beth 𐙚

The rumors about you come in layers.

Not the loud, cafeteria-table kind, not the careless whispers traded between lockers. Yours are heavier, the kind that stick.

The kind people lower their voices for without even realizing it, witchy, bitchy, strange. “Don’t look her in the eye too long.” 

Something about the way you smile, like you know something no one else does.

Eddie has heard all of them. And still, he watches you.

It starts small. A glance across the parking lot, your boots crunching gravel like you own the place, headphones slung around your neck, rings glinting when you push your hair back. Then it becomes a habit.

He notices what bands are scribbled across your notebooks, how you tap your pen in rhythm to something only you can hear, how you never rush, never fidget, never fill silence unless you want to.

You don’t orbit Hawkins High; it orbits you.

And that’s the problem. Because Eddie Munson, resident freak, king of Hellfire, professional loudmouth, suddenly finds himself very, very quiet whenever you’re around. He tells himself it’s your reputation, because that’s easier than admitting the truth.

“Alright, Munson and…” the teacher drones, barely glancing up from her clipboard. Even your teacher hesitates over your name, like it might bite.

Eddie’s stomach drops. Of course, of course it’s you.

You don’t react right away. You just close your notebook slowly, like you’ve known this was coming all along.

When you finally look at him, it’s not shy; you’re simply just assessing him for what he’s worth. 

Eddie nearly forgets how to breathe. He lugs his chair over, trying to act like this is normal, like he hasn’t spent the last month watching you like you’re some kind of cryptid sighting.

“Uh,” he starts, then stops. Great. Smooth.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes dragging over him in a way that feels almost physical.

“You’re staring,” you say.

Your voice is softer than he expected.

“I—what? No, I’m—this is my natural face,” he deflects, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Very stare-y. It’s a condition.”

You pause for a second, then smile. Not big or warm, but just enough. Eddie’s heart does something stupid in his chest.

“Relax, Munson,” you murmur, pulling the lab sheet toward you. “I don’t bite.”

Your fingers tap once against the paper.

“Unless you give me a reason to.”

Oh. Oh, he’s done for. Working with you is disorienting, to say the least. 

You don’t rush through the assignment like everyone else. You take your time, reading each step carefully, jotting notes in the margins that Eddie can’t help but lean over to read.

Your handwriting is sharp, deliberate, with little symbols and sketches mixed in with the chemistry, like it all connects somehow.

“Are you always this intense?” he asks at one point, trying to keep his voice casual.

You glance up at him. “Are you always this distracting?”

He chokes on air.

“Jesus, okay. Sorry, I’ll just—” he mimes zipping his lips, then immediately fails at it. “No, wait, that’s worse, I’m not a quiet person, this is not sustainable—”

“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” you observe.

“I’m not nervous.”

You raise a brow.

He exhales. “Okay, I might be a little nervous.”

“Why?”

Eddie hesitates because the real answer is ridiculous.

Because you’re terrifying in a way he doesn’t understand, in a way he kind of likes. Because you look at him like you can see right through him, and instead of running, he wants to step closer.

“Reputation,” he settles on, weaker than he’d like.

“People say a lot of things,” you reply, turning back to the experiment. “Most of them are boring.”

“Yeah?” he says, watching you carefully. “What do you say?”

“I say,” you murmur, “that most people decide what they’re afraid of before they ever actually look at it.”

Eddie swallows.

“Lucky for you,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “you don’t seem very afraid.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s because I’ve been watching you for like a month.”

Shit.

He freezes. “I, uh, okay, that sounded—wow, that sounded so much worse out loud—”

You don’t interrupt. You just watch him spiral.

“You have,” you say. Not a question.

Eddie blinks. “You… knew?”

You shrug slightly. “You’re not subtle.”

“And?” he asks, cautiously.

“And,” you echo, eyes dropping briefly to his hands before meeting his gaze again, “I didn’t stop you.”

Something electric snaps into place. Eddie leans in without realizing it, elbows on the lab table, grin creeping back despite himself.

“Yeah?” he says, voice low now. “Why’s that?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you reach for his wrist. Your rings press cool against his skin as you turn his hand over, examining it like it’s part of the experiment.

Eddie forgets every coherent thought he’s ever had.

“Because,” you say softly, tracing the curve of his palm with your thumb, “you look at me like you’re trying to figure me out.”

Your gaze flicks up to his. “And most people don’t bother trying.”

Eddie exhales slowly.

“Maybe I like puzzles,” he murmurs.

Your lips twitch.

“Careful,” you say, finally letting go. “You might not like what you find.”

He leans back, heart still racing, but something steadier settling underneath it now.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough but sure. “I think I will.”

By the time the bell rings, neither of you has finished the lab, and neither of you seems to care.

As everyone files out, you take your time packing up, slipping your notebook into your bag. Eddie lingers, suddenly unwilling to let the moment end.

“So,” he starts, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly, “same time next class, partner?”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Maybe,” you say.

Then, just before you turn away, “If you’re lucky.”

Eddie watches you leave, a little dazed, a little thrilled, and entirely screwed.

Lunch is loud in the way only a cafeteria can be. Trays clatter, chairs scrape, conversations overlap into a steady, shapeless hum that fills every inch of the room. It’s the kind of noise most people get swallowed by.

You don’t.

You sit at the far end of one of the tables near the windows, your friends scattered around you in loose, shifting positions, half-paying attention to whatever story is being told. You’re there, but not fully. 

One leg crossed over the other, elbow resting against the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of your drink like you’re following a thought only you can hear.

Every so often, you hum under your breath, barely audible, like a song that hasn’t decided to exist yet.

People notice you, they just don’t approach.

Across the room, Hellfire has claimed their usual table. Loud, chaotic, a mess of half-finished lunches and overlapping voices.

Eddie sits at the center of it, where he always does, all restless energy and sharp edges, talking with his hands as he launches into some dramatic retelling of last night’s campaign.

But he’s not really there. Because every few seconds, his gaze drifts. It pulls, like gravity, back to you.

At first, it’s subtle. A flicker between sentences. A glance when someone else starts talking. But it builds, becomes harder to hide, until he’s fully turning his head, attention slipping clean out of whatever Gareth is saying about a botched spell roll.

And then you look up. It’s not immediate or reactive. It’s like you feel it before you see it, your gaze lifting slowly, deliberately, until it lands on him across the crowded room. There’s no surprise in your expression, just recognition.

Eddie freezes mid-sentence.

For a second, everything else drops away. The noise, the movement, the people. It’s just that look, steady and knowing, holding his in place like a hand at the back of his neck.

Then, you tilt your head slightly. Barely anything, but it’s enough. Enough that Eddie’s mouth goes dry.

“—and then the demogorgon just, like, absolutely wrecked—” Dustin stops mid-rant, frowning. “Dude. Eddie.” No response.

“Eddie.”

Gareth leans over, following the direction of Eddie’s stare, and immediately groans under his breath. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

That does it. Eddie snaps back, blinking hard, like he’s been caught coming up for air.

“What?” he says, a little too quickly.

Gareth doesn’t even bother being subtle. He jerks his chin across the cafeteria. “You’re staring.”

“I am not staring,” Eddie shoots back automatically, grabbing his soda like that proves something.

“You are absolutely staring,” Mike chimes in, twisting around in his seat to look. “At—oh. Oh, dude.”

Dustin’s eyes widen. “No way.”

Eddie follows their line of sight, sees exactly where they’ve landed, and immediately tries to play it off, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated ease.

“Okay, first of all,” he says, pointing at them like he’s about to make a solid legal argument, “I can look wherever I want. It’s a free country.”

“Yeah,” Gareth mutters, “and you chose her.”

“Dude, you know she’s like… resident bitch number one, right?”

“She’s not—” he starts, then stops himself. Because how the hell would he even know that?

He drags a hand through his hair instead, shrugging like it’s nothing. “People say a lot of things.”

“Yeah, and in this case, they’re right,” Mike says, a little too confidently for someone who has definitely never spoken to you. “My cousin had a class with her. Said she, like, made a kid cry just by looking at him.”

Dustin snorts. “That’s kind of impressive.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “Or maybe the kid was just weak.”

Gareth squints at him. “Why do you sound defensive?”

“I don’t sound defensive,” Eddie says, immediately defensive.

“You do,” Dustin and Mike say at the same time.

Eddie opens his mouth to argue, and then he looks again. He can’t help it. Across the cafeteria, you’re already watching him, like you knew he would.

This time, you don’t look away. You just hold his gaze, slow and steady, like you’re waiting to see what he’ll do with it.

Eddie exhales, something low and amused curling in his chest despite the attention on him. He leans back further in his chair, dragging his thumb along the edge of his cup, and—very deliberately—keeps looking.

“Holy shit,” Gareth mutters. “He’s doubling down.”

“Abort, man,” Dustin whispers urgently. “Abort mission.”

Eddie doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his brows slightly, almost like a challenge.

Across the room, your lips twitch. Not a full smile, not even close. But it’s there. And then, just to make it worse, you drag your gaze down him. Slow and unhurried, like you’re taking inventory.

Eddie’s brain short-circuits.

“OH MY GOD, SHE SAW YOU,” Mike hisses, ducking like that’s going to save him from the situation somehow.

