yeah,” I nod, rocking back on my heels again, hands still shoved in my pockets like they might get me in trouble if I let them out. “Just… around.”

She studies me for a second longer than necessary, like she’s trying to decide something, like she’s weighing the version of me she remembers against whatever I am now.

Then she nods once. “Take care of her,” she says.

It’s not a request. Not really. More like a quiet expectation she’s not sure she trusts me to meet. My chest tightens just a fraction.

“Yeah,” I say, because I don’t have anything better than that, because anything else would probably sound like a lie.

From the other room—“Found it.”

She reappears, holding up a half-full bottle like a trophy, something brighter back in her expression now, something lighter, like being here, even with everything going on, settled something in her for a second.

“Don’t wait up,” she adds to her mom, already moving back toward the door, like this was always the plan, like we were never staying.

Her mom sighs softly but doesn’t stop her, just shakes her head a little, something fond tucked into it despite everything. “Be safe,” she says instead. “Always am,” she shoots back, which—is not true. Has never been true. But it sounds good.

We step back outside, the door clicking shut behind us, and for a second, neither of us says anything, just standing there in that in-between space before we start moving again. Then she nudges my arm lightly with hers, holding up the bottle between us.

“Ready to ruin your life again?” she asks, tone teasing, but softer now, like there’s something else underneath it she’s not naming.

I glance at her, at the way she’s looking at me, at the night stretching out in front of us like it’s waiting to see what we do with it. And I grin.

“Thought that was your thing,” I shot back, already stepping off the path, already heading toward the lake like there was never any other option.

The lake looks exactly the same. Still and dark, the surface catching just enough moonlight to make it shimmer in that deceptive way, like it’s cleaner than it actually is, like it’s not probably filled with things we shouldn’t be willingly stepping into.

The dock creaks when we sit down, wood worn and uneven beneath us, and for a second, it feels like no time has passed at all.

She hands me the bottle without looking, taking the first swig like it’s second nature, like she’s done this a hundred times since we last sat here. Maybe she has.

“God,” she mutters, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “that’s worse than I remember.”

I take it from her, sniff it once, then immediately regret it. “Yeah, no, that smells like it could strip paint,” I say, but I take a drink anyway, because of course I do.

We fall into it easily. Not talking at first. Just passing the bottle back and forth, legs dangling off the edge of the dock, the quiet settling around us in a way that’s not uncomfortable, just… familiar. The kind of silence that used to mean something, that didn’t need to be filled to feel okay.

She’s the one who breaks it. Of course she is. “Still think you didn’t puke first?” she asks, glancing over at me, eyes a little brighter now, cheeks flushed just enough to give her away.

I scoff, shaking my head. “I will die on this hill,” I reply, taking another sip, “you were way worse off than I was.”

“Liar,” she says immediately, nudging my shoulder with hers.

“Revisionist history,” I shoot back, bumping her right back, and she laughs again, softer this time, the sound carrying out over the water. It hits me again. How easy this part still is, like, we didn’t break it completely. Like, there’s still something left.

She goes quiet after that, staring out at the lake, bottle resting loosely in her hand, fingers tracing the label without really thinking about it. There’s a shift in her, subtle, but I catch it, the way the humor fades just a little, the way something heavier starts to settle in its place.

And then—“Well,” she says suddenly, pushing herself up to stand, a little unsteady but not enough to stop her, “I think it’s time.”

I blink up at her. “Time for what?”

She looks down at me like I’m stupid. “Seriously?” she says, already shrugging off her jacket, tossing it onto the dock behind her. “We didn’t come all the way out here to just sit and talk, Munson.”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head as realization hits. “You’re kidding.”

She isn’t. Of course, she isn’t. “Come on,” she says, already reaching for the hem of her shirt, “don’t tell me you’ve gone soft on me.”

I lean back on my hands, watching her with a raised brow, something amused tugging at my mouth despite everything. “Oh, I’ve seen you naked like, what, a thousand times?” I say, voice light, teasing, like that doesn’t mean anything anymore. “Pretty sure the novelty wore off around year one.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes as she kicks off her shoes. “Yeah? And yet you’re still talking.”

“Hard not to,” I shrug, glancing down at her arm as she moves, catching the familiar ink there, the one we got together, stupid and impulsive and permanent in the way we thought we were. “Besides,” I add, nodding toward it, “gotta make sure the tattoo still looks as bad as I remember.”

She pauses. Just for a second. Looks down at it. Then back at me.

“It’s not bad,” she says, quieter now.

I nod once. “Yeah,” I admit, because she’s right, because it never was. “It’s not.” There’s something in that moment. Small. But real.

Then she turns, stepping toward the edge of the dock, and before I can say anything else, she jumps. The water splashes up around her, loud in the quiet, ripples breaking the surface as she disappears for a second, then comes back up, pushing her hair out of her face, laughing like she just proved a point.

“Still not coming?” she calls up at me.

I shake my head, huffing out a breath, already kicking off my boots. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“You love it,” she shoots back. And yeah, she's not wrong. I stand, peeling off my jacket, my shirt, tossing them aside before stepping to the edge, glancing down at her once more.

Then I jump. The water’s just as cold as I remember. Worse, maybe. I come up gasping, shoving my hair back as she laughs again, already moving closer, the distance between us shrinking without either of us really acknowledging it.

For a minute—it’s just that. Water. Laughter. The kind of stupid, reckless decision-making that used to define us. But it doesn’t stay that way, never does.

We drift closer to the edge again, hands gripping the dock, bodies half-submerged, the cold starting to settle in, sobering just enough to bring everything else back with it.

She’s quieter now.

“Why wasn’t I enough?” she asks. No lead-in. No warning. Just straight through. It hits harder than anything else tonight.

I go still, fingers tightening against the wood, the water suddenly feeling a lot colder than it did a second ago. “What?” I manage, because I heard her, I know I did, but I need the second, need the time to figure out how to even begin answering that.

She looks at me then. Eyes clear in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol, something raw sitting right there on the surface like she’s done hiding it, like she’s done pretending it didn’t matter.

“Why wasn’t I enough, Eddie?” she repeats, softer this time, but worse somehow, because there’s no anger in it, no accusation, just… hurt. Honest.

I swallow hard, shaking my head slightly, because I don’t have a clean answer, don’t have something that makes sense or fixes anything. “You were,” I say, because it’s the truth, even if it’s not the whole truth, even if it sounds like a lie coming this late.

Her expression tightens just slightly. “That’s not what it felt like.”

Yeah. I know. I drag a hand over my face, water dripping down as I exhale slowly, forcing myself to meet her eyes, not look away, not dodge it like I always do.

“It wasn’t about you not being enough,” I say, voice rougher now, stripped of the usual sarcasm, the usual deflection. “It was about me thinking I wasn’t.” She blinks. Just once. Like she didn’t expect that.

“I thought—” I start, then stop, shaking my head because it sounds stupid out loud, because it was stupid. “I thought if I didn’t take the shot when it showed up, I’d be stuck here forever. Same place, same shit, same… everything.”

Her brows pull together slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt. So I keep going.

“And you,” I add, quieter now, “you were already getting somewhere. You had your band, your gigs, people actually paying attention. You didn’t need… whatever Paige was offering.”

The name hangs there. Ugly. Unavoidable. “I thought I did,” I finish.

She watches me for a long second, searching my face like she’s trying to figure out if that’s real, if that’s enough, if it changes anything.

“Then why didn’t you just say that?” she asks, and there’s that edge again, but softer, more tired than sharp. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

I let out a breath that feels heavier than it should. “Because I was an idiot,” I say simply. “And because it was easier to run than it was to admit, I was scared.”

She looks away first this time, staring out at the water, shoulders sinking just slightly, like something in her finally gave way, just a little. “Yeah,” she murmurs. And neither of us knows what to do with that.

The water laps quietly against the dock, little ripples nudging at the wood like they’re trying to interrupt something neither of us knows how to finish. She’s still looking out at the lake, shoulders just barely hunched now, like the weight of everything finally settled in once she said it out loud.

I don’t move, don’t speak. Because for once, I don’t have something ready. And then she exhales, slow, like she’s been holding something else back too.

“I knew you didn’t go,” she says. It takes me a second to register it.

My brows pull together slightly, turning toward her. “What?”

She doesn’t look at me right away. Just shakes her head once, like she’s already tired of the question, like this part’s been sitting with her for a while now.

“California,” she clarifies, finally glancing over, eyes steady in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol. “You didn’t go.”

My stomach drops. “How would you—” I start, but I don’t even finish it, because I already know there’s only one way she could.

She answers anyway. “I called Wayne.”

I blink, jaw tightening just slightly, something uneasy twisting in my chest as the pieces start falling into place whether I want them to or not.

“After you left,” she continues, quieter now, but not hesitant, not unsure, like she made peace with this a long time ago and I’m just catching up. “I didn’t— I didn’t believe it, not fully. Not the way Paige told it.”

Of course she did. Of course, Paige made it sound bigger than it was. Better. Cleaner. I let out a slow breath through my nose, eyes dropping to the water for a second before I force myself to look back at her.

“And he told you everything,” I say. Not a question. She nods.

“Everything,” she repeats, softer now, like the word itself weighs something. “About your dad. About the… whole mess. The weed, the plan that went sideways, the fire—” she pauses there, just for a second, like she’s seeing it play out in her head, “—and you getting pulled into it.”

My grip tightens on the edge of the dock. Because yeah. That’s one way to put it. I huff out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking my head once. “Guess he didn’t leave out the highlights.”

Her expression shifts, something a little sharper cutting through. “Don’t do that,” she says, not loud, not angry, just firm. “Don’t make it sound like it was nothing.”

I glance at her, something defensive rising up before I can stop it. “It wasn’t nothing, but it wasn’t—” I stop myself, jaw tightening, because I don’t even know what I was about to argue there. Because she knows. That’s the problem. She knows.

“I know you got arrested,” she says, like she’s filling in the space I left, like she’s not gonna let me dodge it this time. “I know you didn’t go anywhere. I know you stayed. I know it blew up in your face before you even had the chance to leave.”

Each sentence lands like a brick. I look away first this time, dragging a hand over my face, water dripping down as I let out a breath that feels heavier than it should.

“Yeah,” I admit, voice low, stripped down to something I don’t usually let people hear. “That about sums it up.”

“I waited,” she says after a second. That one? That one hurts the most.

My head snaps back toward her before I can stop it, something tight pulling in my chest again. “What?” I ask, quieter this time.

Her eyes flick back to mine, and there’s something in them I don’t think I’ve ever seen this clearly before. Not anger. Not even hurt, not in the sharp, immediate way. Something older. Something that sat with her.

“I waited for you to call,” she says, like it’s simple, like it’s obvious. “Or write. Or show up. Something.” She swallows, shoulders lifting slightly before settling again. “I figured if it was real, if any of it was real, you’d—”

She cuts herself off. Doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t need to. Because I know exactly what she was gonna say. I would’ve come back. I didn’t. I stare at her, something heavy and awful settling in my chest, because there’s no defense for that, no excuse that doesn’t sound like exactly what it is. Running.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to,” I say finally, because it’s the only truth I’ve got left that I haven’t already used tonight.

Her brows pull together, not understanding, not buying it. “Why wouldn’t I—”

“Because I screwed it up,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to, but it’s there now, out in the open. “Because I left. Because I chose something else over you. I figured… that was it.”

She stares at me for a long second. And then—“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

Quiet. But it hits like a shout. I go still. Because she’s right. Of course she is. She always is with this kind of thing. The water shifts around us, colder now, or maybe I just finally feel it, everything settling in all at once now that there’s nothing left to hide behind.

“I knew,” she adds, softer this time, like she’s not trying to hurt me with it, just telling the truth. “About all of it. And you still didn’t come back.”

