haylee

I was drunk right at the spot where I could still comprehend things, but also where I stopped giving a shit. He saw me first. I was leaning against the wall while my friends danced to Low by Flo Rida. Dancing wasn't my thing. They would soon probably drag me out to the floor, but they were probably too drunk even to remember I was there. It was my friend's thirtieth birthday. She had invited some of her other friends, who didn't seem to want to include me in anything.

“Need some company?” A man asked. I looked over and noticed a man in a members-only black leather jacket that was too big for him. He was cute. Not in the typical boy next door way. There was a sharp edge to him, but something also told me he was sweet.

“I think it might cost you.” I teased.

“Oh, and what's your price then?” He replied.

I made a show of thinking for a minute. “How about you tell me your name?”

The man smiled, causing heat to pool between my legs. “Now what's the fuckin’ fun in that? Maybe I want to remain anonymous.” He returned.

“Good point. Do you want to go somewhere where it's not so loud?” I asked. It was hard to talk to some out here with the loud music and loud chatter.

“Yeah, this music isn't my thing.” He nodded and led me towards the hallway with the bathrooms.

“You know? I almost chickened out coming to talk to you.” He admitted.

“Why?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Because I thought you'd have some boyfriend showin’ up.”

I laughed. “No boyfriend. Painfully single.”

“Lucky me.” He winked, a lock that sent somersaults through my belly.

He asked me why I was here. I explained that I was here for my friend's birthday. Somehow, along the way, I began complaining about feeling left out.

“My friend Mikey probably got himself locked up in a bathroom stall snorting coke up his fuckin’ nose. Jag-off tried to get me to join him, but I can't do that shit anymore. Got a kid now.”

“How old are they?”

“She just turned four in September.”

He shared how he felt like he had to babysit his friend. His friend had been a disaster lately, going off the rails like never before. My heart ached for this guy. I could tell he carried a lot of weight. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him. He looked so worn down from having to deal with his friends' issues. His lips found my cheek, and that's when I pulled him into the women's bathroom. He locked the door as he walked me back to the counter. With a considerable amount of strength, he lifted me onto the counter. He stood between my spread thighs, looking down at me with his icy blue eyes.

“You always look at women like that?” I asked.

“Like how?”

“Like you're about three seconds away from kissing them.”

He shot me another crooked smile. Thankfully I was sitting, or else my knees would buckle under me.

“Just the girls that I really like.” My breath caught in my throat at his statement.

He leaned in, our noses brushed.

“You're so fucking cute.” He growled in a low whisper as his fingers ran up my bare thigh, just below my skirt. I tilted my head back and moaned softly at the sensation. His lips met mine in a heated kiss. I loved the way he tasted, like cigarettes and mint. It should have been a turn-off, but it was the complete opposite. Our tongues tangled together desperately as we kissed, or made out more or less.

His lips ran down the middle of my throat, and I let out a moan that I didn't know I was capable of. I nipped his bottom lip with my teeth.

“Fuck.. you're gonna kill me.” He growled. I laughed against his nicotine-flavored mouth and did it again. How was this man so addictive? I wasn't this type of woman. I was thirty and the extent of my evening was spent on my couch reading a book, not in a seedy bathroom of a bar hooking up with a hot stranger.

“Can I touch you?” He asked softly while looking at me for any hesitation. I nodded at his request. Time stood still as his calloused finger tips stroked the soft skin under the waistband of my skirt. His fingers slipped under the cotton fabric of my panties. My heart was pounding so loud, I swore he could hear it.

“Y/N you in there?” Amber, my friend's roommate, yelled while banging on the door. He froze his hand, which was close to where I wanted him most.

“Shit!” He muttered as he pulled me in tighter, like he didn't want me to leave.

“Um..yeah. I need a minute. Bathroom emergency.” I felt him shake as he did his best to hold back a laugh.

“You need to hurry. Some dude was found overdosed in the men's bathroom.” Richie pulled back quickly, the color draining from his face. It was like someone had flipped a switch.

“Fuck! That's gotta be Mikey.” He pulled me down gently while giving me an apologetic look. “I gotta go.” His blue eyes looked defeated. He cupped my face with his hands. “Shit, I'm sorry.” I let out a small whimper as he pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. He grabbed my hand and led me towards the door.

Amber looked at us with shock in her eyes, and he opened the door. “You've been busy, I see?” She said smugly.

“I'm not in the mood, Amber.” I barked a lot more rudely than I intended. She nodded and then headed back towards our friend group. There was a small group of people huddled near the bathroom door.

“I should probably leave you to take care of your friend,” I said while giving him a sympathetic look.

He nodded. “Yeah. Gotta go drag his fuckin ass back home now.” I felt so bad for him at that moment. I didn't even know his name.

“Can I see you again?”

He took my hand and pulled out a pen from his jacket. The pen glided along my skin as he wrote his number on my hand.

“Text me sometime. Yeah?” He added with a sad half-smile.

I nodded and squeezed his hand before releasing it. “Yeah, I will. See ya around?” My question hung open as I waited for him to say his name.

“It’s Richie.”

“I'm-” Before I could say my name, two men carried a passed-out man out of the bathroom. Richie turned towards the sight and headed towards his friend. I couldn't be upset at him for that. His friend was in a rough spot and needed him. I had his number, I'd text him later.

“We gotta go.” Amber said while pulling my arm. I wanted to protest, but it probably would be best to leave.

Sarah was our dd. We had piled into her van to head back to my friend's place for a sleepover.

“So, I gotta know who was the cute guy you snuck off with?” Stacy, my best friend asked. Thankfully the car was dark because I started blushing.

“Um, his name is Richie.” My voice was higher than I intended. I felt like a middle schooler, not a grown ass woman.

“What happened? Did you suck his dick? I caught a glimpse of him. He's tall, you know what they say about guys who are tall?” Stacy asked with glee.

“Jesus. No. We kissed a little. Sorry to disappoint.” Spilling all the details felt like an invasion of privacy. I wanted what happened between me and Richie to be my little secret.

“Boo! You need to get laid. Did you get his number at least?” Stacy questioned.

“Yeah. I'll text him when we get back.” Stacy literally squealed. I had to laugh.

“Send him a pic of your tits.” Amber said. I rolled my eyes with a chuckle.

“I don't want to scare him off.” I remarked.

“You're too sober. We need to make you drink more.” Amber fished out a shooter from her purse. Sarah's eyes darted to the back through the rest view mirror.

“Jesus, Amber. You're gonna get us busted.” Sarah panicked.

Amber threw the shooter back. “Not if you get caught.” Sarah grimaced and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

I glanced down at the number on my hand. My fingers gently ran over it. I could still feel the heat of his hands on my body and the softness of his lips. I buried my face in my jacket. I could still smell his scent lingering in my clothes. With one inhale I breathed it in. I'd text him soon. We'd talk and then meet up again. It would be that easy.

Later that evening

“Hey, Richie. It's the girl from the bar. How's your friend?” Before I could erase it, I hit send. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. I quickly opened up the text.

“I'm sorry. I think you may have the wrong number. This isn't Richie.” My heart sank. I looked down at my hand and noticed that the number was, in fact, illegible, like I feared. A sigh escaped me as I rubbed my forehead.

Here I had finally met a man I liked. It would be almost impossible to find him again. I could only hope that fate would be on my side.

You and Eddie are the kind of opposites people write songs about without ever expecting to actually meet, the kind that don’t make sense on paper but somehow settle together like they were always meant to. 

Because you are warmth without trying, soft smiles and paint-stained fingers, and a laugh that carries across rooms. 

He is all sharp edges and tangled hair and a reputation that walks into a place before he does, people turning their heads at the sound of your voice and their backs at the sight of him.

And still, every single time, without hesitation, without even thinking about it, you choose him, crossing crowded hallways and noisy rooms like there’s nothing else worth your attention, like he is not something to be avoided but something to be found.

You talk to everyone, easy and open, asking questions and remembering answers, collecting people without even realizing you’re doing it. 

Eddie talks to almost no one at all, words kept close and guarded unless it’s you, unless it’s late and quiet and he’s sprawled across your bed or the hood of his van, voice softer than anyone else ever gets to hear. 

Like you’ve been given something private, something fragile, something he doesn’t trust the rest of the world to hold without breaking, and maybe that’s part of why it works, because where you are light, he is shadow, and somehow neither of you seems to mind the contrast.

In the beginning, it is so easy it almost feels unreal, like something you’ll wake up from, all soft edges and gentle moments that stack on top of each other until they feel permanent. 

Like you sitting cross-legged in the grass behind the school with a handful of tiny wildflowers, carefully tucking them into his curls while he complains under his breath about looking ridiculous, swatting half-heartedly at your hands but never actually stopping you.

Letting you turn him into something softer, something prettier, because it’s you asking, because it’s you smiling at him like that, like he’s already perfect and you’re just decorating what’s there.

You drag him out into the sun at lunch, ignoring the way he groans about it. Ignoring the way he insists he’s going to melt or burst into flames, and yet, he still goes, still follows, still drops down beside you with a dramatic sigh before letting his head fall into your lap like it belongs there. 

Eyes closing as your fingers move through his hair, tracing slow patterns against his scalp while you ramble about something small and inconsequential, something that doesn’t matter to anyone else but matters because it matters to you, and he listens, or pretends not to, but never asks you to stop.

You call him pretty like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t even occur to you that anyone could disagree, and he rolls his eyes every time, scoffing, muttering something about you being insane. 

But it lingers anyway, sticks somewhere deep and quiet, replaying later when he’s alone, when the noise of everything else fades, and all that’s left is your voice saying it so easily, so certainly, like it’s not a joke or a kindness but a fact.

And maybe that’s the thing, the part neither of you names out loud, because it’s too good to question. Too fragile to pick apart, the way he lets himself have it, lets himself be loved like that, openly and without conditions, like it isn’t something that could disappear. Like it isn’t something he could lose. 

The shift started small. Nothing loud enough to draw a crowd, nothing obvious enough for anyone to step in right away, just a moment that slips in between everything else, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it, easy to excuse if you are.

You’re sitting on the edge of one of the library tables with Nancy beside you, her notes spread out in neat, color-coded stacks while yours are less structured.

Pages half-filled with doodles and pressed flowers tucked between them, the afternoon sun spilling through the windows and catching in your hair, making everything feel softer than it really is, like one of those quiet moments that stretch out and settle comfortably.

Eddie shows up late, like he usually does, dropping his bag onto the table with a dull thud before dragging a chair back with his foot, loud enough to make Nancy glance up, sharp and unimpressed, while you just smile like you’ve been waiting for him.

“Hi,” you say, bright and easy, like you always do, like nothing in the world has ever made you hesitate before speaking to him.

He looks at you for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles into something more familiar, something guarded, something a little too sharp around the edges.

“Jesus,” he mutters, glancing at the mess of your notes. “Do you actually study, or do you just decorate the page and hope for the best?”

It lands lightly on the surface, but it doesn’t feel light. You laugh anyway, because that’s what you do, because it’s easier, brushing it off with a small shrug as you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I like to think it’s a system.”

“Yeah,” he huffs, dropping into the chair. “A bad one.”

Nancy’s pen stills, just for a second. It’s subtle, the way her posture shifts, the way her eyes flick between the two of you like she’s trying to decide if she heard that right, if she’s supposed to say something, if you need her to.

You don’t look at her. You just keep smiling, softer now, a little more careful, like you’re smoothing something over that no one else can quite see.

“Hey,” you say instead, nudging his foot lightly under the table, gentle, grounding. “I missed you.”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair like the words don’t land, like they don’t matter as much as they do. “You saw me this morning.”

“For like, two seconds,” you reply, still warm, still trying, like you can fill the space he’s leaving with enough softness that it won’t feel so empty. “That doesn’t count.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just exhales through his nose, eyes drifting somewhere past you, past the table, like he’s already half checked out of the moment, and when he does speak again, it’s quieter but not kinder.

“You don’t have to act like that all the time, you know.”

The words catch. Not sharp enough to cut clean through, but dull enough to bruise.

“Like what?” you ask, still smiling, even as something in your chest tightens just slightly.

“All…” he gestures vaguely toward you, toward the brightness of you, the way you sit, the way you exist. “That. It’s a lot.”

A small, fragile pause passes where something could be said, where something could be fixed. You let it pass anyway, you always do. 

