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The hallway is loud in that particular way it always is between periods, lockers slamming, voices bouncing off tile, someone’s cassette player bleeding tinny music into the chaos, and you’re halfway through spinning the dial on your locker. 

“Miss me, sweetheart?”

His voice is low, right by your ear, all gravel and teasing warmth. 

Before you can even react, there’s a hand at your waist, the other catching your wrist, and he’s spinning you around like you weigh nothing, like this is second nature, like you belong right there in his orbit.

“Eddie—” you start, but you’re already smiling, already gone for him.

He grins like he’s just pulled off the greatest magic trick in the world, hair falling into his eyes, rings glinting as he lifts a finger in front of your face. “Ah, ah. No talking. Close your eyes.”

You narrow yours instead, suspicious. “That sounds like a trap.”

“It’s a gift,” he corrects, mock offended, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “Jesus, you wound me.”

You huff a quiet laugh, but you listen, because it’s him, and you let your eyes fall shut. The hallway noise fades a little, or maybe it’s just that you’re suddenly hyper-aware of him. 

“Hand,” he murmurs.

You lift it without question.

There’s a pause, like he’s taking his time on purpose, like he knows anticipation is half the fun, and then something cool presses against your finger. He slides it on slowly, like it means something, and it’s not just a joke.

“Okay,” he says softly, voice dropping just a fraction. “Open.”

You do.

It’s a ring, obviously, but not just any ring. It’s silver, a little worn in a way that feels intentional, the band thicker than anything delicate, and set into it is a small black stone, dark and glossy, catching the fluorescent lights just enough to gleam. It’s a little edgy, a little dramatic, very him.

You turn your hand slightly, watching it catch the light. “Eddie…”

He’s watching you like he’s waiting for a verdict, like your reaction matters more than he’d ever admit out loud, though the way he’s practically vibrating gives him away. “Saw it at the flea market this weekend,” he says, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Thought of you. Y’know. Dark, mysterious, probably cursed—”

“It’s perfect,” you cut in, looking back up at him.

Something in his expression softens immediately, the edge of his grin melting into something warmer, quieter. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You flex your fingers, the ring settling comfortably like it’s always belonged there. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he shrugs, but there’s that fondness in his eyes again, unmistakable. “I wanted to. Gonna deck you out eventually, y’know. One ring for every time you put up with my bullshit.”

You snort. “So I’m gonna run out of fingers fast.”

“Hey,” he points at you, mock stern. “We can get creative.”

By lunch, you’ve already caught him staring at your hand more than once, like he can’t believe it’s still there, like it means more than just a piece of metal. 

He laces his fingers through yours under the table, thumb brushing over the ring absentmindedly, and when you glance at him, he just gives you that lazy, crooked smile.

“Looks good on you, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

By the time you end up in his trailer, the light’s already starting to dim, that soft gold slipping into something quieter, and you’re sprawled across his bed with a textbook propped open in your lap like it personally offended you.

You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for at least five minutes.

“Okay,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. “This is actually torture.”

Eddie, who’s halfway through digging around for something in a drawer, glances over at you, brows lifting. “Homework’s kicking your ass, sweetheart?”

“I’ve read this sentence, like, twelve times,” you complain, tapping the page. “And I couldn’t tell you a single word of it. My brain is… gone. Evaporated. Dead.”

He hums, shutting the drawer and wandering over, dropping onto the bed beside you with a soft bounce. “Lemme see.”

You angle the book toward him, already slumping sideways until your shoulder bumps his. “It’s so boring,” you add, quieter now. “And I’m so tired.”

He scans the page for a second, lips moving slightly as he reads, and then he glances down at you, something soft flickering across his face.

“Alright,” he says, like he’s just made a decision. “Gimme it.”

You blink. “What?”

“Gimme the book,” he repeats, holding out his hand.

You hesitate, suspicious. “Why?”

“I’ll read it to you.”

You stare at him for a beat, then let out a short laugh. “You hate reading.”

“Wow,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him again. “First of all, rude. Second of all, I hate boring reading. Big difference.”

You squint at him. “This is literally boring reading.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, taking the book from your hands anyway. “But you’re not.”

You feel your face warm just a little. “That was smooth.”

“I have my moments,” he shoots back, already flipping to your page. “Now, c’mere.”