Yeah. I didn’t. And I don’t have anything left to say to that. So I don’t. I just sit there, half-submerged in freezing lake water, staring at the girl I broke, realizing she knew the whole story, and it still didn’t make a difference.

The words sit there between us, heavy and unmoving, like the lake itself decided to hold onto them instead of letting them pass. I don’t say anything, because I can’t, because there’s nothing left that doesn’t sound like an excuse or a lie or something I should’ve said years ago instead of now.

She exhales again, slower this time, like she’s coming down from something, like she’s finally reached the part she’s been avoiding.

“I still love you.” It’s not dramatic. Just certain, like it’s a fact. Like it’s always been one.

My chest tightens so fast it almost knocks the breath out of me, fingers slipping slightly on the edge of the dock before I catch myself, eyes snapping to hers like maybe I heard it wrong. I didn’t.

“Of course I do,” she adds, quieter now, like she’s filling in the space my silence left behind, like she doesn’t want me to mistake it for something bigger than it is. “You were my first everything, Eddie. That doesn’t just go away.”

That one hits somewhere deeper. Because I know what she means. I mean, shit, I was there for all of it. The first time she let someone hear her play something unfinished without laughing it off. The first time, she trusted someone enough to not pretend she didn’t care. The first time, she let herself want something without apologizing for it afterward. Me. And I walked away from that.

She lets out a small, humorless breath, glancing down at the water for a second before lifting one arm out of it, brushing her fingers over the inside of her wrist where the ink sits. The wyvern. Stupid, impulsive, permanent. Ours.

“I have a dumb tattoo because of you,” she says, not bitter, not really, just stating it, like it’s another fact she’s learned to live with. “Every time I look at it, I remember sitting on your floor, arguing about whether it should have wings like that or not.”

My throat goes dry. Because I remember that too. Every second of it.

“And I kept writing,” she adds, voice softer now, something more fragile threading through it despite how steady she’s trying to keep it. “Even after you left. Even after I knew you weren’t coming back.” She swallows, eyes flicking up to meet mine again. “Songs about you. About us. About trying to figure out what the hell happened.”

I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Because I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve any of that.

“I loved you through all of it,” she finishes, not breaking, not falling apart, just telling me, like I’m finally allowed to hear it now. “Even when I knew better. Even when I knew I shouldn’t.”

The lake feels colder. Or maybe that’s just me finally feeling it. I stare at her, something twisting in my chest so tight it almost hurts, because this is the part I never let myself think about. The part where she didn’t just move on. The part where she stayed, even when I didn’t.

“I didn’t know,” I say, and it comes out rough, barely there, like the words are fighting me on their way out. Her expression shifts, just slightly.

“I know,” she says. And somehow that’s worse.

The words hang there, heavier than anything else tonight, heavier than the water, the cold, the past sitting between us like it never really left. I don’t know what to do with them. With her. With the way she’s looking at me like she already said the hardest part, and now it’s my turn.

“I—” It slips out before I can stop it.

My chest tightens, something real and dangerous climbing up my throat, something I should’ve said a long time ago, something that feels too big to say now without it sounding like I’m just trying to fix what I broke. I stop. Swallow it back.

Run a hand through my hair instead, water dripping down my face like that explains anything. “I never stopped thinking about you,” I say instead, voice rough, quieter than it should be, like it costs something to let it out at all.

Her expression flickers. “That’s not the same thing,” she says. No bite. No anger. Just truth.

I nod once, because yeah, I know that, I knew it the second it left my mouth, but it was the closest thing I had that didn’t feel like a lie or a cop-out or something I hadn’t earned the right to say yet.

“I know,” I admit, low, steady, forcing myself to hold her gaze instead of backing off like I usually would.

The water shifts around us, colder now, or maybe I’m just finally paying attention to it, to everything, to the way the space between us feels smaller than it did a minute ago without either of us moving.

Except we did, somewhere along the way. She’s closer now. Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that I can see every little detail I forgot I remembered, the way her lashes stick slightly from the water, the way her breath catches just a little before she steadies it again.

My hand tightens on the edge of the dock. Then loosens. Then— moves. Not much. Just enough to brush against hers, where it’s resting there too. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look down. Doesn’t acknowledge it at all. Which somehow makes it louder.

I shift closer without thinking about it, or maybe I am thinking about it and just don’t care anymore, water rippling between us as the distance disappears inch by inch, like we’re both pretending it’s not happening.

Her eyes flick to my mouth for half a second. Then back up. And that— that’s it. That’s the moment. I lean in. Slow. Not rushed. Not careless. Like I’m giving her time to stop me, to push me back, to remind me of everything I don’t deserve right now.

She doesn’t. Her breath catches instead. Just slightly. Close enough now that I can feel it, warm against the cold air, close enough that if I move just a little more.

She pulls back. Not fast or harsh, but just enough. Just enough to break it. My breath stalls, stopping short like I hit something solid, something I should’ve seen coming but didn’t want to.

She shakes her head once, small, like she’s arguing with herself more than me, like she almost didn’t stop. “Don’t,” she says, voice quiet but firm.

I close my eyes for a second, jaw tightening, nodding once because yeah, okay, fair, because I don’t get to just step back into this like nothing happened, like time didn’t pass, like I didn’t leave.

“Yeah,” I murmur, pulling back fully this time, putting space between us before I make it worse.

We both turn back toward the lake, hands still resting on the dock but no longer brushing, no longer pretending we didn’t feel that. The silence that settles in after is different.

Her hands slip from the edge of the dock and she pushes herself up, water cascading off her as she climbs out, breath a little uneven now, like the cold finally caught up to her or maybe like something else did.

I watch her without meaning to, the way she moves quicker than before, not rushed exactly, but not lingering either, like she knows if she slows down, she might not keep it together.

She grabs her clothes, pulling them on in pieces that don’t quite line up, shirt clinging slightly to damp skin, fingers fumbling just enough to give her away.

“I have a gig,” she starts, voice steadier than it should be, like she practiced it on the walk back up in her head, like she needed something normal to fall back on. “In a couple of days. Some shitty bar a town over.”

I push myself up out of the water slower, colder now, heavier, like gravity decided to double just to make a point. My shirt’s still on the dock where I left it, but I don’t reach for it yet, just stand there dripping, watching her like I’m trying to memorize something I already know too well. She doesn’t look at me right away.

“You could—” she pauses, swallowing something down, jaw tightening just slightly before she tries again, “you could come. If you wanted.” It’s casual. At least, it's supposed to be. But it’s not.

Not with the way her hands are still, not with the way her eyes stay fixed somewhere just to the left of me, like looking directly would make it worse. Like it might make her stay. My chest does something stupid. Something tight and aching and loud in a way I can’t ignore, not now, not after everything she just said, everything she didn’t let me say back.

“Yeah?” I say, and it comes out softer than I mean it to, rough around the edges like I’m holding onto something I don’t quite know how to keep. “You inviting all your exes now, or am I getting special treatment?” It’s a joke. A bad one, at that.

Just enough to cover the way I’m looking at her, the way I don’t move any closer but don’t step back either, stuck somewhere in the middle like I always am with her. Her mouth twitches, but it doesn’t turn into a smile this time.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she mutters, but there’s no real bite to it, just something tired, something that’s trying really hard not to break.

I nod, like I’ll take that, like I don’t deserve anything softer anyway. “I’ll be there,” I say with zero hesitation. Because I will. Because I know I will. Because even if I shouldn’t, I’m already there.

Her eyes flick up to mine at that, just for a second, something fragile and fleeting passing through them before she looks away again, like she can’t hold it for too long without letting everything else spill out with it.

“Okay,” she says quietly. And that’s it. No hug. No goodbye. Just her turning, grabbing the rest of her things, and walking back up the trail like she didn’t just leave half of herself sitting here with me.

I stand there for a second longer than I should, water dripping, cold settling in, watching the place where she disappeared as if I stare hard enough, she might come back. She doesn’t.

I drag a hand over my face, exhaling slow, trying to shake off the feeling clawing its way up my chest, the one that sounds a lot like regret and a little too much like hope.

“Yeah,” I mutter to myself, grabbing my shirt off the dock, pulling it on without really thinking about it. “I’m already there.”

The trailer’s quiet when I get back. Not in a peaceful way, not in a “finally alone” kind of way, just empty, like the walls are waiting for something that never shows up. I shut the door behind me a little harder than I mean to, keys hitting the counter with a dull clatter as I run a hand through my still-damp hair, pacing once, twice, as if I keep moving, I won’t have to sit with any of it.

Doesn’t work.

Wayne’s at the table, boots still on, flipping through something that looks like a bill but might as well be written in another language with how little attention he’s actually giving it. He glances up when I come in, takes one look at me, and I can see it register.

Not the details. Just enough. “You look like hell,” he says, not unkind, just overly honest.

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, pacing past him, grabbing a glass I don’t need, just to have something to do with my hands, “it’s been a long night.”

He hums, setting the paper down slowly, like he’s deciding whether or not to push it. He does. “She back?” he asks.

I freeze, just for a second. Then I turn. “She called you,” I say, because I don’t have it in me to ease into this, because apparently tonight is just one long string of things I should’ve known sooner. “And you didn’t tell me.”

Wayne doesn’t flinch. Just leans back in his chair slightly, studying me in that quiet way he does, like he’s already thought this through long before I walked in here ready to start something.

“Didn’t figure it was my place,” he says simply.

I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head like that’s not enough, like that doesn’t even come close. “Not your— Wayne, she thought I just—” I stop, dragging a hand over my face, frustration bleeding into something else I don’t want to name.

“She waited. She called you, and you just… what? Let her think I didn’t give a shit?”

His jaw tightens just slightly. “Watch it,” he says, not raising his voice, but there’s a weight to it now, something firm that makes me stop pacing, whether I want to or not.

“I didn’t let her think anything,” he continues, slower now, choosing his words like they matter. “She asked. I answered. That’s it.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just something jagged, something frustrated. “Yeah, well, that ‘that’s it’ would’ve been nice to know, don’t you think?”

Wayne sighs, pushing his chair back just a little, boots scraping against the floor. “You were in no shape to be worrying about her,” he says, and there’s no softness in it, just truth. “You had enough going on without dragging her back into it.”

I shake my head again, sharper this time. “That wasn’t your call.”

“No,” he agrees, and that stops me short, “but it was mine to decide what was gonna make things worse.”

“You were already in deep, Eddie,” he adds, quieter now, but not gentler. “Your dad’s mess, the deal, the fire—” he cuts himself off slightly, like he doesn’t need to list it all out for me to remember, “you think bringing her back into that was gonna fix anything?”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t know. Because maybe it would’ve. Because maybe it wouldn’t have. Because I didn’t even try.

Wayne watches me for a second longer, something shifting in his expression, not quite frustration, not quite pity, just understanding in a way I don’t want right now.

“That girl,” he says finally, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, “was too good for you.” I let out a breath like I’m about to argue, about to push back, about to say something stupid just to defend myself, but nothing comes out.

Because he’s not wrong.

“She’s got a good heart,” he continues, quieter now, but somehow heavier, like every word’s got weight behind it. “Always did. You could see it a mile away, even when she tried to act like she didn’t.”

My throat tightens. I look away, jaw clenching, staring at the wall like there’s something there that’ll give me an out, something I can latch onto instead of sitting in this.

“There ain’t a lot of people like that,” Wayne adds, softer now. “And you—” he pauses, like he’s choosing whether or not to say the rest, then does anyway, “you had one.”

Had. Past tense. I swallow hard, nodding once like I’m acknowledging it, like I’ve got a grip on it, like I’m not feeling something crack open somewhere I’ve been keeping shut for a long time now.

“Yeah,” I say, voice lower than I expect, rough around the edges.