“Good thing you like a lot,” you tease instead, light and easy, like it doesn’t matter, like it doesn’t stick, reaching out to flick the edge of his sleeve with your fingers, soft and familiar. He doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t lean in, either.

Nancy closes her notebook. Not loudly, not dramatically, just enough to mark the end of something, her gaze settling on you a little longer than usual, searching, careful.

“I’m gonna go print these,” she says, already gathering her things, but her attention doesn’t leave you, not really.

You nod, still smiling. “Okay. I’ll be here.”

She hesitates, just for a second. Then, quieter, more direct, “Are you okay?”

It’s gentle, concerned. Too perceptive. You blink at her like the question doesn’t make sense, like there’s nothing there to notice in the first place, your expression softening into something almost amused.

“Yeah,” you say easily. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Your tone is light, unbothered, convincing in the way it’s practiced, like the answer has already been decided long before she asked the question.

Nancy doesn’t look convinced. But she nods anyway.

“Okay,” she says, though it sounds like she doesn’t quite believe it, slinging her bag over her shoulder before stepping away, glancing back once before disappearing out of the library.

And just like that, it’s quiet again. Just you and him. Just the space where something small settled and stayed. Because the truth is, it isn’t new. The comments.

The little digs wrapped in something casual, something easy to brush off if you don’t look too closely, the way his tone shifts sometimes, just enough to make you pause before smoothing it over, laughing it off, turning it into something softer so it won’t sit as heavy as it wants to.

You’ve learned how to do that. Learned how to catch the words before they land too hard, how to reshape them into something harmless, something that fits better with the version of him you know, the one who lets you tuck flowers into his hair and rest his head in your lap like he trusts you with something no one else gets to touch.

So you smile, you always smile. Because it’s easier than asking why. Because it’s easier than admitting it doesn’t feel as small as it sounds.

The afternoon settles into something softer and dimmer, the kind of light that usually makes everything feel warmer, easier, like the world is exhaling around you. You keep pace beside him anyway, like you always do. Like nothing shifted back there.

Eddie doesn’t say much, just lights a cigarette halfway down the path, the flame briefly illuminating the tension still sitting in his jaw, the set of his shoulders a little too tight, like he’s carrying something he doesn’t want to name, and you watch him for a second before reaching over and plucking it gently from his fingers.

“Hey,” you murmur, soft, almost playful, taking a drag just to make him look at you, just to pull him out of wherever he’s gone.

He does. His brows knit immediately, irritation flickering. “You don’t even like those.”

“I like stealing them from you,” you counter lightly, offering it back with a small smile, something warm and familiar, like a peace offering he doesn’t realize he needs.

He takes it, but his fingers brush yours a little sharper than usual. Not enough to hurt, but enough to notice.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, looking away again. “You like a lot of things you shouldn’t.” It’s said under his breath. 

By the time you reach the trailer, the sky is dipping into gold, the air cooling just enough to make you pull your sleeves over your hands as Eddie pushes the door open without knocking, like he always does, like it’s second nature.

“Wayne?” he calls out, voice louder now, different, a little less sharp.

“In here,” comes the reply from down the hall.

You follow Eddie inside, the familiar clutter wrapping around you, the faint smell of coffee and metal and something comforting you’ve never quite been able to name, and for a moment, just a moment, it feels normal again. Easy.

Wayne appears a second later, wiping his hands on a rag, eyes flicking between the two of you in that quiet, observant way of his, taking in more than he ever says out loud.

“Well, look who it is,” he hums, a small smile pulling at his mouth when he sees you. “Thought I heard sunshine at the door.”

Your face brightens instantly. “Hi, Wayne.”

You step forward without thinking, wrapping your arms around him in a quick hug, and he returns it just as easily, patting your back once before pulling away, something soft lingering in his expression when he looks at you. “Been a while,” he says.

“Like, two days,” you laugh.

“Too long,” he nods, like he means it.

Eddie huffs behind you, not quite annoyed, not quite amused, something in between. “Alright, alright, don’t get all sentimental on me.”

You glance back at him, smile still there, still gentle. “Jealous?”

“Of what?” he scoffs. “You stealing all his attention?”

“Mm,” you hum, tilting your head. “Maybe.”

Wayne watches the exchange. Not obviously. Not in a way that interrupts. But his eyes linger just a second longer than usual, something thoughtful settling in the lines of his face, like he’s listening to more than just the words.

You drift toward the couch like you’ve done a hundred times before, kicking your shoes off, tucking your legs up beneath you, hands already reaching for the edge of one of Eddie’s cassette tapes left on the table, turning it over between your fingers.

“You ever think about organizing these?” you ask lightly, glancing up at him. “You could alphabetize—”

“Jesus,” Eddie cuts in, sharper than necessary, dropping his keys onto the counter with a clatter. “Or I could not touch them, and they’d still be fine.”

The room stills, just slightly. You blink, the tape still in your hands, your smile faltering for half a second before you smooth it back into place, softer now, quieter.

“Okay,” you say, easy, like it doesn’t matter. “Just a thought.”

Wayne’s rag stills in his hands. He doesn’t look at Eddie, not yet. But something in his posture shifts, something subtle and solid, like he’s filing it away, like he’s noticing the way your voice dipped just a fraction, the way you made yourself smaller in the space of a single sentence.

Eddie exhales, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, like maybe he hears it too, like maybe something in him recognizes the edge he just used.

“Whatever,” he mutters, not quite looking at you. “Do what you want.”

You nod, gentle, compliant, setting the tape back down exactly where you found it, careful, like you don’t want to disrupt anything else.

“Okay.” And it’s so soft. So easy. Like it didn’t cost you anything at all.

Wayne finally glances up then, eyes moving between the two of you, lingering on you just a second longer, something unreadable but not unkind settling there, like he’s seeing something he doesn’t like, something he’s not going to ignore forever.

But not yet, not today. Today, he just clears his throat, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “I’m heading out to the store,” he says, voice even. “You two need anything?”

You shake your head immediately. “No, I’m okay.”

Eddie shrugs. “Nah.”

Wayne nods, but his gaze flicks back to you one more time before he moves toward the door, something quiet and watchful in it, something that lingers even after he’s gone.

The trailer feels different when it closes behind him. Quieter. Smaller. You shift on the couch, glancing over at Eddie, offering him another smile, softer this time, a little more tentative, like you’re testing the space between you.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He looks at you. And for a second, just a second, there’s something there, something almost apologetic, something like he might reach for you the way he usually does. But it passes.

“Hey,” he echoes instead. And you nod, like that’s enough.

You’re still on the couch. Still soft, still looking at him like you always do. And that’s the problem.

Because Eddie can feel it now, sitting heavy in his chest, something sour and restless that he doesn’t quite know how to name without sounding pathetic, without sounding exactly like the kind of guy he swore he’d never be, the kind who gets jealous of something as simple as the way you exist.

It would be easier if you were different. If you were colder, meaner, harder to reach, something he had to fight for instead of something that came to him so easily, it almost feels like a mistake. But you’re not. You’re, well, you.

All warmth and open hands and easy smiles, the kind of person people lean toward without thinking, the kind of person who gets chosen without having to ask, and he sees it every single day, the way people look at you, the way they talk to you, the way they soften around you in a way they’ve never, not once, done for him.

And he tells himself it doesn’t matter. He tells himself you chose him. But that’s the part that gets stuck. Because he doesn’t understand why, not really.

Not in a way that feels stable, something he can trust won’t shift the second you realize what everyone else already seems to know, that you could have someone easier, someone lighter, someone who doesn’t come with a reputation that makes people cross the street or whisper behind their hands.

He thinks about the library. About the way you were laughing with Nancy, bright and easy, fitting so effortlessly into a world that has never had room for him, and how natural it looked, how right, as you belonged there in a way he never will.

He thinks about the way Nancy looked at him. Not afraid, not exactly. But aware. Assessing. Like she was taking inventory of something she didn’t quite approve of. Like she was wondering what you were doing with him.

And something in his chest twists at that, sharp and familiar, something that’s been there long before you, long before this, something that knows exactly how this goes, how people like you eventually figure it out, how they move on, how they outgrow.

He hates that he thought it. Hates that it made him want to pull you back, make you smaller, quieter, less visible, like if he could just keep you close enough, keep you from shining quite so brightly around everyone else, maybe it wouldn’t feel like he’s constantly on the verge of losing you.

And he hates even more that it came out the way it did. Sharp. Dismissive. Like he was trying to cut you down instead of holding on. Because he saw it.

He saw the way your smile changed, just for a second, the way it softened into something more careful, more measured, like you were adjusting yourself to fit whatever space he was giving you.

And that’s not what he wants. It’s not. He doesn’t want you smaller. He doesn’t want you quieter. He just doesn’t know how to exist next to something so good without feeling like it’s temporary. Like it’s borrowed. Like it’s already halfway gone.

So instead, he leans against the counter, arms crossed like that might hold everything in place, like that might stop whatever is unraveling in his chest from spilling out in a way he can’t take back.

His eyes flick to you again. Still there. Still looking at him like he hasn’t done anything wrong. Like you never even considered the possibility. And it makes something in him ache, low and complicated, something that feels a little too close to guilt to ignore.

He exhales, quieter this time, the edge in him dulling just slightly as he watches you tuck your legs beneath you, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, still waiting for him in that patient, open way that feels like both a comfort and a threat. Because if you’re still here, he hasn’t ruined it yet.

The next day, Nancy’s room feels like somewhere you can breathe again.

Not because anything is particularly different, but because everything is the same in a way that doesn’t ask anything from you. The soft yellow lamp on her bedside table, the faint hum of music in the background, the quiet rhythm of pages turning and pens tapping as the two of you sit side by side, knees brushing every so often like it’s second nature.

You’re talking. You’re always talking here.

Something easy, something light, your voice filling the space in that warm, familiar way while Nancy listens, adding in small comments here and there, the kind that let you know she’s paying attention even when she’s pretending not to.

It feels normal, it feels like you.

The knock at the door doesn’t interrupt so much as blend in, Nancy calling out “It’s open” without looking up, already knowing who it’ll be, and sure enough, the door swings open to Robin first, words already spilling out mid-thought as she steps inside, followed closely by Jonathan who offers you a small, familiar nod when he sees you, something soft and acknowledging that makes you smile back instantly.

“Hi,” you say, bright.

“Hi,” Robin echoes, dropping onto the floor like she’s been here all day. “We brought snacks. Well, Jonathan brought snacks. I just supervised.”

Jonathan huffs quietly, setting the bag down. “You ate half of them.”

“Quality control,” she shoots back.

You laugh, easy and unguarded, leaning forward to peek into the bag, already reaching for something without thinking, the movement natural, comfortable, like this is a space you belong in. And it is. They treat you like you do.

Robin starts rambling about something ridiculous within seconds, pulling you into it without hesitation, asking your opinion as if it matters, like it’s expected, and you answer just as easily, slipping into the conversation as if you’ve always been part of it, because you have been.

It’s light. It’s good. And then there’s another knock. This one is different, more deliberate.

Nancy frowns slightly, glancing at the door before standing to answer it, and when it opens, there’s a brief pause, just a flicker of surprise, before she steps aside.

“Oh,” she says. “Hey.”

Steve lingers in the doorway for a second like he’s not entirely sure he’s in the right place, like he didn’t expect the room to already be full, and then his eyes land on you. And something in his expression shifts. Not in a way that’s uncomfortable, just curious.

“Oh,” he echoes, stepping inside. “Didn’t realize this was a party.”

“It’s not,” Nancy replies, a little too quickly.

“It is now,” Robin mutters.

You glance up, meeting his gaze for the first time, offering a small, polite smile out of instinct more than anything else. “Hi.”

Steve blinks. Like he wasn’t expecting you to speak first. Then he smiles back, a little slower, a little more deliberate. “Hi.”

There’s a beat where he just kind of looks at you, like he’s trying to place you, like he knows he’s seen you around but never like this, never up close, never in a room where you’re relaxed enough to just be.

“You’re—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head slightly. “You hang out with these guys?”

Robin snorts. “Rude.”

You laugh softly, shrugging. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Jonathan repeats under his breath, like that’s an understatement.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Huh.”

Nancy’s room feels like somewhere the world slows down just enough for you to forget yourself a little, the lamp casting that same soft glow over everything while the four of you sit scattered across the floor, backs against furniture, legs tangled in that absent, comfortable way that comes from being used to each other.

