Christie

The bell jingles softly overhead, drawing your attention from the carafe you were filling to the front door. Your usual regular comes in every day at the same time: 7 a.m. sharp, yet you have never once caught his name. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t care; you always remembered people's names when they introduced themselves. But this customer, in particular, always made you feel a certain way. 

Tall, broad shoulders, dark curly hair, tattoos, big dark-amber doe eyes, and always adorned in various band tees and metal accessories; you couldn’t help but be awestruck whenever he came in.

Asking for his name was difficult when you could barely peel your eyes off of him to make his coffee or give him his change. 

And, not to mention, he always greeted you the same way, which even after four months of seeing him made your stomach flutter all the same. 

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said casually, gliding over to the counter and resting his elbows on the glass. 

“Hey, you,” you replied. ‘Hey you?’ What am I, a fucking idiot? “What can I do ya for?”

He pointed across the counter. "Didn't pin you for a Kappa Delta girl."

Your eyes followed his hand down to the faded green letters stretched across your chest, and you groaned dramatically.

"Oh, God, don't remind me."

"So you are?"

"Unfortunately."

A laugh rumbled out of him. "Unfortunately?"

"My grandmother was one. My mom was one. My older sister was one. Legacy status and all that." You shrugged. "Plus they have alumni connections that could basically hand me internships after graduation, so..."

"So you sold your soul."

"I leased it," you corrected. "There's a difference."

He barked another laugh, head tipping back just enough for the silver chain around his neck to catch the morning light. "I knew there had to be a catch."

You folded your arms across the counter, narrowing your eyes playfully. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

He looked at you for a second. Not glanced, looked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "You don't exactly scream sorority girl."

Your lips twitched. "What do I scream?"

His eyes wandered for a moment, taking in the long black nails, the silver hoops decorating your nose, the tiny bat charm hanging from your necklace, and the faint outline of tattoos disappearing beneath your sleeves.

"You look like you'd bully frat boys for fun."

"I do."

"I believe it."

"I've made three cry."

His grin got even bigger. "I definitely believe it."

You busied yourself finishing his drink, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he'd apparently been paying enough attention to have an opinion about you at all.

You slid the cup onto the counter. "That'll be four eighty-six."

His hand instinctively went to his back pocket, then his front, then his jacket. The smile slowly disappeared from his face.

"...You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"What?"

"My wallet."

He patted himself down again like it might magically appear. "I left it at home."

He let out a breath through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I can run back and—"

You waved him off before he could finish. "It's fine."

"No, it's not."

"It is."

He looked unconvinced. You leaned your elbows on the counter.

"The owner of this place is some rich schmuck who spends six months out of the year in the Bahamas and has never once noticed if inventory's off by a cup of coffee."

"I still don't want you getting in trouble."

"I won't."

"You sure?"

You smiled.

"I've accidentally made the wrong drink three times this week."

"You?"

"I'm shockingly incompetent."

"I don't buy that for a second."

"You shouldn't."

A quiet laugh escaped him as you nudged the cup another inch toward him. "Take it."

For a second, he just looked at you. Then he picked it up carefully. "Thanks... sweetheart."

You pretended that didn't make your stomach flip. As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You know..."

"What?"

"I've been coming here every morning for four months."

"Mhm."

"You've never asked my name."

You blinked. "...Huh."

"And I just realized I've never asked yours, either."

A sheepish smile spread across your face. "I guess we're both terrible at introductions."

"I guess we are."

You reached across the counter and plucked the cup back out of his hand before he could protest.

"What're you doing?"

"Fixing it."

You uncapped your Sharpie and quickly wrote something on the side before handing it back. He looked down. Instead of his order, there was your first name, and underneath it, your phone number.

His eyes flicked back up to yours. You suddenly became very interested in the espresso machine behind you.

"So..." you mumbled. "Now you know mine."

A slow smile spread across his face, softer than the cocky little grin he'd walked in with. He looked back down at the cup one more time before meeting your eyes again.

"Eddie."

"What?"

"My name."

You couldn't help smiling. "It's nice to finally meet you, Eddie."

He wrapped one hand around the warm cup, still looking at the writing on the side.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think it is."

The common room smelled faintly of vanilla candles and expensive perfume, with a hint of whatever pumpkin spice disaster someone had burned in the kitchen that afternoon.

You were tucked into the corner of the oversized sectional with your legs folded beneath you, a dog-eared paperback resting comfortably in your lap. It was one of the only quiet places on campus, at least in theory.

In reality, there were six girls gathered around the coffee table barely ten feet away, and they had absolutely no concept of indoor voices.

"Oh my God, did you see his face?" one of them laughed, nearly spilling her drink. "I genuinely thought he was gonna cry."

Another girl snorted. "He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole."

Your eyes stayed fixed on the page. You'd gotten remarkably good at pretending not to listen.

"I still can't believe we made him stand outside with that sign."

"And then nobody even talked to him."

"I did."

The group collectively turned toward Madison, who looked far too pleased with herself.

"You did not."

"I swear."

"What'd you say?"

She took a sip from her cup with a little smirk. "He asked me if I wanted to get coffee sometime."

Someone immediately burst out laughing. "No, he didn't."

"He absolutely did."

"And?"

"I said yes."

A chorus of dramatic gasps erupted around the room. "You are such a liar."

"I'm serious."

"So you're actually going?"

Madison's smile widened into something that made your stomach turn. "Oh, absolutely."

You looked up from your book for the first time. She continued casually, like she was discussing the weather.

"I'm gonna tell him to meet me at Romano's Friday night."

Someone else caught on instantly. "Oh, my God."

"And then?"

"I'm not showing up."

Another girl laughed.

"No, no. Better." Madison leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'm gonna have Tyler and Jake there recording him waiting."

The room exploded into laughter. "We'll post it."

"That's so evil."

"It's hilarious."

"He seriously thought he had a chance."

Someone chimed in from the armchair. "Didn't you guys dump a trash can on him during hazing?"

"That was different."

"We also shaved his eyebrows."

"You did not."

"Just one."

More laughter.

You slowly closed your book. The sound wasn't loud, but it was enough to draw a few eyes toward you.

"What?" Madison asked.

You looked at her for a second before speaking. "Don't do that."

She blinked.

"...Do what?"

"The date."

Her expression immediately soured with amusement.

"It's just a joke."

"No, it's not."

"He'll get over it."

You slipped your bookmark between the pages. "He asked because he likes you."

"No," Madison scoffed. "He asked because I'm hot."

"And he thinks you're nice."

That earned another round of laughter. "Oh, sweetheart."

You ignored it. "If you don't want to go, don't go."

"I don't."

"Then tell him no."

Madison rolled her eyes. "Where's the fun in that?"

You looked at her for another long second. "I don't know."

Your voice stayed perfectly calm. "I've just never thought humiliating someone for liking me sounded particularly entertaining."

Another girl shrugged. "You're too nice."

"I don't think that's what this is."

Madison leaned back against the couch. "God, you're such a grandma."

You smiled faintly. "I've been called worse."

Someone changed the subject almost immediately, conversation moving on to parties and outfits and football games, but your attention had already drifted, and you looked back down at your book.

The words blurred together. You couldn't stop thinking about the poor freshman with one eyebrow, standing outside some restaurant waiting for a girl who was never planning on showing up.

By the time you came downstairs that afternoon, the entire house was buzzing. Not with excitement, but with gossip.

The television mounted above the fireplace was muted, some reality show flickering silently across the screen while half a dozen girls occupied every available couch and armchair, coffees in hand and phones practically glued to their palms.

You'd barely made it three steps into the common room before you heard Madison's name.

"...I'm telling you, he actually waited almost forty minutes."

Another girl burst into laughter. "No, he did not."

"He absolutely did."

You quietly crossed toward the kitchen, hoping to escape unnoticed. No such luck.

"Did you hear about that freshman?" someone asked from behind you.

You looked over your shoulder. "No."

"The one Madison was talking to."

"Oh."

You already had a bad feeling. A blonde sitting cross-legged on the sofa practically bounced with excitement. "So apparently she texted him to meet her at Romano's last night."

You didn't say anything.

"Poor idiot actually showed up with flowers."

Your stomach sank while another voice chimed in. "Not flowers."

"A single rose."

"Oh my God, that's even worse."

The room dissolved into giggles while You stayed quiet.

"He waited forever," another girl continued. "Then his pledge masters showed up."

"They told him Madison was waiting downstairs."

"In the basement."

You slowly lowered the mug you'd been reaching for. "...Romano's has a basement?"

"It rents out the lower level for parties."

Someone snorted. "They took him down there and made him chug like half a bottle of vodka."

"No, it was whiskey."

"I heard it was tequila."

"They made him eat dog food."

"They shaved his head."

"They wrote all over him with Sharpie."

"I heard they made him call his mom drunk and then run across the freeway."

The details changed with every person who spoke, each version somehow becoming more ridiculous than the last, but the laughter never stopped.

The point wasn't what had happened; the point was that everyone thought it was funny.

One girl looked up from her phone. "I heard his name's Gareth."

Another shrugged. "Whatever it is, he's definitely dropping."

Madison herself wandered into the room a moment later, completely unfazed, grabbing a yogurt from the refrigerator as if they were discussing the weather instead of another human being.

The second she sat down, someone asked, "Did he actually bring you flowers?"

She grinned. "Apparently."

The room erupted again.

You stared at her, and she noticed, staring right back. "What?"

"You knew he was going to."

"So?"

"So you still sent him there."

Madison looked genuinely confused by your expression. "It was a joke."

"No," you said quietly. "It wasn't."

She rolled her eyes. "He's a frat pledge. They'll haze him either way."

"That doesn't mean you had to help."

"Oh, my God." She laughed through the words. "Are you actually feeling bad for him?"

You looked around the room; nobody else seemed bothered. Some of them were still laughing. One girl was already recounting the story over FaceTime to somebody else.

Finally, you looked back at Madison. "I just think if someone asks you on a date and you're not interested..." You shrugged, "...you could just say no."

For a brief second, nobody said anything. Then Madison smirked. "You are so weird."

Another girl nodded. "Seriously."

You looked down at your coffee for a moment before forcing a small grin onto your face, one that had become second nature over the years.

"Whatever," you said with a little shrug. "I won't be “weird” once I bring you all free pastries after work."