“No shit she saw me,” Eddie murmurs, voice lower now, something steadier settling in.

Gareth is staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “You’re enjoying this.”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. Because across the room, you finally look away, but not before tapping your fingers twice against the table, a small, deliberate rhythm. The same one from chemistry.

Eddie’s lips curl, slow and certain.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, eyes still on you even as you turn back to your friends. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Dude,” Dustin says, equal parts horrified and impressed, “you’re gonna get cursed.”

Eddie huffs a laugh under his breath, shaking his head. “Worth it.”

The last note lingers longer than it should.

It hangs in the air, vibrating through the low ceiling of The Hideout, through the sticky floors and half-empty glasses, through the crowd that’s already half turned toward the bar before the sound even fully dies. 

Corroded Coffin finishes the set rough and loud, the way they always do, Eddie’s fingers still buzzing from the strings as he pulls back from the mic, breath uneven, curls damp at his temples.

There’s a smattering of applause, some whistles, and a few half-interested cheers.

Eddie barely registers any of it. The second he steps off that stage and heads toward the bar, he sees you.

And everything else just stops.

You’re leaning against the counter, like you belong there more than anyone else in the room. Like the dim lights were built for you.

The black long-sleeve clings to you clean and sharp, the corset pulling everything into a silhouette that feels almost unfair, structured and deliberate, like armor. 

The skirt sits just right, layered and soft against the harder lines, fishnets catching the low light in fractured patterns every time you shift your weight.

And the boots; heavy, grounded, unapologetic, plant you firmly in place like you’re not going anywhere unless you decide to.

Your wrist moves as you lift your drink, rings glinting, dark and intentional, every detail curated without looking like you tried.

Eddie forgets how to walk. Like, genuinely forgets. He slows mid-step, eyes locked, brain completely short-circuiting in real time.

“Dude,” Jeff mutters behind him, nearly walking straight into his back. “Why did you just—oh.”

Gareth follows his gaze. “…oh, shit.”

Eddie doesn’t answer. Because you choose that exact moment to glance over, and catch him.

There’s no confusion in your expression. Just that same slow recognition from earlier, like you’ve been aware of him the entire time.

Your lips tilt slightly around the rim of your glass. Eddie’s heart slams against his ribs.

“Okay,” Gareth says under his breath, grabbing Eddie’s shoulder like he’s trying to physically ground him. “We can still turn around. We can still not do this.”

Eddie exhales once, sharp, dragging a hand down his face before straightening slightly.

“Shut up,” he murmurs.

Then he walks over.

Each step feels louder than it should. He’s aware of everything in a way that’s almost irritating: the press of the room, the hum of conversation, the fact that Jeff and Gareth are absolutely trailing behind him like backup he did not ask for.

You don’t move, you just watch him approach. When he finally stops in front of you, there’s a beat. A quiet stretch of space where neither of you speaks, the tension sitting thick and steady between you.

Up close, it’s worse. Or better, he hasn’t decided just yet.

“Hey,” Eddie says finally, voice rougher than he intended.

You tilt your head slightly. “Hi, Eddie.”

There’s something in the way you say his name, like you’ve been waiting to use it.

Eddie lets out a soft breath, half a laugh. “You came.”

Your gaze flicks briefly toward the stage, then back to him. “You played.”

That shouldn’t sound as loaded as it does. Behind him, Jeff shifts. Gareth makes a quiet noise that sounds suspiciously like panic.

You notice, naturally. 

Your eyes slide past Eddie, landing on them both, taking in the way they hover just slightly behind him, unsure, wary, like they’ve accidentally walked into something they don’t understand.

Your expression doesn’t change, but something in it sharpens.

“…you brought friends,” you say lightly.

Eddie glances back over his shoulder. “Oh—uh, yeah, these are—”

“Gareth,” Gareth blurts, immediately, like introducing himself might save him.

“Jeff,” Jeff adds, nodding once.

You look at them for a moment longer than necessary. Then, you lean in just a fraction. 

And softly, “Boo.”

Gareth physically flinches. Jeff nearly chokes on nothing.

Eddie stares at you for half a second, then lets out a surprised laugh, head dropping as he drags a hand through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, grinning despite himself.

You sit back again, completely unbothered, lifting your drink like nothing just happened.

“They scare easily,” you remark.

“I can see that,” Eddie says, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t worry, they’ll recover. Eventually.”

“Debatable,” Gareth mutters.

You ignore him. Your attention settles back on Eddie.

“You’re better than I expected,” you say.

Eddie raises a brow. “Oh yeah? That a compliment?”

“It depends,” you reply. “Do you want it to be?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, stepping a little closer without fully realizing he’s doing it. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Your gaze drops briefly, dragging down his chest, his hands, the remnants of the performance still clinging to him, then back up.

“You don’t seem like the type who settles,” you murmur.

Eddie’s grin softens, just slightly.

“Funny,” he says, voice lower now, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

The noise of the bar fades again, not completely, but enough that it feels like the two of you are standing just outside of it.

You shift your weight, one boot sliding slightly against the floor, close enough now that he can catch the faint scent of whatever you’re wearing, something dark and subtle and impossible to ignore.

“Chemistry went unfinished,” you say, almost casually.

Eddie’s breath hitches.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Tragic, really.”

“Maybe we should fix that.”

His eyes flicker. “Yeah?” he says, quieter now.

Your lips curve, just a little sharper this time.

“Unless,” you add, glancing briefly past him again, “your friends are too scared to let you.”

Eddie doesn’t even look back this time. “Trust me,” he says, holding your gaze steady, “they’re not stopping anything.”

Behind him, Gareth makes a small, distressed noise.

You smile. Not nice, not soft, but just enough. And Eddie? Eddie is absolutely, completely done for.

The corner of your mouth lifts just slightly, like you’ve already decided something he hasn’t caught up to yet.

“Good. Swing around my place tomorrow afternoon, then, partner.” You say, placing your drink down on the counter. It lands with a soft, deliberate clink.

Eddie blinks; once, twice.

“Your place?” he echoes, like the words need a second to fully process.

You nod, already reaching for your jacket, as if this conversation is simply concluded. “We never finished the lab.”

“That feels like a very loose interpretation of academic responsibility,” he says, but there’s no real argument in it, just a crooked smile starting to pull at his mouth.

“Maybe,” you reply, shrugging one shoulder as you slip your arm through the sleeve. “Or maybe I don’t like unfinished things.”

Eddie exhales through his nose, something almost like a laugh caught in his chest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m starting to get that.”

There’s a second where neither of you moves, where it feels like something else could be said, something that tips this from flirting into something neither of you can easily step back from.

You don’t let it. Instead, you turn slightly, brushing past him just close enough that your shoulder grazes his arm, the contact brief but very, very deliberate.

“Don’t be late, Munson,” you add, voice softer now, meant just for him.

Then you’re gone, just like that.

Eddie stands there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the space you just left behind, like he’s trying to replay it in real time.

Behind him: “…you’re going to her place?” Gareth says, somewhere between disbelief and concern.

Jeff lets out a low whistle. “Man.”

Eddie drags a hand over his face, then drops it, a slow grin spreading whether he tries to stop it or not.

“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself.

Gareth groans. “You’re not coming back alive.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, already turning toward the door, like staying here any longer suddenly feels pointless.

“Worth it,” he tosses over his shoulder.

The next afternoon settles over the trailer park in that quiet, sun-warmed way that makes everything feel slower than it actually is.

The gravel crunches under Eddie’s boots as he cuts across the lot, past familiar doors, familiar windows, familiar lives he’s never really questioned.

Until now. Because he’s heading somewhere he’s never been before.

He knew you lived here. Hawkins is small, and rumors travel faster than anything else. He’d heard it in passing, half-formed conversations, someone mentioning “the girl on the other side of Forest Hills,” always said with that same tone people use when they don’t quite understand something.

But knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.

Eddie slows a little as he reaches the end of the park. It’s quieter over here. Less traffic, fewer people lingering outside. The air feels still, like even the place itself knows better than to be loud around you.

He finds your trailer easily. Something about it just fits.

Not in an obvious way. There’s nothing over the top, nothing screaming for attention. But it feels intentional.

A few small details that don’t match the rest of the park, a sense of quiet control, like everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.

He notices the absence before anything else. No extra car, no voices, no movement behind the curtains. You’re home alone.

Eddie exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck before knocking twice against the door.

There’s a pause, and then the handle turns. And, Jesus, you look different. Not less, never less.

Just softer, in a way that somehow makes everything else worse. Better. Dangerous in a quieter way. 

The structured edge from last night is gone, traded for something more relaxed, more effortless, like you’ve peeled back a layer but kept the core exactly the same. Your clothes sit easier on you now, less armor, more you.

And somehow, still breathtaking. Eddie forgets whatever he was going to say.

“Hi,” you say, like you haven’t just short-circuited his entire brain.

“Hey,” he manages, a second too late.

Your gaze flicks over him once, quick but thorough, before you step back and gesture him inside. “You made it on time.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, clearing his throat as he steps past you, acutely aware of the space between your bodies, “I was told not to be late. Felt threatening.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you shut the door behind him. “Good.”

The inside of your place is exactly what he expected, and also not at all. 