You’re laughing, really laughing.

Robin is mid-ramble about something ridiculous, hands moving as fast as her words while Jonathan quietly corrects her every few sentences, and Nancy is half-listening, half-watching you, like she always is, like she’s measuring something she hasn’t quite said out loud yet.

Steve lingers on the edge of it all, still not entirely woven in the way the others are, but trying, chiming in here and there, his attention drifting back to you more often than not, like you’re something easy to focus on in a room he doesn’t quite belong to.

At some point, the conversation shifts. It’s subtle. Barely noticeable at first.

Robin asks something offhand, something light. “So, what’s Munson up to today?”

“Probably sulking somewhere,” you joke, smiling faintly, like it’s fond, like it’s familiar.

Jonathan huffs a quiet laugh. Nancy doesn’t.

She tilts her head slightly instead, watching you. “He didn’t want to come with you?”

You shake your head. “No, he doesn’t really like things like this.”

“This?” Steve echoes.

You gesture vaguely around the room, the people, the ease of it all. “People. Groups. Nancy’s house.” You smile a little. “You know.”

Robin snorts. “Yeah, sounds like him.”

It should end there; it almost does. But Nancy’s still looking at you. Still thinking.

“…Does he ever?” she asks, softer now. “Come with you to stuff like this?”

You hesitate just for a second. “Sometimes. He used to,” you say, but it comes out lighter than it is, like you’re smoothing something over without fully realizing it.

Robin glances at Nancy. Then back at you. 

“Okay, but like,” she starts, slower now, more careful, “not to be whatever, but he’s kinda… intense with you, right?”

You blink, the smile still on your face but shifting, just slightly. “What do you mean?”

Nancy sits up a little straighter, her voice gentle when she speaks. “He just… talks to you differently sometimes.”

Your brows knit, confusion slipping in around the edges. “Differently how?”

Nancy exhales, running a hand through her hair. “Like earlier,” she says. “At school. In the library.”

“He wasn’t—” she searches for the word, then settles on something softer. “Nice.”

Your instinct is immediate. Defensive in the gentlest way possible.

“He didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “That’s just how he jokes.”

Nancy doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t push. She just watches you, something careful and steady in her expression. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, a little firmer this time, like you need them to believe it. “He’s just like that sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”

Jonathan shifts slightly where he’s sitting, his voice quiet but present. “You shouldn’t have to brush it off every time.”

You look at him, the words catching somewhere in your chest, but you don’t let them sit there long enough to grow.

“I don’t,” you insist softly. “It’s really not like that.”

Robin presses her lips together, like she’s trying to decide how far to go, how much to say, and when she does speak again, it’s gentler than before. “He just cuts at you sometimes,” she says. “And you laugh like it didn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t,” you reply, almost immediately. Nancy’s gaze softens, not in agreement, but in understanding, like she sees the shape of what you’re doing even if you don’t.

“You don’t have to defend him to us,” she says quietly.

“I’m not defending him,” you say, a little breathless now, like the conversation is slipping somewhere you don’t want it to go. “I’m just telling you how he is.”

“And how he is,” Nancy continues carefully, “is sometimes not fair to you.”

You shake your head again, shorter this time. “He’s just—he’s had a rough time, okay? People treat him like shit, they always have. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Robin tilts her head. “That doesn’t mean you should be the one taking it.”

You swallow. Your hands twist together in your lap, something restless creeping in where the ease used to be.

“He doesn’t treat me badly,” you say, softer now. “He loves me.”

No one argues that, not directly. But the silence that follows isn’t agreement either. It’s something else. Something heavier.

Nancy reaches out slightly, her voice quieter than before. “We’re not saying he doesn’t.”

Your chest tightens. “Then what are you saying?”

Another pause this time. Careful, measured. “That you deserve to feel good all the time,” Nancy says gently. “Not just most of the time. Not just when he’s in a good mood.”

You look down at your hands, noticing the way your fingers have started to fidget without you noticing. “I do feel good,” you murmur, but it sounds smaller now, less certain.

Robin exhales softly. “Okay.” Not convinced. Not pushing.

And the conversation drifts after that, it has to. No one wants to press it further, not when they can feel the way you’ve pulled in just slightly, the way something in you has tightened around the edges.

But it lingers. It stays with you, even when you’re laughing again. Even when you’re saying goodbye. Even when you step out into the cool evening air and start the walk home. Because for the first time, it doesn’t feel like something small.

And by the time you reach your door, keys in hand, the quiet of your house settling around you, your phone rings. You glance down at the screen. Eddie.

Your chest tightens, just slightly. But you answer anyway. “Hey.”

Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, still carrying that leftover quiet from Nancy’s room, from everything that was said and everything you didn’t let yourself fully sit with. And for a second, there’s just the sound of his breathing on the other end, like he’s deciding something before he even answers you.

“Where are you?” Eddie asks, and it’s not harsh, not exactly, but there’s something tight wrapped around the words, something already a little off.

“At home,” you say, slipping your bag down onto the floor, nudging the door shut behind you with your foot. “I just got back.”

“You were at Wheeler’s all day.” It’s not a question.

You lean back against the door, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Robin and Jonathan were there too.”

“And?”

You hesitate, just for a second, like you can feel the weight of the name before you even say it.

“…Steve showed up.”

There’s a shift on the other end, subtle but immediate, like something in him pulls tight all at once. “Of course he did,” Eddie mutters.

You frown slightly, pushing off the door, pacing a slow step into your living room. “I don’t think he knew we were all there.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, dry. “I’m sure it was a real shock.”

“It wasn’t like that,” you say gently, not defensive, just trying to smooth it before it sharpens. “We were all just hanging out.”

“With Harrington,” he adds.

You exhale softly, rubbing your thumb along the edge of your sleeve. “With everyone.”

He hums, low and unconvinced, and you can almost picture him, slouched somewhere, jaw tight, picking at something invisible just to keep his hands busy.

“He flirt with you?” he asks after a second, too casual, like he doesn’t care.

You hesitate, not because it matters. But because you know it will to him.

“…A little,” you admit, keeping your tone light, like it’s nothing. “But that’s just how he is.”

Silence, thicker this time. Then, “And you liked that?”

Your brows knit, something in your chest dipping. “It didn’t mean anything, Eddie.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You swallow, shifting your weight, your voice staying soft even as something in you tightens. 

“I didn’t think about it like that.”

He lets out a short breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite, something without humor in it. 

“Right,” he mutters.

There’s a moment where it could turn. Where it could tilt into something heavier, something you don’t have the energy for tonight, not after everything, not with Nancy’s voice still lingering somewhere in the back of your mind, quiet and careful and impossible to fully ignore.

So you don’t let it. You soften it, like you always do.

“Hey,” you say, quieter now, gentler, like you’re reaching for him through the line. “Do you wanna… go out or something tomorrow?”

There’s a pause, longer than it should be. “…What?”

“Like a date,” you clarify, a small smile tugging at your mouth even though he can’t see it. “We haven’t done that in a while.”

You hear him shift, something creaking faintly on his end, like he’s sitting up or turning away, as the question caught him off guard in a way he didn’t expect.

“I don’t know,” he says, and it’s not harsh, just hesitant. “Why?”

The word sits wrong. You blink, the smile faltering just slightly before you steady it again. “Because I want to?”

“I just thought it could be nice,” you add, softer now. “Just us.”

There’s something in the silence that follows, something that shifts under the surface, like the jealousy doesn’t disappear, but it redirects, curls into something else, something closer to uncertainty.

“…Where,” he asks finally.

It’s not enthusiasm, but it’s not no. Your shoulders relax just a fraction. “Anywhere. We could just drive, or go to the diner, or… I don’t know, whatever you want.”

He exhales, slower this time, the tension in it easing just slightly, like he’s coming down from something he didn’t mean to climb into.

“…Yeah,” he says after a second. “Okay.”

It’s reluctant, careful. But it’s yes. Your smile comes back, softer now, something warm settling into your chest even if it doesn’t fully reach the parts that still feel a little off. “Okay,” you echo.

Another small pause. Then, quieter, almost like he doesn’t want to say it but does anyway, “You didn’t like him, right?”

The question is softer now. Not accusatory. Your chest tightens, just a little.

“No,” you say gently. “I love you.”

And for the first time since he called, something in him settles.

“…Okay,” Eddie murmurs. And you hold onto that. Even if it doesn’t feel as solid as it used to.

The next day feels softer than it should, like something is trying to reset itself.

You stand in front of your closet longer than you need to, fingers brushing over fabric without really seeing it at first, your mind somewhere between last night’s call and the quiet weight of Nancy’s voice still tucked into the back of your thoughts, not loud enough to take over, but not gone either.

You push it away, you always do. Instead, you reach for the sundress.

The one he said he liked, voice softer than usual when he told you, fingers brushing the hem like it meant something more than just fabric, like it was tied to a version of you he held onto a little tighter than the rest. 

You smooth it out between your hands before pulling it on, the light material settling against your skin, familiar, easy, like stepping into something you’ve worn a hundred times before, something safe. Your hair takes a little longer. You redo it twice. Not because it looks bad, just because it doesn’t look right. Not until it does.

Not until it looks the way you know he likes it, soft and loose, framing your face just enough, something he once tucked behind your ear with a quiet kind of care that still lingers in the memory.

You pause for a second after, staring at yourself in the mirror. Then you smile. Small. Hopeful.

By the time you meet him, the sun is dipping lower, casting everything in that golden light that makes the world feel warmer than it really is, and he’s already there, leaning against his van, arms crossed, boot scuffing idly at the dirt like he’s been waiting just long enough to start getting restless.

You walk towards him, like you always do. And when his eyes lift to you, you feel it, that small flicker in your chest, that quiet anticipation, waiting for something as simple as a look, a word, anything that tells you he sees you the way he used to.

He doesn’t say anything. Just straightens slightly, pushing off the van, his gaze lingering for a second before shifting away like it didn’t matter as much as it does.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you reply, still warm, still soft, even as something small in you tilts just slightly. You don’t mention it.

Instead, you fall into step beside him, the walk to the field familiar, easy in its routine if not in its feeling, the quiet between you stretching just a little longer than usual, filled with things neither of you says.

The field looks the same. It always does. Wildflowers scattered across it in uneven patches, the grass soft beneath your feet, the sky stretching wide and open above you like nothing could possibly touch you here.

You spread the blanket out like you’ve done a hundred times before, smoothing the corners down, tucking yourself onto it while Eddie drops down beside you a little heavier, a little less careful.

For a moment, it almost feels right. The breeze, the quiet, the way the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you.

You glance at him. Waiting. Still, nothing. He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t even hint at it. No “you look nice.” No second glance. Just silence, broken only by the faint rustle of grass and the distant hum of something far away.

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers brushing against the way you styled it, the way you chose it, something small tightening in your chest before you force it to loosen.

“It’s nice out,” you say instead, gentle, offering something easy to hold onto.

“Yeah,” he replies, flat.

You nod, pressing your lips together briefly before letting them part again. “I missed this.”

He hums. Noncommittal, like he doesn’t quite agree. The quiet stretches again, longer this time. And it starts to feel heavier. Not the comfortable kind, not the kind you’re used to with him.

You glance at him again, more careful now, searching his face for something you recognize, something familiar enough to settle the unease that’s starting to creep in.

“Eddie?” you murmur.

“What,” he says, not looking at you.

The word lands more sharply than it should. You hesitate, just for a second. Then push through it anyway.

“Did I… do something?” you ask softly. “You’ve been kinda quiet.”

He lets out a breath through his nose, something irritated in it, finally turning his head to look at you, eyes darker than you expect. “No,” he says. “Why would you think that?”

You swallow lightly, fingers curling into the blanket's fabric. “I don’t know. You just— you haven’t really said anything.”

He scoffs, looking away again. “Sorry, didn’t realize I had to keep you entertained.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you say quickly, softer now, trying to catch it before it slips further.

“Then what did you mean?” The edge is back. Stronger this time. You feel it.

You still try to soften around it. “I just…” You trail off, then try again, quieter. “I thought maybe you’d— I don’t know. Say something.”

“About what?” he presses.

Your chest tightens. You almost don’t say it, almost let it go like you always do. But something from yesterday lingers. Something small. Something new.

“…About how I look,” you admit, barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud might make it sound as vulnerable as it feels. There’s a pause. And then, he laughs. Not kindly.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, shaking his head. “What,” he cuts in, sharper now, sitting up straighter. “You need a compliment or something?”

