Just another smut reader

“𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵.”

-𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘈𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘶𝘴

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Your eyes were sore from crying all night, a habit you thought you quit months ago. It only added to the tenderness of your already bruised left eye. As soon as you entered your classroom you were bombarded by your students asking you if were alright and what happened to you. It made you regret your decision to not just bite through the pain and cover it up with makeup. You merely brushed them off, ignoring their offers to return the favor to whoever did that to you. Your mind was far too occupied, replaying the events of the day before again and again. 

You could still feel the anger from yesterday sitting in your chest, just beyond the curve of your breastbone. Hot and heavy like you swallowed some burning coal. It was all you could think about as you made the rounds in your classroom, pretending to be watching your class work on their most recent project. 

You and Jonathan never talked the morning after your fight, nor did you and Nancy. You only woke up to a message from Argyle saying that he hoped you were feeling better and one from Eddie asking if you were alright after what happened last night. That was it. Every time you tried to send Jonathan or Nancy a message you deleted it right after, unable to find the right words. 

So you tried (and failed) to not dwell on all of it. Lost in the crevices of your own mind, you didn't notice the figure standing ten feet from you.

"You can come in sweetheart, we don't bite," one out of the two men who took your class, Simon, spoke up. You turned your attention to where his gaze was aimed.

Chrissy Cunningham. Standing in your doorway.

The air around you felt too thick to breathe. It was the first time in months you were seeing her. The same eyes you'd known almost all your life stared back but there was something in them, something you could no longer read. Sadness? Pity? Regret? There was once a time you could practically read each others minds. She looked so familiar and yet felt so much like a stranger.

You secretly hoped the next time you saw her she would look miserable. You weren't so lucky. She looked good, not a hair out of place and in clothes that reminded you far too much of what Carol wore the day she visited.

"Sorry this class is only for fifty and up," you said once the air finally returned to your lungs. 

"Can we talk?" Her voice hadn't changed. It still help that soft, airy, timbre.

Your mouth opened and closed in quick succession, trying to give an excuse but coming up empty. With a hesitant nod you followed her out of the classroom, shutting the door behind you.

"You cut your hair, looks good." She smiled and you thought you were going to be sick.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. Your throat felt raw, almost burnt as the words left your mouth.

Chrissy sighed, picking at her cuticles. She only did that when she was nervous. Maybe you weren't as inept at reading her as you thought. "Carol told me you were working here, that you weren't making art anymore. I didn't believe her so I had to see for myself," she explained.

You scoffed, the sound leaving your mouth before you could stop it. "Well you saw. Now you can go laugh at me with your new best friend Carol." You gestured to the exit. You almost felt like a kid again, the monster of jealousy peaking out over your shoulder at the idea of Chrissy and Carol becoming close, becoming the friends that you and her once were to each other.

Chrissy shook her head, eyes widening. "That's not why—”

"Just leave Chrissy." You cut her off.

"I have to tell you something, about me and Steve. I know what Carol told you but I need you to listen to me. I tried to tell you months ago—"

At the mention of her and Steve, acrid smoke filled your lungs as your dormant anger seeped to the surface. "Stop, just stop," you snapped. "I don't want to hear about how happy and in love you two are. How dare you come all this way just to shove that in my face!"

"No I'm not—"

"Shut up!" you yelled, louder than you had meant to. "You know Eddie was right about you."

"Eddie? Wait are you two—"

"It's none of your fucking business!" you laughed humorlessly. "You gave up that right when you chose some polo-wearing douche-bag over your best friend of twenty years. Twenty years Chrissy, and you just threw it all away like it never meant anything to you!"

Saying it out loud made your chest ache. Did you really know her for twenty years? Was this really the person who your mother made you wear matching dresses with? The person you shared all your secrets with? How was it possible, or fair, to know someone for an entire lifetime only for them to be gone from your life in the blink of an eye. It felt almost like a dream now. Or, more accurately, a nightmare. 

"That's what I'm trying to tell you—"

"God, will you just fuck off!" you exclaimed, finding it hard to care what she had to say. It wouldn't change anything. She made her choice, she had to live with it. "I don't want to see you ever again, got it? Get out of my life, you made it clear you didn't want to be a part of it anyway. You're selfish and you're cruel and I hope you and that asshole have a miserable fucking life together."

You watched as Chrissy's jaw clench and a crease appeared between her brows. "I'm selfish?" she scoffed. "I did everything for you! I worked shitty job after shitty job for years just to support your dreams. I paid eighty percent of the rent because you refused to get a job with a steady paycheck. I convinced the landlord to take four months worth of rent in advance and cut into my savings to do it, practically giving you the apartment even though my names still on the lease. I have done nothing but support you our entire lives!"

You only stared at her. Your tongue felt too heavy to speak, your lungs too tight, so she continued. 

"I gave you everything." Her voice wavered. "—and the one time I wanted something for myself you couldn't handle it!"

"It wasn't yours to take!" 

"He wasn't yours either!" she retorted. "You don't even know him! You didn't even care about finding your soulmate!"

You groaned in frustration, "It's not about him! It's about you. You're a bad fucking friend Chrissy and I feel sorry for you."

Her brows furrowed, eyes shifting over you like she was trying to decipher what you meant from your expression. "Sorry for me?"

The anger in your chest burned, scorching a hole into where your heart would be. "Yeah, because only someone as desperate as you could do something like that." Chrissy's face fell and you continued. "You whined and whined for years about finding your perfect person and when the universe gave him to you on a silver platter you spit him out and went for mine instead. No wonder it took you so long to find someone, even the goddamn universe could see how pathetic you are."

Chrissy sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes welling up with tears. Your eyes widened as soon as the words left your mouth.

"Fuck you." Her voice cracked. Then she was gone again, turning and rushing towards the exit. Her heels echoing down the hall. The sound of the door slamming made you flinch, extinguishing the flames you felt under your skin leaving you feeling cold and raw.

How did you get here? A few months ago you had a best friend, a sister. Now you were…you didn't know what you were anymore. Strangers wasn't the right word. Strangers didn't feel an ache in their chest upon seeing each other. Strangers didn't know just where to poke to inflict the most pain. If only there was such a word for someone you knew like you knew yourself, who you couldn't stand to be in the same room with.

This wasn't you. This version of you was ugly, bitter. You let yourself become this. It was exhausting, the anger. You didn't know what to do with it, holding it in didn't work anymore. Where would you even put it? It felt too big to store away, it engulfed you. All you could do in that moment was try to move on with the rest of your day, returning to your classroom and as if it had never happened. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"Well, well, well, look you finally decided to show up! You look like shit," Rusty remarked upon Eddie stepping into the meeting room a whole thirty minutes late, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. "What the fuck did I say about partying the day before an important meeting?" 

"Lay off man," he snapped at him, plopping down into one of the swiveling chairs. His sour mood from his own tardiness and being in Rusty's general presence was only made worse by the pounding of his skull and the tenderness of his bruise decorated face. "My fucking alarm didn't go off." He glanced over at Gareth for a moment, choosing to hold his tongue on why the younger man didn't wake him and left without him this morning. It wasn't like Gareth to do that. 

He hoped his hurt was hidden behind the dark sunglasses he wore to fight against the harsh light. He knew he looked like a douche-bag sitting there with his feet propped up and sunglasses on in a meeting, but he found it hard to care when all he really wanted was to get out of there as quickly as possible. 

Before Rusty continued whatever spiel he was on, his assistant Heather handed Eddie a coffee and a breakfast sandwich that made his stomach rumble. He muttered a "thanks Heddy" before he took a bite, his head falling back with a sigh as the greasy bacon, melted cheese, soft egg and buttery croissant with a dab of hot sauce hit just the spot. 

"I was just telling the boys about a new gig I got for you guys, a charity concert for cancer," Rusty continued. "I was thinking maybe you boys could write something new for the event. Something…emotional. I'm thinking a love song." 

Eddie scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. Everyone but Gareth looked his way. 

"Problem Munson?" Rusty asked, a scowl taking over his face. 

"Uh, yeah." He sat up and lifted his sunglasses off his face, squinting against the harsh lights. "We don't do love songs." 

It was a half-truth. They didn't do love songs anymore. A younger Eddie, before all the heartbreak and betrayal, had scribbled many a ballad into his composition notebook attempting to describe the all consuming feeling of love. But that was then and this was now. He had decided long ago that Corroded Coffin would never do love songs again. 

Rusty rolled his eyes. "You don't do punctuality either it seems but that is all going to change. I want you guys practically living in the studio until that event. I want you to eat, sleep, and breath chords, beats, and lyrics. Got it?"

"I'm going back to Hawkins next week. I'll be there a few days," Eddie shrugged, taking another bite of his sandwich. 

"What?!" Rusty exclaimed, making Eddie wince. "Munson you're killing me!" 

"I've got a family thing." He waved him off dismissively. 

If life were a cartoon Eddie imagined this was when steam would shoot from the older man's ears. A part of him wanted to see it, purely for the entertainment of it all. 

Rusty went to speak again but before he could Jeff cut him off. "Hey, we'll be fine. You said the charity event isn't for a few months, right? That's plenty of time. We've written songs in less then a day before."

Rusty sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, alright. Just be in the studio this Wednesday at least, nine o'clock sharp. Heather will send you all the schedule for when Eddie gets back. Understood?" 

"What is this boot camp?" Eddie scoffed. 

"Yeah sure, if that's how you gotta think about it to get your ass in there then so be it. Now onto merch sales, Heather?" 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Eddie was relieved when the meeting finally ended. He was more than eager to go home and sleep off the remainder of his hangover. As he walked back to the entrance with the boys, Gareth brushed passed him knocking their shoulders together as he picked up his pace to walk ahead.

"What's your problem dude?" Eddie asked, a surprised lilt to his voice. 

Gareth just kept walking, right out the front door but Eddie stayed on his tail along with the other boys. 

"Maybe you should try apologizing," Artie interjected.

Eddie's head snapped in his direction, his brows furrowed. "For what exactly? For not wanting to be blindsided?"

Gareth stopped in his tracks and finally looked at him for the first time since yesterday morning. "When are you going to get out of your own way, Eddie? When are you gonna let yourself be happy?"

"Excuse me?" he scoffed.

"I'm sorry for the blindside but I'm not sorry for worrying about my friend."

"You don't have to--"

"Worry about you? Yeah, I do. You didn't come home until three in the morning, drunk and beat up!" he exclaimed. "Don't even try to deny it, I could smell the booze on you once you came in. I know you're hurting but that doesn't mean you should be hurting yourself. I can't keep watching you hurt yourself." 

"What does that mean?"

"It means don't even bother coming to studio sessions if you're not gonna get your act together." With that Gareth turned and walked the opposite direction down the sidewalk, Jeff and Artie following him in tow.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Something needed to change. Everything now seemed contaminated by the presence of Chrissy. Your class was the one place you knew she'd never been and now even that was gone. You had no sanctuary unmarred by her. No space that wasn't haunted by her echo. Just sitting in your apartment made your skin feel too tight, like you didn't belong there as long was Chrissy was attached to it. It didn't help how much you were struggling to enact the change you so desperately wanted.

Between teaching, apartment hunting and job hunting, the next few days were filled with stress. Any other time you were stressed you would paint, but it had been days since you were able to paint something. You tried a few times, sitting in front of your empty easel at the end of the day until you gave up and made dinner instead.

Teaching was the most you painted in months and while it still technically counted it didn't feel the same as when you painted for the sake of it. It was all about the technical, it made you feel stiff. Rigid. You didn't completely hate your job, you liked the older men and women who took your class. But what you wouldn't have given to be able to sit in your home studio and let your brush take you away like old times. Such a feat was no longer possible, not when your art career didn't pay much even when you were taking commissions. You were the sole breadwinner now, to your great chagrin.

The painting you did days ago of you and Eddie having your picnic on the curb mocked you every time you entered your studio. The spark you thought you finally found again seemed extinguished. You needed to find it again somewhere, for your own mental well being. You had hoped maybe Eddie could be of some assistance to you but you hadn't heard from him in a couple days.

Everything seemed fine at first, but slowly he began answering less. His messages often short and simple until there were none at all. After the third unanswered text you didn't know what to think. It made you wonder if perhaps Chrissy was right. Maybe you did depend far too much on your friends. Or maybe Eddie had really meant it the other night when he said you shouldn't even be friends anymore. It made your chest burn to even think about, your lingering anger from the last few days swelling inside of you. It made you feel rather silly to worry so much about it. You and Eddie hadn't known each other that long so surely you had no right to be so upset over a couple missed messages…right? Instead of dwelling on the reason for his silence, you opted for the only other method you knew to work for your art block, going on a walk with your sketchbook in hand.

You loved walking through the city, watching all the different types of people go about their lives. As a portraitist, people were your biggest source of inspiration. There was so much beauty in the ordinary. Every scar and wrinkle told a story. Deep smile lines and crows feet to signify all the years of happiness. Lines between the brows and on the forehead for all of life's frustrations. Freckles that told of all the years in the sun. Surgical scars that spoke of hardship, and the more subtle ones from childhood roughhousing. People were mosaics of the lives they led. It was hard for you not to see all the beauty in that.

As you looked around at the medley of people, your eyes grazed over a bus stop where an ad was displayed beside the bench. The mere sight of it made your stomach twist.

Get your body soulmate ready! A weekly shot for a shot at love.

Ads like that were bad enough, using peoples insecurities against them. Now, using their desire for love against them, they were downright sinister. It brought you back to the first time you saw a similar one to it, back in college with Chrissy.

The two of you were walking back from dinner when Chrissy stopped in front of it. You didn't noticed right away, still chattering on about something you couldn't remember anymore. When you finally did notice that she'd fallen behind, you tried to get her attention but it was as if she couldn't hear you. It wasn't until you walked back to her that you saw it and recognized that look on her face. You pulled her away quickly after that, attempting to distract her from the ads cruel messaging.

Faced with another one of those ads, you wanted to rip it out from behind its protective panel, to tear it to shreds and toss it out into the air for all to see what bullshit it was. A lie protected behind fragile glass, begging to be shattered. You wanted to prevent every tender-hearted individual from ever seeing it. 

Instead, you merely raised your middle finger to it before continuing down the sidewalk.

Eventually you made your way to a park, perching yourself under a tree for some shade and took out your sketchbook. Your eyes scanned over the park-goers looking for any face to spark your inspiration. However the universe had quite the sense of humor as nearly every face you saw seemed to have a pair. Couple after couple, with only the sporadic singleton, crossed your field of view. 

The irony of it all didn't miss you. One moment you were faced with a literal sign that had you even more convinced that Eddie's theory on soulmates was correct, and the very next you were bombarded with affectionate couples. It was a rather cruel and tasteless joke, you thought. 

Even when you tried to find another spot you couldn't stop seeing them. Young couples. Old couples. Couples on (what you assumed) was a first date. Couples who acted like they've been together for years, so in synced and in rhythm with one another. Couples with children. Couples with dogs. One after the other and again and again. It was as if the cosmos above were shouting at you see how alone you are?

Not only did you not have a romantic relationship or prospects, but also not even a friend to share it all with. You were just…alone.

Ultimately, you gave up. Returning to your solitary apartment and chucking your sketchbook back into your studio with all your other abandoned projects and dreams. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Gareth was refusing to speak to Eddie. He went as far as to pack a bag to stay at Paul's for awhile leaving Eddie alone with his thoughts. As much as he tried not to think about it, Gareth's words wouldn't leave his mind.

When are you going to get out of your own way? When are you gonna let yourself be happy?

It was a ridiculous accusation, Eddie thought. He was not in his own way. He was not the one who rejected his supposed soulmate nor was he the one to throw away years of friendship. Who was Gareth to tell him to move on, anyway? He didn't understand and he never would. 

Eddie needed a drink or maybe a cigarette or a joint. Maybe all of the above. Anything to quell the heavy sinking feeling in his chest. He thought about calling you to invite you to drink with him, to drown your sorrows with him. He still didn't forgiven himself for you getting hurt that night so he resisted. It had been a few days since the two of you had spoken at all. He wasn't trying to ditch you per se, you didn't deserve that after everything you'd been though. He simply figured a little space would be a good thing. Even if that meant a few of your messages went unanswered. 

You might have seen something in him that made being around him worth it but Eddie knew what he was, a jinx. He had promised he would be better for your sake which meant not dragging you down with him. No matter what you said. He wouldn't allow you to drown yourself in his misfortune. 

The only solution was to drink alone. One drink by himself couldn't hurt, right? 

So Eddie returned to the same bar he went to with you a few nights ago. Stepping into the establishment he swore for a second he could still smell the blood that poured from your nose. He really needed a drink. Something stiff, something that burned enough to numb him. He wanted to drink until he felt nothing at all. He wanted to be nothing. 

The older bartender he was familiar with was nowhere to be seen, only a pretty young man with flirtatious eyes and a heavy pour. 

Might be fun, Eddie thought as he smiled cheekily at him and took a seat at the bar. 

It was easier to be nothing with a stranger. They expected nothing. 

One drink turned to two which turned to many more, and with each drink Eddie become bolder in his flirtations until eventually the two found themselves in the alleyway behind the bar. The shrouding darkness of the alley gave them the privacy they needed from any unwanted eyes.

The darkness made Eddie feel as though he was in a black hole. The gravity of it pulled him in but once inside there was nothing, and he was nothing. Just an emptiness that expanded from his chest outward. Or was he the black hole? He could hardly tell. Either way, it was the desolation he craved. 

Afterwards he stumbled away, feeling emptier than he did when it began. He wasn't finished numbing himself though. He wanted to stay in the nothing for as long as he could. No more pain, no more anger. Total and complete oblivion. Which lead him to a liquor store where he picked up the first bottle he could find.

Unfortunately for Eddie, he wasn't truly in a black hole. His existence was as solid and obvious as a speeding semi truck laying on the horn and it seemed the residents of the unfamiliar neighborhood he wandered into didn't have the same appreciation for Anthrax's Be All, End All. Which was how he found himself handcuffed in the back of a squad car. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Eddie woke to the sound of the cell door creaking open. His eyes squinted, adjusting against the bright lights of the station. A familiar face came into focus as he sat up to stretch. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" he grumbled, rolling his neck to ease the crick that developed in the night. 

Steve's brows furrowed in confusion. "You called me, remember?" 

Eddie had no memory of it but there wasn't any other way Steve would have known where he was, so it had to be the truth. To his great chagrin. "What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock."

His eyes widened, remembering the studio session Rusty had booked. "Shit I gotta go." He stood, grabbing his jacket from where he had used it as a pillow and pulled his arms through it. "Did you pay my bail?" 

"They don't do bail anymore. Besides, they aren't pressing charges." The younger man shrugged. 

Eddie simply nodded, stepping past Steve and the mustached officer who had opened his cell door. He couldn't afford to fuck up anymore. He was already on Rusty and the boys bad side. As he started to leave the cop stepped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. 

"Stay safe out there. Hope we don't meet again," the officer said, holding his hand out for him to shake. 

Eddie looked down at his hand and laughed humorlessly. "Likewise," he replied clapping the cop on his back and he watched with a smirk as the mans jaw tensed. 

"Can we, uh, get his stuff back?" Steve interjected, trying to ease the tension and potentially prevent Eddie from being put in cuffs again. 

The cop turned to Steve and nodded his head, "Wait over there. I'll bring them out." He pointed to some seats by the entrance and the two men made their way over. Eddie plopped down with a groan, his head leaning against the wall as he rubbed at his temples to help sooth his hangover induced headache. 

He looked out of the corner of his eyes to see Steve taking a seat beside him and sighed. "You can go you know. This isn't my first rodeo." 

"Yeah, I know," he scoffed. "That's why I'm staying. Don't want you to catch another charge because you're butting heads with Officer Mustache." 

Eddie rolled his eyes. "If you're here to play knight in shining armor why didn't you show up last night? Why make me sleep the whole night in a cell?"

"I did but they wouldn't let me take you," he explained. "They said they had to hold you overnight. They didn't tell me they weren't pressing charges until this morning." 

"Pigs," Eddie muttered under his breath then he paused, Steve's words starting to sink in. He looked at the younger man, taking in his appearance. His usually perfectly messy styled hair was truly just-rolled-out-of-bed-messy and under his eyes held heavy bags of exhaustion. "Wait…you were here all night?" 

Steve shrugged. "Yeah," he said as if it was nothing. In a rare instance, Eddie found himself speechless. 

They sat in silence for awhile until Officer Mustache came back with a bag of Eddie's personal affects, tossing them into his lap before telling them to get out. Eddie saluted with an impish smirk before heading towards the exit. 

As soon as he stepped outside onto the sidewalk, the bright morning sun sent a sharp pain through his skull. He winced against the light, trying to shield his eyes as he started down the sidewalk. "Well see ya never Steven." Eddie waved him off. 

"Let me drive you home," Steve insisted. 

"Yeah, I don't think so."

"Do you even know where you are right now?" he asked, his hands coming to rest on his hips. 

Eddie looked around at the surrounding buildings and didn't recognize any of them. "I'll figure it out." He barely made it a step before Steve spoke up again. "You really wanna walk multiple blocks with a hangover?" 

Eddie paused. His head really was killing him and the mere idea of walking who knew how far made his stomach roil in nausea. With a sigh he relented, "Fine. But no talking."

Steve's car smelled the same as he remembered it. The pine air freshener hanging over his rear view mirror mixed with Steve's hairspray—which he was always spraying incessantly—creating a clean and woodsy smell. Eddie's stomach churned as memories flashed through his head.

The road trip to Nashville to see his moms hometown. Him and all the Corroded Coffin boys squeezing in to make it to a gig when Eddie's van finally succumbed to her age, their gear crammed into the back and tethered to the roof. The late night rides through the city when either of them needed to clear their heads. 

They had spent many hours in that car together. The memories came to him with a twist to his gut. He thought about jumping out of the car to get away from them. The impact of the concrete would hurt less, he thought. 

They rode in silence just like Eddie requested with not even the radio to fill the awkward space. When Steve finally pulled up to his apartment he practically leapt out, stumbling to catch himself as his sneakers hit the sidewalk. 

"You can leave now," he said trying to keep his voice firm and steady despite the ball that was forming in his throat.

"What not even a thank you?" Steve asked incredulously. 

Eddie shook his head as he slammed the passenger door shut. "Nope. So leave." 

"Wow, whatever man," he scoffed. "Just don't drink yourself to death next time, alright?" 

The car revved as Steve sped off, tires squeaking unnecessarily against the pavement and Eddie returned the sentiment with his middle finger aimed at the car. 

As soon as he was inside his apartment he checked the time. Seeing he still had plenty of it before he had to be at the studio, he bee-lined for the shower hoping to rid himself of the scent of booze, sweat, and now pine that lingered on him. After scrubbing his skin raw he secured a towel around his waist and headed for his bedroom to dress, stopping just outside his door when the silence in the space finally hit him.

The apartment was so quiet without Gareth. Eddie had thought about getting his own place plenty of times, especially with the amount that Paul was over he thought they could use the privacy. He never considered how lonely it would feel. It felt empty, even with all of Gareth's things still there. The kind of empty that felt cavernous, like a hole that never ended no matter how deep you went. He had to convince Gareth to come back. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The boys were just setting up when Eddie arrived, their heads whipping in his direction at the sound of the door shutting behind him. He chose to ignore their looks of surprise, focusing on getting his guitar plugged in. He was on time, that was what mattered. 

"You good?" Jeff asked, his hand squeezing at his shoulder. 

Eddie nodded, "I'm good." 

This seemed enough to appease Jeff and Artie, although Gareth didn't look so convinced. He said nothing though. 

"We thought we'd jam a bit to get the creative juices flowing," Artie explained. 

"Sounds good, what song?" 

"Violent Delicacies." 

Eddie smiled. He held a fondness for that song. It was one of their oldest, he and Jeff had written it right before they moved to Chicago. 

Jeff and Gareth began together, playing their respective beats and chords. Eddie adjusted the microphone while he waited for his part to come in. He closed his eyes taking a deep breathe before letting the music drive him. 

There was nothing compared to it. It was like the first inhale after drowning. But just like the last time he tried to play, he felt stiff. It felt wrong. Off in a way that unsettled him, like the music didn't belong to him anymore. He had played this song a hundred times at concerts and yet it was like it was strangers song. In his frustration his fingers fumbled, messing up the chords he once knew like the back of his hand. To make matters worse, his head was killing him. The reverberation of the music felt like a knife to his head. He tried to persist despite it. 

The boys all exchanged a look. They knew Eddie could play this song with his eyes closed, backwards. So why was he getting it wrong? Before he could even get to the lyrics they stopped. He turned to face them, a look of irritation etched on his face. 

"What gives?" he asked curtly. 

They exchanged another glance to one another and Eddie's jaw clenched. 

"You okay man?" Artie turned to him, concern in his eyes. It was a look that made Eddie's teeth grind together. 

"I'm fine. Let's do this." 

He went back to playing despite the boys not following his lead. He tried to urge them to join him, gesturing with his head as if to say c'mon. They didn't play. 

His fingers slipped again. "Fuck!"

"What's going on with you? Are you drunk?" Jeff questioned, a lilt of annoyance now present in his voice. 

Eddie's head snapped in his direction sending a glare his way. "No I'm not fucking drunk!" 

"But you're hungover aren't you?" Gareth sniped, it was the first thing he'd said to Eddie in days. 

"I'm fine!" Eddie rubbed at his temple in an attempt to soothe the ache, which seemed to be confirmation to Gareth. 

"No," he snapped. "I told you if you weren't gonna get your shit together then don't bother showing up."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "I'm fine Emerson! Would you tell him I'm fine? That I can do this!" He turned to Jeff and Artie but they remained silent. 

"Fuck this, I don't need this right now!" He yanked his guitar from the amp and shoved it back into it's case leaving the rest of Corroded Coffin with their faces etched with an array of worry, annoyance, and downright anger. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

After days of silence from all your friends the reality of your loneliness hit you like punch to the gut. You, Jonathan and Nancy still weren't speaking to each other. Robin and Argyle had tried to reach out to you, but you weren't sure what to say to them. You assumed they would have sided with Jonathan or Nancy and you couldn't stand to hear another lecture. Eddie was gone too now. It seemed he had finally pushed you away. The silence was deafening on all fronts. You were well and truly alone.

You only left your apartment to go to work and most days when you came back you couldn't even be bothered to stare at your empty easel. You tried your best to push your feelings down, tucking them away in your gut so you wouldn't choke on them.

You felt like some kind of phantom. Haunting the rooms of the place you once considered a home and now was merely somewhere to lay your head at night. You had become incorporeal and out of reach from the living. 

You were brought back to life with a rupture of dormant anger when your phone went off and a text appeared on your screen. 

[ Hey, I'm outside. Sorry for the sudden drop by but I figured we could hang out if you're not busy. Let me in? :) ] 

It was from Eddie. You stared at the text, a magma-level of heat rising in your chest. Your blood didn't just boil, it evaporated into steam on contact. Any fraction of a doubt you had about whether or not you even deserved to be angry was dashed away.

[ I'll be down in a minute. ]

Who did he think he was? You wondered. Pushing you away only to try pulling you back in when he wanted to and without so much as an apology or explanation. It didn't seem right.

You left your apartment, stomping down the steps to the front entrance. Your mind racing with all the questions you had for him. Why hasn't he spoken to you? Why is he now? Where had he been? What happened to relying on each other? What happened? 

Eddie was perched on the front steps of your building. He stood, turning to look at you with a smile once he heard the door slam behind you. "Hey! You hungry? We could grab a bite at Sof's, or wherever. I'm not picky." 

Your jaw clenched as you stepped towards him. "You can't ignore me for days and then show up at my place like nothing happened." 

Eddie gave you a confused look. It only made you seethe more. "I thought you needed some space," he explained. 

"Why would you think that?" you questioned, your arms crossed over your chest like shield. 

"Because of what happened that night." That night. That god forsaken night which he just couldn't seem to let go of. 

Your brows furrowed. "Why are you trying to push me away?"

"I'm not pushing you away I was giving you space!" he retorted, he crossed his arms as well. His own shield of protection as he leaned against the banister. He didn't understand where this hostility from you was coming from. He had done it for you. To give you a break from his incessant wallowing, to save you from his seemingly intrinsic ability to jinx all the good things in his life. Why didn't you see he was trying to be better?

"I didn't want space I wanted my friend!" Your throat felt raw, like the heat from under your skin had burnt it. The feeling was all too familiar to the one you had days ago when you fought with Chrissy. It made you nauseous to think about. 

Eddie shrugged. "Well maybe you shouldn't," he grumbled.

"What?" 

"Maybe you shouldn't want me as your friend." You shouldn't be around him. He was a fuck-up. A wallowing loser. A disaster of a person. The thoughts prodded at his mind with every word you spat his way. 

"For fucks sake would you stop doing that! You're giving me fucking whiplash!" you snapped. 

"Doing what?" He gestured outwardly, a surprised and humorless chuckle leaving his lips. 

"Pushing me away and acting like it's some sort of selfless act when really you're being selfish." 

"Selfish?" Eddie scoffed, the word sitting heavy on his tongue. "It's selfish to look out for you?" 

The entire exchanging was feeling far too familiar. Not again, not again, you begged in your mind. I can't lose another friend. Your stomach roiled, bile rising up in your throat. "How can you be looking out for me when you don't even talk to me?" you countered.

Eddie rolled his eyes, his own frustration getting the better of him. "God I can't fucking do this right now. I've had a shit week as it is I don't need you piling onto it just like everyone else!" 

"All I'm asking for is to not be ignored. Is that really so much to ask?" 

"Sorry not everything can be about you!" 

"Why are you being like this?" 

"Why are you being like this?" 

 A voice familiar to you but not to Eddie spoke up then, snapping you both out of your heated, locked, stare. 

"Is everything okay?" You both looked to see Argyle standing a few steps away from your stairs. His eyes were on you, ignoring Eddie. 

"We're fine," Eddie glared at him. Who the fuck was this? He thought. He didn't need some random guy butting into his business. 

"I wasn't asking you dude." Argyle said your name, surprising Eddie "You okay?" 

"I'm fine, Eddie was just leaving." You regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. You wanted him to stay. That was what this whole fight was about anyway. So why didn't you stop him from leaving? 

Eddie huffed, his chest felt tight. He looked at you as if to ask if you were serious. When you didn't budge he shook his head, pushing himself away from the banister and making his way down the stairs. He turned and walked away in the opposite direction of where Argyle had appeared, not so much as giving you another glance your way. 

As you watched him walk away you felt a pang in your chest. You wanted to yell after him, to tell him to come back so you could work this out. You wanted your friend back. But the words wouldn't escape your mouth. You watched him until he turned the corner, out of your view. Like geysers, the two of you had burst. Burning each other with the heats of your anger. 

"So that was Eddie, huh?" Argyle asked. 

You turned your gaze back to him. "Yeah… he's not usually like that. He's just… I don't know what's going on with him." 

He nodded, smiling softly with an unsure look in his eyes that told you he didn't quite believe you. Why should he? So far all he knew about Eddie was that he got in bar fights and yelled at you. He'd only seen him angry. He had never seen the way he laughs, his head falling back and the way his whole body seems to shake with it. He'd never seen him smile and his dimples that sit on the corner of his mouth. He'd never seen the gentle way he speaks when he's trying to comfort you. He didn't know the Eddie that you knew. 

"What's up? What are you doing here?" you questioned calmly, not wanting to burn Argyle with like you had burnt Eddie. 

"Brought you some goodies," he shook the plastic bag he was holding. "Argyle family special brownie recipe. Up for a chat?"

You didn't like the sound of that. Not with the way your chats with friends had been going lately. You hesitated for a moment before stepping aside to let him in. This was Argyle after all, surely any talk with him couldn't be that bad. 

You let him into your building, walking side by side all the way up to your apartment. Once inside, Argyle made himself comfortable on your couch and you took a seat beside him, digging into the brownies he brought. Fudgey, chocolatey goodness coated your tongue on the first bite making you moan in satisfaction. 

"Good?" he asked with a chuckle.

Your hand went up to cover your mouth as you spoke through your chewing, "Should have been a baker."

He smiled proudly. "I kind of am. Our baked goods are some of our best selling stuff at the shop."

"Well I promise you it's not just because of the weed."

"Listen dude," Argyle said suddenly, turning to face you. "Jonathan mentioned you haven't spoken to anyone in a week."

The brownie felt harder to swallow all of a sudden, tasting of ash and charcoal. "I talked to you," you shrugged. 

Argyle shook his head. "You texted me once, the night after you and Jonathan fought. Haven't heard anything since so I thought I'd do a wellness check." 

"So are these pity brownies? Or are they a bargaining chip to get me to talk to Jonathan?"

"If they were a bargaining chip wouldn't I have stop you from eating one until you agreed to my terms? No, they're you're my friend and I care about you brownies." 

It didn't change the fact that they now tasted tainted. 

"The phone works both ways you know," you retorted. "If Jonathan or Nancy wanted to talk to me they could have called me themselves." 

"Look, most of my friends aren't talking to each other and other than Eden you guys are all I have. First you and Chrissy and now you, Jonathan, and Nancy? C'mon dude somethings gotta budge." 

You didn't know what to say in response. There was no hope for you and Chrissy, that much you knew. You figured perhaps you and Jonathan could make up eventually, you couldn't really remember what it was you fought about. With Nancy you were unsure. You had—accidentally as it may have been—implied that her and Robin weren't really meant to be. Something they had both heard far too much as it was from judgmental assholes. That would be more difficult to come back from. 

"Jonathan thought you might need some time," Argyle continued. "That's why he didn't reach out. So can you just like make the first move or something? I can't have all my friends hating each other."

"Why is everyone always assuming what I need instead of asking?" you scoffed. "I just wish he would stop trying to take care of me all the time! He acts like I'm too stupid to make my own decisions." 

"He doesn't think you're stupid, he's just been a carer all his life. It's who he is. The dude can't help it." He shrugged. "—and he was scared that night. He called me in a panic saying that you weren't answering your phone and he didn't know where you were. That's why we came over, he needed to make sure you were okay."

You hadn't really thought about how scary it might have been for your friends that night. It wasn't normal for you to go hours without answering a single call or text. You knew if it had been one of them you would have been worried just the same. Not only that, but this was Jonathan you were talking about. Argyle was right. Jonathan had been caring for you for as long as you knew him. Maybe you had been a bit selfish in not considering how scared he was. 

Maybe this was a habit of yours. Jonathan gave and gave while you just took. He gave you his shoulder to cry on when everything went down with Chrissy. He gave you his spare room to sleep in for two weeks after. He gave you all his time during the worst weeks of your life. How did you repay him? By ignoring him. Was Chrissy right? Did you depended on people too much? Did you take advantage of their kindness? Maybe that was why Eddie had pushed you away. He too was tired of you leaning on him instead of standing on your own two legs. 

"I didn't mean to scare anyone." You leaned back into the couch with a huff. "—and he shouldn't have to care about me so much. I shouldn't have to rely on other people to function, you know?" 

"I don't think that's how he sees it," he insisted. 

"It's true though." You nodded. "I've never done anything myself. I'm a freeloader! I've been freeloading off of everyone for years, I depend on you all way too much and Jonathan has been the biggest enabler of it. I need to learn to stand on my own" 

"That's what friends are for, to depend on each other."

"Not the way I do it." 

His brows furrowed. "Is this what you and that Eddie guy were fighting about? Was he telling you you depend on people too much?" There was a twinge of anger in his voice now though you knew it wasn't directed at you. 

"No it was…it wasn't that." You shook your head. "It was something Chrissy said actually." 

His face softened. "Oh." 

Whatever anger he had building towards Eddie seemed to dissipate at the mention of Chrissy. It made you bite the inside of your cheek until you tasted copper. It seemed all your friends had already made up their minds about him, and there didn't seem to be anything you could do about it. You weren't sure if it even mattered anymore. After all, were you and Eddie even friends still? Perhaps it was time to give him what he wanted and let him go, to free him from your codependency. 

"You're not a freeloader," Argyle said with a sternness you weren't expecting. "But if you think you need to work on your independence, okay. Do what you gotta do. Just don't push us away in the process. You can be independent without being alone." 

You nodded, giving him a gentle but unsure smile in return. Being alone this last week proved difficult enough, it wasn't something you wanted to do again. Maybe you could try baby steps instead of a complete cold-turkey. "Okay. I'll…I'll call Jonathan. Nancy too. I promise." 

He beamed his classic sunshine smile, "Thank you." 

Your bridge to Eddie seemed well and burnt, but perhaps the ones with your other friends could be mended. 