There’s that same sense of intention where nothing feels accidental. Books stacked in uneven but purposeful piles, little objects scattered that look like they have stories attached to them, things he can’t quite place but feels like he should.

It’s quieter in here; the outside world muffled just enough that it feels separate, private.

Eddie turns slowly, taking it in.

“You’ve never been over here before,” you note, moving past him like you already know the answer.

“No,” he admits, watching you. “Guess I never had a reason.”

You hum softly, pulling your notebook from the table and flipping it open. “And now you do.”

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter.

You glance up at him briefly, something unreadable flickering in your expression, before tapping the open page. “Come on, partner. We have very important academic work to finish.”

Eddie snorts, dragging a chair over and dropping into it across from you. “Right. Science.”

“Try to keep up.”

For about five minutes, it almost works.

You walk him through the steps, your voice focused, explaining something about reactions and measurements that Eddie is absolutely pretending to follow.

He leans in, watching your hands more than anything else, the way you write, the way you underline certain things like they matter more.

He tries, he really does.

But then: “You’re not listening,” you say, without looking up.

Eddie leans back, caught, but not even a little ashamed. “I am listening.”

“Mm,” you hum, finally glancing up. “Then repeat what I just said.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. “…something about chemicals?”

Your lips twitch. “Very impressive.”

“Hey, I never claimed to be a science guy,” he defends, leaning forward again, elbows on the table. “I’m more of a… vibes-based learner.”

You raise a brow. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

“You were staring at me last night,” you say, like you’re picking up a conversation that never really ended.

Eddie exhales, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Yeah, well. You made it kinda hard not to.”

Your gaze drifts over him slowly, mirroring what you did at the bar, unhurried, deliberate.

“And now?” you ask.

He doesn’t look away. “Still hard,” he says.

Another pause, the kind that stretches. The kind that says this isn’t about chemistry anymore. Your fingers tap once against the table, that same rhythm, softer this time.

“Careful, Munson,” you murmur.

He tilts his head slightly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“Maybe you should start listening.”

“Or,” he counters, leaning just a little closer, “maybe I like not knowing what happens.”

Your eyes flicker. Something sharper, more interested.

“Yeah?” you say.

“Yeah.”

The space between you isn’t very big now. It would be easy, too easy. The air shifts first.

It’s subtle, but unmistakable. Whatever thin line had been keeping this in the realm of just flirting dissolves the second you lean back in your chair, eyes dragging over him with a little less restraint than before.

Eddie feels it immediately.

“Y’know,” you say, voice softer now, edged, “for someone who talks so much, you get real quiet when you’re being watched.”

He huffs a breath, trying to keep his composure, but his fingers twitch against the table. “Depends who’s doing the watching.”

Your head tilts. “And what if it’s me?”

Eddie swallows. “Then I’m probably in trouble.”

That earns you a real smile this time. Not big, not warm, but sharper, more amused. Like you like that answer.

“Good,” you murmur.

You don’t rush it, that’s the thing about you. Everything you do feels intentional, like you’re deciding each movement before it happens.

You stand slowly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor, and Eddie’s eyes follow you without thinking. He doesn’t even try to pretend he’s focused on anything else now.

You circle the table. Not fast or hesitant, just sure.

Eddie leans back slightly in his chair, like he’s giving you space, but really he’s just bracing, watching you approach with that same steady focus he’s been trying to maintain since yesterday.

“You said you like puzzles,” you remind him quietly.

“I did,” he replies, voice a little rough.

You stop right in front of him. Close. Close enough that he has to tilt his head back just slightly to keep your gaze.

“And you still do?” you ask.

There’s something in your tone. Not challenging. Not quite teasing. Testing.

Eddie’s mouth curves despite the tension coiling low in his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“Good.”

And before he can overthink it, you move. It’s smooth, deliberate, like you’ve already decided the outcome.

Your hands find his shoulders as you step in, and then you’re there, settling into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie’s brain completely shuts off.

“Holy—” he breathes, hands hovering for half a second like he’s not sure where they’re allowed to go.

“Relax,” you murmur, leaning in just enough that your voice brushes against him. “I told you. I don’t bite.”

A pause. Then, quieter, “Unless you give me a reason to.”

His hands finally land, tentative at first, then a little more certain at your waist, grounding himself in something real because everything else feels like it’s slipping.

“You’re, uh,” he starts, then huffs a quiet laugh at himself. “You’re not exactly helping the whole ‘not nervous’ thing.”

Your lips curve again, closer now, your gaze flicking between his eyes and his mouth like you’re deciding something. “Good,” you say.

And then you close the distance. The kiss isn’t rushed. It’s slow and intentional, like everything else you do.

You give him just enough to react before you deepen it, one hand sliding from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers curling lightly in his hair.

Eddie exhales into it, something soft and surprised slipping through as he finally gives in, leaning into you, hands tightening slightly at your waist.

It’s not messy, not frantic. The kind of kiss that feels like it’s building something rather than burning it out all at once.

When you pull back, it’s only by a fraction. Close enough that your breath still mixes with his.

Eddie blinks up at you, a little dazed, a little wrecked, a grin already threatening to break through.

“…so,” he murmurs, voice low, “we definitely didn’t finish the lab.”

Your thumb traces lightly along his jaw, almost absentminded. “No,” you agree. “Do you want to?”

He keeps your gaze, immediately and frantically shaking his head ‘no’. 

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding down against the obvious bulge already straining in his jeans.

 Eddie’s breath catches hard in his throat, his fingers flexing against your waist like he’s fighting the urge to pull you closer and the even stronger urge to let you do whatever the hell you want.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes wide and dark, pupils blown. “You’re really… shit, you’re on me.”

You smile, small and sharp, and lean in until your lips brush the shell of his ear. “I am. And you’re going to stay right here, Munson. Hands on my hips unless I move them. Understand?”

He nods so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Yeah. Yeah, I—Jesus Christ, whatever you want.”

You reward him with another slow roll of your hips, dragging your core along the thick line of his cock through too many layers of fabric. 

Eddie groans, head tipping back against the chair, curls spilling over the back of it like a dark halo. His throat bobs when he swallows, and you can’t resist leaning down to drag your teeth lightly along that exposed skin.

“You’ve been watching me for weeks,” you murmur against his pulse point, sucking just hard enough to leave a faint mark. “Staring in the cafeteria. At the bar. Like you couldn’t look away even if you tried.”

“I couldn’t,” he rasps, voice wrecked already.

You sit back just enough to look at him. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with pure want. Obsession looks good on him.

You slide one hand into his hair, gripping a fistful of curls and tugging his head back further so he has to look up at you.

“Good,” you say softly.

Eddie’s hips jerk up involuntarily at the praise, a broken little sound escaping him. You press down harder, pinning him in place.

“Stay still. This is my project now.”

You reach between you and pop the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with deliberate slowness.

When you palm him through his boxers, he’s so hard it has to hurt, the fabric already damp at the tip. You squeeze once, firm, and watch his mouth fall open on a silent moan.

“Look at you,” you coo, stroking him lazily. “So worked up just from sitting here. Have you been hard for me since chemistry class, Eddie? Since the bar? Since you knocked on my door?”

“Since the first time I saw you,” he admits, voice cracking. “I might have jerked off thinking about this more times than I want to admit.”

The honesty makes the heat pool low in your belly. You slip your hand inside his boxers and wrap your fingers around his cock, skin hot and velvet-soft over steel.

He’s thick, throbbing in your grip, and when you give him one long, slow stroke from base to leaking tip, his whole body shudders.

“Fuck—your hand,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut for a second before he forces them open again, desperate not to miss a moment of you. “Feels so much better than I imagined. Please don’t stop. Please.”

You stroke him again, twisting your wrist at the head the way you already know will drive him crazy. His hips twitch, but he catches himself and stills, obeying. The effort makes his arms tremble where his hands grip your thighs.

You lean in and kiss him again, deep and filthy this time, tongue sliding against his while you keep working his cock in steady, relentless strokes. When you pull back, a thin string of spit connects your mouths for a second.

“Take my shirt off,” you tell him.

His hands fly up immediately, tugging your shirt over your head. The second your breasts are bare, he stares like he’s been given something sacred.

You guide one of his hands to your chest, and he cups you reverently, thumb brushing your nipple until it tightens.

“So fucking perfect,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gonna ruin me. Use me. Whatever you want, it’s yours, I don’t fucking care.”

You push his jeans and boxers down just enough to free him completely, then stand long enough to slide your own shorts and panties down your legs. Eddie watches with open hunger, chest heaving.

When you settle back onto his lap, this time with nothing between you, the slick heat of your cunt slides along his length. He chokes on a moan.

“Condom?” you ask, even though you already know the answer from the way he’s looking at you.

“Fuck, I have one in my wallet,” he stammers, “but I swear I’m clean, I haven’t…”

You reach down, line him up, and sink down onto his cock in one smooth, relentless motion.

Eddie’s head slams back against the chair again, a guttural groan tearing out of him as your tight, wet heat swallows every inch. “Oh my god—oh fuck, you feel—holy shit—”

You don’t give him time to adjust. You start moving immediately, riding him hard and steady, hands braced on his shoulders for leverage. Every downward thrust takes him deep, grinding your clit against his pelvis on every pass.