You don’t argue. You never really do with him when he gets like this, all quietly insistent. 

You shift closer, curling into his side, your head finding its place against his chest like it belongs there. His arm slides around you without hesitation, pulling you in, thumb brushing absently along your arm.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs.

“Mhm,” you hum, already softer.

“Good. Pay attention, this is gonna be riveting.”

You snort lightly as he starts reading, his voice dipping into that exaggerated seriousness for the first few lines, like he’s trying to make it entertaining for you. 

He throws in a dramatic pause here and there, changes his tone just enough to make you smile, even if the content is still painfully academic.

“‘The socio—’ Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, then clears his throat. “Okay, hang on, I got this.”

You laugh quietly against him. “Struggling, Munson?”

“Absolutely not,” he scoffs. “I am thriving. This is my calling, actually. Gonna drop out, become a professional textbook narrator.”

“Please do,” you mumble. “You’d make it bearable.”

“Damn right I would,” he says, softer now, the teasing easing into something warmer.

He keeps going, though, steady and patient, even when the words get dense, even when you can feel your focus slipping in and out. 

Every now and then, his fingers drift up to your hair, gently combing through it, grounding you without pulling you out of the moment.

At some point, you realize you’re not even trying to read along anymore. You’re just listening to him, the cadence of his voice, the way his chest rises and falls under your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, glancing down when he feels you go a little heavier against him. “You still with me, sweetheart?”

“Barely,” you admit, eyes half-lidded. “But it’s not your fault.”

“Wow,” he says softly. “Devastating.”

You smile faintly. “You’re doing good.”

“Yeah?” his voice drops a little, quieter, more genuine. “Even though I supposedly hate reading?”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “You don’t hate it. You just pretend to.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t expose me like that.”

“Too late.”

There’s a small pause, and then he shrugs one shoulder, like he’s giving in.

“Maybe I just like reading to you,” he says, almost offhand, like it’s not something that’s been sitting in his chest for a while.

You tuck yourself a little closer into him, pressing your face into his shirt. “Good.”

His arm tightens around you just a bit. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss into your hair before going back to the page. “Good.”

Somewhere between the third page and whatever long, winding sentence he’s currently fighting his way through, your focus slips completely.

Your body relaxes further into him, your head pressing more fully against his chest, your eyes drifting shut even though you’re still trying, in a half-hearted way, to listen.

“—and therefore the correlation between—” Eddie cuts himself off mid-sentence when he feels it, the shift in your weight, the way you’ve gone soft against him.

He glances down. You’re barely awake.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice dropping instantly, careful not to startle you. His hand comes up to your hair, brushing it back from your face. “You’re crashing on me, sweetheart.”

“M’not,” you mumble, words slurring just slightly.

“Uh-huh,” he huffs a quiet laugh. “You definitely are.”

You make a small noise of protest, but you don’t move; if anything, you tuck yourself closer, like his warmth is something you can physically hold onto.

He looks at you for a second longer, something soft and almost helpless settling into his expression, like he’s completely gone over you in the best way.

“Stay,” he says gently. “Just stay here tonight.”

Your eyes blink open just enough to find his. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he answers immediately, like it’s not even a question. His thumb traces lightly along your arm, grounding. “You’re halfway asleep anyway, might as well finish the process here.”

You let out a quiet breath, something easing in your chest. “Okay.”

The word is soft, but it’s enough. His grin flickers back, shorter this time, but just as warm. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “C’mon.”

He carefully shifts, easing you back onto the bed so you’re lying properly, one hand hovering near you like he’s making sure you’re settled before he pulls away. He disappears for a second, rifling through a pile of clothes near his dresser, muttering to himself under his breath.

“No, not that one… hold on…”

You watch him through half-lidded eyes, too tired to fully track what he’s doing, but aware of him, always.

“Alright,” he says finally, turning back around, holding up a shirt like it’s some grand reveal. “This one.”

You squint at it. “It’s just your shirt.”

“Hey,” he points at you. “It is not just my shirt. This is a classic. A staple. A cornerstone of my wardrobe.”

You let out a soft, sleepy laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, walking back over. “Sit up, sweetheart.”

You do, slower this time, and he kneels on the bed in front of you, gentler now, hands finding the hem of your shirt.

“Arms up,” he murmurs.