Wayne doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to. He stands after a second, claps a hand on my shoulder, firm, grounding, like he’s not trying to fix it, just reminding me I’m still here. Then he heads to his room and leaves me there, stunned and alone.

The trailer feels bigger without him in it. Or maybe just emptier. I stand there for a second, staring at nothing, listening to the quiet settle back in around me, thicker now, heavier. Then I sit down slowly. Elbows on my knees, hands dragging down my face like that’s gonna do anything.

It doesn’t. Because the second I stop moving, it hits. All of it. Her voice. Her face. The way she said she still loved me like it was the simplest thing in the world. The way I didn’t say it back. The way I still can’t. My chest tightens, sharp and sudden, breath catching in a way I can’t control, like something’s building and I’ve got nowhere to put it.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head, but it doesn’t help, doesn’t stop it, doesn’t do anything except make it worse. Because he’s right. Of course he is. She was too good for me. And I knew it. I always knew it. I just didn’t stay anyway.

My hands press into my eyes, harder than necessary, like I can shove it all back in, like I can keep it from spilling over if I just try hard enough. Doesn’t work.

My breath stutters, uneven, and I let out something quiet and broken that I don’t even recognize as coming from me, shoulders tensing as I lean forward, elbows digging into my knees like that’s the only thing holding me together.

I don’t cry. Not really. Not loud. Not messy. Just enough. Enough that it feels like something’s finally giving way. Enough that I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. And for the first time in a long time, I let it.

The place is smaller than I expected. Not a total dump, but not far off either, tucked between two buildings that look like they’ve been trying to fall apart for the last decade and finally gave up halfway through. The sign out front flickers like it’s thinking about quitting too, buzzing low in a way that makes the whole place feel like it’s barely holding itself together.

Fitting. I linger outside longer than I should. Hands shoved in my jacket pockets, rocking back on my heels like I’ve got somewhere else to be, like I didn’t drive all the way out here on purpose. There’s a part of me that thinks about turning around, about getting back in the van and pretending this never happened, that I never said I’d come, that she didn’t look at me like that when she asked.

I don’t. I push the door open. The inside hits me all at once. Warm, loud, dim in that intentional way that tries to feel cooler than it is, like it’s hiding its flaws under low lighting and cheap beer. There’s already a crowd, not huge, but enough, bodies packed close to the stage, heads turning as I step in like I don’t quite belong.

Which, yeah. Fair.

I hover near the back at first, leaning against the wall like I’m just another guy here for the music, like I didn’t come for one specific person standing behind that curtain.

My chest does something stupid when I hear the first chord. Because I know it’s her before I even see her. The sound cuts through everything else, sharper, cleaner, familiar in a way that hits somewhere low and deep, like muscle memory I didn’t realize I still had.

The curtain shifts. She steps out. And just—shit. She looks different up there. Not like the other night. Not like the lake. This is something else.

Smaller stage, yeah, but she owns it the same way, maybe even more, like she doesn’t need the crowd to prove anything, like she’s just there, doing what she does, because she can.

Her eyes sweep the room once. Quick. Practiced. Detached. Then they land on me. And I swear to God—I feel it. Like a wire snapping tight between us, sudden and electric and impossible to ignore. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter.

If anything, she leans more into it, fingers tightening on the guitar as she steps up to the mic like this was always part of the plan, like she knew I’d show and built the set around it.

“Hey,” she says, voice smooth, steady, but there’s something under it now, something just for a second that wasn’t there before. “Glad you made it.”

The crowd cheers like she’s talking to all of them. She’s not. I don’t move. Don’t even realize I’ve stopped breathing until the music kicks in again and it comes back all at once, sharp and uneven in my chest.

The room settles just a little before she leans into the mic again, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the strings like she’s deciding something on the fly. Or like she already decided.

“This next one,” she says, voice quieter now, not trying to compete with the noise, just cutting through it instead, “is called Tower of Memories.”

The title lands weird. Not because I’ve heard it before, but because it sounds like something she would’ve written when we were still sitting on her bedroom floor, when everything felt bigger than it was, and we thought that meant it mattered more.

The opening note rings out, softer than the others, almost delicate, and it draws the room in rather than pushing it back. The band follows her lead, building slowly and carefully, like they know better than to step on it too early. Her voice slips in right after. Low. Controlled. And it hits me before I can brace for it.

There’s something about the way she sings this one that feels different, less performance, more confession, like she’s not hiding behind it at all this time, like she’s letting it sit exactly where it hurts. The lyrics come out steady, but there’s weight behind them, something that lingers a little too long on certain words, like she’s choosing where it lands.

I'm right where you left me...the tower of memories...

My chest tightens. Because of course it does. Because of course she’d write something like that. Because of course I’d hear it like this now. I shift where I’m standing, pushing off the wall without realizing it, drawn in just a little closer with everyone else, even though I’m not really paying attention to anything but her.

She doesn’t look at me right away. Which somehow makes it worse. Her fingers move over the strings like second nature, voice climbing just slightly, not loud, not explosive, just… stronger, more certain, like she’s stepping into it instead of backing away.

Dragged right through my consciousness...in the darkness...I see visions of you...

It sinks in somewhere deep and ugly, somewhere I don’t want to look at too closely because I already know what I’ll find there. The room’s quiet in a different way now, not dead silent, but focused, like everyone can feel there’s something more to this one, even if they don’t know what it is. I do.

She finally looks up. Not scanning the crowd this time. Not detached. Just finding me and holding it. Not once does her voice falter.

If anything, it steadies more, like she needed that, like seeing me there locks something into place. And I—I can’t look away. Because it feels like she’s building something right in front of me. Not the same as before. Not ours. Something new. Something stronger. And I don’t know if that makes it easier or so much worse.

The second she steps off stage, she’s swallowed. Hands on her shoulders, voices overlapping, someone already talking too loud about how insane that last song was, someone else asking where they’re playing next, one of her bandmates pulling her into a half-hug like they just survived something together instead of just played a set.

She handles it easily. Of course she does. Smiling where she needs to, nodding, saying the right things without overdoing it, like she’s done this enough times now that it doesn’t rattle her, doesn’t pull her off balance the way it used to.

I stay where I am. Back of the room. Hands shoved in my pockets like if I take them out I might do something stupid, like push through the crowd, like act on the fact that every part of me is already halfway across the room.

I don’t, instead I just watch. Because this is her world now. And I don’t know where I fit in it. Minutes pass, or maybe it’s longer, hard to tell when I’m not really paying attention to anything except the way she laughs at something someone says, the way she brushes her hair back, the way she looks completely fine.

Like the lake didn’t happen. I shift, pushing off the wall. Alright. That’s enough. I showed up. That’s what she asked for. That’s what I said I’d do. Doesn’t mean I have to—I turn. Take a step toward the door. Then stop. Because leaving like this feels worse. Feels too much like before.

Like I’m doing the same thing again, just dressed up a little differently so I don’t have to call it what it is. Running.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face before turning back around. Yeah. No. Not this time.

I stay. The crowd starts to thin just a little, people peeling off toward the bar or the exit, her bandmates drifting away one by one, giving her space without making it obvious that they are. She’s still talking to someone when her eyes flick up—And land on me. Still there. Still exactly where I was. Something shifts.

Not big. Not obvious. But I see it. The way her shoulders drop just slightly, the way her expression softens for half a second before she reins it back in, before she finishes whatever conversation she’s in like she didn’t just notice me choosing to stay.

She says something quick to the guy in front of her, nods, then steps away. And this time, she comes to me. Slower than before. No rush. No edge. Just deliberate. “You’re still here,” she says when she gets close enough, voice low, like it’s just for me despite the noise still buzzing around us.

I huff out a quiet breath, nodding once. “Yeah,” I reply, shifting my weight slightly, “turns out I’m capable of that.” Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close.

“You came,” she adds, softer now, like she’s still a little surprised by it, like she wasn’t fully convinced I would.

“Told you I would,” I say, and this time there’s no joke behind it, no deflection.

She studies me for a second. Long enough that I feel it. Long enough that I don’t look away. Then she exhales, glancing off to the side before looking back at me, something more grounded settling in her expression now, something less guarded than before but not completely open either.

“You always were good at watching,” she says, tone lighter, but there’s something under it, something layered that hits deeper than it should.

I tilt my head slightly, letting out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well,” I shrug, “easier than being the one up there.”

She hums softly, like she expected that answer, like it fits too well.

“I might not be around much longer,” she says after a second.

And there it is. My chest tightens before I can stop it. “Yeah?” I ask, trying to keep it even, like that didn’t just land somewhere uncomfortable.

She nods once, glancing toward the stage, then back at me. “Couple more gigs lined up. Might head back out after that.” She shrugs, but it’s not careless this time, not easy. “No real reason to stay.”

That stings more than it should. Because I know what she means. Because I know I’m not included in that calculation. I swallow, nodding once like I get it, like I expected it.

“Right,” I say, quieter now.

She says it so easily. “No real reason to stay.”

Like, it doesn’t mean anything. Like it doesn’t land square in the middle of my chest and sit there, heavy and unmoving, like it’s waiting to see what I’m gonna do with it. I should let it go. That’s the smart move. Nod, make some joke, wish her luck, pretend I’m cool with it, pretend I didn’t just spend the last couple of days getting dragged through everything I tried real hard to bury.

I don’t. “Yeah, that’s not true.”

It comes out before I can stop it, before I can clean it up or soften it into something easier to swallow. Her brows pull together slightly, like she didn’t expect that, like she was already bracing for me to let it slide the way I always do.

“Yeah?” she says, tilting her head just a little, not defensive, not sharp, just… questioning. “What’s here?”

I open my mouth, and for a second nothing comes out, because I know what I mean, I just don’t know how to say it without saying too much. “Stuff,” I start, immediately hating it, shaking my head once like I can take it back and try again. “People. Your mom. The band here—” I hesitate, just enough for it to matter, “—you.”

The word hangs there heavier than anything else I’ve said, and she doesn’t miss it. Her eyes don’t leave mine for even a second.

“You had me before,” she says, quiet and steady, not accusing.

That one lands exactly where it’s supposed to. I nod once, slower this time, jaw tightening slightly because there’s no arguing with that, no way to twist it into something that makes me look better than I was.

“I know,” I admit.

There’s a beat that stretches longer than it should, filled with everything we’re not saying, everything we never really did. I could leave it there. Probably should. But something in me doesn’t let it sit, doesn’t let me fall back into the same pattern that got us here in the first place.

“But I’m still here.”

It’s quieter now, not forced, not dramatic, just there, like I’m placing it between us and letting her decide what it’s worth.

Her expression shifts again, not all the way, not soft, but something in it loosens, something that wasn’t there a minute ago, like she didn’t expect that either, like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it or if this is just another version of me saying something when it’s too late to matter.

I don’t move. I don’t fill the silence. I just stand there, holding her gaze like I’m not gonna look away this time.

She exhales slowly, eyes dropping for half a second before lifting back up to meet mine. “I know,” she says, and it’s not dismissive, not cold, like she’s holding it at arm’s length, not ready to take it, but not throwing it away either.

We stand there like that for a moment, close enough to feel it, not close enough to do anything about it, the noise around us fading into something distant and unimportant. Her hand shifts slightly at her side, not reaching, not pulling away, just there, like everything else between us.

“I have another set tomorrow,” she says finally, quieter now, like she’s offering something instead of taking it away this time. “Same place.”

It’s not quite an invitation, not in the way it could be, but it’s also not nothing. It’s careful, measured, like she’s giving me just enough without risking more than she’s ready to lose again.

I nod once, feeling something in my chest loosen just slightly, not enough to call it relief, but enough to notice. Enough to know this isn’t over.

“Yeah?” I reply, voice steadier now. “Guess I’ll have to show up again.”

Her mouth twitches at that, the smallest hint of something real slipping through before she reins it back in, but I catch it anyway.