Your voice shrinks before you can stop it. “No, I just thought you might want to—”

“Why,” he interrupts, eyes narrowing slightly. “Because Steve did?”

The name hits like a slap. “What?” you blink, thrown. “No—”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he scoffs. “Pretty boy says something, and suddenly I’m not doing enough.”

“That’s not fair,” you say, a little stronger this time, even as your chest tightens. “It didn’t mean anything—”

“You looked like it meant something,” he snaps.

Silence. The wind moves through the field, brushing the grass around you, but it doesn’t touch the way your stomach just dropped.

“I was just being nice,” you say, quieter now.

“Yeah,” he laughs, but it’s bitter. “You’re always just being nice.”

The way he says it twists something. “What is that supposed to mean?” you ask.

He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it. “Means you don’t know how to turn it off.”

Your brows knit. “Turn what off?”

“All of it,” he gestures toward you, toward your voice, your presence, your existence. “The smiling, the talking, the way you act like everyone’s your best friend.”

You stare at him. Because no one’s ever said it like that before.

“I’m not acting,” you say, quieter now, but firmer.

“Yeah?” he tilts his head slightly. “Then what are you doing?”

“Being myself,” you answer.

He lets out a small, humorless laugh. “Right,” he mutters. “That’s what you call it.”

Your chest tightens. “Why are you being like this?” you ask, your voice starting to shake despite how much you’re trying to keep it steady.

“Like what?” he shoots back.

“Mean,” you say, finally, the word sitting heavy between you.

His expression hardens immediately. “I’m not being mean,” he says. “I’m being honest.”

“No, you’re not,” you shake your head. “You’re just picking at me for no reason.”

“There is a reason,” he snaps. “You just don’t want to hear it.”

“Then say it,” you push, something small but stubborn rising up in you now. 

“What’s the reason, Eddie?”

He stares at you for a second, too long. Like he’s deciding whether or not to cross a line. And then, he does.

“You’re exhausting.” The words hit clean. Sharp. No softness to catch them, no way to twist them into something harmless. You go still. 

“I liked you better when you weren’t trying so hard all the time,” he adds, quieter now, but somehow worse.

Something in your chest cracks. You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat, your hands slowly tightening into the fabric of the blanket beneath you.

“Trying?” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs. “You know. The whole sunshine rainbows la-la thing.” The way he says it, like it’s fake. Like it’s something you put on.

“You think this is fake?” you ask.

“I think you don’t even know who you are without an audience,” he says. 

That’s it. That’s the line. Now it feels like something else entirely. And for the first time, you don’t know how to make it soft again. You don’t know exactly how or where it came from, but something in you just snaps. 

You stand up so fast the blanket shifts under you, grass bending beneath your feet as you take a step back like you need space, like you need air, and the movement is so sudden, so unlike you, that it visibly throws him, his expression flickering in surprise before it hardens again, defensive, bracing.

“What?” he snaps, already pushing up to stand too, like he refuses to be the one caught off guard. “What now?”

Your chest is rising too fast, breath catching in uneven pulls as you shake your head, hands coming up like you don’t even know where to put them, like you’ve been holding something in for so long you forgot how heavy it was until now.

“No,” you say, louder now. “No, you don’t get to do that.”

Eddie blinks, clearly not expecting it, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced with irritation again. “Do what?” he snaps, standing too.

“This,” you gesture wildly between you. “You don’t get to make me feel like I’m too much just because you don’t know how to handle me.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” you cut him off, your voice breaking but not softening. “You’ve been doing it for months, Eddie. Months. And I kept pretending it wasn’t a big deal because I thought you’d— I don’t know— go back to how you used to be.”

His jaw tightens. “I am how I am.”

“Yeah,” you laugh, but it’s wet, broken. “That’s the problem.”

“We’ve been together for three years,” you say, your voice shaking now but louder than it’s ever been with him. “Three years, and you used to never be like this. You used to look at me like you actually liked me.”

“I do like you—”

“No,” you shake your head, tears spilling now, but you don’t wipe them away. “You don’t. You tolerate me when it’s easy and tear me down when it’s not.”

“That’s not true—”

“You haven’t said you love me in a year!” you shout.

That stops him, completely.

“And I still do,” your voice breaks, quieter now but no less intense. “I’ve been loving you through everything, through every comment, every time you made me feel small, every time I had to laugh something off just so it wouldn’t turn into this—”

You gesture between you again, chest heaving. “And you don’t even see it.”

Eddie looks away just for a second. Then, he doubles down.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, sharper again, uglier now. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy making everyone else feel special, I’d feel like I mattered too.”

“Are you serious right now?” you ask, voice low.

“What?” he snaps. “I’m wrong?”

“I chose you,” you say, each word deliberate now. “Every time. Over everyone.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, hollow. “You say that, yet I never asked you to.”

And that? That’s what does it. You grab your water bottle without thinking. And throw it.

Water splashes across his chest, soaking through his shirt, dripping down as he freezes, shock flickering across his face for the first time since this started. Your chest is heaving, tears streaking your face.

But your voice is steady. “Fuck you, Eddie.”

His expression shifts, anger flashing, but underneath it, something else. Something that almost looks like he didn’t think you had it in you. You don’t give him the chance to respond. 

You turn immediately. Walking away before he can say anything else, before he can twist it, before he can pull you back into something you’ve finally, finally stepped out of.

The grass bends under your feet as you go, the field stretching out in front of you, wide and open and suddenly unfamiliar, your vision blurred but your steps steady, each one putting distance between you and him and everything that just broke open between you.

Behind you, he doesn’t follow. And for the first time? You don’t stop.

The drive back is a blur. He doesn’t remember getting in the van.

Doesn’t remember turning the key, shifting gears, any of it, just the sound of the engine too loud in his ears and his grip on the wheel so tight his knuckles ache, jaw locked, breath coming sharp and uneven like he’s trying to outrun something that followed him out of that field.

The water is still cold where it soaked through his shirt. He didn’t even wipe it off.

By the time he pulls up to the trailer, the anger has already started to rot into something worse, something heavier, something that doesn’t have anywhere to go except outward, because if it turns inward, if he lets it sit for even a second, he knows exactly what it’ll feel like.

So he doesn’t. He slams the door harder than he needs to, keys jangling as he shoves them into the lock, the trailer door swinging open with a force that rattles against the frame, and the second he’s inside, it starts.

The first thing within reach. A cassette off the counter. It hits the wall with a sharp crack, plastic splintering on impact.

“Fuck,” he spits, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, like there’s too much energy under his skin and nowhere to put it.

“Fuck—” His boot catches the edge of a chair, and he kicks it harder on purpose, sending it scraping loudly across the floor, the sound grating, the space around him too small, too tight, like it’s closing in. 

“Fuck you, Eddie.” The sentence hits again, sharper this time, twisting something in his chest he refuses to name, so it comes out as anger instead, easier, safer.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, voice rising as he grabs whatever’s on the table, shoving it aside, letting it clatter to the floor. 

The door opens behind him. Not loudly, not abruptly, but just enough. Wayne steps in, taking it all in at once: the mess, the noise, Eddie standing in the middle of it like a storm that doesn’t know how to pass.

Just closes the door behind him, slower than usual, like he’s giving Eddie a second to settle on his own. It doesn’t work.

“What?” Eddie snaps, not even turning around. “You gonna start too?”

Wayne sighs, setting his keys down carefully on the counter, eyes flicking over the broken cassette, the chair out of place, the tension practically humming in the air.

“Start what?” he asks, calm.

Eddie lets out a sharp laugh, finally turning, hands thrown out at his sides. “I don’t know, man, whatever lecture you’ve got lined up. Save it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Wayne replies evenly.

“Yeah, well, you’re about to,” Eddie shoots back, already bracing, already defensive, like he’s waiting for the hit before it comes.

Wayne watches him for a moment. Then, quieter, “What happened?”

Eddie scoffs immediately, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Wayne raises a brow, glancing pointedly at the wall, the floor, the general state of everything. “Sure doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Eddie snaps, sharper now. “She just—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening, like even saying it out loud makes something twist the wrong way.

“She just what?” Wayne prompts, still calm, still steady.

Eddie exhales hard, running a hand over his face. “She’s being dramatic, okay? That’s it. Made a whole thing out of nothing.”

Wayne doesn’t react right away, doesn't jump in. Just lets the words sit.

“And what’d you do?” he asks after a second.

Eddie’s head snaps up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Wayne says, a little firmer now, “it takes two people to make a whole thing out of nothing.”

Eddie lets out a humorless laugh, stepping closer, agitation flaring again. “Oh, so now it’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Eddie mutters, shaking his head, pacing again. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Take her side,” he shoots back. “Like I’m just automatically the one screwing everything up.”

Wayne’s expression tightens, just slightly. “I’m not taking sides, son. I’m trying to figure out what happened.”

“Well, don’t,” Eddie snaps. “It’s none of your business.”

Wayne exhales slowly, something more solid settling into his posture now, something less patient, more direct.

“You came into my home angry enough to tear the place apart,” he says. “That makes it my business.”

Eddie scoffs again, louder this time, sharper. “Yeah, well, maybe if people stopped acting like I’m the problem all the time—”

“Eddie.” His name lands firmer, grounding. It only makes him bristle more.

“What?” he bites out.

Wayne’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You don’t get to treat people like that and then act surprised when they push back.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie laughs, shaking his head like it’s ridiculous, like it doesn’t touch him at all. “You sound just like her.”

Wayne’s jaw tightens slightly. “Maybe that should tell you something.”

“Yeah,” Eddie snaps. “That you’re both overreacting.”

Wayne’s patience thins, just a fraction, something more pointed slipping into his voice. “You sound just like your father.”

The room stills, completely. Eddie freezes for half a second, like the words didn’t register, like his brain is catching up to what was just said, and then it hits. Hard.

His expression shifts instantly, anger flaring hotter, sharper, something defensive turning almost vicious. “Don’t,” he says, low and dangerous. “Don’t do that.”

Wayne doesn’t back down. “I’m not saying you are him. I’m saying the way you’re talking, the way you’re lashing out—”

“I said don’t,” Eddie cuts him off, louder now, stepping forward, something in his chest unraveling fast. “You don’t get to compare me to him.”

“Then don’t act like him,” Wayne replies, firm, not raising his voice but not softening either.

That’s it. That’s the line.

“Fuck that,” Eddie snaps, shoving a hand through his hair, pacing again like he might combust if he stands still. “I’m not the one screwing everything up here, okay? She—she walked away. She threw shit at me like I’m some kind of asshole—”

Wayne raises a brow. “Did you give her a reason to think you were?”

Eddie turns on him, eyes blazing. “You don’t even know what happened!”

“Then tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything!” Eddie shouts, voice cracking just slightly at the edges, the anger starting to blur into something messier, something less controlled. “You always think you know better, like you’ve got everything figured out—”

“I’m not trying to be right,” Wayne says, more quietly now. “I’m trying to help you not make the same mistakes I’ve seen before.”

Eddie lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah? Well, maybe stop acting like him while you’re at it.”

The words hang there: ugly, immediate. Regret flickers in Eddie’s expression, but it’s buried just as fast. Wayne goes still. 

Something in his expression is closing off, not angry, not explosive, just disappointed in a way that lands heavier than anything else. “…That’s not fair,” he says, quietly.

Eddie looks away first, because he knows. He knows it isn’t. But he’s too deep in it now, too wrapped up in the anger, in the pride, in everything that’s easier than turning around and facing what he actually did.

“Whatever,” he mutters, running a hand over his face again. “I don’t need this right now.”

Wayne nods slowly. Not agreeing. Just stepping back.

“Alright,” he says. “But you’re gonna have to deal with it eventually.”

Eddie doesn’t answer. Just stands there in the middle of the mess, chest still heaving, anger still buzzing under his skin, but quieter now, less explosive, more suffocating.

Your room feels too quiet. Not peaceful. Not comforting. Just empty in a way that presses in on you from all sides, the kind of silence that makes every thought louder, every memory sharper, every feeling impossible to ignore.

You’re still in the dress. You didn’t change.

Didn’t take your shoes off right away either, just kicked them somewhere near the door before making it to your bed like it was the only place your body knew to go, collapsing into it without grace, without thought, the impact knocking the air from your lungs as everything you’ve been holding back finally breaks. It comes out ugly. Loud.