“Look at me,” you command.

His eyes snap to yours, wide and worshipful, mouth slack with pleasure. One of his hands stays on your hip, the other slides up your back like he needs to touch as much of you as possible.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you say, voice low and steady even as pleasure coils tighter inside you. “Say it.”

“I’m obsessed,” he pants, meeting every roll of your hips like he was made for this. “Completely fucking obsessed.”

You clench around him at his words, and he whimpers, the sound so needy it sends a fresh rush of heat through you.

Faster now. The kitchen table creaks faintly beneath you. The chemistry notes are long-forgotten, scattered beneath your discarded shirt. You ride him as if you own him, because right now, you do.

Eddie’s close already, you can feel it in the way he throbs inside you, the desperate little thrusts he can’t quite hold back.

“Don’t come yet,” you tell him, slowing just enough to torture him. “Not until I do.”

He nods frantically, biting his lip hard enough to leave marks. “Yes—fuck, yes. Come on my cock, baby, I need to feel it.”

You reach between you and rub tight circles over your clit while you keep riding him, chasing your own peak. When it hits, it crashes through you hard, walls fluttering and clenching around him as you moan low and long, hips stuttering.

Eddie watches you fall apart with something close to awe, lips parted, eyes glassy. The second you start to come down, you lean in, bite his bottom lip, and whisper against his mouth:

“Come for me, Eddie.”

He breaks with a shattered groan, burying himself deep as he pulses hot and endless inside you. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you down on him like he never wants to let go, face pressed into your neck as he rides out the aftershocks.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your breathing and the faint creak of the chair.

Then Eddie pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed, dazed, and still so fucking gone for you.

“We're never finishing that chemistry project,” he says hoarsely.

You smile, slow and satisfied, rolling your hips once more just to hear him gasp.

Eddie’s head tips back again, a weak, wrecked laugh leaving him, like he doesn’t even have the strength to pretend he’s okay anymore.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, dragging a hand down his face before it settles back on your waist, grounding himself in you. “You’re—fuck—you’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head, studying him like you’re deciding if that’s a real concern. “Maybe,” you murmur.

But there’s no bite to it now, not really.

The sunlight has shifted just enough to creep further across the table, catching the mess you made of your “work,” the open notebook, the pen rolling lazily toward the edge.

Neither of you moves to fix it. Eddie’s hands stay where they are, warm and firm at your waist. His chest is still rising a little too fast, eyes softer now, but no less locked on you.

“You’re trouble,” he says, quieter this time.

You hum, considering that, your fingers tracing absent shapes along his shoulder.

“I told you that already.”

“Yeah,” he exhales, a small smile pulling at his mouth despite everything. “I just didn’t listen.”

“Are you going to now?”

Eddie looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, something he knows he shouldn’t step into, and stepping anyway.

“No,” he says.

Something flickers in your expression at that. Not surprised, not quite approval. Something more dangerous than both.

“Good,” you reply softly.

Eddie lets out a quiet breath, shaking his head once like he’s trying to come back to himself and failing.

“So,” he murmurs, glancing briefly at the abandoned lab sheet before looking back at you, “this was… educational.”

Your lips curve again. “Very.”

He laughs under his breath, then leans in just slightly, like he’s testing the space between you again. “Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“We’ll see,” you say, voice low, deliberate. And then, softer, “If you’re lucky.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, already gone for you in a way he probably won’t recover from. And the thing is, you know, he definitely won't. 

I HOPE U ALL LOVED IT UGHHHH!!!

beasbuggies:

You’ve had a crush on Eddie for as long as you can remember. You thought it was sad, really, somewhat pathetic, how head-over-heels obsessed with him you were. It’s not your fault, though; his boyish, playful charm knows no bounds. 

You met him three years ago, when your best friend Gareth invited you to a Hellfire Club session after school. You and Gareth had been best friends since forever, parents taking you both to the same church and immediatley bonding over the stupidity of the clergy. It was a match made in heaven, or hell, whatever. 

“Come on, you know how to play. Just come for one campaign. If you hate it, you never have to come back.” He told you that afternoon, practically pulling you into the drama room. 

When you entered, all eyes fell on you. It was rare, no, completely unlikely, that a girl would ever step foot in the Hellfire Club. It wasn’t a rule that no girls were allowed, just simply no girl would ever dream of being caught dead with this motley crew of rejects.

Whatever conversation was happening died the second you stepped into the room. It wasn’t subtle, the way they looked at you. Not curious, not welcoming, more like pure confusion. Suspicious, like someone had let the wrong person in.

You pasted on a smile anyway. Chin up, shoulders back. You knew how to play this game.

Rich girl slumming it. Poser in borrowed black. You could practically hear the assumptions forming. Then you saw him.

Eddie sat at the head of the table like he owned the place, rings catching the fluorescent light as his fingers tapped against a stack of papers. His hair was wild, his posture lazy in that deliberate, practiced way, like he refused to take anything seriously even when he absolutely did.

He looked up slower than the others. And when his eyes landed on you, he didn’t smile. Didn’t look impressed, or intrigued, or even surprised. Just simply unimpressed.

His gaze flicked over you once, quick and sharp, like he was taking inventory. The boots, the band tee, the jewelry that was just a little too polished to be accidental. Then he leaned back in his chair, lips twitching like he’d already made up his mind.

“Gareth,” he said, voice low and dry, “you bring me a new recruit… or am I being pranked right now?”

A couple of the guys snickered. Heat crawled up your neck, but you held your ground, smile tightening just enough to hurt.

Gareth scoffed, stepping in beside you. “She plays. And she’s better than Jeff, so maybe be nice for once in your life.”

“Low bar,” Eddie muttered.

But he was still looking at you, still measuring. You should’ve walked out right then. You didn’t. Instead, you stepped forward, letting the door swing shut behind you, and said, “So where do I sit?”

The days turned into weeks, weeks into months, until somehow three years had passed and you had melted into the same band of misfits who once doubted your right to exist in their sacred little corner of the school. 

What started as Gareth dragging you in by the wrist became you showing up before him, already seated at the table, already mid-argument with Dustin about strategy, already reaching for dice like you belonged there.

And eventually, you did. It was nice to have people who saw you for you, not the version of you they thought you were supposed to be. 

No pearl-clutching parents, no polite smiles stretched too thin over sharper expectations, no one looking at you like you were something delicate that needed to be handled carefully. Here, you were loud when you wanted to be, sarcastic when it slipped out, messy in a way that felt honest instead of shameful.

The boys never asked too many questions; they just made room.

Jeff started saving you a seat without thinking about it. Dustin argued with you as if you were worth arguing with. Mike stopped double-checking your moves halfway through campaigns because, as he so eloquently put it, “you’re annoyingly good at this.”

And Eddie? Eddie warmed to you in the way a guarded thing does. Slowly and reluctantly, as if he didn’t fully trust the instinct.

He’d tease you, at first, in that same sharp-edged way he teased everyone else, but there was always something a little more pointed underneath it when it came to you. A raised brow at your band tees, a muttered comment about “tourist metalheads,” a glance that lingered just a second too long on the details you got wrong and ignored the ones you got right.

You learned quickly not to rise to it. Or at least, not obviously.

“Careful,” you’d shoot back lightly, not even looking up from your character sheet, “you’re starting to sound threatened.”

That would earn you a scoff, maybe a roll of his eyes, maybe a quiet, “please,” under his breath. But he never pushed you out. Never told Gareth to stop bringing you. Never stopped looking at you, either, though you tried not to notice that part too much.

Because sometimes, when the room got loud, and the game got chaotic, you’d catch him watching you with something unreadable sitting behind his usual expression, like he was trying to figure you out and didn’t like that he couldn’t.

And then there were the moments the others noticed. The ones you tried very hard to pretend didn’t mean anything.

Like the time you leaned over his shoulder to look at a map he’d drawn, your hand braced against the back of his chair, and he stilled just slightly beneath you, pen pausing mid-note while Gareth kicked Jeff under the table hard enough to make him choke on his drink.

Or when Eddie passed you the dice one night and your fingers brushed, just barely, and you pulled back like it burned while he kept talking like nothing had happened, completely unaware of the way Dustin’s eyes darted between the two of you like he’d just uncovered state secrets.

“Jesus,” Gareth had muttered once, low enough that only Jeff heard him, “just kiss already.”

Jeff snorted into his soda. You pretended not to hear it. Eddie didn’t react at all. That was the thing, really.

There were moments that felt like something, fleeting and fragile and easy to misread if you let yourself get carried away, but Eddie never treated them like they mattered. Never lingered, never leaned into it, never gave you anything solid to hold onto.

If anything, he’d follow them up with something that reminded you exactly where you stood. A joke at your expense. A comment about your music taste. A look that said he still wasn’t entirely convinced you weren’t playing dress-up in a world he’d built for himself.

And still, you kept showing up. Kept taking the seat beside him when it was open.

Kept memorizing the way his laugh sounded when something genuinely caught him off guard, the way his rings clicked against the table when he got excited, the way he always, always slipped into something softer when he thought no one was paying attention.

It was stupid, you knew it was. Everyone else knew it, too. Everyone except him.

People tell you that you grew up lucky. Big house, nice neighborhood, the kind of life people assume means everything is easy. And on paper, it was. 