And for the first time all night, it feels like maybe I didn’t miss my chance completely.

The second night feels different before I even get there. Not because anything’s actually changed, not yet, but because I know what I’m walking into this time. There’s no surprise, no shock factor, no moment of standing in the back like I accidentally wandered into something I wasn’t supposed to see. This is intentional. This is me showing up again, knowing exactly who’s on that stage and exactly what it does to me to watch her there.

The sign outside flickers the same way it did yesterday, like it’s holding on out of spite more than anything else, and for a second, I pause with my hand on the door, not because I’m thinking about leaving, but because I’m aware of it. The choice. The fact that I could walk away, keep things where they are, leave this in that safe, unresolved space where it hurts, but it’s manageable. I don’t.

The door swings open and the sound hits me immediately, louder tonight, or maybe I just feel it more, bass vibrating through the floor, voices overlapping, glasses clinking somewhere too close together. It’s packed tighter than before, bodies shoulder to shoulder, heat settling in the air like it’s got nowhere else to go.

I make my way in slower this time, not hovering at the back like I don’t belong, but not pushing all the way up either, settling somewhere in the middle where I can see her without having to fight for it. It’s a choice, I think, something small but deliberate, like I’m done hiding in corners but not ready to be right up against the stage either.

She’s already there.

Mid-set, guitar slung low, hair falling just slightly out of place, like she’s been moving more tonight, like she’s letting herself get into it instead of holding back. Her voice cuts through the room cleaner than anything else, steady and controlled, but there’s something sharper underneath it, something more alive.

She doesn’t see me right away. Or maybe she does, and she’s ignoring it. Wouldn’t put that past her.

I lean back slightly, arms crossing loosely, trying to look like I’m just another guy in the crowd, like I didn’t come here because she told me to, like I didn’t spend most of today thinking about what I’d say if she talked to me again.

It doesn’t work. Not when she looks up. Not when her eyes find me like they were always going to, like she knew exactly where I’d be standing before I even decided it myself. And this time she smiles. Not big. Not for the crowd.

Just a small, quick thing that’s gone almost as soon as it appears, like she didn’t mean to let it slip, like she caught herself right after. But it’s there. I saw it.

And it does something to me that I’m not even gonna try to unpack right now.

She turns slightly, nodding to her band, and they shift into the next song without missing a beat. It’s heavier than the last one, faster, something that pulls the crowd in immediately, bodies moving, people closer now, more alive, more reactive.

But every once in a while, she looks at me. Like she’s checking. Like she wants to know I’m still there. I am. I don’t move the entire set.

Don’t leave, don’t drift, don’t even pretend to be distracted by anything else in the room, because there’s no point. Everything else fades out anyway, background noise to something that feels a little too important for a random bar a town over.

By the time she gets to the last song, the energy’s shifted again, not quieter, not softer, but more focused, like the room’s dialed in, like everyone knows they’re about to get something that matters.

She steps up to the mic, adjusting it slightly, fingers brushing over the strings in that absent way she does when she’s thinking. “This one’s a little different,” she says, voice steady but lower now, like she’s not performing this part so much as letting it happen. “So… just listen.”

The opening is slow. Simple. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask for attention, just takes it. Her voice follows, softer than before, but somehow heavier, like every word’s carrying more than it should.

I feel it immediately. Because even if I don’t know the song, I know her. And I know when something means something. She doesn’t look at me right away.

Because I’m waiting for it. Waiting for the moment she does. It comes halfway through. Just a glance. And then she holds it. And everything else: the crowd, the noise, the heat, just kind of disappears.

By the time the song ends, I don’t even realize I’ve stepped closer until I’m already there, closer to the stage than I was before, close enough that I can see the way her hands still slightly, the way her chest rises and falls a little heavier, like she put something into that she can’t take back now.

She steps back, nodding once, giving the room just enough acknowledgment before handing off her guitar, saying something to her bandmates that I can’t hear over everything else.

And then she looks at me again. Not across the room this time. Not through people. And there’s no crowd between us anymore. Just a few steps. And whatever happens next.

I don’t think about it this time.

I just move, steady and deliberate in a way I haven’t really been with her in a long time, not rushing, not hesitating either, just closing the distance like I already decided somewhere along the way that I wasn’t stopping halfway again. A couple people shift without me asking, the crowd still buzzing from her set, voices overlapping, glasses clinking somewhere behind me, but it all feels distant, like background noise to something a little too focused to ignore.

She watches me the whole way over.

Doesn’t look away, doesn’t pretend not to notice, just stands there with her hands free at her sides, like she’s waiting to see if I’m actually gonna follow through this time or fall back into something easier before I get too close. I don’t. I stop in front of her instead, closer than last night, closer than I probably should be, close enough to see the way her breath hasn’t quite settled yet, the faint flush still sitting under her skin from the lights, the way she hasn’t fully come down from being up there.

“You play like you’re trying to say something,” I say, my voice coming out lower than I expect.

Her head tilts slightly at that, eyes searching my face like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it or if I’m just saying something that sounds good in the moment.

She doesn’t answer right away, just lets it sit there between us, and I can feel it, the weight of it, the fact that this isn’t something I can joke my way out of.

“Yeah?” she says after a second, quieter now, less performer and more her. “What’d you hear?”

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down the back of my neck before letting it fall, forcing myself to stay right where I am instead of stepping back like I usually would when things get too close to something real.

“That you didn’t stop feeling it,” I say, and it lands the second it leaves my mouth, something shifting behind her eyes before she can hide it. “And that I didn’t get to take all of it with me when I left.”

Her breath catches just slightly, and this time she’s the one who closes the space, stepping in without making a big thing out of it, just enough that the distance between us disappears like it was never really there to begin with. It’s subtle, but it’s everything.

“You’re late,” she says, and there’s no sharpness to it, no anger, just something quiet and true that settles in deeper than anything else she could’ve said.

I nod once, because there’s no arguing with that, no way to dress it up into something that sounds better than what it is. “I know,” I admit, voice rougher now, stripped of anything that sounds like a defense.

We don’t move after that.

Don’t step back, don’t fix it, just stand there with the noise of the room fading into something distant again, like it always does when it’s just us like this. Her eyes drop for a second, then lift back to mine, and there’s something in that look that makes my chest tighten, something that feels like a decision she hasn’t fully made yet.

I lean in slowly, not testing, not careless, giving her every chance to stop me, every chance to pull away before it gets to that point again, before we cross a line we don’t know how to come back from.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back.

But right before it happens, right before that last inch disappears, she turns her head just slightly, not enough to break it completely, just enough to stop it from landing.

My breath catches, stopping short again, but this time it doesn’t feel like rejection so much as hesitation, like she’s standing on the edge of something she doesn’t trust yet.

“I’m still leaving,” she says softly, close enough that I feel it more than hear it.

I pull back just enough to look at her properly, to actually see her, and there’s no distance in her expression, just something careful, something real in a way that makes it harder to ignore.

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

But I don’t step away. Not this time. And neither does she. The space between us doesn’t go back to what it was. That’s the first thing I notice.

Even after she turns her head, even after the almost of it lingers there like something unfinished, neither of us steps back, neither of us pretends it didn’t happen. The room keeps moving around us, people talking, laughing, pushing past in ways that should break whatever this is, but it doesn’t. It just holds.

She says it like it’s already decided. “I’m still leaving.”

And I feel it again, that same tight, aching pull in my chest, but this time it doesn’t just sit there. This time, it pushes back. “Yeah, you keep saying that,” I reply, quieter than I expect, but steadier, like something in me finally decided to stop letting things just happen.

Her brows pull together slightly, not defensive, just caught off guard, like she didn’t expect me to meet it like that.

I don’t give myself time to overthink it. “Like it’s already done,” I add, holding her gaze, not looking away this time, not softening it into something easier. “Like there’s nothing here worth sticking around for.”

She exhales slowly, her eyes flicking away for half a second before coming back to me, something more guarded settling in. “I told you,” she says, not sharp, but firm, like she’s trying to hold the line she already drew, “there’s not.”

“Yeah,” I nod, but I’m already shaking my head at the same time, already pushing against it, “there is.”

That lands differently. I can see it. The way she stills just slightly, the way something in her expression shifts, like she wasn’t ready for that either, like she expected me to back off again, to let her have the last word like I always do.

“What?” she asks, and it’s quieter now, not challenging, just asking.

And for once, I don’t dodge it.

“You don’t get to just write it off like that,” I say, and there’s something in my voice now, something more certain, less careful, like I’ve already crossed the line where I’d usually stop myself. “Not after everything you just told me. Not after—” I hesitate for half a second, just enough to feel it, “—after saying you still love me.”

Her breath catches again. Not as subtle this time. And I step closer. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough that she can’t pretend I’m not here, that this isn’t happening.

“You think I don’t feel that?” I continue, lower now, not loud, but heavier, like it’s been sitting there waiting for me to finally say it. “You think I came all the way out here twice just to watch you play and call it a day?”

Her eyes search mine, faster now, like she’s trying to keep up with something that’s finally moving instead of stalling out. “Then what do you want?” she asks, and there’s something fragile under it now, something real, like she’s asking a question she’s not sure she wants the answer to.

I swallow hard because this is the part I’ve been avoiding. The part that doesn’t come with a joke or an out or a way to soften the landing.

“You,” I say.

I can see it in her face, the way everything else falls away for a second, the way she just looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it or if this is just another version of me showing up too late with the right words.

“I want you to stay,” I add, quieter now, not pushing, not demanding, just honest in a way I haven’t been with her in a long time. “Not forever. Not because you have to. Just—”

I exhale, shaking my head slightly because I don’t have the perfect version of this, I never do, “just don’t decide there’s nothing here before you actually give it a chance.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes drop, then lift again, something shifting behind them, something that looks a lot like conflict, like she’s standing right in the middle of two decisions and neither one feels safe.

“You already had your chance,” she says, and it’s softer now, not sharp, not accusing, just tired.

Yeah. I nod. “I know,” I admit, because there’s no point pretending otherwise, because that part doesn’t change, no matter what I say now. “I screwed that up.”

“But I’m not doing that again,” I add, and this time it’s steadier, more certain, like I’m not just saying it for her, like I’m saying it because I finally mean it.

Her breath catches again. And she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t walk away. Just stands there, looking at me like I finally said something that matters, like she doesn’t know what to do with it yet, but she’s not dismissing it either.

“I don’t trust that,” she says quietly.

It should hit like a blow. And it does. But I don’t fold under it this time. “Yeah,” I nod, holding her gaze anyway, “I wouldn’t either.”

That? That gets her. I see it. The smallest crack, the smallest shift. And it’s not everything, it’s definitely not fixed. But it’s not nothing.

She lets out a quiet huff, shaking her head like I’ve just talked her into something she already knows is a bad idea. “You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“Fine. I’ll stay. But if you screw this up again, I’m writing a whole album about it.”

Her mouth twitches. “And this time, I won’t be subtle.”

Something in my chest settles just a little, not relief, not yet, but enough to feel like I’m not completely screwing this up before it even starts. Yeah, I can work with that.

Because there’s no way in hell I’m blowing this twice.

gah, i loved writing this one so much ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

there will be a part two, maybe even a longer series... :D

“I am not.”

“You are,” he insisted, turning his head toward you. “You’ve been smiling since the encore.”

You rolled onto your side to face him, the thin motel blanket shifting between you. “That was a good encore.”

Eddie huffed a soft laugh. “It was an amazing encore.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The muffled sound of a car passing on the highway filled the silence, headlights briefly sweeping across the ceiling through the gap in the curtains.

You became very aware of how close he was.

Close enough that you could see the faint crease between his brows when he squinted at you. Close enough that if either of you moved even a little, your knees would bump under the blanket.