Not the quiet tears you’re used to, not the kind you can wipe away before anyone notices, but full, shaking sobs that tear through your chest like they’ve been waiting for permission, your hands clutching at your pillow like it might hold you together, like it might stop the way everything feels like it’s splitting open.

Your phone buzzes beside you. You don’t look at it. You don’t need to, you already know. It stops, then starts again. And again.

A rhythm that feels almost frantic, almost desperate, the sound cutting through the quiet in sharp, jarring bursts, lighting up your nightstand over and over again with a name you can’t bring yourself to face.

Eddie.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter. Like that’ll make it go away. Like, if you don’t look, it isn’t real. But it is. It keeps buzzing. Keeps ringing. And you let it. Because if you answer, you don’t know what you’ll say.

You don’t know if you’ll break again. Or worse, if you’ll forgive him too quickly.

Your breath stutters, another sob catching in your throat as you roll onto your side, curling in on yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress like you’re trying to ground yourself in something real.

Something that isn’t this. Because it wasn’t always like this. It wasn’t. And your mind won’t let you forget it. Not now, not when it hurts this much.

It flashes in pieces, disjointed and overwhelming, memories coming too fast, too vivid, like they’re trying to compete with what just happened, like they’re trying to rewrite it.

His head in your lap, eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips while your fingers move through his hair. The way he used to look at you, like you were something rare, something he didn’t quite know what to do with but never wanted to lose.

“Pretty,” he’d said once, quieter than usual, like it was something fragile. You’d laughed. Of course, you had.

And he’d rolled his eyes, but he didn’t take it back. Your chest tightens violently, another sob breaking free as you press your face into your pillow, like you can hide from it, like you can muffle the sound of your own heartbreak.

The way he used to reach for you without thinking. The way he used to say your name like it meant something. The way he used to say I love you like it wasn’t something he had to force out of himself.

Your fingers twist into your hair now, tugging just enough to hurt, to anchor you, to give you something else to focus on besides the way those memories don’t match the version of him from today. From the field. From the way he looked at you like you were the problem. 

Your phone buzzes again louder, closer this time. You don’t mean to look, but you do. Just for a second. And there it is. 

Missed call.Missed call.Missed call.

His name stacked on your screen like something urgent, something relentless, something that won’t stop until you give in. It starts ringing again. Right in front of you. Your breath catches. Your hand twitches toward it, but stops, pulls back. Because you know yourself.

You know that if you answer, if you hear his voice, if he says your name in that way, he still can when he wants to, you’ll fold. You’ll soften, you’ll make it okay. And something in you, small but stubborn and new, refuses to let that happen.

So you turn away physically. Rolling onto your other side, putting your back to it, like you can create distance with something as simple as that, even as the sound continues behind you, ringing out into the quiet of your room.

It finally stops. For a moment, there’s silence. Real silence. And then, a buzz. A message this time. Another. And another. You don’t read them. You can’t.

Because your mind is already spiraling, already slipping into that space where everything feels too big, too loud, too much to hold onto at once, your thoughts tangling over each other in a way that feels almost frantic, almost unsteady.

Three years. The words echo. Loud. Relentless.

Three years and you’re here, curled up on your bed, crying so hard your chest aches, your head pounding, your hands shaking like you don’t even recognize yourself.

Three years, and he looks at you like that. Talks to you like that. Makes you feel like you’re too much. Too loud. Too—wrong.

“No,” you whisper into the pillow, shaking your head, tears soaking into the fabric beneath your cheek. “No, no, no—”

Because that’s not true, it can’t be. You know who you are. You know. You’re not too much. You’re just, you. The same you he used to love. So what changed? The question loops. Over and over. Too fast. Too loud.

Your breathing picks up again, uneven, almost panicked now as you push yourself up just slightly, dragging your hands down your face, trying to ground yourself, trying to stop the way your thoughts are starting to race ahead of you.

Your phone buzzes again. Softer this time. A text. You don’t turn around. You don’t reach for it.

You just sit there, shoulders shaking, staring at nothing, your mind caught somewhere between the past and the present, between the version of him you fell in love with and the one who stood in that field and made you feel small.

And the worst part, the part that hurts the most, is that you still want him. Even now. Even like this.

Your chest tightens again, another quiet sob slipping out as you press your hand over your mouth, like you can hold it in, like you can contain something that’s already spilling over. Your phone lights up behind you. Again. And again. And you let it. Because for once, you don’t answer.

The next day feels wrong before you even step inside. Like the world didn’t reset overnight the way it’s supposed to. Like everything is just carrying over.

You didn’t sleep, not really. Maybe an hour, maybe less. Enough to close your eyes, not enough to quiet anything behind them, your thoughts looping and tangling until you gave up somewhere around sunrise, staring at the ceiling with that hollow, aching exhaustion that settles deep in your bones.

You didn’t bother fixing your hair the same way. Didn’t reach for anything he liked. Just something simple. Something easy. Something that didn’t ask anything from you. And it shows. You feel it the second you walk into school.

The way the hallway doesn’t sound different, but feels like it does, conversations dipping just slightly as you pass, eyes lingering a second too long, not in admiration this time, not in that warm, easy way you’re used to, but in something quieter.

Concern. Curiosity. You keep your head down. Not fully, but just enough. Your bag feels heavier than usual on your shoulder as you move through the hallway, steps slower, like your body hasn’t quite caught up to the idea of being here.

Someone says your name. Soft. Careful. You know the voice before you even look.

Nancy is already walking toward you, her expression tightening the second she gets close enough to really see you, to take in the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders are pulled in just a little more than usual, the way your smile isn’t there.

“Hey,” she says gently. 

There’s a small attempt at a smile, something quick and practiced, but it doesn’t quite land the way it usually does, doesn’t carry the same warmth. “Hi.”

Nancy doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“Did you sleep?” she asks, voice softer now, stepping closer like she’s instinctively trying to shield you from the rest of the hallway, from the way people are still looking.

You shrug lightly, like it doesn’t matter. “A little.”

She studies you for a second. “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” she offers.

You shake your head almost immediately. “No, I’m okay.”

It’s automatic, the same answer you always give. Nancy’s lips press together slightly, but she nods anyway, her hand brushing your arm for just a second, grounding, reassuring, something steady.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “I’m here if you’re not.”

And for a second, just a second, it almost feels like enough. Until the hallway shifts. Subtly. You feel it before you see it. That change in the air. That attention. You don’t have to look to know why, but you do anyway. And there he is.

Standing a few feet away, like he’s been there long enough to work up the courage to move, like he’s been watching you, waiting for a moment that doesn’t feel like an ambush, his usual confidence stripped back into something uncertain, something almost hesitant.

Your chest tightens on instinct. But it doesn’t soften you this time. Not the way it usually does.

“Hey,” he says, stepping closer. Careful, like he’s approaching something fragile.

Nancy shifts beside you immediately, her posture tightening, eyes flicking between the two of you, something protective settling in the space she takes up next to you.

You don’t move. You don’t meet him halfway. You just look at him. And for the first time, you don’t feel like reaching for him.

“Can we talk?” he asks, quieter now, something almost raw sitting under the words.

There’s a pause. A moment where the old version of you might’ve nodded, might’ve stepped aside, might’ve let him pull you into something private where it would be easier to forgive him. That version of you is still there. You feel her, but she doesn’t win.

“No,” you say. It’s simple. And it shocks him more than anything else.

“What?” he breathes, like he didn’t expect that, like it didn’t even occur to him as a possibility.

“I said no,” you repeat, your voice steady, even if your hands aren’t, even if your heart is still beating too fast against your ribs.

Nancy glances at you, surprised. But she doesn’t interrupt.

Eddie’s brows knit, confusion flickering into something more desperate. “Can you just listen for a second?”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. And that? That throws him even more.

“You had three years to say what you needed to say,” you reply, your tone sharper now, colder than it’s ever been with him. “I’m not really interested in hearing it now.”

His face falls, just slightly, like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t prepared for.

“That’s not fair,” he says, stepping closer again, like proximity might fix this, like it always has before. You take a step back immediately. 

“Yes, it is,” you shoot back. “You don’t get to talk to me like that and then decide when we’re okay again.”

“I’m not deciding that—”

“You tried to,” you cut him off, your voice rising just enough to turn a few more heads, but you don’t care, not this time. “You always do. You say something awful, and then you expect me to just what? Laugh it off? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” you snap, and there’s no softness left now, no cushioning the words to make them easier to hear. “You made me feel like shit, Eddie. And I’m not doing that again today.”

The hallway is quieter now, people are listening. But you don’t care. Eddie swallows, something in his expression shifting between frustration and something more vulnerable, something he doesn’t quite know how to hold onto without turning it into anger again.

“I called you,” he says, like it matters, like it should count for something. “You didn’t answer.”

“Yeah,” you reply flatly. “I didn’t want to.”

Nancy shifts slightly closer to you, not blocking him, but making it clear where she stands, her presence steady and unwavering at your side.

Eddie looks between the two of you, jaw tightening again, something defensive creeping back in to cover whatever else was there. “Right,” he mutters. “Guess you were too busy.”

The implication is there, ugly and familiar. Something about it, about him going there again, makes something in you snap all over again.

“Oh my god,” you scoff, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What, I’m wrong?” he shoots back, frustration flaring. “You were having a great time the other day—”

“With my friends,” you cut in sharply. “Which I’m allowed to have, by the way.”

“Yeah, including Harrington—”

You laugh again, but there’s no humor in it this time. “Still stuck on that?” you say, your voice almost incredulous now. “That’s what you’re worried about? Not the fact that you treated me like garbage, but that someone else was nice to me for five minutes?”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to. You shake your head, something final settling in your expression.

“Grow up, Eddie.” The words are quiet, but nonetheless powerful. You don’t wait for a response. Don’t give him the chance to twist it, to pull you back in, to make you feel like you’re the one who needs to fix this.

You turn immediately, your shoulder brushes past him as you walk away, your steps steady even if everything inside you still feels like it’s shaking. Nancy falls into step beside you without a word. 

Months pass in a way that feels both too fast and not fast enough. You get used to the absence before you realize you’ve done it.

At first, it’s loud, the space he used to fill in your days echoing back at you, every corner of your routine carrying some version of him, the way you reach for your phone without thinking, the way your body still half-expects to see him leaning against his van after school, the way your chest tightens at every familiar song, every field, every place that used to belong to both of you.

But then, it quiets. Not all at once. Not completely. Just enough. You stop checking your phone as often. Stop wondering if he’ll show up. Because he doesn’t. The calls stop. The texts slow, and then disappears entirely. And somehow, that hurts in a different way.

A quieter way. Like something has finally settled into the reality you’ve been avoiding. So you try, you really really try.

You go back to Nancy’s more. You sit with Robin and Jonathan and let yourself laugh again, even if it feels a little fragile at first, like something you have to relearn instead of something that comes naturally.

You don’t wear the dress he liked, not anymore. You cut your hair a little shorter. Not drastically. Just enough to feel like something is yours again. And still, there are moments. Small ones.

When something reminds you of him and your chest aches in that old, familiar way, like the love didn’t go anywhere, it just doesn’t have a place to land anymore.

Eddie doesn’t get that kind of quiet. Not really. His version is heavier. Stagnant. It sits in the trailer with him, fills the spaces between his thoughts, seeps into everything he does until even the things he used to enjoy feel dull around the edges.

He doesn’t go out as much. Doesn’t bother with Hellfire like he used to, doesn’t show up half the time, and when he does, he’s distracted, irritable, snapping at things that don’t matter, leaving early without explanation.

The van sits parked more often than it used to. Music plays, but it’s louder. Wayne notices.

He notices the way Eddie doesn’t eat as much, the way he leaves half-finished plates on the counter, the way he stares at nothing for too long, like he’s somewhere else entirely, somewhere he can’t get back from. He notices the silence, the absence. He doesn’t say anything at first. Gives it time, hoping it’ll pass on its own. It doesn’t.

So one night, after Eddie’s been sitting on the couch for who knows how long, the TV on but not really watched, Wayne finally steps in, setting his coffee down on the table with a quiet kind of intention.

“You gonna sit there all night,” he asks, voice calm, “or you wanna tell me what’s eating at you.”

Eddie doesn’t look at him. “Nothing’s eating at me.”

Wayne hums, not buying it for a second. “Right.”

