The gym looks smaller than last time. Why does it seem smaller each time you come? There are string lights now and a disco ball, and a banner that reads WELCOME BACK, CLASS OF ’86. It does smell the same though.

With a plastic cup of bad chardonnay in hand, you scan a room full of people you used to know and mostly don’t want to talk to anymore.

Then you see him.

Eddie Munson hasn’t changed much. Same wild hair, now a little longer and possibly better taken care of. Same absurdly cute doe eyes. Leather jacket worn soft, a black band tee with a logo you don’t recognize underneath, jeans without a single hole, and boots. He’s leaning against the bleachers with a beer in hand, grinning at someone from his old club like no time has passed.

Eddie notices you staring and nods. You nod back and try to hide a shy smile in your cup, but the disgusting taste has you cringing.

“Is the drink that bad,” he asks, pushing off the bleachers, “or is my presence offending you?”

“It’s the drink. I think it just won donkey piss of the year, gold medal.”

Eddie laughs wholeheartedly.

“Come on, I’ve got some good stuff.”

You follow him to some sort of closet where he pours your wine into a trash can and reaches for his flask.

“Like whiskey? Ten years of maturity, just like us.”

“Would you think less of me if I added coke to it?”

“Nah, suit yourself.”

Eddie pours a generous amount into your cup and you ask:

“Don’t you want some?”

“Not till I get home. Driving back tonight.” Eddie is confident, relaxed, and his eyes are soft and warm, looking at your lips for just a moment , or am I imagining it?

“It’s just a little weird to accept a drink from someone who isn’t drinking themselves.”

Eddie groans and pretends you’ve stabbed him in the heart.

“Sure. Drug dealer and murderer pours you a drink from a flask he’s not drinking himself. Got it.” He takes a big gulp. “Happy now?”

A burning heat rush across your face and chest, as you realize how badly that landed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… it’s a big thing in the city, the spiking, people talk…”

Eddie turns toward the door.

“Fuck. I really shouldn’t have come. I’m used to murderer and drug dealer, but rapist is a new one.”

It’s shocking how clearly you can see it in his eyes—the weight of being a pariah all this time, and the realization that even ten years hadn't changed anything. You don't want to be another person who hurts him.

“I’m sorry, I’m only making it worse.” For some reason, you don’t want to go back to the room full of your former classmates. You catch the sleeve of his jacket. “Stay.”

You take a sip of the undiluted whiskey and gasp. “Oh! It’s actually good.”

Eddie relaxes, the sharp tension draining from his shoulders. His gaze softens as your fingers linger on his sleeve.

“Told you. Who would even fuck a girl drugged unconscious? Only a loser. You are right to be careful though, you’re a total babe.”

“You think so? Thanks.”

“It’s a fact. Want to head back in?”

“No, it’s nice talking to you actually. I thought you’d be, I don’t know how to say it, hostile?”

“Me? Hostile? To a girl who never hurt a fly?”

Eddie leans heavily against the door and covers his face with his big hand, decorated with heavy rings and faint smudges of grease that didn’t quite wash off.

“Oh, I’m such a moron, Eddie.” You take another sip, and it emboldens you. “Can I tell you something embarrassing?”

“Always.”

“I had the hugest crush on you in high school. Like, humiliating levels of crush.”

Eddie goes still for a second, like he hadn’t expected that to actually be said out loud ten years later. Then he laughs, not at you, just at the absurdity of it.

“Okay, that’s …wow. Okay.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna need you to know that I spent an unreasonable amount of my last senior year writing terrible song lyrics about a girl who never once spoke to me.”

“I spoke to you. Once. In line for the copy machine.”

“You said sorry because you dropped your binder on my foot. That doesn’t count as speaking to me, only as acknowledging my existence ”

“That’s why I dropped it. I panicked.”

“I used to specifically time my hallway route so I’d pass your locker.”

You stare at him. “You did not.”

“I absolutely did. Ask Gareth. He used to make fun of me for it.” He shakes his head, laughing at himself. “We were both just really, deeply bad at this shit.”

“We really were.”

Music drifts in from the gym: "Drive" by The Cars—slow, mid-80s, the DJ clearly trying to warm up a crowd that mostly didn’t want to come. Eddie looks at you with a mischievous smile.

“Dance with me?”

“You can’t be serious, they’re going to die.” But you’re already putting your hand in his.

Eddie guides you out into the gym. You settle your hands on his shoulders and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in closer than strictly necessary. His palms rest warm and solid on your hips. For all his chaotic energy, Eddie is a surprisingly decent dancer, leading you gently to the slow rhythm.

“Technically I have more memories in this gym than anyone else here,” he murmurs near your ear.

You laugh softly, aware of every point of contact. The leather of his jacket is soft under your fingers. His wild curls brush your temple as he spins you just slightly, steering you away from your former teacher, who is making faces at you to come to your senses.

“Why did you come? I thought you’d be touring with a band by now or something.”

“I was. Briefly. Turns out van life loses its charm around month four. To answer your question — I might have seen a name on the list and thought it would be worth coming, even if you still didn’t speak to me. Gareth, Jeff, and Freak convinced me to join the Musketeers for one last ride.”

“Does that make you D’Artagnan?”

“Aha.”

You keep dancing, bodies swaying together as people stare and talk. The heat of his breath ghosts your skin. Your fingers slide a little higher, brushing the curls at the nape of his neck. Eddie’s grip tightens fractionally, like he doesn’t want to let go. The rest of the gym fades into a blur of lights and distant chatter. For a few perfect minutes it feels like it’s just the two of you melting under the slow pulse of the music.

‘Who’s gonna drive you home tonight?’ he hums along with the music, lips warm against your temple.

“My mom dropped me off,” you admit, your heart skipping a beat at the timing of the lyric. “I was planning to catch a ride with someone.”

“Catch a ride with me.” A beat. “To my place.”

You look at him in surprise, did he literally just ask you to sleep with him? Because you had a crush on him ten years ago?

Eddie doesn’t press for an answer and leads you back to the edge of the gym. The lights dim slowly, and the squeak of a microphone echoes through the speakers. On stage, a former school president with a blinding smile clears her throat.

“If everyone could look at the projector screen, we have a little trip down memory lane prepared by the reunion committee…”

The projector casts a white rectangle onto the gym wall. First comes a collage of the basketball team, cheerleading pyramids, and embarrassing 1980s haircuts. The crowd oohs and aahs on schedule.

Eddie leans in from behind, locking his arms around you. He checks his watch, which is a mechanical piece now. “Three. Two. One,” he murmurs in your ear.

The screen blinks. Eddie Munson’s mugshot fills the entire screen. In bleeding red letters underneath it, the text reads: MISSED ME? — E.M.

The gym goes dead silent for one perfect second.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A series of petards, definitely illegal ones, detonate right beneath the stage. Sparks explode in bursts of flame and smoke. Screams echo through the crowd as people duck for cover, but the chaos isn't over. The heat and smoke instantly trigger the ceiling sensors. With a loud hiss, the gym’s sprinkler system releases a torrential downpour.

It takes less than three seconds for the Class of ’86 to descend into total anarchy. Women in flashy dresses shriek as their blowouts collapse, and men in rented suits scramble for the exits like rats on a sinking ship. Water pelts down on you, cold and sobering. Within moments, your hair is plastered to your neck, and your cocktail dress is soaked completely through.

You look at Eddie. He’s drenched, his wild curls flattened, a stray drop hanging from the tip of his nose, and he is laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

“Come on!” he yells over the sirens and screams.

Before you can even think, his big hand clamps firmly around yours. His grip is warm and solid amidst the freezing downpour. He tugs you forward to the exit, and you both sprint through the corridor and out into the cool night air.

The parking lot is starting to fill with panicking classmates. Panting for breath, you follow Eddie as he weaves through the rows of cars until he stops beside a sleek, vintage black motorcycle. He lets go of your hand, only to lean back against the bike, wiping water from his eyes.

“You riding this?” you gasp, trying to catch your breath.

“Did you expect the old van?” he pants, a smug grin cutting across his face. “I upgraded.”

Eddie takes off his jacket and steps closer to you. The playful bravado drops away. He looks at you intensely, and it feels like you need to pick a side right here and now. His fingers trace the water dripping down your neck, his eyes dropping to the way the wet fabric of your dress clings to your breasts. He helps you into his heavy jacket, and you instantly feel warm inside.

“You look…” Eddie swallows, his voice dropping low and velvety, “fucking beautiful.”

Your heart does a violent flip. The ten year gap, the high school insecurity, the judgments of everyone inside that stupid gym, all of it just disappears under his gaze. You step into his space, closing the distance until your wet chest meets his.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate. His large hands cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the mascara streaks on your cheeks, and he pulls you into a kiss. It’s everything you wanted at eighteen, but a thousand times better. He kisses you deeply, hungriness mixing with a surprising tenderness that makes your knees go weak. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, completely oblivious to the frantic chaos of the parking lot.

You look up into those soft, doe eyes, your fingers tangling in the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

“Take me to your place,” you whisper.

“Munson!” someone yells.