You follow his lead, too tired to argue, letting him help you out of your clothes with an ease that feels natural. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing that feels like anything other than care.

He pulls his shirt over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves, fingers brushing your skin in a way that’s absent-minded but soft.

When it settles on you, it’s big, of course it is, hanging off your frame, collar slipping just enough, sleeves swallowing your hands. He just stares for a second.

“Jesus,” he breathes, barely above a whisper.

You blink up at him. “What?”

He shakes his head, like he doesn’t even have the words, one hand coming up to lightly tug at the fabric near your shoulder, like he’s grounding himself in the reality of it.

“You look…” he trails off, then huffs a quiet laugh, almost embarrassed by himself. “You look so fucking pretty in my stuff, it’s actually insane.”

You smile, slow and sleepy. “It’s just a shirt.”

“It’s not,” he counters immediately, softer now, his thumb brushing along your collarbone where the fabric dips. “It’s my shirt. On you.”

There’s something about the way he says it, like it means more than he’s explaining.

“C’mere,” he murmurs again, voice gentler than anything else.

You go, shifting closer, and he eases you back down onto the bed, pulling the blanket over you, then sliding in beside you without hesitation. His arms wrap around you like they’ve done this a hundred times, like it’s instinct, one hand settling at your back, the other threading into your hair again.

He tucks you into him, close, careful, like you’re something he’s been wanting to hold onto all day.

“My girl,” he murmurs, almost to himself, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You hum quietly, already drifting. He lingers there for a moment, just looking at you, taking you in like he’s committing it to memory, like this is something he never wants to forget.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, softer still, brushing his nose lightly against your hair. “You’re gonna kill me looking like that.”

You don’t even have the energy to respond, just a faint smile ghosting across your lips.

He exhales, something warm and full settling deep in his chest, and pulls you just a little closer.

“Stay right here,” he murmurs. “Got you. All mine.”

And this time, when your breathing evens out completely, he doesn’t say anything else, just keeps his hand moving gently through your hair, like he could do it forever.

The Hideout is dim in that comfortable, familiar way, low lights, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, the hum of quiet conversation filling in the gaps between whatever song is playing on the jukebox.

You’re tucked into one of the booths near the back, fingers tracing absent circles along the condensation of your glass, still a little soft around the edges from the night before.

You’re still wearing the ring, of course you are. You’ve caught yourself looking at it more than once, turning your hand just slightly to watch it catch the light, like it’s something new every time.

He’s late. Not unusually so, but just enough that you’re starting to wonder if he got caught up with the band or his rust bucket of a van or something equally Eddie.

“Close your eyes.”

His voice is right there, low and warm against your ear, and it sends that immediate, familiar spark down your spine.

You barely have time to turn before he’s behind you, hands settling briefly at your shoulders like he’s steadying you.

You huff a quiet laugh, already smiling. “Eddie—”

“Uh-uh,” he cuts in softly. “Trust me, sweetheart. C’mon.”

You hesitate for half a second, more out of habit than anything, then let your eyes fall shut.

There’s movement around you, the subtle shuffle of him stepping away, the faint scrape of a chair, and then a small pause that stretches just long enough to make your curiosity spike.

“Okay,” he says. “Open.”

You do.

“Oh my god—Eddie?!”

He’s on one knee. Actually, on one knee, right there in the middle of the Hideout, hair falling into his face, hands slightly raised like he’s bracing for impact, and in one of them—

Another ring. Your brain short-circuits.

“Nonono—hey, hey,” he rushes out, eyes wide when he sees your expression, a nervous laugh slipping out. “Not proposing. Jesus, not— not yet anyway, don’t freak out—”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, hand flying to your chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he winces, then grins a little, sheepish but still very much himself. “Couldn’t just be normal about it, sorry.”

“You think?” you laugh, still recovering, but your eyes flick back to the ring in his hand, and your chest softens despite yourself. “What are you doing?”

He exhales, some of that nervous energy settling into something quieter, more genuine. His gaze lifts to meet yours, and for a second, the noise of the bar fades out, like it’s just the two of you in it.

“I just…” he starts, then huffs softly, shaking his head. “Okay, this is gonna sound lame as hell, but whatever.”

You smile, softer now. “I’m listening.”

He shifts slightly, still on one knee, thumb brushing over the ring like he’s grounding himself.