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐕 →

Thank you so much for reading. If you enjoyed this, please REBLOG!! Reblogs and comments are appreciated and cherished and are a great way to show your support to writers! ♥️

This chapter is dedicated to @jo-harrington, @notwantingtoadult and @rebelfell! Thank you all for always being so supportive and enthusiastic about this little story of mine. And as always thank you to the amazing, the wonderful, the stupendous, @gracerockysavedstars for being the best beta reader and brainstorming buddy a person could ask for ♥️ I’m not terribly far from finishing part 5 so you will not have to wait too long for the next chapter!!! There’s just a couple scenes I have left to write but a good CHUNK of it is done!! While you wait for that perhaps I could interested you in the prequel fic I wrote from Chrissy’s pov of what happened in Miami (when she and Eddie met)?? :)

Want to be updated when I post? Follow @sidereuslibrary and turn on notifications.

I do not give permission to have my work copied, translated, reposted on any platform, or put into any AI programs.

His hands have expanded over your ass, which is only covered by the cheeky underwear you decided to wear after swimming earlier. The very tips of his fingers are sliding past the lace hem, and you feel every firm twitch beneath you.

You are too drunk off passion to worry about how your stomach protrudes a bit more now that it’s full of bubbly alcohol and sweets. Your mind does not shift to the fact that you have not shaved your body in weeks. You are more focused on how steady and unwavering Eddie’s warm body is below you.

Every other time Eddie’s touched you like this, you move his hands up, up, up. You always wanted him to avoid your lower region due to insecurity about that area not being good enough. Hot enough. Smooth enough. Whatever.

It is stupid because he has always made it explicitly clear that he did not care. Hair could be anywhere. Sweat could pool wherever. Acne could riddle certain places. It did not matter.

You were buzzed enough to believe him this time. And it was a relief.

His lips are attached to your neck and bare chest, peppering kisses over your body as you straddle his lap. He had never kissed around your boobs like this. Tongue and mouth attacking your areola with breathless hum and contentment. You repeatedly push his bangs back over his forehead to get a good look at his movements.

“You are perfect,” He hums, not peeling his eyes away from your shirtlessness, “So, so beautiful. I’m so lucky.”

His lips purse as he goes back to just kissing the area, teasing you every chance he can get. You return the favor, grinding yourself down on his restricted cock, still tucked away in his underwear. The wanton moans that escape him drive you insane, but he does not make any more moves to get his briefs off. Or yours.

“You’re making me mad,” You groan, hands creeping around his neck to try to bring him closer.

Those big brown eyes feign innocence as he looks up at you, “Don’t be mad, baby. I got you. I just love this view, I wanna savour every second.”

When you inhale sharply, your hard nipple graces the plushness of his lips again. As you exhale, you watch his head chase you, capturing your tit with his now-all-too-eager mouth.

As he swirls his tongue around, you cannot contain the whines that are seemingly stuck in your throat. With the limited experience you did have, you never had a moment like this. The extended and titillating foreplay made you thirstier for him than before. If that was even possible.

You feel him under you. He’s hard and twitching every time you tilt your hips forward and backward.

When he throws his back, you know you got him right where you want him.

Before you can say something to inch this situation along, you both halt at the sound of one of the nearby doors slamming shut. Giggles rattle off the walls from behind a closed door, and it distinctly sounds like a female and a male laugh.

You are completely still against Eddie, arms locked around his head as if to bury his face into your chest.

He heaves against your right tit, “I think another couple has the same idea as us.”

You cannot help but giggle, knowing damn well that the rattling you are hearing across the hall is Olive and Tucker being oblivious to the world around them. You pull back Eddie’s head with a soft tug, looking down at his smirk.

“I hope we aren’t as loud,” You whisper, ducking down to hover your lips over his. He takes that as his in to press a lingering and wet kiss to your mouth as his arms lock behind your back to hold you in that spot.

Then more voices enter the house. More familiar ones, trickling down the hall and into separate bedrooms. Your eyes flutter open, and your back presses further into Eddie’s rigid arms.

“We can pick this up later,” Eddie mumbles in his most quiet voice, almost like the words were forced out of his brain. The goosebumps gracing your skin tell you that he’s probably right and you will only be nervous and anxious to continue on in fear that someone will walk in. One specific person, Gareth, because this was also his room to crash in. His flat pillow with a stained pillow case is just waiting for him on the small bed beside Eddie’s.

You do not want to stop. Not really.

But you also know better than to let any of the guys get a free show when you two finally have sex for the first time. You are too tipsy to be quiet, and Eddie is horrible at whispering.

So you nod in agreement, slipping off Eddie’s lap and onto the wrinkled sheets next to you. Your drunk mind is now hyperaware of how much your hips and knees burn due to the strain you put on them sitting like that.

Eddie does not need to say anything for you to curl up close to him and relax into the warmth.

He says something to you that you cannot really hear because your brain is taken over by exhaustion. Your eyes flutter shut within minutes.

Your bladder felt so full that it hurt.

The first thing you do when your eyes peep open is glance over towards where Gareth should be. He was missing from the small twin bed wedged into the corner of the room. That alone gives you enough confidence to get out of bed in only your panties. No one else was here to witness you scramble.

Your mind was hardly firing off neurons, but your body practically carried you upward to the bathroom anyway. Before your hand reaches for the handle to the door, you catch a glance at your shirt hanging off the footboard of the bed. You snatch it up and throw it over your head.

It covered your ass enough to walk across the hall to the only bathroom upstairs.

The release was almost too long. It was obvious that you drank a bit too much for your bladder to handle.

After you finish your business, you pad back across the hall and sneak back into bed. You had not even thought about the man next to you when you rolled onto your side to pull yourself out of the bed minutes earlier.

Eddie’s hair is a mess of curls over his face. He looks so relaxed when he’s all sprawled out like this, and it truly warms your entire body.

You throw your leg over his waist, trying your best to balance yourself on your knees. You feel your hips pop as you hold yourself over him, which makes you cringe. Unfortunately, after the position you were in last night, it’s harder than usual to maneuver around him.

Your body scoots across his barely clothed pelvis, and it jolts the once-peaceful Eddie Munson awake.

His eyes are glazed over, but you can tell by his rapid blinking that he’s trying to make you out in the darkness of the room.

“Just me,” You whisper reassuringly, placing your hand down on his bare chest. How is he still so warm when his upper body is not covered by blankets?

Your body rests on his side, avoiding his bracketed arm. The bed squeaks more as you adjust your hips and legs under the wrinkled top sheet.

He sighs, rubbing his face with his still ringed hand, “Thought you were Gareth.”

The relief of it being you settles his tense shoulders as your still sleep-laced brain decides to rub his chest, still trying to be comforting and calm his heart rate. His chin tilts up, trying to push the back of his head further into the beaten-down flat pillows that were on every bed in the cabin.

You place your temple onto his bicep, still appreciating his side profile. You use your nails now, lightly scratching the skin on his left pec, “No, his bed is empty.”

Eddie hums, pulling your body closer to him. “Must’ve fallen asleep somewhere else.”

“Probably.”

His hand brushes over your hip, leaving goosebumps in its wake, “You put on a shirt.”

You smile into his side, lips pressing slightly into his ribs. You somehow knew he would comment on it the moment you slipped it on earlier.

In the dark of the early morning, Eddie started swiping the shirt up to touch your sides. His rings were cold against your skin. They almost always were. You half expect to jolt from the shock of the metal pressed into you, but this time, you don’t.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to go pee shirtless.”

He rolls his body a bit closer to you, wrapping his arms around your body completely. Before you know it, his bare legs intertwine with yours, and he has you completely enveloped in his chest and pinned. He’s still in his boxers, and at this angle, you see they are falling way too low below his waist.

You catch a whiff of his body odor the moment his armpit is hovered over the side of your face, but you do not stray away. His arms feel so strong around you, holding in all the warmth, that you could not care less what he smells like. All your weight rests on top of him, and you silently worry you may squish him.

The slow, languid movements of his hands over your body bring back that familiar swell in your chest, bringing you out of the mini-spiral you are about to have. It’s that same maddening feeling you felt around the fire last night.

“Can we take it off now that you’re back in bed?” He whispers, his lips zeroing in on your jaw and chin. The moment his wet mouth latches onto you, it’s game over.

His lips move down to your neck, pressing one last kiss there before you pull back and grab the hem of your shirt. As you reveal yourself to him again, his smile only grows.  

His eyes soften a bit, and to your surprise, he does not go for suckling on your tits like he did last night. He instead traces his hand over your collarbone, before grabbing the nape of your neck. As he tugs you back down onto him, he captures your lips in a tender, lingering kiss that makes you bend to his every whim. You open your eyes as he pours himself into you, and you focus on some hair sticking to the side of his face. You wiggle your arm up between the two of you, twirling that hair around your pointer and middle finger before sliding it back behind his ear.

He pulls away, panting like you took his breath away, “Do you want to? Everyone should still be asleep-”

“I need you now, Eddie,” You say as hushed as you can, knowing that at any moment, someone could hear you two awake and stroll on in. You do not believe his friends are that stupid, but you would not put it past them completely.

The grin plaguing his face is so infuriating. You move your grip away from his hair to place your hand over his mouth and pinch his cheeks together. His brows fall slightly as his eyes scan you up and down.

“No teasing or falling asleep this time,” You demand, your voice still soft but firm.

When you let him go, he’s not smirking as much. Just an even expression to match his next question. “You are sober, right?”

“Yes, promise.”

You barrel roll yourself backward, positioning him right on top of you. His hands plant themselves into the mattress right beside your waist. His legs settle right between your parted thighs, and you know the heat from your core is radiating to him.

You look down as he sits back on his knees, and that’s when you note the hardness below the black briefs he’s wearing. There’s still a somewhat large white stain right where his tip rests due to last night’s activities, which makes your pursed lips turn straight into a beaming smile.

Before you can make a jab at him, you realize he’s pushing the waistband down slowly with his thumbs. You see his pubic hair get darker as he pushes them down, and you swear you can feel your heart in your throat. His cock springs completely free from the confines of his underwear, and while you were shocked, you consciously try not to show it. And of course, you fail.

He’s bigger than you expected somehow.

You have never seen Eddie completely bare. Sometimes his jeans left nothing really to the imagination, but seeing him completely unguarded made your jaw come unhinged.

Definitely the biggest dick you have ever seen in the flesh. Long,veiny, and thick. Slightly curved to the left with fairly well trimmed pubes at the base. You do not want to look away, so you watch his cock slightly bounce as he tosses his boxers beside the bed. You make work at your own panties, slipping them off your hips and legs and throwing them beside you.

His head snaps over to look at you as you lie naked. The inquiry on the tip of his tongue is long forgotten when you sit straight up and push him down to take over the situation. Now that you have seen what you will be working with, it’s almost like you have been possessed and need him now.

“Wow, wait, wait,” He warns, grabbing his cock with his hand. He holds it like he’s protecting it from something. From you.

“What? You’re going to fuck me, right?”

His Adam’s apple bobs at your question, and you can tell the question made his brain malfunction. He clears his throat before responding. “I gotta warm you up some, baby. Can’t go sticking myself in a place that hasn’t been explored in a while.”

A place that hasn’t been explored in a while.

Now your jaw is ajar for a completely different reason. He may be right, but it stings for some reason.

“Are you being serious right now?”

He shakes his head, probably realizing by your hushed tone that you are already annoyed. Because you were. Even if his declaration is correct, he could have let you down a bit easier. Instead of the slight towards you, he could just suggest you just lie back and let him do the work. Your knees would probably appreciate that.

He springs into a ramble almost immediately.

“Baby, I just wanna make sure I don’t hurt you,” He states with a soft, cautious voice. His hand moves up and down his cock, and you find yourself staring yet again, not expecting such an action. The motion makes your thighs clench, observing the scene like it’s your own personal porno. “Can you please lie back and let me touch you? I never got the privilege to do that last night.”

Your brain is mush the second you watch a small bead of precum escape his tip. The depraved scene makes you submit to his suggestion and lie back on your pillow without another word.

When you relax, Eddie crawls over you with careful precision and appreciative eyes. Now that both of you are naked and touching one another, the real nerves start to set in.

He dips his head down, kissing your collarbones and then down, down, down. When his lips hover over your nipple, you sigh. The stimulation is immediately overwhelming. He kisses, swirls his tongue, sucks, and even nibbles on your tit, and it’s maddening. If he’s this good when he’s just appreciating your boobs, you cannot imagine what he will feel like against your-

He fondles your thighs after a few minutes of tit admiration, massaging them before pushing them apart. You assume he’s going to kiss you by the way he’s hovering over you, but instead, he retreats slightly and settles on his stomach between your legs.

This was a new experience. Something you were not sure you would like, but the way Eddie looks so content and excited to touch you, you try to ease into it. Screw those butterflies in your stomach.

The sigh that leaves his lips when he zeroes in on your soaked cunt almost makes you feel drunk again. You feel yourself tense slightly in anticipation.

But then his hand is back to soothing you, running up and down your thighs as if to silently reassure you. And it does.

His face creeps closer, but before he could press his mouth on you, his right hand travels swiftly up your leg to right where the heat is most prominent. He slides his pointer and middle finger between your pussy lips, gathering all the slickness your body has already released.

“God, your pussy is so pretty,” He mumbles, adding a bit more pressure to your entrance. His middle finger slides in so seamlessly, and while you can feel the prodding, it does not hurt like you remember it did before.

The last time you were touched like this, it was rushed, and you were not this wet. The guy did not really care about taking his time and ensuring you were satisfied.

Doing this with Eddie felt good. Great, even.

You exhale pretty loudly, which immediately makes Eddie’s eyes meet yours to check in.

“Feels good,” Is all you can manage to say as his hand hovers over your pussy.

He smiles at your words.

Then his ministrations continue, slipping in between your slit as he breathes out heavily. The excitement in his eyes makes your throat tighten, a small whine escaping your lips as he spends what feels like an hour toying with your entrance. He starts with one finger inside and slowly works you open. After a minute, he adds another and twists his wrist so it’s pointing upward.  

That’s when you really start to feel the overwhelming curling in your stomach that you only ever feel when you are taking care of yourself.

“Is that too much?”

You look down at him, eyes probably hazy and slightly edged. “I can handle it.”

He slides his fingers in and out with this innate knowingness, like he knew exactly where all your most maddening spots were.

You somehow need more.

You start to shift your hips, grinding against his hand.

The spit on Eddie’s lips glistens as his head shifts side to side, taking in the sight of your pussy.  He continues to wet them with his tongue as he readies to put his mouth on you.

When his tongue finally makes contact, you cannot stop yourself from sighing and letting all the air leave your lungs. The sound that’s released sounds like a moan from some shitty porno, and it does not register with you that you are being obscenely loud.

He pulls away rather quickly as you continue to grind your hips, trying to feel more. “Need to be quiet, baby. Can’t wake the others-”

“I do not care right now,” You grit your teeth, “Put your mouth back on me.”

He has never seen you so demanding in his life, and by the quirk of his brow, you can tell he’s very into it. He latches his lips back around your clit, taking his time slurping it up. The suction he puts around it is something you truly have never felt before.

The appearance of those goddamn lips on your most sensitive area is overwhelming. You had always noticed certain features about people you came to know, and with Eddie, it was always his lips. The way he tugged his bottom lip with his teeth when he was focused. The way they wrapped around a straw. The way he rolls a toothpick between his teeth while his lips form a small ‘o’ around it. And you will never forget that time they were pursed and sucking on a lollipop on Halloween.

Now those same lips are occupied between your legs.

Eddie’s hands have never been still, but you think this is the fastest they have ever moved against something other than his guitar. Your eyes cannot peel away from the way his intense dark eyes lock in on your reactions.

You cannot stop yourself from letting out small noises as he changes his technique.

“God, you’re so good at that.”

“Please, right there, yes.”

“Your mouth- oh my god, Eddie!”

But the moment your brain and mouth start mindlessly reflecting and say something completely offhand, Eddie halts his movements altogether.

“We should have done this sooner,” You sigh.

Eddie’s eyes trace your body, fingers still deep inside your cunt, but they are unmoving. You do not know why that sentence specifically makes him still, so you instantly try to backpedal.

“I mean, we weren’t ready, but you’re just so good at what you’re doing… And god, I’ve fantasized about this so often, and I once even had a dream that you were doing just this-”

Those pink, glossy lips move upward into a smirk, and you realize he’s just fucking with you.

Knowing Eddie, he probably just wants to hear you ramble more and inflate his ego.

You reach down, swiping your thumb over his lips, and lock your other four fingers on his jaw. “You cannot help but mess with me. I thought you actually had an issue with what I said.”

His hair falls across your thigh as he shakes his head, “Guilty as charged and no, of course not. I agree. I wish I could have gotten between your legs sooner. But it’s okay.”

He adjusts himself back a bit, resting his head on his shoulder as he slowly removes his fingers from you completely, only to tease your swollen clit with his middle finger. When he flicks it lightly, you whine. “It’s okay, because I’m here now and I am so ready to make you feel so fuckin’ good.”

He presses a quick kiss to your thigh, before he’s back to dragging his tongue back to your cunt.

You are well-versed in the buildup of tension in your body. You learned how to get yourself to finish rather early on in your sexual exploration. But this was somehow different. This riling inside the pit of your stomach is radiating all around your entire body. It’s an almost shuddering affliction that makes your body tense and twitch as Eddie continues his ministrations against your pussy. The sounds, the rubbing, the moans, it all became too much, too quickly.

You do not even realize that you’re pushing his head away, all the while, grinding yourself against his face. He could probably tell by the way your cunt is clenching around his fingers that you were close, so he only sped up his fingers.

When it does hit you, it’s like all the air is sucked from the room, and your vision goes fuzzy.

You try to shout, whine, something, but nothing comes out of your mouth.

As your body vibrates against him, Eddie can only lap you up more. He even smiles while doing it.

Once you heave enough air to come back down to Earth, you look down at the man behind your most mind-blowing orgasm ever.

“So beautiful when you cum," He mumbles, pressing one final kiss to your clit.

It makes all the hair on your body stand up. As if you were not already completely taken by him, he says things like that to make your brain tingle.

His face glistening with your wetness and his own spit. His pupils are blown wide, with a slight sparkle in them, as he shifts more toward you. His strong hands press into the meat of your thighs, which are somehow sensitive, too.

You adjust your hips on the now-semi-wet sheets as your body relaxes from the jitters that orgasm gave you.

“Are you okay if we go further?”

You hear the words, and as you try to process them, Eddie moves further over your body. His dick drags across your lower stomach before settling right over your mound. It makes you shiver just thinking about his girth stretching you open.

You jerk a nod, “Yeah. Please.”

He looks down between the two of you.

You feel him tense a bit.

"I don't have a condom."

"I am aware. Just..." You trail off, knowing that there is a risk, but you are too desperate to think too far ahead. You could get a Plan B tomorrow if it all goes sideways.

"I'll be careful," He reassures.

"Yeah, yeah, just-"

You watch as he uses one hand to drag his member down between your spread legs. You lock your knees to his hips and let your calves rest taut to his ass, using the leverage to bring him closer.

“I'll pull out, yeah? I’m just gonna go right here for a second. I will let you know when I am gonna slide in-”

“Eddie, just do it.”

His brows flicker as his expression shifts from out of his mind, pleased with the entire situation, to pure confusion, “You don’t want me to talk you through it?”

You contemplate for a minute. Of course, you want to hear his voice in your ear, guiding you through this moment, but you do not need it to be like a sports commentator on the radio.

You let out a hasty laugh, imagining him using that silly animated voice he uses during his campaigns.

“Not like that. I don't need the play-by-play."

He nods quickly, looking down again at his throbbing cock resting against you, “Okay, okay.”

The pressure you feel when his cock starts pushing inside your cunt makes you tense up. He uses his free hand to tilt your chin up, demanding your eyes to look at him. He looks so spent, and it only makes your heart race quicker.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he whispers as his hips further inch closer, “Relax a bit, baby. Relax.”

You take in a deep breath, releasing the air into Eddie’s face. He nods as if to wordlessly say you are doing a good job and loosening up for him. He uses that moment to fully sheath himself inside you.

“Holy shit, Eddie.”

He shakes his head, “I know, I know. We will go slow, okay?”

“Yeah, please,” You groan, taking in another deep inhale and slow exhale, “Feels like you’re splitting me in half.”

He lets out a breathy laugh as he experimentally pulls your body against him. “It’ll get better. We can practice.”

You look down to see him inside you, and your hips involuntarily jut upward. Eddie hisses, locking his hand on your hip to stop you and pin you back down. “Gimmie a minute. Gimmie a minute.”

A couple of pants later, he slowly moves inside you. Only slightly. A millimeter of a thrust.

“You can move more. If you want."

You finally look in his eyes again, and his pupils are massive. His jaw is practically on the floor while his brows are furrowed in concentration. He thrusts forward swallowly, before retracting back. You catch the tenseness in his abs.

You swear it's the hottest thing you have ever seen.

His eye contact with you is never broken, though.

“God, you are so tight,” He pushes forward, way quicker than the first time, “Pussy’s so good, baby.”

That unlocks something inside you. Your legs loosen around him, so he has more space to move into you. “Oh my god, keep talking like that.”

His jaw finally tightens back up, and his mouth twists into a smile, “Yeah? You like it when I talk about how good you feel?”

“Eddie,” You whine, tossing your head back against the pillows. From this angle, you get a full view of him kneeling between you, fucking into you with this precision and pace you ached for. It’s better than the dreams you have had. Better than you could have ever imagined.

“Mmm, I like it when you say my name like that. All fuckin-” he has to take a deep breath to collect himself, “All spent out on my cock.”

You watch as a dribble of sweat comes from his hairline. He takes his time grinding himself into you, even though you know with the amount of wetness down there, he could be sliding in way faster.

His eyes scrunch when your hand trails up his forearm, another way for you to ground yourself in this moment.

The pressure you initially felt is fading, and you lock in to the way his body is moving against yours. “Speed up, babe.”

His curls immediately shake, and his head twists, disagreeing with your demand. “I will cum. I can’t.”

“It’s okay, that’s the point, right?” You feel up his arm and expand your fingers over the tattoo on his bicep. You try not to tighten around him, but his cock is hitting in the same delicious spot over and over again. “To cum?”

He sucks in a sharp breath with his teeth clenched. He definitely was not expecting the urgency in your voice.

“No, the point is to enjoy you and your body. I want to keep enjoying it.”

The moment he says it, you dig your nails into the meat of his arm. His hips start to speed up, anyway. His words may have meant well, but he did not truly mean them. He wants to cum, and you know it by the way his body is reacting to your pleas.

He watches your tits jiggle for only 5 seconds, and he’s suddenly throwing his head back. You can feel his dick twitching inside your spongy walls.

“Eddie, please, please,” Your voice is hushed but gravelly. You try to clear your throat, but you end up just swallowing whatever small amount of spit you have left in your dry mouth.

Eddie is too beautiful in the moment to fuck it up with a weird sound. If you dare mess up the way he’s fucking into you, you may have to throw him down on his back and finish him.

While you focus on the swiftness of his thrusts, he starts whimpering in the most divine way. His nose and lips are twitching, his brows set, and he finally mutters, “I’m gonna cum.”

“Then cum.”

He gives one last push into you before he slips out of you entirely. It’s a bit too quick for your liking, but you realize he is not completely clouded by lust to be irresponsible. With two languid pumps of his hand, he’s cumming onto your stomach. You can tell by the sounds he’s making that he’s holding back his true noises.

You watch his cock twitch to a stop, and you feel sickly satisfied with his cum covering your navel.

Eddie sits back on his knees, his ass pressing into the back of his heels. His dick is softening, but it’s large enough to still look hard. He was no doubt a shower out of the gate. You sort of knew that by the print it left in his jeans.

When you finally pull your eyes away from his cock, you see him smiling down at you with the most delighted look on his face. Your lips turn upward, matching his and displaying how pleased you are with your first time together.

It took months of build-up to get to this moment. You cradled this small fire that was your friendship and let it completely explode and catch the entire room around you on fire in the most passionate way.

It feels like all the shit was worth it.

You have him. All of him.

“You need to cum again.”

His words take you off guard at first. You finally decide to clear the frog in your throat.

“I’m okay, Eds."

But then his hand is raking up and down your hips. You silently thank whatever god was up there that she gave you a man who enjoyed watching you orgasm.

His right hand slowly taps against your inner thighs, using his left hand as leverage to push himself back onto his stomach. You do not have any real reason to deny him more time between your legs, but you were tired. Your body already felt like jello from the first time he brought you to your peak.

His pointer finger drags between your slit as if he’s trying to inspect his work.

“I just can’t get enough,” He blinks as his middle finger pulls your pussy lips apart, “Fuck.”

You want to give him one more. But you aren’t sure if you can. You have never really tested your limits when it came to masturbating. You never came with any other partners before, so every ounce of this experience was unexplored territory.

His tongue pokes out, prodding your clit that is still throbbing from the last time you came. The way he moves against you sends your body tingling all over again. You put your hand over your mouth because somehow, it’s even harder to stop your moans from coming out.

This overstimulation was no joke, and you could definitely get used to it.

Eddie is humming and moaning like he’s eating his first and only meal ever. You grab the back of his head, lock your hand on his curls, and hold his mouth in one spot. That special spot that, when sucked on, your ears start ringing.

“I’m close, I’m-”

You cannot even finish what you're saying as your body reacts before your brain can. Your hips roll over his face as the ringing intensifies and the view of the ceiling becomes blurry. It feels like your hand touched the static of a TV, and it buzzed through every vein in your body.

His tongue retracts, and you only feel those plush lips pressing into you as you come down from the climax.

You release his hair and let him move away from you. Before he changes positions, he presses a kiss to your pussy and smiles at your fucked out expression.

“Knew you’d give me one more.”

His body moves to your side, and you seize the moment to slap his ass with all your might. “Smug bastard.”

His smile never wavers. “C’mere.”

You roll your eyes, settling against him. His arm tightens around you, holding you close to his now sweatier armpit. “You stink.”

You say it as a parting slight, your eyes growing so heavy you cannot think of any other rebuttal if he says something back.

“Makes two of us.”

You think there is an earthquake happening the second you regain consciousness. Your eyes blink open, and your hands press into the comforter that’s shielding your bare chest from the frigid morning air. Disorienting is an understatement as you realize who’s above you.

“Morning, lovebirds!” Gareth is stepping over the divots your legs leave under the blankets. One shift of his foot makes the blanket reveal more of your collarbones and chest. Jeff, who’s standing over a shirtless Eddie, notices the peak of skin and stops moving completely. His eyes are wide and locked in on how you are struggling to keep the blanket above your chest. Gareth obviously does not realize and starts to jump on the already squeaky mattress.

You blink more, trying to make out more of the situation. You feel like you have been splashed with cold water, because your heart is pounding with adrenaline. When you realize they are only trying to wake you two up, Eddie's body shoots up beside you, and his voice echoes off the walls.

“Out now! Out! Out!”

Jeff is the first to jump down, but because his movements are frantic, he accidentally drags more of the blanket off Eddie’s completely naked body.

The drop of Gareth’s face when he scrambles to get off of you is unforgettable. As you look up at the boy standing over you, the noticeable shock riddling his expression only makes Eddie angrier.

“Holy shit,” Gareth yells as he rolls off Eddie’s body and onto the creaking wooden floors. He’s millimeters from a face full of bare crotch, which makes Eddie yell louder.

The blanket keeps falling away from more of your body, and before you can gather enough, half of your chest is out. Eddie races to hold up more cover for you as Jeff and Gareth flock together and towards the door.

They giggle like school children as they evacuate the room, leaving the door wide open for everyone in the cabin to see everything that is occurring. Eddie springs up, grabbing his boxers from the floor and giving you a full display of his perky ass. He covers himself with the balled-up fabric and rushes to slam the door shut.

“You fuckin’ idiots!” He yells through the door, slamming his palm on the wall. His voice is so groggy and guttural, and you silently hate yourself for finding it hot. You are too tired to really read into it further. He’s simply hot, in general.

He looks to you, eyes desperate and worried. He rushes over and pulls the covers up more of your chest, “You’re okay, right? You’re good?”

Your mouth is dry, and the moment you go to speak, it sounds like the croak of a frog. You immediately retreat back, eyes widening at the noise you emitted.

Eddie’s face no longer reflects anger; instead, he’s holding back a giggle.

You smack your lips together, trying to get any saliva to form in your mouth, to no avail.

“You sleep with your mouth slightly open,” Eddie remarks, the chuckle escaping his throat. He starts creeping back into the warmth of the bed. He tugs on the blanket more, revealing the very tops of your breasts. “It’s actually super cute.”

The wandering of his eyes and the wiggle of his nose make the hairs on your arm stand up. You grab onto the meat of his bicep, squeezing it like you are checking the radius of his muscles. “First, I get woken up by your cronies, and now I’m being teased. I am gonna go back to sleep, at this rate.”

Eddie’s other hand creeps up the curve of your waist and hip, “I think I smell coffee and bacon, though.”

You could really eat something. The more you lie there, the louder your stomach growling gets.

“Grab me my clothes,” You peck his cheek as your legs nudge him closer to the edge of the mattress.

He stares down at you, his body unwavering. His brows raise, like he’s hinting at something a bit more from you.

“Please,” You emphasize, kicking his calf once more.

A hint of a smile graces his face, “Atta girl.”

You wear one of his clean t-shirts instead of your own.

He’s practically carrying you down the stairs as the scent of bacon and fried eggs radiates the entire first floor of the cabin. When his hands finally leave you, it’s to slap Gareth on the back and grip his shoulder rather tightly.

“You think it’s funny to jump on my girl to wake her up?” His voice sounds so raspy and intimidating.

If you didn’t know how Eddie operated, you would be afraid for Gareth. The hiss that leaves Gareth’s lips as he struggles to finish pouring the hot liquid in his mug is uneven with his chuckles.

“Didn’t know she would be in there! It was my room before you two decided to desecrate it!"

“Bullshit,” Eddie gets closer, bumping his mug with his hip as it jostles on the counter. You don’t even think to break up his shake down; you rather enjoy watching Gareth get all jumbled and speechless. “You knew she’d be in there, and when you saw her, you saw your opportunity to get on top of her and jump on her fragile body-”

“Hey, I’m not that fragile!” You interject finally, grabbing Eddie’s elbow to pry him away, “Listen, Romeo, I don’t need you fighting someone on my behalf.”

Eddie’s grin takes up his entire face when he looks at you, “Let me handle him.”

He pushes him harder against the counter, which makes you jolt forward too as you lock onto his bicep tighter.

Before any more words between the three of you can be said, Grant barrels across the floor, grabbing the two of them by their collars. It makes you laugh a bit because he’s handling them like a mother cat grabbing her babies by their gruff. He moves them away from one another, placing Eddie to the left of you and Gareth closer to the stovetop across the kitchen.

“You two can handle this beef in the lake. Not in my kitchen, where there’s hot bacon grease on the stove and glassware everywhere.”

You nod in agreement, waving your hand towards the sliding glass doors nearby, “That’s a great idea, Grant! Why don’t you two handle this half-naked and in the lake?”

Eddie and Gareth both practically snap their necks to look at you.

Gareth is the first to speak, “Did you just-”

“Did you just say half-naked?” Eddie cuts him off, eyebrows narrowed and dark eyes trained on you.

You did, and you honestly don’t know why you said it like that. You meant like, when they go swimming. In the lake. In their swimsuits. Their swim trunks. Shirtless. Eddie shirtless…

Suddenly, your eyes are glued to Eddie’s neck and chest. Your lips are practically tingling. He smiles at the familiar lustful glint in your eyes.

Gareth somehow reads your expression.

“Jesus! Eddie’s turned you into a little perv-”

Eddie practically sprints across the kitchen with his arms extended, sending the other boys yelling at him to let it go and ignore Gareth. He doesn’t.

While they argue and wrestle, you take that as a cue to grab Gareth’s full, untouched coffee mug and sprint outside. You decide to let the boys handle whatever needs to be handled, without you.

The weather was just about perfect for taking a morning cup of coffee onto the front porch, anyway.

Every girl in the house must have the same idea as you.

You place yourself on the rocking chair next to Robin. Her curls are sticking up in every direction, and you can tell by the look in her eyes that she did not sleep much. Her deep blue irises are only emphasized by the darkness of the circles under her eyes.

The moment you sit down, the clearing of her throat takes over the mumbling conversation between Olive and Cara, “So naked in Eddie’s bed this mornin’, huh?”

You sit completely still, but the rocking chair still moves. You grip onto your mug even tighter, trying to maintain your composure. You fail when you glance at Cara and Olive, who are smirking into their own steaming cups.

“Jesus Christ, really?” You quip, laying your head against the back of the wooden frame, “You guys, too?”

The laughs from the group put you slightly at ease. They are just teasing, which you could take lightly and dodge. But Robin has never been good at taking hints from you.

She leans forward towards you, “Were you safe?”

You want to shrivel up and die. Olive’s nose scrunches the moment she says it. She has a boyfriend, and she probably knows how uncomfortable such a question can be. Cara seems like the type to be intrusive in her relationship. Cara was her Robin.

You blink, not sure how to entirely respond to such a thing.

“Robin.”

She puts her hands up in defense, sloshing her hot beverage all over the porch beside her. You can tell she realizes then that she’s speaking out of turn, “Teenage pregnancy is on the rise in the US. Gotta make sure my friends are good-”

You cut her off with a wave, because it’s honestly so absurd. Pregnancy? Not you. Not Eddie. You were safe… under the circumstances.

“We are not getting pregnant, don’t worry.”

Silence and a firm shake of your head confirms all the girls needed to know. You sip your coffee, trying to appreciate the views of the sparkling lake as the bright sun comes up over it.

You truly do not expect any follow-up from that conversation, but Robin truly cannot stop herself. She smirks and mumbles the question into the rim of her coffee mug, “Did he make you cum at least?”

You almost choke on your coffee but manage a very painful and abrupt swallow. You cannot sit anymore because you feel like you may jump out of your skin. You place your mug on the almost-falling-apart wood table between your rocking chairs before pushing off the armrests.

She could not be serious. You can feel the heat taking over your entire body, and you know it’s obvious how scandalized you are by such a question.

You wipe your mouth before answering the now giggling group, “Robin… For God’s sake! Why?”

She puts her mug next to yours on the table, trying to defend herself. “Some girls don’t achieve that with their boyfriends!”

You feel the need to defend Eddie. And yourself. You don’t completely know why it matters, but you want to ensure to Robin that you are well taken care of. Maybe it was insecurity. Maybe it was a strange twist of pride.

“Well, I did! Thank you so very much.”

There’s a beat of quiet as the girls all nod and take it in.

Then you smile, “Twice.”

Olive, with her polite demeanor and half smirk, speaks up before Robin can. For once. “Lucky gal.”

Cara’s head snaps over to her before you can really read into the implications. She looks horrified.

“Huh?"

Robin looks at them like she’s watching a tennis match. The conversation seems to have taken a turn towards someone else, which makes your heart rate go down a bit. Hopefully, they will stay off your back.

Olive shrugs, feigning indifference about the entire thing. “Tucker has never made me cum. I just fake it usually.”

You try not to act offended for her. But like Eddie has told you before, you are not very good at hiding your emotions through your facial expressions. You are painfully obvious when something throws you off. Makes you mad. Or upset. Or indignant.

You decide it’s best to grab your mug to hide behind. So that’s exactly what you do. You bring it up to your mouth, take a sip, and hold it there so you can ensure Olive does not see how offended you were for her.

How dare Tucker not take care of her? She was beautiful. Any guy would be lucky to bring her to where she deserved to go.

Cara starts waving her finger in the air like she’s denying the claim. You can tell by the look on her face that she is also displeased with the revelation. You are a bit surprised that Olive never indulged her friend in the dirty details, but then you think that you probably would not have told Robin unless she asked. And she always asks.

“Oh hell no!” She slaps her friend’s arm, almost nagging her for her direct attention, “You’re lying!”

Olive tries to soothe her friend by shaking her head, eyes soft and lips curled into a cheery smile, “It’s still fun!”

“No, you need to orgasm! That’s not fair to you! Like at all!”

All the yelling back and forth makes all of you oblivious to the sliding glass door opening nearby. You only take notice when the sound of the wood creaking near you cuts through Olive’s defense of Tucker.

Eddie walks over, hands sneaking around your waist, “What the hell are you ladies talking about?”

Everyone immediately grows silent and wide-eyed at Eddie’s sneaky intrusion. You hold onto his forearm, grip your mug handle tighter, and try steadying yourself as everyone awkwardly tries to come up with something unrelated to the previous conversation.