You both look toward the entrance, where former jocks in poorly fitting letterman jackets are assembling in an attacking position.

“Right about time.” Eddie’s lips curve into a slow, soft smile. He reaches for his helmet and hands it to you. “It’s going to be a fast ride, babe.”

Your dress is bunched up on your thighs and you cling tightly to Eddie as he navigates the dark backroads shaking off the chase, the summer night breeze playing with his hair. You wrap your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your chest against his back. The wet fabric of your dress dries slowly against the heat of his body.

When he finally pulls up to a small but nice house, you realize Eddie really did upgrade. The bike, the watch, the house, it’s all not flashy but he stands firmly on his own two feet now.

Eddie locks his helmet on the bike and guides you up the porch steps. “Welcome to my lair.”

The second the front door clicks shut behind you, cutting off the rest of the world, he turns. He doesn't even let you step into the living room. His hands find your waist, lifting you slightly as he presses you back against the wood of the door. The kiss is instantaneous, deeper and more urgent than the one in the parking lot. You gasp into his mouth, your hands tangling in his damp hair.

He pulls back just an inch, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and dilated in the dim entry light.

"Babe," he breathes, his forehead resting against yours. He runs a thumb over your lower lip. "You’re shivering. You need to get out of these clothes and into a hot shower. Through the bedroom, on the left."

You look at him, deciding right then and there not to wait another ten years. Your hands slide up his chest, your fingers wrapping around his familiar guitar pick necklace.

"Join me."

Eddie’s breath hitches. He doesn't need to be told twice.

The bathroom is small. As water heats up, your wet dress pools at your ankles and Eddie sheds his clothes too. In the shower he traps you against the tiled wall, his mouth finds your throat, grazes your collarbone, making you arch into him. His hands are warm, tracing the curves of your body with confidence that makes your head spin. Before you can think, he’s dropping to his knees.

"Eddie…" your voice catches, a breathless gasp as he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.

"Shh," he murmurs, his dark eyes looking up at you through a curtain of damp curls. "Let me take care of you."

Eddie’s eager open-mouthed kisses on your inner thigh make your knees buckle, but his grip is steady and unyielding. When his tongue opens you, any remaining thoughts disappear. You grip his shoulders, digging your fingers into his muscles when he laps his tongue against your clit with a maddening rhythm. He knows exactly what he’s doing, shifting his mouth up and down, using his lips and teeth just enough to drive you over the edge, until you’re crying out his name into the ceiling and your body is trembling as an intense wave of pleasure crashes over you.

Before you can even recover, Eddie is on his feet, pulling you out of the bathroom and into the dark, quiet bedroom.

He falls onto the mattress pulling you over him, panting, looking up at you with a wicked smirk that is purely Eddie Munson.

“Condom?”

He is all spread out for you, strong, lean body, tattoos, scars and the happy trail to his beautiful, flushed at the head, cock.

You can’t spoil this moment you never allowed yourself to dream of fumbling with rubber. “I’m clean if you are.”

“Come on then.”

You climb onto his lap, straddling his hips, spreading a drop of precum over his cock. He reaches up, his large hands hold your waist as you slowly lower yourself onto him.

His eyes close for a moment, head back, throat exposed as his thick length is stretching you slowly. Eddie groans low. When he opens them, he is intensely focused on you. You move your hips in a slow, rolling rhythm that makes him tighten his grip on your waist, his knuckles turning white.

"Look at you riding me," he rasps through the pleasure. "So. Fucking. Beautiful."

The pace quickens, fueled by years of unspoken desire. You set the rhythm, riding him hard, your hair flying around your face as the heat inside you builds. Eddie meets every shift of your hips, until he flips you over and shoves a pillow under your butt. The new angle allows him to drag over the sweetest spot inside you, making you moan and cry out with each thrust. Eddie leans over to whisper in your ear:

“Where do you want me to come, babe?”

His slow, seductive voice makes you clench and answer “Inside, Eddie,” without thinking.

He reaches where your bodies join and pulses his thumb on your clit, as he pulls out almost entirely and then slams back in. The tension builds and builds until the tight coil inside you snaps and you convulse on his cock, your eyes rolling back as a second, deeper climax takes over you. Eddie lets out a choked sound, his hips driving up hard one last time as he lets himself finally fill you, his whole body going rigid before he collapses onto you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the two of you breathing, your chests rising and falling in sync.

He slides to the side and pulls you against his chest, listening to the rapid, steady thumping of your heart. You stay like that for a moment.

“Thirsty?” You nod and Eddie reluctantly leaves the bed, and disappears into the kitchen to grab a glass of cold water for you. You gulp it quickly under his content gaze.

“Something to eat before second round?”

“Sure, I’ll help.” You get up and reach for his flannel on the chair and follow him to the kitchen.

You look around. It’s just a little bit messy, coffee mug still on the counter, beer bottles by the couch. A few metal posters, a big shelf with fantasy books and an even bigger one with music records.

Eddie gives you a cold beer and you mostly sit on the countertop watching him put together grilled cheese sandwiches.

His hand caresses your knee while trying to catch up on ten years of each other’s lives in between soft kisses.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Steve sat up just enough to point his beer bottle at the group like a scepter.

“Alright, my turn again. Never have I ever… gotten high and tried to cook at three in the morning.”

You lifted your bottle immediately. So did Robin, Eddie, and- after a guilty pause- Nancy.

Robin cackled, nearly spilling her drink. “The toaster incident! I stand by it. Pop-Tarts are a perfectly valid midnight meal.”

“You put the Pop-Tart wrapper in the toaster,” Steve shot back, wheezing. “I had to unplug the whole damn thing before the kitchen caught fire. You’re a menace.”

Eddie threw his head back with a theatrical groan. “Amateur hour. I once tried to make grilled cheese at three a.m. while stoned out of my skull. Used a fork. On an electric stove. There were sparks. I named the scorch mark on the wall and we had a funeral for it the next day.”

Nancy was giggling into Jonathan’s shoulder, trying and failing to look dignified. “I made… I think it was supposed to be pancakes? But I used cornflakes instead of flour because the bag looked similar and the labels were blurry. It was… crunchy.”

Jonathan’s quiet laugh rumbled under her. “I remember that. You tried to serve it to me like it was intentional. ‘It’s deconstructed,’ you said.”

“Shut up,” Nancy muttered, but she was smiling.

Robin pointed at you, eyes sparkling. “You drank too! What was your crime against the culinary arts?”

You shrugged, fighting a grin. “Tried to make mashed potatoes but ended up just sticking the potato in the microwave and forgetting to cook it. Bit into a raw fuckin' potato.”

The group lost it. Steve actually rolled onto his back in the grass, clutching his stomach. Eddie sat up so fast he almost fell off the table.

“Legendary. Absolute madwoman.”

Robin wiped tears from her eyes. “Okay, okay, my turn. Never have I ever… had a secret hookup that I never told anyone in this circle about.”

A beat. Then Eddie and Steve both drank without hesitation.

Robin’s jaw dropped. “EXCUSE ME? Both of you? At the same time? Separately? Details. Now. I demand details.”

Eddie grinned, all teeth and chaos. “Relax, Buckley, it wasn’t with each other. Though that would’ve been a hell of a story. No, this was… senior year. Very short-lived. Very ill-advised. She thought I was mysterious. I thought she was hot. We both realized we were wrong by morning. End of saga.”

Steve took a long sip like it might save him from the interrogation. “Mine was… after senior year. Different person. We agreed it was a one-time thing. Haven’t thought about it since. Until right now. Thanks for that, Robin.”

Robin was vibrating. “I hate both of you. I tell you everything and you’re out here hoarding girls like dragons. Unfair. I want names. Or at least embarrassing details. Did anyone cry? Was there a walk of shame? Was it in a car? Be specific.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow, amused. “I feel like we’re one question away from a full confessional.”

Jonathan just shook his head, small smile in place. “I’m staying out of this one.”

Eddie pointed at him. “Smart man. Jonathan knows the value of silence. Unlike some people.” He shot a look at Steve, who flipped him off lazily.

Robin was still going. “I’m circling back to this later. Mark my words. This is not over.”

The laughter died down into comfortable, tipsy quiet for a second, the kind where everyone was just enjoying the buzz and the night air. Then Eddie shifted on the picnic table, rings catching the light as he leaned forward with that signature glint in his eyes- the one that always meant trouble was incoming.

“Alright, my turn again, you beautiful disasters. I’ve been saving this one.” He paused for dramatic effect, looking around the circle like he was about to drop state secrets. “Never have I ever… not come during sex.”

The air shifted just slightly. Steve made a face like he’d tasted something sour. Robin shook her head immediately. Nancy didn’t move. Jonathan stayed still.

You lifted your bottle and took a slow sip.

For three full seconds, nobody said anything.

Then the backyard exploded all over again.