That immediately changed the mood. Madison gasped dramatically. "Are we talking muffins or those chocolate croissants?"

"The croissants."

"I take everything back."

Another girl pointed at you from across the room. "See? This is why we keep you around."

"For my sparkling personality?"

"No."

"The day-old baked goods."

A couple of them laughed, the conversation effortlessly drifting away from Gareth and onto weekend plans, football games, and who was wearing what to Saturday night's mixer. You let them; it was easier.

You'd long since figured out that there wasn't much point in arguing. They'd laugh, call you sensitive, tell you to lighten up, and move on without giving it another thought.

So instead, you simply grabbed your bag from beside the stairs, waved over your shoulder, and headed for work. The walk into town did little to shake the conversation from your head.

You found yourself thinking about the boy you'd never met, sitting alone at Romano's with flowers in his hand, probably checking the door every few minutes with that tiny flicker of hope that somebody was actually going to show up.

The image lingered even as you unlocked the café and tied your apron around your waist.

Your afternoon shifts were usually uneventful.

A handful of students hiding behind laptops, professors grading papers over americanos, the occasional frazzled parent trying to wrangle a screaming toddler with a blueberry scone.

Which was exactly why, barely an hour into your shift, the familiar jingle above the front door made your head snap up.

You blinked. For a second, you genuinely thought you'd imagined him.

Eddie stood just inside the entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, curls a little windblown from outside.

He looked around the café until his eyes landed on yours; a slow smile spread across his face.

"Well, this is new."

You couldn't help smiling back. "It is."

He wandered over to the counter, looking around theatrically. "I was beginning to think they kept you in a little cabinet overnight and only took you out at seven in the morning."

You laughed. "Nope."

"So you're actually a real person."

"Allegedly."

"Huh."

He rested his elbows on the counter. "I kinda liked the mysterious coffee cryptid theory better."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be."

He glanced up at the menu before looking right back at you. "So... this is your afternoon shift?"

You nodded. "Covering for somebody."

"I almost didn't come in."

"No?"

"Nah."

He smiled to himself. "Glad I did now."

You leaned against the espresso machine, folding your arms as he dug around in his pockets for cash. "So."

"So?" he echoed.

You gave him a pointed look. "You never called."

His hand froze for a fraction of a second before he let out a quiet, guilty laugh. "...Yeah."

"'Yeah?'"

"I know."

"I gave you my number and everything."

"I noticed."

"And then?"

"And then..." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely apologetic. "I had a really long night."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's the excuse we're going with?"

"No, that's the truth."

The teasing smile faded just enough that you immediately felt bad for pushing.

He looked down at the countertop, absentmindedly tracing one of the little scratches in the laminate with his thumb.

"One of my friends ended up in the hospital."

Your expression softened. "Oh."

"Some asshole fraternity hazing."

You didn't say anything.

"He got hurt pretty bad."

The words landed in your chest like a stone.

You'd spent all afternoon trying not to think about Gareth, trying to convince yourself that maybe the stories had been exaggerated through the campus rumor mill. Suddenly you weren't so sure.

Eddie exhaled through his nose. "I was there until like three in the morning."

"Is he okay?"

"He will be." His jaw tightened. "He's tough."

You nodded quietly. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged, but it wasn't convincing. "It sucks."

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then he shook himself out of it with a tired smile. "On the bright side, he's done with all that now."

"What do you mean?"

"He's dropping."

"Dropping?"

"The fraternity."

You nodded once. "Oh."

"He was only doing it because he thought that's what college was supposed to be."

"And now?"

Eddie smiled, though this one looked considerably more genuine. "Now he's transferring over to ours."

You blinked. "You have a fraternity?"

He looked almost offended. "I know. Shocking."

"I definitely didn't pin you for that type."

He laughed. "That's exactly what I said about your sorority."

"Touché."

"Ours isn't..." He searched for the right word. "One of the big campus ones."

"The terrifying Greek Row mansions?"

He nodded. "Yeah, definitely not that."

"So what is it?"

He shrugged. "A couple of guys living in a run-down house that desperately needs a new roof."

"Very prestigious."

"Extremely."

"I'm assuming there are matching sweaters."

"Oh, absolutely not."

"No little hand signs?"

"The only sign we’ll have is Gareth flipping everybody off when they make him do dishes."

You couldn't help laughing. "And people voluntarily join this organization?"

"Barely."

"What do you even do?"

He smiled. "Band practice in the basement. Movie nights. Cookouts when we can afford burgers instead of hot dogs. Other…stuff."

"So..."

"So?"

"It isn't really a fraternity."

His grin spread wider. "No."

"It sounds like a bunch of guys who accidentally signed a lease together."

"You’d be correct."

"I knew it."

He leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "We've got a house, we've got letters on the front, we've got paperwork with the university."

"And?"

"And mostly we just look after each other."

Something about the way he said it made your heart ache. Your thoughts drifted back to Gareth, to whispered conversations and laughter echoing through the sorority house that afternoon.

Without thinking, you smiled softly. "I think I like yours better."

Then, with impeccable timing, the espresso machine behind you let out a deafening hiss that made both of you jump. You burst into laughter, and Eddie looked at the machine.

"I think it disagrees."

"I think it's jealous."

"Of me?"

"No."

"The hot dogs."

He looked deeply offended. "They're actually pretty good."

"I don't believe that for a second."

"Come over sometime and find out."

The words came out so naturally that neither of you acknowledged them for a beat. Then his eyes widened ever so slightly, as did your own.

He cleared his throat. "I mean..."

You smiled despite yourself. "I know what you meant."

The next week settled into something dangerously close to a routine.

Every morning at seven on the dot, the bell above the café door would jingle, and Eddie would stroll in with his curls still a little messy from sleep and some new band shirt you'd inevitably spend the next five minutes trying not to stare at.

Some mornings he'd stay for all of three minutes, grabbing his coffee before rushing off to class.

Other mornings he'd linger against the counter while you cleaned the espresso machine or restocked cups, making conversation about whatever happened to cross his mind.

Professors he couldn't stand, the guitar amp that had decided to die on him over the weekend, a stray cat that had apparently moved into the back porch of his fraternity house and now refused to leave.

You learned he always picked the marshmallows out of Lucky Charms first. He learned you read at the counter whenever business was slow. You discovered he couldn't pronounce the name of the French pastry on the menu to save his life and would instead point at it with complete confidence until you handed it over.

And every single morning, without fail, he'd greet you exactly the same.

"Mornin', sweetheart."

By Friday, you had unfortunately reached the point where hearing it from anybody else would probably feel wrong.

He still hadn't asked you on a date, and you still hadn't asked him. Neither of you seemed particularly interested in rushing whatever this was.

It was comfortable, easy. Enough so that you found yourself smiling whenever you looked up and saw him walking through the door.

Which was exactly why, hours later, sitting barefoot on one of the stools in the sorority kitchen with a mug of tea and a textbook open in front of you, the sharp ring of the landline nearly made you spill it.

The house phone almost never rang; everyone had cell phones. For a second, nobody moved.

Then one of the girls shouted from upstairs, "Can somebody get that?"

You sighed, slid off the stool, and wandered over. "Hello?"

Nothing, just soft static. You frowned. "...Hello?"

Then a man's voice, low and calm. "Madison there?"

You glanced toward the staircase. "Yeah. Hold on."

"Thanks."

Something about it felt...odd. Not threatening, just strange.

His voice was too even, too measured, almost like he was deliberately trying not to sound recognizable.

You covered the receiver with your hand. "Madison!"

A moment later she came clattering downstairs in fuzzy slippers and an oversized sweatshirt. "For me?"

"So he says."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "If it's Tyler, tell him I'm busy."

You handed her the phone anyway. She tucked it between her shoulder and ear and wandered toward the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

You could still hear the occasional muffled sound of her voice, but not enough to make out words.

You returned to your tea. Barely thirty seconds passed.

Then, "What the fuck?"

Her voice echoed down the hallway. A moment later, Madison stormed back into the kitchen, looking thoroughly annoyed, hanging up the receiver hard enough that it rattled against the wall.

"What happened?" another girl asked from the doorway.

Madison crossed her arms. "Some creep."

"What creep?"

"I don't know."

She looked genuinely irritated. "He kept asking what I was wearing."

A chorus of disgust immediately followed. "Ew."

"What a freak."

"He knew my name."

One of the girls frowned. "Maybe it was Tyler messing with you."

"It wasn't Tyler."

"How do you know?"

"I know Tyler's voice."

Another girl leaned against the counter. "So what'd he say?"

Madison mimicked a deeper voice. "'What color shirt are you wearing, Madison?'" She rolled her eyes dramatically. "I told him to fuck off."

Someone laughed nervously. "Probably just some drunk guy."

"Probably."

Madison grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "But seriously,” she shivered, "It was creepy."

The conversation moved on almost as quickly as it'd started. By the time everyone drifted back upstairs, the phone call had already become another funny little story to tell over drinks.

You looked over at the silent receiver still hanging on the kitchen wall. For reasons you couldn't explain, you couldn't shake the feeling that the voice on the other end hadn't sounded drunk at all.

If anything, it had sounded patient.

By ten-thirty, the house had emptied almost completely. Doors had slammed, music had drifted down the front steps, and the collective cloud of perfume and hairspray had finally dissipated enough for the place to feel like it could breathe again.

You'd declined the mixer without much thought. 

The excuse had been homework. The reality was that spending your Friday night curled up on the couch with tea and a book sounded infinitely more appealing than making awkward conversation with finance majors wearing pastel polos.

The old grandfather clock in the foyer chimed once, then silence settled back over the house. You turned another page before the landline rang. The sound made you jump hard enough to nearly drop your mug.

You glanced toward the hallway. Once. Twice. Three rings. With nobody else home, you finally stood and crossed the hardwood floor.

"Hello?"

A brief pause of staticky silence. Then, "Hi."

The same voice. Low, calm, almost pleasant. You frowned ever so slightly.

"...Hi."

"I was hoping somebody would answer."

"You've got somebody."

A quiet chuckle. "I guess I do."

You rested your shoulder against the wall. "Can I help you?"

"I was looking for Madison."

"They're all out."

"Oh." The disappointment sounded almost genuine. "When will they be back?"

You hesitated. "I'm... not really sure."

"That's okay." Another brief silence. "You stayed home?"

You blinked. "Yeah."