Your father made more money than anyone you knew, your mother dressed like she belonged in magazines, and every holiday looked picture-perfect if you stood far enough away from it.

Up close, it was something else entirely.

Your mother existed in a kind of fog you learned not to question too early. Always smiling, always agreeable, always just a little too slow to catch onto things that should have been obvious. 

Conversations with her looped in circles, her reactions dulled in a way that felt unnatural even as a kid, like something in her had been quietly turned down and never brought back up again.

You didn’t have the language for it then. You just knew she wasn’t all there. And your father—

Your father filled that silence with whatever he wanted.

At first, it was small things. Late nights at work that stretched longer than they should have, unfamiliar perfume lingering in rooms your mother never stepped foot in, phone calls taken behind closed doors that ended the second you walked by. You noticed, of course, you did, but you also noticed how your mother didn’t. Or wouldn’t.

The first time it became something you couldn’t ignore, you were too young to know what to do with it.

You came home earlier than expected, the house too quiet in that wrong kind of way, the kind that makes your stomach twist before your brain can catch up. And then you turned the corner into the living room, and you stopped, dead in your tracks. 

Your father startled like you’d caught him doing something shameful, which, you realized later, he had been. There was a woman there too, younger than you expected, not your mother, not even close, and for a second, no one said anything at all.

Then everything happened at once. He stood up too quickly, anger snapping into place before anything else could, like it was easier to be furious than exposed.

“What are you doing home?” he demanded, like you were the one out of place, like you’d broken some unspoken rule. “You’re supposed to be out, aren’t you? That club thing?”

It was your fault, suddenly. You learned that quickly.

Not what he was doing, not the fact that he didn’t even bother to hide it properly, not the way he looked at you like you were an inconvenience instead of his daughter. 

Just your timing. Just your presence. It didn’t get better after that. If anything, it got easier for him. More careless, and way more frequent.

You stopped reacting, stopped asking questions, because it never led anywhere except back to you being the problem. Your mother stayed the same, smiling through dinners, nodding along to stories that didn’t quite add up, blissfully untouched by something that was unraveling right in front of her. 

And you? You learned how to disappear inside your own house. The worst of it wasn’t even that first time. It was the quiet nights that followed.

Like the one where Gareth was over, sprawled across your bedroom floor with a campaign book open between you, the two of you half-paying attention as music played low from your speakers. It felt normal in a way your life rarely did, easy and familiar and safe enough that you almost forgot where you were.

Until you heard the front door. Voices. Laughter that didn’t belong to your home.

You stilled before Gareth did, your body recognizing the pattern before your mind wanted to. Footsteps down the hall, uneven, your father’s voice thick with something you didn’t need to see to understand.

The same woman, you knew without looking. Your door was open just enough, and you didn’t move to close it.

You didn’t move at all, actually. You just sat there, watching as they passed, your father not even glancing in your direction, like you weren’t worth the effort of pretending anymore. Like you were just another piece of furniture he’d gotten used to ignoring.

They disappeared into your parents’ bedroom, and the door shut. Silence stretched in the aftermath. Gareth shifted beside you, confused in a way that felt almost foreign compared to how used to this you were.

“Where’s your mom?” he asked, brows pulling together, like he was trying to make sense of something that didn’t quite fit.

You didn’t look at him when you answered. “She’s at a spa,” you said, voice flat, practiced. “Weekend thing. He paid for it.”

The explanation came too easily, like you’d said it before. Maybe you had. 

Gareth didn’t push. He just nodded slowly, eyes flicking toward the hallway and then back to you, something unreadable settling into his expression as he started to understand more than you wanted him to. 

You reached for the dice, rolling them without really seeing the numbers.

“Your turn,” you said, like nothing had changed, like anything in this house ever did. That was the thing no one at school understood.

The music, the clothes, the chipped black nail polish, and the heavy boots, the way you carried yourself like you didn’t belong to anyone or anything. It wasn’t a phase, and it wasn’t something you picked up to impress anyone. It was built. 

Because it was easier to be someone people expected nothing from than someone constantly falling short of expectations you never agreed to in the first place. Easier to be loud, a little abrasive, a little too much, than soft enough to be overlooked in your own home.

The music gave you something to hold onto, something that didn’t lie to you or pretend things were better than they were. 

It was honest in a way nothing else in your life had ever been, loud enough to drown out the quiet rot of your house, sharp enough to match the anger you didn’t know what to do with. You didn’t become this version of yourself overnight. You carved her out, piece by piece.

And for a long time, you let things stay the way they were at home, because confronting it meant acknowledging just how broken it all was, and there was a certain kind of survival in pretending you could tolerate it. Until you couldn’t.

It wasn’t even a dramatic moment. No screaming match, no buildup that felt cinematic or justified. Just one night, too much of the same thing stacked on top of itself until something in you snapped.

You said something. You don’t even remember what, exactly. Something about respect, maybe. About how he couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t keep acting like you weren’t there, like none of it mattered.

He didn’t like that. The shift was immediate, like a switch flipping. Anger; sharp and sudden.

You learned, in a way that stayed with you long after, exactly how far he was willing to go to maintain control over a situation he’d already lost.

Not because of what happened, but because of how quickly it was dismissed, folded away like it meant nothing. Like you’d imagined it or deserved it or should have known better than to speak in the first place. You didn’t stay.

You grabbed your jacket, your keys, whatever you could carry without thinking too hard about it, and you left before he could say anything else that might make you hesitate.

You drove without a plan. There was only ever one place you were going to end up.

Gareth’s house looked the same as it always did, porch light on, something faintly glowing through the windows. Safe in a way yours had never been.

You didn’t knock properly, just pushed the door open after the second try, stepping inside as if you belonged there because, in a lot of ways, you did.

He found you in the doorway. One look at your face and whatever he’d been about to say disappeared.

“Hey,” he started, softer now, cautious. And that was all it took.

The composure you’d been holding together so tightly unraveled all at once, not dramatic, not loud, just quiet and overwhelming in a way that felt almost worse. 

You sat down hard on the edge of the couch, hands shaking just enough to betray you, eyes fixed somewhere past him, as if you didn’t look directly at anything, you wouldn’t have to fully feel it.

He didn’t ask too many questions; that was always his thing. He just sat beside you, close enough that you could feel it, steady and grounding without being suffocating, waiting for you to speak if you wanted to, not pushing when you didn’t.

Eventually, you did. Not everything, never everything, but just enough.

“He can’t—” you started, then stopped, shaking your head like the words themselves didn’t feel right. “It’s just… it’s stupid. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Gareth’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t sound stupid,” he said quietly.

You let out a short breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite.

“It doesn’t matter,” you replied, because that was easier, because that was safer. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t, and you both knew that. But he didn’t argue. After a moment, you reached for his sleeve, fingers curling into the fabric like you needed something to anchor yourself to.

“You can’t tell anyone,” you said, finally looking at him, something sharper in your expression now, something almost desperate beneath the surface. “Not the guys, not—just… no one, okay?”

Gareth didn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he said.

No conditions, no follow-up questions, just that.

To this day, he’s the only one who knows the full shape of your life outside of Hellfire, the only one who’s seen behind the version of you everyone else accepts without question.

He holds it quietly, like something important, like something fragile, never using it against you, never letting it slip, even when it would be easier to explain to you that way.

It’s why you trust him, why you always will. Maybe it’s part of why it stings so much that Eddie never bothered to look close enough to see it, too.

It was Eddie’s idea, naturally.

No one ever really questioned how he managed to pull things off the way he did, just that somehow, against all logic and administrative sanity, he always did. 

This time, it came in the form of a “Hellfire Club educational field trip,” which he presented to the school board with just enough confidence and nonsense jargon to make it sound legitimate.

Something about cultural analysis, musical subgenres. The historical significance of metal as a form of rebellion. You were pretty sure half of it was made up on the spot. Somehow, it worked.

A week later, you were all crammed into his van, music blasting too loud, Jeff complaining about the lack of legroom, Dustin arguing about setlists like he had any real authority on the matter. Gareth sat beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours every time the van hit a pothole, laughing like this was the best idea anyone had ever had.

And Eddie? Eddie was in the front, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming along to the music, completely in his element. You tried not to stare, but you failed miserably. 

The venue was exactly what you expected and somehow still overwhelming, dimly lit and packed too tight, the air thick with heat and anticipation.

The kind of place your parents would have lost their minds over if they’d ever known you were here, which only made it better.

Eddie turned back to all of you as soon as you got inside, already slipping into that role he played so easily, the one that made him seem larger than life.

“Stay together,” he called over the noise, pointing vaguely like that would somehow organize any of you. “And if one of you gets knocked out in the pit, I’m not explaining that to the school.”

“You absolutely would,” you shot back, raising your voice just enough to carry.

He glanced at you then, quick and sharp, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like you’d said something he liked more than he planned on admitting.

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “I probably would.” It was stupid, the way that stuck with you.

The music started not long after, loud enough to rattle through your chest, the crowd surging forward in a wave that felt more like being pulled than pushed. You held your ground at first, letting yourself get lost in it, the noise, the movement, the way everything else fell away for a while.

Until it didn’t.