Eddie shifts slightly, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe something off that won’t come off.

“She’s fine,” he mutters suddenly, like he’s been holding it in too long. “You don’t have to worry about her.”

Wayne studies him for a second. “I wasn’t.”

Eddie lets out a dry laugh, finally glancing over, something bitter in it. “Yeah, you were. You always liked her better anyway.”

“That’s not true,” Wayne replies evenly. “I liked how she treated you.”

Eddie looks away again. “She’s probably better off,” he mutters. “Got her little group, her little perfect life without me screwing it up.”

Wayne exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “That's what you think happened?”

Eddie shrugs, jaw tight. “Isn’t it?”

“Or did you push her out of it?”

Eddie’s shoulders tense immediately. “I didn’t—”

Wayne cuts in, not raising his voice, but firm. “Eddie.”

It stops him, just for a second. Wayne leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, his gaze steady, unwavering.

“That girl,” he says, measured, “is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Eddie scoffs, but it’s weaker than it should be. “Yeah, well—”

“No,” Wayne interrupts, sharper now. “I mean it. She was patient with you. Kind. Saw something in you most people don’t even bother looking for.”

Eddie swallows, something in his chest tightening, but he pushes back anyway, because that’s easier. “I didn’t ask for that.”

Wayne’s expression hardens just slightly. “Didn’t say you did. But you got it anyway.”

“And you treated her like she was something you had to knock down a peg just to feel like you deserved her,” Wayne continues, quieter now, but no less firm.

Eddie’s jaw clenches. “That’s not—”

“It is,” Wayne says. “And you know it.”

The words hang there, unavoidable. Eddie’s gaze drops to the floor, something in him shifting, something uncomfortable, something closer to the truth than he wants to sit with.

“You think she’s better off?” Wayne asks after a moment. “Maybe she is.”

Eddie flinches.

“But that don’t mean you didn’t lose something you might not ever get back,” Wayne adds.

Eddie exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, his voice quieter now, stripped of most of the anger that used to come so easily.

“I didn’t mean to…” he trails off, like the rest of the sentence won’t come, like saying it out loud would make it too real.

Wayne nods once. “I know.” He pauses, then, “Doesn’t change what you did.”

Eddie leans back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling now, the weight of it settling in a way it didn’t before, in a way it couldn’t when he was still too busy being angry to feel anything else.

“You think she’ll… come back?” he asks finally, the words quieter than anything he’s said all night.

Wayne doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s honest.

“I think that depends on whether you’re still the man she walked away from,” he says.

The lake looks the same, that’s the first thing Eddie notices. Not the way the air feels colder than it should for this time of year, not the way the sky hangs a little heavier overhead, not even the way the place feels quieter without you in it.

The water still moves in slow, steady ripples, catching the light in soft, broken reflections. The old tree still leans just slightly over the edge, branches stretching out like it remembers every version of you that’s ever been here. The grass still bends in the same direction when the wind picks up.

Like nothing changed, like it didn’t witness everything falling apart. Eddie stands there for a long time before he sits. Long enough for the quiet to settle into his bones, long enough for the absence to stop feeling sharp and start feeling familiar. That’s the worst part; how used to it he’s gotten.

He drops down onto the ground near the edge, arms resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced together like he doesn’t know what else to do with them, like they’ve forgotten what it feels like to reach for something that’s not there anymore.

This used to be yours. Not his. Yours. He just got to be part of it. He swallows hard, gaze fixed on the water, but he’s not really seeing it. He’s seeing you.

Cross-legged in the grass, smiling at him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Your reflection in the lake when you leaned too far over and laughed when he grabbed your shirt to pull you back. The way you used to say his name here, softer than anywhere else, as if it belonged to the quiet.

His chest tightens. Because he didn’t lose you all at once. He lost you slowly, in pieces. In every comment he didn’t take back. Every time he made you laugh something off that shouldn’t have been funny. Every time he saw the way your smile changed, and chose not to fix it.

He exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face, something breaking loose in his chest now that there’s nothing left to distract him from it. He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, throat closing around the rest of it.

Because he knows. He knows exactly what he did. He made you smaller so he wouldn’t feel small. He made you doubt yourself, so he wouldn’t have to face the fact that he didn’t think he deserved you. And when you finally stopped letting him, he called you the problem.

The realization hits fully then. 

“I fucked it up,” he breathes, the words barely audible, like saying them too loud might make them worse somehow.

The wind shifts soft and familiar. And for a second, he almost doesn’t look. Almost lets himself believe it’s just that. But then, there’s a sound. Footsteps: light, careful. His head lifts slowly, and there you are.

Standing a few feet away, like something out of a memory he hasn’t earned the right to have again, your arms wrapped loosely around yourself, your expression soft but not the same kind of soft he used to know, something more guarded, something that’s learned.

For a second, neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. Because there’s too much there. Too much history sits between you, too many versions of this moment that could’ve happened and didn’t, too many things left unsaid that suddenly feel too loud in the silence.

Eddie stands quickly. Like if he doesn’t, you’ll disappear again.

“I—” he starts, but the word catches, his voice failing him in a way it never used to, because nothing he’s said before has ever felt this important, this fragile.

You don’t come closer, but you don’t leave either. “I didn’t think you’d be here,” you say quietly.

“I didn’t think you would either,” he admits.

A small, sad smile flickers across your face. “Yeah.”

Eddie swallows, his hands flexing at his sides, like he doesn’t know where to put them, what to do with them now that they don’t get to reach for you anymore.

“I’ve been—” he stops, exhales, tries again. “I’ve been coming here.”

You nod slightly, like that makes sense, like of course he has. “It’s still nice,” you say, softer.

“It is,” he agrees.

Another pause, longer this time. And then, before he can lose it again, before he can retreat into something easier, something safer, he says it.

“I’m sorry.” It’s not loud, not dramatic. But it’s real. Raw in a way that strips everything else away.

Your breath catches, just slightly. But you don’t interrupt. Don’t soften it for him.

“I didn’t see it,” he continues, voice rough, words coming slower now but more honest than anything he’s said before. “Not until you were already gone. I thought—” he huffs out a small, broken laugh, shaking his head. “I thought if I just kept you close, it wouldn’t matter how I did it.”

Your eyes close briefly, like the words land somewhere deep, somewhere you’ve already been.

“You made me feel like I was too much,” you say quietly. It’s not an accusation.

“I know,” he says immediately, his voice breaking around it. “I know, and I hate that I did that to you. I hate it.”

You shake your head slightly, eyes opening again, glassy now but steady. “I kept trying to be smaller for you.”

His chest tightens violently. “I never wanted that,” he says, stepping forward without thinking.

You step back immediately, instinctive. And it stops him cold.

“You did,” you say, not harsh, not loud, but certain. “Maybe not on purpose. But you did.”

Silence crashes between you again. Because you’re right, and there’s nothing he can say to undo it.

“I loved you,” you continue, your voice trembling now despite how steady you’re trying to keep it. “Like… really loved you. I stayed when I shouldn’t have. I made excuses for you when I knew better. I kept thinking if I just loved you enough, you’d go back to the way you were.”

His throat tightens. “I wanted to,” he whispers. “I just— I didn’t know how to be that person without feeling like I was gonna lose you anyway.”

Your brows knit, pain flickering across your face. “So you pushed me away first?”

He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t have to. Tears spill over your lashes now, quiet but unstoppable, your voice breaking as you try to hold onto it anyway.

“You don’t get to come here and say you’re sorry like that fixes it,” you say. “You don’t get to hurt me like that and then decide you’re ready to be better.”

“I know,” he says quickly, desperately. “I know that, I’m not— I’m not asking you to just come back. I just—” his voice cracks fully now, hands shaking slightly at his sides. “I needed you to know I see it now. All of it. And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words hang there raw, ugly, and honest. You look at him for a long time, really look at him. And he lets you. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t hide. Because for the first time, he knows he doesn’t get to.

“I miss you,” you whisper finally. It breaks something in him completely.

“I miss you too,” he says, softer than he’s ever said anything.

A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away.

“But I can’t go back to that,” you add, your voice trembling but firm. “I can’t be with someone who makes me feel like I have to shrink just to be loved.”

His chest caves in around the words. “I wouldn’t do that again,” he says quickly, like he needs you to believe it.

You shake your head, not dismissive, just sad. “I believe that you think that,” you say gently. “But that doesn’t mean you’re ready.”

The lake moves behind you, steady and unchanged, the same place it’s always been, holding every version of you both in its reflection.

“I hope you get better,” you say after a moment, your voice softer now, something kind still woven through it despite everything. “I really do.”

Eddie nods, even though it feels like his chest is caving in. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

You linger for one second longer. Like you’re memorizing him the same way he’s memorizing you. And then, you turn. Walking away the same way you did in the field. But this time, it’s quieter. Softer. And somehow, that hurts even more.

Prom night settles over Hawkins like something out of a movie you’re not in. You can hear it even from your room: car doors slamming, laughter drifting up the street, music faint in the distance like a heartbeat you’re not part of anymore. Somewhere, someone cheers, and it carries just enough to make your chest ache in that quiet, familiar way.

You’re not dressed, not really. Just one of your older sweaters, sleeves pulled over your hands, curled into your bed like if you stay still enough, the night will pass without touching you at all. You didn’t plan on going. Not after everything. Not after him.

Your eyes burn, but the tears are quieter now than they were months ago, less explosive, more steady. Like something that’s learned how to exist without taking up too much space. You stare at the ceiling, then roll onto your side. Then back again.

Your phone sits facedown on your nightstand. Silent. It’s been silent for a while now. And somehow, that hurts more than when it wasn’t. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your sleeve against your face as another wave hits, softer but no less heavy, your chest tightening around it.

“Stupid,” you whisper to yourself, voice muffled. “It’s just prom. It’s not even a big deal—”

A soft sound cuts through it. Light, out of place. You sit still listening. Another tap. Your brows knit, pushing yourself up slightly, heart picking up just enough to make your chest feel tight again, but for a different reason now.

“…What?” you murmur, half to yourself.

Another tap. You sit up fully this time, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the floor cool beneath your feet as you move toward the window, cautious, confused.

And then you pull the curtain back, and your breath catches. Eddie.

He’s standing outside, just beneath your window, hair a mess like it always is, but his posture is different, uncertain in a way you’ve never seen from him before, like he almost didn’t come, like he’s still deciding if he should leave.

And in his hand—sunflowers.

And smaller wildflowers tucked between them, uneven, imperfect, like he picked them himself instead of buying them. Your favorites. For a second, neither of you moves. You just stare at him, like your brain is trying to catch up to what you’re seeing.

He lifts his hand slightly, awkward, holding them up like proof of something he doesn’t quite know how to say out loud. “Hi,” he says.

Your throat feels tight. “…Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” you ask finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He huffs out a small breath, glancing down for a second before looking back up at you.

“I, uh…” he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “I didn’t think you’d be there.”

Your chest dips. “You didn’t think I’d go,” you correct quietly.

“Yeah,” he admits.

“I didn’t go either,” he adds, like it matters, like you should know.

You nod slightly, not sure what to do with that. The flowers shift in his grip.

“They’re kinda… dying a little,” he mutters, glancing down at them. “I picked them earlier and then stood outside for like ten minutes trying to decide if this was a terrible idea.”

Despite everything, your lips twitch. Just slightly. “They’re still pretty,” you say.

He looks up at that. And for the first time in a long time, there’s no edge in it. Just something softer, something careful.

“I saw these,” he says slowly, lifting them just a little. “And I— I remembered you used to say sunflowers always look like they’re trying to find the light.”

Your chest tightens. You did say that, once. A long time ago.

“And the wildflowers,” he continues, quieter now, “because you said the imperfect ones were your favorite.”

Your eyes burn again. But it’s different now, not just pain. “…Yeah,” you whisper.

He shifts slightly, like he’s bracing himself for something.

“I know I don’t really get to just show up like this,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “I know that.”

You don’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” he exhales, looking down for a second before forcing himself to meet your eyes again. “I didn’t want tonight to be another thing I ruined for you.”

“You didn’t ruin prom,” you say quietly.

He shakes his head slightly. “No. But I ruined a lot of other things.”

There’s no defensiveness in it, no edge. Your fingers curl slightly against the windowsill.

“You look…” he starts, then stops himself, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to say it.

You wait. He swallows. “…you always looked nice,” he settles on, quieter.