He’s so warm and strong against you. Like a brick wall set on fire, igniting your skin and causing your brain to melt into bliss. He doesn’t smell like cigarettes yet because he has not had his morning one, so he only smells of his fresh cotton laundry detergent and that overly musky deodorant he wears.

Robin’s voice is louder than everyone else’s, unfortunately. “Girl talk, Munson. Periods. Bras. Magazine quizzes- you know!”

Eddie’s breath fans over your neck as he wedges his face right beside your jaw. He presses a soft kiss there, humming at Robin’s rambling response. You try not to look completely smitten by the way he’s touching you in front of everyone, but you are. You have never wanted him to whisk you away like a knight in shining armor, but in this very moment, that would suffice.

“I thought I heard something about orgasms,” He remarks, his voice not loud enough for everyone to hear. You hear it, though, and his tonal inflection is all too playful. Another kiss to your jaw, and he’s pulling away. “You ladies can continue. I just wanted to make sure Sunshine here had her coffee.”

You almost miss his hands immediately as he slips away from your space. You twirl around to face him, spotting that infamous scrunch of his nose and smirk. He’s teasing you without muttering a goddamn word. Provoking you in all the ways he knows.

The girls all stare, Cara being more obvious as she blushes for you. Robin looks away, sipping her overly milky coffee, trying not to read too far into the interaction.

Eddie retreats back inside, opening the door to a world of yelling boys and sounds of more sizzling bacon. That’s when you note the t-shirt he had thrown on was a bit shorter than his usual choices. This one gave you a delicious peek of his tummy, which practically tempts you behind his skull belt buckle.

You let out an all too dramatic sigh, your heart still thudding against your ribcage at the contact he just made with you. You shoot the girls a look, seeing them all fawning for you.

“You two are sickly in love,” Cara remarks, crossing her perfectly tanned arms over her chest, “Coming out here to check if you have coffee? He’s whipped.”

You cannot help but sputter out a hasty dismissal, “No, he’s-”

“He is,” Robin confirms, “And that’s great, because you deserve nothing but the best.”

As if you needed more remarks like that to make your heart grow seven times bigger. The smile that grows across your face makes everyone else smirk and reach for you, almost like they are trying to pull you back into the gossip world and not the loved-up dreamland you have been thrust into. Robin’s hand curls around your wrist, and she half hugs you, pressing her cheek to you.

“I mean it, Brains,” She whispers, looking as Cara pesters Olive for more information about her sex life, “I’m happy for you. You deserve something special.”

You squeeze her side, bringing her closer.

She’s the greatest friend you could have asked for.

“Thanks, Rob.”

As if to break the sweet moment, she whispers for your ears only. “Twice? He’s that much of an overachiever?"

“Robin!”

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Eddie’s POV:

My three-day trial period ended up being much longer than I had hoped, two months to be exact. I’m not complaining, though. I expected her to last a day and a half before she realized this was all one big mistake and ship back to her apartment in Chicago. But to my surprise, she stayed. 

We fell back into old habits quickly, quicker than I ever anticipated. Outstretched on her floor, writing songs, swapping lyrics and melodies in the same spots that the carpet was indented from years of occupying them. Nights at the Hideout, Corroded Coffin irritating Deb while she’s off at the bar, coaxing Deb from pulling the plug on us. Catching up on our years apart, her showing me all of her new tattoos, her inspecting my body to find mine. 

Her mom has begun to come around to the idea of me. She’s still weary, understandably so; my father and I have burned her family in more ways than one. She’s putting on her strongest act for her daughter's sake, hosting dinners and waving hi if she catches me in the street. It’s not much, but it’s a start. 

Wayne’s happier than ever that she’s back, practically bribing her to stay around longer, giving small gifts when she comes over: cigarettes, her favorite wine (which is insane because Wayne doesn’t do wine), and Chili dinners because he remembers those are her favorites. He’s been moving around me differently, too, interrogating me daily to see if I’m “treating her right.” And yeah, you bet your ass I am. I’m not letting go of her again, not while I’m still breathing. 

A week into our second month together, we’re sprawled across her bed doing nothing in particular, just holding the space together. Her mom’s off at the hospital working during the day, which is why we spend most of the time at her place. 

“This is…nice,” she hums into my chest, nuzzling her head in more. I nod in agreement, landing a quick peck on the top of her head. The moment feels like what I could only describe as a dream, in the least dramatic way possible. But just like all dreams, they come to an end.

A knock at the front door jolts us back into reality, her sighing and wining, “For fucks sake, what now?” She hops onto her elbows, kissing me once and sliding out of bed. 

I hear the front door open, and a muffled male’s voice, something between anger and panic. I lean up onto my elbows, trying to listen in more, but it’s too late, the front door closes. She shuffles back into the room, eyebrow raised. 

“Feeling nosy, huh?” she says, leaning against the doorframe. 

I shift and shove my nose in the air, “Nope.”

She chuckles, walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Right. Anyway, uh– that was our rhythm guitarist. His kid sister is sick, and he needs to take some time off–” she cuts herself off, looking down at her hands. 

“You don’t have to say yes, I know you got your own shit going on with Corroded Coffin. But, we need a talented guitarist, like ASAP. And you’re the only other one I know so–”

“ –talented huh?” I cut her off, smirking and sliding closer to her. I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, lifting her face with my thumb, “I would be honored to help out.”

Her eyes widen, a slight smile beginning to form, “Promise?” 

I nod, tilting my head, “Promise.” 

She jumps on top of me, arms wrapping around my neck, peppering kisses all over my face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she squeals in between them. 

She stops and kisses me once more on the nose, then says, “We have practice in two hours, by the way.” 

My eyes narrow, “...you’re kidding?” 

She shakes her head, wiggling free from my grasp, “Nope! Get ready, Munson, it’s forty-five minutes away in Fort Wayne.” 

I shoot up, chasing behind her and spinning her from the waist. She lets out a surprised laugh, hands instinctively landing on my shoulders as I pull her back into me, her hair falling into her face in that way I’ve been quietly obsessed with since we were kids.

“Forty-five minutes?” I echo, narrowing my eyes at her like she just personally offended me. “You’re telling me you volunteered me for a job and didn’t think to mention the drive?”

She shrugs, way too casual for someone who just upended my afternoon, fingers toying with the hem of my shirt like she knows she’s about to get away with it. “You said you were honored.”

“I am,” I say quickly, then lean in just a little closer, dropping my voice, “I just didn’t realize ‘honored’ came with a commute.”

She grins at that, bright and a little smug, and it does something stupid to my chest that I’m not even gonna pretend to unpack right now.

“You’ll survive,” she says, poking my chest once for emphasis. “You used to bike farther than that just to come see me.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, catching her wrist before she can pull away completely, tugging her back into me. “And look where that got me.”

She laughs again, softer this time, like it’s just for me, and it settles something in the room that I didn’t even realize had been shifting. For a second, we just stand there. Close. Too close to be nothing. Not close enough to be everything yet.

Then she leans up, presses a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth like she’s rewarding me for something, and slips out of my grip before I can steal another one.

“Keys,” she says, already halfway to her dresser, rummaging through a pile of things that somehow only she understands. “We’re taking my car, and you’re driving.”

I blink. “Why am I driving?”

“Because,” she says, tossing the keys in my direction without looking, “you drive like a grandma, and I’d like to arrive alive.”

I catch them on instinct, scoffing. “I do not drive like a grandma.”

She glances over her shoulder, one brow raised. “You fully stopped at a yellow light yesterday.”

“That’s called being responsible,” I shoot back, grabbing my jacket from the chair. “Some of us value our lives.”

She hums like she’s unconvinced, already pulling on her boots, laces half-tied in that rushed way she always does when she’s excited about something.

I watch her for a second longer than I probably should. The way she moves, the way she talks, the way she’s just—here. Still here. Two months in, and I’m still waiting for the part where I wake up, and she’s gone again. Hasn’t happened yet. Not gonna happen. Not this time.

“You coming, Munson?” she calls, already at the door.

I shake myself out of it, rolling my shoulders like I can physically push the thought away, and follow her out, locking the door behind us out of habit more than anything.

“Yeah,” I grin, bumping her shoulder back. “You’re gonna regret putting me behind the wheel, sweetheart.”

She bumps her shoulder into mine as we walk, just hard enough to throw me off balance.

Your POV: 

The studio smells different from what practice spaces usually do.

Cleaner. Sharper. Like everything in here matters more than it’s supposed to. Wires run in straight lines instead of tangled piles, amps are set where they’re meant to be instead of wherever they fit, and the mics—there are too many mics for this to be a normal practice.

You don’t say anything.

Not when Eddie steps in behind you, not when his footsteps slow just slightly, not when you can feel him clocking it all before he even says a word.

Dick’s already there, arms crossed, eyes on you the second you walk in.

“Hey,” he says, pushing off the wall.

“I need a second.”

You nod, stepping away before Eddie can ask, before he can say it out loud.

“What?” you mutter once you’re out of earshot, crossing your arms.

Dick doesn’t waste time. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone new in today.”

“He’s filling in,” you say. “Chuck’s out.”

“That’s not the point,” he replies, lowering his voice. “We’re on a schedule. You can’t just swap people in without warning me.”

“He’s not just anyone,” you push back. “He can handle it.”

Dick studies you for a second, then glances past you toward Eddie, like he’s trying to size him up from a distance.

“He better,” he says. “Because we’re not burning studio time on a gamble.”

“We won’t,” you reply.

He nods once. “Get him set up.”

You turn back to Eddie. He’s standing near the door, eyes moving between the equipment, the mics, the glass window into the booth, like he’s trying to decide if he’s reading it right.

“You didn’t say anything about this,” he says.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

He lets out a short breath, gesturing around you. “About it not being practice.” There it is.

You step closer, keeping your voice low. “It’s fine.”

He shakes his head once, not convinced. “This isn’t ‘fine,’ sweetheart. This is—” he gestures again, searching, “—real.”

You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your mouth. “Yeah,” you say. “It is.”

His eyes flick back to yours, something uncertain sitting there now, something you haven’t seen on him in a long time. “You should’ve told me.”

“I knew you’d overthink it,” you reply, nudging his arm lightly. “You’re good, Eddie. Like—actually good.”

“That’s not the same, and you know it,” he mutters.

You step closer again, reaching up, hooking your finger under his chin just enough to make him look at you. “Hey,” you say, softer now. “It’s just us. Same as always. You, me, a song.”

There’s a pause. He exhales, then nods. “Okay.”

When you walk into the room, everything shifts. The band’s already there, scattered around like they always are, tuning, talking, half-focused until you step in. Heads turn, attention snapping into place, curiosity following right behind it.

“Yo,” the drummer calls, lifting a hand. “About time.”

“Hi,” you say, setting your bag down. “This is Eddie—he’s filling in for Chuck.”

A few nods. A couple of “hey”s. Normal. For all of about two seconds. The bassist squints slightly, looking between the two of you, something ticking in the back of her head.

“Wait,” she says slowly, stepping closer. “Hold on.”

You already don’t like where this is going. “Isn’t this—” she gestures between you, then points toward Eddie’s arm, “—the All I Wanted guy?”

Your stomach drops. “No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “You’re reaching.”

She doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes flick down again, more focused this time. “Dude,” she says, pointing now, “that’s the same tattoo.”

Eddie glances down instinctively, like he forgot it was even there.

“Dragon, right?” the bassist adds.

Eddie scoffs, automatically. “It’s a wyvern.”

And that—that’s it. The bassist lets out a short laugh, stepping back like he just solved something.

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s him.”

You close your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to feel it. Then open them again. Because now—everyone knows.

The bassist exhales through her nose, shaking her head like she’s half amused, half impressed, then gestures toward the amps.

“Alright,” she says, dragging the word out slightly. “Okay, Eddie.” You don’t like the tone. Not yet.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The room shifts. Everyone’s a little more attentive now, a little quieter, like this just became something else. Not just a fill-in. Not just a practice. A test.

You glance at Eddie. He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, he rolls his shoulders once, slow, like he’s settling into something familiar, something that doesn’t belong to the room or the pressure or any of this. Just him.

He reaches for the guitar, fingers brushing over it like he’s already mapping it out in his head, like he doesn’t need time to adjust, just a second to feel it. Then he looks up.

Finds you, just for a second. That same look. The one that says you and me before anything else. Your chest tightens. He smirks slightly after, something a little cocky settling in now, like the nerves didn’t win, like they never really had a chance to.

“Careful,” he says, plugging in, glancing toward the bassist. “You might regret asking.”

The bassist huffs out a quiet laugh, stepping back. “Yeah?” she replies. “I doubt it.”

Eddie doesn’t answer. He just starts playing. And within seconds—you know, and they do too.

He doesn’t stop right away. He lets the last note ring out, fingers still on the strings like he’s deciding whether or not to push it further, like he could if he wanted to. The room stays quiet for a second longer than it should, the kind of quiet that means everyone’s thinking the same thing but no one’s said it yet.

Then, a crackle from the speakers overhead. “Alright,” Dick’s voice cuts in from the control booth, dry, unimpressed in that way that means he’s very much impressed. “We get it. He’s good.”

The tension breaks just slightly. The drummer lets out a low whistle. The bassist nods once, slower now, like she’s recalibrating whatever she thought this was going to be.

Eddie glances at you. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Dick continues, voice sharper now, slipping back into business. “But we’ve got a problem.”

A collective groan ripples through the room. “Of course we do,” the drummer mutters under his breath.

“You’re tight,” Dick says. “Clean. Consistent.”

There’s a pause.

“Too consistent.”

You straighten slightly.

“That’s not a bad thing,” the bassist shoots back immediately, crossing her arms. “We have a sound. That’s the point.”

“It is,” Dick agrees. “Until every track starts bleeding into the next one.” No one answers right away.

“You need range,” he adds. “Something that breaks it up. Something that doesn’t sound like you’re playing the same song five different ways.”

“That’s not what we’re doing,” the drummer argues, sitting up straighter now.

“Isn’t it?” Dick replies.

The room settles after Dick’s voice cuts out. Not quiet. Just waiting.

You can feel it, that slight shift under everything, the kind that means something isn’t landing the way it should. The bassist’s still got her arms crossed, the drummer tapping his sticks against his knee like he’s thinking too hard about it, and for a second, no one moves.

You exhale, then turn. “We’re doing In My Room,” you say, like it’s already decided.

The drummer’s head tilts. “We haven’t played that in—what—weeks?”

“Twice,” the bassist adds. “Maybe.”

“Yeah,” you nod, already reaching for the acoustic. “And?”

They exchange a look, then a shrug. “Alright,” the drummer mutters, adjusting himself behind the kit.

You settle onto the stool, guitar resting against your thigh, fingers hovering over the strings for just a second before you start.

It’s softer right away, stripped down in a way that feels almost too exposed at first, like you’re letting them see something you don’t usually hand over that easily.

But it works. It always did.

“I want your things in my room. I miss you all of the time. ”

The words come out low, controlled, like they belong in a smaller space than this, like they were meant for something quieter than a full band room. No one jumps in right away. They listen.

The bassist first—of course—testing the waters, fingers finding something lighter than what she’s used to playing, something that follows instead of leads.

The drummer comes in next, barely there, a soft tap that feels more like a heartbeat than a rhythm.

It builds. Not louder. Just fuller. You don’t look up yet. You don’t need to. Eddie’s still for a second longer than the rest, standing there with the guitar in his hands like he’s mapping it out, like he’s listening closer than anyone else in the room.

Then he finds it. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But close enough that it doesn’t matter.

He slips in under it, not over, not trying to take control, just layering into what’s already there like he’s been playing it longer than he has, like he understands the shape of it even if it’s new to him.

You can feel his eyes on you, staring you down with that same infatuation you fell for years ago.  And he adjusts on instinct, picking up on where you’re going before you even get there, following the small changes, the slight pull in tempo, the way your voice dips on the next line—

“I’d slit my own throat, just to see, if you’d mourn me…”

It clicks. All of it. The band tightens around it, not forced, not over-rehearsed, just natural, like this is what Dick was talking about, like this is the space you were missing.

And Eddie? Eddie fits into it like he was always meant to be there. Like magic. The last note lingers a little longer than you expect, the room holding onto it before it finally fades, and for a second, no one says anything.

No one moves. Even the booth stays quiet. And then, a soft crackle overhead. “…yeah,” Dick’s voice comes through, quieter this time. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

You don’t look up. You don’t break it. Because for the first time since you walked in, it feels right. 

Eddie’s POV:

It doesn’t feel real at first. Not in the way I expected it to, anyway. I thought it’d be all pressure, all eyes on me, waiting for me to screw it up, but instead it’s just music. Same as it’s always been. Same as it was when we were kids, sitting on her floor with a notebook between us and nothing else to prove.

Except now there’s a mic in front of it. Now there’s glass between us and someone listening. Now it matters.

We run another track after that, something louder this time, closer to what they’ve been doing before. It kicks in fast, no warning, drums sharper, bass heavier, and I follow it instinctively, fingers moving before I can second-guess anything, before I can overthink it into something worse.

She glances at me halfway through. Just once. That same look. Like she’s checking if I’m still there. Like she knows I am. 

And I stay with her, matching it beat for beat, pushing when she pushes, pulling back when she does, finding the edges of it without stepping over them. It’s not perfect, not clean the way Dick probably wants it, but it’s alive in a way the first run wasn’t.

And judging by the way the room shifts when we finish, they feel it too.

“Alright,” Dick’s voice crackles through again. “That one—keep that.”

That’s the closest thing to praise I think we’re getting. I huff out a quiet laugh under my breath, rolling my shoulders like I can shake off the leftover adrenaline, setting the guitar down for a second like I need to remind myself where I am.

Because this isn’t Hawkins. Not really. This is hers.

The tension breaks after that. Not completely, but enough that people start moving again, adjusting things, grabbing water, talking like we didn’t just spend the last hour pretending this wasn’t something bigger than it is.

“Alright,” the bassist says, stepping forward, wiping her hands on her jeans. “We should probably actually introduce ourselves before we keep going like this.”

I nod once, pushing off the amp I’d been leaning against. “Yeah, probably,” I mutter.

She sticks her hand out. “Lily.”

I take it, firm, quick. “Eddie.”

“I know,” she says, smirking just slightly, like she’s still thinking about earlier. “Wyvern.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not my entire personality.”

“Debatable,” she shoots back. I almost smile.

The drummer steps up next, spinning a stick between his fingers like he’s been waiting for his turn. “Asher,” he says. “And for the record, I didn’t recognize you.”

“Wow,” I deadpan. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

He grins. “Give me time.”

She hovers just off to the side, watching it, not jumping in, just there. And for a second, it feels weirdly normal. Like I’ve been doing this with them longer than I have. Like, I didn’t just walk into it a couple of hours ago, like I didn’t almost lose it entirely two years ago.

Dick comes down a few minutes later.

You can hear him before you see him, the door opening behind the glass, footsteps slower, more deliberate than the rest of ours. He walks in like he owns the place, because he kinda does, and stops just short of the group, his attention landing on me immediately.

“Eddie, right?”

“Yeah,” I nod.

He studies me for a second. Not in a friendly way. Not unfriendly either.

“You kept up,” he says finally.

I shrug slightly. “That’s the goal.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, like that’s the answer he was looking for.

“We don’t have time to ease people in,” he adds. “What you did in there—” he gestures back toward the booth, “—that’s the baseline. Not the exception.”

“Got it,” I reply.

Another pause. Then, “You planning on sticking around?” he asks.

That lands a little heavier than it should. I glance at her without thinking. Just for a second. Then back at him.

“Yeah,” I say. “I am.”

He nods once, like that’s enough, like he’s already decided what he needs to know about me. “Good,” he says. “Don’t make me regret it.”

We end up at some random bar after. Not the Hideout. Not anywhere I recognize. Just a place with sticky floors, dim lighting, and a jukebox that’s either broken or stuck in a loop of songs nobody asked for. The kind of place that pretends it doesn’t care what it is, which somehow makes it work.

It’s loud. Not overwhelming, just enough to fill the space between us so nothing feels too heavy after everything that just happened.

“First round’s on me,” Asher says, already halfway to the bar before anyone can argue.

“Bold,” Lily calls after him. “You don’t even know what we drink.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he shoots back.

I huff out a laugh, leaning against the table, watching him go like I’ve known him longer than a couple of hours. He moves easily, talks easily, the kind of person that doesn’t make you work to keep up. I like that. He comes back a minute later with a handful of drinks, sliding one toward me without asking.

“Beer,” he says. “Felt right.”

I glance at it, then at him. “You profiling me?”

“Absolutely,” he replies. “You look like you’d be offended if I handed you anything else.”

He’s not wrong. I take a sip, nodding once. “Alright,” I admit. “You’re not terrible at this.”

“High praise,” he says, clinking his glass lightly against mine.

We fall into it easily after that.

Talking over each other, laughing at dumb shit, him asking about Corroded Coffin like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day, me asking how long he’s been putting up with Lily, which earns me a shove from across the table and a “watch it” that doesn’t have any real bite to it.

She’s next to me, shoulder brushing mine every time she shifts, close enough that I don’t have to look to know she’s there. I still do. Every once in a while. Just to check. Just to make sure.

Asher leans back in his chair at one point, looking between the two of us like he’s piecing something together he’s not gonna say out loud.

“Yeah,” he mutters, mostly to himself, taking another sip. “This makes sense.”

I don’t ask what he means. I don’t think I want to know. Instead, I lean back, stretching my arm across the back of her chair like it belongs there, like I’ve been doing it all night, like it’s nothing.

Your POV: 

The bar settles into something softer after the first round. Not quieter, just easier, like the edge has worn off now that everyone’s had a drink and the adrenaline from the studio has somewhere to go. The boys drift off not long after, Asher dragging Eddie toward the dartboard with way too much confidence, already talking shit before the game even starts.

“You’re gonna lose,” Eddie calls, grabbing a dart.

“In your dreams,” Asher shoots back. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Practicing darts?” Eddie scoffs. “What are you, forty?”

You shake your head, smiling into your drink as Lily leans back beside you, watching them with the kind of fond disbelief that says she’s seen this before.

“God,” she mutters. “They’re insufferable.”

“Give it five minutes,” you reply. “It’ll get worse.”

She snorts, taking a sip before her attention shifts back to you, something a little more curious settling in her expression now. 

“So,” she says, dragging it out slightly.

You glance at her, already knowing where this is going. “So,” you echo.

She tilts her head, eyes flicking briefly toward Eddie before landing back on you. “You two,” she says, gesturing loosely between you and the dartboard. “What’s the deal? Are we doing a ‘back together again’ situation or…?”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you glance back at him. He’s arguing about the rules now. Of course he is.

“He’s on a trial run,” you say, casual, like it’s nothing. “Might get off the bench soon if he behaves.”

Lily lets out a laugh, leaning forward slightly. “Oh my god, you’re insane.”

“It’s a very exclusive position,” you shrug. “High standards.”

“Clearly,” she grins, then nudges your arm lightly. “I mean, I get it. You’ve got history. Just—”

She pauses, taking another sip, then adds with a smirk, “bands with couples? Dangerous game.”

You raise a brow. “That so?”

She nods toward the dartboard, where Asher’s now dramatically celebrating something that absolutely did not warrant that level of reaction. “That’s him and me,” she says. “We’re fine, obviously, but—” she lifts her glass slightly, “—one bad rehearsal away from full Fleetwood Mac.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “We’re not that bad.”

“Yet,” she says, quick, but still smiling. The word doesn’t land heavily. Just teasing.

You glance back over at Eddie again, catching the way he looks over at you mid-argument, like he was already checking, like he always does. Your chest tightens. Just a little.

You look back at Lily, lifting your glass. “We’ll keep it under control,” you say.

She clinks hers against yours. “Sure you will.”

You don’t even get to finish your drink before Asher’s voice cuts across the bar. “Alright, enough talking,” he calls. “We need teams.”

You glance over, already suspicious. “For what?”

“Pool,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Come on.”

Lily groans. “Oh, this is a terrible idea.”

“Scared?” Asher shoots back. She flips him off without even looking.

You sigh, setting your glass down. “I don’t even play.”

That’s a lie. A good one. Eddie glances at you. Just for a second. And you see it. That flicker. He gets it immediately. “Yeah,” he adds, way too convincing. “We’re gonna get destroyed.”

Asher grins. “Perfect.”

Five minutes later, you’re holding a cue stick like you’ve never seen one before in your life. “Okay,” you mutter, squinting at the table like it personally offended you. “So I just… hit it?”

Lily narrows her eyes. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” you say, completely straight-faced.

Behind you, Eddie steps in closer. Too close. Not that you’re complaining.

“Nah, you’ve got it,” he says, voice low near your ear, hands hovering just enough to guide but not fully touch. “Just—line it up here…”

He adjusts your stance slightly, nudging your shoulder, then your hand, like he’s actually teaching you something. It would be believable if you didn’t both know exactly what you were doing. “Like this?” you ask, glancing back at him.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Perfect.”

You hit. The ball sinks clean. You blink, like you’re surprised. “Oh.”

Asher frowns immediately. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Has to be,” Eddie agrees, way too seriously. 

It keeps going like that. You miss just enough to make it believable. Eddie plays a little sloppily when he has to; he scratches once, just to sell it. Lily starts catching on halfway through, her eyes narrowing more and more with each shot that’s just a little too clean for someone who “doesn’t play.”

“Okay,” she mutters at one point. “Something’s not right.”

“Wow,” you say, offended. “I’m trying my best.” Eddie snorts behind you. You nudge him with your elbow.

“Be supportive.”

“I am,” he replies. “I think you’re doing great.”

By the time the game ends, you and Eddie win. Of course you do.

Asher stares at the table like it betrayed him. “No way.”

Lily points at you. “You’re lying.”

You hold your hands up. “About what?”

“You’ve played before.”

“Define ‘played.’”

Eddie loses it at that, laughing under his breath as he leans against the table.

“Pay up,” you add, way too casually.

Asher groans, digging into his pocket. “This is a scam.”

“It’s not a scam,” you say, already taking the cash he hands over. “It’s a learning experience.”

“For you, maybe,” Lily mutters, shaking her head.

You split the money without even thinking, handing half to Eddie. He looks at it, then at you. Then laughs, softer this time. “Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “If Rus and Al could see us now…”

You grin, bumping your shoulder into his. “They’d be a little proud.”

“A little?” he repeats, raising a brow. “They’d be taking us to every bar in Indiana to do the same routine.”

You laugh, leaning into him just slightly, the moment settling into something warm, something easy. Something that feels familiar, too familiar. But this time, you don’t pull away.

Eddie disappears for a second after the game. You don’t think much of it until he comes back with another round, setting the drinks down with a little more flair than necessary, like he’s trying to make a point.

“On the house,” he says.

Lily raises a brow. “This is not your house.”

“On your house,” he corrects, nodding toward the money still sitting on the table. “Courtesy of your poor decision-making.”

Asher groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You are never hustling me again.”

“You say that now,” you mutter, lifting your drink.

Eddie drops into the chair beside you, knee knocking into yours under the table like it belongs there, like it always has. It settles easily. Too easy. Lily watches the two of you for a second, then shakes her head like she’s putting something together.

“Okay,” she says, leaning forward. “Serious question.” You already don’t trust it.

“Where did you two actually learn to play like that?”

You and Eddie glance at each other. And then you both start laughing. Not loud, not dramatic, just that shared kind of laugh that comes from the same place, the same memory, the same, of course.

“Oh my god,” you say, shaking your head. “You wanna take this or—”

“Nah, I got it,” Eddie grins, leaning forward, elbows on the table like he’s about to tell the best story of his life. “Alright, so—picture this.”

“This is gonna be bad,” Asher mutters.

“It’s gonna be accurate,” Eddie corrects.

You snort.

“Our dads,” he continues, pointing between the two of you, “were not—how do I put this—great influences.”

“Terrible,” you add.

“Criminally terrible,” he nods.

Lily blinks. “Wait—actually?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, taking a sip like it’s not a big deal. “Pool halls, bars, anywhere they could make money off someone dumber than them.”

“Which,” Eddie cuts in, “was most people.”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder. “They used to drag us with them,” you continue, “because, you know, parenting.”

“As one does,” Asher deadpans.

“So we’d just sit there,” Eddie says, gesturing vaguely, “watching them cheat people out of cash, night after night, learning all the little tricks.”

“Angles,” you add.

“Distractions,” he continues.

“Looking like you don’t know what you’re doing,” you finish.

Lily stares at you. “So you were hustling us.”

You tilt your head. “We prefer ‘honoring our roots.’”

Asher groans. “Unbelievable.”

Eddie leans back, satisfied. “And that, my friends, is how you lose money to two people who definitely shouldn’t be trusted.”

“Noted,” Lily mutters.

You stay longer than you planned.

Long enough for the drinks to blur a little, for the laughter to come easier, for the night to settle into something warm and unguarded. At some point, Asher and Lily drift ahead, arguing about something stupid as they head toward the door, leaving you and Eddie a step behind. It’s quieter out here. Cooler.

The kind of air that makes everything feel just a little more real. You dig your keys out of your bag as you walk, the familiar weight of them grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

Eddie glances over at you, something amused flickering across his face. “Hey,” he says, nodding toward your car. “Does it still do the thing?”

You pause halfway to the door, already smiling. “The thing?”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer, a grin pulling at his mouth. “The completely normal, definitely not concerning thing where your door refuses to open like a normal car.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, my god.”

“Don’t ‘oh my god’ me,” he continues. “I’m just asking if I need to brace myself.”

You walk over to the passenger side and kick the lower panel of the back door sharply with your boot. It flies open immediately. Eddie lights up.

“No way,” he laughs, stepping closer. “It still does it?”

“Of course it does,” you say. “Why would that change?”

He runs a hand over the door like he’s inspecting it, like it’s a piece of history instead of a barely functioning vehicle. “This thing should not be road legal.”

“It wasn’t when I got it,” you shrug.

Lily pauses halfway to her own car. “Wait—what?”

You lean casually against the hood. “My dad stole it for my sixteenth birthday.”

“…you’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Eddie snorts, stepping in beside you. “’64 Dodge Dart,” he adds, almost proudly. “Ran like hell for about three months.”

“Then Ronnie crashed her bike into it,” you continue, gesturing toward the door. “Right there.”

“Completely wiped out,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “Took the door with her.”

“And now,” you finish, kicking it again lightly for emphasis, “this is the only way it opens.”

Lily stares at you. Asher looks impressed. “That is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard,” Lily says.

“Thank you,” you reply.

Eddie leans against the car beside you, shoulder brushing yours again, quieter now. “Still drives, though,” he says.

You glance at him. “Yeah,” you nod. “Still drives.”

He smiles. And for a second, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Eddie’s POV: 

The car sounds the same. That’s the first thing I noticed. 

Same low hum under everything, same slight rattle when she goes a little too fast over a bump, same way the whole thing feels like it could fall apart at any second but never actually does. It’s stupid, the stuff your brain latches onto, but it makes something in my chest loosen just a little.

Like I’ve been here before. Like, I didn’t mess it all up the first time. She’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers tapping lightly to whatever’s playing on the radio. I’m not even paying attention to the song, not really, because I’m too busy noticing everything else.

The way her hair falls when she turns her head. The way she leans forward just slightly when she focuses. The way this—all of this—feels dangerously familiar. My hand ends up on her thigh without me really thinking about it. Just like it used always to be. I half expect her to move it. She doesn’t. Doesn’t even look down. Just keeps driving, like it’s normal, like it’s nothing. Which somehow makes it worse. Better. Both. I dunno. 

I swallow, dragging my thumb just slightly against the fabric of her jeans, testing it, like I’m waiting for her to pull away, to remind me that this isn’t what it was before. She doesn’t. Of course, she doesn’t. And now I’m stuck here, overthinking it anyway. Typical.

We pass the sign for Hawkins not long after. That’s when it hits me again, harder this time. The weight of it. Being back. Being here with her. The way everything’s lining up just a little too perfectly, like I don’t trust it yet, like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I clear my throat. Bad sign. “Hey,” I say, a little quieter than I meant to.

She hums in response, glancing at me for half a second before looking back at the road. “Yeah?”

I hesitate. Then— “So,” I start, forcing a small smirk like I’m not overthinking this at all, like I didn’t just spend the last ten minutes talking myself in and out of it. “When am I getting off the bench?”

She freezes. Not completely. Just enough. Her eyes flick to me again, sharper this time, something amused already creeping in. “Oh,” she says, dragging it out slightly. “Now you have perfect hearing?”

I grin despite myself, leaning back in the seat like I didn’t absolutely catch every word earlier. “Selective,” I correct. “I tune in when it matters.”

She huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head, but there’s something softer sitting under it now, something less deflective than before. “Please,” she mutters. “You were definitely eavesdropping.”

“I prefer ‘actively listening,’” I shoot back.

“Of course you do.”

I let my hand stay where it is, thumb brushing just slightly again without thinking, a little bolder this time, now that she hasn’t moved it.

“So?” I press, quieter now. “What’s the verdict?”

She glances at me again. Longer this time. And there’s something in her expression—something teasing, yeah, but something else too. Something that feels a little too close to an answer I’m not sure I’m ready for.

“You’re doing okay so far,” she says.

I narrow my eyes. “Just okay?”

“Don’t push it,” she shoots back, but she’s smiling now.

I shake my head, huffing out a quiet laugh as I look out the window for a second, trying to play it off like that didn’t hit harder than it should have. “Alright,” I mutter. “I’ll take it.”

She slows the car slightly as we get closer to town, the streetlights starting to look familiar in a way that settles into something deeper than I want to admit.

“You’ll know when you’re off the bench,” she adds after a second.

I glance back at her.

“Yeah?” I ask.

She nods, eyes still on the road, but there’s a small smile tugging at her mouth now. “Yeah.”

That’s enough. For now. I lean back into the seat, letting my hand rest a little more comfortably against her thigh, like I’ve earned it, like I’m not going anywhere this time. Not if I can help it. And for once, I don’t feel like I’m chasing it. I feel like I’m getting closer.

Wayne’s truck isn’t in the driveway when we pull up. “Looks like you’re outta luck,” I say, nodding toward the empty spot like I’m not already doing the math in my head. “Responsible adult not present. Real tragedy.”

She glances at it, then at me, one brow lifting slightly. “Wow,” she says. “How will I ever recover?”

“Thoughts and prayers,” I mutter, unlocking the door.

The trailer smells the same. Coffee, faint smoke, something warm and lived-in that never really leaves, no matter how long you’re gone. I step inside first, flicking on the light, half expecting it to feel different with her here again. It doesn’t. If anything, it feels more right than it has in a long time.

“Home sweet home,” I say, kicking the door shut behind us.

She steps in like she remembers where everything is, dropping her bag near the couch without asking, eyes scanning the place in that quiet way she does when she’s taking something in. “You didn’t clean,” she notes.

I scoff. “I absolutely cleaned.”

She points at the table. There’s a stack of something I meant to deal with.

“Selective cleaning,” I correct.

She laughs, shaking her head, and it settles into the space so easily it almost throws me off.

She ends up on my bed, cross-legged with my guitar in her lap like she’s been playing it for years—which, technically, she has, and I’m stretched out beside her, watching her fingers move like I don’t already know what she’s about to play.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.

“I’m observing,” I reply.

“You’re staring.”

“Semantics.”

We trade like we used to. Chords, lines, dumb ideas that turn into something halfway decent if we don’t think too hard about it. At some point, she leans back against the wall, and I shift closer without even realizing it, shoulder brushing hers, then staying there. We don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about anything that matters, really. Not much talking comes at this next part. 

The air in the trailer feels thicker now, like the walls know exactly what’s about to happen and they’re leaning in to watch. She sets the guitar aside carefully, like it’s something fragile, and the second her hands are empty I feel the shift. That old pull, the one that never really went away, tightens low in my gut. I don’t ask. I just move.

My palm slides along her thigh, slow at first, testing, because even if we’ve done this dance before, the time apart makes everything feel brand new and dangerous. She doesn’t pull away. Instead she turns toward me, knees falling open just enough that I can slot myself between them when I push up on one elbow.

“Still observing?” she asks, voice a little breathy already, and fuck if that doesn’t go straight to my groin, I don't know what else would.

“Something like that,” I murmur, leaning in until my mouth is right against her ear. “Been thinking about this stupid bed and how you used to sound in it.”

Her breath catches. Good.