Robin made a noise like a dying seagull and actually fell sideways onto the blanket. “YOU DRANK?! You actually drank?! But you’re- you! How is that even possible? Was it recent? Was it that one guy? Oh my God, tell me it wasn’t that one guy with the weird shoes-”

Steve sat upright, beer forgotten in the grass. “No. Absolutely not. Rewind the tape. You’re telling me some absolute clown had the privilege of being anywhere near you and just… tapped out? Like the job was done for him and he clocked out early? That’s not even selfish, that’s a federal offense. I’m personally offended.”

Eddie had gone very still, the usual manic energy sharpening into something focused and almost offended on your behalf. He stared at you like you’d just announced the end of the world.

“Sweetheart. No. We’re not doing this. Who the fuck was it? Give me a name, a description, a license plate number- I’m not picky.”

Nancy blinked rapidly, her analytical brain clearly fighting the tequila. “I… okay. That’s surprising. From you. Are you- I mean, obviously it wasn’t great if- wait, that came out wrong. Do you want to talk about it? We can talk about it. Or we can drop it completely. But also we’re all very invested now, so. Your move.”

Jonathan’s voice was quiet but sincere under the chaos. “That really sucks. Like… actually sucks. Sorry that happened.”

The questions started flying, voices overlapping in drunk, protective, nosy waves.

Robin, half-sitting up again- “Was it bad-bad or just ‘eh’ bad? Did you fake it or just lie there like ‘well, this is happening’? Because I have strong opinions about faking it and I need to know if I should be adding this person to my shit list-”

Steve, pointing dramatically- “On a scale of one to ‘I want to key their car and also their life,’ how bad are we talking? And do I need to go do recon tonight or can it wait till I’m sober?”

Eddie, already in full dramatic mode- “I’m in mourning. Actual mourning. The concept that you have experienced subpar anything and didn’t immediately tell us so we could form a council of war? Rude. Disrespectful. I demand emotional damages.”

Nancy, trying to sound reasonable while clearly spiraling a little- “Statistically it happens more than people admit, especially if there’s alcohol or if the other person’s… not great at listening. But still. You? Really? Do you want advice or just… collective judgment of this mystery idiot?”

Jonathan, dry as ever- “Or we can just sit here and roast them in silence. That’s also an option.”

Eddie was still staring at you, something unreadable flickering behind the theatrical bullshit. Steve looked ready to stand up and demand an address. Robin was vibrating with secondhand outrage and best-friend protectiveness. Nancy had that little crease between her brows. Jonathan just watched you, steady in the middle of the storm.

The game was forgotten.

The night, however, felt like it had just cracked open.

The group was still staring at you, the night air thick with weed smoke and the kind of drunk, high curiosity that made everything feel like the most important conversation on earth.

You shrugged, keeping it short because the buzz in your head made long explanations feel impossible.

“It was that guy I went on a couple dates with. He got his and that was it. Didn’t really care if I did or not. It just… didn’t happen for me. I didn’t make it a thing.”

Silence for half a second.

Then the backyard lost its collective mind all over again.

Robin made a noise like she’d been personally stabbed. “He what?! He got his and just- rolled over?! Like a fucking seagull that stole a fry and flew away?! I’m going to kill him. I don’t even remember his name but I’m going to find him and I’m going to-”

Steve sat up so fast he almost face-planted in the grass. “No. Nope. That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works. You don’t just- Jesus Christ, what a fucking loser. I’m actually angry. Like, real anger. My blood pressure is up.”

Nancy’s voice was tight, the tipsy analytical tone cracking into something sharper. “That’s not even selfish sex, that’s just… using someone. That’s unacceptable. I’m sorry that happened to you. Really.”

Jonathan just shook his head slowly, quiet but firm. “Guy sounds like an asshole. You deserved better than that.”

But Eddie-

Eddie went very, very still.

The manic energy that usually lived in his hands and his voice had narrowed into something focused and almost dangerous. He slid off the picnic table in one fluid motion, boots hitting the grass with a soft thud, and crossed the circle until he was crouched right in front of your chair. Close enough that you could see the way the string lights caught the silver in his rings, the faint scar on his bottom lip, the way his dark eyes had gone hot and serious in a way you’d never seen directed at you before.

His voice came out low, rough around the edges from the smoke and the drinks.

“No. Fuck that. That’s not okay. That’s not even in the same zip code as okay.” He shook his head once, hard, curls falling into his face. “You’re telling me some mediocre, selfish little shit got to touch you- got to have you- and didn’t even have the decency to make sure you came? That’s not a mistake. That’s a crime. And I’m taking it personally.”

He reached out, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted, and rested one warm, ring-heavy hand on your knee. His thumb brushed once over the fabric of your jeans, barely there, but the touch lit up every nerve ending like a live wire.

“I’ve always liked you,” he said, voice dropping even lower, just for you even though the whole group could hear. “Like… liked you. I’ve thought about you a lot. More than I should’ve. Way more.”

Robin made a tiny, high-pitched noise somewhere behind him. Steve muttered “Oh shit, he’s really doing this,” but didn’t sound mad about it.

Eddie didn’t look away from you. His hand stayed on your knee, thumb still moving in that slow, deliberate stroke.

“And now I find out some asshole left you hanging? Nah. Not happening. Not on my watch.” His mouth curved into something that was half grin, half promise. “So here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart. I’m making it my personal fucking mission to give you an orgasm so good you forget that guy’s name, his face, and the entire concept of bad sex. If you’ll let me.”

He leaned in closer- his lips just shy of your ear-  his whispering voice turning darker, flirtier, filthy in that Eddie way.

“I’d take my time. None of that ‘get mine and dip’ bullshit. I’d learn what you like. What makes your breath catch. What makes your thighs shake. I’d use my mouth, my fingers, my cock- whatever you wanted, however long it took. I’d make you come so many times you’d be begging me to stop… or begging me not to.” His thumb pressed a little firmer against your knee. “And I’d enjoy every second of it. Because I’ve wanted to hear you fall apart for a while now. And I’m really fucking good at getting what I want when I decide something matters.”

The group had gone mostly quiet behind him, the air crackling with secondhand tension and drunk fascination.

Robin whispered, “Holy shit,” like she was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.

Steve cleared his throat. “Munson, you’re really out here shooting your shot in front of all of us? Bold. I respect it. But also… maybe give her a second to answer before you start planning the victory lap?”

Nancy’s voice was a little breathless. “I mean… he has a point about the mission part. The delivery could use work, but the intent is… surprisingly pure? In a very Eddie way.”

Jonathan just gave a low, amused hum. “He’s been staring at you for months. We all noticed. This isn’t news.”

Eddie didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and hungry and suddenly very, very serious under all the theatrical bullshit.

“So?” he asked, voice soft but rough, thumb still stroking slow circles on your knee. “You gonna let me fix it? Or you gonna make me work for it first? Because I’m good with either. I like a challenge. And I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you for a long time.”

The open backyard felt smaller suddenly. Just his hand on your knee, his voice in your ear, the way the buzz in your head made every word feel heavier, hotter, more inevitable.

And Eddie Munson was looking at you like he’d already decided you were the only thing that mattered tonight.

You didn’t even hesitate. The buzz made everything feel simple, inevitable.

“Okay,” you said, meeting Eddie’s eyes. “Yeah. I’m in. Fix it.”

Steve made a noise behind Eddie as Robin excitedly poked him in the ribs.

“Oh my God. No. Nope. Absolutely not. I am begging you two. Not here. Not tonight. Not while we’re all sitting in my backyard like this. The pool does not need to see whatever the hell is about to happen. I’m serious. Take it inside later. Or tomorrow. Or never in front of me. I’m begging. On my knees. Metaphorically. Please.”

Eddie threw his head back and laughed- loud, bright, delighted, the sound cutting through the night air like it belonged there. He didn’t even look at Steve. His eyes stayed on you, dark and shining, like Steve’s panic was the funniest thing he’d heard all week.

You tilted your head at Eddie, feeling bold and bratty and loose from the weed and the tequila and the way he was still touching your knee like he owned the right.

“You better mean it, Munson,” you said, voice light but edged with challenge. “You talked a real big game just now. Don’t pussy out on me later. I hate when guys talk shit they can’t back up.”

Eddie’s laugh cut off like someone had flipped a switch.

For a second he just looked at you- really looked- and something in his expression shifted. The hunger that had already been there sharpened into something hotter, darker. His pupils blew wider. His hand on your knee tightened, fingers flexing once like he was physically holding himself back from doing something stupid in front of everyone. He liked that. The brattiness. You could see it in the way his jaw flexed, in the slow, dangerous little smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth before he schooled it back into something cocky.

He didn’t say anything about it out loud. Just let the moment hang there, thick and electric between you.

Steve was still muttering prayers under his breath. Robin had her face buried in her hands, peeking through her fingers like she was watching a horror movie she couldn’t look away from. Nancy looked equal parts scandalized and fascinated. Jonathan just raised his eyebrows and took a very long, very deliberate sip of his beer like he was pretending he wasn’t there.

Eddie finally dragged his gaze away from you long enough to glance at Steve, still grinning like the devil himself.

“Relax, Harrington. I’m a gentleman. Sometimes.” He gave your knee one last slow squeeze before finally- finally- pulling his hand back. But he didn’t go far. Instead he dropped down onto the grass right beside your chair, close enough that his shoulder pressed against your leg, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him through his jacket. He leaned back on his hands like he had no intention of moving for the rest of the night.