"Homework?"

"...Something like that."

"You don't seem like the mixer type."

A tiny smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. "I guess not."

"You'd rather read."

Your smile vanished as you looked down at the paperback still sitting open on the couch.

"...Lucky guess."

"I suppose." His voice remained perfectly even. Comfortable, like talking to somebody over late-night radio.

"What're you reading?"

You glanced toward the cover. "'Rebecca.'"

"I've always liked that one."

"You've read it?"

"I've read lots of things."

"Hm."

"You sound surprised."

"A little."

"I disappoint you?"

"No."

You laughed softly. "I just wasn't expecting literary recommendations from mysterious men calling sorority houses."

Another quiet laugh. "Fair enough."

The conversation drifted for another minute. Movies. Coffee. The weather. Nothing strange, nothing threatening.

And yet something about it continued to make the hairs on your arms stand up. You couldn't have explained why.

Headlights suddenly swept across the front windows. Outside came the unmistakable sound of half a dozen girls talking over one another before the front door burst open.

Laughter. Music still playing from somebody's phone. Someone yelling that they'd lost a shoe.

You looked toward the foyer. "They're back."

"Already?"

"Looks like it."

The voice was quiet for a moment. Then, "Madison came home in the black heels, right?"

Your stomach tightened as you slowly turned toward the front windows. You couldn't see anyone outside. "...Yeah."

"The silver dress looked nice on her."

Your grip on the receiver tightened almost painfully. How...

The girls continued piling into the foyer, completely oblivious.

Madison stumbled in near the back of the group, kicking off exactly the pair of black heels he'd just described.

Your pulse began to climb, while the voice remained calm. "Could you hand her the phone?"

For one impossible second, you just stood there, your brain trying desperately to make sense of it.

Maybe he'd seen them leave. Maybe he'd driven by. Maybe...

Madison noticed you standing there. "For me?"

You looked from her... to the receiver in your hand... then nodded slowly. "I think so."

She rolled her eyes dramatically and took it. "Hello?"

You watched her expression change almost instantly; the smug annoyance disappeared. "What?"

Silence. Her face lost color. "No, that's not funny." Another pause. 

The room around her was still loud with drunken conversation, nobody paying much attention, but Madison wasn't listening to any of it anymore. Her fingers tightened around the receiver.

"Who is this?"

Silence. Then whatever was said next made her visibly stiffen. "No."

Another pause. "I said no." Her voice had become quieter. Not angry anymore, but scared. You took an unconscious step toward her.

Madison swallowed. "...How do you know that?"

Nothing. Her breathing changed, and the color drained completely from her face. "Stop it."

Another pause. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Please stop."

The laughter in the foyer had finally begun to die down as people were starting to notice. One of the girls frowned.

"Mads?"

Madison didn't answer. She was staring at the floor now, eyes wide and unfocused.

Then, without another word, she slowly lowered the receiver back onto its cradle and the line clicked dead.

Nobody spoke for several seconds. Finally, someone forced a laugh. "...Who was it?"

Madison didn't look up; her voice came out barely audible. "I..."

She swallowed hard. "I don't know."

Then she looked at you. Not annoyed, not embarrassed, but terrified. And for the first time since you'd met her, there wasn't a trace of arrogance left on her face.

Madison was still staring at the phone like it had personally offended her, one hand wrapped tightly around the edge of the kitchen counter.

Ashley was the first to break the silence. "...Madison?"

She didn't answer. "Madison, what did he say?"

Another girl laughed uneasily, the sound forced and far too loud. "Please don't tell me you actually got freaked out by some loser prank caller."

Madison slowly looked up. "He..." She swallowed. "He knew what I was wearing."

The room went quiet.

Ashley frowned. "What?"

"He described my dress."

Someone scoffed immediately. "He probably saw you leave."

"No." Madison shook her head. "He described it after I got home."

Another girl chimed in. "Maybe somebody from the mixer followed you guys back."

Madison wasn't listening anymore. "He knew I changed my shoes."

"What?"

"The heels."

Her breathing had become noticeably uneven. "He told me I came home in the black heels. The ones I kept in my purse to walk home in.”

A couple of girls exchanged uncertain looks. Still, nobody seemed genuinely concerned, until Madison spoke again.

"He asked me if I liked my room."

Your stomach sank. "What do you mean?"

Madison looked toward the staircase without realizing she'd done it. "He asked if I liked the poster over my bed. He asked if I still slept with my closet door open."

Nobody laughed this time. Madison's voice was barely audible now. "And then..."

She looked like she didn't even want to repeat it. "He said the window sticks when you try to close it all the way."

You felt every hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Madison suddenly lurched toward the front door, fumbling with the deadbolt before checking it once. Twice. Three times. Then she checked the handle anyway.

Ashley followed after her. "Madison—"

She was already moving toward the kitchen windows, yanking the curtains shut before checking those locks too. Then the back door. Then another window.

One of the girls nervously laughed. "Jesus Christ."

Madison ignored her completely. She was already halfway toward the foyer windows.

Ashley finally caught her wrist. "Hey."

Madison looked at her with genuinely panicked eyes. "What if somebody was watching us?"

Ashley glanced around at everyone else before lowering her voice. "Mads... think about it."

She didn't answer.

"The Pi Kap boys."

Madison frowned. "What?"

"They're messing with you."

Another girl immediately nodded. "Oh my God, obviously."

Ashley crossed her arms. "You dumped that drink on that guy tonight."

"So?"

"So now his buddies are probably trying to freak you out."

Someone else chimed in. "They probably had somebody parked outside the house."

"They know where you live."

"They've all been here for parties."

"And your room's literally been on your Instagram."

"They know what your room looks like."

"They know your outfits."

"They know what shoes you wear."

"They probably saw you come home."

The explanation settled over the room almost instantly; relief was contagious. Another girl laughed.

"Honestly? That's kind of a good prank."

Madison didn't laugh, but Ashley squeezed her shoulder. "It's just some pissed-off frat guys."

"They're trying to scare you because of it."

"They're assholes."

"But that's all it is."

For a long moment, Madison stood perfectly still. Then, slowly...

"...You think so?"

Ashley smiled. "I know so."

Another girl chimed in from the couch. "They're just trying to get in your head."

"And judging by this little performance..." She gestured vaguely toward the six different locks Madison had just checked. "...it's working."

A couple of people laughed again, tentatively this time. Madison finally managed a weak smile.

"Yeah."

Ashley nudged her toward the stairs. "Go to bed."

"I'm serious. Sleep it off. Tomorrow you'll realize it was some sophomore with too much time on his hands."

Eventually, Madison nodded and headed upstairs. The conversations slowly resumed. Music started playing from somebody's phone again.

Someone ordered late-night pizza. Within ten minutes, the atmosphere had almost completely recovered.

You lingered in the kitchen a little longer than everyone else, and your eyes drifted to the front window.

The curtains were drawn, and you couldn't see outside. For some reason...

You couldn't shake the feeling that someone might still be looking in anyway.

Sleep never really settled in after the phone call.

You'd drifted off eventually, more from exhaustion than anything else, but it wasn't restful.

Every creak of the old house seemed louder than usual, every shifting pipe enough to tug you halfway back to consciousness.

By the time you finally opened your eyes again, the room was dark enough that you had to squint to make out the red numbers glowing on your alarm clock.

2:43 a.m.

You let out a quiet sigh, pushed your blankets aside, and shuffled toward the door, still half asleep. The hallway was almost completely dark.

Only the tiny stained-glass lamp at the end of the corridor cast enough light to keep you from bumping into the walls, throwing patches of muted color across the hardwood floor.

You rubbed at your eyes and headed toward the bathroom as the floorboards creaked softly beneath your feet.

Halfway there, another one answered. Not yours.

You stopped. Silence.

You frowned, listening. Nothing, probably one of the girls getting water.

You took another cautious step. And suddenly a figure dressed entirely in black stepped out from the darkness at the opposite end of the hallway, and you froze.

Your brain didn't even have time to process what you were looking at.

A black hood. Long robe. The pale, impossibly familiar ghost mask catching just enough light to make the empty eyes seem alive. Every instinct in your body screamed.

The figure moved, fast.

A gloved hand shot toward you. You stumbled backward on pure instinct, your shoulder striking the wall as a strangled gasp caught in your throat before it could become a scream.

Then, another black-clad figure appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It caught the first one by the shoulder and shoved him sideways with surprising force.

Not enough to knock him over, but just enough to stop him.

The two stood there for the briefest second. The taller one turned his masked face toward the other and made one sharp, impatient motion with his hand.

Not at you, but past you, toward the end of the hallway. Toward Madison's room.

The second figure hesitated, and the first one pointed again, harder this time. Even through the costume, there was something unmistakably authoritative in the gesture.

The shorter figure looked back at you one last time before reluctantly turning away.

Without a word, he disappeared down the hall.

The taller figure lingered just long enough for his mask to turn toward you. You couldn't see his face. Couldn't see his eyes.

But for one impossible second, you had the overwhelming sensation that he was studying you.

Then he reached back and quietly pushed your bedroom door farther open behind you, almost expectantly. Your legs moved before your mind did, and you stumbled backward into your room.

The second your heel crossed the threshold, the masked figure swung the door shut behind them, leaving the two of you alone in your bedroom. 

The room suddenly felt impossibly small, illuminated only by the pale wash of moonlight slipping through the curtains.

Your pulse hammered so violently in your ears that it almost drowned out everything else, but not quite.

Downstairs, something crashed. A scream, another one, then running, then silence.

You stared at the figure standing only a few feet away from you, every instinct screaming at you to run, to fight, to do something, but your feet wouldn't cooperate.

The black robe barely moved as they shifted their weight. The knife in their hand remained pointed toward the floor.

Not raised, not threatening, but just... there.

You swallowed hard. "What... what do you want?"

The white mask stared back at you without expression. When the voice finally came, it wasn't a voice at all.

It crackled through an electronic distortion, flattened into something mechanical and impossible to place, every trace of age or identity stripped away.

"I'm sorry."

The words were so unexpected that they almost didn't register.

You blinked. "...What?"

Another scream echoed somewhere else in the house, farther away this time. The figure didn't so much as flinch.

"I'm sorry," the altered voice repeated quietly. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

Your hand found the edge of your desk behind you. "What are you talking about?"