I kiss her before she can fire back, messy and hungry because that’s how it always was with us: never polite, never careful. My hand finds the hem of her shirt and drags it up, fingers skimming bare skin that’s warmer than I remember. She arches into the touch like her body still knows mine by heart, and that alone makes me groan against her mouth.

Clothes come off in pieces. My shirt first, then hers. I take my time with her bra, thumbs brushing the underside of her tits before I finally get the clasp open and toss it somewhere toward the floor. When I get my mouth on her, sucking one nipple between my teeth just hard enough to make her hiss, her fingers twist into my hair and tug—hard.

“Eddie—” It’s half warning, half plea, and I grin against her skin because I know that tone. She wants it rough tonight. The kind of rough we used to chase when the world felt too heavy, and the only thing that made sense was fucking each other stupid.

I bite down a little harder, then soothe it with my tongue, and her hips roll up against me like she can’t help it. My free hand slides down, popping the button on her jeans and shoving them low enough that I can get my fingers inside her underwear. She’s already wet, slick heat that makes my cock twitch hard against the zipper of my own jeans.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” I rasp, circling her clit with two fingers, slow and deliberate. “Missed this. Missed how fucking greedy you get for me.”

She makes this soft, broken sound that goes right through me. I keep the pressure light, teasing, until her thighs start to tremble and she’s grinding down on my hand like she’s trying to take what I’m not quite giving yet.

I pull back just enough to look at her face: flushed, lips parted, eyes dark and locked on mine. There’s that spark again, the one that says she still owns every filthy corner of my brain.

“On your knees,” I tell her, voice low and rough. Not a question.

She hesitates for half a second, just long enough to make it interesting, then she moves. Turns over, ass up, knees spread, cheek pressed to my pillow like she belongs there. The sight of her like that, back arched, waiting, hits me in a place too embarrassing to mention.

I shove my jeans down and kick them off, stroking myself once, twice, while I take in the view. Then I’m behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other guiding my cock through her folds, teasing her entrance without pushing in.

“Tell me you want it,” I say, because I need to hear it. Need to know this isn’t just an old habit.

She pushes back against me, impatient. “Eddie, fuck—yes. I want you. Please.” That’s all it takes.

I thrust in hard, one smooth stroke until I’m buried to the hilt. The sound she makes is pure sin, and I have to clench my jaw so I don’t come right then like some desperate teenager. She’s tight, hot, perfect, clenching around me like her body’s trying to keep me there forever.

I don’t start slow. Can’t. My hips snap forward, setting a brutal rhythm that has the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, filthy beat. One hand stays on her hip, the other slides up her back and fists in her hair, tugging just enough to lift her head off the pillow.

“Fuck, listen to you,” I growl, leaning over her so my chest presses to her back, mouth at her ear again. “Taking me so good. Always did, didn’t you? Even when you pretended you hated me.”

She moans louder at that, pushing back to meet every thrust, and I feel her start to flutter around my cock. Close already. Greedy girl.

I reach around with my free hand and find her clit, rubbing tight, mean little circles while I keep pounding into her. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Wanna feel you come on my cock like you used to.”

Her whole body goes tense, then shudders hard as she comes with my name on her lips, clenching down so tight it drags me right over the edge with her. I bury myself deep and spill inside her, groaning into her neck, hips jerking through the aftershocks until we’re both trembling and spent.

For a minute, we just stay like that, breathing hard, my forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. Then I ease out of her slowly, pulling her down with me so she’s tucked against my chest, skin sticky and warm.

I press a lazy kiss to her temple, fingers tracing idle patterns on her hip like I’m memorizing her all over again. “Still think I didn’t clean?” I mutter, voice wrecked.

She laughs, soft and breathless, and the sound settles somewhere deep in my ribs where it’s always belonged. Yeah. We’re not talking about anything that matters tonight. But maybe… maybe tomorrow we will.

Your POV:

You wake up slowly. Not all at once, not like something startles you into it, just a gradual awareness, the kind that comes with warmth first, then sound, then memory. The trailer is quiet. Too quiet for Wayne to be home. That registers somewhere in the back of your mind, but not enough to matter yet. What matters is him.

Your cheek is pressed against his chest, his arm draped lazily over your waist like it ended up there sometime in the middle of the night and never left. His breathing is slow, steady, the kind of rhythm that pulls you back in if you let it.

For a second, you just stay there. Still. Letting it settle. Because this is new. Not the closeness. Not the familiarity. But the way it feels now. Softer. Quieter. Less like something you’re chasing and more like something you’ve already caught.

Your fingers trace lightly against his shirt, absentminded, not enough to wake him. You don’t want to wake him yet. Not when he looks like this. Not when everything feels this easy.

You tilt your head slightly, looking up at him. His hair’s a mess, mouth parted just slightly, completely unaware of you watching him like this. You used to do this all the time. Back then. Before everything got complicated. Before you left.

Your chest tightens just a little. Not enough to ruin it. Just enough to remind you it’s real. He shifts slightly under you, something in his expression changing before his eyes even open, like he can feel you there, like he always could.

“…you’re staring,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You smile. “I’m observing.”

His eyes crack open, barely, just enough to look at you. “Creepy.”

“You love it.”

He hums, not denying it, tightening his arm around you just slightly, pulling you in closer like that’s the easiest answer he’s got. You let him. 

By the time you leave, the sun’s higher. Later than you meant to stay. The air’s cooler than it was the night before, the kind that wakes you up just enough as you step outside, keys already in your hand, Eddie trailing behind you like he’s still halfway in the moment you just left.

“Hideout tonight,” he says, like a reminder, like you’d forget.

“I know,” you reply, unlocking the car.

He lingers for a second. A small grin creeps up, causing your body to flutter more than you’d like to admit. You hesitate, then scamper over quickly, landing one kiss before you walk back, head tilted over your shoulder. He just stands on the stairs, that stupid smile you fell for in the first place cemented all over his face. 

The Hideout is louder than usual. Packed in a way that feels earned, like word got around, like people showed up expecting something. Lily and Asher are already there when you walk in, waving you over like they’ve been waiting.

“You’re late,” Lily says.

“You’re early,” you shoot back.

Asher grins. “We’re supportive.”

“Sure you are.”

You settle in near the side of the stage, arms crossed, familiar position, familiar view. It feels different tonight, though. Not in a bad way. Just heightened.

Eddie catches your eye before they start. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something steadier than before, something a little more certain, and you feel it before you even realize you’re reacting to it.

Then they start, and it’s good. Better than you expected, if you’re being honest. He’s different tonight, looser, more confident. Like something clicked into place and stayed there. The band feeds off it, the crowd feeds off it, and you find yourself leaning forward just slightly without meaning to, watching him the same way you always have.

Like you’re looking for something. Or remembering it. They finish strong, and the room reacts. And for a second, everything feels right. You exhale, shifting your weight, letting your gaze drift toward the bar. And that’s when you see her.

Fucking Paige. 

Sitting there like she’s been there the whole time. Like she didn’t just walk into something that isn’t hers anymore. Your stomach drops. Because just like that—the past isn’t in the past anymore.

Your jaw tightens slightly, your posture straightening without you realizing it, like your body already knows what this is before your brain fully catches up. Because of course she’s here. Of course, it couldn’t just be easy. Of fucking course.

You don’t look away, not this time. You just stand there, watching her for a second too long, the noise of the room fading out again, something sharper settling in its place. Something steadier. Something that doesn’t shake the way it used to.

Because you’re not that girl anymore.

You don’t realize how hard you’re staring until Lily shifts beside you. Not subtle about it, either. She follows your line of sight, squinting slightly as she leans forward, trying to place whatever—or whoever—has your attention locked like that.

“…okay,” she mutters. “Who are you staring daggers into?”

You don’t answer right away, don’t look away either. Just tilt your glass slightly in that direction, subtle but not subtle enough, your voice quieter now, steadier than you feel. “Paige.”

It clicks immediately. You see it in her face—the recognition, the oh. Then it comes.

“Oh.” But it’s not soft, it’s not concerned. It’s sharp. Interested.

Lily straightens in her seat, eyes flicking back to Paige, then to you, then back again like she’s sizing the whole situation up in real time.

“That’s her?” she asks. You nod once, and that’s all it takes.

“Okay,” she says, setting her drink down with purpose. “Absolutely not.”

You blink. “Lily—”

“No,” she cuts in, already sliding out of her seat. “You told me about her. That’s her?”

Asher appears out of nowhere like he’s been waiting for something to happen all night, glancing between the two of you. “What’d I miss?”

“That’s Paige,” Lily says, pointing without shame.

Asher looks. Then— “Oh, I don’t like that.”

You huff out a quiet laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you stand, smoothing your hands over your jeans like that’s going to ground you. “It’s fine,” you say. It’s not. But you’re not avoiding it. Not anymore.

“Uh-uh,” Lily mutters, already moving with you. “We’re not doing the ‘it’s fine’ thing. We’re doing the ‘go say something’ thing.”

Asher nods immediately. “Yeah, this feels like a group activity.”

“You are not making this a group activity,” you mutter. Too late. They’re already with you, right on your heels.

Paige notices you before you even reach the bar. She turns slightly on her stool, already watching you like she’s been waiting for this, like she’s curious to see what version of you shows up.

You don't slow down; if anything, you pick up the pace. You dead stop in front of her, close, but not close enough to feel like you're stepping into anything.

"Hi," you say. Calm. Easy.

She looks you up and down slowly, taking her time with it, like she's flipping through an old version of you and trying to decide if she liked that one better.

“Well,” she says, lips curling slightly. “Look who finally came back.”

You tilt your head. “Same to you,” you reply. “Thought business was booming in California.” Lily goes slightly still beside you.

Paige’s smile tightens just a fraction. “I didn’t realize you were still… doing this,” she adds, gesturing vaguely toward the stage. "The whole band thing."

You follow her gaze for half a second, then back. “Yeah,” you say. “Turns out I'm good at it.”

Paige hums, taking a sip of her drink like she’s unfazed.

“Must be nice,” she says. "Having things just... fall into place like that."

You almost smile. “Yeah,” you reply. “It definitely helps when you don't have to sleep your way into a deal. Too bad about that, though. Hope your boss took it okay.”

Lily fully turns away, covering her mouth. Asher actually chokes this time.

Paige stills, tightening her jaw just enough for you to know you'd gotten under her skin.

"Wow," she says, quieter now. "Still bitter."

You shrug.

"Not really," you say. "Just like to be honest. Like you were that day at the music store. Eye-opening stuff, really."

There's no emotion or heat in your voice, nothing for her to grab onto. Just truth.

Paige exhales slowly, like she's trying to decide if it's worth it to keep going. It's not, by the way. You already won. So, you hold her gaze for one more second, then step back. Done.

You turn, Lily immediately grabbing your arm. “I’m obsessed with you,” she whispers.

“Relax,” you mutter.

Asher shakes his head. “That was brutal.”

You don’t respond. Not really. Your eyes drift back to the stage—and Eddie’s already looking at you.

Eddie’s POV: 

I don’t hear what’s said at first, not really, anyway. Gareth’s talking, Jeff’s messing with something on his amp, and I’m nodding along like I’m listening, but my eyes keep drifting—back to the same spot, over and over, like I’ve got a magnet stuck in my head, and she’s the only thing pulling it.

I catch it halfway through the shift. The way Lily’s angled, the way Asher’s trying not to laugh, the way she’s standing—still, steady, not backing down from anything.

And then—her. Paige.

Sitting there like she didn’t just walk into something that isn’t hers anymore. My jaw tightens. Gareth says something, but I don’t answer.

“—you good?” he asks, finally noticing.

“Yeah,” I mutter, already stepping back from the mic. “Be right back.” I don’t wait for a response. I don’t need one.

She’s already walking back when I reach them. Lily’s grinning like she just witnessed something life-changing, Asher’s shaking his head, and she—she looks fine. Better than fine.

Which somehow makes everything in me settle and spike at the same time. “There you are,” I say, stepping in without thinking, my hand landing at her waist like it belongs there. Because it does. Because it always did.

She glances at me, just briefly, like she’s clocking it, like she knows exactly what I’m doing. But she doesn’t move away, and that’s enough.

“What’d I miss?” I ask, voice light, but my eyes are already moving past her—locking on Paige.

She’s standing now, drink still in her hand, posture just a little too deliberate as she walks over like she’s got something left to prove. “Hey,” she says.

I don’t smile, I don’t soften. “Hey,” I echo, flat.

She looks between us, taking in the way my hand hasn’t moved, the way she’s still standing close enough that I don’t have to reach for her. Good.

“Didn’t know you were playing tonight,” Paige says, directing it at me, but not really looking at me.

“Yeah,” I shrug. “I do that.” She hums, like that’s not what she meant.

“I heard,” she adds, glancing at her, “you’ve been busy.”

My hand shifts slightly at her waist, thumb brushing once without thinking. “Yeah,” I say. “We have.”

Paige’s eyes flick down, then back up. There’s a pause. The kind that’s supposed to mean something, but I don’t let it. 

“So,” Paige says, tilting her head slightly, voice light but not really, “this is—what? Back together again?”

I let out a quiet breath through my nose, not quite a laugh. “Something like that,” I say.

She hums, dragging it out, like she’s deciding how much she wants to push. “That was fast.” There it is. I shift just slightly, my hand tightening at her waist without thinking, thumb brushing once like I’m grounding myself in it, in her, instead of this.

“Yeah,” I reply, voice even. “Guess I just remembered what actually mattered.”

That lands. A flicker—small, quick—but it’s there. Paige’s smile doesn’t drop, but it tightens, just enough to give it away.

“Right,” she says, lifting her glass slightly. “Took you long enough.”

I shrug. “Yeah,” I say. “Had to get it wrong first.”

Lily makes a noise behind me that sounds like she just got punched in the chest.

Paige stills, just for a second. Then recovers, like she’s trying to smooth it over, pretending it didn’t hit the way it did.

“Well,” she says, a little sharper now, “glad you figured it out.”

I nod once. “Me too.”

There’s nothing left there, not for me. Not anymore. She lingers for half a second, like she wants to say something else, like she’s deciding whether it’s worth it. Then she turns, because it’s not. 

The second she’s out of earshot, I exhale. Didn’t realize I was holding it. Typical.

Lily immediately leans in. “Oh my god.”

“Do not start,” I mutter.

Asher’s grinning. “No, no—she’s right, that was insane.”

I ignore them. Instead, I glance down at her, my hand still at her waist like I forgot to move it. “Y’alright?” I ask, quieter now. Because that’s what matters. Not Paige. Not any of it. Just—her. And whether she’s still here. With me.

She looks up at me and smiles, way too easily.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm fine."

I nod like I believe her, like I don't already recognize that look. Because technically, she is fine. But she's also got that thing going on, the one I haven't seen in a while, but I remember it clear as day.

The tightness around her eyes, her jaw setting slightly when she's not talking, the way she keeps it together in the moment, then circles back to it later. It's her we're definitely talking about this later, face. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't already preparing for it. Not dreading it, just bracing my bearings.

Because that's just how she is. She doesn't explode, she remembers, and lets it surface when she's ready. My thumb brushes lightly against her side, small, absent, like I'm reminding her I'm here without making a big deal out of it.

"Alright," I say, softer now. "C'mon." I just guide her back to the table, hand still at her waist, not letting go yet. Not this time, especially when I know that smile doesn't mean she's okay. Just that she's holding it together, for now.

gah, i feel so maternal towards this story. i decided to change povs to both sides. let me know if you guys want to see anything else! i'm all ears<33 part 3 will be out soon-ish.

“I’m sorry I upended your lives by coming back,” Eddie begins, hands clasped tightly together. You can feel his leg bouncing next to you under the table. “I know you guys had a hard time with it, all of you,” he glances at you, including you in the apology. “And I wasn’t the most mature about the whole thing. But I want to stop running, I want to tell you guys everything about what happened in Vermont and why I came back, but it’s gonna take me a long time to get there. I can tell you, however, that Bee and I are madly in love and you may resume your gloating and told-you-so’s now.” Eddie beams, grin wide and devilish when he looks at you. There’s a loaded silence that follows Eddie’s speech, where you look from him to your two friends sitting, mouths agape and eyes wide.

“Well?” You probe.

Steve is the first to speak. “Does Hopper really have a bunker?”

–

Summer after Eddie Graduates (as told by Eddie)

“C’mon, son, you aren’t really thinkin’ of leavin’?” Wayne follows closely behind Eddie as he shoves another black t-shirt into his duffel bag. “I suggested it as a joke, y’know.” 

“I gotta, Wayne. I need to get outta this fuckin’ place.”

“You weren’t complainin’ when I took you in, and I’m pretty sure nothin’ ‘bout it’s changed!” Eddie can feel the desperation radiating from his uncle, begging him not to do something stupid.

“It’s not the trailer, it’s this fuckin’ town. Everything here reminds me of–” He stops, looking his uncle fully in the eye only to see the sadness written on his face. “It’s just not good, me being here.”

Wayne sighs, pinching between his eyes. “Just, call me when you’re settled, alright? Better yet, I’ll have Hopper call me himself, wouldn’t wanna give you another opportunity to lie to me.” With that, Wayne leaves Eddie to his packing, letting the flimsy door slam behind him. Eddie groans and finishes packing.

The 860-mile drive takes Eddie two and a half days. It would have taken less time if he’d slept before leaving, like Wayne asked him to, but he decided to be stubborn. Upon pulling onto the dirt road, Eddie feels as though he’s made a huge mistake. Wayne is the only one that knows he left, and Eddie swore him to secrecy. 

The plan is to be here for the summer, and get his life back on track. Eddie hadn’t been himself since Chris got arrested last fall, and with Bee off at college there was no reason to stay in Hawkins except to graduate. It’s not like anyone will miss him. 

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Hopper throws the door to his cabin open when Eddie gets out of his van. He’s dressed in what looks like a really old Hawaiian-inspired button down and cargo shorts, a pair of sunglasses perched on the back of his head. He’s holding a bottle of Bud Light. “C’mon in, kid, get settled.” From what Eddie can see, it’s a nice place. Hopper lives here with Joyce Byers, apparently to be closer to Will who went to college in Massachusetts, without being too close. Something like that, the details are fuzzy. Eddie grabs his duffel bag and his guitar from the trunk and treks up the stone walkway, into Hopper’s house. 

“Beer’s in the fridge, help yourself. Sure you had a long drive, so we’ll start in the morning on, well,” Hopper gestures vaguely to the clearly disheveled, exhausted Eddie.

“Well what?”

“Don’t play dumb, kid. We both know why you’re here. Now, lemme show you where you’ll be sleepin’.” Eddie takes him up on his offer, snagging a sweaty bottle from the refrigerator before following him through the cabin. The room he puts Eddie in isn’t much, but it’s nothing to complain about. Inside sits a twin bed made up with bright white cotton sheets, two fluffy pillows, and a fleece throw the color of grass. The shades are drawn back to reveal a masterpiece of a view: the bright sun streaming in through the branches of the seemingly endless forest. 

“Wake up call’s eight AM, can you handle that?”

Eddie scoffs at him. “Pretty sure I can. Thanks, Chief.”

“Call me Jim. Dinner in an hour” Hop- Jim gives Eddie a curt nod, then closes the bedroom door after exiting. Eddie tosses his duffel on the bed and follows it, falling against the soft pillows and immediately feeling more at ease.

This will be good, being out in nature. No cell service, no distractions, no triggers. Just me and the birds. Maybe a bear.

Eddie unzips his bag, pulling out a pair of worn-in black sweatpants cut into shorts, and one of his many black t-shirts. He gets dressed, then puts the rest of his clothes into the wooden dresser on the far wall of the room. Next to it sits the door to his own bathroom, one Jim–or more likely Joyce– seems to have stocked with travel sized shampoo and conditioner. A nice thought, Eddie feels, even though that shit would not be doing his hair any favors. 

Eddie’s first wake up call is brought to him in the form of an overly eager retired police chief charging into his room, yelling at the top of his lungs. 

“UP AND AT ‘EM, BOY, IT’S TIME TO MOVE. NO MORE SLEEPIN’ IN TO WALLOW IN YOUR OWN SELF-PITY! WE ARE MOVIN’ AND GROOVIN’, BUDDY!” Jim–it’s still weird calling him that– claps his hands together, causing Eddie to flinch as he presses one of his marshmallow pillows to his exposed ear. Jim pulls it away, throwing it on the floor before yanking Eddie into a sitting position. 

“Cmon. Quick breakfast and we’re out.”

“Out where?!” Eddie groans, reluctantly tossing the sheet from his body.

“Chores. Cabin takes a lot of upkeep you wouldn’t expect.” Eddie holds his tongue and follows Jim into the kitchen, where three plates of steaming bacon and eggs sit waiting for him. 

__

Mealtime becomes sacred to Eddie as the weeks go on, mostly because it’s the only time he gets to be awake while also sitting down. Hopper was known in Hawkins as a lazy drunk and not much more, which is probably why he gave Eddie so much slack. Regardless of the speculation, Jim Hopper was anything but lazy when it came to his cabin. This tiny thing in the middle of Vermont wilderness is greedy when it comes to upkeep; Eddie spent the entire first day de-weeding what Jim called his “backyard” which was really just a tangling of bushes he’d planted and a sectioned off home garden of vegetables. 

“Feels good,” Jim starts, plopping himself in the deck chair next to Eddie where the fire pit roars in front of him. The flames keep away most of the mosquitos while Eddie’s cigarette picks up the slack. 

“The fire? Yeah, guess so.”

“No, ‘m talkin’ about the work we did today.”

Eddie shrugs. “It’s gonna take some getting used to.” His limbs, neck, and back all ache, and there’s still dirt in his nostrils even after showering. 

Jim gives him a friendly slap on the back. “I understand that, I was never the outdoorsy type before coming out here.”

“What changed?”

The old man scoffs. “A lot. As I’m sure a lot has for you. Hopefully this place can help you come to peace with that.” Eddie can only nod, knowing if he speaks his voice will break. It’s been really hard, the last two years spent exhausting himself to graduate only to run away the second he could. Everything in Hawkins reminds him of you, of before everything went to complete shit, and he can’t handle it anymore. 

“Cmon, kid. Dinner’s almost done.” Jim snaps Eddie back to the present, and his thoughts of you subside for the moment. He follows, letting the fire burn itself out. 

__

It’s another mundane day, about a month later, when Joyce approaches him while he’s stocking the pantry after a shopping trip. 

“Not that we don’t love having you here, Eddie,” she starts, and Eddie stops his chore to turn and look at her, sitting at the kitchen table. “But, when do you think you’ll, y’know, move on from here?” There’s no judgement, not a single implication in her voice, but Eddie’s heart stings. He has officially overstated his invitation. 

“Oh, I guess as soon as I can pack my stuff, if that’s— “

Joyce waves her hand rapidly to stop his bumbling. “No, no. I mean, from whatever it is that’s gnawing at you. Whatever the thing that brought you here is. You’re still clinging to it.”

Perceptive woman. “Oh. Well, uh, I mean,” what a complex question to ask him, truly. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

And god, he really does. Eddie takes the chair across from her and throws himself into it, sighing dramatically. “How much has Hop already told you?” Hopper had finally seceded to Eddie calling him by his last name, only insisting he drop the “mister.” 

“Well, I know you and your buddy—Chris? Stole a police officer’s car. I know that he got in trouble and you got let off with a warning, and I know you’ve been going through hell since then. I just can’t figure out why.”

“Is the guilt of getting my friend in trouble not enough?”

Joyce shakes her head. “It doesn’t make sense with the way you’ve been handling, or not handling, it. Chris was a troublemaker, I’m sure he knew his days were numbered. He knew he could help you out. There’s no reason to be ashamed of having someone cover for you, especially if it means keeping your record clean a little longer”

“Maybe not in most cases, but there’s a special shame that comes with sending your best friend’s big brother to prison.”

This gives Joyce pause, and she leans back in her chair causing it to creak. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Are you referring to Bee?” Joyce knew everyone in Hawkins, and of course that meant she knew you. 

 “Yeah. She hasn’t talked to me since he was sentenced.” Two years now, and he still has to fight not to pick up the phone. 

“Have you called her?”

“I did, in the beginning. But I figured she wanted space. And then she left for college, and I haven’t heard from her since. I don’t blame her, it’s not like I’m making the effort either. But I miss her, as much as I ever have. It doesn’t stop and I couldn’t stay in that town where everything reminds me of something we did together, or something she said, or the way her fucking hair smells.” He drops his head into his hands, feeling Joyce’s pitiful stare on the top of his head. 

“Does she know?” Her voice is quiet, like she knows she’s not supposed to bring up the subject.

“What, where I am?” Eddie shakes his head. “No one does, except Wayne. And he doesn’t talk to people.”

“No, I meant, does she know that you’re in love with her?” 

Eddie can’t help but snap his head back to Joyce, who’s looking at him like he’s a lost kid in a department store. “What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t mean to cross any boundaries.” Joyce waves her hands at him, like she’s trying to disperse the words she just said. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“It’s okay, it feels good to have someone else know about it.” Eddie huffs, gaze drifting back to his hands, clasped together tightly. “No, I don’t think she knows. If she does, it’s not because I told her. I wanted to tell her, before any of this happened. We were just such good friends and I was so scared to ruin that. Then I ruined it regardless, in the worst possible way.”

“I bet she’d forgive you, if you just explained everything. Does she know Chris told you to rat him out?” Eddie only shakes his head again. “Maybe you should tell her. When you’re ready.”

–

Present day

Bee

“Turns out it took me way too long to be ready.” Robin and Steve stare at him blankly as you inspect your hands on the table, trying to absorb everything Eddie’s just confessed to. The whole time. Eddie left for you, because he figured he destroyed your friendship when, in your mind, his leaving had been the thing to hurt the most. 

“Excuse me.” You rush from the booth, weaving through waitresses and customers to the bathroom, tucked into a corner next to the kitchen doors. Luckily, it’s an empty, single person bathroom, and you have the privacy to let a wrecked sob loose from your throat. The tears start flowing as you sit on the lidded toilet, ripping a wad of toilet paper from the roll to wipe your runny nose. It’s barely five minutes before there’s a knock on the door. 

“Sweetheart? You in there?” Eddie’s voice is low enough that you could pretend you don’t hear it, but the way it cracks compels you to respond.

“Yeah.” You sniff. “I’ll be out in a sec.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“Okay.” You’d left the door unlocked. Eddie turns the knob and enters, face falling when he sees what must be your flushed cheeks and puffy eyes. He clicks the lock into the knob before approaching you.

“Oh, baby, what’s wrong? What’d I say?” Despite the questionable level of cleanliness, Eddie kneels in front of where you sit on the toilet, taking one of your hands in his. 

“Nothing, you didn’t say a thing.” You sniffle again, resting your free hand on his cheek. “It just makes me so sad, hearing that I caused you to leave. I thought you left to get away from me. I spent all that time mad at you for leaving, when you left for me. How fucked up is that!” You laugh despite yourself, and Eddie’s sad pout quivers slightly. “I never wanted you to go away, Eddie. I shouldn’t have let you. I should have called, or reported you as a missing person or something.” You’ll spend probably the rest of your life thinking of the should-have’s, knowing it’s your fault he left in the first place.

“Baby,” Eddie frees your hand to hold your face. You can feel the callouses on his palms, his fingertips, and they soothe you. “I left because I was a coward. I was too afraid to fix things, and you had every right to be mad at me. You still do, you know.”

You shake your head, still with his hands on your cheeks. “No, no. I’m tired of being angry. It has taken so much of our time, I don’t wanna give it any more. I forgive you.” You mean it. You’re tired, and you’re ready to be done with all the confusion and pain caused by Eddie leaving and returning to you.

“Okay. I can get behind that. I was never angry, though.”

“Oh, c’mon, not even a little?” You chuckle, but it still sounds thick with your tears.

He shakes his head. “Nope, not even a little. Not at you, anyway. I was pretty pissed at Chris, though.”

“Speaking of… when do we tell him about us?”

“Ugh, later. I’m tired of talking.” Eddie stands and offers out a hand to help you follow him. You do, and he leads you both back to the booth where Steve’s paid the check.

“You okay, Beebz?” Robin inspects your wordless response skeptically before ultimately letting it go. “Right, okay. Well, you guys wanna come to ours? Video games, drinks?”

You look at Eddie, and he shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”

–

The group hang session turns into more when Nancy and Jonathan come through with armfuls of drinks and bags of chips. Steve and Eddie are yelling at each other as some RPG blares through the entertainment center speakers. You, Robin, and Nancy are crowded around the snacks in the kitchen as Jonathan rolls a joint on the counter.

“So, you guys are like, together? Like, finally?” Nancy tosses another potato chip into her mouth, eyes wide as you and Robin take turns filling her in on the last few days.

You nod. “Yeah, I guess so. Makes me feel like a fuckin’ idiot, taking this long.” 

Nancy laughs, waving you off. “Took Jonathan and I way longer than it should have, too. Don’t worry about that. Just enjoy the time you do get to spend together. Hopefully that means forever, for you guys. I always thought you two were cute together.” 

You roll your eyes as Robin snickers at you. “Why are you laughing? You’re the queen of silent pining, don’t give me shit!” You make it a point to look at Nancy again to show Robin what you’re talking about. You feel only mildly bad, making fun of her for falling for the straightest-girl-on-earth, but all’s fair in love and war, or whatever.

“I’ll have you know, I like to pine silently! No risk in being a yearner in private.” Robin crunches down on a chip angrily and you laugh. 

–

Eddie 

“Aw, c’mon! I thought we had that!” Steve groans, throwing his controller down into his lap as the TV screen replays the death of his and Eddie’s characters.

“I’m over this, we’ll finish the level later.” Eddie starts clicking buttons to save the game.

“So…” Steve starts, and Eddie side eyes him. “You and Bee, huh? Crazy stuff.” 

“What are you getting at, Harrington?” There’s a weird tone to Steve’s voice. Probing. 

“What? I’m not getting at anything, man! Just, I’m happy for you, that’s all.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Now tell me what you’re actually thinking before I smack you with this.” Eddie holds up his own controller for emphasis.

“Whoa, chill. I think you guys are great. That’s it! I swear, I’m not trying to step on your toes, or hers, or whatever. I just don’t get how you guys took so fuckin’ long to get here. 

“We didn’t. I did. I explained that. If I had just been a normal guy, I could’ve told her I liked her the second I figured it out, or even any other time after that.”

“Yeah, I guess. You promise you’re not gonna leave her high and dry again?” Steve tries to sound stern, like your big brother without the criminal record. 

“Relax. I’m not goin’ anywhere any time soon. I’ll leave her high but never, ever dry if you catch my drift.”

“Good. Great, that’s disgusting. And hey, Ed?”

“What?”

“I’m really happy for you, man. Both of you.”

“Yeah, yeah. How much money did you make today?”

Steve bursts into laughter. “Like, two hundred bucks!”

–

Bee

Eddie, having a much higher tolerance for alcohol than you, drives you and your car back to your apartment. He walks you up the flights of stairs and to your door, ready to leave you there when you invite him in.

“Please? I can drive you home or to work or whatever tomorrow, jus’ don’t wan’ you t’leave.” Your words string together, barely coherent. 

“Don’t have to convince me, darlin’. I’m wherever you are, whenever you want me.” Eddie follows you inside without a second thought.

“Y’re sooo cheesy.” You giggle, hiccuping a bit. “Say more.” 

Eddie stops following you as you fall into the couch cushions, immediately yanking your sweatshirt from your form. You pat the spot next to you as you wiggle your eyebrows, and Eddie breaks into the softest smile you’ve seen. 

“More, huh? Well, have I told you about the Princess?”

Despite your state, your eyes widen at the mention of the figurine you immediately recall. “No! I’ve been wondering about it. I saw–” You stop. You probably weren’t supposed to see anything. “Never mind.”

Eddie takes a step toward you, still not sitting down. “No, finish that thought. What did you see?” 

Your brain feels fuzzy. You didn’t even drink that much! “Well, you showed me the figurine on your dresser before, and like, I played her when we were kids. You said you made her for me. That’s all I know.”

Eddie nods. “Originally, yeah. She was your character, even though princesses in D&D aren’t, like, an actual class. You were actually a Bard. Obviously.”

“Weren’t you a Bard though?”

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, you can have more than one Bard.” 

“So you just yes-man’d me that whole time?” You’re unreasonably upset with this new knowledge.

“Doesn’t that track with, like, everything else you’ve come to know about me today, though? How was I supposed to mansplain to you when you were so cute in your overalls and your stupid sparkly sneakers? I’d let you be a goddamn polar bear if that’s what you’d wanted. The guys absolutely hated me for it when we used to play in Gareth’s garage. And anyway, there’s more to that than you know.”

“Oh?”

Finally, Eddie sits down next to you, leaving no space between your body and his. You take this opportunity to fold into him, leaning your head on his chest as he puts his feet up on your coffee table. “I started, like, writing you into my campaigns. Sometimes I’d write ones I’d never plan on showing to anyone, never even planned on playing just because I liked to, I dunno, fuckin’ daydream or some weird shit. Sorry, that’s so weird. Probably like, six month anniversary material but it’s too late now. Do you want me to go? I can walk home.”

“Would you shut up, oh my god.” You throw your leg over his lap, keeping him from rising from the couch. “You’re not going anywhere. That’s the cutest thing I think I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re fucking with me. There is no way you find that cute and not like, really creepy.”

You shake your head, nuzzling further into the fabric of his t-shirt. “Nope. I think it’s sweet. I might tease you about it for the rest of your life, though.” 

“If that means you’ll be here to do that, I have no complaints on the subject.”

You look up at him, and he’s already scanning your face, from your eyes to your lips where he lingers, unblinking, mouth slightly open, tongue peeking from its corner. Impatient, you lean toward him and he follows easily, his lips slotting between yours. He’s soft, pliable in your mouth as you part your lips and slide your tongue across his bottom lip. It earns you a muffled groan, Eddie’s hand travelling from your jaw, down your side, and landing on your waist. He tugs slightly, shifting you onto his lap where you straddle him, his newly freed hand coming to rest on your other hip. You roll into him, feeling the stiffness through his jeans, and pull a deeper moan from him. His grip on you tightens when you do it a second time, slower, savoring the way his breath shakes as he exhales. 

“I’m still really, really sorry, by the way.” You don’t cease your movements, and barely separate from his mouth to speak. You can feel him, exhaling into your mouth now. “I should’ve figured out where you went.”

Even through his bliss, Eddie’s conscious enough to respond. “No, baby, please don’t let yourself think like that. I needed to go, I had to get my shit together so I could be, I dunno, good enough for you. It shouldn’t have taken as long as it did– shit, sweetheart you’re gonna kill me.” You’re shifting in a way to cause Eddie to lose his train of thought entirely. “Keep doin’ that, baby.”

You oblige, rotating your hips as you press down onto Eddie’s crotch, the seam of your own jeans causing jolts of pleasure through your center at the contact. 

“Eddie?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, airy and desperate. 

“Yeah, baby?” He’s moved to mouth at your throat, and you lean your head to the side so he can get better access. 

“I thought about you a lot. Y’know, when you were gone. I tried not to, but sometimes I couldn’t help it.”

“Oh?” He’s listening, but his teeth sinking into your skin makes it hard for you to keep talking.

“Yeah. Especially when I was alone, which was a lot in college, y’know? Had a single dorm and everything.”

He freezes, but only for a second before he pulls your body closer so your chest is flush with his, both heaving as you breathe. “What exactly did you think about me then?” He moves to your shoulder, pulling at the fabric of your t-shirt collar until it’s out of his way enough to nip at your skin. 

“As angry as I was, I was definitely hornier than that. And depressed enough that I didn’t really go on dates in college. I could really only get off when I was thinking about you. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, you’re never gonna let me live it down.”

“Damn right I’m not, keep going.” His voice is more demanding now, still low, still crooning, but deeper. You feel his fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans, and you reach down to help him. Once he gets you free of the clasp he pulls your fly down, making quick work of sliding his hand into your pants, still over your underwear as you grind against his palm. “Tell me what you did, when you were all alone, thinkin’ about me.” 

A moan slips from your lips as you feel his fingers circle against your clit, the fabric of your underwear quickly soaking through.

“I’d touch myself, obviously. But I was too afraid of someone in the hall hearing me, so I only used my hand. It was miserable, and I had no– fuck– no idea what you felt like then, so I let my brain run wild with ideas.” Your hips have picked up speed, bucking against his hand as you recall your college days spent alone, hand in your pants as you tried to remember the way Eddie looked shirtless at Steve’s pool parties in high school. 