The pit opened up somewhere to your left, sudden and chaotic, bodies slamming into each other with a kind of reckless abandon that looked fun from a distance and dangerous up close. 

You took a step back on instinct, trying to avoid getting dragged into it, but the crowd shifted again, tighter this time, less forgiving. And then, a hand closed around yours. 

You barely had time to process it before you were being pulled back, guided through the press of bodies with a certainty that cut through the chaos. You followed without thinking, your fingers tightening around his on instinct, like letting go wasn’t even an option.

Eddie didn’t look at you right away.

He just moved, shoulder angling to block anyone who got too close, free hand braced against someone behind you to keep them from shoving forward. It was automatic, protective in a way that didn’t feel performative or exaggerated.

When things settled, when the crowd shifted enough that you weren’t on the edge of the pit anymore, he finally glanced down.

“You good?” he asked, voice a little rough from shouting over the music.

You nodded, even though your heart was beating too fast for reasons that had very little to do with the crowd. “Yeah,” you managed. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He didn’t let go, not right away.

His thumb shifted slightly against the back of your hand, absent, almost unconscious, like he hadn’t fully registered that he was still holding on. His attention flicked back to the stage, to the band, to everything else happening around you, but his grip stayed steady, anchoring you in place.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That this was just Eddie being Eddie, loud and protective and a little too comfortable in situations like this.

That he would’ve done the same for anyone. But he didn’t, not like this. Not for Dustin, who was already halfway to throwing himself into the pit with Mike yelling after him.

Not for Jeff, who had planted himself firmly by the wall and refused to move. Not even for Gareth, who caught your eye from a few feet away and raised his brows just slightly, something knowing flickering across his face before he looked away.

Eddie finally loosened his grip after a minute, like something had clicked back into place, like he’d remembered himself.

“Try not to die,” he said, lighter now, almost teasing, like he needed to reestablish the distance.

You huffed out a small laugh, nodding. “I’ll do my best.” But your hand felt empty without his.

And for the rest of the night, every time the crowd surged too close, every time someone brushed past you a little too hard, he was there again, a hand at your wrist, your elbow, your side, guiding you back without thinking about it too much.

Like it was nothing, like it meant nothing. But just enough to make you wonder if it did.

The next Hellfire meeting felt different.

Not in any obvious way, not something anyone could point to and name, but the energy had shifted just enough that you noticed it the second you walked into the drama room.

The table was already half full, dice scattered, notebooks open, the low hum of conversation filling the space like it always did.

Eddie was at the head of it all, mid-rant about something no one else had context for, hands moving as he spoke, rings catching the light in quick flashes.

He looked up when you walked in. Just for a second, and then he kept talking.

But you felt it anyway.

You took your usual seat, dropping your bag beside your chair, trying very hard to act like nothing from the past weekend had lodged itself permanently in your brain.

Like your hand didn’t still remember the weight of his, like your thoughts hadn’t circled back to it more times than you wanted to admit.

“Nice of you to join us,” Eddie said eventually, glancing down at his notes like he hadn’t been tracking your arrival from the second the door opened.

“Miss me?” you shot back, easy, automatic.

A few of the boys snorted. Eddie huffed something that could’ve been a laugh, shaking his head.

“Debatable.”

It felt normal, almost.

The campaign started, pulling everyone into it quickly, the familiar rhythm settling in like muscle memory.

You slipped into your character just as easily, leaning into the dialogue, the strategy, the back-and-forth that had become second nature over the years.

And Eddie? Eddie didn’t ride you the way he usually did. At first, you thought you were imagining it.

That you were just hyper-aware now, reading into things that had always been there. But then Jeff made a move that should’ve gotten him absolutely wrecked, and Eddie barely blinked before adjusting something behind his screen.

Dustin noticed immediately. “Wait—no, that’s not—” he started, leaning forward.

Eddie cut him off without looking up. “It is now.”

“That’s so not fair,” Mike added, narrowing his eyes. “You would’ve destroyed her for that.”

Your head snapped up, making Eddie pause. Just for a fraction of a second. Then he shrugged, casual, dismissive.

“Maybe I’m feeling generous today.”

“Yeah,” Gareth muttered under his breath, just loud enough to be heard, “really generous.”

You kick his foot under the table. He grins anyway.

About halfway through the session, you excuse yourself, muttering something about needing a minute, the noise of the room suddenly feeling a little too loud, a little too close. No one questioned it, too wrapped up in the game to care beyond a distracted nod.

You took a breath, leaning against the cool wall for a second, letting your thoughts settle into something manageable before pushing yourself toward the bathroom.

Inside the drama room, the energy shifted again. Jeff was the first to break.

“Oh, my god.”

“Don’t start,” Eddie said immediately, not even looking up.

“No, I’m starting,” Jeff shot back, leaning forward. “That whole thing at the show? You holding her hand like she was gonna get swept away into the abyss?”

“That’s not what happened,” Eddie replied flatly.

Dustin scoffed. “Dude, you literally pulled her out of the pit like some kind of knight in shining armor.” Mike nodded in agreement. 

“It wasn’t weird,” Eddie snapped, sharper now. “It was practical. She was about to get flattened.”

“Right,” Gareth cuts in, voice quieter, leaning back in his chair as he watches Eddie a little too closely. “And you had to hold her hand for, what, five minutes after that?”

A couple of the guys groaned, some laughing, some just reacting to the tension starting to build. Eddie finally looked up.

“She’s not into me,” he said, like that settled it. Like that was the only part of the equation that mattered.

The table went quiet for half a second. 

Then, “Oh, you’re stupid,” Dustin said, shaking his head.

“Painfully,” Jeff added.

Mike snorted. “She’s been into you since, like, sophomore year.”

Eddie rolled his eyes hard enough that it almost looked exaggerated. “You’re all delusional.”

“Or,” Gareth said, tilting his head slightly, something knowing sitting just beneath the surface, “you just don’t wanna see it.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” Jeff pressed, grinning like he was enjoying this far too much. “Because from where we’re sitting—”

“From where you’re sitting,” Eddie cut in, leaning back in his chair, tone shifting into something more defensive than dismissive now, “you’re making something out of nothing. I was keeping her from getting hurt. End of story.”

“Yeah,” Dustin muttered, unconvinced. “Sure.”

Eddie didn’t respond to that. He just looked back down at his notes, flipping a page a little harder than necessary, like that was enough to end the conversation.

Because after that, after all of that, he still went easier on you.

Not in a way anyone could call out without sounding ridiculous, not in a way that broke the game or made it obvious, but in small, quiet adjustments that only someone paying close attention would notice. 

A roll that could’ve gone worse but didn’t. A consequence softened just enough to let you recover instead of fail completely. A moment where his usual sharp commentary faltered, replaced with something almost patient.

You noticed, of course, you did. You noticed everything about him. And you tried not to let it mean anything.

Tried not to let yourself replay the way his hand had felt around yours, the way he’d stayed close the rest of the night, the way he looked at you now like he was trying to unlearn something he didn’t fully understand. Because if it didn’t mean anything to him—

It shouldn’t mean anything to you. Right?

The week after the show settled into something unfamiliar.

Not drastically different, not enough that anyone could call it out without sounding insane, but just enough that you felt it every time you walked into a room and saw him already there.

Eddie was easier with you.

Quieter, in some ways. Not in volume, because he was still Eddie, still loud and theatrical and impossible to ignore, but in the way he aimed himself at you. 

The teasing dulled at the edges, the sharper comments replaced with something that didn’t quite sting the way they used to. He still challenged you, still pushed during campaigns, but there was a difference now.

A pause before he spoke, like he was choosing his words instead of letting them fly. 

A glance in your direction when something funny happened, like he was checking to see if you caught it too. It was subtle, but it was there. And it got worse—better—every day.

He started saving you a seat without acknowledging it, his stuff shifting just enough to make space beside him before you even walked in. 

Once, you sat down and found your favorite set of dice already at your place, ones you’d left behind weeks ago, cleaned and lined up like he hadn’t just tossed them in a box with everything else.

You didn’t mention it, and neither did he. Another time, you showed up late, slipping into the room halfway through a session, expecting the usual sarcastic remark, the exaggerated sigh, something to make a point of it.

Instead, he just looked up, caught your eye, and said, “We’re mid-combat. Don’t die.” Like he’d been waiting. Like it mattered that you were there.

It was enough to make your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to manage. Gareth noticed.

“You’re in trouble,” he murmured one afternoon, nudging your shoulder as Eddie laughed at something Jeff said, his attention flicking back to you almost immediately after.

You rolled your eyes, even as your gaze drifted back toward him without thinking. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Gareth pressed, quieter now. “He’s different with you.”

You swallowed that down. “So what?”

Gareth didn’t answer right away, and that was answer enough.

By the time the next Hellfire meeting rolled around, it had built into something you couldn’t ignore anymore. 

Which was probably why it felt so easy to say it. You hadn’t planned to, it just happened.

The session had ended, the usual chaos tapering off into side conversations and half-packed bags, everyone lingering longer than they needed to. 

You were leaning back in your chair, absentmindedly spinning one of your rings, when Dustin said something about college applications, about how he was already thinking ahead.

It opened the door, and before you could stop yourself.

“I got into Princeton,” you said.

For a second, it didn’t even feel real, the words hanging there as if they belonged to someone else. Then everything hit at once.