The group, blessedly, took the hint and started bullshitting again- Robin launching into a rant about some customer at the video store who tried to return a tape with peanut butter on it, Steve jumping in with his own horror stories, Nancy adding dry commentary that made everyone laugh. It was easy, familiar noise. The kind that usually filled nights like this.

But Eddie stayed exactly where he was.

Close.

His shoulder stayed pressed to your leg. Every so often his hand would drift back- casual, like it belonged there- resting on your calf, or brushing against your ankle when he gestured while talking to the group. When the conversation got loud he’d lean in a little, voice dropping just for you.

“You’re really gonna make me work for it, huh?” he murmured at one point, low enough that only you could hear, the words curling warm against your ear. “Good. I like that.”

Later, when Robin was mid-story and everyone else was distracted, he tilted his head back against your chair and looked up at you through his lashes, voice even quieter.

“Still thinking about what you said. The way you said it.” His fingers traced one slow line along the seam of your jeans, barely there. “Bratty looks good on you. Real good.”

You knew it.

He didn’t push it further. Didn’t drag you off into the house or make good on any of the filthy promises from earlier. Not yet. But he stayed glued to your side for the rest of the night- laughing at the group’s bullshit, throwing in his own dramatic commentary, passing the joint when it came around again. Every time someone wasn’t looking his hand would find its way back to you. A thumb stroking slow circles on your knee. Fingers hooking lightly around your ankle. Once, when the laughter got loud, he turned his head and pressed his mouth to the side of your thigh through your jeans- just a quick, hot press of lips and teeth that no one else saw.

The night kept spinning around you in a haze of smoke and laughter and string lights.

But Eddie Munson didn’t move from your side.

And every time you glanced down at him, he was already looking back- dark eyes full of heat and something dangerously close to a total loss of control.

The house had gone quiet.

Everyone drifted off one by one- Steve muttering something about “no sex in my backyard” under his breath as he headed inside, Robin still giggling about the night’s chaos, Nancy and Jonathan disappearing into one of the guest rooms with quiet goodnights. You tried to sleep in the room Steve had given you, but your head was too loud, your body too wired from the weed, the tequila, and the way Eddie had stayed glued to your side all night.

So you slipped outside again.

The backyard was cooler now, the string lights still glowing faintly. You lit a cigarette and leaned against the side of the house, letting the first drag burn slow in your lungs.

Eddie was already out there.

He was sitting on the picnic table, boots on the bench, a cigarette of his own between his fingers. He looked up when the door clicked shut, and the second your eyes met, the air changed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and crossed the space between you in a few long strides.

The kiss was immediate and rough.

His mouth crashed into yours like he’d been holding back for hours. One hand slid into your hair, gripping tight at the roots, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as he walked you backward until your ass hit the edge of the picnic table. You gasped into his mouth and he took full advantage, tongue sliding deep, teeth catching your bottom lip. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was exactly what the tension between you had been building toward all night.

When he finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard, he kept his forehead pressed to yours, voice low and ragged.

“You couldn’t sleep either?”

You shook your head.

His hands stayed on you- one still fisted in your hair, the other sliding under your shirt to grip bare skin at your waist.

“Do you know what you like?” he asked, voice rough. His thumb stroked once over your hipbone. “Be honest with me.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. The bratty edge from earlier was still there, loosened by the night and the way he was looking at you like he wanted to ruin you.

“I think I like it rough.”

Eddie’s eyes darkened. A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth.

“Yeah?” He gave your hair a deliberate tug, just enough to tip your head back. “Good. ‘Cause I like you bratty. Mouthy. Makes it hotter when I get to shut you up.”

He kissed you again before you could answer- harder this time, rougher- and then he was lifting you onto the picnic table like you weighed nothing. The wood was cool under your thighs through your jeans. He stepped between your legs, hands already working your button and zipper open with impatient fingers.

“You gonna be good for me?” he murmured against your mouth, even as he shoved your jeans and underwear down your thighs in one rough motion. “Or you gonna keep running that mouth?”

You couldn’t help it. The brattiness slipped out easy.

“Depends. You gonna actually do something, or just talk about it all night like you did earlier?”

Eddie laughed- low, dark, delighted- and the sound went straight between your legs.

“There she is.”

He pushed you back until you were lying on the picnic table, the string lights blurring above you. Then he dropped to his knees on the grass between your spread thighs like he belonged there.

The first drag of his tongue was slow, deliberate, almost teasing. Then he groaned against you like he’d been starving for it, and everything got rougher. His hands gripped your thighs hard, fingers digging in as he held you open. He licked and sucked with focused intensity, tongue working your clit in tight, relentless circles before dipping lower. When you tried to squirm, he growled and pinned your hips down with one forearm across your stomach.

You couldn’t stay quiet. Couldn’t help the way your hips tried to rock against his mouth.

“Fuck- Eddieeee-”

He pulled back just enough to speak, voice wrecked and smug.

“Still mouthy. Good.” He nipped at the inside of your thigh, sharp enough to sting. “Keep talking, sweetheart. See what happens.”

Then he went back in- hungrier this time. Rougher. Two fingers pushing inside you without warning while his mouth stayed locked on your clit, sucking hard. The stretch burned in the best way. He curled his fingers just right, fucking you with them in time with the relentless drag of his tongue, and the picnic table creaked under you.

You reached down, fingers twisting into his hair, and tugged. Hard.

Eddie moaned against you like you’d given him a gift.

“Yeah,” he rasped between licks, voice muffled and filthy. “Pull it. Be as bratty as you want. I’ll just make you come harder for it.”

He didn’t let up. Didn’t slow down. He ate you like he had something to prove- tongue relentless, fingers rough and deep, the hand not inside you gripping your thigh so tight you knew you’d have marks tomorrow. Every time you got mouthy- every gasped “fuck you” or “is that all you got?”- he responded by being meaner with his mouth, rougher with his fingers, until your back was arching off the table and your thighs were shaking around his head.

The orgasm hit hard and sudden, ripping through you with a broken sound you couldn’t bite back. Eddie didn’t stop. He worked you through it, tongue gentler now but still moving, fingers slowing but not pulling out until your whole body went limp against the wood.

Only then did he lift his head.

His mouth was shiny, eyes blown black, curls messy from your hands. He looked wrecked and triumphant at the same time.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned up to kiss you- slow and deep so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

“See?” he murmured against your lips, voice hoarse. “Told you I’d fix it.”

His hand was still between your legs, two fingers still buried inside you, lazily stroking like he wasn’t done yet.

“And we’re just getting started.”

Eddie didn’t give you much time to come down.

He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then his hands were on your hips, flipping you over so your stomach pressed against the cool wood of the picnic table. The position was sudden, a little rough, exactly the way you’d told him you liked it. Your jeans were still around your thighs, keeping your legs close together as he kicked your feet a little wider.

“Stay just like that,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

You heard the clink of his belt, the sound of his zipper. Then the hot, heavy drag of his cock against your ass as he leaned over you, one hand braced on the table beside your head.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he breathed against your ear. He rubbed the head of his cock through your folds, teasing, not pushing in yet. “All this from my mouth? Or you been thinking about this since I had my hand on your knee earlier?”

You pushed back against him on instinct, trying to get him inside. He laughed softly and pulled his hips back.

“Uh-uh. Not yet.”

“Fuck you.”

“Trying sweetheart. But someone's impatient even though she just got what she wanted. Didn't she?”

“Need more.”

“Ah ah- don't be greedy.” He growled and your cunt clenched down in reaction. You had a taste and you needed everything.

He kept teasing- slow drags of his cock over your clit, the tip catching at your entrance before sliding away again. Every time you tried to rock back or get mouthy, he’d grip your hip harder and hold you still.

“Eddiee-”

“Yeah?” He sounded way too pleased with himself. “Something you want?”

You twisted enough to glare at him over your shoulder, still a little breathless. “Stop fucking around and put it in already.”

His laugh was low and dark. “There’s that mouth.” He finally notched the head at your entrance and pushed in slow, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass. The groan he let out vibrated through both of you.

He started fucking you in long, deep strokes- rough enough that the picnic table scraped against the grass and the edge bit into your waist with every thrust. One hand stayed on your hip, the other sliding up your back to fist in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your spine.

It felt good. Too fucking good. You were still sensitive from his mouth, and every drag of his cock hit exactly right. Your breathing got ragged fast.

Eddie noticed.

He slowed down immediately, hips rolling in these deep, grinding circles instead of the hard pace from before. “Not yet,” he said, voice tight like he was holding himself back too. “You don’t get to come until I say.”

You made a frustrated sound and tried to push back harder. He tightened his grip in your hair and gave one sharp thrust that made your vision blur, then went right back to that slow, torturous grind.

“Eddie, come on- ”

“Beg nicer,” he teased, even as his voice cracked a little. “Or keep being a brat. I like both.”