“You know,” Eddie said after a second, voice quieter now, “most people after a concert like that would be out cold.”

“And miss the post-show analysis?” you said. “Never.”

“This is why you’re my favorute,” he murmured.

But he didn’t look away.

The quiet stretched between you, the small motel room seemed to shrink around the bed, until it felt like the rest of the world had slipped somewhere down the highway and left the two of you stranded in the middle of it.

"Well," you finally broke the silence. "As much as I hate that Gareth fractured his ankle, there would have been no way we'd all be able to sleep in this motel room together. So I guess it worked out money wise."

It was supposed to be the three of you on this little weekend road trip, but Gareth had gotten drunk and hopped on a picnic table one too many times before the show and had spent the evening in an emergency room getting a cast. You and Eddie had still gone.

"Yeah well, I came close to getting my own bones broken when he fell on top of me the second time." Eddie rolled his eyes with a huff of laughter. 

"Almost had to go all by myself and deal with my metal-induced euphoria alone."

"Perish the thought," Eddie said, a smile touching his lips. "I'm a vital part of your euphoria management system."

You watched the slow way he blinked, the way his lashes swept down against his cheek. 

"Eddie," you said, and you didn't know what you were going to say after that, only that you were going to say something.

But he was already moving, shifting onto his side too, facing you fully. The motion sent the mattress dipping again, bringing you even closer. The worn denim of your jeans brushed against the worn denim of his.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

You opened your mouth to speak but pushed the thought aside and instead blurted out:

"I don't have pajamas." 

He gave you a confused look at the weird way you said it but then nodded slowly.

"Me neither."

You shifted your legs a bit, pulling your knees up closer to your body.

"I don't want to sleep in my jeans." 

"Yeah, I wasn't planning on that either." 

You raise an eyebrow and he goes on. "So...we could sleep in our underwear. I could look away for a second so you can get under the covers first. 

You think about the black thong you have on.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not really wearing underwear underwear."

"Uh... what?" He looked lost.

You took a breath.

"I'm wearing a thong."

He didn't say anything at all. Just kind of stared at you like you'd just announced you could fly. Then a slow flush started creeping up his neck.

"Oh," he managed after a solid ten seconds of silence.

"I could use my shirt to cover the top half. But still..." you trailed off. "My ass would be out." 

"Yeah... I uh, know how a thong works," he managed.

You just blinked at him. You hadn't meant for the conversation to go in this direction but now it was here and you didn't know how to get it back.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement of his throat in the dim light.

"Okay," he said, after a beat that felt longer than the entire opening act. "I mean, I'm not going to make you sleep in your jeans. That's a special kind of torture. So we can... you know. Do the underwear thing. I'll face the wall. And I swear on all my Judas Priest records I won't turn around."

You searched his face, the earnestness you found there making your chest feel tight.

"Right. Okay." 

You each get up from your respective sides and undress. Eddie kept true to his word, but you still felt the heat of knowing he was just a few feet away.

You slip under the thin covers and wait.

"Okay, done. You're good."

He turned around and got in. His briefs were black too, and hung low on his hips. He had also taken his makeshift tank top off and was only in his boxers.

"You're shirtless." You say as he pauses, halfway into the bed. 

"Uh... yeah? I don't usually wear a shirt to bed..." He trails off like he's just realized what you'd said. "Is that... is that okay?"

You just nodded.

He slid the rest of the way in and pulled the covers up.

There was a lot less space between you now. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, could see the way the dim light caught the tattoos scattered across his chest.

"You've seen me shirtless before, sweetheart. It's not some revolutionary event," he said, a note of humor in his voice.

"I've never been in a bed with you while you were shirtless. Different experience entirely."

"Right," he said, and then softer, "Well I've never been in bed with a girl and her ass cheeks were out, so I think we're even." 

"I told you not to look!" You shrieked, hitting him with a pillow.

"Hey! I said I didn't!" he laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm a virgin not a monk, I can visualize what a thong entails." 

He says it so casually that you almost don't catch it. 

"...What?" 

"Okay..." he tries to backtrack. "I don't mean I'm visualizing your ass in the thong. Just an ass. Like a generic woman ass in--" 

"You're a virgin?" You cut him off.

The pillow fell from your grasp as you stared at him.

His whole body went tense.

The laugh had vanished from his face. He looked away from you, staring at the water-stained patch on the ceiling. He swallowed hard enough that you could see the muscles in his throat work.

"Uh... yeah." It comes out as a resigned whisper almost. Like, for once, he has nothing in his wordsmith arsenal to deflect.

You were too quiet.

And then your face did a weird thing that you couldn't quite control. Your eyebrows shot up and your lips parted and it wasn't bad. It wasn't mocking or judgmental.

It was just... shocked.

"Really?"

And for some reason, the simple, unadorned disbelief in your voice seemed to be exactly the wrong thing to say.

"Jesus, what, is that so hard to believe?" The words came out sharp, stung. He pushed himself up on one elbow, creating a sudden, unwelcome distance between you. "The freak, the dungeon master, the guy who sells drugs to kids isn't exactly a girl's fantasy. Don't tell me you're surprised."

"No! Eddie that's not what I meant at all!" You quickly try to sit up, while still keeping covered as well, but the blanket bunches weirdly around your waist and you feel even more exposed than before. "It's just... you're so..."

"So what?" He was genuinely agitated now, the vulnerable admission curdling into something defensive and angry.

"So... confident," you finished quietly. "You're always so... loud. And you command a room. And you're funny. And... I don't know. I just assumed..."

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. The anger seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a deep-seated exhaustion.

"Being able to work a room doesn't mean you know what the hell to do when you're alone in a dark one with someone," he said, the words barely audible.

Silence crashed back into the room. This was heavier, weighted with things unsaid. You reached out, your fingers hovering just above the space between you, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse.

"And, let's be honest, if a girl is alone with me in a dark room, she's more likely to piss herself with the worry I'm going to sacrifice her to Satan, than be wet in any other way."

You scrunch your nose up at his verbiage. 

"Okay, one: ew. Two? Not true. Three?" You took a breath, deciding to throw caution to the wind. "I'm alone with you in a dark room. Piss free."

He blinked. "Thats different. You're not like, a girl." 

It was, in fact, now his turn to say the exact wrong thing. The tension that had just begun to dissolve returned twofold.

Your jaw set. "Right. I'm not. My mistake."

He scrambled, his words tripping over each other. "No, that's not what I-- Fuck. I mean, you're you. You're my friend. It's not... it's not like that. It's safe."

"Wow. Safe. That's every girl's dream. To be the safe, unfuckable friend."

You flopped back onto the pillow, turning your back to him with a huff. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, a thin, flimsy shield. You could feel the heat of anger and embarrassment prickling at your skin.

"Woah, woah, that's not what I meant either! I'm just... bad at this," he pleaded, his voice a strained whisper. The mattress shifted as he moved closer, a careful, hesitant movement. You could feel the warmth of his hand hovering over your shoulder, not quite touching. "I've never talked about this before. I mean, you know damn well none of the Hellfire guys are getting any. And I'm pretty sure they think I'm some kind of dark lord of getting laid. It's just... a lie. A story I tell. It's easier than the truth."

You stayed silent, staring at the ugly floral pattern on the wall. You could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven.

"And you're not... you're not unfuckable," he said, the words so quiet you almost had to strain to hear them. "You're... very fucka- I mean, you're... you know. You're great."

The clumsy, earnest correction almost made you smile. Almost.

"Look at me," he murmured. "Please?"

Slowly, you rolled back over.

His face was a mess of conflicting emotions in the dim light. The defensive sneer was gone, replaced by something more vulnerable.

"'Great' is what a teacher puts on your paper when you get a B+." You say, your voice small.

He let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-despair. "Okay. You're right. You're not 'great' like a B+." He searched for the right words, his gaze flicking between your eyes. "You're... you're the solo in 'Master of Puppets'. You're the part of a song that's so good it makes you pull the car over. You're... the kind of thing that makes a guy want to learn guitar in the first place."

Your breath caught. That was not what you were expecting.

"Eddie..."

"No, I mean it," he pushed on, a desperate urgency in his tone now. "And being around you is... it's easy. Too easy. And then I get in my head about it. About saying the wrong thing. About being a disappointment. So I deflect. I make stupid jokes. I turn myself into the D&D nerd or the Satanist freak or--" 

"I'm a virgin too." The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, a quiet confession that hung in the air between you.

The torrent of words from Eddie stopped. His jaw went slack. He stared at you, wide-eyed, as if you'd just confessed to being a secret agent.

"What?" he finally managed to breathe out. "I thought you lost it to that guy from the photography club."

"Tyler?" You couldn't help the small, humorless laugh that escaped. "No. We went on, like, three dates. He tried to stick his tongue down my throat in the back of the movie theater and then practically begged for a handjob in the parking lot. It was... underwhelming."

Eddie was still just staring, processing.

"Shit. Well, now I can tell you that I really hated that guy. For more reasons than just his terrible haircut."

A real smile finally touched your lips at that. "His haircut was pretty bad."

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't heavy or awkward. It was... quiet. A shared space.

"I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed," you admitted, your gaze fixed on a loose thread on the pillowcase. "I figured you like... I don't know, banged girls in your van after shows or something. I felt... left behind. Like everyone was growing up and doing all this stuff and I was just... still me."

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice soft. "I'm far from the van-banging king. I'm the guy who is currently panicking because he's shirtless in a bed with a girl in a thong and doesn't know the social protocol for what to do with his hands."

"So you admit I'm a girl now?" you teased, a glimmer of your usual self returning.

His eyes softened, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was the kind of smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. "I've unfortunately been way too aware of that distinction for a while now."

"Unfortunately?" You raise a playful eyebrow.

"Because it was a lot easier to think of you as just... you. My friend. My partner in crime. The person I could talk to about whether Kirk Hammett was a better guitarist than Slash without getting a blank stare. Thinking of you as a girl? A girl I'm in bed with? That's... terrifying."

You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the flimsy blanket. "Why terrifying?"

"Because I'm bad at this!" he exclaimed, gesturing vaguely between you. "This entire conversation is a testament to that! I say 'safe' and you hear 'unfuckable.' I say 'girl' and I sound like a caveman. The margin for error here is huge. And the thought of messing this up... with you..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Messing what up?" you whispered.

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, and back again. The room suddenly felt a thousand degrees hotter. He swallowed, and the motion was so deliberate, so loaded with unspoken meaning, it made your breath hitch.

"You know what. Don't make me say it," he murmured, his voice raspy.

He was so close now. The dip in the mattress had eliminated all but the slimmest of gaps between you. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

"I think I want you to say it," you breathed back. 

"Not going to." His smile was back, but it was different now. Shyer. More hesitant. But no less real. "I've said enough stupid things for one night."

Instead of explaining more, he started to lean in.

Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to pull away, to turn back to the wall, to put a stop to it.

But you didn't stop it. 

Not when his hand came up to cradle your face. 

Not when he used his thumb to gently trace your jawline, the rough callus on his finger a pleasant rasp against your skin.

Not when he finally, finally closed the last remaining distance between you and his lips met yours.

It wasn't a perfect kiss. It was a little clumsy at first, a misalignment of angles that ended in a soft, wet press against the corner of your mouth.

You giggled a little, ready to say something cheeky, but he didn't give you the chance. He tilted his head and tried again.

And the second one was perfect.

It was soft and tentative, the taste of a gas station slushie. The sigh he let out against your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, settled right in your core. 

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. The kiss deepened, a slow, gentle exploration that sent shivers down your spine.

You found your own courage then, your hand coming up to rest on the warm skin of his chest. He let out a soft hum of encouragement, and you let your fingers trail over the lines of his tattoos, the dark ink a stark contrast to his skin.