“What were your favorites of these, um, ideas?” Eddie’s teasing you now, toying with the elastic of your panties while his other hand kneads into the skin of your hip, thumb tracing circles on your stomach. “Maybe we can see if I live up to your imagination.”

You can’t help but snort. “You’ve already exceeded my imagination. But, ah, I used to wonder how your fingers felt, with the rings and everything. I wanted to feel them making dents in my thighs while you had your head between my legs. Normal stuff.” You can barely focus on what you’re saying when Eddie tugs your underwear to the side before sliding a finger through your folds. 

“Mhm, what else?” Your eyes are fluttering when he slips his digit into your hole without any resistance, causing you to clench around him.

“I thought about your voice a lot, I used to really like watching you on stage and I guess it was kind of a thing for me. I imagined how it would feel when you grabbed me, held me, and if your guitar skills transferred to– ah! Other things.”

“Other things like… this?” Eddie slips a second finger inside you, adjusting his position so he can get the rest of his hand in your underwear. His thumb finds your clit and your whole body twitches, brain starting to fog.

“Yeah, fuck,”

Eddie keeps his steady pace, somehow keeping you on the edge with one hand while his other squeezes into the small space between his legs and yours to unbutton his jeans. To move things along, you reluctantly separate from Eddie to pull the layer of denim from your legs, throwing your jeans to the floor. Eddie, meanwhile, shimmies his own pants from his waist, letting them drop to his ankles before haphazardly kicking them off with his shoes. He barely has time to adjust his seat before you’re back on him, less layers between you. Thin cotton, your own and his, dampens as you grind on Eddie’s lap, feeling his cock twitch desperately as it catches between your folds.

“Baby, you’re killin’ me, I need these to come off.” Eddie’s tugging at your waistband again and you let him push your underwear off, not even bothering to try pocketing them and instead letting them disappear into the couch cushions. His own boxers only make it halfway down his thighs before he’s pulling you back again, lining his weeping cock up with your dripping hole. You make sure to watch his face when he enters you, relishing in the contorting muscles of his neck, eyebrows furrowed together, fully blissed out. 

The stretch is easy, second nature to you now, but still so sweet how much it burns. Hips stuttering, you start to ride him, feeling his cock slip deeper with each forward roll of your hips. You whine, hands flying to his chest to grab hold of his shirt to keep yourself grounded as he meets your movements, hips bucking into you in synchronicity with your rhythm. 

“Keep talkin’ honey, I didn’t say you could stop. What else?”

“Well,” You sound pathetic, voice airy and blissed out. “I would look for you in everyone I did go out with. Girls, guys, anyone. I wanted them to have something that reminded me of you. I used it as an excuse, that I had a type you fit, not that my only type w-was you. It made me feel ridiculous, but I– mmmph– I couldn’t help it.” 

“You ever find someone that fit?”

You shake your head. Your brain is dulling to a lovely buzz, like everything else around you has been paused. There’s only you, and Eddie, and the heat between you. “Of course not. Nothing that was even close.” 

“You know I thought about you, too?” Eddie’s voice drops, low and teasing. “Every day, every night. Hopper told me it would get better, but it only got worse. You were the first thing in my head the moment I woke up, the last thing I thought of before bed.”

Though you want him to keep talking, you practically fall into him, your mouth on his before he can prepare himself. The kiss is sloppy, tongues fighting for control as his grip on you tightens, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he continues fucking into you, causing the wet schlicking sounds between your bodies to get louder. The backs of your knees are sweating as Eddie runs his hands up your torso, riding your shirt up to rest just below your breasts. You feel his fingertips trace the underwire of your bra to the center of your back, where he unclasps your bra without a fight, taking it along with your shirt up and off your frame. 

“Thought about you just like this.” He’s awestruck, unable to take his eyes off your heaving chest, hands already kneading the flesh as your head drops backwards. “Couldn’t do much about it, obviously, sharing a thin wall with who I’d consider practically family, but I made do. I could never do you justice, I know that now.” He leans forward, slipping impossibly deeper inside of you as his lips find your nipple, pulling a desperate moan from deep in your chest. Your hand falls easily into his curls, gripping at his scalp while his tongue toys with your pebbled bud.

“Can feel you, darlin’, I know you’re close. You wanna cum?”

Your response is barely audible, but you make sure to at least nod to get your point across.

Eddie moves his hand between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit as you clench around his cock, twitching.

“That’s it baby, let go. So pretty when you come on my cock, c’mon.” His encouragement is everything you need to fall apart, voice shattering as you see white, the coil in your belly snapping as your body lurches with pleasure. Eddie is close behind, hips stalling as his rhythm falters before burying himself to the hilt, releasing ropes of sticky white that you feel paint your walls before dripping down your thighs. As he softens, you both catch your breath, sweaty and exhausted, and you plant messy kisses all over his neck and chest.

“Better than you imagined?” You tease, nuzzling into his neck as he tries to pull out without making you flinch. 

“Yeah, fuck. So much better.” Eddie chuckles, wrapping his arms tightly around your sweaty back. “You?”

The club was more packed than I anticipated. Not something I'm particularly mad about, but definitely something I wished I had more time to mentally prepare for. I should have known better anyway, any rock club that lets underage kids slide by without even a dent in their wallet should've been more than a dead giveaway. But Gareth practically begged us to go, and who am I to let my favorite kid down?

He walks over, grinning ear to ear, two plastic cups of beer in hand, Jeff and Dougie following behind him. "Here you are," he says, passing me what I can only assume to be the cheapest draft available. I take a sip, confirming my suspicions.

"Band should be on in thirty," He says, nodding towards the stage, "Just got some opener. Never heard of them, but I heard they were pretty legit."

"Sunset Foley" was a local-ish band from Indianapolis that made it semi-big a couple of years back. Gareth idolizes, no, worships them, hoping Corroded Coffin would one day catch just a glimpse of the same amount of attention.

But who am I to judge? I, of course, want the same thing, if not more than he does. Nobody more than me would love to catch a deal and escape from the town that despises me more than I do. Which is saying something, because I really fucking despise it.

The lights begin to fade in and out, indicating that the opener was about to begin. A wave of bodies begins to shift forward, causing me to stumble and lose my bearings. Whoever this opener was, they must be pretty damn legit to have people shoving each other to be at the barricade. Then the curtain opens, revealing five dark silhouettes staring back at the crowd.

Before the overhead light shines above them, the front (person?) rings out the opening note, causing an excited roar to wave over the crowd. They play another note, then another, causing something ugly to creep over me. I know this song. Why do I know this song? Then, the overhead light turns on, answering my question for me.

I know this band, hell, I helped create this band. She's at the front, guitar slung over her shoulder, face stern, staring into the crowd. "She," being my ex-girlfriend, who can only be described as "the one that got away" in the least dramatic way possible.

"Hello, my loyal subjects," she rasps into the mic, causing another wave of screams. She chuckles, plucking out a few more chords, then, "This one's called Tonight." And just like that, she rips into it.

No hesitation. No warning. Just straight into the deep end like she always used to do, like she used to drag me into things I wasn’t ready for and somehow make it feel like I’d been waiting my whole life for it.

The guitar snarls under her hands, sharp and mean, the kind of sound that sticks to your ribs and vibrates there. The crowd eats it up instantly, bodies pressing closer, hands reaching, like she’s something holy and they’re all dying for a piece. I can’t move.

I’m rooted to the sticky floor, cheap beer sloshing in my cup, staring at her like I’ve just seen a ghost claw its way out of the past and pick up a fucking guitar. She’s different. No, that’s not right. She’s more.

More confident, more dangerous, more everything that made me fall for her in the first place, just sharpened into something that could probably ruin a man if he got too close. Her voice cuts through the noise, low and haunting, wrapping around the lyrics like she’s lived every single word ten times over.

I know the way her fingers move on that fretboard. I know the slight tilt of her head when she hits a note just right. I know the look in her eyes when she’s somewhere else entirely, lost in the music. I used to be the one who pulled her out of that.

Now I’m just another idiot in the crowd watching her disappear into it. "Jesus Christ," Gareth mutters next to me, completely oblivious to the internal crisis currently ripping me apart, "They’re insane."

Yeah, yeah, they are. Because she is. And I can’t even tell if she’s noticed me yet, not with the lights blasting down and the crowd practically swallowing the stage whole, but there’s this sick, twisting feeling in my gut that says it doesn’t matter.

Because even if she hasn’t—she will. Her eyes sweep over the crowd once, quick, practiced, detached. Then they stop. Right on me.

And it’s like getting hit square in the chest with something heavy and unforgiving, knocking the air clean out of my lungs. There’s no double take, no confusion, no soft recognition. She knows exactly who she’s looking at.

Her expression doesn’t change, not really, but there’s something there, buried just beneath the surface. Something sharp. Something that feels a hell of a lot like a challenge. Her fingers never falter. Her voice doesn’t shake.

If anything, she leans into it harder, like seeing me just poured gasoline on whatever fire she’s got burning inside her. And I—I’m stuck.

Staring back like an idiot, like a guy who thought he’d moved on, who thought he buried all of this somewhere deep enough that it wouldn’t come crawling back out in the middle of a crowded club. Guess I was wrong. Because here she is. On a stage. Singing a song I’ve never heard before, like it’s meant for me.

The last note rings out like a warning shot, echoing through the club before it’s swallowed whole by the crowd erupting in cheers. Whistles, screams, people practically losing their minds like they’ve just witnessed something life-altering.

Maybe they have. I haven’t moved. I don’t even think I’ve breathed.

She stands there for a second, chest rising and falling, fingers still curled around the neck of her guitar like she might just launch into something else without giving anyone a second to recover. God, I remember that about her. Never letting a moment settle. Always chasing the next high, the next sound, the next feeling.

Her tongue drags over her bottom lip as she steps up to the mic again, adjusting it slightly. And then she smiles. Not sweet. Not soft. Sharp.

"Glad you liked that one," she says, voice rough around the edges, like the song’s still sitting in her throat. The crowd roars back at her, completely wrapped around her finger, and she just huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head like she’s both amused and completely in control.

Then—"This next song," she starts, slower now, eyes scanning the crowd again, "is about the first guy who ever broke my heart."

The place goes feral. Of course it does. Everyone loves a little heartbreak, especially when it’s wrapped up in distortion and pretty lyrics. My stomach drops straight through the floor.

"Which," she continues, pausing just long enough to build it up, dragging it out like she used to when she knew she had everyone’s attention, "is perfect…" Her eyes find mine again. No hesitation this time. No doubt. "…because he’s here tonight."

I swear my heart just stops. Not slows, not stutters, just fucking stops. There’s a ringing in my ears that has nothing to do with the amps, and for a second, everything around me fades out, like the whole damn room is holding its breath right along with me.

Everything in me goes still. Jeff lets out a low whistle beside me, shaking his head like he’s entertained, like this is just some dramatic stage bit and not—not this. Not me.

She holds my gaze for one more second, something unreadable flickering there, then she turns, finally, nodding to her band. "This one is All I Wanted."

Her fingers brush the strings, soft, controlled, the kind of opening that doesn’t demand attention so much as it steals it.

She leans into the mic.

"Think of me when you’re out…"

Quiet. Too quiet for a room like this. But it doesn’t matter. Because everyone hears it. I hear it.

"…when you’re out there… I'll beg you nice from my knees."

And Jesus, it sticks. It sinks in somewhere deep and ugly, somewhere I’ve been trying not to look at for a long time now, because I know that tone. I know the way she lets the words breathe like that, like they’re fragile, like they might break if she pushes too hard. Like they mean something.

My grip tightens around the cup in my hand, plastic bending under my fingers as the rest of the band eases in behind her, slow and steady, building something I can already tell is gonna hurt like hell.

She doesn’t look at me yet. Not again. Which somehow makes it worse. Because now I’m waiting for it. Waiting for the second, she decides I deserve it.

"And when the world treats you way too fairly, well, it's a shame I'm a dream."

Fuck. The words hit harder than they should, dragging something up with it, something I don’t want to name, don’t want to touch, but it’s there anyway, sitting heavy in my chest like it’s got every right to be.

The music swells. Not all at once. Gradual, like a warning. And then it snaps.

The chorus crashes in, loud and unforgiving, and she goes with it, voice opening up in a way that makes the whole damn room feel too small to hold it. It’s powerful, yeah, but it’s controlled. Every note lands exactly where it should, no strain, no slip, just this raw, practiced precision that cuts straight through everything else.

I’ve heard her sing at least a hundred times. In her room, on the edge of my bed, messing around with half-finished ideas and laughing when she forgot the words.

This? This isn’t that. This is something bigger. Something sharper. Something that doesn’t need me.

Her breath control is insane, stretching lines out just enough to make them ache before pulling them back in, never losing grip on the melody, never losing that edge underneath it all. It’s clean, but it’s not empty. There’s weight to it. History.

Like every word cost her something. Gareth’s talking again, I think, hyped, impressed, completely unaware that I’m standing here getting torn apart piece by piece, but I don’t hear him. Can’t.

Because she finally looks at me again. Right in the middle of it. Like she knew exactly when it would hit the hardest. And I swear— I swear she leans into it just a little more when she does. Like she wants me to feel it. Every single second of it.

The rest of the song blurs together in the worst way. Not because it’s forgettable, because it’s not. Because every second of it feels too sharp, too close, like it’s pressing in on something I’ve spent a long time pretending wasn’t there anymore. By the time it ends, the crowd is losing their minds again, screaming her name, reaching for her like she’s something untouchable, something bigger than this shitty little club.

And she just stands there for a second, breathing it in. Not overwhelmed. Not surprised. Like she expected it. Like she earned it.

She pushes her hair back, adjusts the strap of her guitar, and there’s this brief moment where I think maybe that’s it. Maybe she’ll step back, maybe they’ll thank the crowd, maybe I’ll get a second to actually think instead of just—feeling. But then she leans back into the mic, voice a little lower now, a little quieter, like she’s letting the room come down with her instead of dragging it higher.

"This is our last one," she says, almost offhand, like it’s not about to wreck me just as bad as the last two. A few cheers ripple through the crowd, disappointed but still hungry, still hanging on every word she says.

She doesn’t look at me this time. Not once. Which should be a relief. It’s not.

The opening is softer than anything else they’ve played. Clean guitar, almost delicate, the kind of sound that makes people lean in instead of push forward. The energy in the room shifts with it, less chaotic, more… focused. Like everyone collectively realizes they’re about to hear something that actually matters. And then she starts singing.

It’s different. Still her, still that same control, that same precision, but there’s something stripped back about it, something that feels a little too honest, a little too close to the bone. No theatrics, no edge to hide behind, just this quiet kind of hurt that settles in your chest before you even realize what it’s doing.

The lyrics aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They linger. Lines about never quite being enough, about trying to shrink yourself into something someone else could love, about giving and giving until there’s nothing left that’s actually yours anymore. It’s not angry, not really. It’s worse than that.

It’s resigned. And that—that hits different. Because I remember that version of her too. The one who’d laugh things off, who’d say it was fine, who’d pretend she didn’t need more even when it was written all over her face that she did. The one I didn’t listen to.

Her voice carries through the room like a thread, steady, unwavering, wrapping around every word like she’s finally letting herself say the things she never did back then. There’s no break, no crack, just this quiet kind of control that somehow makes it feel even more real.

Like she’s already processed it. Like she’s already moved on. And I’m just now catching up. The band builds around her slowly, careful not to overpower it, letting her stay at the center of everything, and she holds it there effortlessly. No slipping, no second-guessing, just… certainty.

That’s the word. She sounds certain. Certain that she deserved better. Certain that she knows it now. By the time the last chorus rolls in, it’s still not explosive, not like the last song, but it doesn’t need to be. It swells just enough, lifts just enough, her voice rising with it in this controlled, aching way that makes the whole thing feel final.

Like a closing statement. Like a line drawn clean across something that used to be messy. And then it ends. No dramatic cutoff. No big finish. Just the last note fading out into something quiet and settled, like it’s already made its point and doesn’t need to prove anything else.

For a second, the room is still. Then it erupts. Louder than before, somehow. People shouting, clapping, stomping, completely losing it, and she just nods once, a small, satisfied thing, like she’s acknowledging it without letting it get to her. Her bandmates are grinning, hyped, riding the high of it, but she—she’s already stepping back.

Already unplugging. Already moving. And then she’s off the stage. No lingering. No waving. Just gone. The crowd parts for her without even realizing it, bodies shifting as she cuts through, head down, focused, like she’s got somewhere to be and no time to waste getting there.

Straight toward—Me. My chest tightens. I don’t move. I don’t even think I can if I tried. She gets closer, weaving through people like it’s second nature, like she’s done this a hundred times before, and maybe she has. Maybe this is just another night for her, another show, another crowd, another run-in with the past.

She doesn’t look at me. Not once. Not even when she’s right in front of me, close enough that I can see the sweat on her skin, the smudged liner under her eyes, the way her jaw is set just a little too tight.

For a second, just a second, I think she’s gonna pass me. Just walk right by like I’m nothing, like I don’t matter. And then her shoulder slams into mine. Not hard enough to knock me over. Just enough.

My breath catches, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t say a word. Just keeps walking, disappearing into the crowd like she didn’t just completely knock the air out of my lungs without even looking at me while she did it.

And I’m left standing there, frozen, beer forgotten in my hand, heart doing something uneven and stupid in my chest, staring after her like an idiot. Like, I didn’t deserve that. Like, I didn’t have it coming.

I’m still standing there like an idiot when Jeff finally looks from me to the stage, then back to me again, eyes narrowing like something’s not adding up right in his head. He squints, really looks this time, like he’s rewinding the last twenty minutes and catching details he missed the first go around.

Then it clicks, I can see it happen in real time, Jeff's whole expression shifting from entertained to something a little more cautious, a little more curious. “Wait,” he says, dragging the word out slow, like he’s testing it, “that’s— Munson, that’s your—” He doesn’t finish it, but he doesn’t need to, because the look he gives me says the rest.

Gareth goes a little still next to him, the pieces falling together a second later, and then he’s groaning under his breath, dragging a hand down his face like he just realized he accidentally walked us straight into a landmine. “Oh, shit,” he mutters, glancing between me and the stage like maybe this can still be undone if he tries hard enough, “man, I didn’t— I swear I didn’t know that was her band, I just heard they were good, I thought—”

He cuts himself off, because what’s he even supposed to say to that, sorry I brought you to the worst possible place you could’ve been tonight? I huff out something that might be a laugh, might be me just trying to breathe normally again, and shrug one shoulder like it’s not a big deal, like I’m not still feeling the ghost of her shoulder slamming into mine.

“It’s fine,” I say, voice coming out rougher than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back, because it’s easier than explaining the way my chest still feels like it’s been cracked open and left to rot. Jeff watches me for a second longer, like he’s deciding whether to push it or not, but then the next band starts setting up, and the crowd shifts again, pulling his attention away just enough to let me off the hook.

Gareth claps me on the back, a little too hard, a little too apologetic, and then they’re both turning toward the stage, trying to pretend this is just another night, just another show. I try to follow their lead, I really do, but it’s a little hard to act normal when the past just sang directly at you for thirty straight minutes.

I catch sight of her again across the room, off to the side of the stage with the rest of her band, tucked just far enough back that she’s not the center of attention anymore but still close enough to feel the music.

She’s not looking at me, not even close, laughing at something one of her bandmates says, head tipped back, shoulders loose in a way that feels so different from the way she held herself on stage. The next band kicks in, louder, messier, and she just moves with it, like it’s nothing, like she’s not fresh off a set that had half the room ready to worship her, like she didn’t just rip me apart and walk away without blinking.

She’s dancing.

Not performative, not for anyone else, just for her, eyes half-lidded, body swaying with the music like she’s shaking something off, like she’s letting it all go now that it’s out there. One of her bandmates spins her once, quick and careless, and she laughs, real and easy, not a trace of whatever she was carrying on stage left in it. It hits me then, sharp and sudden, that she’s fine, or at least she’s better, better than she was, better than when she was with me, and there’s something about that that sits weird in my chest, like I’m relieved and sick about it all at once.

I don’t realize how long I’ve been staring until Jeff nudges me again, saying something I don’t quite catch, but I nod anyway, forcing my eyes back to the stage, pretending like I’m paying attention to anything other than her.

It doesn’t really work, because every time the crowd shifts, I catch another glimpse, another flash of her laughing, her moving, her existing in a space that doesn’t include me anymore. By the time the set ends, I’m restless in a way I can’t quite explain, like staying inside that room any longer is gonna do something irreversible to me.

So I step out.

The air outside is colder than I expect, cutting through the heat that’s been sitting on my skin since we got here, and I take a second, leaning against the side of the building, lighting a cigarette just to have something to do with my hands.

The muffled bass from inside bleeds through the walls, steady and distant, and for a second, it almost feels like I can pretend none of that just happened, like I didn’t just get dragged back into something I thought was long over.

“Still bite when you’re nervous?”

Her voice hits before I even see her. I freeze, lighter still in my hand, then glance over, and there she is, a few feet away, leaning against the wall like she’s been there the whole time, like she didn’t just materialize out of thin air to ruin what little composure I managed to scrape together.

She looks the same and not at all, stage makeup a little smudged, hair a mess from the set, but her eyes—those haven’t changed.

“Only when provoked,” I shoot back, because apparently my mouth still works even when the rest of me doesn’t, flicking the lighter shut and tucking it away like I need the distraction. There’s a beat where neither of us moves, the space between us feeling a lot smaller than it should, a lot heavier than it used to.

I glance down, then back at her, letting out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh. “I deserved that,” I add, nodding slightly, because there’s no point pretending otherwise, not with her, not with the way she’s looking at me like she can see straight through whatever bullshit I might try to hide behind. “The whole… public execution thing, very on brand for you.”

Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite anything soft, and she pushes off the wall just enough to shift her weight, crossing her arms like she’s settling in for something she’s not sure she wants to have.

“You always did like an audience,” she says, voice even, but there’s an edge to it that feels familiar, like something we used to dance around all the time without ever really saying out loud.

“Yeah,” I admit, dragging in a breath that tastes like smoke and something else I can’t quite name, meeting her eyes without looking away this time. “Guess I just didn’t think I’d be on the receiving end.”

She tilts her head just slightly, studying me in that way she used to, like she’s flipping through pages I didn’t realize were still open, like she’s looking for something specific and already knows where to find it.

There’s a moment where I think maybe she’s gonna let it sit there, let the tension do all the talking for us, but of course she doesn’t, she never really did. Her gaze flicks down for half a second, then back up, sharp and deliberate. “So,” she says, voice almost casual, almost careless, “how’s Paige?”

My jaw tightens before I can stop it, fingers curling a little around the cigarette like it suddenly weighs more than it did a second ago. I let out a quiet breath through my nose, shaking my head once, more to myself than anything. “You already know the answer to that,” I say, because there’s no point playing dumb, not with her, not when she’s always been ten steps ahead of me when it comes to this kind of thing.

Her expression doesn’t change much, but there’s something in her eyes that shifts, something small and sharp that tells me I’m right, that she didn’t ask because she didn’t know. She asked because she wanted to hear me say it, wanted to see if I would. “Humor me,” she replies, softer now, but not kinder, not really, just steadier, like she’s bracing for something she’s already decided she doesn’t care about.

I huff out something that might be a laugh, might just be me stalling, dragging a hand through my hair before I answer. “She’s in California,” I say finally, words sitting heavy on my tongue, “doing the whole… industry thing, chasing deals, playing shows, all that.” I shrug one shoulder, like it doesn’t matter, like it didn’t matter, like I didn’t blow up my entire life here for the promise of something bigger out there.

Her lips press together for a second, not quite a reaction, but not nothing either, and she nods once, slow, like she’s filing it away, confirming something she already knew. “Right,” she says, glancing off to the side like the parking lot suddenly got a lot more interesting, “California.”

There’s a silence that follows that feels heavier than anything we’ve said so far, thick and uncomfortable, full of everything we’re not saying, everything we never really did.

I shift my weight, flicking ash onto the pavement, watching it scatter just to give myself something to focus on that isn’t her standing right in front of me. “It didn’t—” I start, then stop, because I don’t even know how to finish that sentence without it sounding like bullshit.

Her eyes snap back to mine before I can try again, something a little harder settling in them now, something a little more grounded. “Didn’t what?” she asks, not pushing, not raising her voice, just… asking, like she’s giving me the space to dig my own grave if I really want to.

I exhale slowly, shaking my head again, a little sharper this time. “Didn’t turn out the way I thought it would,” I settle on, because it’s the truth, even if it’s not the whole truth, even if it’s missing the part where I thought it would be worth it. Where I thought she’d understand. Where I thought— I don’t know what I thought.

She lets that sit for a second, watching me like she’s weighing it, like she’s deciding if it’s worth anything at all. Then she huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but without any humor in it. “Yeah,” she says, nodding once more, “funny how that works.”

There’s no yelling. No scene. No dramatic explosion like there probably should be. Just that.

Just her standing there, steady and sure in a way she never used to be, looking at me like I’m something she’s already moved past, something she doesn’t need to carry anymore. And somehow— that hurts worse than anything else she could’ve said.

Her mouth pulls into something almost amused, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, doesn’t soften anything about the way she’s looking at me.

There’s a moment where it feels like she might say something real, something honest, something that actually digs into all the shit sitting between us, but instead she just exhales through her nose and shakes her head once.

“Well,” she says, pushing off the wall fully now, brushing past me just enough to feel it without making it obvious this time, “hope California was everything you wanted.”

It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be. Because it hits anyway, clean and deliberate, like she’s tying a bow on the whole thing, like she’s done letting it take up space.

I open my mouth, like I might say something back, something clever or cutting or at the very least something that doesn’t make me look like a complete idiot standing here with nothing to show for myself, but nothing comes out.

And she doesn’t wait for it, doesn’t linger, just keeps walking, disappearing around the corner of the building and out of sight like she did it a thousand times before, like leaving me behind is second nature now.

Yeah. Guess it probably is.

The door behind me swings open a minute later, loud and careless, and I don’t even have to turn around to know it’s them. Gareth’s voice cuts through first, already halfway into a question before he’s even fully outside, Jeff and Dougie trailing behind him like they’re trying to piece things together just from the look on my face.

“Dude, what the hell was that?” Gareth asks, coming up beside me, eyes wide, like he just watched something he doesn’t totally understand but knows was important. “You two looked like you were about to either kiss or kill each other.”

I let out a short breath, flicking the rest of my cigarette to the ground and crushing it under my boot, buying myself a second, two seconds, anything to not have to answer that properly. “Nothing,” I say finally, shrugging one shoulder like it’s no big deal, like it didn’t just feel like my entire past walked up and punched me square in the chest.

Jeff gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it for a second. Dougie glances between us like he’s waiting for someone to elaborate, but I don’t. I don’t give them anything else.

Because what am I supposed to say? That I had something good, and I traded it for a maybe?

That I got it in my head that I was meant for something bigger, something louder, something that would finally prove everyone in this godforsaken town wrong about me, and when Paige showed up talking about connections and studios and California like it was all just waiting for me if I was willing to take the jump, I didn’t think twice?

Or maybe I did. Maybe that’s the worst part.

Because she had her own thing going, her own band, her own shot at something real, not huge, not glamorous, but hers, something she built from the ground up, and I remember being proud of her for it, I do. I remember sitting there, watching her play some shitty little gig and thinking, yeah, that’s mine, that’s my girl up there.

And then somewhere along the way, that feeling twisted into something else. Something uglier. Jealousy, maybe.

Because she was getting there on her own, and I was still stuck, still clawing at the same walls, still waiting for something to happen instead of making it happen. Paige saw that, I think, saw exactly where to wedge herself in, all promises and big ideas, talking about record deals like they were already signed, like all I had to do was choose.

So I did. Chose wrong.

She— the girl I just watched up on that stage— she knew something was off before anything even happened, I could tell. She wasn’t stupid, never was, always a step ahead even when she pretended not to be. But she didn’t say anything, not at first, not until Paige decided to take matters into her own hands, got involved where she shouldn’t have, said things she didn’t need to say just to make sure there was no going back.

And there wasn’t. Not after that.

“Munson,” Gareth presses again, softer this time, like he’s trying to be careful with it now, like he realizes there’s more here than he thought, “that didn’t look like nothing.”

I glance up at him, then at Jeff, then Dougie, all of them waiting, and for a second I consider it, consider telling them the whole thing, laying it out so it makes sense outside of my own head.

But instead, I just shake my head once, shoving my hands into my pockets. “It’s nothing,” I repeat, quieter this time, as if I say it enough, maybe it’ll start to feel true. It doesn’t.

The Hideout smells exactly the same.

Stale beer, old wood, something faintly burnt that’s probably been baked into the walls since before I was born, and for once, it doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels familiar. Safe, even. We’re halfway through setting up, amps humming low, Gareth fiddling with his snare like his life depends on it, Jeff arguing with Dougie about something that doesn’t matter, and for a second, I almost forget about last night. Almost.

The door creaks open behind us, that same tired hinge whining like it always does, and I don’t think anything of it at first. People come and go here all the time, especially on nights like this. But then Deb’s voice cuts through the room, bright and surprised in a way I don’t hear often.

“Well, I’ll be damned—look at you!” I turn before I can stop myself. And there she is.

Standing just inside the doorway like she belongs there, like she’s always belonged there, hair pulled back a little messier than last night, no stage lights, no mic, just her. Deb’s already pulling her into a hug, laughing as she squeezes her tight, and it’s so… normal. So easy. Like there’s no history, no tension, no wreckage trailing behind the two of us.

“Missed this place,” she says, voice lighter now, something warm tucked into it that I haven’t heard in a long time. “Missed you.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Deb waves her off, but she’s smiling, hands still on her shoulders like she doesn’t quite want to let go, “you get up on stages like that and suddenly you remember us little people?”

She laughs, real and unguarded, shaking her head. “Please, this place raised me.” That stings. Because it did.

I watch them for a second too long, something tight settling in my chest again, not as sharp as last night, but there, lingering, like it never really left. Gareth says something behind me, but I don’t catch it, already moving before I’ve fully decided to, feet carrying me across the floor like I’ve got something to prove.

Or maybe like I don’t. Deb spots me before I even get there. Of course she does.

Her eyes flick from me to her and back again, something knowing settling into her expression, and then she sighs, soft but pointed, giving me a look that feels a hell of a lot like a warning. The kind of look that says don’t screw this up before I’ve even opened my mouth.

Yeah. Noted.

“Gonna grab something from the back,” she says suddenly, patting her arm once before stepping away, but not before shooting me one last look over her shoulder, eyebrow raised just enough to make it clear she’s watching. Always is.

And then it’s just us. Again. She doesn’t turn right away, like she knows I’m there, like she felt me coming before I even got close enough to say anything, and for a second I consider backing off, pretending like I was headed somewhere else, like I didn’t walk over here on purpose.

I don’t. “Didn’t think you were the ‘stick around for the local gig’ type,” I say, keeping it light, keeping it easy, leaning against the edge of the bar like I’ve got nowhere else to be.

She finally looks at me. No surprise. No hesitation. Just that same steady gaze that’s been knocking the wind out of me since last night.

“Didn’t think you were the ‘still playing here’ type,” she shoots back, just as easy, just as smooth, crossing her arms loosely like she’s settling into it, like this is nothing.

I huff out a quiet laugh, nodding once like, yeah, fair enough. There’s a beat. “I was gonna watch,” she adds after a second, tone shifting just slightly, not softer, not harsher, just more direct. “If that’s still allowed.”

Something about that lands weird, like it shouldn’t matter but it does, like her standing in the crowd tonight is somehow bigger than it should be.

“Yeah,” I say, pushing off the bar, glancing back toward the stage for half a second before looking at her again, “we usually let people do that.”

Her mouth twitches, almost a smile, but she doesn’t give me the full thing. Of course she doesn’t.

“Good,” she says, nodding once, then tilting her head just slightly, eyes narrowing like she’s sizing me up all over again. “Then I guess I’ll see if you’re still worth watching.”

There it is. Quippy. Mean. Familiar. And I can’t help it. I grin, just a little, something real slipping through despite everything.

“Careful,” I shoot back, stepping away, walking backwards for a second like I don’t quite want to turn my back on her yet, “you might be disappointed.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Yeah. That one sticks. I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking my head as I turn back toward the stage, feeling her eyes on me for a second longer before they finally drop away.

And for the first time since last night— I’m not sure if I want to prove her wrong…or if I already know she’s right.

The lights aren’t much, just a few dim bulbs strung up wrong and a spotlight that flickers if you breathe on it too hard, but when we step up, it still feels like something. Like it always does. Gareth counts us in, Jeff starts the rhythm, and I fall into it easily, muscle memory taking over, fingers moving before my brain can catch up.

For a minute—it’s fine. It’s just another set. Just another night. And then I see her. Not that she's hard to find.

She’s off to the side of the room, not front row, not hiding either, just… there, leaning against one of the support beams, arms crossed loosely like she’s trying to look casual about it. Like she didn’t just walk in here and tilt my entire night off its axis. Her eyes are on me, steady, not intense like last night, not challenging, just watching.

That’s worse. Because now I don’t know what she’s thinking.

We get through the first song clean, second one better, Gareth’s grinning like an idiot, Dougie almost misses a cue but recovers, and the crowd’s into it, a couple people pushing closer to the front, heads nodding along. It should feel good.

It does. But not enough. Not with her standing there like that.

I wipe my hand on my jeans between songs, stepping up to the mic, glancing out over the room like I’m deciding something. I am.

“This next one—” I start, then pause, because I know exactly what I’m about to do and I know it’s a terrible idea.

Which, historically, has never stopped me before. “It’s an old one.”

Gareth looks at me, like he knows. Like he’s already bracing for it. I don’t give him the chance to say anything, just nod once, sharp, and then I turn back to the mic.

“Hope you remember it.” That one’s for her. It has to be. We start.

And the second my fingers hit the strings, I know I’ve already committed too far to take it back. It’s ours. Not Corroded Coffin’s. Not mine. Ours.

A song we wrote sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, arguing over chords and lyrics and whether or not it needed a bridge, her stealing my guitar mid-sentence just to prove a point, me telling her she was wrong even when she wasn’t. It was never finished properly, never played anywhere that mattered.

Until now. My chest tightens as I sing, because I remember every part of it, not just the words, not just the melody, but the way she looked when she first came up with that second verse, the way she laughed when I messed up the timing, the way it felt like we were building something together.

And I walked away from it, from her. The crowd doesn’t know. To them, it’s just another song. But I can feel it. Every note. Every word.

And I don’t look at her at first, because I don’t think I can get through it if I do, but halfway through, I make the mistake anyway. She’s not leaning anymore.

Arms dropped to her sides, head tilted just slightly, like she’s hearing it properly now, like she recognizes it for what it is. There’s something in her expression I can’t quite read, not anger, not softness, something in between, something heavier.

I push through the rest of it harder than I should, voice rougher, fingers pressing down just a little too hard on the strings, like I can force it to mean something different if I just—play it loud enough.

It ends, definitely not clean. Not messy either. Just… finished. There’s a second where the room claps, cheers, someone whistles, but it all feels distant, like it’s happening somewhere else, not here, not to me.

I don’t look at her again, not right away. We finish the set, pack down quicker than usual, Gareth says something about grabbing a drink, Jeff’s already halfway to the bar, Dougie trailing behind him, and I’m just about to follow when—

“She still sounds better when I play it.” Her voice. Right behind me.

I let out a breath, slow, turning just enough to face her, and there she is, closer now, no crowd between us, no stage, no distance to hide behind. Up close, she looks the same as earlier, maybe a little more guarded, maybe a little more I don’t know. Real?

I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head once. “You always did think that,” I shoot back, because it’s easier than anything else I could say, easier than acknowledging the way my chest hasn’t settled since I saw her walk in.

She shrugs one shoulder, like it’s not a big deal, like this isn’t loaded at all. “Because it’s true,” she says, simple, matter-of-fact, like she’s not here to argue about it. There's a pause, both of us looking at each other, trying to figure out where to go next.

“You really played that,” she adds, eyes flicking to mine, something sharper settling in them now, “in here.”

I lean back against the amp behind me, crossing my arms loosely, mirroring her without thinking about it. “Yeah,” I say, nodding once, because there’s no point pretending otherwise, “figured it deserved a better crowd.”

Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite anything nice. “Or you just wanted to prove something.”

There it is. I tilt my head, watching her for a second, then shrug again, slower this time. “Maybe,” I admit, because lying to her has never really worked out in my favor.

She lets that sit, studying me like she’s trying to decide what to do with it, what to do with me, and for a second, it feels like we’re right back there, stuck in that same loop we never quite figured out how to break.