“I know it’s…early,” he says, slower this time, choosing his words carefully in a way he doesn’t always bother to. “And I’m not trying to, like, scare you off or anything. But I like you. A lot. Like, stupid amount.”

Your heart stutters.

“And I just wanted to give you something,” he continues, voice quieter now, a little rough around the edges, “that’s not just, like, a thing. More like…a promise, I guess.”

You tilt your head slightly. “A promise?”

“Yeah,” he nods, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “That I’m in this. With you. That I’m not going anywhere, unless you tell me to. That I’m gonna keep showing up behind you like a creep and giving you rings until you run out of fingers.”

You laugh, breathy and soft.

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes flicking down for a second before coming back to you. “Just…something you can look at and know you’ve got me. If you want that.”

“Eddie…” you murmur, a little overwhelmed in the best way.

He lifts the ring slightly. It’s different from the last one, thinner but still silver, with a subtle engraving along the band, something simple but intentional.

“No pressure,” he adds quickly. “You can say no. I’ll just—y’know—crawl under the nearest table and die quietly—”

You shake your head, cutting him off, a soft smile spreading across your face. “Shut up.”

He huffs a small laugh, and you extend your hand.

“I want it.”

Something in his expression just lights up.

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah.”

He slides it onto your finger, slower this time, more deliberate, like he’s aware of every second of it, like it matters. His fingers linger for just a moment longer than necessary, then he looks back up at you, that crooked, boyish grin settling in.

“Looks good on you,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you echo softly. “It does.”

There’s a pause. And then a whistle cuts through the air. Followed by clapping. Loud, unmistakable clapping.

You both turn, startled, to find half the bar watching you, a couple of guys at the counter already cheering, someone shouting, “SHE SAID YES!” like they’ve just witnessed the event of the century.

Your eyes go wide. “Oh my god—”

Eddie freezes for half a second, then looks back at you, grin spreading slowly, dangerously.

“Well,” he says, voice low with amusement. “Guess we’re engaged now.”

“Eddie!” you laugh, half hiding your face.

A waitress appears out of nowhere, sliding two drinks onto your table with a wink. “On the house for the happy couple.”

You gape at her. “We’re not—”

“She’s just shy,” Eddie cuts in smoothly, draping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. “Big moment.”

You smack his chest lightly, but you’re laughing. More cheers ripple through the bar, someone raising a glass in your direction, and Eddie leans in closer, lips brushing your ear.

“This is insane,” you whisper.

“I’m kind of loving it,” he whispers back.

You pull back just enough to look at him, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Hey,” he grins, lifting his drink. “Free drinks say otherwise.”

You laugh, leaning into him despite yourself.

He glances around once more, then back at you, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

“You know what?” he says, thoughtful for all of two seconds. “I’m gonna have to do this again.”

You blink. “What?”

“Yeah,” he nods, completely serious in the most unserious way. “Different bar. Different crowd. New ring. Really milk the system.”

You stare at him, then laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me,” he shoots back instantly.

You roll your eyes, smiling anyway, your fingers unconsciously brushing over the new ring.

“Yeah,” you admit softly. “I do.”

His expression softens just a fraction at that, something quieter slipping through the cracks of all his teasing.

“Good,” he murmurs, pulling you a little closer. “’Cause I meant it. The promise part.”

“I know,” you say.

The lake is quiet in that lazy, late-afternoon way, sunlight stretching long across the water, warm enough that it settles into your skin and stays there. 

The grass is soft beneath the blanket, your shoes kicked off somewhere behind you, and your book rests open in your hands, pages slightly worn from how often you’ve flipped through them.

You’re comfortable. More than that, you’re content. Which is exactly why—

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes don’t even lift at first. “No.”

There’s a pause. Then, closer now, dripping. 

“…you didn’t even look.”

“I don’t have to,” you reply, turning a page. “You sound wet.”

“I am wet,” Eddie says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You finally glance up. He’s standing there, hair soaked and clinging to his face, chest damp, and a grin already forming like he knows exactly what he’s about to do.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asks, stepping closer.

“Eddie.”

“What?”

You shift up onto your elbows, holding your book protectively against your chest. “You’re literally dripping.”

“Yeah,” he nods, taking another step. “Lake’ll do that to you.”

You point at him. “Do not come near me.”

He pauses, just long enough to make it seem like he might listen.