"Touch all you want." He murmurs against your lips before pressing another quick kiss to your lips and pulling back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched your own.

"Okay." You say quietly, letting your hand wander.

"Okay," he repeated, a dazed sort of smile on his face. "Okay."

He was still looking at you, a deep searching look that seemed to be trying to memorize every detail of your face.

"You're staring."

"Can't help it," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. Your hands are all over him now, touching anything they can reach. His shoulders, his biceps, the small of his back. And he was doing the same. His hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft skin of your thighs above the line of the thong.

He froze for a second when his fingers brushed against the string of your underwear.

You hold back a small laugh as your hand travels to grab his ass a little, the soft cotton of his briefs giving way to the firm muscle beneath.

"Hey!" He yelped, jumping a little.

"You said I could touch all I wanted." You say with a sly grin. "Don't be shy."

He stared at you for a second before a slow grin spread across his face. "Yeah, okay. Fair's fair."

His hands grew bolder then, sliding down to cup the fat of your ass, pulling you flush against him. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was the only thing separating you.

He kisses you harder this time, a hungry, desperate kiss that stole the air from your lungs. His hips rocked against yours, a slow, deliberate friction that had you gasping into his mouth.

He was hard. You could feel him. 

"Eddie," you breathed out, his name a plea on your lips.

"That okay?" His voice soft as his lips travel over your jaw and down your neck. "How I'm touching you?"

You could only nod, words failing you. He seemed to take that as an invitation to continue. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your throat, making you whimper. His hands were still on your ass, kneading the flesh, pulling you closer as he rolls his hips against yours.

You were the one to reach for the hem of your shirt.

He pulls away, breathless.

"Wait. You sure?" He's searching your face again, looking for any sign of hesitation. "You don't have to."

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks. "Do you... not want to see me?" The words were small, laced with an insecurity you hated.

He looked like you'd just slapped him.

"No! God, no." He shook his head, a look of pure panic on his face. "That's not... I mean, I do. I really, really do. I just... I don't want you to think you have to. Because of... all this."

He gestures to his erection and then to the two of you in the bed. "He's kind of an idiot, and he has terrible ideas about timing."

"I kinda like his timing." You said, your hands back on his chest. "And I want to." You slowly lift the shirt over your head and toss it onto the floor with your jeans.

Eddie went completely still, his eyes wide, fixed on your chest.

"I knew you didn't wear a bra. I could tell," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "When you were jumping during the concert."

"Really?" You couldn't help but feel a little pleased.

"Oh yeah." He reached out a hesitant hand, like he was afraid you might disappear. "I was trying very hard to be a gentleman and not stare. But I failed. Miserably."

You let out a soft laugh as his fingers finally made contact, tracing the curve of your breast. His thumb was quick to find your nipple, brushing over it in a way that sent a jolt of pure pleasure straight to your core.

"Look at these pretty things." He murmured as he leaned down to take one in his mouth.

The feel of his tongue, hot and wet, against your sensitive skin was enough to make you arch your back, a gasp torn from your lips. He used his free hand to grip you ass hard, pulling you on top of him while his lips still wrapped around your nipple.

You were straddling him now, your knees on either side of his hips. The thin fabric of your thong and his briefs was soaked, the friction of him against you, even through the layers of clothes, was intoxicating.

You couldn't help the way your hips started to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that had you both gasping for breath.

"Can't believe you're wet for me," he said, his voice laced with a kind of awestruck disbelief. He lifted you up and adjusted you to where he could feel you better, a small moan leaving his lips at the contact.

"Can't believe you're this big," you shot back, more of a sigh than a statement. 

"Yeah? You like that?" The words were a low growl against your skin as he lavished your other nipple with attention.

"Mhm..." You could only manage a small hum, your mind going hazy with pleasure.

He's so hard. So hard that it's almost painful. You needed to feel him. All of him. You started to reach for the waistband of his briefs, but he stopped you, his hand covering yours.

"Hey, no." His breath hitched. "Not yet. Let me... let me do something for you first."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting you, maneuvering you until you were on your back and he was settled between your thighs. He pushed your legs apart with a gentle pressure of his hands. And then he was leaning down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his breath warm against your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. He moved higher, pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you desperately wanted him.

"You really want to?" Your own surprise at the question was evident.

"I've been dreaming about this," he admitted, his voice a raw, honest confession. "For a long, long time."

And then he was there, his tongue sliding against the fabric of your thong. The wet heat of him through the thin lace was almost enough to send you over the edge.

"Oh god... no wonder girls like this in pornos." Your legs start to shake a little as your hands find their way into his hair.

"You watch pornos?" He looks up at you from between your legs, a slow grin spreading across his face. "My dirty girl."

He didn't wait for an answer, just hooked his fingers into the sides of your thong and pulled it down your legs. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed somewhere in the vicinity of your discarded shirt.

"I feel like I'm supposed to pray to this," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Like a holy relic."

You let out a shaky laugh. "D&D references aren't exactly what I'm looking for right now, Eddie."

"No? So you don't like my DM voice? 'You enter a beautiful, damp cavern... the walls are slick with moisture...'" He was  on you then, his tongue finally, finally making contact with your pussy. The feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, you couldn't help but cry out.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him as he explored you with a desperate, hungry curiosity.

"Guide me," he mumbled against your folds. "I don't know what you like. Tell me."

"Your... your tongue," you gasped out. "On my clit. When I... touch myself I just focus there... "

He hummed in acknowledgement, and then he was following your directions, his tongue finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with a slow, deliberate pressure. He was a quick study, and it wasn't long before you were writhing beneath him, your hands fisted in his hair, your hips bucking against his face.

"Mmm, feels so much better than my fingers." You whined, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. He was good. So, so good. Better than you had ever imagined. And you had imagined this. A lot.

He pulled back for a second, his chin shining with your arousal. "Show me how you do it," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you like."

You hesitated for a beat, the vulnerability of the request hitting you. But then you looked at him, at the open, eager expression on his face, and you couldn't deny him anything.

You reached down between your legs, your fingers finding your clit easily. You started to rub slow circles, the motion practiced, familiar.

"God..." He groans. "You ever think about me? When you do this?"

Your fingers stutter. You look down at him, at the hope and the lust warring in his eyes.

"Only since last year," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "When you wore that ripped t-shirt to the fair. I could see your... happy trail..." 

He just stared, completely floored.

"Fucking Christ..." He pinched his eyes shut as he palmed himself through his boxers before he dived back in with a new enthusiasm.

He watched you for a moment, and then he joined in, his tongue prodding your entrance and licking at your fingers as you pleasured yourself. It was a messy, clumsy, and incredibly erotic sight.

"Fuck, Eddie, I'm so close," you moaned, your hips moving in a frantic rhythm against his tongue and your own hand.

He redoubled his efforts, nudging your hands away with his nose and sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. It was the final push you needed, and you came with a cry, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

He didn't stop, not right away. He kept licking you, his tongue gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. It was as if he just loved your taste, greedy for more. Finally, he pulled back, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face.

He crawled up your body and kissed you then, a messy kiss that tasted of your release.

"Damn, I'm gonna get addicted to that," he murmured against your lips.

You just hummed in response, your body still buzzing with pleasure. You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh, a demanding presence.

"Let me..." you started, your hands trailing down his chest to the waistband of his briefs. "Let me return the favor."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows raise.

You answered by tugging the briefs down, freeing him. He kicked them off the rest of the way, and then he was completely naked, the dim light of the motel room casting him in a warm glow. He was beautiful.

He knelt between your legs, giving you a perfect view. He was long and thick, the head flushed a dark pink, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

"I've never seen a real one in person," you confessed, your voice filled with awe.

He flushed a little, a rosy blush spreading across his chest. "Well, it's not going to win any awards. It's pretty standard issue."

"It's bigger than my dildo," you blurted out, then immediately regretted it.

Eddie's head tilted, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "You have a dildo?" He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm learning a lot about your sexy habits tonight."

"I'm a virgin, not a nun." You said defensively, a call back to his confession earlier.

"I know. I'm not judging. I'm celebrating." He kissed you again, a quick, hard press of his lips. "Now, were you about to do something?"

You reached out and wrapped your hand around him. He was hot and hard, the smooth skin a stark contrast to how rigid he was. He let out a sharp hiss of breath, his hips jerking forward.

You started to stroke him, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, the way you'd read about in a magazine.

"Jesus, that's... yeah," he groaned, his head falling back. "Just like that."

You watched him, mesmerized by the way his face contorted with pleasure. The way he was so open and unashamed of it.

"You know, when you said the thing about your... toy," he said, his breath hitching as you ran your thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. "Am I really bigger?"

You smiled, a genuine, sly smile. "Considerably."

"Fuck." He seemed genuinely pleased by this information. "That's... good to know. For my ego."

He watched you for a few more moments, your hand working him with a steady rhythm. Then he reached down, stilling your movements.

"Okay, stop," he breathed, his voice strained. "I'm not going to last if you keep doing that."

You looked up at him, a question in your eyes.

"I want..." He swallowed hard. "I wanna be inside you."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

"We won't be virgins anymore." You say, soft and immediately feeling stupid for it. Of course he knew that.

His expression softened. He leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I know." He was so close, you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest.

"I want that," you said, your voice firm. "With you."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, as if he'd been holding it for an eternity.

"Is it weird I'm nervous? I feel like that's weird for a guy." He admitted.

"It's not weird." You promised. "I don't think nerves are gendered."

He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that was full of all the things he couldn't seem to say. All the want and the hope and the fear. He only broke the kiss, to reach over the other side of the bed and fumbled in the pocket of his discarded jeans.

"I swear I keep this in my wallet all the time. Not because I was expecting... well this." He said as he pulled out a little foil square.

The crinkle of the wrapper was the only sound in the room. He tore it open with shaky fingers and rolled the condom on with an efficiency that belied his earlier fumbling.

He settled back over you, his elbows on either side of your head, caging you in.

"I can't believe I'm going to have sex with you." You whisper, looking into those consuming brown eyes, your fingers tracing the dimples that start to form when he smiles down at you. 

"Me either," he said, and there was such a raw, honest wonder in his voice that it made your chest ache. "If I'm being totally honest? I'm pretty sure this is a lucid dream I'm having after eating all that bad gas station pizza."

You laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the small room.

"It's real." You promised.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Okay."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your wet folds. He paused, looking at you one last time, giving you a final chance to change your mind.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

He pushed a little inside you with a slow, steady pressure.

It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation. A stretching, aching fullness that bordered on pain. You couldn't help the small whimper that escaped your lips.

He stopped immediately, his whole body tensing. "You okay? Am I hurting you?"

"Are you all the way in?" You asked, your breath hitching.

He shook his head. "Not even close. You okay?"

You nod. "It's a lot. Keep going."

He pushed a little deeper, a slow, inch-by-inch invasion that made you feel like your body was being remade to fit him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and he kissed up your neck and over your face. Each new press of his lips a welcome distraction from the dull ache between your legs.

He finally was all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He stilled, giving you a moment to adjust.

"Okay." You breathe out.

"You okay?" He repeated against your lips, breathless from his own pleasure. 

"Yeah just... don't move too much yet."

"You feel so... incredible. It's..." He trails off as he shifts a bit, pulling just out a little and pushing back in.

You both groan. The pain started to fade then, replaced by a different kind of ache. A deep, throbbing need.

"Okay," you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Okay, you can move."

He started to move then, a slow, gentle rocking motion that was worlds away from the frantic rutting from earlier. Each thrust was a hesitant exploration.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet his, your body learning the rhythm of his.

"Sweetheart..." It came out as a mix of a groan and a whine, you've never heard him sound sexier.

He started to move faster, a little harder, his control starting to fray. He was panting against your neck, his breath hot and damp. His hands were everywhere, on your breasts, your hips, your ass. 