Then she exhales, shaking her head just slightly. “You’re still stubborn,” she says, softer now, but not gentle.

I grin, just a little, because that one—that one I’ll take.

“Yeah,” I reply, pushing off the amp, stepping just a little closer without meaning to, “guess some things don’t change.”

Her eyes flick down, then back up, catching that movement, catching everything, because of course she does.

“No,” she says, holding my gaze this time, steady, unflinching. “They don’t.”

She holds my gaze like she’s waiting. Not for some dumb comeback. Not for me to dodge it. For something real.

And I can feel it, sitting right there at the back of my throat, heavy and unfamiliar, like something I should’ve said a long time ago and just… didn’t.

“I didn’t just play it to prove something,” I say, quieter this time, the words coming out before I can second guess them, before I can shove them down and replace them with something easier.

Her expression shifts. Barely. But enough.

“Then why did you?” she asks, and there’s no bite to it this time, no edge, just—curiosity. Careful. Like she’s testing whether or not I’m actually gonna follow through.

I drag a hand down the back of my neck, glancing off to the side for half a second before looking back at her, because if I don’t look at her, I’m not gonna say it. And for once—I want to.

“Because it’s the only thing I didn’t ruin,” I admit.

It lands between us, heavier than anything else we’ve said tonight, heavier than the songs, the jokes, the half-assed insults we’ve been throwing back and forth like they don’t mean anything.

Because this—this does. She goes still. Not frozen. Just… still. Like she wasn’t expecting that. Like she was ready for anything except the truth.

Her arms uncross slowly, fingers flexing at her sides like she’s grounding herself, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

“You didn’t ruin the song,” she says after a second, voice quieter now, not soft, certainly not forgiving, just honest. “You just… didn’t stay long enough to finish it.”

Yeah.

That sounds about right.

I let out a breath that almost feels like it hurts, nodding once because there’s nothing else to do, nowhere to hide from that one. “Yeah,” I say, low, a little rough around the edges, “story of my life, right?”

Her lips press together, like she wants to say something else, like there’s more sitting there waiting to come out, and for a second, I think this is it. This is where we actually talk.

Where we stop circling it and just—“Eddie!”

Gareth’s voice cuts through it like a knife. I close my eyes for half a second, jaw tightening before I turn, because of course, he picks now, of all times, to barrel over like nothing’s happening, like he didn’t just interrupt something that actually mattered for once.

“Dude, Deb needs you—something about the tab or—” He stops mid-sentence when he clocks her standing there, the look on his face shifting from urgency to immediate regret. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. I didn’t—”

“No, it’s fine,” she says before I can, stepping back just slightly, the moment already slipping through my fingers like it was never meant to stay in the first place. And just like that, it’s gone.

I glance back at her, something frustrated and unfinished sitting heavy in my chest, like I almost got somewhere and then got yanked right back out again. Her expression has changed. Not closed off completely. But not open either. She's guarded again.

“Guess I’ll… let you handle that,” she says, nodding toward Gareth, already taking another step back, putting space between us like it’s safer there, like whatever just almost happened is something she’s not ready to stand in.

“Yeah,” I reply, because what else am I supposed to say now, “guess you will.”

There’s a pause. One of those 'almost' ones. Then she gives me a small, tight nod, turning away before anything else can settle, before I can try and grab onto it again. And she walks off. Again.

Gareth exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the last thirty seconds, rubbing the back of his neck. “I am so sorry, man,” he mutters, wincing like he just kicked a puppy instead of interrupting whatever the hell that was.

I don’t answer right away. Just watch her disappear back into the crowd, that same restless, unfinished feeling crawling back up my chest, worse now, sharper, because I know what it almost was.

Because I felt it. “Yeah,” I say finally, dragging my attention back, shoving my hands into my pockets like that’ll keep everything else from spilling out. “It’s fine.” But it’s not. Not even close.

Rick’s place smells like incense, weed, and something vaguely chemical that I’ve learned not to question.

It’s late enough that the world feels quieter out here, tucked just far enough off the main road that people only come if they mean to, headlights cutting through the trees in slow, deliberate passes. I’m leaning back in the chair behind the counter, boots kicked up, flipping a lighter open and shut like I’ve got nothing better to do, which isn’t entirely wrong. Rick’s in the back, digging through God knows what, muttering to himself about inventory like any of this is organized enough to count.

It’s easy being here. No expectations, no bullshit, just quick deals and quieter nights, the kind of place where nobody asks questions they don’t want answers to. The doors already open. I'm expecting Rick to be cemented on that raggedy couch.

“Rick?” I call, brows pulling together slightly as I creep in, boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. “You trying to air the place out or—”

Her voice cuts in from the other room. “…you’re still running the same shit, huh?”

I freeze. Because there’s no mistaking that. I step across the floor lightly, moving slower now, quieter, like I’m not trying to announce myself just yet, and round the corner into the living room.

There she is.

Leaning against the wall like she’s been here a dozen times before, arms loosely crossed, head tilted just slightly as she looks at Rick like she’s halfway amused, halfway calling him out. He’s standing a few feet in front of her, grinning like he always does when he’s talking to someone he actually likes.

“Well, sweetheart, consistency is key,” Rick shoots back, shrugging like it’s nothing, like the place isn’t one bad decision away from getting raided at any given moment. “Besides, people keep coming back, so I must be doing something right.”

She huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head, eyes flicking around the room like she’s taking it all in, like she’s measuring what’s changed and what hasn’t.

“Looks exactly the same,” she says.

Rick snorts. “Yeah, well, don’t fix what ain’t broken,” he replies, then narrows his eyes at her just slightly, like he’s clocking something beneath the surface. “Didn’t expect to see you back here though. Thought you were off chasing something bigger.”

There’s that pause again. Small. But it stretches. She shifts her weight, fingers tugging lightly at the sleeves of her jacket, like she’s grounding herself before she answers.

“Had a couple gigs,” she says first, easy, like it’s the obvious reason, like that’s all there is to it. “Figured I’d stop by, see some old places.”

Rick doesn’t bite. Just waits. Because he knows better. Her jaw tightens just a fraction, eyes dropping for half a second before she exhales.

“My dad’s locked up again.”

It lands heavy in the room, even here, even with everything else this place has seen.

Rick nods slowly, no surprise, no shock, just that same understanding people get when they’ve been around long enough to know how these things go. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his chin, “heard about that. Tough break.”

I go still where I’m standing. Because I know exactly what that means. Her dad is running in the same circles as mine, same dumb schemes, same bad calls, same inevitable ending. I remember the overlap, the way their names got tangled together back then, the kind of trouble that doesn’t just disappear when you walk away from it. I remember what it did to her.

Rick claps a hand on her shoulder, brief but solid. “You need anything, you know where I am,” he says, tone shifting back to something lighter, something easier, like he’s giving her a way out of sitting in it too long. “You’re good here.”

She nods once, small, like she appreciates it but doesn’t want to dwell. And then she turns and sees me. And just like that, everything shifts again.

The air outside Rick’s place is colder than it should be.

Not freezing, not enough to bite, just enough to make everything feel a little sharper, a little clearer than it did inside. The kind of quiet that settles in your bones, broken only by the occasional car passing somewhere too far away to matter. I lean against the side of the house, lighting a cigarette I don’t really want, just to have something to do with my hands.

The door creaks behind me. I don’t turn right away, just take a drag, exhale slowly, like I didn’t already know she followed me out here.

“Didn’t take you for the dramatic exit type,” she says, voice quieter now, stripped of the edge she carries inside, like the night itself took some of it with it.

I huff out something that might be a laugh, flicking ash onto the gravel. “Didn’t feel like third-wheeling whatever that was,” I reply, glancing over at her finally, taking in the way she’s hugging her arms a little tighter now, like the cold actually got to her.

She leans back against the wall a few feet away, not too close, not far enough to pretend we’re strangers either. There’s a pause, not awkward, not comfortable, just there, hanging between us like it always does.

“Bank truck,” she says after a second, like she’s picking up a conversation we never actually started.

I blink, brows pulling together slightly. “What?”

“My dad,” she clarifies, eyes fixed somewhere ahead, not on me. “It wasn’t just ‘locked up again.’ It was a bank truck job. Supposed to be quick, in and out, easy money.” She lets out a quiet breath, something hollow in it. “Went wrong. Obviously.”

Yeah. Obviously.

I nod once, slow, because I know how that goes, how those stories always end, how “easy money” is usually the fastest way to ruin everything. “Was he—” I start, then stop, not sure how to ask without sounding like I’m expecting the worst.

“He’s fine,” she cuts in, like she knows exactly where I was going with that. “As fine as you can be when you get caught holding the bags.” Her mouth twitches, not a smile, not even close. “He wasn’t supposed to be the one in the truck. Plans changed.”

They always do. I drag in another breath of smoke, letting it sit there for a second before I exhale, watching it disappear into the dark. “Sounds about right,” I mutter, more to myself than anything.

She glances at me then, quick, like she caught that, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking without me having to spell it out.

“Your dad ever pull something like that?” she asks, not accusing, not prying, just… connecting dots.

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head once. “Not that specific flavor,” I say, pushing off the wall just enough to shift my weight. “But yeah. Same idea. Big plans, bad execution, everyone else dealing with the fallout.”

Her gaze softens just a fraction at that, not pity, not sympathy, just recognition. “Yeah,” she says, nodding once, like that’s enough explanation for both of us.

There’s another pause. This one is heavier.

“My mom’s dealing with it now,” she adds after a second, voice lower, like it costs her a little more to say this part. “Court stuff, bills, people showing up asking questions she doesn’t have answers to.” She swallows, eyes dropping to the gravel. “She’s not… good with that kind of thing.”

I frown slightly, cigarette forgotten between my fingers. “So you came back to help,” I say, not really a question.

She shrugs, but it’s smaller this time, less careless. “Someone has to,” she replies, like it’s obvious, like there was never another option. That lands. Harder than anything else she’s said. Because of course she did.

Because that’s who she’s always been, even when I pretended not to see it, even when I chose something else over it.

I flick the cigarette down, crushing it under my boot, more force than necessary. “That’s… a lot,” I say, which feels stupidly inadequate, but it’s the truth, and I’m running out of ways to dress things up around her.

She lets out a quiet breath, nodding once. “Yeah,” she says, glancing back toward the house like she’s considering going back inside, like she’s deciding how long she can stand out here with me before it becomes too much.

Then her eyes flick back to mine. “You always were good at disappearing when things got complicated,” she adds. And there it is.

I hold her gaze, not looking away this time, not deflecting, not joking it off like I usually would. “Yeah,” I admit, voice low, steady.

There’s nothing else to say to that. Because she’s not wrong.

The quiet stretches again, like there’s too much sitting between us and neither of us knows where to put it. The house behind us hums faintly, voices and music bleeding through the walls, but out here it feels like its own little pocket of time, like we stepped outside of everything else for a second and now we’re stuck deciding what to do with it.

I drag my hand through my hair, glancing off toward the tree line, toward where the land dips just enough that I know what’s past it without having to see it. It hits me out of nowhere, the way things do when you’re not trying to remember, when your brain just decides to betray you for fun.

“Do you remember the lake?” I ask, like it’s nothing, like I didn’t just pull that straight out of a place I’ve been actively avoiding.

She looks at me like I just flipped a switch. Not confused. Not annoyed. Just, caught.

“The lake?” she repeats, brows pulling together slightly, but there’s something behind it, something already waking up before she even places it.

“Yeah,” I say, pushing off the wall, hands shoving into my pockets because suddenly I don’t know what to do with them, “like, five minutes from here, past Rick’s place, down that stupid little trail that looks like it’s gonna lead you nowhere and then—bam—water, mosquitoes, questionable life choices.”

Her mouth twitches. There it is. Recognition.

“That was our first date,” I add, because of course it was, because of course that’s the one that sticks.

She huffs out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking her head slightly like she’s trying not to give into it. “That wasn’t a date,” she says, but it’s weak, like she already knows she’s losing that argument.

“Oh, please,” I scoff, glancing over at her, “you dragged me out there at, what, midnight? Told me it was ‘important for the experience’ like you were pitching me some life-changing event.”

Her eyes narrow just slightly, but there’s a spark there now, something lighter cutting through everything heavier that’s been sitting between us. “It was important,” she shoots back, a little more bite in it, but not the bad kind, not the kind that cuts, just the kind that reminds me who she used to be when things were easy.

“Yeah, yeah,” I wave her off, grinning despite myself, “important enough that you decided the best way to kick it off was to go skinny dipping in a lake that probably had, like, three different species of bacteria we didn’t have names for.”

“That was your idea,” she fires back immediately. I stop and blink.

“Okay, first of all, absolutely not,” I say, pointing at her like I’ve got a case to prove, “that was one hundred percent you, I was fully prepared to keep all my clothes on like a respectable human being.”

She laughs. Actually laughs. And it hits me harder than it should, because it’s been a minute since I’ve heard that version of it, the one that doesn’t have anything sharp hiding underneath.

“You jumped in first,” she counters, folding her arms again but looser this time, more comfortable.

“Peer pressure,” I shoot back, dead serious, “you were very persuasive, it was a hostile environment, I was young and impressionable—”

“You were not impressionable,” she cuts in, still smiling just slightly, shaking her head like she can’t believe I’m still like this.

“Okay, rude,” I mutter, but there’s no real heat to it, just familiarity. The kind that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.

“And then we drank until you puked,” I add, because I’m not about to let her forget that part.

Her expression drops into something mock-offended, brows lifting. “You puked,” she corrects.

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did,” she says, pointing at me now, like she’s been waiting years to win this argument, “you made it, like, ten minutes before you were leaning over the edge talking about how you were ‘fine’ while actively not being fine.”

I laugh, shaking my head because, yeah, okay, maybe that did happen.

“Details,” I say, waving it off, glancing back toward the trees again, toward where I know the lake still is, probably exactly the same, probably not.

There’s a long pause, and then she follows my gaze, something shifting. “You think it’s still as gross as it was back then?” she asks, quieter now, but not in a sad way, more like she’s testing the idea out loud.

I glance back at her, catching that look, that spark that wasn’t there a few minutes ago, the one that used to get us into trouble more often than not.

“Oh, it’s definitely worse,” I say immediately, pushing off the wall fully now, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth, “probably evolved since we last saw it, developed some kind of defense mechanism against dumb teenagers revisiting their bad decisions.”

Her lips press together, like she’s trying not to smile again, failing miserably. “Sounds like we should go check,” she says, casual, but there’s something in it, something that feels a little too familiar, a little too much like her.

I blink. Just for a second. Because I sure as shit didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect her to be the one to say it.

But there she is, standing there with that same look she used to get right before she convinced me to do something stupid and unforgettable, like none of the last couple days happened, like we didn’t just tear into each other and walk away twice already.

And God help me—I want to say yes. Of course I do. I push my tongue against the inside of my cheek, pretending to think about it for half a second longer than necessary, just to keep some semblance of control.

“Yeah,” I say finally, nodding once, already stepping away from the wall, because who am I kidding, I was never gonna say no to her when she looked at me like that.

“Yeah, we should probably make sure it’s still a health hazard.”

The trail’s quieter than I remember. Or maybe it’s just us.

Boots crunching over dirt and loose gravel, branches brushing too close like they’ve grown in since the last time we were here, like the whole place kept going without us and didn’t bother to ask permission. She walks a step ahead at first, then beside me, then ahead again, like she can’t decide if she wants to lead or not, like she’s trying not to fall into old patterns and doing it anyway.

Her house comes into view through the trees before I even realize we’ve turned off far enough to hit the road. I stop. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“Gonna make a pit stop,” she says over her shoulder, like it’s obvious, like I should’ve expected it, already heading up the short walkway before I can say anything.

“Yeah?” I call after her, shoving my hands into my pockets, rocking back on my heels like I’m not suddenly very aware of where I’m standing.

She glances back, already halfway to the door, that same look in her eye like she’s about to do something slightly irresponsible and doesn’t need my approval to do it. “What, you think we’re going down there sober?” she says, eyebrow raised. Fair.

I huff out a quiet laugh, nodding once. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The door creaks open, and she slips inside like she never left. I hesitate for half a second before following. Because apparently I’m just doing that now. The house smells the same.

Cleaner than Rick’s, obviously, but there’s something familiar about it, something that hits like a memory I didn’t ask for. The kind of place that feels lived in, not staged, not polished, just real. I kick the door shut behind me, glancing around like I’m not cataloging every little thing that hasn’t changed.

Her mom’s in the kitchen. She looks up when we walk in, something soft crossing her face when she sees her, relief, maybe, or just recognition, like she’s been waiting for her to come back through that door for longer than she let on. “Hey, honey,” she says, voice warm but tired around the edges, like it’s been a long couple of weeks.

“Hey,” she replies, already moving toward the cabinets like she’s been here the whole time, like nothing’s out of place.

Her mom’s eyes shift to me. And there it is. That pause. Not unfriendly. But not easy either.

“Eddie,” she says, giving me a small nod, something polite layered over something a little more careful, like she remembers me, remembers enough to not fully relax about it.

“Hi, Mrs. —” I start, then trail off, scratching the back of my neck because suddenly I’m sixteen again and standing in her kitchen for the first time, trying not to knock anything over or say something stupid. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” she says, and she means it, I think, but there’s a weight behind it now, something wary, something that wasn’t there before. Can’t blame her.

Her daughter disappears into the next room, cabinets opening, something clinking, and for a second, it’s just me and her mom standing there in that quiet, both of us very aware of everything that’s not being said. “She told me you were back,” her mom says after a second, voice gentler now, but still measured.

“Yeah,” I nod, rocking back on my heels again, hands still shoved in my pockets like they might get me in trouble if I let them out. “Just… around.”

She studies me for a second longer than necessary, like she’s trying to decide something, like she’s weighing the version of me she remembers against whatever I am now.

Then she nods once. “Take care of her,” she says.

It’s not a request. Not really. More like a quiet expectation she’s not sure she trusts me to meet. My chest tightens just a fraction.

“Yeah,” I say, because I don’t have anything better than that, because anything else would probably sound like a lie.

From the other room—“Found it.”

She reappears, holding up a half-full bottle like a trophy, something brighter back in her expression now, something lighter, like being here, even with everything going on, settled something in her for a second.

“Don’t wait up,” she adds to her mom, already moving back toward the door, like this was always the plan, like we were never staying.

Her mom sighs softly but doesn’t stop her, just shakes her head a little, something fond tucked into it despite everything. “Be safe,” she says instead. “Always am,” she shoots back, which—is not true. Has never been true. But it sounds good.

We step back outside, the door clicking shut behind us, and for a second, neither of us says anything, just standing there in that in-between space before we start moving again. Then she nudges my arm lightly with hers, holding up the bottle between us.

“Ready to ruin your life again?” she asks, tone teasing, but softer now, like there’s something else underneath it she’s not naming.

I glance at her, at the way she’s looking at me, at the night stretching out in front of us like it’s waiting to see what we do with it. And I grin.

“Thought that was your thing,” I shot back, already stepping off the path, already heading toward the lake like there was never any other option.

The lake looks exactly the same. Still and dark, the surface catching just enough moonlight to make it shimmer in that deceptive way, like it’s cleaner than it actually is, like it’s not probably filled with things we shouldn’t be willingly stepping into.

The dock creaks when we sit down, wood worn and uneven beneath us, and for a second, it feels like no time has passed at all.

She hands me the bottle without looking, taking the first swig like it’s second nature, like she’s done this a hundred times since we last sat here. Maybe she has.

“God,” she mutters, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “that’s worse than I remember.”

I take it from her, sniff it once, then immediately regret it. “Yeah, no, that smells like it could strip paint,” I say, but I take a drink anyway, because of course I do.

We fall into it easily. Not talking at first. Just passing the bottle back and forth, legs dangling off the edge of the dock, the quiet settling around us in a way that’s not uncomfortable, just… familiar. The kind of silence that used to mean something, that didn’t need to be filled to feel okay.

She’s the one who breaks it. Of course she is. “Still think you didn’t puke first?” she asks, glancing over at me, eyes a little brighter now, cheeks flushed just enough to give her away.

I scoff, shaking my head. “I will die on this hill,” I reply, taking another sip, “you were way worse off than I was.”

“Liar,” she says immediately, nudging my shoulder with hers.

“Revisionist history,” I shoot back, bumping her right back, and she laughs again, softer this time, the sound carrying out over the water. It hits me again. How easy this part still is, like, we didn’t break it completely. Like, there’s still something left.

She goes quiet after that, staring out at the lake, bottle resting loosely in her hand, fingers tracing the label without really thinking about it. There’s a shift in her, subtle, but I catch it, the way the humor fades just a little, the way something heavier starts to settle in its place.

And then—“Well,” she says suddenly, pushing herself up to stand, a little unsteady but not enough to stop her, “I think it’s time.”

I blink up at her. “Time for what?”

She looks down at me like I’m stupid. “Seriously?” she says, already shrugging off her jacket, tossing it onto the dock behind her. “We didn’t come all the way out here to just sit and talk, Munson.”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head as realization hits. “You’re kidding.”

She isn’t. Of course, she isn’t. “Come on,” she says, already reaching for the hem of her shirt, “don’t tell me you’ve gone soft on me.”

I lean back on my hands, watching her with a raised brow, something amused tugging at my mouth despite everything. “Oh, I’ve seen you naked like, what, a thousand times?” I say, voice light, teasing, like that doesn’t mean anything anymore. “Pretty sure the novelty wore off around year one.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes as she kicks off her shoes. “Yeah? And yet you’re still talking.”

“Hard not to,” I shrug, glancing down at her arm as she moves, catching the familiar ink there, the one we got together, stupid and impulsive and permanent in the way we thought we were. “Besides,” I add, nodding toward it, “gotta make sure the tattoo still looks as bad as I remember.”

She pauses. Just for a second. Looks down at it. Then back at me.

“It’s not bad,” she says, quieter now.

I nod once. “Yeah,” I admit, because she’s right, because it never was. “It’s not.” There’s something in that moment. Small. But real.

Then she turns, stepping toward the edge of the dock, and before I can say anything else, she jumps. The water splashes up around her, loud in the quiet, ripples breaking the surface as she disappears for a second, then comes back up, pushing her hair out of her face, laughing like she just proved a point.

“Still not coming?” she calls up at me.

I shake my head, huffing out a breath, already kicking off my boots. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“You love it,” she shoots back. And yeah, she's not wrong. I stand, peeling off my jacket, my shirt, tossing them aside before stepping to the edge, glancing down at her once more.

Then I jump. The water’s just as cold as I remember. Worse, maybe. I come up gasping, shoving my hair back as she laughs again, already moving closer, the distance between us shrinking without either of us really acknowledging it.

For a minute—it’s just that. Water. Laughter. The kind of stupid, reckless decision-making that used to define us. But it doesn’t stay that way, never does.

We drift closer to the edge again, hands gripping the dock, bodies half-submerged, the cold starting to settle in, sobering just enough to bring everything else back with it.

She’s quieter now.

“Why wasn’t I enough?” she asks. No lead-in. No warning. Just straight through. It hits harder than anything else tonight.

I go still, fingers tightening against the wood, the water suddenly feeling a lot colder than it did a second ago. “What?” I manage, because I heard her, I know I did, but I need the second, need the time to figure out how to even begin answering that.

She looks at me then. Eyes clear in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol, something raw sitting right there on the surface like she’s done hiding it, like she’s done pretending it didn’t matter.

“Why wasn’t I enough, Eddie?” she repeats, softer this time, but worse somehow, because there’s no anger in it, no accusation, just… hurt. Honest.

I swallow hard, shaking my head slightly, because I don’t have a clean answer, don’t have something that makes sense or fixes anything. “You were,” I say, because it’s the truth, even if it’s not the whole truth, even if it sounds like a lie coming this late.

Her expression tightens just slightly. “That’s not what it felt like.”

Yeah. I know. I drag a hand over my face, water dripping down as I exhale slowly, forcing myself to meet her eyes, not look away, not dodge it like I always do.

“It wasn’t about you not being enough,” I say, voice rougher now, stripped of the usual sarcasm, the usual deflection. “It was about me thinking I wasn’t.” She blinks. Just once. Like she didn’t expect that.

“I thought—” I start, then stop, shaking my head because it sounds stupid out loud, because it was stupid. “I thought if I didn’t take the shot when it showed up, I’d be stuck here forever. Same place, same shit, same… everything.”

Her brows pull together slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt. So I keep going.

“And you,” I add, quieter now, “you were already getting somewhere. You had your band, your gigs, people actually paying attention. You didn’t need… whatever Paige was offering.”

The name hangs there. Ugly. Unavoidable. “I thought I did,” I finish.

She watches me for a long second, searching my face like she’s trying to figure out if that’s real, if that’s enough, if it changes anything.

“Then why didn’t you just say that?” she asks, and there’s that edge again, but softer, more tired than sharp. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

I let out a breath that feels heavier than it should. “Because I was an idiot,” I say simply. “And because it was easier to run than it was to admit, I was scared.”

She looks away first this time, staring out at the water, shoulders sinking just slightly, like something in her finally gave way, just a little. “Yeah,” she murmurs. And neither of us knows what to do with that.

The water laps quietly against the dock, little ripples nudging at the wood like they’re trying to interrupt something neither of us knows how to finish. She’s still looking out at the lake, shoulders just barely hunched now, like the weight of everything finally settled in once she said it out loud.

I don’t move, don’t speak. Because for once, I don’t have something ready. And then she exhales, slow, like she’s been holding something else back too.

“I knew you didn’t go,” she says. It takes me a second to register it.

My brows pull together slightly, turning toward her. “What?”

She doesn’t look at me right away. Just shakes her head once, like she’s already tired of the question, like this part’s been sitting with her for a while now.

“California,” she clarifies, finally glancing over, eyes steady in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol. “You didn’t go.”

My stomach drops. “How would you—” I start, but I don’t even finish it, because I already know there’s only one way she could.

She answers anyway. “I called Wayne.”

I blink, jaw tightening just slightly, something uneasy twisting in my chest as the pieces start falling into place whether I want them to or not.

“After you left,” she continues, quieter now, but not hesitant, not unsure, like she made peace with this a long time ago and I’m just catching up. “I didn’t— I didn’t believe it, not fully. Not the way Paige told it.”

Of course she did. Of course, Paige made it sound bigger than it was. Better. Cleaner. I let out a slow breath through my nose, eyes dropping to the water for a second before I force myself to look back at her.

“And he told you everything,” I say. Not a question. She nods.

“Everything,” she repeats, softer now, like the word itself weighs something. “About your dad. About the… whole mess. The weed, the plan that went sideways, the fire—” she pauses there, just for a second, like she’s seeing it play out in her head, “—and you getting pulled into it.”

My grip tightens on the edge of the dock. Because yeah. That’s one way to put it. I huff out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking my head once. “Guess he didn’t leave out the highlights.”

Her expression shifts, something a little sharper cutting through. “Don’t do that,” she says, not loud, not angry, just firm. “Don’t make it sound like it was nothing.”

I glance at her, something defensive rising up before I can stop it. “It wasn’t nothing, but it wasn’t—” I stop myself, jaw tightening, because I don’t even know what I was about to argue there. Because she knows. That’s the problem. She knows.

“I know you got arrested,” she says, like she’s filling in the space I left, like she’s not gonna let me dodge it this time. “I know you didn’t go anywhere. I know you stayed. I know it blew up in your face before you even had the chance to leave.”

Each sentence lands like a brick. I look away first this time, dragging a hand over my face, water dripping down as I let out a breath that feels heavier than it should.

“Yeah,” I admit, voice low, stripped down to something I don’t usually let people hear. “That about sums it up.”

“I waited,” she says after a second. That one? That one hurts the most.

My head snaps back toward her before I can stop it, something tight pulling in my chest again. “What?” I ask, quieter this time.

Her eyes flick back to mine, and there’s something in them I don’t think I’ve ever seen this clearly before. Not anger. Not even hurt, not in the sharp, immediate way. Something older. Something that sat with her.

“I waited for you to call,” she says, like it’s simple, like it’s obvious. “Or write. Or show up. Something.” She swallows, shoulders lifting slightly before settling again. “I figured if it was real, if any of it was real, you’d—”

She cuts herself off. Doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t need to. Because I know exactly what she was gonna say. I would’ve come back. I didn’t. I stare at her, something heavy and awful settling in my chest, because there’s no defense for that, no excuse that doesn’t sound like exactly what it is. Running.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to,” I say finally, because it’s the only truth I’ve got left that I haven’t already used tonight.

Her brows pull together, not understanding, not buying it. “Why wouldn’t I—”

“Because I screwed it up,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to, but it’s there now, out in the open. “Because I left. Because I chose something else over you. I figured… that was it.”

She stares at me for a long second. And then—“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

Quiet. But it hits like a shout. I go still. Because she’s right. Of course she is. She always is with this kind of thing. The water shifts around us, colder now, or maybe I just finally feel it, everything settling in all at once now that there’s nothing left to hide behind.

“I knew,” she adds, softer this time, like she’s not trying to hurt me with it, just telling the truth. “About all of it. And you still didn’t come back.”

Yeah. I didn’t. And I don’t have anything left to say to that. So I don’t. I just sit there, half-submerged in freezing lake water, staring at the girl I broke, realizing she knew the whole story, and it still didn’t make a difference.

The words sit there between us, heavy and unmoving, like the lake itself decided to hold onto them instead of letting them pass. I don’t say anything, because I can’t, because there’s nothing left that doesn’t sound like an excuse or a lie or something I should’ve said years ago instead of now.

She exhales again, slower this time, like she’s coming down from something, like she’s finally reached the part she’s been avoiding.

“I still love you.” It’s not dramatic. Just certain, like it’s a fact. Like it’s always been one.

My chest tightens so fast it almost knocks the breath out of me, fingers slipping slightly on the edge of the dock before I catch myself, eyes snapping to hers like maybe I heard it wrong. I didn’t.

“Of course I do,” she adds, quieter now, like she’s filling in the space my silence left behind, like she doesn’t want me to mistake it for something bigger than it is. “You were my first everything, Eddie. That doesn’t just go away.”

That one hits somewhere deeper. Because I know what she means. I mean, shit, I was there for all of it. The first time she let someone hear her play something unfinished without laughing it off. The first time, she trusted someone enough to not pretend she didn’t care. The first time, she let herself want something without apologizing for it afterward. Me. And I walked away from that.

She lets out a small, humorless breath, glancing down at the water for a second before lifting one arm out of it, brushing her fingers over the inside of her wrist where the ink sits. The wyvern. Stupid, impulsive, permanent. Ours.

“I have a dumb tattoo because of you,” she says, not bitter, not really, just stating it, like it’s another fact she’s learned to live with. “Every time I look at it, I remember sitting on your floor, arguing about whether it should have wings like that or not.”

My throat goes dry. Because I remember that too. Every second of it.

“And I kept writing,” she adds, voice softer now, something more fragile threading through it despite how steady she’s trying to keep it. “Even after you left. Even after I knew you weren’t coming back.” She swallows, eyes flicking up to meet mine again. “Songs about you. About us. About trying to figure out what the hell happened.”

I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Because I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve any of that.

“I loved you through all of it,” she finishes, not breaking, not falling apart, just telling me, like I’m finally allowed to hear it now. “Even when I knew better. Even when I knew I shouldn’t.”

The lake feels colder. Or maybe that’s just me finally feeling it. I stare at her, something twisting in my chest so tight it almost hurts, because this is the part I never let myself think about. The part where she didn’t just move on. The part where she stayed, even when I didn’t.

“I didn’t know,” I say, and it comes out rough, barely there, like the words are fighting me on their way out. Her expression shifts, just slightly.

“I know,” she says. And somehow that’s worse.

The words hang there, heavier than anything else tonight, heavier than the water, the cold, the past sitting between us like it never really left. I don’t know what to do with them. With her. With the way she’s looking at me like she already said the hardest part, and now it’s my turn.

“I—” It slips out before I can stop it.

My chest tightens, something real and dangerous climbing up my throat, something I should’ve said a long time ago, something that feels too big to say now without it sounding like I’m just trying to fix what I broke. I stop. Swallow it back.

Run a hand through my hair instead, water dripping down my face like that explains anything. “I never stopped thinking about you,” I say instead, voice rough, quieter than it should be, like it costs something to let it out at all.

Her expression flickers. “That’s not the same thing,” she says. No bite. No anger. Just truth.

I nod once, because yeah, I know that, I knew it the second it left my mouth, but it was the closest thing I had that didn’t feel like a lie or a cop-out or something I hadn’t earned the right to say yet.

“I know,” I admit, low, steady, forcing myself to hold her gaze instead of backing off like I usually would.

The water shifts around us, colder now, or maybe I’m just finally paying attention to it, to everything, to the way the space between us feels smaller than it did a minute ago without either of us moving.

Except we did, somewhere along the way. She’s closer now. Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that I can see every little detail I forgot I remembered, the way her lashes stick slightly from the water, the way her breath catches just a little before she steadies it again.

My hand tightens on the edge of the dock. Then loosens. Then— moves. Not much. Just enough to brush against hers, where it’s resting there too. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look down. Doesn’t acknowledge it at all. Which somehow makes it louder.

I shift closer without thinking about it, or maybe I am thinking about it and just don’t care anymore, water rippling between us as the distance disappears inch by inch, like we’re both pretending it’s not happening.

Her eyes flick to my mouth for half a second. Then back up. And that— that’s it. That’s the moment. I lean in. Slow. Not rushed. Not careless. Like I’m giving her time to stop me, to push me back, to remind me of everything I don’t deserve right now.

She doesn’t. Her breath catches instead. Just slightly. Close enough now that I can feel it, warm against the cold air, close enough that if I move just a little more.

She pulls back. Not fast or harsh, but just enough. Just enough to break it. My breath stalls, stopping short like I hit something solid, something I should’ve seen coming but didn’t want to.

She shakes her head once, small, like she’s arguing with herself more than me, like she almost didn’t stop. “Don’t,” she says, voice quiet but firm.

I close my eyes for a second, jaw tightening, nodding once because yeah, okay, fair, because I don’t get to just step back into this like nothing happened, like time didn’t pass, like I didn’t leave.

“Yeah,” I murmur, pulling back fully this time, putting space between us before I make it worse.

We both turn back toward the lake, hands still resting on the dock but no longer brushing, no longer pretending we didn’t feel that. The silence that settles in after is different.

Her hands slip from the edge of the dock and she pushes herself up, water cascading off her as she climbs out, breath a little uneven now, like the cold finally caught up to her or maybe like something else did.

I watch her without meaning to, the way she moves quicker than before, not rushed exactly, but not lingering either, like she knows if she slows down, she might not keep it together.

She grabs her clothes, pulling them on in pieces that don’t quite line up, shirt clinging slightly to damp skin, fingers fumbling just enough to give her away.

“I have a gig,” she starts, voice steadier than it should be, like she practiced it on the walk back up in her head, like she needed something normal to fall back on. “In a couple of days. Some shitty bar a town over.”

I push myself up out of the water slower, colder now, heavier, like gravity decided to double just to make a point. My shirt’s still on the dock where I left it, but I don’t reach for it yet, just stand there dripping, watching her like I’m trying to memorize something I already know too well. She doesn’t look at me right away.

“You could—” she pauses, swallowing something down, jaw tightening just slightly before she tries again, “you could come. If you wanted.” It’s casual. At least, it's supposed to be. But it’s not.

Not with the way her hands are still, not with the way her eyes stay fixed somewhere just to the left of me, like looking directly would make it worse. Like it might make her stay. My chest does something stupid. Something tight and aching and loud in a way I can’t ignore, not now, not after everything she just said, everything she didn’t let me say back.

“Yeah?” I say, and it comes out softer than I mean it to, rough around the edges like I’m holding onto something I don’t quite know how to keep. “You inviting all your exes now, or am I getting special treatment?” It’s a joke. A bad one, at that.

Just enough to cover the way I’m looking at her, the way I don’t move any closer but don’t step back either, stuck somewhere in the middle like I always am with her. Her mouth twitches, but it doesn’t turn into a smile this time.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she mutters, but there’s no real bite to it, just something tired, something that’s trying really hard not to break.

I nod, like I’ll take that, like I don’t deserve anything softer anyway. “I’ll be there,” I say with zero hesitation. Because I will. Because I know I will. Because even if I shouldn’t, I’m already there.

Her eyes flick up to mine at that, just for a second, something fragile and fleeting passing through them before she looks away again, like she can’t hold it for too long without letting everything else spill out with it.