He edged you like that for what felt like forever- fucking you hard and fast until you were right on the edge, then slowing down or pulling almost all the way out until the feeling faded. Every time you got close he’d laugh under his breath and call you a brat, and every time you snapped back at him he’d reward you with a few brutal thrusts that made your legs shake.

The last time he pulled you right to the edge and held you there, you were shaking, forehead pressed to the table, cursing him under your breath.

“Please,” you finally bit out, voice wrecked. “Fuck- please, Eddie- ”

“Yeah,” he groaned, like the word broke something in him. “That’s it.”

He fucked you hard after that- fast, rough, the hand in your hair pulling tight as his other hand slid around to rub tight circles over your clit. You came with a broken sound, whole body locking up. Your vision whited out and your ears were ringing.

And then you were squirting- sudden, hot, and completely unexpected. It splashed against his thighs and the front of his jeans, your cunt pulsing hard around him as the orgasm ripped through you.

Eddie made a shocked, punched-out noise behind you, hips stuttering.

“Fuckin’- holy shit- Jesus Christ-”

You were still coming, still gushing with his fingers locked on to your overstimulated clit. The sound he made was half groan, half stunned laugh. He kept fucking you through it, short and desperate, until he pulled out at the last second and came across your lower back with a low, broken curse.

For a second neither of you moved. Just the sound of both of you breathing hard in the quiet backyard.

Then Eddie let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

“Did you just-?”

You twisted enough to look back at him, equally stunned, face hot. “I- I didn’t know I could do that.”

He was staring at the mess on his jeans and your thighs like he’d witnessed a miracle. Then he started laughing harder, the sound bright and a little wild. You couldn’t help it- you started laughing too, the two of you cracked up and messy and still half-dressed against the picnic table in Steve Harrington’s backyard at god-knows-what hour.

Eddie leaned down and kissed the back of your shoulder, still grinning against your skin.

“Jesus Christ. We’re doing that again. Like… soon. A lot.”

You were both still giggling as he helped you up, using his shirt to clean you both up as best he could. Your legs were shaky. His hands were gentle now, the roughness from earlier softened into something careful as he pulled your jeans back up and tucked himself away.

“Come on,” he murmured, still smiling. “Before Harrington comes out here and actually murders us.”

You snuck back inside quietly, shoes in hand. Most of the lights were off. Eddie didn’t even pretend to go to a different room. He followed you into the guest room Steve had given you, shut the door behind him, and pulled you straight into the bed with him.

The sheets were cool. His body was warm. He kicked his jeans the rest of the way off and tugged you against his chest, one arm slung heavy around your waist. His rings were cool against your skin where his hand rested under your shirt.

Neither of you said much. Just quiet breathing, the occasional soft laugh when one of you remembered the picnic table, and Eddie pressing lazy kisses to the top of your head.

You fell asleep like that- tangled up in him, still tasting him on your tongue, the faint ache between your legs a reminder of exactly how thoroughly he’d kept his word.

The morning light was already leaking through the curtains when you woke up. Eddie was still half on top of you, one arm slung heavy across your waist, curls a complete disaster against the pillow. He made a low, sleepy noise when you tried to move, pulling you closer instead of letting you up.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

You stayed like that a little longer anyway.

Eventually the smell of coffee and something sweet pulled you both out of bed. You threw on yesterday’s clothes- Eddie stealing your hoodie since he really can't eat breakfast in a cum covered shirt-  and headed downstairs together.

Steve was in the kitchen in an apron that said “Kiss the Cook” like an asshole, flipping pancakes with the focus of a man on a mission. The rest of the group was already scattered around the table and island- Robin perched on the counter, Nancy nursing coffee, Jonathan quietly scrolling on his phone. They all looked up when you and Eddie walked in.

The staring started immediately.

Robin’s eyes narrowed. Nancy raised one eyebrow. Jonathan’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. Steve didn’t even turn around from the stove, but you could feel the judgment radiating off him.

Robin was the one who broke first.

“Okay, so… why is Eddie’s shirt literally just lying by the picnic table outside?” she asked, way too casually. “Like, full-on abandoned. We found it this morning. It was just… there.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed- short and bright and a little guilty. Eddie muttered “Hope you didn't touch it.” under his breath, low enough that only you could hear it.

Steve finally turned around, spatula in hand, and gave you both the most exhausted dad look imaginable.

“I heard you last night,” he said flatly. “Both of you. Through the window. My window. The one that faces the backyard.”

You groaned and dropped your face into your hands.

Eddie, the traitor, just grinned and stole a piece of bacon off the plate Steve had already started stacking.

Robin pointed at you with her coffee mug. “So wait. Does this mean the game from last night is officially over? Like… mission accomplished?”

Nancy actually looked a little proud. “Glad your little problem is fixed.”

Jonathan just nodded once, quiet but sincere. “Good for you.”

Steve flipped another pancake with unnecessary force. “I’m not saying I’m happy about the volume, but… yeah. Congrats on finally coming during sex. Truly. We were all rooting for you.”

Robin raised her mug like she was toasting. “To finally getting to finish during sex!”

Eddie slung an arm around your shoulders, smug as hell, and pressed a loud kiss to the side of your head.

“See?” he said, way too pleased with himself. “Told you I’d fix it.”

You elbowed him in the ribs, but you were smiling anyway.

Steve just sighed and started plating pancakes.

“Sit down and eat before I change my mind about feeding any of you.”

It's a little after six, and you know you were supposed to leave at six o'clock on the dot. You sigh, your phone dinging for the third consecutive time. You don't even look at it — you know exactly who it is. The only guy in your life that is extremely strict about punctuality.

Scott.

You sigh as you finish putting on your mascara. You're so focused that you don't even hear the rev of the engine outside your door.

Knock, knock, knock!

Instantly, you know who it is from the knocking pattern alone. You shove your mascara into your handbag, then cross the room to answer the door. When you do, you look Scott over shamelessly.

"You're gonna make us late," he says, but you hardly hear him as you turn away to grab your heels. He looks damn good — a fresh button-up tucked into slacks, some dress shoes, his sunglasses in the breast pocket of his shirt…

Tonight will certainly be a challenge, you're sure of it. It's always fucking annoying when Scott looks this good. He cleans up well, and unfortunately for you, he knows it.

You feel his eyes on your backside as you pull your heels on before straightening up and meeting his eyes. You smile sweetly.

"I'm ready," you say. He's unamused. "It's almost ten-after. Everyone's probably already there."

"You worry too much," you say, walking past him. You make sure to brush up against Scott as you go, letting your hip bump him. Scott pulls his sunglasses out of his breast pocket, then puts them on as the two of you walk to his car.

"I'm never giving you a ride again," Scott says. The setting sun casts a warm, fiery glow over the motel parking lot. Your heels click against the pavement softly as you walk.

"Oh, c'mon. It's not my fault that my car's in the shop," you remind him as he gets into the driver seat of the already-started car. The air conditioner is blasting, and you welcome the cool air with open arms. It's amazing in comparison to the Oklahoma heat wave that's passing through.

"I'm willing to bet that it is actually your fault. But fine," Scott says as he buckles himself in. You do the same as Scott pulls out of his parking space and starts towards the restaurant.

Tonight is the anniversary of StormPar being founded, and in honor of that, you're going out to dinner with a few of the most important folks from Headquarters, along with Javi and Scott. Judging by the tension in the car, you have an idea of where the night is going to end up.

You pull down the visor and slide open the mirror to look at yourself up-close as Scott drives. You feel him glance at you before looking away again.

"You're blocking the window," he says. "I can't see when you're leaning forward like that."

You huff, ignoring him as you adjust your lipstick. He says your name, clearly irritated.

"Hang on," you tell him.

"You look good. You don't have to keep checking," he says. You look over at him, brows slightly raised, but Scott doesn't meet your eyes. He's focused on the road.

"You think I look good," you repeat.

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

You smirk, then close the mirror and flip the visor back up. You lean back in your seat, satisfied.

"What exactly looks good? In your opinion," you ask. Scott shakes his head.

"Fishing for compliments. Classy."

"I'm just trying to make sure I know what to do next time."

Scott stops at a red light, then looks over at you. He looks you over, his gaze cold. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was judging you. Which, you suppose, he is. But not in a bad way, just in an honest way.

"Your tits look good," he says finally. You give him a look.

"That's all you can come up with?" you ask. He turns his attention back to the road as the traffic light turns green.

"Your makeup's nice."

"You've got a real way with words, Miller," you say, shaking your head.

"Look, I don't know what you want here," Scott says. "I already fucking said you looked good. That's, like, all-encompassing."

You sigh. You suppose that's the best you'll get. You turn the radio on and lower the volume so as not to distract him while he's driving. Country music that you know Scott hates plays softly, and you nod along to the beat as he drives along.

He pulls into the lot of the restaurant soon enough. It takes him a few moments to collect himself once he's turned off the car; he takes off his sunglasses, tucks them back into his breast pocket, and smooths down his slightly gelled hair. You look him over as he does this. You can smell his cologne, the stuff he really only uses if he's going out, and it goes straight to your core.

God, how many times have you smelled that cologne while bent over a counter, or spread out on the bed, or on top of him on the couch?