“What?” Mike said, sitting up straight.

“No way,” Jeff added, grinning. “Like—actually?”

Dustin was already halfway out of his seat. “That’s insane. That’s, like, top of the top.”

Gareth’s face lit up beside you, genuine and immediate, his arm slinging around your shoulders before you could even react.

“I knew it,” he said, like it was obvious, “Of course you did.”

The room filled with noise, overlapping congratulations, questions, excitement spilling over in a way that made your chest feel tight for entirely different reasons now. 

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “Full ride.”

That did it. More noise, louder this time, disbelief and awe mixing together, the kind of reaction you should have felt proud of, the kind of moment you should have been able to hold onto without anything tainting it.

And for a second, you did. Until you looked at him. Eddie wasn’t smiling; he wasn’t saying anything at all. He was just staring at you.

You felt your stomach drop before he even moved.

“Eddie—” you started, not even sure what you were going to say.

He pushed back from the table so abruptly his chair scraped loudly against the floor, cutting through the room like a crack.

“Cool,” he muttered, not looking at you anymore, already grabbing his stuff. “Good for you.”

And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

Silence followed, heavy and confused, the kind that settles when something doesn’t make sense but no one wants to be the first to say it out loud.

“What the hell was that?” Jeff said, finally.

No one answered. Gareth’s arm tightened slightly around your shoulders, his earlier excitement dimming into something more cautious now. You didn’t wait.

You were already moving, the noise of the room fading behind you as you pushed through the door and into the hallway, your heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with Princeton anymore.

You caught up to him outside. The alley behind the school was quiet, the late afternoon light stretching long shadows across the pavement, the air cooler than it had any right to be after being inside.

Eddie stood a few feet away, back to you, hands braced against the brick wall like he was trying to steady himself.

You stopped just behind him. “Eddie.” He didn’t turn around.

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, shoulders tense, like even hearing his name from you right now was too much.

“Don’t,” he said, still facing the wall. “Just—don’t.”

You took another step closer anyway, the adrenaline from before still buzzing under your skin, your chest tight with confusion more than anything else.

“What the hell was that?” you asked, your voice not as steady as you wanted it to be. “Everyone else is happy for me, and you just, what, you storm out like I did something wrong?”

He laughed then, short and humorless, pushing himself off the wall and turning around in one quick motion. “That’s because they don’t see it,” he snapped.

“See what?” you shot back, frustration rising now, sharp and fast. “Me getting into a good school? Yeah, Eddie, real scandalous.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping into something harsher, something that felt a little too personal. “You.”

You blinked at him, thrown off for just a second. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he continued, pacing once before stopping in front of you again, hands dragging through his hair like he couldn’t get his thoughts out fast enough, “you walk around acting like you’re one of us, like this—” he gestured vaguely to you, to your clothes, your boots, everything you’d built so carefully “—is real, and it’s not.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You play this whole act,” he went on, words spilling over each other now, “like you’re some disheveled, fucked-up low-life who just magically ended up here with the rest of us, but you didn’t. You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to actually—” he cut himself off, jaw tightening before finishing anyway, “struggle.”

“Are you serious right now?” you said, your voice quieter now, but sharper.

“Yeah,” he said, not backing down, not even hesitating. “I am. You get to go off to Princeton, full ride, big future, big life, and we’re all just supposed to what, clap for you while you pretend this is who you are?”

“I’m not pretending—”

“You are,” he cut in. “And it’s exhausting.”

You stared at him, disbelief bleeding into something uglier.

“Wow,” you let out, shaking your head slightly. “So that’s what this is? You’re mad because I got into college?”

“I’m not mad,” he said quickly, too quickly.

“You’re acting like it,” you shot back. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“Why would I be?” he snapped, the words coming out before he could stop them.

You actually flinched. Eddie saw it; you could tell he did. He pushed forward anyway.

“You follow me around like some lost puppy,” he added, harsher now, like he needed to double down to keep from pulling back. “You hang onto every little thing I do like it means something, and it doesn’t.”

Your throat tightened, heat rising behind your eyes, but you refused to let it spill over.

“Wake up, sweetheart,” he continued, bitter and cutting. “I’m not the guy for you.”

You swallowed once, hard. And then, you snap. 

“Not that it’s any of your business,” you started, your voice shaking now but no less sharp for it, “but just because I don’t live in a trailer and my dad's not M.I.A. doesn’t mean I don’t have my own shit.”

He stills, just slightly. You step closer, anger finally breaking through everything you’d been holding in for years.

“You think this is an act?” you laughed, “You think I just woke up one day and decided to dress like this for fun? For you?”

Eddie didn’t say anything, not at first.

“My dad brings women home,” you continued, the words spilling faster now. “All the time. Doesn’t even try to hide it. I’ve walked in on it more than once, and somehow that was my fault for being home at the wrong time.”

Something flickered in his expression. You push anyway.

“And my mom?” you let out a breath that cracked on the way out. “She doesn’t even notice. Or she does and just doesn’t care. I don’t know which is worse.”

For a second, it looked like he might soften or step back. He doesn’t. His jaw tightened instead, something defensive snapping into place like armor.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now, but colder. “That sucks.”

You blinked at him, like maybe you’d misheard.

“That’s it?” you asked, disbelief creeping in. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want from me?” he shot back, irritation bleeding through now, like your pain was something inconvenient he didn’t know how to deal with. “A medal? A sympathy card? Lots of people have shitty parents.”

The air left your lungs.

“That doesn’t mean you get to pretend you’re something you’re not,” he continued. “You still get to leave. You still get to go somewhere like Princeton and start over like none of this ever touched you.”

“I’m not pretending—”

“You are,” he cut in, sharper now. “You get to pick and choose what parts of this life you want. You dip in here, play dress-up with the rest of us, and then what? You walk away when something better comes along?”

You shook your head quickly, like you could push it out.

“That’s not what this is,” you said, your voice unsteady now.

“Then what is it?” he challenged. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you slumming it until something real comes along.”

Your hands curled at your sides, nails digging into your palms hard enough to ground you.

“This is real,” you said, forcing the words out through the tightness in your throat. “This—this is the only place I’ve ever actually felt like—”

“Like what?” he pressed.

“Like I belong,” you finished, the word breaking on the way out.

You shake your head, stepping back from him like the space between you suddenly mattered.

“I liked you,” you admitted, softer now, and somehow that made everything worse. “I thought—” you cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

Eddie looked like he wanted to say something. For a second, it almost looked like he might. Then whatever it was hardened into something else.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Well, you thought wrong.”

Whatever was left in your chest caved in on itself. You nodded once, quick, like you could accept that, like it didn’t just knock the wind out of you.

“Clearly.”

You don't wait. Don't give him the chance to take it back or make it worse. You turn and walked away, fast enough that if he said your name, you wouldn’t have to hear it.

You barely make it to the corner before the tears hit.

Not the kind you could blink away or swallow down, but something heavier, pulling at your chest like it had been waiting for this exact moment to break loose.

Your steps faltered, your vision blurring just enough that the ground didn’t feel steady under your feet anymore.

You don’t stop. You couldn’t. The door behind you creaked open again, quick footsteps following, and for a split second, your heart twisted with something stupid, something hopeful, before you turned and saw Gareth.

You shook your head immediately, already moving to push past him.

“Hey—hey, what happened?” he asked, reaching for your arm, concern written all over his face as his eyes scanned yours, already piecing together more than you wanted him to.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, the words falling apart the second they left your mouth.

“You’re not,” he replied, softer now, stepping in front of you just enough to slow you down without trapping you. “Did he say something? What did he—”

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to, the emotion bleeding through in a way that made your throat tighten all over again.

Gareth didn’t take it personally. He never did. He just nodded once, slowly, understanding in a way that made it worse.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

You swallowed hard, wiping at your face with the back of your hand, trying to pull yourself back together even though it felt impossible.

“Just—don’t,” you added, your voice dropping, more plea than command now. “Please don’t go over there and…just leave it alone.”

Gareth hesitated. For half a second, maybe less. Then he gave a small nod.

“I won’t,” he said.

You knew he was lying, but you also knew you didn’t have the energy to argue. So you just brushed past him, your shoulder knocking lightly into his as you went.

Gareth watched you go, waited until you were out of sight, then he turned back.

Eddie hadn’t moved much from where you left him, still standing there, shoulders tight, gaze fixed somewhere on the ground like he was trying to convince himself he hadn’t just said everything he did.

Gareth stepped closer. “Dude.”

Eddie didn’t look up. “Not now,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Gareth replied, voice flat, “now.”

That got his attention. Eddie glanced up, irritation flashing quick and sharp before settling into something more guarded.

“What?” he snapped.

Gareth stared at him for a second, like he was deciding how much to say, how far to push it. Then he shook his head slightly, letting out a breath.

“She likes you, man.”

Eddie scoffed immediately, like it was automatic, like he’d been waiting to reject that exact sentence.

“No, she doesn’t.”

Gareth’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah,” he said simply. “She does.”

Eddie laughed again, but there was less conviction in it this time, something tighter underneath.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve known her since we were kids,” Gareth shot back, taking a step closer now, his voice still controlled but carrying more weight. “I think I do.”