“Okay,” she says quietly. And that’s it. No hug. No goodbye. Just her turning, grabbing the rest of her things, and walking back up the trail like she didn’t just leave half of herself sitting here with me.

I stand there for a second longer than I should, water dripping, cold settling in, watching the place where she disappeared as if I stare hard enough, she might come back. She doesn’t.

I drag a hand over my face, exhaling slow, trying to shake off the feeling clawing its way up my chest, the one that sounds a lot like regret and a little too much like hope.

“Yeah,” I mutter to myself, grabbing my shirt off the dock, pulling it on without really thinking about it. “I’m already there.”

The trailer’s quiet when I get back. Not in a peaceful way, not in a “finally alone” kind of way, just empty, like the walls are waiting for something that never shows up. I shut the door behind me a little harder than I mean to, keys hitting the counter with a dull clatter as I run a hand through my still-damp hair, pacing once, twice, as if I keep moving, I won’t have to sit with any of it.

Doesn’t work.

Wayne’s at the table, boots still on, flipping through something that looks like a bill but might as well be written in another language with how little attention he’s actually giving it. He glances up when I come in, takes one look at me, and I can see it register.

Not the details. Just enough. “You look like hell,” he says, not unkind, just overly honest.

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, pacing past him, grabbing a glass I don’t need, just to have something to do with my hands, “it’s been a long night.”

He hums, setting the paper down slowly, like he’s deciding whether or not to push it. He does. “She back?” he asks.

I freeze, just for a second. Then I turn. “She called you,” I say, because I don’t have it in me to ease into this, because apparently tonight is just one long string of things I should’ve known sooner. “And you didn’t tell me.”

Wayne doesn’t flinch. Just leans back in his chair slightly, studying me in that quiet way he does, like he’s already thought this through long before I walked in here ready to start something.

“Didn’t figure it was my place,” he says simply.

I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head like that’s not enough, like that doesn’t even come close. “Not your— Wayne, she thought I just—” I stop, dragging a hand over my face, frustration bleeding into something else I don’t want to name.

“She waited. She called you, and you just… what? Let her think I didn’t give a shit?”

His jaw tightens just slightly. “Watch it,” he says, not raising his voice, but there’s a weight to it now, something firm that makes me stop pacing, whether I want to or not.

“I didn’t let her think anything,” he continues, slower now, choosing his words like they matter. “She asked. I answered. That’s it.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just something jagged, something frustrated. “Yeah, well, that ‘that’s it’ would’ve been nice to know, don’t you think?”

Wayne sighs, pushing his chair back just a little, boots scraping against the floor. “You were in no shape to be worrying about her,” he says, and there’s no softness in it, just truth. “You had enough going on without dragging her back into it.”

I shake my head again, sharper this time. “That wasn’t your call.”

“No,” he agrees, and that stops me short, “but it was mine to decide what was gonna make things worse.”

“You were already in deep, Eddie,” he adds, quieter now, but not gentler. “Your dad’s mess, the deal, the fire—” he cuts himself off slightly, like he doesn’t need to list it all out for me to remember, “you think bringing her back into that was gonna fix anything?”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t know. Because maybe it would’ve. Because maybe it wouldn’t have. Because I didn’t even try.

Wayne watches me for a second longer, something shifting in his expression, not quite frustration, not quite pity, just understanding in a way I don’t want right now.

“That girl,” he says finally, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, “was too good for you.” I let out a breath like I’m about to argue, about to push back, about to say something stupid just to defend myself, but nothing comes out.

Because he’s not wrong.

“She’s got a good heart,” he continues, quieter now, but somehow heavier, like every word’s got weight behind it. “Always did. You could see it a mile away, even when she tried to act like she didn’t.”

My throat tightens. I look away, jaw clenching, staring at the wall like there’s something there that’ll give me an out, something I can latch onto instead of sitting in this.

“There ain’t a lot of people like that,” Wayne adds, softer now. “And you—” he pauses, like he’s choosing whether or not to say the rest, then does anyway, “you had one.”

Had. Past tense. I swallow hard, nodding once like I’m acknowledging it, like I’ve got a grip on it, like I’m not feeling something crack open somewhere I’ve been keeping shut for a long time now.

“Yeah,” I say, voice lower than I expect, rough around the edges.

Wayne doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to. He stands after a second, claps a hand on my shoulder, firm, grounding, like he’s not trying to fix it, just reminding me I’m still here. Then he heads to his room and leaves me there, stunned and alone.

The trailer feels bigger without him in it. Or maybe just emptier. I stand there for a second, staring at nothing, listening to the quiet settle back in around me, thicker now, heavier. Then I sit down slowly. Elbows on my knees, hands dragging down my face like that’s gonna do anything.

It doesn’t. Because the second I stop moving, it hits. All of it. Her voice. Her face. The way she said she still loved me like it was the simplest thing in the world. The way I didn’t say it back. The way I still can’t. My chest tightens, sharp and sudden, breath catching in a way I can’t control, like something’s building and I’ve got nowhere to put it.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head, but it doesn’t help, doesn’t stop it, doesn’t do anything except make it worse. Because he’s right. Of course he is. She was too good for me. And I knew it. I always knew it. I just didn’t stay anyway.

My hands press into my eyes, harder than necessary, like I can shove it all back in, like I can keep it from spilling over if I just try hard enough. Doesn’t work.

My breath stutters, uneven, and I let out something quiet and broken that I don’t even recognize as coming from me, shoulders tensing as I lean forward, elbows digging into my knees like that’s the only thing holding me together.

I don’t cry. Not really. Not loud. Not messy. Just enough. Enough that it feels like something’s finally giving way. Enough that I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. And for the first time in a long time, I let it.

The place is smaller than I expected. Not a total dump, but not far off either, tucked between two buildings that look like they’ve been trying to fall apart for the last decade and finally gave up halfway through. The sign out front flickers like it’s thinking about quitting too, buzzing low in a way that makes the whole place feel like it’s barely holding itself together.

Fitting. I linger outside longer than I should. Hands shoved in my jacket pockets, rocking back on my heels like I’ve got somewhere else to be, like I didn’t drive all the way out here on purpose. There’s a part of me that thinks about turning around, about getting back in the van and pretending this never happened, that I never said I’d come, that she didn’t look at me like that when she asked.

I don’t. I push the door open. The inside hits me all at once. Warm, loud, dim in that intentional way that tries to feel cooler than it is, like it’s hiding its flaws under low lighting and cheap beer. There’s already a crowd, not huge, but enough, bodies packed close to the stage, heads turning as I step in like I don’t quite belong.

Which, yeah. Fair.

I hover near the back at first, leaning against the wall like I’m just another guy here for the music, like I didn’t come for one specific person standing behind that curtain.

My chest does something stupid when I hear the first chord. Because I know it’s her before I even see her. The sound cuts through everything else, sharper, cleaner, familiar in a way that hits somewhere low and deep, like muscle memory I didn’t realize I still had.

The curtain shifts. She steps out. And just—shit. She looks different up there. Not like the other night. Not like the lake. This is something else.

Smaller stage, yeah, but she owns it the same way, maybe even more, like she doesn’t need the crowd to prove anything, like she’s just there, doing what she does, because she can.

Her eyes sweep the room once. Quick. Practiced. Detached. Then they land on me. And I swear to God—I feel it. Like a wire snapping tight between us, sudden and electric and impossible to ignore. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter.

If anything, she leans more into it, fingers tightening on the guitar as she steps up to the mic like this was always part of the plan, like she knew I’d show and built the set around it.

“Hey,” she says, voice smooth, steady, but there’s something under it now, something just for a second that wasn’t there before. “Glad you made it.”

The crowd cheers like she’s talking to all of them. She’s not. I don’t move. Don’t even realize I’ve stopped breathing until the music kicks in again and it comes back all at once, sharp and uneven in my chest.

The room settles just a little before she leans into the mic again, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the strings like she’s deciding something on the fly. Or like she already decided.

“This next one,” she says, voice quieter now, not trying to compete with the noise, just cutting through it instead, “is called Tower of Memories.”

The title lands weird. Not because I’ve heard it before, but because it sounds like something she would’ve written when we were still sitting on her bedroom floor, when everything felt bigger than it was, and we thought that meant it mattered more.

The opening note rings out, softer than the others, almost delicate, and it draws the room in rather than pushing it back. The band follows her lead, building slowly and carefully, like they know better than to step on it too early. Her voice slips in right after. Low. Controlled. And it hits me before I can brace for it.

There’s something about the way she sings this one that feels different, less performance, more confession, like she’s not hiding behind it at all this time, like she’s letting it sit exactly where it hurts. The lyrics come out steady, but there’s weight behind them, something that lingers a little too long on certain words, like she’s choosing where it lands.

I'm right where you left me...the tower of memories...

My chest tightens. Because of course it does. Because of course she’d write something like that. Because of course I’d hear it like this now. I shift where I’m standing, pushing off the wall without realizing it, drawn in just a little closer with everyone else, even though I’m not really paying attention to anything but her.

She doesn’t look at me right away. Which somehow makes it worse. Her fingers move over the strings like second nature, voice climbing just slightly, not loud, not explosive, just… stronger, more certain, like she’s stepping into it instead of backing away.

Dragged right through my consciousness...in the darkness...I see visions of you...

It sinks in somewhere deep and ugly, somewhere I don’t want to look at too closely because I already know what I’ll find there. The room’s quiet in a different way now, not dead silent, but focused, like everyone can feel there’s something more to this one, even if they don’t know what it is. I do.

She finally looks up. Not scanning the crowd this time. Not detached. Just finding me and holding it. Not once does her voice falter.

If anything, it steadies more, like she needed that, like seeing me there locks something into place. And I—I can’t look away. Because it feels like she’s building something right in front of me. Not the same as before. Not ours. Something new. Something stronger. And I don’t know if that makes it easier or so much worse.

The second she steps off stage, she’s swallowed. Hands on her shoulders, voices overlapping, someone already talking too loud about how insane that last song was, someone else asking where they’re playing next, one of her bandmates pulling her into a half-hug like they just survived something together instead of just played a set.

She handles it easily. Of course she does. Smiling where she needs to, nodding, saying the right things without overdoing it, like she’s done this enough times now that it doesn’t rattle her, doesn’t pull her off balance the way it used to.

I stay where I am. Back of the room. Hands shoved in my pockets like if I take them out I might do something stupid, like push through the crowd, like act on the fact that every part of me is already halfway across the room.

I don’t, instead I just watch. Because this is her world now. And I don’t know where I fit in it. Minutes pass, or maybe it’s longer, hard to tell when I’m not really paying attention to anything except the way she laughs at something someone says, the way she brushes her hair back, the way she looks completely fine.

Like the lake didn’t happen. I shift, pushing off the wall. Alright. That’s enough. I showed up. That’s what she asked for. That’s what I said I’d do. Doesn’t mean I have to—I turn. Take a step toward the door. Then stop. Because leaving like this feels worse. Feels too much like before.

Like I’m doing the same thing again, just dressed up a little differently so I don’t have to call it what it is. Running.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face before turning back around. Yeah. No. Not this time.

I stay. The crowd starts to thin just a little, people peeling off toward the bar or the exit, her bandmates drifting away one by one, giving her space without making it obvious that they are. She’s still talking to someone when her eyes flick up—And land on me. Still there. Still exactly where I was. Something shifts.

Not big. Not obvious. But I see it. The way her shoulders drop just slightly, the way her expression softens for half a second before she reins it back in, before she finishes whatever conversation she’s in like she didn’t just notice me choosing to stay.

She says something quick to the guy in front of her, nods, then steps away. And this time, she comes to me. Slower than before. No rush. No edge. Just deliberate. “You’re still here,” she says when she gets close enough, voice low, like it’s just for me despite the noise still buzzing around us.

I huff out a quiet breath, nodding once. “Yeah,” I reply, shifting my weight slightly, “turns out I’m capable of that.” Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close.

“You came,” she adds, softer now, like she’s still a little surprised by it, like she wasn’t fully convinced I would.

“Told you I would,” I say, and this time there’s no joke behind it, no deflection.

She studies me for a second. Long enough that I feel it. Long enough that I don’t look away. Then she exhales, glancing off to the side before looking back at me, something more grounded settling in her expression now, something less guarded than before but not completely open either.

“You always were good at watching,” she says, tone lighter, but there’s something under it, something layered that hits deeper than it should.

I tilt my head slightly, letting out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well,” I shrug, “easier than being the one up there.”

She hums softly, like she expected that answer, like it fits too well.

“I might not be around much longer,” she says after a second.

And there it is. My chest tightens before I can stop it. “Yeah?” I ask, trying to keep it even, like that didn’t just land somewhere uncomfortable.

She nods once, glancing toward the stage, then back at me. “Couple more gigs lined up. Might head back out after that.” She shrugs, but it’s not careless this time, not easy. “No real reason to stay.”

That stings more than it should. Because I know what she means. Because I know I’m not included in that calculation. I swallow, nodding once like I get it, like I expected it.

“Right,” I say, quieter now.

She says it so easily. “No real reason to stay.”

Like, it doesn’t mean anything. Like it doesn’t land square in the middle of my chest and sit there, heavy and unmoving, like it’s waiting to see what I’m gonna do with it. I should let it go. That’s the smart move. Nod, make some joke, wish her luck, pretend I’m cool with it, pretend I didn’t just spend the last couple of days getting dragged through everything I tried real hard to bury.

I don’t. “Yeah, that’s not true.”

It comes out before I can stop it, before I can clean it up or soften it into something easier to swallow. Her brows pull together slightly, like she didn’t expect that, like she was already bracing for me to let it slide the way I always do.

“Yeah?” she says, tilting her head just a little, not defensive, not sharp, just… questioning. “What’s here?”

I open my mouth, and for a second nothing comes out, because I know what I mean, I just don’t know how to say it without saying too much. “Stuff,” I start, immediately hating it, shaking my head once like I can take it back and try again. “People. Your mom. The band here—” I hesitate, just enough for it to matter, “—you.”

The word hangs there heavier than anything else I’ve said, and she doesn’t miss it. Her eyes don’t leave mine for even a second.

“You had me before,” she says, quiet and steady, not accusing.

That one lands exactly where it’s supposed to. I nod once, slower this time, jaw tightening slightly because there’s no arguing with that, no way to twist it into something that makes me look better than I was.

“I know,” I admit.

There’s a beat that stretches longer than it should, filled with everything we’re not saying, everything we never really did. I could leave it there. Probably should. But something in me doesn’t let it sit, doesn’t let me fall back into the same pattern that got us here in the first place.

“But I’m still here.”

It’s quieter now, not forced, not dramatic, just there, like I’m placing it between us and letting her decide what it’s worth.

Her expression shifts again, not all the way, not soft, but something in it loosens, something that wasn’t there a minute ago, like she didn’t expect that either, like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it or if this is just another version of me saying something when it’s too late to matter.

I don’t move. I don’t fill the silence. I just stand there, holding her gaze like I’m not gonna look away this time.

She exhales slowly, eyes dropping for half a second before lifting back up to meet mine. “I know,” she says, and it’s not dismissive, not cold, like she’s holding it at arm’s length, not ready to take it, but not throwing it away either.

We stand there like that for a moment, close enough to feel it, not close enough to do anything about it, the noise around us fading into something distant and unimportant. Her hand shifts slightly at her side, not reaching, not pulling away, just there, like everything else between us.

“I have another set tomorrow,” she says finally, quieter now, like she’s offering something instead of taking it away this time. “Same place.”

It’s not quite an invitation, not in the way it could be, but it’s also not nothing. It’s careful, measured, like she’s giving me just enough without risking more than she’s ready to lose again.

I nod once, feeling something in my chest loosen just slightly, not enough to call it relief, but enough to notice. Enough to know this isn’t over.

“Yeah?” I reply, voice steadier now. “Guess I’ll have to show up again.”

Her mouth twitches at that, the smallest hint of something real slipping through before she reins it back in, but I catch it anyway.

And for the first time all night, it feels like maybe I didn’t miss my chance completely.

The second night feels different before I even get there. Not because anything’s actually changed, not yet, but because I know what I’m walking into this time. There’s no surprise, no shock factor, no moment of standing in the back like I accidentally wandered into something I wasn’t supposed to see. This is intentional. This is me showing up again, knowing exactly who’s on that stage and exactly what it does to me to watch her there.

The sign outside flickers the same way it did yesterday, like it’s holding on out of spite more than anything else, and for a second, I pause with my hand on the door, not because I’m thinking about leaving, but because I’m aware of it. The choice. The fact that I could walk away, keep things where they are, leave this in that safe, unresolved space where it hurts, but it’s manageable. I don’t.

The door swings open and the sound hits me immediately, louder tonight, or maybe I just feel it more, bass vibrating through the floor, voices overlapping, glasses clinking somewhere too close together. It’s packed tighter than before, bodies shoulder to shoulder, heat settling in the air like it’s got nowhere else to go.

I make my way in slower this time, not hovering at the back like I don’t belong, but not pushing all the way up either, settling somewhere in the middle where I can see her without having to fight for it. It’s a choice, I think, something small but deliberate, like I’m done hiding in corners but not ready to be right up against the stage either.

She’s already there.

Mid-set, guitar slung low, hair falling just slightly out of place, like she’s been moving more tonight, like she’s letting herself get into it instead of holding back. Her voice cuts through the room cleaner than anything else, steady and controlled, but there’s something sharper underneath it, something more alive.

She doesn’t see me right away. Or maybe she does, and she’s ignoring it. Wouldn’t put that past her.

I lean back slightly, arms crossing loosely, trying to look like I’m just another guy in the crowd, like I didn’t come here because she told me to, like I didn’t spend most of today thinking about what I’d say if she talked to me again.

It doesn’t work. Not when she looks up. Not when her eyes find me like they were always going to, like she knew exactly where I’d be standing before I even decided it myself. And this time she smiles. Not big. Not for the crowd.

Just a small, quick thing that’s gone almost as soon as it appears, like she didn’t mean to let it slip, like she caught herself right after. But it’s there. I saw it.

And it does something to me that I’m not even gonna try to unpack right now.

She turns slightly, nodding to her band, and they shift into the next song without missing a beat. It’s heavier than the last one, faster, something that pulls the crowd in immediately, bodies moving, people closer now, more alive, more reactive.

But every once in a while, she looks at me. Like she’s checking. Like she wants to know I’m still there. I am. I don’t move the entire set.

Don’t leave, don’t drift, don’t even pretend to be distracted by anything else in the room, because there’s no point. Everything else fades out anyway, background noise to something that feels a little too important for a random bar a town over.

By the time she gets to the last song, the energy’s shifted again, not quieter, not softer, but more focused, like the room’s dialed in, like everyone knows they’re about to get something that matters.

She steps up to the mic, adjusting it slightly, fingers brushing over the strings in that absent way she does when she’s thinking. “This one’s a little different,” she says, voice steady but lower now, like she’s not performing this part so much as letting it happen. “So… just listen.”

The opening is slow. Simple. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask for attention, just takes it. Her voice follows, softer than before, but somehow heavier, like every word’s carrying more than it should.

I feel it immediately. Because even if I don’t know the song, I know her. And I know when something means something. She doesn’t look at me right away.

Because I’m waiting for it. Waiting for the moment she does. It comes halfway through. Just a glance. And then she holds it. And everything else: the crowd, the noise, the heat, just kind of disappears.

By the time the song ends, I don’t even realize I’ve stepped closer until I’m already there, closer to the stage than I was before, close enough that I can see the way her hands still slightly, the way her chest rises and falls a little heavier, like she put something into that she can’t take back now.

She steps back, nodding once, giving the room just enough acknowledgment before handing off her guitar, saying something to her bandmates that I can’t hear over everything else.

And then she looks at me again. Not across the room this time. Not through people. And there’s no crowd between us anymore. Just a few steps. And whatever happens next.

I don’t think about it this time.

I just move, steady and deliberate in a way I haven’t really been with her in a long time, not rushing, not hesitating either, just closing the distance like I already decided somewhere along the way that I wasn’t stopping halfway again. A couple people shift without me asking, the crowd still buzzing from her set, voices overlapping, glasses clinking somewhere behind me, but it all feels distant, like background noise to something a little too focused to ignore.

She watches me the whole way over.

Doesn’t look away, doesn’t pretend not to notice, just stands there with her hands free at her sides, like she’s waiting to see if I’m actually gonna follow through this time or fall back into something easier before I get too close. I don’t. I stop in front of her instead, closer than last night, closer than I probably should be, close enough to see the way her breath hasn’t quite settled yet, the faint flush still sitting under her skin from the lights, the way she hasn’t fully come down from being up there.

“You play like you’re trying to say something,” I say, my voice coming out lower than I expect.

Her head tilts slightly at that, eyes searching my face like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it or if I’m just saying something that sounds good in the moment.

She doesn’t answer right away, just lets it sit there between us, and I can feel it, the weight of it, the fact that this isn’t something I can joke my way out of.

“Yeah?” she says after a second, quieter now, less performer and more her. “What’d you hear?”

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down the back of my neck before letting it fall, forcing myself to stay right where I am instead of stepping back like I usually would when things get too close to something real.

“That you didn’t stop feeling it,” I say, and it lands the second it leaves my mouth, something shifting behind her eyes before she can hide it. “And that I didn’t get to take all of it with me when I left.”

Her breath catches just slightly, and this time she’s the one who closes the space, stepping in without making a big thing out of it, just enough that the distance between us disappears like it was never really there to begin with. It’s subtle, but it’s everything.

“You’re late,” she says, and there’s no sharpness to it, no anger, just something quiet and true that settles in deeper than anything else she could’ve said.

I nod once, because there’s no arguing with that, no way to dress it up into something that sounds better than what it is. “I know,” I admit, voice rougher now, stripped of anything that sounds like a defense.

We don’t move after that.

Don’t step back, don’t fix it, just stand there with the noise of the room fading into something distant again, like it always does when it’s just us like this. Her eyes drop for a second, then lift back to mine, and there’s something in that look that makes my chest tighten, something that feels like a decision she hasn’t fully made yet.

I lean in slowly, not testing, not careless, giving her every chance to stop me, every chance to pull away before it gets to that point again, before we cross a line we don’t know how to come back from.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back.

But right before it happens, right before that last inch disappears, she turns her head just slightly, not enough to break it completely, just enough to stop it from landing.

My breath catches, stopping short again, but this time it doesn’t feel like rejection so much as hesitation, like she’s standing on the edge of something she doesn’t trust yet.

“I’m still leaving,” she says softly, close enough that I feel it more than hear it.

I pull back just enough to look at her properly, to actually see her, and there’s no distance in her expression, just something careful, something real in a way that makes it harder to ignore.

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

But I don’t step away. Not this time. And neither does she. The space between us doesn’t go back to what it was. That’s the first thing I notice.

Even after she turns her head, even after the almost of it lingers there like something unfinished, neither of us steps back, neither of us pretends it didn’t happen. The room keeps moving around us, people talking, laughing, pushing past in ways that should break whatever this is, but it doesn’t. It just holds.

She says it like it’s already decided. “I’m still leaving.”

And I feel it again, that same tight, aching pull in my chest, but this time it doesn’t just sit there. This time, it pushes back. “Yeah, you keep saying that,” I reply, quieter than I expect, but steadier, like something in me finally decided to stop letting things just happen.

Her brows pull together slightly, not defensive, just caught off guard, like she didn’t expect me to meet it like that.

I don’t give myself time to overthink it. “Like it’s already done,” I add, holding her gaze, not looking away this time, not softening it into something easier. “Like there’s nothing here worth sticking around for.”

She exhales slowly, her eyes flicking away for half a second before coming back to me, something more guarded settling in. “I told you,” she says, not sharp, but firm, like she’s trying to hold the line she already drew, “there’s not.”

“Yeah,” I nod, but I’m already shaking my head at the same time, already pushing against it, “there is.”

That lands differently. I can see it. The way she stills just slightly, the way something in her expression shifts, like she wasn’t ready for that either, like she expected me to back off again, to let her have the last word like I always do.

“What?” she asks, and it’s quieter now, not challenging, just asking.

And for once, I don’t dodge it.

“You don’t get to just write it off like that,” I say, and there’s something in my voice now, something more certain, less careful, like I’ve already crossed the line where I’d usually stop myself. “Not after everything you just told me. Not after—” I hesitate for half a second, just enough to feel it, “—after saying you still love me.”

Her breath catches again. Not as subtle this time. And I step closer. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough that she can’t pretend I’m not here, that this isn’t happening.

“You think I don’t feel that?” I continue, lower now, not loud, but heavier, like it’s been sitting there waiting for me to finally say it. “You think I came all the way out here twice just to watch you play and call it a day?”

Her eyes search mine, faster now, like she’s trying to keep up with something that’s finally moving instead of stalling out. “Then what do you want?” she asks, and there’s something fragile under it now, something real, like she’s asking a question she’s not sure she wants the answer to.

I swallow hard because this is the part I’ve been avoiding. The part that doesn’t come with a joke or an out or a way to soften the landing.

“You,” I say.

I can see it in her face, the way everything else falls away for a second, the way she just looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it or if this is just another version of me showing up too late with the right words.

“I want you to stay,” I add, quieter now, not pushing, not demanding, just honest in a way I haven’t been with her in a long time. “Not forever. Not because you have to. Just—”

I exhale, shaking my head slightly because I don’t have the perfect version of this, I never do, “just don’t decide there’s nothing here before you actually give it a chance.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes drop, then lift again, something shifting behind them, something that looks a lot like conflict, like she’s standing right in the middle of two decisions and neither one feels safe.

“You already had your chance,” she says, and it’s softer now, not sharp, not accusing, just tired.

Yeah. I nod. “I know,” I admit, because there’s no point pretending otherwise, because that part doesn’t change, no matter what I say now. “I screwed that up.”

“But I’m not doing that again,” I add, and this time it’s steadier, more certain, like I’m not just saying it for her, like I’m saying it because I finally mean it.

Her breath catches again. And she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t walk away. Just stands there, looking at me like I finally said something that matters, like she doesn’t know what to do with it yet, but she’s not dismissing it either.

“I don’t trust that,” she says quietly.

It should hit like a blow. And it does. But I don’t fold under it this time. “Yeah,” I nod, holding her gaze anyway, “I wouldn’t either.”

That? That gets her. I see it. The smallest crack, the smallest shift. And it’s not everything, it’s definitely not fixed. But it’s not nothing.

She lets out a quiet huff, shaking her head like I’ve just talked her into something she already knows is a bad idea. “You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“Fine. I’ll stay. But if you screw this up again, I’m writing a whole album about it.”

Her mouth twitches. “And this time, I won’t be subtle.”

Something in my chest settles just a little, not relief, not yet, but enough to feel like I’m not completely screwing this up before it even starts. Yeah, I can work with that.

Because there’s no way in hell I’m blowing this twice.

gah, i loved writing this one so much ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

there will be a part two, maybe even a longer series... :D

You’ve done this before.

New school, new town, new version of yourself that isn’t really new at all, just rearranged enough to make it easier for people to swallow. Hawkins doesn’t look much different from the last place, or the one before that: same washed-out hallways, same buzzing fluorescent lights, same feeling that everyone already belongs to something you haven’t been invited into yet. You move through it anyway, like you always do, head down just enough to avoid attention but not enough to look like you’re trying too hard.

You’re gone before anyone ever really learns you.

By third period, you’re sitting in a science classroom that smells faintly like chemicals and old paper, flipping through a textbook you’re not reading, already halfway checked out of a place you haven’t even settled into yet. You don’t expect to stay. You never do. That’s just how it works when your dad keeps finding new ways to make old problems follow you.

“Group project,” the teacher says, clapping once, sharp enough to cut through the room. “Pairs.”

You don’t bother looking up right away. It always ends the same way: someone sighs, someone gets stuck, both pretending it doesn’t matter.

A sharp jab hits your arm. You blink, turning your head just slightly to the side. The girl next to you is already looking at you, brows raised like you’re the one behind.

“You good, or you planning on failing this before we even start?” she mutters, elbow nudging you again, lighter this time but just as intentional.

You glance around briefly, realizing no one’s coming over, no one’s claiming you, and then back at her.

“Guess we’re partners,” she adds, already flipping her notebook open like the decision’s been made and there’s no point arguing it.

You nod once, shifting your things slightly toward her side of the table. “Guess so.”

She scribbles something down, and you catch her name at the top of the page: Ronnie, written fast and messy like she didn’t care how it looked as long as it was there.

“You gonna help, or just sit there and look confused?” she asks without glancing up.

You lean back slightly, arms crossing. “Depends. You good at this?”

She snorts, finally looking over at you, something amused flickering across her face. “Better than you.”

There’s no real insult in it, just blind confidence. And something about that sticks.

Later that day, she shows up like she’s already been there before.

You don’t even hear a proper knock, just the handle rattling once before she bangs on the door hard enough to echo through the house, sharp and impatient. By the time you get there, she’s already shifting her weight like she expects you to be slow about it, like she’s used to waiting on people who don’t move fast enough.

“You always take this long?” she asks the second you open the door, not even giving you a chance to answer before she steps past you, dragging the outside in with her, like she belongs there more than you do.

You close the door behind her, watching as she glances around without making it obvious she’s doing it, eyes catching on things for just a second longer than they should. It’s not a big place. It never is. Your mom’s things are tucked into corners that make sense for someone who’s barely there, your dad’s presence more implied than visible, like he exists in the space without actually living in it.

“Wow,” she mutters under her breath, dropping her bag onto the table with a dull thud. “Dead quiet in here.”

You shrug, pulling out a chair. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t ask right away. She just sits, flips her notebook open, and starts talking through the assignment like it’s the only reason she’s there, like she didn’t just clock something about you the second she walked in.

“Alright, so if we split it, we can get it done faster,” she says, tapping her pencil against the page. “You take this part, I’ll do the rest, and we’ll just—”

She stops mid-sentence. Not because of you, but because of something behind you.

“You play?” she asks, nodding toward the corner of the room.

You follow her gaze.

The guitar leans against the wall, slightly out of place in a house that doesn’t really belong to anyone long enough to fill it with things like that. You hesitate for half a second, then nod.

“Yeah.”

She leans back in her chair slightly, studying you now like she’s seeing something different, like she’s reassessing whatever she decided about you earlier.

“Huh,” she says, like she wasn’t expecting that.

Then, just as quickly, she moves on.

“Alright, whatever. Finish that,” she adds, pushing the paper toward you again like nothing changed, even though something clearly did.

The rest of the afternoon goes by faster after that. You work, she talks, and somewhere in between, it starts to feel a little less like you’re stuck with someone and more like you’re just… there, doing something together without having to think about it too much.

At some point, she glances up again.

“Your parents ever home?” she asks, casual, like it’s an afterthought.

You don’t look up from the page. “Sometimes.”

She hums softly, like that answers enough, like she doesn’t need the details to understand the situation. She doesn’t press.

The next day, the house is quiet again when you get back. It always is.

You drop your bag by the door, the sound echoing a little too much in the empty space, and for a second, you just stand there, listening to it settle. It’s the kind of quiet you’re used to, the kind that doesn’t feel lonely so much as expected, like it’s just part of how things work.

There’s a knock at the door. You don’t bother asking who it is, because you kind of already know. Ronnie’s standing there when you open it, like she didn’t even consider the possibility that you wouldn’t be home.

“C’mon,” she says, like she’s picking up a conversation you didn’t realize you were having.

You blink at her. “What?”

She rolls her eyes slightly, shifting her weight. “You play, right?”

You hesitate, then nod.

“Good,” she says, already turning back down the steps. “Then you’re coming with me.”

You frown slightly, stepping out onto the porch. “Where?”

She glances over her shoulder, something almost amused flickering across her face. “My place,” she says. “Unless you’d rather sit here and rot.”

You don’t answer right away, you don’t even really think about it either. You just grab your jacket and follow her.

Her trailer is louder than your house before you even step inside.

Not loud in the way of music or shouting, just full. The kind of place that feels lived in, like things actually happen here instead of passing through. The air is warmer, heavier, carrying the smell of something cooking, making you pause for half a second before following Ronnie further in.

“Granny,” she calls out, already kicking her shoes off like she’s done this a thousand times. “We’ve got company.”

“In here,” a voice answers, softer, older, steady in a way that settles something in your chest without you really understanding why.

Ronnie jerks her head for you to follow, and you do, stepping into a small kitchen where an older woman stands over the stove, moving like she knows exactly where everything is without having to look. She glances up when you enter, eyes warm, curious but not prying.

“Well,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel, “you must be new.”

You nod slightly, unsure what else to say, suddenly aware of how out of place you should feel here and how little you actually do.

“This is—” Ronnie starts, then pauses, realizing she doesn’t actually know your name.

You fill it in for her.

Granny smiles, like that’s enough, like she doesn’t need anything else from you to decide you’re welcome. “Sit,” she says, nodding toward the table. “You look like you could use something to eat.”

“I’m okay,” you start.

“You’re not,” Ronnie cuts in, already pulling out a chair for herself. “Sit.”

You do. It’s easier than arguing.

The chair creaks slightly under your weight, the table worn in a way that suggests it’s seen years of the same people sitting in the same spots, and for a second, you just… exist in it. Ronnie starts talking about something you half-listen to, Granny moving around the kitchen like she’s done this her whole life, and it all feels strangely normal.

You’re not used to normal. The front door opens. No knock. Just the sound of it swinging in and shutting again, footsteps following, heavier than Ronnie’s, more deliberate.

“Ronnie, you—” a voice starts, trailing off slightly as it gets closer to the kitchen.

You don’t look up right away. You don’t think you need to. But then the room shifts. Just enough. And when you do glance up, he’s already there.

Standing just inside the doorway, like he stopped mid-step when he saw you, like he wasn’t expecting anything different and got it anyway. He’s taller than you thought he’d be, thinner, hair falling into his face in a way that looks careless but isn’t. There’s something guarded in the way he holds himself, something that feels like he’s used to walking into rooms and not liking what’s waiting for him.

His eyes flick to Ronnie first. Then back to you. And stay there.

“Who’s this?” he asks, not unfriendly, not sharp, just cautious in a way that feels practiced.

Ronnie doesn’t even look up from where she’s digging through something on the table. “Science project,” she says, like that explains everything. “She plays.”

That? That gets his attention. You can see it happen, subtle but real, the shift in his expression as he looks at you again, this time a little more focused, a little more curious.

“Yeah?” he says, leaning slightly against the doorframe now, like he’s settling in instead of leaving. “What do you play?”

You hesitate, just for a second. Then—“Guitar.”

He nods once, slow, like he’s filing that away, like it matters more than he’s letting on.

“Alright,” he says, almost to himself. And for a moment, it feels like something just started.

There’s no big moment where everything shifts, no single day where you suddenly belong there instead of just passing through. It happens slowly, in pieces, in afternoons that turn into evenings, in the way Ronnie starts showing up without knocking, and you stop asking where you’re supposed to be instead.

A couple of months in, it starts to feel like something you don’t question. Like you’ve always been there.

You fall into it easily: into Ronnie’s chaos, into the warmth of her trailer, into the way Granny always makes enough food without asking, like she expects you to be there whether you say you are or not. And somewhere in between all of that, there’s him, always hovering just slightly to the side of it, not distant, not closed off, just watching, like he’s still figuring you out.

Or maybe deciding if you’re worth it. That part’s harder to read.

By the time it’s late enough that the air cools down and the streets quiet out, the three of you are walking back from nowhere in particular, Ronnie a few steps ahead like she always is, kicking at rocks, talking about something that doesn’t really matter, her voice carrying back to you in pieces you don’t bother trying to put together.

You hang back without really meaning to. He does too. It’s not planned, it just happens.

There’s a stretch of silence that settles between you, not uncomfortable, just… there, filled with the sound of your footsteps and Ronnie’s voice drifting further ahead as she speeds up without noticing. You glance at her, then back at him.

Then—“You guys dating?”

It comes out more casual than you expect, like it’s been sitting there longer than you realized, like you just decided to say it out loud without thinking too hard about it first.

He reacts immediately. “No.” Too fast. Too certain.

It almost makes you laugh.

He runs a hand through his hair right after, like he knows how that sounded, like he’s trying to walk it back just enough to make it less obvious.

“No,” he repeats, slower this time, glancing ahead at Ronnie before looking back at you. “We’re not—” he huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. “We tried that. Didn’t… stick.”

You tilt your head a little, curious now despite yourself. “Tried?”

He lets out something between a laugh and a groan, dragging his hand down the back of his neck like he’s not sure he wants to admit this. “Yeah,” he says. “Once.”

That gets your attention. “Once?”