Too many times to count.

The two of you get out of the car, and Scott locks it before shoving his keys into his pocket.

"Stop staring at me," he says as the two of you cross the parking lot. Your lips part to retaliate, but he glances at you before you can. "Or, at least be more subtle."

That you can do.

"Fine," you say. Scott opens the door for you, and you step into the foyer of the restaurant. Scott spots the table towards the back, and he raises his hand in a slight wave when Javi gestures at the two of you.

"Back there," Scott says in your ear. You feel his hand on your lower back, then — guiding you through the restaurant in a way that no one who matters can see.

But god do you feel it.

His hand is large and warm, and you practically whine when he nudges you forward.

"Go," he says, voice low.

"There were people—" you try.

"They weren't coming this way," Scott says. A chill runs over you.

You shouldn't be acting like this, not really. Not with your fucking ex-husband. But you know exactly what game he's playing, and you can play it, too. He's an asshole, yes. Stuck-up and blunt and brutal, but he was yours once upon a time.

You saw something in him all that time ago, and…who knows, maybe you still see it, deep down inside of him. Maybe he is beautiful. Maybe he is funny. Maybe he is a tolerable person, an acceptable person to be around from time to time.

It's not like you miss him, though. No, no fucking way. You just enjoy having someone to fuck — a dick to take, fingers to suck on.

So.

When he guides you through the restaurant, you let him. You tell yourself that it's normal, that it's alright, that it's just a friendly gesture, even though it doesn't feel friendly at all.

You smile when you take your seat at the table, and Scott nods politely as he sits down beside you. You take a sip of the complimentary water that's been waiting for you as Javi introduces you to the people you aren't terribly familiar with.

Scott and Javi and a few other folks get to talking. You look over the drink menu, and when the waiter comes, you place your food order and ask for a cocktail. Scott glances at you. You look right back at him.

You know what he's saying without him having to say it: You're gonna get drunk?

You shake your head slightly, silently telling him: No, I'm not. I'm just getting loose around the edges.

He looks away and orders his own food. No alcohol for him tonight, apparently. It makes sense with the fact that he's driving and all…besides, he was never much of a drinker, anyway. He usually saves it for special occasions.

"So," comes the voice of an older gentleman, one of the people from Headquarters, "how's married life treating you two?"

You freeze. Scott practically chokes on his water. Of course. The last time this guy saw you two, you were freshly married. Yikes.

"Oh, uh—"

"Sorry, excuse me," Scott says, coughing softly. He clears his throat. "We're not—"

"We aren't married anymore," you say awkwardly. The man's lips part. His face flushes.

"Oh," he says.

"Yeah," Scott chuckles softly, charmingly. "We've been divorced for a little over a year."

Your jaw clenches, and you wish your cocktail would come faster.

"I see. Well, that's a shame," the man says. Scott's jaw is working when you glance at him. You look away, reaching for your water quietly.

"Yeah," Scott says flatly. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him reaching for his drink, too. You sigh and crunch an ice cube when it gets into your mouth.

You feel the man's eyes on you. You wonder what he's thinking. You feel like you know.

You clean up just as well as Scott does, and you're looking your best tonight. Is he wondering how Scott managed to fumble somebody like you? Or, alternatively, is he wondering how you managed to fumble Scott?

It wasn't like that, you want to tell him. It was Scott's idea initially, sure, but you were the one who made it happen. You were the one who figured out the paperwork and the technicalities of it all. Scott let it happen, yes, but he wasn't a dick about it. He didn't make it more difficult than it had to be, which is usually his MO, even if it's unintentional.

Now you feel silly. Like you've been stripped and now you're sitting in front of all these people butt-ass-naked. Where the fuck is your cocktail? You shift in your seat, and that's when you feel it. A hand on your thigh. It's feather-light and barely noticeable, but it's Scott all the same. You look at him. He's talking to the other men like nothing is happening, and you take a few steadying breaths as you try to re-center yourself.

It's fine that the two of you are divorced. People get divorced all the time, it's part of life. Everyone else at the table has moved on, you should, too. Scott's hand squeezes you. You put your hand on top of his, hoping that he knows what you're saying: I'm fine. Don't baby me. I can handle it.

You pat his hand once, twice, and he pulls it away.

The food starts to come out about ten minutes later, and, of course, so does your heavenly-looking cocktail. You take a few long sips. It's strong. Good.

You begin to eat along with everyone else, and the conversation lulls. You're quiet, letting Javi be the first to speak again. As he does, you feel that hand on your thigh again. It's heavier this time, though — more intentional. It's a touch that you would recognize anywhere.

It's not friendly. It's not comforting.

It's horny.

You look over at Scott, and his eyes meet yours. He was already staring. Your heart feels as if it skips a beat. You exhale softly. His eyes are dark, and his hand slides up far enough for you to know that he's thinking of you, of what you've got for him. You sip your cocktail and look away.

Suddenly, you don't feel so vulnerable. Scott has such a strange way about him — he somehow knows exactly what to do in order to get you where he needs you to be. Some would call that manipulative, you suppose.

You press your thighs together and glance at the clock. You've already been here for nearly forty minutes. You're sure that once everyone is done eating, Scott won't want to stick around for long. That's fine with you. You're over this, anyway.

It's fun to get dolled up, sure, but most of the fun is in Scott's initial reaction, anyway. You suppose that in a way, you're manipulating him, too. You've got him where you want him after all, right?

You finish your cocktail. Your plate is cleared, and a waiter takes it away. The guys from Headquarters announce, slightly drunkenly, that they're putting dinner on the StormPar company tab under the guise of it being a business meeting of sorts. Fine by you.

"We're gonna head out," Scott says finally, offering everyone a polite smile. "It's getting late, we need to be up early tomorrow."

You offer everyone a smile, too, as you grab your handbag and glance at everybody. You're both met with an outpouring of kindness — You kids do great work, and we're lucky to have you on our team, and blah blah blah.

You thank the men, then shake their hands. Scott does the same, then claps Javi on the shoulder as the two of you get to your feet.

"See you two tomorrow," Javi says.

"We'll be there," you say. "Have a good night."

"You, too."

You step in front of Scott and lead the way back through the restaurant. You're burning up, body alight with want as you feel Scott's eyes on you. He wants this, too. You know he does.

You step out into the evening air, and Scott unlocks his car as the two of you cross the parking lot. He opens the car door for you, and you look at him as you get in.

"I know what you're up to," you say.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Scott says, a smirk playing at his lips. You shake your head.

"Get us back to the motel," you tell him.

"So fuckin' bossy," Scott says, closing the car door. You hum to yourself as you settle into your seat and buckle your seatbelt.

The drive back to the motel is quiet aside from the radio, which plays soft country music once again. You press your thighs together and try not to get yourself too worked up too early, but Scott just looks so fucking good. You hate that he looks this good.

When he pulls into a parking spot, you get out of the car before he even turns the car off. You take off across the parking lot as best you can in your heels, and moments later, once the car is turned off and locked, Scott is coming after you. You cry out, laughing softly as you hurry towards Scott's motel room. You beat him there but not by much, and when he gets to you, he grabs you and presses you against the door.

You smile, laughing as he holds you in place with one hand and unlocks the door with the other.

"That wasn't fair," Scott says. The door opens, and you wiggle away from him and step inside. "You had a head start."

You shrug as you toss your handbag aside. Scott locks the door behind him

"Life isn't fair, Miller," you say. Suddenly, he's moving forward and hauling you up over his shoulder. You squeal with surprised laughter, and he gives your ass a smack as he carries you towards the bed.

"Put me down!" you laugh. Scott smiles as he drops you down onto the mattress, which creaks when you hit it. He pins you down by your wrists and gets on top of you. You try half-heartedly to wiggle away, but he doesn't let go.

"You're not getting away that easily," he says. You hum, smiling up at him.

"No?"

Scott shakes his head, then collects your wrists in his left hand. His right hand reaches down to flip up your dress, and you bite your lip as he looks you over. He hums.

"New panties?" he asks. You nod, then glance at his crotch. He's hard. Very hard. "Mm. Pretty."

Your smile widens.

"You like 'em?" you ask, spreading your legs to reveal the fact that they're crotchless. Scott presses his middle finger against your slit, and you inhale sharply. He runs his finger between your swollen pussy lips, and you lift your hips in anticipation as he collects your arousal and wets your clit with it. Your breathing gets uneven as he rubs your clit, which is framed beautifully by the crotchless panties.

"Fuck yeah, I like 'em," Scott says, letting go of your wrists so that he can hold your thighs apart instead. "Mm. That feel good?"

"F-Fuck you," you breathe.

Scott chuckles.

"Be nice. Tell me how it feels."

He rubs you harder, faster. You whine, hips wiggling. He gives your thigh a smack.

"Stop being a fucking brat and tell me how it feels."

"Good!" you moan. "F-Feels good…I need more…"

"More what?" Scott asks.

"M-More fingers…want 'em in me…"

"Aw, look at you," Scott hums, plunging two fingers deep in your soaking wet core, "so needy. It's adorable."