"Eddie... talk to me..." You whine as he hits a spot deep inside you that made you see stars.

"What do you want me to say?" he gasped, his hips snapping against yours.

"Anything... dirty talk... something... my ears..."

He let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was half-arousal, half-nervousness before leaning down into your ear. "You feel so good. So tight. All I've thought about for the last year is what it would feel like to be inside you."

You moaned. You felt your pussy clench around him, your body responding to the dirty words. He pulled back to watch your face, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on his face.

"Yeah? Want me to keep going? Tell you how I've jacked off to the thought of your tits?"

You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure.

"Or maybe it was your ass. In those tight jeans you wear. God, the things I wanted to do to you." He punctuated the words with a particularly hard thrust that made you cry out. "Wanna kiss you until you're dripping for me. And I did tonight. Dripping all over my tongue."

His words were filthier than you ever would have imagined, and it was pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"You're so wet for me. You're taking my cock so well." He groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You're all I want. Just... you."

The last words were a raw, honest confession that went straight to your heart. You were the one to kiss him then, a desperate, messy kiss that was all teeth and tongue and need.

"Touch yourself again," he practically begged against your lips. "Please, I love seeing it." He didn't want to finish before you did. And he also liked watching.

You didn't hesitate, your hand snaking down between your bodies to find your clit. You started to rub in tight, fast circles, the dual stimulation of him inside you and your fingers on your clit almost too much to bear.

"Its too good, Eddie." You whine, a high pitched desperate sound he's never heard you make.

"Let go," he commanded, his voice rough and hoarse. "Let me feel your pussy wreck me."

His words were the final push you needed. You came with a strangled cry, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on him. The force of your orgasm was enough to send him over the edge too, and with a hoarse shout of your name, he came, his hips pistoning into you as he emptied himself into the condom.

He collapsed next to you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. The room was silent, save for the sound of your ragged breaths and the ancient motel air conditioner.

After a long moment, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked at you, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face.

"If you don't want to be my girlfriend after this, I think I might actually die."

You laugh, reaching up to push a damp curl away from his forehead. "Well, we can't have that."

He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, sweet kiss that was a world away from the frantic, hungry kisses from before.

"So... is that a yes?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Are you going to go easier on me during Hellfire?" You counter.

"Never." He grins. "You have to earn your honor just like everyone else."

"Then yes," you said, and the word felt like a promise. "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend."

He looked so happy you thought your heart might burst. He kissed you again, and again, and again, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

"Gonna 'kiss me till I'm dripping'?" You tease, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbones.

"Very funny. Give me ten minutes and another slice of that gas station pizza," he mumbled against your skin, making you laugh.

He eventually got up to dispose of the condom, and you took the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him. The long, lean lines of his body, the scattering of tattoos, the way his hair curled in all directions. He was yours.

He came back to the bed and pulled you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

"I'm never going to get tired of this," he said, his voice a soft rumble in his chest. "Of you."

You tilted your head up to look at him. "Me neither."

You lay like that for a while, a comfortable, easy silence settling over you. The events of the night replayed in your mind, not just the concert or the sex, but everything beautiful that had happened in this small, ugly motel room.

you’re dumbfounded at first that she’d even make such a suggestion, and you start going on a tangent about how he’s weird and a total junkie and probably a perv, but she begs you to just not assume. if gareth is friends with him and likes him, then he's got to be at least somewhat normal. because your friend says gareth is normal.

you don't really try too hard for eddie because you really can't be bothered to pretend to like him, but the whole date he's fixated on you, touching you, helping you with your stance and wrapping his hands around yours to guide your swings, pressed up against you with his bulge pressed to your ass.

the more he handles you like this, the less you want to pretend you don't want to be here. it's just something about the way he interacts with you. he's a little older, taller, with big hands, big arms, lots of rings, the tattoos... and he knows just the right way to push your buttons. when you're standing in line for the next hole, he has you pressed with your back to his chest and his arm wrapped loosely around your neck while he stands, just taking up all your space. his smell is something else too. makes you feel pleasantly woozy.

you didn't expect him to exude so much confidence with you, someone he doesn't know at all, so to say he surprised you would be a bit of an understatement. after a while, he gets bored of hanging out with your friend and gareth and wants alone time with you. "hey, you wanna head back to mine?" he whispers in your ear, tightening his hold around you playfully. you nod dumbly, allowing him to grab your hand and lead you out to where his van is parked. he opens the door for you and buckles you in, smiling and muttering; "cute." before going to the other side.

you make it about five minutes in the car with him before you shyly trail your hand onto his thigh, having been worked up all night and thinking that you probably won't see him again and at least you'll get a good hookup out of this night. he spreads his legs for you and allows you to feel up his dick through his pants, and you can tell from rubbing it through his jeans that he's on the bigger side.

you take it a step further and unzip his pants and slip down his boxers just enough to expose his cock, which is hard from all the touching the two of you had been doing all night and from your recent massage to his dick through his pants. it's curved and stands tall and thick, and you lick your lips at the flushed, drooling pink tip. you wrap your hand around the base, and it throbs in your hands. he hisses a bit, looking down at your hand then turning his head back to the road.

he watches you jerk him off for a bit, hand pumping from base to tip where you rub his slick along the head, before he pulls over, unbuckles both your belts, and drags you by the hand into the backseat, where your skirt comes off swiftly. he guides your hand back to his dick while panting, and hovers over you while you stroke him in time with his fingers that have just plunged into your pussy. his fingers delve into your already slick folds, feeling your silky walls flutter and clench around the intrusion. two fingers ease inside you, curling to rub along your front wall and searching for that special spot that makes your toes curl.

you can't take it any longer and tug him forward a little, guiding the head of the cock to your wet folds. he looks down at you, eyes dilated with want, and tugs his wet fingers out of you to spread open your hole with two thick fingers. you push his cock inside you while he keeps you exposed for him, thumbing your pussy lips out of the way.

the two of you moan in unison as he sinks inside you to the hilt. he starts fucking into you slow but rough, making sure you feel every inch of him inside you as he thrusts.

eddie's hands grip your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he pulls you onto his cock, balls slapping into your clit each time he bottoms out. your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back to pull him in deeper. "you like that?" he pants, laughing softly at your pathetic little noises. "giving me dirty looks and whispering to your friend about me the entire first half of our- fuck- date, then you wanna be nice t'me when i put my hands on you. you just wanted some attention, hm?"

he hilts himself inside you with a final, deep thrust, his cock pulsing and jerking as he spills his hot seed deep inside you.

your pussy milks him for every last drop, velvety walls rippling around him as you also reach your peak and cum around him. you leave his van after he drops you off with globs of his cum seeping down your inner thighs and him telling you, "call me, sweetheart!" from his window before he speeds off.

see more in my stranger things masterlist

He’s been thinking about it all day—longer than all day, he’s been thinking about it ever since he was dead asleep the night before, dreaming of being buried where he belongs between your thighs. His face, his cock, his fingers somehow all at once, feeling you every-goddamn-where.

Woke up so hard it fucking hurt.

Barely took him two full strokes before he sprayed cum all over his chest and belly, and feels almost sad amongst the euphoria because he knows it was all meant to go inside you.

He fires off a text en route to the shower, knowing you won’t get it for a couple more hours. He’s just relieved he didn’t slip in a Freudian ‘u.’

coming over 2nite.

No question mark, nothing up for interpretation. You guys talked about “maybe” doing something tonight, but he’s turned it from a vague possibility into an absolute mathematical certainty.

By the time you write back, he’s well into his day at the garage and you’re just getting up.

someone’s decisive ;)

He chuckles to himself when he reads it.

You have no idea what you’re in for.

You still don’t until he knocks on your door at 6:00 sharp and by 6:01, he’s kissing you. Kicking the door shut behind him, backing you down the hallway. Devouring your laugh and tugging at your clothes, leaving a trail of his and yours across the apartment and all the way to your bedroom.

And then he’s on top of you and pressing his lips wherever they can reach, his hands gripping and groping like he’s forgotten what you feel like. But how could he? Who could forget how smooth you are, how your flesh yields to his touch, how you fill up his palms with heat and softness that feels so right against the roughness of his skin. Built up with callouses and guitar string scars he lost count of decades ago, they shouldn’t fit with you so well but they do.

It’s like you’re clay he was born to mold, a sculpture he sees take shape a little more each time you’re together. Turning into something more beautiful than he ever imagined.

He worships you with his mouth, tastes the implumbable depths of the well at the center of you and drinks from it like it’s the fountain of youth—quenching a thirst he’s had since birth.

Your fingers weave into his curls, less to guide his movements and more to hold on for dear life. You ride out two, three highs before he even makes a move to enter you. 

But god, when he does…something switches.

Some long-buried, purely animal part of his brain takes over. Some sweaty, wild, feral thing that’s only concerned with you. Feeling you, holding you, fucking you—owning you.

He’s rougher with you than he means to be, digging his fingers into your thighs to push them up and flush with your chest, squeezing your breath out of you so the only way you can tell him to keep going is by nodding as hard as you can when he looks to you with those lust blown eyes.

Wet as you are, you’re afraid he’ll slip out he’s thrusting so hard and so fast. But if he does, you don’t feel it. All you can feel is him, his arms caging you in, his biceps bulging and flexing through the layer of fat that covers them. The same fat that covers his thick thighs and his stomach and his ass and his broad, wide shoulders. The fat that makes him feel so big and solid around you, that lets him cover you like a blanket and smother you in the smell of sweat and woodsy cologne.

He huffs and grunts and groans and whines in your ear, a symphony of struggling to keep himself under control. Breathing getting heavier with every buck of his hips, the impact making his ass jiggle harder each time. Your hand like a claw clutching one cheek, the other wrapped around the back of his neck to keep his face close, safe in the little world between your jaw and collarbone.

He speaks softly, broken choked-off words just barely above a whisper. More like a sigh.

“Baby, I c-can’t—I can’t stop, m’so…mmmph—fuck…”

The words simmer in your ear, coupled with the wet slaps of skin on skin that fill the room with your moans and his, the slippery mess you’re making so noisy it’s obscene. You are gushing around him, your body pulsing and clenching trying to hold him inside as long as possible.

“M’sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t help it, I need you so fucking bad—”

He’s coming apart at the seams. You can feel it in the way his body unspools into pleasure, the way all the tension he’s been carrying is leeched from every muscle and ligament. How his voice unfurls into this wanton plea, so loose and languid in stark contrast to the tightness of his limbs.

“S-so…so good… so nnngh, so good for me…oh shit…”

One last clench, one last powerful thrust, one last deep and resonant groan that reverberates through your chest that’s pressed so tight to his. One last desperate clutch at his crown of sweaty curls, one last gasp as you throw your head back. One last squeeze of your legs stretched as wide as they can go, ankles crossed at the small of his back to hold him close.

The last noise he makes is veneration, a final holy sacrament to his altar of you.

He stays buried inside, steeping in his own spend, feeling the slow trickle of it around the base of his cock. You should probably find it gross. You should probably take offense at being folded in half and getting pounded out like a piece of meat. And yet, you can’t find the will for either.

“Hey,” he whispers when he’s back in his body, and while he’s still in yours. “You okay?”

You just nod, sleepy and lazy and dazed, a little smile creeping across your lips he doesn’t see because he’s shaking his head, letting it hang like it’s hard to hold up all of a sudden.

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean for it to be so—”

You take his chin in your hand and turn him into a kiss. A good one. A thought-erasing one.

“I loved it,” you whisper back, and clench around him for good measure. His hand grapples at your waist, his body jerking with a violent shudder.

“Don’t you– ffffuck…”

The barely-there threat dissolves into laughter before he can even make it, his face smothered in the crook of your neck again so he can breathe in the smell of your drying sweat.