Then he drops down onto the blanket anyway, right next to you, all damp limbs and cool skin, immediately wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into him.

“Eddie!” you yelp, squirming. “You’re soaking!”

“Relax,” he laughs, nuzzling his face into your shoulder, completely unbothered. “You’ll survive.”

“It’s cold!” you protest, trying to push at his chest, though there’s no real strength behind it.

“Yeah, I noticed,” he grins against your skin, tightening his hold just slightly when you try to wiggle away. “C’mere. Warm me up, sweetheart.”

“You are unbelievable,” you mutter, but you’re already giving in, your body settling against his despite the initial chill. His skin is cool, but it doesn’t take long for it to even out, for the warmth between you to take over.

He sighs softly, content, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “There we go. That’s better.”

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Oh, I know,” he says easily. “I remind myself daily.”

His hand drifts along your side absentmindedly before he tilts his head slightly, eyes catching on the book still half-open in your hands.

“What’re you reading?” he asks.

You glance down at it, then back at him. “Sylvia Plath.”

He raises his brows, impressed. “Damn. Getting all deep on me.”

“Sometimes,” you shrug lightly.

He shifts just enough to prop himself up on one elbow, peering at the page. “Lemme see.”

You hesitate, then angle the book toward him.

He scans a few lines, lips moving slightly, and then something flickers in his expression, that familiar spark of mischief mixing with something softer.

“Alright,” he says, already reaching for it. “I got this.”

You let out a small laugh. “Here we go.”

He takes the book from you, clears his throat in an exaggerated, overly dramatic way, and immediately drops into a tone that’s way too intense for a sunny afternoon by the lake.

“‘I shut my eyes, and all the world drops dead—’” he begins, voice deep and theatrical, like he’s narrating some epic campaign instead of poetry.

You snort. “Oh, my god.”

“Shh,” he whispers sharply, though he’s grinning. “This is serious literature, sweetheart.”

He keeps going, leaning into it fully, giving every word weight, every pause just a little too long, like he’s performing for an audience of thousands instead of just you.

But underneath the dramatics, he’s good. He softens in the right places, lets the lines breathe where they should, and even when he’s being a little ridiculous, there’s care in it, attention.

You find yourself settling back into the blanket, eyes drifting half-closed again, listening.

He notices. His voice shifts, just slightly, the edge of the performance easing into something quieter, more natural, though the hint of that playful tone never fully disappears.

“‘I think I made you up inside my head,’” he reads, softer now.

Your chest tightens, just a little.

You tilt your head toward him, watching him this time instead of the page. His hair is still damp, curls falling messily around his face, rings catching the sunlight as he holds the book, completely focused.

“Eddie,” you murmur.

“Hm?” he glances down at you briefly, thumb marking his place.

“You’re…actually good at this.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, looking away for a second like he’s brushing it off. “Don’t spread that around. Ruins my whole reputation.”

You smile, reaching out to lightly tug at the edge of his shirt. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Better be,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently with his. “Now stop interrupting. I’m in the zone.”

“Yes, sir,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness there that doesn’t fade.

You settle back into him, your head finding its place against his chest again, one of your hands resting loosely over his stomach, fingers brushing absent circles over the damp skin.

His arm wraps around you automatically, pulling you closer without thinking, like it’s just how you exist now, intertwined.

“My girl,” he murmurs under his breath, more to himself than anything, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head before continuing. 

He keeps reading, slower now, softer, the words blending with the sound of the lake, the warmth of the sun, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

Every so often, he’ll dip back into that overly dramatic tone just to make you laugh, calling you “fair maiden” or “keeper of the sacred text” under his breath, and you’ll swat at him lightly, telling him to shut up while smiling the whole time.

“Don’t sass me,” he mutters at one point, tightening his hold around you. “I’m providing a service.”

“A very annoying one,” you mumble.

“Yeah?” he leans down slightly, voice dropping. “Still your favorite, though.”

You hum, pretending to think about it.

He nudges you. “C’mon.”

You tilt your head up just enough to meet his eyes, soft and warm and entirely yours.

“Yeah,” you admit quietly. “Mine.”

Something in his expression shifts, just for a second, something deeper slipping through the usual teasing.

“Damn right,” he murmurs, brushing his nose lightly against your hair. “And you’re mine.”

GAH i loved this.

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