Then the mask tilted ever so slightly. "You're the last one."

Your blood ran cold. "No..."

"You are."

"No."

"I'm sorry."

You shook your head before you even realized you were doing it. "No, they're all here. They're upstairs. They're—"

"They're gone."

The electronic filter couldn't hide the strange heaviness behind the words.

There was no laughter. No theatrical gloating. No excitement. Just something that sounded dangerously close to regret.

You stared at him, unable to breathe. "No..."

The figure remained perfectly still. "I didn't want you to find out this way."

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "...Who are you?"

Silence. The only answer was another distant bang somewhere in the house, followed by complete stillness.

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

"Please."

The masked figure lowered their head for just a second. "I can't."

"You know me."

Another silence. Then, softly, "Yeah."

The admission hit harder than any threat could have.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. "...Do I know you?"

The mask didn't move. The voice changer crackled faintly before the reply came.

"You do."

Every instinct begged you to ask another question. To demand a name. To make them pull the mask off. Instead, all that came out was a trembling—

"...Why me?"

The figure looked at you for what felt like an eternity. When they finally spoke, the words were almost gentle. "Because you were never supposed to be part of this."

The apology hung in the room between you. Outside, somewhere beyond your bedroom walls, the old house sat in perfect silence.

He stood perfectly still. The knife remained pointed toward the floor, hanging loosely from his gloved hand, as if he'd forgotten it was even there.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "...You keep saying you're sorry."

The mask tilted. "I am."

"Then why are you here?"

The distorted speaker crackled softly before he answered. "I don't know."

It wasn't the response you expected. "I thought I did."

Another pause.

"I had a plan."

He gave a quiet, humorless laugh that sounded even stranger through the electronic filter.

"A really good one."

Your fingers were still gripping the edge of your desk so tightly they hurt. "What plan?"

"You weren't supposed to matter."

The words were matter-of-fact, almost clinical.

"You were supposed to be..." He searched for the word. "Adjacent."

The mask turned toward your bookshelf. "Pretty girl."

Toward your desk. "Good grades."

Toward the discarded sorority sweatshirt hanging over your chair. "Legacy."

"I figured I'd have you all figured out in a week."

You couldn't bring yourself to respond. Instead, he continued talking almost to himself.

"But then you were kind. You let me walk away without paying."

Your stomach sank. Wait…

"You looked at me like there wasn't something wrong with me."

The voice changer hid his real voice, but not the strange sincerity underneath it.

"You laughed at my jokes."

"You remembered my order."

It can’t be…

"You started setting aside the blueberry muffins before I even asked."

Realization hit you like a freight train. 

Your mouth went dry. "I was just being nice."

"I know." Another quiet laugh. "That was the problem."

He took one slow step across the room. Not toward you, just... wandering.

Looking at your shelves, your records, the dog-eared paperbacks stacked on your dresser.

"I kept waiting."

"For what?"

"For you to disappoint me."

His head tilted slightly. "You never did."

Your pulse hammered painfully against your ribs.

"So then I started wondering if maybe I was wrong."

"About what?"

"About people."

The silence that followed felt heavier than anything he'd said so far.

"When Madison humiliated Gareth..." He stopped. "...you told her not to."

You stared. "...How do you know that?"

Another tiny crackle from the speaker. "I know lots of things."

"You sat in the corner pretending to read while everybody laughed."

"You left early."

"You looked guilty."

"You always look down when you're upset."

Your breathing became noticeably shallower.

He wasn't speaking like someone who'd watched you once; he was speaking like someone who'd watched you a hundred times. A thousand.

"You don't understand," he continued quietly. "I had everything figured out."

"The people who thought they could hurt whoever they wanted."

"The people who laughed."

"The people who'd never had anyone tell them no."

"They made sense."

"You..." Another soft laugh. "...you didn't."

You could hear your own heartbeat.

"So I started paying attention."

"You read in the park on Tuesdays."

"You always buy the same black pens because you hate blue ink."

"You leave the ends of your sandwiches."

"You hum when you mop the café floors."

You felt physically ill. He wasn't bragging; that was somehow the most terrifying part. He sounded fond, as if he were reminiscing.

"I kept telling myself I'd stop."

"I didn't."

"I kept telling myself you weren't real."

"I'd go home and think, she's pretending."

"Nobody's actually like that."

He looked directly at you. "And then you were."

Your eyes stung. "Please stop."

He ignored the plea. "I thought it would make this easier."

"This?"

"Killing you." The words landed with horrifying simplicity.

"I told myself if I watched long enough I'd find something."

"Something fake."

"Something ugly."

"Something selfish."

Another pause.

"I couldn't."

He lowered his head ever so slightly. "You were supposed to be easy."

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly around the knife at his side. "You were supposed to fit with the rest."

"You were supposed to laugh with them."

"You were supposed to become one of them."

"You weren't."

The electronic distortion crackled again. "And now you're making this so much harder than it was supposed to be."

You couldn't stop the tears now. "I don’t even know you that well.”

"No."

"But I know you." His head lifted again. "And that's the really unfair part."

Then, so quietly you almost didn't hear it, "I think if we'd met differently..."

The sentence never finished. Instead, he looked away, almost angry with himself for saying it at all.

When he spoke again, the softness was gone; only something fractured remained.

"I spent weeks trying to convince myself obsession isn't the same thing as caring." The mask turned back toward you. "I still don't know if I believe that."

He stood there in the moonlight, impossibly still. The voice changer hid his identity. The mask hid his face. But you knew who it was, mask on or not. Eddie. 

His name echoed in your mind, heavy and final, twisting something deep in your gut. You should have screamed. You should have lunged for the window, the phone, anything.

Instead, your body stayed rooted, trembling against the desk as the Ghostface figure, Eddie, some broken part of you already whispered—stood bathed in the thin moonlight slicing through your curtains.

He took another slow step.

The knife still dangled from his gloved fingers like an afterthought, but his head tilted with that unnerving curiosity, like he was memorizing the way your chest heaved with every shallow breath.

"You keep saying you're sorry," you whispered again, voice cracking.

"I am." The distortion made it sound almost gentle. "But I can't stop now. Not when you're looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you see me." He was closer now.

Close enough that the black fabric of his robe brushed your bare knee where your sleep shorts had ridden up. "Like maybe you could want this too. Even if you shouldn't."

Your pulse roared in your ears. Fear coiled tight in your stomach, but underneath it—god, underneath it—something hotter flickered.

The way he'd watched you. The way he knew you. The confession of weeks, months, of him orbiting your life like a shadow you never noticed.

It should have repulsed you. It did. But it also made your skin prickle, your thighs press together without thinking.

"I don't—" The lie died on your tongue as his free hand rose, gloved fingers ghosting along your jaw.

Not gripping, not yet. Just tracing, reverent, like you were something sacred he was about to defile.

"You do," he murmured, echoing his earlier words. The knife lifted slowly, the flat of the blade pressing cool against the side of your neck. Not cutting. Just resting there, a promise.

Your breath hitched sharply. 

"I can see it. That little shake in your voice. The way your nipples are hard under that shirt even though you're scared shitless."

A low, distorted chuckle. "Pretty girl... always so fucking kind. Always pretending you don't feel it."

He stepped fully into your space, the mask inches from your face.

You could smell him—faint leather, weed, that metallic tang of whatever madness drove him. His body heat bled through the robe, solid and real against you.

"Tell me to leave," he said suddenly, voice dropping. The knife traced lower, down your collarbone, catching on the thin strap of your tank top. "Say it. Say 'get out,' and I'll try. I'll really fucking try."

Your lips parted, but no sound came. His gloved thumb brushed your bottom lip, pressing just enough to part them further.

"That's what I thought." The knife slipped under the strap and flicked; sharp, precise. The fabric gave way with a whisper. 

Cool air hit your skin as one breast spilled free. He groaned, the sound raw even through the mask. "Fuck... look at you."

You gasped as his hand cupped you roughly, thumb circling your nipple in a way that made your back arch despite yourself. Terror and heat twisted together, impossible to separate. "Please..."

"Please what?" He leaned in, the mask's nose brushing your cheek. The knife dragged lightly down your sternum, not breaking skin, just teasing the panic that made you clench. 

"Please stop? Or please keep going? Be honest, sweetheart. I've watched you long enough to know when you're lying."

His other hand slid down your body, shoving between your thighs without warning. Two thick fingers pressed against the damp seam of your shorts, rubbing slow and firm.

You whimpered, hips jerking forward involuntarily. Shame burned your face even as slick heat flooded you.

"See?" That fractured laugh again. "You're soaking for the monster who came to kill you. My sweet, perfect girl... always surprising me."

He pushed you back onto the desk with sudden force, scattering papers and pens. The knife clattered beside you as he used both hands to yank your shorts down your legs, leaving you bare from the waist down. 

You tried to close your thighs; he forced them open wider, dropping to his knees between them like a man at prayer.

The mask stayed on (of course it did). But you felt his breath hot through the fabric as he leaned in, inhaling you like a drug. It lifted slightly, not enough to see his face, but enough to assist him.

"Been dreaming about this," he rasped. His tongue, warm, real, and eager, dragged up your slit in one long, filthy stroke.

You cried out, fingers scrambling for purchase on the desk. He didn't tease; he devoured. Licking and sucking at your clit with desperate hunger, his now un-gloved hands pinning your thighs apart as you squirmed and moaned.

Every flick of his tongue pulled another broken sound from you. Fear made everything sharper—the edge of the knife still within reach, the threat of who he was—but the pleasure was drowning it, wave after wave as he ate you like a man starved. Like he'd been waiting lifetimes for the taste of you.

"That's it," he growled against your cunt, voice rough and filthy. "Ride my face, baby. Use me. I killed for less. I'd die for this."

Your hands tangled in the hood of his robe, pulling him closer despite everything. Your hips rolled, chasing the building pressure.

He moaned into you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. One finger pushed inside you, then two, curling just right while his mouth worked your clit without mercy.

You came hard, thighs shaking around his masked head, a sob tearing from your throat as pleasure crashed through the terror. He didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, almost worshipful, until you were twitching and oversensitive.

When he finally rose, he towered over you, unzipping the robe with one hand while the other picked up the knife again. His cock sprang free, heavy, flushed, already leaking.

He fisted himself slowly, stroking as he looked down at you spread out and ruined on your desk.