He looks up at you with an expression of complete innocence, that you don't believe for a single second per say, Something in your chest does the warm inconvenient thing it's been doing since last night and you look very deliberately out the window, thinking about running up the hills.

"I'm going to write," you announce, already getting up from your spot.

"Good," he says. "You should write."

"I'm going… to write a lot."

"Great."

"Very productive day I fell."

"I believe you," he says, and you can hear the smile in it without looking, and you take your coffee and your cigarette and your dignity and go to your desk.

~

Some time later, the chapter gets written and this is, genuinely, a surprise.

You sit down with your coffee still warm and open the laptop with the particular low expectation of someone who spent yesterday staring at a cursor, and then something happens, the words come, one and then another and then a paragraph that actually works and then two more after that, and a few hour passes without you noticing and then another, and by mid-morning you have pages, real pages, the kind that don't make you want to close the laptop and go reorganize a bookshelf.

You are, professionally speaking, on fire! Also, personally speaking, extremely aware that there is a garage approximately thirty feet from where you're sitting and that Eddie has been in it since before you came downstairs, these two facts are unrelated.

The thing is, the window is just there, you know? You have looked out of it approximately ten thousand times in four months for completely innocent reasons, the light, the weather, the general concept of taking a break and looking out of it now is no different from any of those times. 

You are simply resting your eyes for a moment, before going back to the very productive chapter you are writing but your eyes catch Eddie leaning over the engine with his sleeves pushed up.

His hands are doing something with a wrench, that you are not going to think about and his fucking hair is falling forward, there is a smear of something dark along his jaw and the morning light is coming into the garage at an angle that is, objectively, unfair. 

He straightens up. Reaches for something on the workbench, turns his head and finds you staring, like he knew exactly where to look, which he probably did, to be honest. 

For a second you just look at each other through the glass, you at your desk with your laptop open and your coffee going cold, him in the garage with grease on his hands and the morning light doing something completely unreasonable to the line of his jaw.

Then the corner of his mouth lifts. He raises two fingers to his lips and blows you a kiss, like it was nothing. You turn back to your screen so fast you almost knock over your coffee.

It's early afternoon when it happens in reverse.

You're deep in a scene, the good kind of deep thought, where the outside world has stopped existing, the quiet involuntary laugh of a writer who surprised herself, and you're leaning forward with your chin in your hand,your eyes on the screen and you are completely, entirely, embarrassingly unaware of anything else.

Then you feel it, the particular quality of being watched.

You look up. Eddie is in the doorway of the living room with a can of soda in his hand, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with the exact expression you must have been wearing an hour ago at the window, warm and unhurried and entirely too interested.

He looks at you, the can of soda sweats quietly in his hand.

You raise your middle finger. Eddie laughs, real and unguarded, the kind of laugh that takes over his whole face, he pushes off the doorframe and disappears back toward the kitchen still laughing, and you can hear it fading down the hallway.

~

It's almost ten when you hear the shower stop.

You're on the couch with the TV on, some Discovery ID documentary playing, watching it with genuine interest and that has nothing to do with the way you've been listening to the sounds of the house since then. Nothing at all!

You are looking at the TV when he appears in the doorway. Your brain does something it really shouldn't do at ten o'clock on a Monday.

He's in pyjama shorts. Nothing else. 

A towel draped behind his neck, hair wet, falling forward, and he walks through in front of the TV like he lives here, which he does for like 50 years already, drying his hair with one end of the towel with the particular casual ease of someone who is absolutely aware of every second of this.

You have seen approximately none of the last thirty seconds of the documentary.

Then he comes back and sits down on the couch closer than necessary, his thigh against yours, his damp hair smelling like green apple shampoo. 

He looks at the TV and cracks a can, taking a deep sip.

On screen, a detective describes the circumstances of a disappearance in a cornfield in 1987. The narrator is very serious. You are not absorbing any of it.

"This guy had a whole system," Eddie says, nodding at the screen. "Impressive, in a deeply terrible way."

"I’m very surprised this guy it’s not you," you say.

He glances over.

"I'm offended," he says.

"You're a vampire for fuck sakes."

"I have standards, sweetheart."

"You have a victim selection process, which I'm told is basically the same thing."

He considers this. "Fair," he says, looking back at the TV.

His arm lifts off the back of the couch, settling around your shoulders instead. Easy. Unhurried. Like it just decided that was where it lived now. 

His fingers find the ends of your hair. Turning a strand between his digitals with the absent focus of someone who isn't thinking about what their hands are doing.

You know that isn't true, you know that that simple gesture burned his skin as much as it burned yours.

"You're not watching it," he says.

"I am." your voice were weak

"You haven't blinked in a while, Brains."

His fingers move again, slowly and he pulls you slightly closer. Just the quiet insistent gravity of his arm. 

You go, because apparently your body has its own opinions that don't require your input anymore.

On screen, someone describes what they heard the night it happened.

"He hid the evidence in the barn," you deadpan, because you need to say something. The alternative is sitting here in silence while he does that with your hair.

"Mm," Eddie says.

His mouth is close to your ear. Close enough that when he speaks you feel it more than hear it, warm and velvet, aimed with what you are now certain is criminal precision.

"You were watching me through the window this morning, weren't you sweetheart? " he says.

Your throat moves involuntarily

"I was resting my eyes from the screen, that’s all Eds" you say, smaller than you intended.

"For quite a while. hum?"

"The light was good."

"Mm." His nose almost grazes your temple. "I didn't mind you staring,though."

The last two words settle somewhere low in your chest. His arm is around your shoulders, fingers are in your hair. His mouth is approximately one inch from your jaw. 

The documentary keeps playing, you turn your head and his mouth is right there. His eyes are very dark, focused and he knows, he absolutely knows…

You pull back.

"I'm going to sleep," you spat, impressively steady.

Eddie leans back, unhurried, takes a sip of his coke, looks at the TV with complete composure that you do not believe for a single second.

"It 's only ten, Brains," he says. "You're not tired."

"Goodnight Eddie," You stand. Pick up your laptop. Do not look at him, because if you look at him right now he will win, and you are not ready to let him win that easily.

You can feel him watching you all the way to the stairs.

"Sleep well, angel," he says behind you.

Completely innocent words but the way he says them is definitely not.

First step. Second. The third one that creaks. Your face is still warm, your heart is so very fucking loud but you don't look back for once.

You slip inside and let the door close, resting your back against it. The dark settles quickly, familiar. Your eyes don’t adjust so much as give up. Your laptop is still in your hands, warm against your chest.

The TV murmurs downstairs, low and indistinct, like it’s coming through the floorboards. His mouth was inches from yours. Less than that!

‘’Sleep well, angel’’  soft, deliberate, landing low in your chest and staying there. Now it’s all you can feel. 

And you’re thinking about him, pyjama shorts loose around his waist showing his fucking V line, the lighter in his hand this morning, 

‘’You can’t really do this anymore, do you?.’’ The thought cuts clean through everything else. You move before you can think better of it. The laptop dropped onto the desk, the door almost open and Eddie Stupid Munson is there, hand raised, like he’s been about to knock for a while. 

For a second, no one moves.

The hallway air is cooler, slipping into the room between you.  His face gives up first this time, followed by his hands being certain at your waist.

Not careful nor tentative either. 

You are already holding onto him before you've consciously decided to, your arms around his neck, the hallway tilting as he lifts you and your legs find his hips,the door shuts behind him and then it's just the dark room and his warmth everywhere.

His mouth is different now,less careful, like whatever restraint he had is already gone. His hands tighten at your waist as he moves you toward the bed without breaking the kiss, like he already knows the room by instinct.

Your back meets the mattress, his weight settling over you, and distantly, you realize you’ve been thinking about this longer than you ever admitted.

His mouth moves from yours,to your jaw, your neck, the particular curve of your throat

And then he stops.

Not hesitation. Control.

You feel it in the way his breath hits your skin, in the way he holds himself there like he’s deciding something.

“Jesus” it slips out of him, rough, unplanned.

Your teeth press into your lip hard enough to sting. You shift under him without thinking,closer,and he feels it immediately. His grip tightens, pulling you into him with more intent now, and the friction makes your breath catch sharp in your throat.

“Eddie, please” you whisper.

That’s enough.

The kiss comes back harder, less controlled, like whatever line he was holding is already gone. One hand stays firm at your waist, keeping you there, while the other shifts just enough to pull a reaction out of you—and when it works, instantly, he exhales against your mouth like he expected it.

He breaks from your lips only to drag his mouth down your neck, teeth catching at your skin this time, not gentle, not asking. Your head falls back, your breath breaking in a way you don’t even try to control.

His hands find the hem of your shirt and pull it off in one clean motion.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, quieter now, “you’re beautiful.”

His mouth follows, and your back lifts off the mattress before you can stop it, your breath catching sharply enough to make him pause for half a second.

Just long enough to notice.

You reach for him without thinking, and the reaction you get is immediate low, rough, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

You don’t stop there.

Your hand wraps around him, slow at first, just enough to feel the way he reacts, the way his breath shifts, the way his body answers yours without hesitation.

“Eddie…” your voice breaks this time.

He huffs something that might be a laugh, might not.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, like he already knows.

“You know what I want,” you manage.

“Yeah,” he says, lower now. “I do.”

His mouth moves down your body slower this time, deliberate, like he’s choosing every second of it.

And he doesn’t rush.

That’s the worst part.

Because when he finally settles between your thighs, it’s not frantic—it’s controlled. Focused. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly what it’s going to do to you.

Your hips move before you can stop them.

“Stay,” he murmurs, one hand pressing you back into the mattress.

And you do.

Even when everything in you wants to chase the feeling instead.

The first real touch pulls the breath out of your lungs. Your fingers knot in the sheets, your whole body tightening as he builds it slow, precise, like he’s testing how far he can take it before you break.

It doesn’t take long.

“I’m so fucking close, Eddie” your voice comes out uneven, your body already giving in.

“Come for me,” he says, low, steady. “I’ve got you.”

That’s what does it.

The control in his voice. The certainty.

It hits fast, sharp, your whole body tightening all at once as it pulls you under, your breath breaking completely.

He stays with you through it, not rushing, not pulling away, drawing it out until you’re shaking.

And then he’s moving again, coming back up, his mouth finding yours like he needs it just as much.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against your lips, rough, almost distracted.

You pull him closer, your legs wrapping around him, not even trying to pretend you want to slow this down anymore.

“I want you,” you breathe.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you into him in one smooth movement, the shift in closeness knocking the air from your lungs more than you expect, and for a second neither of you moves,just feeling it.

Then he does.

Slow at first. Deep. Intentional.

Your nails dig into his back, your body already chasing more.

“Harder,” you say, and this time your voice doesn’t shake. “Eddie, harder.”

That’s all it takes.

The rhythm breaks open faster, rougher, the bed shifting under you, the sound of it filling the room along with your breath, his, everything tightening again.

“I want to see you lose it,” he says, lower now, almost against your mouth.

Your hand moves between you without thinking, chasing the feeling that’s already building again, faster this time, sharper, like your body already knows exactly where it’s going.

“Eddie,I’m close—”

“Come with me,” he mutters, voice rough now, losing some of that control.

And this time it hits harder.

Less controlled. More overwhelming.

Your body tightens all at once, pulling everything out of you as it breaks, your breath catching, your grip tightening, everything collapsing into that single moment.

He follows right after, his movement stuttering, his breath breaking against your shoulder as he presses into you fully, holding there.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then he exhales, something low and disbelieving against your skin.

He shifts just enough to settle against you, not pulling away completely, his hand tracing absent lines along your side like he hasn’t decided to let go yet.

“Yeah,” he mutters.

You let out a breath that almost feels like a laugh.

“Yeah,” you echo.

And for oncE, neither of you tries to pretend it didn’t mean something.

~