You grip the comforter beneath you and let your eyes flutter shut as his words wash over you. He's condescending and rude, and normally you'd hate it, but here? In the bedroom? With his skilled fingers inside of you? God, bring it on.

You clench around Scott's fingers, and he chuckles before pulling them out.

"Dirty little thing," he says. He taps your cheek. "Open up. Clean off my fingers."

Your lips part for him, and he sticks his arousal-soaked fingers into your mouth. You suck on them, cleaning them off and swirling your tongue around them while your eyes meet his.

"Need you to fuck me," you try. Scott pulls his fingers out of your mouth.

"What was that? Your mouth was full," he says, moving back to unbutton his shirt.

"I said that I need you to fuck me," you say sharply, legs still spread as Scott reveals his bare chest. You look him over hungrily as he unbuckles his belt. It clinks softly, and he throws it aside before reaching into his underwear to pull his hard, throbbing cock free. You lick your lips.

"One more time," he says, leaning over you, cock in-hand. You grab a handful of his hair and smash your lips against his. Your mouth works roughly against Scott's, and he moans as you bite and nip and sigh.

"Fuck me," you breathe. "Or I'm leaving."

"You're not leaving."

"Then you'd better fuck me before I go find someone who will."

Scott nudges his tip against your slit, humming as he uses your arousal as lube to slip inside of you. When he does, you gasp, gripping his strong shoulders.

"Oh, fuck," you sigh, eyes fluttering shut. Scott's tip rubs up against your g-spot as he presses all the way in, and you can immediately tell that you aren't going to last long. Not like this. Not when you're already so worked up.

"Move," you manage, nodding up at him. "I'm ready."

Scott doesn't need to be told twice. His hips begin to rock instantly, setting a quick, harsh pace, and you gasp in surprise. Your body bounces, the bed creaks. Scott holds onto your hips so tightly that you're positive they're going to ache in the morning. You moan, reaching down to rub your clit as he fucks you.

"Mm, that's it," Scott hums. "Touch yourself. Filthy girl."

"F-Fuck off," you say weakly. Tears have formed in your eyes. Sweat beads at your hairline. You tilt your head back. Your body is tense, a wire pulled taut, and you're about to snap. Scott groans at the sight of you.

His hips move faster and faster as he chases his orgasm desperately. He reaches up with one hand to squeeze your breast, and you moan softly at the feeling. He's talking to you, saying something about how fucking needy and beautiful you are like this, but you hardly hear him.

The world falls away, and it's just you and Scott fucking Miller. His breathing, his grunts, the weight of his body on top of yours — it grounds you and makes you feel floaty all at once. Your orgasm rises, rises, rises.

When you crest that peak, you teeter on the edge for a moment before your climax crashes down around you. Your stomach tightens. Your lips part. You're moaning, and in the back of your mind, you acknowledge that Scott is moaning, too. Wetness floods you, meaning that Scott is coming at the same time, but you don't care enough to do anything terribly special.

You're in your own world, moaning and sighing as your core tightens up and your fingers continue to rub your clit.

"Oh, fuck, Scott…" you breathe, eyes closed and head feeling light as you slow your fingers to a stop. You moan when he pulls out of you. You feel him leaning down to kiss along your jaw, and you touch his face weakly as you begin to come back to yourself .

"Mm," he hums. A whiff of his cologne hits you, and for a brief moment, you're back in the home that the two of you used to share. Your chest aches. You wrap your arms around the back of Scott's neck and hold onto him.

"I think I just died," you breathe. Scott chuckles.

"What a way to go," he says. You open your eyes finally. He's already looking at you. He touches your cheek. "You with me?"

You nod.

"Yeah," you breathe softly. You kiss him. "Mm. I'm with you."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

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rynwritesstuff - 2026. Do not copy, steal, or repost my work.

It’s nearly two in the morning when you get back to the motel. Javi is a complete and total gentleman, walking you to your room and ensuring that you get in alright. You appreciate him – he’s such a kind friend, such a considerate guy. When he leaves you alone, you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. 

Guilt blooms in your chest like clematis growing up the side of a trellis. It engulfs you, holds you, wraps itself around you and stays there like it’s rooted in your soul. The guy at the bar tonight was so kind to you. He bought you as many drinks as you wanted, and didn’t force anything onto you, and acted polite when you told him you didn’t want to go home with him after all. 

Part of you wishes you had, yes. God, yes – he was certainly handsome enough; broad and tan with dark curls falling across his forehead. He was tall, but not terribly so. Taller than you, but only by a handful of inches. Not quite as tall as Scott, who is just next door to you. 

Scott. 

Scott.

Goddamn him. His light was still on when you got here with Javi a little while ago. You press your hands against your eyes and then turn on the water at the sink. You splash your face once, twice, three times, then switch the water back off. 

You knew all the way at the very beginning of the night that you weren’t going to go home with that guy. You let him buy you all those drinks, though, and you’d even danced with him, but the moment he sat down beside you with a crooked smile, all you could see was Scott’s angry, jealous face in your head. He didn’t come out with you all tonight, otherwise you probably would’ve been all over him instead. He’s who you want, anyway. 

Other guys are nicer, certainly. More polite, more thoughtful – but Scott is yours.

Well. Kind of. 

He’s yours in the way stray cats are – they come when they want you, and they take what they need, and then they’re gone until the next time they get hungry. But god, being with Scott feels right. It feels like a little piece of home no matter where the storms take you. He is steady and strong, a constant in your life. Consistently up and down, yes, but a constant nonetheless. 

So, when the tears rise in your eyes and your bottom lip trembles, you reach for your hoodie and walk to the door as you pull it on. Your room key is in your pocket, and you switch the lights off before stepping outside. The air is hot and humid and thick. Nauseating. 

You’re knocking on Scott’s door before you can stop to think about it, and he answers fast as if he’d been sitting around waiting for you. You like it when he answers fast. He’s too nonchalant most times – too uncaring about those around him. But when concern flashes across his face, you know that there’s something in there that is honest and true. You’ve always known. 

Scott has never seen you cry before. Not really. Not like this. Not in a situation where the tears are real and sad and deep, and not tears of pleasure. You sniffle, wiping your eyes, and he opens his mouth but no words come to him. What is there to say? You’re so beautiful and sad, and maybe just a little bit drunk still, and he opens the door wider for you. 

“C’mon, kid,” he says, inviting you in. You step inside his room, and the smell of him hits you. It’s warm. Musky. Like cologne that was sprayed several hours ago and has melded with his natural scent. You kick off your shoes, then get on his bed. He’s behind you, concern still etched across his face, but you lean up on your knees to grab the collar of his shirt and yank him forward. 

You kiss him. He makes a noise, something soft and surprised, but you don’t care. Scott doesn’t know what to do with his hands at first, but after a moment, he rests them on your sides. He pulls back after a few beats, and when you go in for another kiss, he stops you. 

“Hey. What’s going on?”

You shake your head, touching his cheek. You feel the stubble there. It’s prickly, like how it gets when he hasn’t shaved in a day or two.

“Nothing,” you try. Scott shakes his head and you know it hasn’t worked this time. You can’t deny this anymore, and you have a feeling that he knows, too. He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he says. Then, gently, almost too gently: “What’s the matter with you?”

“I just…”

“You just…?”

You swallow harshly, then glance at his lips before meeting his eyes once more. 

“You’re the only man on earth, I think,” you say finally. Scott’s initial reaction is to laugh, and he does just that. It’s quiet, half-hearted. Scared. 

“What does that mean?” he asks you. His hands are still on your waist, your sides. They’re warm and heavy and firm. Hesitantly, you lean forward and wrap your arms around the back of his neck. You bury your face against his shoulder and breathe him in. You hold him close. 

Just like when you kissed him, he’s unsure of what to do with his hands initially. They wrap around you in return a few moments later, though, and you practically melt into him. He’s big against you. Stable.

“You’re freakin’ me out, kid,” he says, voice quiet.

“I just don’t think I want anyone else. That’s all,” you admit. The weight of the statement hangs in the air like a fog, like a storm that is rumbling and booming overhead. 

“Did something happen?” Scott asks carefully. You shake your head. 

“No.”

“...Are you sure?”

You nod, and he pulls back to look at you. He searches your face. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him do something so intentional. He’s afraid of what you mean, of what it could lead to. Scott is a practical man, a logical man. And what you two have? It doesn’t make sense. It never really has. It’s not black and white, it doesn’t follow a pattern. It doesn’t have a label or an answer or a formula.

But now…

Well. Now, maybe it will. 

How scary. How finalizing.

He touches your bottom lip with the tip of his index finger, and you part your lips to let him dip it inside your mouth. He doesn’t. He just traces your lip, feels it as if he’s finally noticing that it is there. That you’re there.

“Please kiss me,” you say.

That, he can do. That is straightforward. That makes sense.

So, he does. His lips work against yours like he’s a starved man and you’re what he’s been craving. You moan quietly against his mouth, and Scott’s hands travel down to hold your hips. Your core is hot. You’ve wanted him all fucking night. The guy at the bar that bought you drinks wasn’t him. The man that hit on you at the grocery store last week wasn’t him. Javi isn’t him.