"Still scared?" he asked, almost tenderly.

The tip of the knife traced your inner thigh, leaving faint red lines that didn't quite break skin.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks even as your pussy fluttered around nothing, aching for more.

"Good." He stepped between your legs, rubbing his cock through your folds. "Because I'm not done with you. Not even close."

He pushed in with one slow, relentless thrust, stretching you open around his thickness. The mask hovered above you as he bottomed out, a broken groan leaving his mouth.

"Fuck... so tight. So fucking good." He started moving, deep and punishing, one hand braced beside your head with the knife still clutched tight. "You're mine now. Say it."

You gasped with every thrust, the desk creaking beneath you. "I’m yours—"

"Louder." His hips snapped harder, dragging perfectly inside you. "Tell the man who you’re scared of that you're dripping for his cock anyway."

"I'm yours," you moaned louder, legs wrapping around his waist despite the fear still clawing at your chest.

The blade pressed to your throat again as he fucked you harder, the danger and the pleasure twisting into something addictive, something insane.

He laughed wild and unhinged, something almost Eddie, and leaned down until the mask was pressed to your ear.

"Good girl. Now cum on my cock while I decide if I'm still gonna kill you after... or if I'm keeping you forever."

The choice, you realized through the haze of overwhelming sensation, had never really been yours to begin with.

And some shattered part of you didn't want it to be.

....part 2? or am i crazy? ._.

anywayssss, hope you all enjoyed pookies!

taglist:

@bitterestwillow @lnnn1n @youngbrokefab @ludachrissy @sisteramycatherine @izzycstairs @britttzy267 @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @sariahs-stuff @cciessuzi @lilyquinnmunson @julxsxx @kozume-ko @obsessed-eddie @doomdabss @leelei1980 @hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses @meadows-of-asphodel @whitakerstorm @brrrainst3w @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullsteve @peachpuffs25 @micheledawn1975 @whitakerstorm @cciessuzi @blackqueenie-18 @ggdawgg @velvetdimond @enne02  @ludachrissy @izzycstairs

@abbysleftbicepp @britttzy267 @ssculker @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @kylorensbaby

Eddie still remembers the day he first laid eyes on you. Summer, going into his third senior year at Hawkins, you walked into Larry’s Auto Body Repair looking like something pulled from the pages of a half-burnt gothic novel left to rot in an attic trunk.

The heat outside had been miserable; thick, wet Indiana air that made grease cling to skin and tempers run short, but you arrived untouched by it all. Draped in black despite the July sun, lace sleeves swallowing your wrists, silver rings glinting like tiny knives beneath the fluorescent lights. 

Your perfume smelled faintly of clove cigarettes, old paper, and rain. Long dark hair spilled down your back in soft waves, and your eyes, God, your eyes, looked mournful in the way stained glass saints did. Beautiful enough to make a man confess every awful thing he’s ever done, truth or not.

Eddie had nearly dropped an engine part directly on his foot.

You’d stepped into the garage like you belonged in another century entirely, gaze drifting slowly across the room with detached fascination, lingering on rusted tools and oil stains as if they were artifacts in a museum.

Then you smiled at him. Not sweet, not shy, but devastating. Like you already knew every terrible thing about him and adored him for it anyway. From that moment on, Eddie Munson was ruined.

Years later, the people of Hawkins still spoke about the two of you in hushed, bewildered voices. The Munsons of the Creel House. The strange family on the hill with wrought iron gates, tangled in dead vines and black roses that somehow bloomed year-round. 

Children swore candlelight moved through the windows at impossible hours. Neighbors whispered about organ music drifting through storms and the silhouettes dancing behind curtains long after midnight.

The truth was far less sinister, mostly. You simply loved beautiful things that others were too frightened to appreciate. And Eddie loved you enough to follow you anywhere, even the old Creel House.

At first, he’d refused to even step onto the property. Too many memories. Too much blood soaked into those walls. Vecna. Chrissy. The Upside Down. Every rotten thing Hawkins tried desperately to bury lived in the bones of that house.

But then you’d walked through the front doors for the first time, black dress trailing over dusty hardwood, staring up at the massive chandelier with wonder glowing across your face like moonlight.

“Eddie,” you’d whispered softly, almost reverently. “It’s perfect.”

And that had been it. Because you looked at the house the same way you looked at him, not with fear, but affection. Like ruined things deserved devotion too. So he rebuilt it for you.

Every creaking staircase. Every shattered window. Every rotted inch of wallpaper. Together, you turned the graveyard of Victor Creel’s legacy into something warm, strange, and terribly romantic. A home, your home.

Corvina, your eldest daughter, drifted through the manor like a tiny phantom in velvet dresses, all solemn eyes and unnerving intelligence. She collected moth wings in glass jars and read Poe beneath thunderstorms while Eddie watched with equal parts pride and concern.

Meanwhile, Edward Jr, though everyone called him Teddy, was chaos incarnate. Wild curls, scraped knees, and his father’s crooked grin. The poor kid had inherited Eddie’s dramatic flair and your complete lack of fear, which meant most afternoons ended with him attempting something mildly catastrophic somewhere on the property.

Eddie had been hesitant about naming him after himself. Truthfully, he was terrified.

He remembered sitting beside you in bed while rain battered the windows, your newborn son asleep against your chest. Candlelight flickered gold across your skin as Eddie stared at the tiny little thing wearing his name.

“What if he ends up like me?” he’d asked quietly. You’d looked at him then with that same devastating softness you’d always reserved for his ugliest thoughts.

“My darling,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his curls, “I should certainly hope so.”

And just like that, the fear dissolved. Because in your eyes, Eddie Munson had never been something to outgrow or overcome. He had always been something to cherish.

The Creel House came alive slowly in the mornings. Rain tapped softly against the tall windows that morning, the sky outside painted silver and gloomy in the way you adored most.

Eddie stood at the stove in silk pajama pants and a black robe hanging open over his tattooed chest, swaying dramatically to the music while making pancakes shaped vaguely like bats.

“Darling,” you called from your place at the kitchen table, long black sleeves draped elegantly around your coffee cup, “I do believe those are becoming progressively less edible.”

Eddie pressed a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Cruel. Wounded before breakfast.”

“You married me for my cruelty.”

“I married you because you looked at me like a Victorian widow cursed by the sea.”

You smiled over the rim of your mug. “And you looked like trouble wrapped in leather.”

“Mm,” Eddie hummed proudly. “Still do.”

Before you could respond, Eddie appeared beside your chair suddenly, dramatically dropping to one knee like a man overcome with passion. He took your hand delicately, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Then another to your wrist. Then another just beneath your sleeve.

You laughed softly, tilting your head as his curls brushed your skin. “Edward Munson,” you murmured. “The children are awake.”

“Good,” he replied against your hand. “They should witness devotion.”

Right on cue, Corvina entered the kitchen carrying three books against her chest, long dark braid hanging over one shoulder. She glanced once at the scene before deadpanning:

“You’re disgusting.”

“Thank you, my dove,” you said warmly.

Corvina moved to pour herself coffee like she hadn’t witnessed anything unusual at all. Then came the sound of slower footsteps, Teddy.

Edward Jr. appeared in the doorway wearing his Hawkins High hoodie, backpack hanging off one shoulder, curls sticking up wildly like he’d been running nervous hands through them for an hour.

And immediately, both you and Eddie noticed the expression on his face, and Eddie straightened a little. “Whoa. What’s with the funeral look, Theodore?”

Teddy hesitated, then slowly held up a folded yellow slip of paper. Your brows lifted slightly while Corvina sipped her coffee with the detached calm of someone witnessing an execution.

“It’s a summons,” Teddy muttered.

Eddie blinked once, then dramatically pointed the spatula toward him. “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“That’s exactly what I used to say,” Eddie nodded solemnly. “And I was usually innocent at least forty percent of the time.”

You extended your hand calmly. “May I see it, darling?”

Teddy crossed the kitchen and handed it over anxiously while Eddie abandoned the pancakes entirely to loom over your shoulder. His chin immediately dropped onto the top of your head while his arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind instinctively.

You unfolded the slip carefully:

REQUESTED PARENT CONFERENCE. PRINCIPAL HIGGINS. REGARDING: EDWARD MUNSON JR.

Eddie groaned immediately. “Jesus Christ. They started early this year.”

Teddy looked miserable. “Dad, I swear, I didn’t even do anything. It was those idiots from the basketball team—they kept messing with my stuff in gym, and one of them shoved me into a locker, and when I shoved him back, he started bleeding and—”

“Bleeding?” Corvina asked mildly.

“He ran into the trophy case!”

“Ah,” she nodded. “Natural selection.”

“Teddy,” you said softly, reaching for his hand. “Look at me.”

He did immediately.

And despite being nearly Eddie’s height now, despite the deepening voice and teenage awkwardness settling into his limbs, he still looked at you the same way he had as a child: like you could fix anything simply by speaking.

“You are not in trouble with us,” you assured gently.

Eddie nodded instantly. “Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“Nope.” Eddie waved him off. “Listen, kid, Hawkins High has been blaming Munsons for shit since before you were born. It’s practically a school tradition.”

Teddy huffed out a nervous laugh. You rose from your chair then, smoothing your hands over Eddie’s wrists where they rested around your waist. “We’ll attend the meeting.”

“Together,” Eddie added.

“And if your principal insists on being unreasonable,” you continued calmly, “your father does so enjoy making authority figures uncomfortable.”

Eddie grinned wickedly. “Baby, remember the vice principal in ‘89?”

You smiled faintly. “He looked moments from cardiac arrest.”

Teddy finally laughed properly at that, the tension melting from his shoulders almost instantly.

Without another word, Eddie reached over and grabbed one of the bat-shaped pancakes, shoving it onto Teddy’s plate. “Eat up, kid,” he said. “Nothing scarier than school administration on an empty stomach.”

Corvina glanced toward the stove. “Those are burnt.”

“They’re wonderful,” Eddie corrected.

You reached for his hand again, kissing his knuckles this time. “My talented husband,” you said softly.

Eddie practically preened under the affection, leaning down immediately to kiss you dramatically enough to make Corvina groan.

“Oh, my God.”

“Teddy,” Eddie said seriously against your mouth, “never settle for a love that doesn’t make your children physically ill.”

“Noted,” Teddy muttered through a mouthful of pancake.