It’s not perfect, not what it used to be. But it’s honest, it's the first time in a long time. Your breath catches.

“Thank you,” you say, just as softly.

“I’m not here to fix everything,” he adds quickly, like he needs to be clear. “Or ask you to… come back or anything. I just—” his voice falters slightly, then steadies, “I wanted to show up right this time.”

That hits deeper than anything else, because you can see it. The effort. The difference. The absence of that sharpness that used to make you shrink. You look at him for a long moment. Taking him in, this version of him. And something in your chest shifts. Not fully. Not completely. But enough.

“…You can come in,” you say finally, your voice quiet but steady.

His expression flickers with surprise. “Yeah?” he asks, like he didn’t expect that.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

He hesitates just for a second. Then steps closer, reaching up as you unlatch the window, pushing it open as the cool night air slips in around you, carrying the faint sound of distant music and something else, something new.

He hands you the flowers first. Careful, like they matter. Like you matter. And when your fingers brush his, it’s not the same. But it’s not broken either. 

You take the flowers from him like they might fall apart if you’re not careful. Like they mean something, because they do. The stems are uneven, a little jagged where they’ve been pulled instead of cut, bits of grass still clinging to them, petals slightly bent at the edges like they’ve been held too tightly at some point.

They’re not perfect, but they're yours.

You step back from the window, leaving it open, the night air slipping into your room in soft waves as you move toward your dresser, fingers already reaching for the empty vase that’s been sitting there for longer than you’d like to admit.

You haven’t had anything to put in it, until now.

Behind you, you hear Eddie climb in, quieter than he used to be, like he’s aware of the space he’s taking up in a way he never was before, careful not to knock anything over, careful not to assume he belongs here the way he once did.

You don’t turn around right away. You focus on the small things: filling the vase with water, adjusting the stems. Pulling one sunflower forward so it sits just slightly higher than the others, catching the light from your lamp in a way that makes it look warmer than it should.

Your hands move more slowly than usual, more intentional. Like you’re trying to stretch this moment out without fully acknowledging it.

“They’re a little… uneven,” he says behind you, almost apologetic.

You shake your head slightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you tilt one of the wildflowers into place. “I like them like that,” you murmur. “You know that.”

You can feel him watching you. Not in the heavy way from before. Not in that sharp, critical way that made you second-guess every movement.

“I remember,” he says softly.

Your chest tightens, just a little. You set the vase down, stepping back to look at it, adjusting one last stem before letting your hands fall to your sides.

“They look nice,” you say.

“They do,” he agrees.

Silence settles again, but it’s not uncomfortable, not quite, just something new, something unfamiliar that neither of you knows how to fill yet. You finally turn. He’s standing a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders a little tense, like he doesn’t know where to put himself, what version of himself is allowed in this room now.

For a second, you just look at him. And he lets you. No deflection, no smirk, just there.

His eyes flick up to your hair, lingering for a second longer than necessary. “You cut it,” he says.

You instinctively reach up, fingers brushing the ends without thinking. “Yeah.”

“It looks…” he pauses, like he’s choosing the words more carefully than he ever has before. “…good,” he settles on, quieter. “I like it.”

Your lips press together slightly, something soft flickering across your face before you nod. “Thanks.”

Then, because you don’t quite know what to do with the quiet, because the air feels too full of things you’re both avoiding and acknowledging at the same time, you sit on the edge of your bed.

He doesn’t follow immediately. He waits, like he’s checking if it’s okay. You glance up at him, just briefly, and that's enough. He sits. Not too close, not like before. There’s space between you now.

He exhales slowly, hands clasping together between his knees as he leans forward slightly, staring down at the floor for a second before speaking again. “I, uh…” he starts, then huffs a quiet breath through his nose. “I started seeing a shrink.”

The word is awkward in his mouth. Like he doesn’t quite believe it himself. For a second, you just stare at him. And then a small sound slips out. Half a laugh. Half disbelief.

“A… what?” you ask, your brows lifting slightly.

He glances at you, something almost sheepish flickering across his face. “Yeah, I know. Sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

“No,” you shake your head, still smiling just a little, softer now. “It just surprised me.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The corner of your mouth lifts slightly again. “You?” you tease lightly. “Talking about your feelings?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure if it was real either.”

“I just…” he trails off, his voice dipping again, something more serious settling in. “I didn’t like the way I was.”

Your chest tightens slightly, because you know exactly what he means.

“I didn’t like the way I made you feel,” he adds, quieter.

The room stills around that. You don’t respond right away; you let it sit. Because this time he’s not saying it for a reaction. He’s just saying it.

“I’m trying to figure that out,” he continues, glancing down at his hands. “Why I did that. Why I—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly before he exhales again. “Yeah.”

You look at him, this version of him. The one who sits beside you with space between you, who chooses his words instead of throwing them, who shows up with uneven flowers and quiet apologies instead of sharp edges.

And something in your chest aches. In a different way. “…That’s good,” you say softly.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

Your gaze drifts back to the vase, the sunflowers catching the light just slightly, the wildflowers tucked between them in imperfect, careful balance. The quiet stretches, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore. It feels careful. Like both of you are sitting in something fragile, something new, something that could either hold or break depending on what gets said next.

Your hand is still near his. Not fully holding, but not pulling away. Just there. And your eyes keep drifting back to the flowers, the way they sit in the vase, uneven and soft and still somehow beautiful, like they weren’t arranged perfectly, just intentionally.

Like this, like you. Your chest tightens. Because you didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect him. Didn’t expect the way it would feel to sit next to him again and not feel small. Not feel like you have to adjust yourself to fit. Just be.

Your fingers twitch slightly against the edge of the bed. You inhale. 

Then, “…Can we start over?”

The words come out quietly. Almost like you didn’t mean to say them out loud, but you did. And once they’re there, they don’t go away. Eddie stills beside you. Completely. Like, even breathing might break the moment.

“…What?” he asks, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

You swallow, your gaze dropping to your hands for a second before you force yourself to look at him again, your eyes already glassy, your voice steady but fragile.

“I just…” you exhale shakily. “I miss you.” There’s no performance in it. No softness to cushion the blow. Just truth.

The words hit him like a punch in the gut, you can see it. The way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw tightens slightly, not defensively this time, but like he’s holding something back, something bigger than what he knows how to say.

“I miss us,” you add, quieter now, your voice trembling just slightly. “But not what we were at the end.”

He nods, immediately. Like, he understands that part more than anything else.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

You shift slightly, turning more toward him now, your knee brushing his, your hand finally settling just a little closer to his. “I don’t want that again,” you say. “I can’t do that again.”

“I know,” he says quickly, almost too quickly. “I wouldn’t— I’m not—”

He stops himself. Swallows. Starts again, slower this time. “I know.”

“Can we just…” You hesitate, searching for the words, “try again? Like… from the beginning. No expectations. No… assuming we know each other the same way we used to.”

Eddie looks at you like that’s the most terrifying thing you could’ve asked him. Because it kind of is. Starting over means he can’t rely on what you had. It means he has to earn it. All of it.

“I don’t know if I…” he trails off, rubbing a hand over his face, something uncertain flickering across his expression. “I don’t wanna screw it up again.”

Your chest tightens. “Then don’t,” you say softly.

He huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly, like it’s not that easy. “It’s not that simple,” he mutters.

“I know,” you nod. “But neither is not trying.”

He looks at you for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s weighing every possible version of this in his head and none of them feel safe enough.

“I just…” he starts, then stops, his voice catching slightly in a way that’s unfamiliar, like he doesn’t quite know how to say what he’s about to say without sounding stupid.

Which, for him, is saying a lot. He exhales. Then, quieter, “I kept thinking about… later.”

You blink slightly. “Later?”

“Yeah,” he nods, eyes dropping to his hands for a second. “Like… future stuff.”

Your chest tightens just a little. “I tried to picture it without you,” he admits, voice low now, rough around the edges. “Like, I tried to think about where I’d be, what I’d be doing, who I’d be with—”

He lets out a small, almost embarrassed breath. “And it just…” he shakes his head slightly. “It didn’t work.”

You don’t move, don’t breathe. Because the way he’s saying it, it’s not smooth. It’s not poetic.  

“I kept coming back to you,” he continues, glancing up at you finally, something vulnerable sitting right there, completely unguarded. “Every version of it. Every time I tried to imagine anything, you were just… there.”

Your vision blurs instantly. Tears spilling over before you can stop them. Because it’s not perfect. It’s not some big, polished confession. It’s awkward, a little clumsy. But it’s real. It’s him.

Your breath stutters, a soft, broken sound slipping out as you try to catch it, your hand coming up to your face without thinking, wiping at tears that won’t stop.

Eddie freezes immediately. “Oh— shit,” he mutters, panic flickering across his face as he leans toward you. “Hey, no, I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”

His hands hover for a second, unsure, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you, if he’s about to make it worse again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t— that sounded stupid, I just—”

You shake your head quickly, laughing through the tears, something soft and overwhelmed and almost relieved breaking through all at once.

“No,” you manage, your voice shaky but warm, reaching out without thinking this time, grabbing his wrist lightly. “No, it didn’t.”

He stills. “Then why are you—” he gestures vaguely, still panicked.

You squeeze his wrist slightly, grounding him. “Because…” your voice cracks again, but you don’t stop it this time. “Because me too.”

“I tried to move on,” you continue, quieter now, your eyes searching his, open in a way they haven’t been in a long time. “I really did. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t picture it either. Not… not like that.”

His chest rises sharply, like the air got knocked out of him. “You were just… there,” you echo softly. “Every time.”

Silence falls, but it’s not heavy. It’s full of everything you didn’t say. Everything you’re saying now. His hand finally moves, slow, careful. Covering yours where it still rests against his wrist, not gripping, not pulling, just holding.

“I don’t wanna be who I was to you,” he says quietly.

“Then don’t be,” you whisper back.

Then, he nods, small but certain. “Okay,” Eddie murmurs.

And this time, it feels like a beginning. 

did i spend my entire Sunday writing this? oh but of course.

this was requested by @meowtherkat

i hope you all enjoyed. requests are open for anything else your little hearts may desire. As Above, So Below 2 should be out sometime soon, like very soon.

Johnny Storm Masterlist

Bucky Barnes

Relax, Congressman 🔥

Of Iron and Winter - paused

Football Sundays ✨

Publicist and the Winter Soldier ✨

A Thunderbolts Thanksgiving ✨

Warm me Up ✨

A Very Thunderbolts Christmas✨🎄

My Girl✨

Steve Rogers

The First of Many ✨

Yelena Belova

Love? ✨‼️

Peter Parker

The Shy Kind ✨

Vigilante Shit✨‼️

Ben Grimm

Finally Part 2 ✨🔥‼️

Clark Kent

Not so Secret Admirer ✨

Steve Harrington

You and Me… And My Brother ✨

White Christmas ✨‼️🎄

Confessions at Starcourt Mall ✨

Kissing 101 ✨

Ruin the Friendship ✨

Going to the Chapel! ✨

Under Pressure ✨‼️

I love you, baby ✨‼️

My Calm in the Storm ✨

This Time ✨‼️

The Harrington Army ✨

Kiss the Coach! ✨

All I Saw Was You✨

Heroes, Just for One Day✨‼️

Robin Buckley

Take a Chance on Me✨‼️

Secrets Out! ✨‼️

Sweaters and Kisses ✨

Headcannons✨

Eddie Munson

My Knight ✨‼️

Snow Day ✨

This is true love. You think this happens every day? ✨

Joaquin Torres

Matt Murdock

Natasha Romanoff

Billy Hargrove

Moodboards

Bucky Barnes: 1 2 3

Johnny Storm: 1 2 3

Peter Parker: 1

Steve Harrington: 1 2 3

Fic Recs

One - multi-fandom (all x reader)

Two - multi-fandom (all x reader)

✨fluff 🔥smut ‼️angst ⚠️ trigger warning

divider - @dividers-are-us

To say Johnny Storm missed you was an understatement..

Johnny thought about you nearly every single day.. and when he wasn’t Thinking about you? He was sleeping in because he was too afraid of confronting his own feelings. Johnny had been down in the dumps lately. It wasn’t entirely easy to avoid you.. I mean- you were also all over billboards and benches.. even cereal boxes had a small photo of you on the bottom of it surrounded by comic book spikes.

“SUB ZERO!”