You unzip your hoodie and throw it aside, and Scott tugs your shirt up over your head as he starts to kiss down your neck. You tug on his hair. 

“No,” you breathe. He stops. “Kiss me for real.”

He lets out a quiet breath, then presses his lips against yours once more. You nod. 

“Good. Mm. Like that,” you hum as he reaches around and unclips your bra. He throws that away too, then squeezes your soft, warm breasts. You moan into his mouth, then press your forehead against his and gasp. 

“Fuck…” you sigh. “W-What’re you thinkin’ about?”

“Fucking you,” Scott says. He leans down and sucks your left nipple into his mouth. You let him, your fingers carding through his hair and your head falling back as you moan. “Mmm. Love these. Best I’ve ever seen. Best I’ve ever had.”

His words electrify you, make you feel hot and cold all at once. You try to read between the lines, wondering to yourself if he means something more. Was that him trying to say that this, all of this that the two of you have built, is the best? Is he giving you what he can? Handing you the book and asking you to read between the lines?

You don’t know. You don’t know anything right now. 

You just know that his mouth feels fucking excellent, and when he moves over to your right nipple, you moan again. You let him tongue and suck at you for a few moments longer before you pull him away and push your hands up under his shirt to feel his stomach.

“I’m a little drunk,” you whisper as if it’s a secret, something that isn’t obvious. And Scott smiles that pretty, rare smile that only you get to have when the lights are low. You touch his cheek where his dimple is.

“I know, kid.”

“How?”

“Because I know you.”

His words knock you out, send your thoughts running wild. What a thing to say. What a statement to give when you’re in the frame of mind that you’re in. A lump is welling up in your throat. Your eyes are watering. 

“Oh,” you say softly. It’s relieved. Happy. A bit scared. 

Scott sees the wetness in your eyes and his brows furrow. 

“Will you kiss me again?” you ask him. He goes to do it, but stops himself before he does. He glances at your lips, then looks into your eyes again. He is an ocean, and you are a ship sinking down to the sea floor. He is everywhere — in your head, in your heart, in your hands. You wish he would get closer. You wish he wasn’t so afraid, so mean, so noncommittal. 

“If I did something—“

“You didn’t,” you say. “You know I’d tell you.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I’m not.”

Scott gives you a look that says, really? 

“I have eyes, you know,” he says. You lean in to press your lips against his, and he leans back. “No. Not until you talk to me.”

“You’ll hate me,” you say, “if I tell you what I wanna tell you.”

“Try me.”

“I don’t want to.”

Scott searches your eyes again, then reaches for your shirt. He hands it over to you, presses it against your bare chest. 

“Then you can put this back on. I’m not gonna fuck you when you’re upset.”

So, there is a heart inside his chest. There is compassion somewhere deep down. You suppose that now is certainly the time for it to surface, but god, he couldn’t have done it earlier? All the fighting, the arguing, the bickering, going for each other’s throats over data and numbers and who-did-what…is this what the two of you could have been all this time? Is this what you’ll have when you wake up tomorrow? Is this what things will still feel like when the next storm chase rolls around?

“Scott,” you say sharply. He pauses, lips parting. “You…You are such an asshole. And I don’t like riding with you because you’re bossy, and controlling, and picky. And you…You are so difficult all the time, and I am in-love with you.”

Scott’s breath catches.

“You don’t know what you’re saying—“

“I do, because I’ve thought about it every night for the entire season,” you say. You clench your hand into a fist and bump it against his chest. “And if you want me to go, fine. But I am going to remember this tomorrow, and I am going to stand by it, and I need you to just fucking tell me if I should leave—“

Scott kisses you. His lips are hot and plush, and they know you so well that it almost makes you feel embarrassed. His mouth works against yours in a way that it never really has before. It’s slow and steady and…Soft. Like it’s conveying what words cannot.

“You talk a lot,” he says when he pulls away. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

You exhale quietly.

“Scott…”

“I know. I know, kid. I knew.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” You ask with furrowing brows. You yank your shirt out of his hands. He puts his hands on top of yours.

“Stop all that,” Scott tells you. You shove him back.

“Me stop? Me?” You turn the shirt over and go to pull it on. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

Scott grabs your wrists with a grip that is firm but not tight enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt.

“I…”

Vulnerability flashes in his eyes. You stare at him.

“If you have something to say, now is the time to say it,” you tell him.

“I. You know. I feel…”

“You feel…?”

“I feel like everything is better with you,” Scott admits. “And if that means I love you, then I guess I love you too, kid.”

Your lip quivers.

“That was such a douchey way of saying it,” you say. A smile tugs at your lips. “I can’t fucking stand you.”

Scott smiles.

“I know.”

You kiss him then, really kiss him, and he inhales sharply as your lips work against each other. His hands smooth over your hips. They’re large and warm and all-encompassing. They make you want to weep. 

Just like that, he is everywhere again. His shirt comes off, and you run your hands over his warm chest. You grab his wrists and guide his hands to your breasts. He squeezes them, pushes them together, and you let out a quiet moan at the feeling. He’s finally letting himself have you, finally giving in to the temptation, and your core gets hot when you realize.

“Want you in me,” you breathe as he pinches and rolls your nipples. You moan into his mouth again, and Scott wastes no time in moving back in order to remove his pants and underwear. Once he’s naked, he shoves you back onto the bed and unbuttons your jeans before tugging them down. He throws them aside, then reaches for the waistband of your panties and yanks those down, too. You spread your legs the moment they are gone, revealing your aching core to him. 

“Fuck,” Scott breathes, instantly pressing his leaking cock against your core. His lips are on yours, and you kiss and kiss like it’s the only thing you know how to do. You love him. You love him, and he knows, and he loves you too. 

You wrap your arms around the back of his neck as Scott presses into you. You gasp, hot tears springing into your eyes. Your head falls back against the bed, but Scot cradles your head and tilts it back up so that he can kiss you some more. His hips begin to rock, and the bed creaks with the force of it. Your fingers curl and scratch at his shoulders. 

“Fuck, yes,” you moan. “Right there…Don’t stop, p-please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Scott sighs. He shakes his head. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“S-Say it again,” you beg, looking into his eyes. 

“Say what again?”

“What you s-said earlier.”

“What, that I love you?”

You moan at Scott’s words, core flooding, and you clench around his throbbing cock. Oh, how freeing and beautiful it is to be loved by Scott Miller. He is wild and unpredictable, but you wouldn’t want him any other way. He’s so handsome like this, with his face flushed and curls falling into his face. He’s rutting into you and grunting and groaning, and you let your legs fall further apart. 

You think back to how you felt at the start of the night – so lost and confused and scared and a bit out-of-your-mind. Scott has a funny way of making you forget yourself in the best way possible. He is so much more than a distraction – he is a solution. He grounds you, holds you down and lets go right when you need him to. You wonder if he even realizes what it is he’s doing, or if it’s all instinctual. 

“Touch me, Scott,” you moan. “God, p-please, need to come…”

Usually he’d tease you and make you touch yourself, but apparently he’s feeling generous tonight, because he brings his fingers down to rub your sensitive bud. You gasp, thighs jerking, and you clench around him again. Scott groans. 

“I’m gonna fucking c-come in you,” he tells you. “Fill you right up. Gonna take it f’me?” 

You nod immediately. 

“Yes,” you groan. “Y-Yes, gonna keep it all inside…Whatever you want…A-Anything.”

Scott grins, then kisses you again. 

“That’s my girl,” he breathes. 

His girl. You’re his girl.

You reach your orgasm suddenly. It crashes down over you like a wave, a rainshower that is hot and entire. Your body tenses as you gasp, and you shake briefly as Scott plows into you. He chases his own orgasm the way he chases storms – like it’s something that he has to do, something that completes him, something that makes him a man. And you take him right through it when it comes over him. You watch him fall apart for you, for your pussy, and you swear to yourself that the sight will never ever get old. He’s too beautiful for such a thing. 

When you’ve both come and your orgasms have fizzled away, Scott leans down and takes your wrists in his hands. He pins you down and positions his mouth above yours. You lean up to kiss him, but he shakes his head. You frown. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. 

“You meant it? What you said?” he asks. Dread settles in your chest. 

“Yes. Did…Did you not?”

Scott shakes his head. 

“Not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I just…I think we should probably talk about this in the morning.”

You search his face for any signs of hesitation or dishonesty. You find none.

Well, that’s a good sign, at least…

You nod finally. 

“Okay. That’s fine.”

“You should clear your head,” he says. You try to reach for him, but he keeps you pinned down by your wrists. Instead, you wrap your legs around his hips to feel closer to him. His cock is still buried deep inside of you, and you clench around him to watch him wince at the overstimulating feeling. 

“My head is fine. But okay. I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to go,” Scott says. He dips his head down and kisses you firmly. You hum at the feeling of finally kissing him.

“You gonna keep me?” you ask him. He huffs out a soft chuckle. 

“Somethin’ like that.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

rynwritesstuff, 2026