By noon, rain had turned into a heavy mist that clung to Hawkins like a veil, which was the exact kind of weather you loved. The kind of weather Eddie insisted was “romantic as hell.”

The two of you walked through the halls of Hawkins High side by side like something entirely out of place amongst the fluorescent lighting and beige walls. Students slowed as you passed, conversations dipping into whispers almost immediately.

You floated through the hallway in a long black coat that brushed your calves, silver jewelry gleaming beneath the dim lights, while Eddie walked beside you in dark rings and leather, one hand firmly wrapped around yours, as if he physically couldn’t stand not touching you for more than a few seconds.

Which, truthfully, he couldn’t.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie murmured low enough only you could hear as you approached the office, “if Higgins pisses me off, are we thinking subtle psychological warfare or full public humiliation?”

You glanced at him calmly. “Let us see how brave he feels first.”

“God, I love when you threaten people poetically.”

The secretary barely looked up when you entered the office, though her expression tightened almost immediately at the sight of Eddie, still, after all these years. Eddie noticed too, squeezing your hand once before leaning casually against the counter.

“We’re here about Teddy,” he said.

The woman cleared her throat awkwardly. “Principal Higgins is expecting you.”

“Lucky him,” Eddie muttered.

You placed a gentle hand against his chest before he could continue, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his jacket. “Behave, mon amour.”

Eddie looked down at you like you’d hung the moon itself in the sky. “For you?” he said softly. “Always.”

The secretary looked deeply uncomfortable. Good.

Principal Higgins’ office looked exactly the same as it had when Eddie sat in it at seventeen; stale coffee smell, ugly filing cabinets, school banners hanging crookedly on the walls.

Only now, Higgins himself had more gray hair and less patience. He didn’t stand when you entered. Instead, he leaned back slowly in his chair, eyes moving between you both with poorly concealed irritation.

“Mr. and Mrs. Munson.”

Eddie sat down across from him casually, slinging an arm immediately across the back of your chair. “Higgins,” he replied. “Still alive, huh?”

You rested one elegant hand atop Eddie’s knee beneath the desk, feeling him relax instantly under your touch.

Higgins ignored the comment. “Teddy was involved in an altercation yesterday afternoon.”

“Involved,” Eddie repeated. “Interesting wording.”

“He assaulted another student.”

“He defended himself,” you corrected smoothly.

Higgins finally looked directly at you then, expression tightening slightly. “And how exactly would you know that, Mrs. Munson?”

“Because, unlike this institution,” you replied calmly, “our son tells us the truth.”

Higgins folded his hands atop the desk. “Mrs. Munson, with all due respect, Edward Jr. has inherited certain… behavioral tendencies.”

There it was. Eddie’s jaw tightened instantly beneath the lazy posture he wore like armor. But you? You simply tilted your head slightly.

“What an unfortunate thing to say aloud,” you murmured.

Higgins shifted faintly. Eddie watched you carefully now, eyes practically sparkling because he knew that tone and knew it well. It was the same tone you used moments before verbally disemboweling someone.

“The Munson family,” Higgins continued carefully, “has had a difficult history with this school. Your husband, especially.”

Eddie gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, because this town treated me like I was carrying the plague.”

“You developed quite the reputation.”

“And your athletes didn’t?” Eddie shot back. “Interesting.”

“Eddie,” you said softly, not looking away from Higgins. You folded your hands neatly in your lap, expression serene enough to be unsettling.

“Our son,” you said carefully, “was cornered by three boys larger than him.”

Higgins opened his mouth, but you continued before he could speak.

“One shoved him into a locker repeatedly. Another destroyed his sketchbook. And when Theodore defended himself after being physically provoked, suddenly, he became the problem.”

Silence, and Higgins shifted again. You leaned forward slightly then, dark eyes steady on his.

“And now you sit before two former students who know exactly how Hawkins High operates and imply there is some sort of inherited defect in our child because his last name is Munson.”

Eddie looked dangerously proud beside you.

Higgins cleared his throat. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“No?” you asked gently. “Then perhaps choose your words more carefully.”

The office went quiet except for the rain tapping softly against the windows. Eddie finally leaned forward himself, rings clinking against the desk.

“Look,” he said flatly, “I know exactly what this place thinks about me. Fine. Whatever. But you do not get to stick that shit onto my son because some meathead couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”

Higgins sighed heavily. “No one is suspending Teddy.”

“Very generous,” Corvina’s voice drawled suddenly from the doorway.

All three of you turned. Corvina stood there holding a hall pass and looking deeply unimpressed.

“She followed us?” Higgins asked incredulously.

“She’s observant,” you replied.

“And nosy,” Eddie added proudly.

Corvina stepped inside without invitation. “Also, for the record, Tyler Bennett admitted in chemistry that he started it because Teddy wouldn’t let them make fun of that freshman girl.”

Eddie blinked. Then slowly turned toward his son’s principal with the most insufferably smug expression imaginable. “Huh,” he said. “Would you look at that?”

You reached over then, brushing your fingers lovingly along Eddie’s jaw.

“My darling,” you sighed softly. “It appears our son inherited your unfortunate tendency toward heroics.”

Eddie practically melted into your hand. “Baby,” he whispered dramatically, grabbing your wrist to kiss your palm, “you say the sexiest things to me.”

Corvina stood near the doorway with her arms crossed, entirely too pleased with herself. Eddie lounged back in his chair again, one boot hooked over his knee while he admired you with open, ridiculous affection.

Meanwhile, you remained perfectly composed, which somehow made you infinitely more terrifying.

“Well,” Higgins said stiffly after a long silence, “I believe this matter can be considered resolved.”

“How fortunate,” you replied smoothly.

Eddie snorted under his breath, and Higgins ignored him. “I’ll speak with the boys involved.”

“You should,” you said. “Especially if the school wishes to maintain the illusion of fairness.”

The principal’s jaw tightened faintly. Then, as though remembering something unpleasant, his eyes flicked briefly toward a framed flyer hanging beside his desk. 

Hawkins High Arts Expansion Fund: Sponsored by the Munson Mortuary. 

Eddie noticed immediately, as did you. A slow smile touched your lips. “You know,” you mused softly, rising from your chair, “Edward and I have always cared deeply about the arts.”

Eddie stood the second you did, naturally gravitating toward your side like a shadow stitched to your heels.

“The theater department,” you continued thoughtfully, smoothing the sleeve of your coat, “the music programs, student scholarships…”

Higgins straightened slightly.

“Hell,” Eddie added casually, “the new ceramics kiln was us.”

You turned your attention back to Higgins, expression warm enough to unsettle.

“It would simply devastate us,” you said gently, “if the environment here became hostile enough that we no longer felt comfortable continuing such generosity.”

Higgins cleared his throat quickly. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

“No,” you agreed pleasantly. “I imagine it won’t.”

Eddie grinned beside you like the devil himself. God, he loved you. Loved the way you could flay someone alive without ever raising your voice. Loved the way people underestimated your softness right until the moment they realized it had teeth.

You reached for his hand, and he took it instantly.

“Well,” Eddie sighed dramatically, “this has been deeply irritating.”

As the four of you started toward the office door, Higgins spoke again. “Mrs. Munson.”

You paused, turning slightly. “I assure you,” he said carefully, “Theodore will be treated fairly.”

You held his gaze for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “I should hope so.”

And with that, you left. The halls quieted again as your family walked through them together.

Eddie’s hand remained clasped tightly with yours while Corvina drifted ahead in a sea of black fabric, entirely unbothered by the stares surrounding her.

The second the front doors shut behind you, Eddie turned toward you with outright admiration burning in his expression.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Marry me again.”

You looked at him calmly. “I would a thousand times.”

Candles flickered low throughout the house, golden light dancing against dark wallpaper while thunder rolled softly somewhere in the distance.

Dinner had long since ended, dishes abandoned in favor of the far more important activity of Eddie dramatically sprawled across the velvet chaise in the sitting room with his head in your lap.

“Darling,” he sighed as you lazily combed your fingers through his curls, “if I die right now, know that I died fulfilled.”

“You’re forty years old,” Corvina deadpanned from the armchair across the room. “Not a dying Victorian poet.”

Eddie pointed accusingly toward her without lifting his head. “Your mother encourages this cruelty.”

You smiled softly down at him. “I find it endearing.”

“That’s because you worship me.”

“Correct.”

Corvina physically recoiled. “Can you two act normal for ten minutes?”

“No,” both of you answered immediately.

Teddy snorted from the floor where he sat building something suspiciously dangerous out of spare radio parts. Then, the doorbell rang, and everyone paused. Corvina moved first, way too fast for her character. 

You noticed immediately. Eddie noticed immediately. Teddy noticed immediately. The three of you slowly turned toward her as she stood abruptly from the chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her black skirt.

“…Interesting,” you murmured.

Corvina narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”

Eddie sat up slowly now, a grin already forming. “Oh, my God.”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Corvina Lucille Munson,” Teddy gasped dramatically. “Are you nervous?”

“I will kill you.”

The bell rang again. Corvina moved toward the front door with all the rigid dignity of someone approaching their execution.

You and Eddie exchanged a look. Then, silently, both rose from your seats to follow.

The front door creaked open, and standing beneath the porch light was perhaps the least expected person imaginable. A boy. Tall, clean-cut, nervous beyond belief. Bright blue varsity jacket. Hair neatly combed. Holding flowers.

The poor thing looked like he’d wandered into the wrong horror movie. Corvina stared at him; the boy stared at Corvina. Then his eyes slowly lifted, and landed directly on you and Eddie looming behind her like two beautifully dressed vampires awaiting explanation.

His face drained completely of color. Eddie blinked once, then immediately leaned toward you and whispered with genuine awe:

“He looks like he says ‘yes ma’am’ unironically.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “How refreshing.”

“Mom,” Corvina warned.

The boy swallowed hard. “H-hi, Mr. and Mrs. Munson.”

Eddie lit up instantly. “Oh, I like him.”

Corvina closed her eyes briefly like she regretted ever being born. You stepped forward gracefully, gaze drifting over the bouquet in his trembling hands.

“How lovely,” you said softly. “Funeral lilies.”

“They’re her favorite,” he blurted.

Then you looked at Corvina slowly, while Corvina looked horrified. Eddie looked seconds from losing his mind entirely.

“Teddy,” he whispered sharply. “Your sister has a boyfriend.”