It was that stupid catchphrase they had you saying in the cartoons and the end of interviews, even whilst trying to protect the city, citizens felt the need to ask you to say it for them. It was the equivalent to Ben Grimm’s “it’s clobbering time!” Only shorter, and more generic. It was like you were anywhere he was, and considering you two were polar opposites, (no pun intended,) the public ate it right up! All that people wanted to see was Frostbite and The Human Torch get back together. The split was pretty public, and everyone was distraught.

Nobody was more distraught than Johnny.

He had thought things were going good between the two of you, and he was content. All up until that fateful Tuesday, when you left him. Johnny, being Johnny, was confused. But the truth was, Johnny Storm was a flirt.. a well known flirt. He was adored by so many women (and possibly men..) and he liked to act on that attention. Some days, johnny would fly around and speak with fans.. now, that wasn’t what bothered you .. it was the fact that he would let these people flirt. And it wasn’t even just fans, even at events he would allow them to flirt with him right in front of you!

It was up until he allowed a kiss on the cheek that you needed to talk to him about it.. but then one kiss on the cheek turned to more, and you were sure there was at least one other woman in New York City that also shared the feeling that was Johnny Storm’s warmth in her bed. It happened one too many times and you were tired.. you didn’t like that he allowed this to happen. Especially in front of you.

It felt like he had been disrespecting you in a way. Taking you for granted just because he’s The Human Torch, and he could have anyone he wanted. But- Johnny never meant any harm. that charming persona? That was just him. And he figured he could fix things with you sooner than you may have thought. (If you did still think of him, that was..).

Flashback

You were sitting in one of the many lounge rooms in the Baxter building, half asleep and upset. Johnny was meant to be back from patrol an hour ago. He had promised to you that he would come back, you would watch tv, and then fall asleep together. It was perfect.. but- his tardiness just ruined it all. You didn’t even want to watch a movie with him anymore, if anything was even on air right now.. your head rest on the arm of the red couch, the soft fabric welcoming you in.

You felt you could fall asleep here..

That was until a familiar warmth entered the room through the open balcony door, smelling sort of like burned wood. “Missed me, sweet cheeks?” You could practically hear the silly grin on his face.

“I didn’t, leave me alone..” you gave a bit of snark back, nuzzling your face Into the soft fabric of the couch, seemingly getting ready to fall asleep on it.

His deep blue eyes scanned your figure which was now curled in fetal position on the lounge couch. He rest his hands on his hips and left out a soft, almost annoyed sigh, before he dropped his hands limply to his side, his hands smacking against the sides of his thighs as he did so.

“Look, I’m sorry, just— some things came up on patrol, and..”

“And you’re late again, after you promised—“ before you could even finish your sentence Johnny shushed you and came closer, trying to convince you he never meant to be late.

“I know I’m sorry.. please, believe me I tried to come back fast as I could, just.. something came up Q.”

“Who came up?” You lifted your head from the couch and looked at him with crossed arms. You still didn’t trust Johnny, not after that Four event where he had been hugging and buying drinks for some blonde lady who was clearly throwing herself at him. He was kind of making her think something could be at the end of the night.

“Honey pie.. come on.. you know I would never cheat you.” He always had the dumbest pet names reserved just for you.

“Do I? You seemed pretty cozy with that lady—“ and again, before you could even finish, johnny interrupted you with a rebuttal.

“I told you, nothing was going on. You’re the only woman for me, and I don’t need anyone else like I need you..” Johnny came up to your form on the couch, leaning down and gently pushing your hair to the side with his index and middle finger.

“Whatever..” you said, even though a soft smile came to your face at his gentleness with you. You leaned in and peppered soft kisses to his waiting lips. The kisses were soft and quick, carried out with a practiced ease that lit that familiar fire in your hearts. Maybe it was just his abilities, but you felt warmth spread throughout your chest, a cozy feeling.

Maybe you should stop worrying about other women.

Present day (five Months Later..)

Johnny was cooped up in his room in the baxter building. He had been listening to sad music nearly every day for the last ten months. Johnny even made a playlist dedicated to his ‘one and only true love’. Which, in short, meant you. He hummed the lyrics of the first song before it even came on, already knowing how it goes from his months of playing it whenever he missed you.

He was now doodling on the calendar he had taken from your desk in Reed’s lab. Since you were living in the Baxter building ( even though you weren’t a member of the four.. ) , technically he could talk to you whenever. he just didn’t want to do it in person because he’d sob like a little boy.

So, he did what he thought would get your attention.

“Can we talk? I miss you.”

It was written in the best handwriting he could (because usually, his was very bad.) and he nearly crumbled it up out of fear that you would just throw it away once you saw it before he turned the next page of your calendar and saw the hearts on the bottoms of the page. Were you seeing someone else? Doodling hearts on your things was a telltale sign of a crush— so who were you crushing on?

Johnny was about to scribble on them when there was a knock at the door.

He straightened himself up, fixing his hair quickly even though it had always been perfect, and spritzing your favorite cologne of his on his neck and behind his ears (to which the tips of them had gotten red with anxiety.)

He opened the door.

“Hey, man. Herbie’s been sitting outside of your door for a while. ‘has something for you.”

Herbie rolled in on his wheels without invitation, spinning around and resting at Johnny’s side. He gave a few impatient beeps, nudging Johnny’s thick thigh. “Alright, Herbert! I get it ..” Johnny warned, though it had no real bite. As he talked with Ben, he scratched Herbie’s head.

“Well.. just wanted to let you know so you didn’t keep him waiting. Team’s gonna be in the lounge.” Ben turned to leave until he heard the lyrics of the song.

“It’s still too new, I can’t believe I’m losing you.”

“Come on, kid, seriously?” Ben grimaced, even with his often neutral rocky face. It had been months, Johnny knew that. But there was no getting over you, Frostbite.

“It’s still fresh on my mind, Ben. I don’t need the whole.. lecture.” Johnny closed the door before Ben could even say anything. Ben caught a whiff of the cologne as the door closing blew air in his face. Johnny had thought it was you at his door, not Ben.

Herbie beeped at him for his attention, rolling behind him to push him away from the door and to a chair. Beep! Herbie must have woken up on the wrong side of the charging port today..

“What is it, Herbert?”

Herbie’s arm extended, and it was an envelope. It looked dusty and old. like it had been locked away for awhile.

“Look, herb- I’d appreciate it if you weren’t digging in the trash-“

Herbie beeped loudly, pushing the letter closer to Johnny.

“..fine.”

Johnny opened the envelope, and the thin, folded paper already revealed the smudged pen and top-to-bottom cursive writing. Writing that Johnny had memorized upon meeting you. It was your letter.

“I don’t wanna..”

He trailed off as curiosity got the best of him, his hands were already opening the letter despite his brain telling him not to invade your privacy like that.

“Johnny, did you ever love me?.. the way you push me away tells me otherwise. I know we’ve been fighting recently but that doesn’t mean you should be flirting with other people. It really makes it hard to be around you when paparazzi is snapping photos of you with other women. Like, The Gala, for instance. I dressed in my best dress, did my hair up real nice, and even did my makeup and yet you still took that time to ‘socialize’ with the other guests (which, from anyone else’s perspective looked like flirting) and barely even looked at me. How can you tell me that you love me behind closed doors and then in public treat me like some accessory that doesn’t have feelings too? You let these people touch you and send you letters all the time, and you look happy reading them. I hope I might just be overreacting and you aren’t sleeping with another woman.. I hope that I don’t come home after patrol excited to see you and you’re out doing—“

That was all. He couldn’t read more, it was all too scary to confront. He had ruined his relationship with his stupid charm. All of the attention got to his head, and he ruined the thing he had with the only woman he’s ever loved for a short lived moment of an inflated ego. His blue eyes, like the deepest depths of the sea, began to drip. He covered his face, not wanting Herbie to see (even though he was a robot, it was still too embarrassing.)

He dropped the paper, almost as if it had burned him. When it was the complete opposite. Despite himself, he felt cold without you— and that confused him. How was The Human Torch cold without you if your entire image was built off of the icy touch of your hands?

Frostbite. America’s sweetheart alongside The Invisible Woman. Everyone loved the two, but it wasn’t always like that. There were a few men here and there before the Excelsior telling you, and Sue Storm, that you would never make it as Scientists and Astronauts because ‘women are too sensitive for their own good.’ They didn’t think that you could spend a few minutes up in space let alone WHAY the Excelsior had accomplished despite its failure.

But now, you were loved from around the world. Everyone couldn’t get enough. And what intrigued them more than the fact that you could spawn ice from your hands? You weren’t in the Four. You were an ‘independent’ superhero. All that the public could talk about was when you were joining The Four (and making it ‘The Fantastic Five’? Yeah, right.)

But the four were your family, and after the Excelsior, they wanted to keep things that way. And so, now you were essentially living every Flaming Hearts Club member’s dream, you lived with Johnny storm. And he was madly in love with you.

Truth was, You were missing him too.

But Johnny was a dog, you couldn’t be missing him. After Johnny, love would be bleak and out of the picture for the rest of your life. There was no man you’d ever wanted quite as much as Johnny.

But, his comfort around other women made you remember why it was all over. You didn’t know if things would always be this way, and seeing him also sad made you think that maybe things could be mended.

Maybe you should try?

It was lunchtime, and an interviewer was coming into the Baxter building today to interview you. You were cleaning up your room, folding clothes and putting them away in drawers or hanging them up. You let your record spin lowly in the corner of the room, not bothering to turn it off despite the melancholic theme.

You were dressed in the ‘ice cream parlor plaids’ that a company had sent to you for you to wear to a Gala event (you never did). The blouse was a soft green color, and had a deeper, sage greenish belt. The skirt was plaid with white and pink accents, and you were wearing same-color green heels.

You waited a long while before Herbie informed you that the interviewer was in the building with a few beeps. You walked down the corridor past Johnny’s room, he was blasting music again. You didn’t stop to listen to it, though, you kept walking down the hall until you met the interviewer in the lounge. It was a man with dark brown hair and green eyes. He introduced himself and extended his long arm so you could shake his hand.

“No cameras?” You asked, shaking his waiting hand and looking past him to see if there were any camera crew.

“None, just you and me, Frostbite. Now— I have some questions I’d like to ask you. Mind if I have a seat?”

Wow, okay— that was quick. Maybe you could be done with this in the next hour or so and be able to sulk in your room. God, you missed Johnny and his stupid, stupid face. “Ask away.”

He nodded, flipping through his notebook and settling on a heavily marked page. You braced herself for the questions as you sat down on the couch opposite to him.

“Well, to begin i think every gentleman should ask how your day has been. So, how has your day been?”

Already going down that path.. okay. You ran your hands over your leggings, sitting tightly with your knees pressed together. “It’s been relatively good. Organizing records and whatnot.”

He nodded, tapping the pen against his lips as he looked at you. He didn’t write that down.

“And what’s the whole.. thing.. happening with Mr. Storm? Are you two still going steady?”

You looked down, staring at your shoes. Of course you’d have to answer this question again..

“Uh.. no. We split.” You reply, purposely vague so you could just skim past the question but he pushed further.

“So Mrs. Frostbite is on the market?” He asked, his pen now hovering over the paper as if he was waiting for you to say something so he could write it down. The fact made you chuckle a little bit.

“Something like that.” You look up at him again, trying to draw his expression. You couldn’t.

“Golly, I might have to scoop her up before it’s too late.” That made you laugh, not because it was funny, but because you wouldn’t let him. He laughed too, thinking the joke may have earned his some brownie points.

As you guys talked and the occasional chuckle was thrown out there, johnny emerged from the hallway with Herbie. He saw you and immediately darted away to someplace else. He walked into the kitchen and reached into the cabinet for the cereal, it was your box that he seemed to have liked, not that you were paying attention or anything.

“—and so they just stood there and screamed at you?” He chuckled, clearly not believing it.

“Yes! It was so—“ Johnny looked between the two of you, chewing his cereal loudly, and eating it straight out of the box. He knew you hated that. You cleared your throat and looked at the interviewer.

“Sorry..” the interviewer looked at you and reached over the table to touch your hand again. That touch nearly set johnny off. You could feel it when he walked past you because the air felt so hot, his hands were so hot they began to turn as red as a branding iron. You weren’t flirting with the interviewer, especially not with Johnny near. Did he really think that?

“You were saying?”

TO BE CONTINUED… (slang for: I ran out of ideas.)