Eddie’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—” he started, then cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair like the words weren’t lining up the way he wanted them to. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” Gareth pressed. Eddie doesn’t answer.

Gareth’s gaze sharpened just slightly, frustration bleeding through now.

“You think this is some act?” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward where you’d gone, toward everything you’d just said. “You really think she made all that up?”

Eddie didn’t say yes. He didn’t say anything at all. Which, somehow, was worse.

“She trusted you enough to tell you that,” Gareth added, quieter now but hitting harder because of it. “Do you get that? She doesn’t tell people that shit.”

Eddie looked away. “Didn’t ask her to,” he muttered.

Gareth let out a disbelieving laugh, short and sharp. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

“Whatever,” Eddie shot back, defensive again, like that was easier than sitting in what he’d just heard. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Gareth stares at him for a long second. Then he nodded once, slow, like he was coming to a conclusion he didn’t like.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back slightly. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Eddie didn’t respond. He just stood there, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he had too much energy and nowhere to put it. Gareth turned to leave, pausing only for a second at the edge of the alley.

“For what it’s worth,” he added without looking back, “she thought you were better than that.”

You don’t go to Hellfire the next week. Or the one after that.

At first, it feels intentional, like something you’re choosing, like you’re taking control of a situation that spun out of control too fast for you to catch. 

But after a while, it stops feeling like a decision and starts feeling like avoidance, like there’s a version of you still sitting at that table and you just refuse to go back and face her.

Gareth checks in, of course, he does. He doesn’t mention Eddie, not directly, but you can hear it in the pauses, in the things he doesn’t say, in the way he lingers on the line a little longer than usual before hanging up.

The others send messages through him, scattered and inconsistent, little pieces of a life you used to be part of. Eddie doesn’t. 

It takes about two weeks before you see him again. Not planned. Not controlled. Just one of those stupid, unavoidable collisions the universe seems to enjoy.

You’re grabbing your books from your locker when you feel it, that shift in the air, that awareness that someone is standing just close enough to matter. 

“Hey.” His voice is quieter than usual. 

You close your locker slowly before turning, your expression neutral, practiced, the kind you’ve been wearing a lot more lately. “Hey.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. He looks off.

Not put together the way he usually is, like something’s been sitting wrong with him and he hasn’t figured out how to fix it. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“I, uh—” he starts, then stops, glancing down the hall like he’s hoping for an easier way out of this conversation. “I wanted to—”

You wait. He exhales, frustrated with himself.

“About the other day,” he tries again, “I didn’t mean for it to—”

“To what?” you cut in, not sharp, just tired. “Go exactly the way it did?”

His mouth closes. You nod slightly, like that’s an answer enough.

“Yeah,” you say. “It was pretty clear.”

“That’s not—” he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “I just—I handled it wrong.”

You watch him for a moment, searching his face for something that isn’t quite there. “Okay,” you reply.

He frowns slightly, like that’s not the reaction he expected. “Okay?” he repeats.

“You handled it wrong,” you echo, a small shrug following, like you’re filing it away instead of holding onto it. “Got it.”

“That’s not all I’m saying,” he presses, a little more urgency creeping in now. “I just—things got messed up and I—”

“You think that’s what this is?” you interrupt again, quieter now, but firmer. “Things just got ‘messed up’?”

You let the silence stretch for a second before continuing, your voice steady in a way that surprises even you.

“You said exactly what you meant,” you tell him. “You just didn’t like how it sounded after.”

“That’s not true,” he insists, but there’s hesitation there now, something uncertain creeping in around the edges.

“Isn’t it?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer. Your gaze softens, but not in a way that invites him back in, more like you’ve already stepped away and you’re just acknowledging what’s left.

“You think I’m pretending,” you say. “That I don’t belong, that I don’t get it. That I’ve just been following you around like it all means more to me than it does to you.”

“That’s not—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in, shaking your head slightly. “You don’t have to fix it.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You are,” you say gently. “You just don’t know how.”

And for a second, there’s something in his expression that almost looks like it might turn into something real, something honest, something that could actually bridge the gap between you.

But it doesn’t; he looks away first. And that tells you everything you need to know. You take a small step back, creating space where there used to be none.

“I got into Princeton,” you say again, softer this time, like you’re reminding yourself more than him. “I should be excited about that.”

“You should,” he replies quickly.

“I am,” you continue, even though it doesn’t feel entirely true. “And I don’t want to keep standing here feeling like I did something wrong for it.”

“You didn’t,” he says.

You nod. “I know.”

“I did like you,” you admit, not looking away, not hiding it anymore because there’s nothing left to protect. “I wasn't just saying that."

You don’t give him time to respond.

“But I’m not going to keep doing that to myself,” you add, your voice steady, even if your chest feels anything but. “So… you don’t have to worry me 'following you around' anymore.”

Something in his face shifts, like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say something that might change the direction of this conversation.

You give him a small, polite smile. The kind you used to hate wearing.

“Good luck with Hellfire,” you say. “And the rest of… everything.”

IM SORRY. i hope you all enjoyed<3

beasbuggies:

Wayne looks unamused. “I’ve told you damn near a dozen times to get those pipes wrapped up, and they’re still not wrapped. If that weather guy from WSIL is right it’ll be dropping below freezing tonight, so—”

“So, you could say I’m getting to it not a moment too soon,” Eddie points out. 

You poke him again, and Eddie fakes a fall down onto the couch next to you. “What’s wrapping the pipes mean?” you ask them. 

“It’s just, like,” Eddie snuggles his shoulder up to yours, “swaddling the pipes under the trailer in blankets so they’re all warm and cozy.” 

“It’s so they don’t freeze,” Wayne corrects him severely. 

“I’ll get them done, okay? Promise.” Eddie touches two fingers to his brow. “Scout’s honor.” 

“That’s not even—” You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I’ll make sure we do them tonight, Mr. Munson.” 

Wayne’s weariness (he loves Eddie, really) softens some when he looks at you. “Alright, I’ll trust it to you. Thanks, kid.” 

You try to play it off with a shrug, but Eddie can see how happy his uncle’s esteem makes you. You’re practically preening. It’s ridiculous, but what’s more ridiculous is how insanely it makes Eddie want to kiss you. Wayne can’t leave for work soon enough.

When he does, Eddie pounces on you (a slow, romantic pounce, he swears), and you sigh into his mouth. 

He laughs. “What?” 

“I just,” you kiss his cupid’s bow, “love it here.”

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Did I tell you, I found one of your guitar picks in the couch earlier?” 

Eddie backs off. “No shit, really? What color was it?” 

“Red.” 

“I’ve been looking for that.” 

Your lips curve. “I thought it looked special. I put it on your nightstand.” 

“Thanks, beautiful.” Your lashes flutter closed as he kisses you again, but Eddie can’t shake the feeling that there’s something weird going on with you. You’re radiating this pleasure, this thick, syrupy content. He pulls away again, cupping the side of your neck. “That what’s making you so happy?” 

You make a soft hum like this could be more or less true. “I was just thinking about how nice it is here.” 

Eddie’s shoulders jump with a laugh. “Nice?” 

“Yeah.” 

He’d think you were making fun of him—of them, him and Wayne—if you didn’t sound so totally sincere. Eddie likes the trailer fine because it’s where they live, but he wouldn’t call it nice. The walls have stains from old leaks. His bedroom is so small he can’t fit more than a twin mattress. When it gets cold out, you have to crawl underneath the trailer and duct tape blankets around the pipes. 

“What’s nice about it?” he asks you. 

You shrug again, but your expression is earnest. “I like that there’s so much of you here. I mean, you and Wayne, but mostly you. Your posters and stuff. I like that you can leave a bowl in the sink without anyone getting pissed about it.” 

Eddie’s fingers tighten on you unconsciously. He doesn’t like the idea of you getting yelled at for something as simple as a bowl in the sink. But this isn’t a totally new revelation; you’d been shocked, when Eddie explained the concept of soaking a dish to make it easier to clean, that Wayne allowed it. He takes care to loosen his grip, thumb stroking across your jaw apologetically. “Yeah, well, give Wayne long enough. After a few days he’ll bitch me out just like he did about the pipes.” 

You smile. “That wasn’t bitching you out.” 

Eddie feigns pique, blowing air out the side of his mouth. “I sure feel bitched out.” 

“I think it’s nice that you guys can talk like that, and you know he’s not really mad at you.” You take Eddie’s thumb, bringing it to your lips for a kiss. The action is simple, thoughtless, and yet his whole wrist goes tingly anyway. “It’s cool that he lets you put your stuff everywhere, and then you find things like guitar picks in the couch—” 

“You know that’s not, like, an intentional amenity, right?” 

“I’m just saying, it’s part of it.” You look down at his thumb, like the truth in what you’re saying is suddenly too much. “It’s quiet here. It’s homey. It’s nice.” 

Eddie lets that settle. He looks at you for a while, and thinks about you feeling at home in his home. The idea has warmth unfurling in his chest. 

He moves his thumb from your mouth, sweeping it across your cheek as he treats himself to a slow, sweet kiss. “Wanna know something?” 

“Hm?” 

“I like it better when you’re here.” 

It’s one of Eddie’s most privately treasured feelings, the feeling of your smile blooming against his mouth. “Cheeseball.”