“I KNEW IT.”

“He is not my boyfriend,” Corvina snapped immediately. “He’s an experiment.”

The boy blinked. “An… experiment?”

“You’re studying social dynamics?” you guessed politely.

“Yes,” Corvina said quickly.

Eddie crossed his arms. “By holding hands with the quarterback?”

“Second-string quarterback,” Teddy corrected.

Everyone looked at the boy while he awkwardly raised one hand. “We lost regionals.”

Eddie burst out laughing. “Oh my God, sweetheart,” he wheezed to you. “She brought home a jock.”

“He’s not a jock.”

The boy tried to help. “I’m also on the debate team.”

You gasped softly. “How multifaceted.”

Corvina looked moments from throwing herself from the staircase.

Eddie grinned wickedly at her. “Baby bat’s got a crush.”

“I do not.”

“He knows your favorite flowers,” Teddy sang obnoxiously.

“I hate this family.”

The boy, still somehow standing there despite the obvious psychological warfare occurring around him, looked toward Corvina carefully. And to everyone’s shock, his expression softened.

“She talks about you guys a lot, actually.”

Corvina froze.

Eddie immediately clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh, my.”

“Dad.”

“She told me,” the boy continued nervously, “that her parents are… intense, but very in love.”

You smiled faintly. Corvina looked like she wanted the floorboards to consume her.

“And,” he added carefully, “that her dad still leaves dead roses on her mom’s pillow every morning.”

Eddie looked at you instantly, utterly smitten. “Baby,” he whispered emotionally, “our love is inspiring the youth.”

You reached up, smoothing your hand against his jaw affectionately. “We are deeply romantic.”

“You’re deeply weird,” Teddy corrected.

“Thank you.”

Corvina groaned. “Can we please go before they start kissing again?”

Too late. Eddie had already grabbed your hand dramatically.

“You wound me, little raven,” he said, pressing a theatrical kiss against your knuckles. “Your mother’s beauty simply overwhelms me.”

The boy stared. Teddy stared. Corvina pinched the bridge of her nose. And you, you simply looked at your husband with soft, endless devotion while thunder echoed gently overhead.

“Oh, mon amour,” you sighed lovingly. “You are still the most handsome thing this house has ever held.”

Eddie nearly died on the spot.

The house felt different when the children were gone. Corvina had vanished off to some poetry reading with her painfully polite almost-boyfriend, while Teddy was staying overnight at a friend’s house after aggressively insisting he was “old enough to survive one night without parental supervision.”

Eddie had looked personally offended by the statement. 

Now the evening rain had finally stopped, leaving the world outside soaked silver beneath the moonlight.

You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, fastening a pair of silver earrings, when Eddie appeared in the doorway, already staring at you like a man deeply unwell. His dark button-up hung half-open, curls still damp from the shower, rings glinting in the candlelight.

But his expression, my God. After all these years, he still looked at you like the first breath after drowning.

“Well,” he murmured, leaning against the doorframe, “there goes every coherent thought I’ve ever had.”

You smiled softly at his reflection. “You say that every time I wear black.”

“Because every time you wear black, I fall in love with you all over again.”

“You’re very dramatic.”

“You’re very beautiful. We all cope differently.” You laughed quietly as he crossed the room toward you.

The second he reached you, his hands found your waist instinctively, warm and familiar through the fabric of your dress. He buried his face briefly against your neck with a content sigh like “this—this right here—was the safest place in the universe.”

“Close your eyes,” he murmured.

You raised a brow. “Edward.”

“Please?”

Amused, you obeyed. You heard him moving around the room for a moment before something soft brushed across your palms.

Flowers. 

When you opened your eyes again, Eddie stood before you holding a bouquet of black dahlias and dead roses tied together with velvet ribbon, just like your first date.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Eddie suddenly looked shy beneath all the tattoos and bravado. “I know they’re a little wilted, but Gareth’s florist cousin said—”

“They’re perfect.”

The relief on his face was immediate. You reached up carefully, fingertips brushing his cheek while he melted into your touch on instinct.

“Do you remember,” you asked softly, “what you said to me the night you gave me flowers for the first time?”

Eddie grinned a little. “Yeah.” He leaned closer. “‘Most girls want roses. You looked like you’d appreciate something half-dead.’”

“And I nearly married you on the spot.”

“You definitely wanted me carnally.”

You laughed again and kissed him gently. Eddie hummed happily against your mouth, already chasing after another kiss before you’d fully pulled away.

“Come on,” he whispered. “I’ve got a surprise.”

The graveyard sat at the edge of Hawkins beneath enormous twisted trees, moonlight filtering silver across old headstones and damp grass. Most people found it unsettling, but you found it beautiful, especially tonight.

Your breath caught softly as Eddie led you through the cemetery gates hand in hand.

Because there, beneath the crooked oak tree where he’d taken you all those years ago, sat an entire picnic laid out atop black blankets and velvet pillows. Candles flickered inside lanterns. An old radio played something metal, low enough to blend with the wind.

Your favorite wine rested beside a basket overflowing with chocolate-covered strawberries and homemade pastries, which Eddie had very obviously burnt slightly. And in the center, a vase of black dahlias. Eddie rubbed the back of his neck suddenly, almost bashful. “I know it’s kinda stupid—”

“It isn’t.”

Your voice was so soft that it stopped him immediately. He watched as you stepped slowly into the little space he’d created, moonlight catching the emotion shimmering across your face.

“You remembered everything,” you whispered.

“Course I did.”

Eddie moved closer then, taking your hands carefully. “This is where I fell in love with you,” he admitted quietly. “Figured it deserved revisiting.”

Your chest ached. Because despite all his theatrics, despite the flirting and dramatics and endless teasing, Eddie loved with terrifying sincerity, always had.

You touched his face gently. “You never told me you loved me that night.”

“No,” he said softly. “But I knew.”

The wind moved through the cemetery trees around you, carrying the scent of rain and earth and candle smoke. Then Eddie suddenly dropped dramatically onto the blanket.

“Now,” he announced, patting the spot beside him, “come seduce your husband under the moonlight.”

You smiled helplessly and settled beside him. Immediately, he pulled you into his lap like gravity itself demanded it. You curled against him easily, fingers playing with the rings on his hand while his chin rested atop your shoulder.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You simply existed there together beneath the stars, wrapped in candlelight and old music and decades worth of devotion.

Eventually, Eddie pressed a slow kiss against your neck. “You know,” he murmured, “I was so scared to bring you here on our first date.”

You turned slightly. “You were?”

“Terrified.” He laughed softly against your skin. “Wayne told me if I took a girl to a graveyard, she’d think I was either a serial killer or possessed.”

“And instead?”

“You told me it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.”

“It still is.”

Eddie looked at you then. And suddenly he was twenty again; grease stains on his hands, heart beating too fast, staring at the most hauntingly beautiful girl he’d ever seen while wondering how someone so lovely could possibly want him back.

Only now, he knew, because you’d spent decades proving it.

His hand slid carefully against your cheek. “My sweet girl,” he whispered.

You kissed him before he could say anything else. Slow and loving, the kind of kiss built from years and years of choosing each other over and over again. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled softly again.

Eddie smiled against your mouth. “Think the kids are behaving themselves?”

You smoothed your fingers through his curls lazily. “Not our concern tonight.”

“God,” he sighed happily, pulling you impossibly closer, “I adore you.”

“Eddie,” you whispered, tilting your head as his lips brushed the side of your neck. “You’ve outdone yourself, mon amour.”

He hummed against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “Only the best for you.”

You laughed softly, and the sound made him tighten his hold, one hand sliding reverently down your side, tracing the black silk of your dress. 

Eddie loved pleasing you more than anything, maybe even more than breathing. He lived for the way your breath would hitch when he touched you just right, for the way you looked at him like he was the only man in any world worth having.

His fingers found the hem of your dress and slipped beneath it, warm palm gliding up your thigh. “Let me worship you here,” he murmured, voice low and rough with devotion. 

You turned in his lap, straddling him, your long dark hair falling around you both like a curtain. The cemetery was empty, the night yours alone. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, silver rings cool against his skin.

“Then worship me, Edward,” you said softly, the command wrapped in velvet.

Eddie’s eyes darkened with hunger and endless love. He kissed you deeply, almost reverently at first, then with growing heat as your tongues met. His hands roamed, pushing your dress up around your hips. He groaned when he realized you’d worn nothing beneath it.

“Fuuuck me,” he breathed against your mouth, a crooked, adoring grin breaking through.

“Oh my love, I plan to.”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, then lowered you gently onto your back atop the velvet pillows. The cool night air kissed your skin as he peeled the dress from your body, kissing every inch he revealed. Your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he looked up at you with pure reverence.

He settled between your legs, curls brushing your inner thighs as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue found your center with devastating patience; slow, worshipful strokes that had your fingers tightening in his hair. 

He moaned into you like you were the finest thing he’d ever tasted, savoring every gasp and whisper of his name that left your lips.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against your slick flesh, voice thick. “Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

Your back arched as pleasure coiled tight inside you, and Eddie watched it all unfold like a man witnessing divinity. When you came undone beneath his tongue, thighs trembling around his head, he held you through it, kissing you gently until the waves subsided.

Only then did he rise, shedding his shirt and pants with reverent haste. His cock was hard and aching for you, but he took his time, crawling over you, kissing you so deeply you tasted yourself on his tongue.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, lining himself up. “More than life. More than death. More than anything in this fucking universe.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him inside you with one smooth thrust. Both of you moaned at the perfect fit; years together, and it still felt like coming home. 

Eddie moved with slow, deep rolls of his hips, savoring every clench of your walls around him. His forehead pressed to yours, curls falling around your faces as he gazed into your eyes.

“Look at me while I fuck you, baby,” he breathed, devotion dripping from every word. “Want to see those saintly eyes when you come on my cock again.”

The cemetery felt alive around you; the wind whispering through the trees, the distant hoot of an owl, the scent of earth and night-blooming flowers mixing with sweat and sex. Eddie’s pace gradually quickened, one hand sliding between you to circle your clit while the other pinned your wrist gently above your head.

You came again with a soft, broken cry of his name, pulling him over the edge with you. He buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as pleasure wrecked him. Even then, he kept moving; lazy, loving thrusts to draw it out, kissing you through every aftershock.

Afterward, he collapsed beside you and immediately pulled you into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine while your leg draped over his hip.

Eddie pressed a kiss to your hair, voice hoarse with satisfaction. “I’d desecrate every grave in Hawkins if it meant making you feel like that.”

You smiled against his chest, fingertips playing with the silver strands beginning to thread through his dark curls. “If we keep this up, Corvina and Teddy may have a sibling.”

“Would that be so bad? Another mini-Munson running around, raising hell?”

You rolled your eyes lovingly, planting a few peppered kisses along his chest and jaw. “Poor Principal Higgins wouldn’t know what to do with himself with a third Munson.”

Dinner in the Creel-Munson House was rarely quiet. Not because anyone particularly tried to be loud, it was simply impossible for four Munsons to exist in the same room without the atmosphere becoming theatrical.

Thunder groaned outside while candlelight flickered across the dining room, illuminating velvet curtains, silver dishes, and the massive candelabra Teddy insisted made “every meal feel like a vampire intervention.”

Tonight, Eddie had been suspiciously smug since five o’clock, you noticed immediately. Corvina noticed immediately. Teddy noticed immediately. Which meant all three of you spent most of dinner staring at him with increasing suspicion while he fought a grin behind his wine glass.

Finally, Teddy pointed his fork accusingly. “You’re hiding something.”

Eddie gasped dramatically. “What a horrible accusation.”

“You’ve been smirking for an hour,” Corvina added.

“You also called the garlic bread ‘historic,’” Teddy said. “That means something’s wrong.”

You smiled faintly from your seat at the head of the table. “Darling,” you said gently to Eddie, “are you planning a crime?”

Eddie looked delighted by the question. “No,” he answered proudly. “Something better.”

Then, with all the ceremony of a man revealing the crown jewels, Eddie reached into his jacket and slapped four tickets dramatically onto the table. Silence.

Teddy squinted. Then his eyes widened so violently you thought they might leave his skull.

“No fucking way.”

“Language,” you corrected softly.

“No FUCKING way.”

Corvina leaned forward slightly now, dark eyes narrowing in interest. Eddie sat back in his chair with unbearable smugness. “Iron Maiden,” he announced grandly. “Indianapolis. Front section.”

Teddy SHRIEKED, like actually shrieked. The sound echoed through the dining room while Eddie burst into laughter.

“Oh my God,” Teddy gasped, grabbing the tickets with trembling hands. “Dad—Dad, are you serious?!”

“Your old man still has connections, baby.”

Teddy launched out of his chair instantly. 

You sighed knowingly. “Brace yourself, mon amour.”

A second later, Teddy practically tackled Eddie backward in a hug. “There he is,” Eddie wheezed dramatically as Teddy nearly crushed him. “My son. My flesh and blood.”

“You are the coolest person alive.”

“I know.”

Corvina, meanwhile, carefully picked up one of the tickets with much more restraint. But you noticed the tiny upward twitch at the corner of her mouth immediately.

“Dickinson is still performing?” she asked calmly.

Eddie clutched his chest. “That sounded almost excited.”

“It wasn’t.”

“She got the Munson concert gene,” Teddy informed you loudly.

“She absolutely did,” Eddie whispered emotionally. Corvina rolled her eyes, though there was the faintest flush creeping into her cheeks now. You watched your family fondly from your chair, chin resting against your hand.

This. This was your favorite thing.

Eddie glowing with happiness while the children inherited every loud, passionate, ridiculous piece of him without even realizing it. Teddy flopped back into his chair, grinning wildly.

“This is literally the greatest day of my life.”

Eddie pointed at him immediately. “That’s exactly what I said when your mother kissed me the first time.”

“You say that about everything Mom does,” Corvina muttered.

“Because your mother is extraordinary.”

You reached over and touched his hand gently, as Eddie looked at you like he’d been shot directly through the heart.

Then, Corvina cleared her throat, causing everyone to look at her immediately.

“…What,” she said flatly.

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “You’re about to ask for something.”

“I’m not.”

“You did the voice.”

Teddy gasped dramatically. “She DID do the voice.”

Corvina looked deeply regretful. “I hate all of you.”

You smiled softly. “What is it, little raven?”

A pause. Then, with visible reluctance: “…Could I possibly have one additional ticket?”

The room went silent, and Eddie blinked once. Then slowly lowered his wine glass.

“…For who?”

Corvina stared at her plate. “No one.”

“Corvina.”

Another pause.

“…Damien.”

Eddie’s entire body reacted as if he’d just been informed the government had finally collapsed.

“THE BOYFRIEND?”

“He is not—”

“The assistant quarterback?!” Teddy shouted.

“THE DEBATE CLUB ONE?” Eddie cried simultaneously.

Corvina groaned into her hands. You, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to smile.

“He likes Iron Maiden,” Corvina muttered.

Eddie looked genuinely betrayed. “The clean-cut child likes Maiden?”

“He listens to metal with me.”

Eddie stared at her for a long moment. Then suddenly leaned back in his chair, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“She likes him.”

“I do not.”

“She’s sharing music with him,” Eddie whispered hoarsely to you. “Baby, that’s intimate.”

Teddy looked horrified. “That’s like… sacred.”

“Exactly.”

Corvina looked ready to walk into traffic. You finally spoke, voice warm with amusement.

“Perhaps,” you said carefully, “she simply enjoys his company.”

Corvina nodded quickly. “Exactly.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes immediately. “Have you held hands?”

“Dad.”

“HAVE you?”

“No.” Too fast.

Teddy slammed both hands on the table. “THAT WAS A LIE.”

Corvina pointed at him. “You are dead to me.”

Eddie suddenly looked emotional again. “Oh, sweetheart,” he sighed dramatically, “your first love.”

“It’s not love!”

You stood then, gliding around the table toward your daughter. Corvina visibly braced herself for teasing. Instead, you simply smoothed a strand of dark hair behind her ear gently.

And very softly, you said: “If someone makes our little raven smile enough to frighten her this badly… we should like to know him.”

Corvina froze. Because despite all the drama and teasing, your family loved hard. Openly, and without shame, just like Eddie always had.

The house had long since gone quiet. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock groaned past midnight while rain tapped softly against the windows of your bedroom. Eddie lay sprawled across your chest like an oversized cat, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist while you lazily played with his curls.

This had always been his favorite place to exist, right here, with you.

Even after all these years, he still sought you out instinctively. Every night, somehow ended the same way: his head in your lap, or tucked against your chest, or buried into your neck while he mumbled half-asleep nonsense against your skin. Tonight was no different.

“You know,” Eddie murmured sleepily, eyes closed, “I think Corvina gets scarier every day.”

You smiled softly, carefully winding one silver-threaded curl around your finger. “She is your daughter.”

“Exactly why I’m concerned.”

“You cried when she said she held his hand.”

“I did not cry.”

“You absolutely did.”

Eddie cracked one eye open. “I became emotional.”

“You gasped loud enough to frighten Teddy.”

“That was fatherly grief.”

Your laugh came soft and quiet in the dark. God, he loved that sound.

Eddie tilted his head slightly against you just to hear it again. Then your fingers paused suddenly in his curls, a tiny thing, barely noticeable. But Eddie felt it immediately.

“What?” he murmured.

You said nothing at first. Instead, your fingers carefully separated one curl from the rest, then another. Eddie finally looked up slightly, finding your expression softened by something achingly tender.

“My darling,” you whispered.

“Hm?”

You gently pulled something free: a silver strand, then another.

Eddie blinked once. “Oh,” he said.

There was no fear in his voice, just surprise. You held the strands delicately between your fingers, studying them beneath candlelight like they were precious threads of moonlight themselves.

Eddie suddenly looked sheepish. “Well,” he muttered, “guess I’m getting old.”

You looked almost offended by the statement. “Edward Munson,” you said softly, “you have survived.”

You slid from beneath him carefully, crossing toward the antique vanity near the window while Eddie watched you in sleepy confusion.

Then you reached for the little silver locket resting beside your jewelry tray, the one you wore nearly every day, etched with the letter ‘E’.

Eddie pushed himself upright slightly as you opened it carefully. Inside rested tiny fragments of your life together.

A pressed black rose petal from your wedding bouquet. A piece of the guitar pick Eddie used the first time he played guitar for you. A photograph so faded it barely showed two young people grinning in a cemetery beneath storm clouds.

Eddie went completely still.

You placed the silver strands gently beside them, like they were treasures. Then you closed the locket softly and climbed back into bed.

Eddie stared at you for a long moment after you settled beside him again. “…You kept all that?”

You looked genuinely puzzled. “Of course I did.”

“Baby, there’s literally a piece of an old guitar pick in there.”

“The broken corner because you were nervous while playing for me.”

His expression cracked instantly. “You remember that?”

“You dropped it three times before speaking to me,” you replied calmly. “You were adorable.”

Eddie let out a weak laugh, suddenly overwhelmed in the way only you could overwhelm him. Because no one had ever looked at the broken, embarrassing, vulnerable pieces of him and treated them like sacred things before you.

Your fingers slowly returned to his curls. “You know what I see,” you murmured softly, “when I look at these?”

Eddie shook his head once.

“A life.”

His eyes burned immediately, so you kissed his forehead gently.

“The silver only proves you stayed long enough to grow old with me,” you whispered.

And that nearly destroyed him. Eddie suddenly pulled himself over you completely, burying his face into your neck while holding you tight enough to make you laugh softly again.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled against your skin. “How are you real?”

You stroked your fingers through his curls carefully, silver strands and all. “I might ask you the same thing.”

“No, seriously,” Eddie groaned dramatically. “You put my gray hairs in a locket. That’s insane behavior.”

“You married me willingly.”

“I’d marry you in every lifetime.”

Your expression softened instantly. Eddie lifted his head, then just enough to look at you through the candlelight; older now, yes, lines at the corners of his eyes and silver threading through dark curls.

But still the same boy who fell hopelessly in love with a gothic girl in black lace all those years ago. Still yours, always yours.

“You know what the worst part is?” he murmured sleepily.

“What’s that, mon amour?”

“I still get nervous around you.”

You smiled. Then pulled him down into another kiss while rain whispered softly against the windows of your haunted little home.

AGH I HOPE YOU ALL LOVED ITTT:)))

Hell of a Summer pt.2 is currently in the works, GET EXCITEDDDD YUHHH

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