He nods, a little sheepish now, like the memory’s not exactly his favorite. “I kissed her,” he admits, like it’s no big deal, even though it clearly is, “or, tried to.”

You glance ahead at Ronnie, who’s now a good distance in front of you, completely unaware of the conversation happening behind her. “And?” you ask.

He snorts quietly.

“She shoved me,” he says. “Like, immediately. Didn’t even hesitate. Just—” he gestures vaguely with his hands, like he’s replaying it, “—nope. Shut it down real fast.”

You can’t help it. You smile. “And that was it?” you ask.

“Pretty much,” he shrugs, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth now like he’s made peace with it. “We’re better like this anyway. Always have been.” There’s no bitterness in it. No regret. Just a fact.

You nod slowly, letting that settle, something about it easing a tension you didn’t realize was there in the first place. Ronnie turns back then, walking backward for a few steps as she calls something out to you, impatient and loud in a way that feels normal now, like it always has.

A year later, it feels different.

Not new, not fragile, not like something you’re waiting to lose the second you get used to it. It settles in instead, roots itself in ways you don’t question anymore, in routines you didn’t realize you were building until they’re already there. Hawkins stops feeling temporary. Ronnie stops feeling like someone you were just paired with. And Eddie—Eddie becomes something you don’t quite have a word for yet.

You spend more time in your room now, not because it’s better than the trailer, but because it’s quieter in a way that lets things stretch out, lets the three of you exist without interruption for a little while. The window’s cracked open just enough to let the night air in, the faint sound of something distant drifting through, and you’re sprawled out on the floor with a notebook between you, pages filled with half-finished lyrics and crossed-out lines that Ronnie keeps insisting are “not that bad” even when you know they are.

Eddie’s got your guitar in his hands, sitting back against the edge of your bed like he belongs there, like he always has. He plays something absentminded, fingers moving without thinking, piecing together chords while you and Ronnie argue over a line that doesn’t quite fit.

“It’s too soft,” Ronnie says, grabbing the cigarette from between your fingers and taking a drag like she owns it. “You sound like you’re writing a love song.”

You roll your eyes, reaching to take it back. “Maybe I am.”

She snorts, handing it over. “Yeah, well, don’t. It’s gross.”

Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh at that, not looking up from the guitar as he shifts into something a little cleaner, a little more intentional. “Ignore her,” he mutters. “It’s fine.”

You glance over at him, something in your chest tightening just slightly at the way he says it, like it matters more than he’s letting on. “Yeah?” you ask.

He shrugs, still not meeting your eyes. “Yeah.”

Ronnie groans loudly, throwing herself back onto the bed like she’s already over it. “God, you two are annoying.”

You almost smile. It feels easy. Too easy. The kind of moment you don’t realize is important until it’s already gone.

The front door slams. Hard.

The sound cuts through everything, sharp and sudden, pulling all three of you out of it at once. Ronnie sits up immediately, expression shifting in a way you’ve only seen a couple of times before, something wary sliding in under everything else. Voices follow. Loud. Unsteady.

Familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist before you even process it.

“Well, I’m just sayin’, Al, you should’ve seen his face—”

“Yeah, yeah, you say that every time, man—”

Your dad, Rus. Eddie’s already moving before you say anything, setting the guitar down carefully like he doesn’t want to make more noise than necessary. Ronnie’s off the bed a second later, already heading for the door.

“Stay,” she mutters, not looking back at you, like it’s a habit, like she’s said it before. You don’t. You follow anyway.

The hallway feels smaller with them in it, filled up in a way that makes everything tighter, harder to breathe through. Your dad’s leaning against the wall, already halfway gone, words slurring together as he laughs at something that isn’t funny, and next to him—Al Munson.

He’s louder. Bigger in a way that doesn’t come from size, just presence, like he takes up space because he expects to. His eyes flick up when he notices movement, landing first on Ronnie, then Eddie—and then you.

“Well, well,” he says, straightening just slightly, like he’s found something new to focus on. “Who’s this, huh?”

Your dad glances over, squinting like he’s trying to place you for a second before recognition clicks in too late. “Oh—” he waves a hand vaguely in your direction. “That’s— that’s my kid.”

Al’s attention doesn’t shift. If anything, it sharpens.

“Your kid?” he repeats, then looks back at you with something that passes for a grin but doesn’t quite land right. “Didn’t know you had one that looked like that.”

You stiffen slightly. Eddie notices. You can tell. Because he steps forward just enough to put himself between you and them without making it obvious, like it’s instinct, like he’s done it before without thinking about it.

“Al,” he says, tone flat, warning sitting just under the surface.

Al glances at him, then back at you, amused now. “What?” he shrugs. “Just saying. She’s pretty.”

Your dad laughs like that’s the best thing he’s heard all night. “Yeah, she gets that from her mother.” 

Ronnie rolls her eyes, stepping in now, shoving lightly at Al’s shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough,” she mutters. “Go sit down before you fall over.”

Al lets her push him, not resisting, still watching you over her shoulder like he hasn’t quite lost interest yet.

“Careful with that one,” he calls out to Eddie, something teasing and sharp in his voice. “Looks like trouble.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t respond. Just stands there, jaw tight, shoulders squared in a way that feels a little too controlled for someone his age. And for a second, you feel it, the shift. The difference between what this is now and what it could become.

A couple of months pass before it shifts again.

Not in a big way, not in anything you could point to and say this is where it started, just in the small things that build without you noticing: how often Eddie’s name comes up when he’s not there, how you start listening a little closer when Ronnie talks about him, how your time at the trailer feels just slightly different when it’s only the two of you.

It happens on an afternoon that doesn’t feel important.

You’re sprawled across Ronnie’s bed, flipping through one of her old notebooks while she’s pacing the room, talking like she always does, jumping from one thought to the next without warning. The window’s open, letting in air that’s warmer now, carrying the kind of quiet that only shows up when the day’s starting to wind down.

“Eddie was saying—” she starts, halfway across the room, before stopping to dig through something on her dresser. “—something about that riff you were messing with last week. Said you were doing it wrong.”

You look up immediately. “Wrong?” you repeat, sitting up a little straighter.

She glances over her shoulder, catching it right away. A slow grin starts to pull at her mouth, something sharp and knowing settling into her expression as she turns to face you fully now, arms crossing like she’s just found something interesting.

“Oh my god,” she says, dragging it out just enough to make your stomach drop. “Are you serious right now?”

You frown slightly, trying to play it off, even though you can feel the heat creeping up your neck. “What?”

She lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head like she can’t believe she didn’t see it sooner. “You care,” she says, pointing at you like she’s proving a point. “That’s insane.”

“I don’t—” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, because you don’t actually have a defense ready.

She watches you for a second longer, grin widening just slightly as you look away, suddenly very interested in the page in your hands that you haven’t been reading for the last minute.

“You’re blushing,” she adds, like that’s the final nail in it.

“I am not.”

“You are,” she counters immediately, stepping closer now, crouching slightly in front of you so you can’t avoid her without making it obvious. “Oh my god, you totally are.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weak, and she knows it.

Of course she does.

She leans back onto her heels, studying you for another second before something in her expression shifts again, less teasing now, more certain.

“He likes you, you know.” That throws you.

You look up at her again, brows pulling together slightly. “What?”

She shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like you’re the only one who didn’t already know.

“Eddie,” she says. “He likes you.”

You shake your head a little too quickly. “No, he doesn’t.”

She snorts, pushing herself back up to her feet. “Yeah, okay,” she mutters, like she’s not even going to argue it. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

You sit there for a second, watching her move around the room like she didn’t just say something that’s now stuck in your head in a way you can’t shake.

“He doesn’t,” you repeat, quieter this time, like if you say it again it’ll land differently.

She glances back at you, one brow raised. “Right,” she says, not unkind, just unconvinced. Then, after a beat, she adds, “You should probably figure that out before he does something stupid about it.”

That sounds like him. You hate that it does.

You look back down at the notebook in your hands, but the words don’t really register anymore, your mind already somewhere else, replaying things you hadn’t thought twice about before, moments that suddenly feel a little more important than they did yesterday.

Ronnie watches you for another second. Then she shakes her head, amused. “God,” she mutters under her breath. “You’re both so screwed.”

You don’t think about it too hard the next day.

If you do, you’ll talk yourself out of it, and you’re starting to realize that’s something you don’t want to keep doing: not with him, not with anything that feels even remotely close to staying. So instead, you just go, bottle tucked into your jacket like it’s not the only reason you worked up the nerve in the first place.

His house isn’t hard to find. Ronnie’s dragged you there enough times for dinner, for music, for nothing at all, and by now you don’t hesitate when you step up onto the porch. The place looks like it always does, quiet in a way that doesn’t mean peaceful. 

You knock once. No answer. You try again, louder this time. Still nothing.

After a second, you push the door open just slightly, enough to let your voice carry inside. “Hello?”

The house smells faintly like stale smoke and something stronger underneath it, something that settles heavy in your chest if you think about it too long. You step in anyway, careful but not cautious enough to turn around, your eyes adjusting to the dim light as you take in the living room. Al Munson is slumped on the couch.

One arm hangs off the side, fingers just barely brushing the floor, his head tipped back at an angle that looks uncomfortable even from across the room. There’s an empty bottle on the table, another one tipped over near his foot, and for a second, you just stand there, not startled, not unfamiliar with the sight, just aware of it in a way that feels different when it’s not your house.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even notice you. You shift your weight slightly, glancing toward the hallway, debating whether to leave before you get caught standing there like you don’t belong. 

You turn just as Eddie comes into view, halfway through saying something before he sees you.

“Ron, I told you—” He stops.

The rest of it drops off as his eyes land on you, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into something quieter, something more measured, like he’s trying to understand why you’re here before asking it out loud.

“Hey,” he says after a second, voice lower now, like he’s automatically adjusting it to match the room. His eyes flick briefly toward the couch, checking, then back to you. “What’re you doing here?”

You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t have one. Because you’re suddenly aware of how it sounds. Instead, you lift your hand slightly, pulling the bottle out from your jacket, the cheap label catching the light just enough to make your point.

“Thought we could go to the lake,” you say, keeping your voice just as quiet as his without really meaning to. “Before Ronnie gets back.”

His gaze drops to the bottle. Then back to you. And there it is again, that shift. “The lake?” he repeats, like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You nod once, stepping back just slightly, like you’re giving him the option to say no even though you don’t think he will. “Yeah,” you say. “Unless you’re busy.”

He lets out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh under it, shaking his head slightly as he runs a hand through his hair. “No,” he says, already moving past you toward the door. “No, I’m not busy.”

You step aside to let him pass, catching the way he grabs his jacket off the hook without thinking, like this is already decided, like he didn’t need more than that to go with you. Behind him, Al shifts slightly on the couch, something unintelligible slipping out before he settles again, still out, still unaware. Eddie doesn’t look back. Doesn’t say anything about it. Just opens the door and jerks his head slightly for you to follow.

“C’mon,” he mutters.

The lake is quieter at night.

Not silent, not empty, just softer, like everything settles out there once the sun drops and people stop coming around. The air’s cooler, the kind that makes your skin feel sharper, more awake, and the water reflects just enough of the sky to make it look deeper than it is.

You’ve been here before. Just not like this.

Eddie walks a few steps ahead of you at first, kicking lightly at the dirt like he’s got more energy than direction, the bottle now half-empty between the two of you after a walk that felt shorter than it should’ve. He talks more when he drinks, you notice, words coming easier, faster, slipping out without the same hesitation he usually has.

“Y’know,” he says, turning slightly as he walks backward for a few steps, “this is—this is actually a solid idea. Like, top tier. Might be your best one yet.”

You roll your eyes, taking the bottle from him when he holds it out, the burn of it sharper now than it was earlier. “Relax,” you mutter. “It’s just the lake.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding like that proves his point. “Exactly. The lake. Classic.” You almost laugh.

The edge of the water comes up quicker than expected, the ground softening under your feet, the sound of it lapping quietly against the shore filling in the silence between you. Eddie slows as he gets closer, glancing out over it like he’s trying to decide something.

You don’t. You step past him, dropping your jacket onto the ground and kicking your shoes off without a second thought.

“What are you doing?” he asks, a little slower now, like he’s catching up.

You glance back at him, already pulling your shirt over your head. “What does it look like?”

He blinks. Then laughs, a little surprised, a little nervous, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually go through with it.

“You’re—seriously?” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the water like that’s the part he’s questioning.

You shrug, stepping closer to the edge. “What? You scared?”

That does it. He scoffs immediately, shaking his head like you just insulted him on principle. “No, I’m not—” he cuts himself off, already tugging his own shirt off like he’s got something to prove. “I’m not scared.”

You grin, turning back toward the water as you finish stripping down, the night air now colder against your skin, making everything feel sharper, more real.

“Then get in,” you say, glancing over your shoulder.

You don’t wait. You step into the water, the cold hitting you all at once, stealing your breath for half a second before you push further in, laughing under your breath as it settles into something you can handle.

Behind you, there’s a pause. Then—a loud splash.

“Jesus—” Eddie’s voice cuts through the quiet, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Why is it so cold?”

You turn, water rippling around you as he wades in, movements awkward, uncoordinated in a way that makes it clear he’s not used to this, not like you are. “It’s water,” you say, deadpan. “What did you expect?”

“I expected—” he stops, shivering slightly as he pushes his hair back, “—I don’t know, not this.”

You laugh then, fully this time, the sound carrying out over the lake as he glares at you like it’s your fault. “You’re the one who jumped in,” you remind him.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, moving a little closer like the proximity might make it better, “I had a reputation to uphold.”

“Of being dramatic?”

“Of being cool,” he corrects, though there’s a grin pulling at his mouth now that gives him away.

You shake your head, turning slightly, letting the water settle around you again, the two of you drifting just close enough that it feels intentional without either of you saying it is. The laughter fades. The quiet comes back. And for a second, it’s just this. Him. You.

The way the night wraps around it like it’s something worth keeping. He looks at you differently then. “You’re not like everyone else,” he says, softer now, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You tilt your head slightly. “Yeah?”

He nods once, slow, like he’s still figuring it out himself. “Yeah.”

Something in your chest tightens, just a little. You don’t think about it. You lean in. It’s not perfect, and definitely not smooth. Just close enough that it happens.

His lips are warm despite the cold, hesitant for half a second before he leans into it, like he’s surprised but not pulling away, like he’s been thinking about it longer than he’s willing to admit.

It lasts just long enough to matter. Then you pull back slightly, just enough to look at him, both of you a little breathless, a little off-balance in a way that has nothing to do with the water.

He blinks at you. Then grins. And then—his expression drops. “Oh—oh no—”

“What?” you start, brows pulling together just as he turns abruptly, stumbling slightly toward the shore.

He doesn’t make it far. The sound of him getting sick cuts through the quiet, immediate and unmistakable, and for a second, you just stare at him, processing what just happened. Then, you laugh.

“Are you serious?” you call out, wading after him, water sloshing around you as he groans, one hand braced against his knee like that’s going to help.

“Don’t—” he starts, voice strained. “Don’t say anything.”

“You kissed me and then threw up,” you say, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. “Like, immediately after.”

“It wasn’t immediate,” he mutters weakly.

“It was pretty immediate.”

He groans again, dragging a hand over his face as he straightens slightly, still looking like he regrets every decision that led him here.

“Great,” he says. “Awesome. This is—this is exactly how I wanted that to go.”

You shake your head, still smiling as you step closer, nudging his arm lightly.

“For what it’s worth,” you say, a little softer now, “the first part was good.”

He glances at you then, something embarrassed and hopeful flickering across his face at the same time. “Yeah?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

You start dating not long after that night.

There isn’t a big conversation about it, no clear moment where either of you decides it out loud. It just happens. You show up, he shows up, and somewhere in between late nights and long walks and hours spent sitting on the floor with guitars in your hands, it becomes something that doesn’t need to be explained to anyone else.

Ronnie rolls her eyes about it. A lot. “Disgusting,” she mutters more than once, watching the two of you from across the room like she regrets introducing you in the first place, even though she never actually tries to stop it.

You don’t care. Neither does he. Because it feels right in a way you don’t question.

You fall into a rhythm with him quickly, one that builds on itself without you realizing it’s happening. Most nights blur together in the same way: your room, his house, the trailer, wherever you can end up without someone interrupting. There’s always a guitar between you, always a notebook nearby, always something half-finished that the two of you keep circling back to like you’re trying to get it just right.

You write together without meaning to.

It starts small, just lines here and there, Eddie messing with chords while you throw out lyrics that don’t quite fit until they suddenly do. He hums things under his breath before he plays them, like he needs to hear it in his head first, and you start picking up on it, start anticipating where he’s going before he even gets there.

“Wait,” you say once, sitting up a little straighter as he plays through something for the third time. “Do that again.”

He does. You reach for the notebook without thinking. And just like that, it’s yours. Not his. Not yours.  You don’t even realize how much of yourself ends up in those pages until later, until you look back and recognize things you didn’t know you were trying to say at the time.

He notices before you do.

“People are gonna hear this one day,” he tells you once, not joking, not brushing it off the way he usually does when he talks about his own band. “And they’re gonna lose their minds.”

You laugh it off. You always do. But you don’t stop writing.

The tattoo happens on a night that feels like everything else and nothing at all.

You’re sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, music playing too low to matter, and Ronnie is passed out on the bed behind you like she always is when things get quiet. The idea comes out of nowhere, or maybe it’s been sitting there for a while, and neither of you said it out loud until now.

“You ever think about getting one?” he asks, not looking at you, just tracing the edge of the notebook with his finger like it’s not a big deal.

You glance up at him. “A tattoo?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Something small. Something that means something.”

You don’t hesitate as long as you probably should. “Yeah,” you say. “I have.” That’s all it takes.

A few days later, you’re both sitting in a place that smells like antiseptic and ink, your leg bouncing slightly as you watch the artist set everything up, the reality of it settling in just enough to make your stomach twist.

“Too late to back out,” Eddie mutters from beside you, a grin tugging at his mouth like he’s trying to distract you from it.

You shoot him a look. “You’re not helping.”

He laughs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You’ll be fine.” You are.

It hurts. More than you expected. But not enough to stop.

By the time it’s done, the skin is red and irritated, the lines still fresh, but it’s there, permanent in a way that everything else in your life hasn’t been. A wyvern. Matching. You don’t say anything about what it means. You don’t have to. 

When you turn seventeen, things start to shift again.

Not in the way they did before, not suddenly, not sharply, just expanding, like your life is getting bigger without asking permission first. You pick up a job at the local music store, mostly because it gives you an excuse to be around something you already spend all your time thinking about anyway.

You began teaching guitar lessons.

It becomes routine quickly: kids who don’t want to be there, teenagers who think they’re better than they are, the occasional person who actually listens when you show them something. You start staying longer than your shifts, messing around with instruments, talking to people who come in for the same reasons you would.

That’s where you meet them. Not all at once. One at a time. A drummer who won’t stop talking, a bassist who pretends not to care but always shows up anyway, someone who hears you playing one night after close and doesn’t leave until you finish.

It builds slowly. Familiar. Like everything else did. And before you really mean for it to, you have something of your own. A band. Not his. Not tied to anything except you. Eddie has his. You have yours. And for a while, that’s enough.

The first real show happens a town over.

Not Hawkins, not somewhere familiar, just far enough that it feels like something bigger than it is, like it matters more because it didn’t start here. The bar is packed in that uneven way; too many people near the stage, not enough space anywhere else, the air thick with heat and noise and something restless underneath it.

You don’t think about it too much before you go on. If you do, you’ll freeze. So instead, you step up, adjust your guitar, and let it happen the way it always does, everything else falling away the second you start playing, the room narrowing until it’s just sound and movement and the way people start to pay attention without you asking them to. It feels right.

By the time your set ends, the crowd is louder than you expected, voices overlapping, someone near the front shouting something you don’t quite catch, and you don’t linger on it, just nod once, stepping back, handing your guitar off before you can sit in the feeling for too long.

You find them after.

Eddie and Ronnie are off to the side near the bar, like they didn’t move the entire set, like they’ve been exactly where you left them. Ronnie’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that way that means she noticed everything. Eddie’s next to her, quieter, but his eyes are on you the second you walk over.

“You didn’t suck,” Ronnie says, which, coming from her, is about as close to praise as it gets.

You huff out a breath, rolling your eyes. “Wow. High standards.”

“I’m serious,” she adds, nudging your shoulder as you stop next to them. “You were actually good.”

You glance at Eddie. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at you, something steadier there, something that feels heavier than the noise of the room around you.

“Told you,” he says finally, a small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “People are gonna hear you.” You shrug like it doesn’t matter. It does.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, glancing away for a second, “it’s just one show.”

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “For now.”

That sits there for a second, quieter than everything else. Then—someone steps into it.

“You the one up there?”

You turn, already knowing it’s not someone from your band, not someone you recognize. He’s a little older, dressed like he’s trying to blend in without actually belonging, the kind of person who watches more than he talks. “Yeah,” you say.

He nods once, like that confirms something. “You’ve got something,” he says, casual, but not dismissive. “Not a lot of people do.”

Ronnie shifts slightly beside you. You feel it.

“So?” she cuts in, sharper now. “What’s your point?”

He doesn’t look at her. Just you.

“My point,” he continues, like she didn’t speak at all, “is I’ve got connections. Chicago, New York—places that actually do something with talent like that.” He gestures vaguely toward the stage behind you. “You stay here, you’re playing rooms like this forever.”

Eddie goes still. You don’t look at him. Not yet.

“You don’t even know us,” you say instead, voice even but edged in something tighter now.

The guy shrugs. “I know what I heard.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ronnie adds, pushing off the wall now, stepping forward just slightly.

“It means enough,” he replies, still calm, still focused entirely on you. “I’m not saying tomorrow. I’m saying there’s something bigger if you want it.”

Bigger. That word sticks. You glance at Eddie then. He’s not looking at the guy anymore. He’s looking at you. And there’s something there—something quiet, something tense, like he already knows where this is going and doesn’t want to say it out loud.

“You serious?” you ask, softer now.

You hesitate. Just for a second. Because you know what this is. You know what it means. You also know how it feels—to be seen like that. To be told there’s something more. And you’ve spent your whole life leaving before anything could stick. This—this feels like choosing it.

“Yeah,” you say.It comes out quieter than you expect. But it’s enough.

The guy nods, like he knew you would, like this was always the answer. “Good,” he says. “I’ll find you.”

He walks away just as easily as he came, disappearing back into the noise like he didn’t just shift something that can’t be unshifted.

Ronnie exhales sharply beside you. “That was weird.”

You don’t answer. Eddie still hasn’t looked away. “Chicago?” he asks after a second. You nod. Slow.

“Yeah.” And just like that, everything starts to change.

Eddie goes with you.

Not because you ask him to, not directly, but because he doesn’t really give you the option of going alone. The second it becomes real, Chicago, a studio, a demo that might actually mean something—he’s already figuring out how to make it happen, already talking about the drive like it’s just another thing the two of you are doing together.

It feels normal. That’s the part that gets you. The city is louder than anything you’re used to, bigger in a way that makes Hawkins feel like something small and contained, something you could fit in your pocket and forget about if you tried hard enough. The studio smells like dust and wires and something metallic underneath it all, and for the first time, it feels like the things you’ve been writing actually belong somewhere.

Eddie stays the whole time. He leans against the back wall while you record, arms crossed, watching in that quiet way he does, like he’s not just hearing it, but taking it in, memorizing it. Every once in a while, your eyes flick toward him without meaning to, just to check, just to make sure he’s still there. He always is.

“You sound insane,” he tells you after, a grin pulling at his mouth like he can’t quite contain it. “Like—actually insane. In a good way.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s not a real compliment.”

“It is,” he insists. “It’s mine.” And somehow—that’s enough.

The drive back feels shorter than it should. Or maybe you just don’t want to think about what happens after it.

For a while, things are good.

Not just good, easy, in a way that feels almost dangerous, like you’ve slipped into something that doesn’t require effort, doesn’t need to be questioned. You fall back into Hawkins like nothing changed, like the city didn’t exist, like the demo wasn’t sitting somewhere out there waiting to become something bigger.

You spend your nights the same way you always did: your room, his house, the trailer, guitars and notebooks, and Ronnie’s constant commentary in the background. The songs get better, sharper, more intentional, like something shifted while you were gone and didn’t fully settle back into place.

Eddie starts writing more, too. Not just for his band. For you. With you. Sometimes it feels like you’re chasing the same thing. Sometimes it feels like you’re not. You don’t talk about that part. You don’t talk about Chicago much either. It lingers anyway.

In the way people start recognizing you when you walk into places, in the way your band starts getting asked to play more, in the way your name comes up in conversations you’re not part of. It builds quietly, steadily, like something that doesn’t need your permission to grow.

Eddie notices. You see it in small ways at first—the way he watches you a little longer when you’re playing, the way his jokes hit a little sharper when someone else compliments you, the way he goes quiet when conversations turn toward what comes next.

He never says anything. But it’s there. Something just under the surface, waiting.

It happens about six months later. You don’t realize it’s going to matter at first. She just shows up. Paige.

She’s not from here, not really, but she walks into Hawkins like she owns the space anyway, like she’s already decided what it is and where she fits into it. You hear about her before you meet her, bits and pieces through people who talk too much, through Ronnie, who mentions her once and then immediately acts like it doesn’t matter.

“Met her at a show,” she says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “She’s… whatever.”

It’s not nothing. You can tell by the way she says it. You see her a few days later. Not by accident. Eddie’s the one who points her out, subtle, like he doesn’t want to make it a big deal.

“That’s her,” he says, nodding slightly toward the other side of the room. You follow his gaze, and there she is. Confident. Easy. The kind of person who doesn’t wait to be noticed. You look at her. Then at him. And something shifts again. Not all at once. Not loud. Just enough. Just the beginning.

It doesn’t happen all at once. If it did, it would be easier to name, easier to call out, easier to stop before it gets too far ahead of you. Instead, it builds slowly, in pieces you don’t notice until they start stacking up in ways you can’t ignore anymore. At first, it’s just time.

Eddie’s gone more. Not completely, not in a way that feels like he’s avoiding you, just elsewhere, more often than he used to be. He still shows up, still sits with you, still plays like nothing’s changed, but there are gaps now, spaces where he used to be that you don’t quite know how to fill.

Then it becomes her. Paige.

Her name slips into things too easily, like it belongs there, like it’s always been part of the conversation even when you know it hasn’t. You don’t say anything. You just notice.

It’s late when you end up at Ronnie’s, the two of you stretched out across her room the way you always are, music playing low enough to fade into the background. She’s flipping through something on the floor, muttering to herself about a line she doesn’t like, and you’re staring at the ceiling, not really listening, not really anywhere.

You don’t realize how quiet you’ve gone until she stops talking. “…okay, what’s wrong with you?”

You blink, turning your head slightly. “What?”

She’s already looking at you, brows pulled together, something sharper than usual in her expression. “You’ve been weird all night,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Don’t act like you haven’t.”

You shrug, too quick, too automatic. “I’m fine.”

She snorts. “Yeah, alright,” she mutters, tossing her notebook aside and pushing herself up so she’s facing you now. “Try that again.”

You look away, jaw tightening slightly as you focus on a spot on the wall like it might give you something else to think about. “Nothing’s wrong,” you say, quieter this time.

Ronnie doesn’t move. Doesn’t let it go. She just watches you for a second longer, like she’s deciding how far to push it, like she already knows she’s not going to drop it either way.

“Is it Eddie?” she asks.

You sit up a little, more out of instinct than anything else, like the question physically pulls you forward before you can stop it.

“No,” you say, too fast.

Her expression doesn’t change. If anything, it settles. “Right,” she replies, flat, like she doesn’t believe you for a second.

You let out a breath, running a hand through your hair as you shake your head, trying to brush it off, trying to make it smaller than it feels. “It’s just—” you start, then stop, because you don’t actually know how to say it without making it real.

“He’s just been… gone,” you say finally, like that’s enough, like that explains it in a way that doesn’t need more.

“Gone?” she repeats, tilting her head slightly.

“Not gone,” you correct quickly. “Just—not here.”

Ronnie’s eyes flick over your face, picking it apart in that way she does, like she’s reading everything you’re not saying as much as what you are. “You mean with her,” she says.

It’s not a question. You swallow. “Yeah.” The word sits there for a second, heavier than it should be.

Ronnie exhales slowly, dragging a hand down her face like she’s already tired of the conversation before it’s even finished. “They just hang out,” she says, not defensive, not dismissive, just careful.

You laugh. It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. “Yeah,” you say, shaking your head, pushing yourself up fully now. “I know.”

She watches you, something in her expression tightening slightly.

“But it’s not just that,” you add, quieter now, like you’re saying it more to yourself than to her. And then it spills out before you can stop it.

“He’s not here,” you say, the words catching slightly as they leave, like they’ve been sitting there too long. “He’s with her.”

The room goes still. Ronnie doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t argue. You let out a shaky breath, looking away again because you don’t want to see what her face looks like right now, don’t want to see if it confirms what you already feel.

“I don’t know,” you add, quieter now, like you’re trying to backtrack, trying to make it less than it is. “Maybe I’m just—overthinking it or something.”

Ronnie doesn’t answer right away. When you finally glance back at her, she’s already looking at you, something conflicted sitting behind her eyes, something she’s not saying out loud.

Which tells you everything anyway. “Yeah,” she says finally.

But it doesn’t sound convincing. Not to you. Not to her. And definitely not to whatever’s already started to settle in your chest.

The next day feels normal. That’s what makes it worse. The bell above the door chimes the same way it always does, the shop smells like dust and strings and something faintly metallic, and you fall into your routine without thinking about it too much: restocking, tuning a guitar someone left behind, ringing people up without really looking at them.

You don’t think about him. Not directly. Not yet. You’re leaning over the counter, flipping through a receipt book, when the bell rings again.

You glance up automatically. And there she is. Paige.

She walks in as if she belongs there, like she’s already familiar with the space, even though you know she’s not. There’s something easy about the way she moves, something practiced, like she’s used to being looked at and doesn’t mind it.

Her eyes land on you almost immediately. She smiles. “Hey,” she says, stepping up to the counter like this is casual, like this isn’t the first time she’s come looking for you specifically. “You work here, right?”

You straighten slightly, setting the receipt book aside. “Yeah.”

She nods, glancing around briefly before her attention settles back on you, like she already saw everything she needed to. “Cool,” she says. “I was hoping you would be.”

Something about that doesn’t sit right. “What do you need?” you ask, keeping your tone even.

She leans against the counter slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to make it feel like she’s settling in. “Nothing, really,” she says. “Just looking around.”

You nod once, not engaging more than you have to, reaching for something behind the counter just to give yourself something to do, something to break the way she’s looking at you like she already knows something you don’t.

“So,” she says, like she’s remembering something, “you know Eddie, right?”

Your hand stills for half a second. Just a second. Then you keep moving. “Yeah,” you say, not looking at her.

She hums softly, like that confirms something, like she’s piecing something together in real time. “He’s funny,” she adds, casual, like she’s commenting on the weather. “We’ve been hanging out.”

You nod again.  “Yeah,” you repeat, because what else are you supposed to say?

There’s a pause. Longer this time, then—“Oh,” she says suddenly, like something just occurred to her. “Wait.”

You look up. Her brows lift slightly, something almost apologetic settling into her expression, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I didn’t realize he had a girlfriend,” she says. The words land. Heavy. Sharp.

You stare at her for a second, trying to process it, trying to figure out if you heard her wrong, if there’s something you missed in the way she said it. “…what?” you ask, quieter now.

She tilts her head slightly, like she’s confused by your confusion.

“Eddie,” she repeats. “I didn’t know you guys were… a thing.”

Something in your chest drops. Slow. Controlled. Like your body’s trying to keep up with something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.

“He didn’t mention it,” she adds, softer now, like she’s filling in a gap that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

That’s the part that sticks. Not what she said. How she said it. Like it’s not a big deal. Like it’s just information. You don’t respond right away. You can’t. Because suddenly everything from the night before, from the last few weeks, from every small moment you tried not to look at too closely—all of it shifts. You feel it.

“You didn’t know,” you repeat, more to yourself than to her.

She shakes her head slightly, something almost sympathetic flickering across her face now. “No,” she says. “If I did, I wouldn’t have—” She stops. Just long enough. Then shrugs. “—you know.”

You do. You don’t want to. But you do.

The silence stretches between you, thicker now, heavier, like the air itself is waiting for you to say something, to react, to do anything other than stand there and take it.

Paige straightens slightly, smoothing her hands over the edge of the counter like she’s done what she came to do.

“Well,” she says, lighter now, like the moment’s already passed for her, “I guess that’s… something you guys should probably talk about.”

She smiles again. And this time—it doesn’t feel casual. “See you around,” she adds, before turning and walking out, the bell chiming softly behind her like nothing just happened.

You don’t move. Not right away. You just stand there, staring at the door long after it closes, the words replaying in your head in a way that doesn’t quite feel real yet. “He didn’t mention it.”

You swallow hard, your hand tightening slightly against the counter. And for the first time—you know. You don’t think. That’s the only way it happens.

The bell is still echoing in your ears when you move, hands already reaching for the register, for the sign, for anything that lets you get out of there faster. The motions are automatic—flip the switch, grab your keys, lock the door—and you don’t remember doing any of it by the time you’re in your car, engine turning over before you’ve even fully sat down.

Your hands are shaking. You don’t notice until you’re already driving. The roads blur together, every turn too sharp, too fast, the distance between you and his house feeling longer than it ever has before. Your mind keeps replaying it—her voice, the way she said it, the way it didn’t sound like a lie.

“He didn’t mention it.” 

You grip the wheel tighter. No. No, he wouldn’t—But he did. You know he did.

By the time you pull up, you’re already out of the car before the engine fully cuts off, the door slamming behind you harder than you mean it to, feet carrying you up the steps without slowing down, without giving yourself a second to stop. You don’t knock. You shove the door open.

“Where is he?” Your voice cuts through the house, sharp, louder than you’ve ever heard it come out of you before.

Al is slumped on the couch, mid-day beer already halfway finished. He startles just slightly at the noise, blinking up at you like it takes him a second to process what he’s looking at, like you’re out of place in a way he can’t quite figure out.

“Well, damn,” he mutters, pushing himself up a little, squinting at you. “What’s the rush, sweetheart?”

“Where is he?” you repeat, stepping further into the room, not even acknowledging him beyond that.

He lets out a low chuckle, something rough and amused, like he thinks this is funny.

“Easy,” he says, holding his hands up slightly like you’re the one causing a scene. “Kid’s not here.”

Your stomach drops. “Where?” you press, sharper now.

Al tilts his head slightly, studying you like this just got interesting.

“Work,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “Why?”

You don’t answer. You don’t trust yourself to. Instead, you shake your head once, already turning back toward the door, the energy still sitting under your skin like it hasn’t decided where to go yet.

Behind you, he lets out another low laugh. “Trouble in paradise?” he calls after you, something knowing in the way he says it that makes your chest tighten even more.

You don’t slow down until you get there.

The Hideout looks the same as it always does from the outside, nothing about it giving away how much it’s about to matter. The neon sign flickers slightly, the low hum of music bleeding through the walls, and for a second, you just stand there, chest tight, trying to steady something that isn’t going to steady.

Then you push the door open. The noise hits first: voices, laughter, the clink of glasses—and then the smell, familiar in a way that almost makes you hesitate, almost makes you remember every other night you’ve walked in here without thinking.

Deb notices you immediately. She’s behind the bar, mid-conversation, but her eyes flick up the second you step inside, something in your face catching her attention before anything else. She says something quick to the person in front of her, wipes her hands on a towel, and makes her way over before you even get the chance to ask.

“Hey,” she says, softer than the room around you, brows pulling together slightly. “You okay?”

You shake your head once, quickly. “Is he here?”

She doesn’t ask who. She doesn’t need to. Her eyes flick toward the back, then back to you, something careful settling in her expression. “Yeah,” she says. “In the back.”

You nod, already moving. “Hey—” she starts, reaching out just slightly, not enough to stop you, just enough to catch your attention. You glance at her.

“Take a breath,” she says, quieter now. You don’t. You push past the door.

He’s there, standing near the back wall, talking to someone you don’t even register, something half-finished in his hand, like he’s in the middle of a normal night, like nothing’s changed. Like nothing’s about to.

“Eddie.” Your voice cuts through it. He turns immediately.

The second he sees you, something in his expression shifts, confusion first, then something sharper, something more alert as he takes in your face, the way you’re standing there like you didn’t walk in, like you burst in.

“Hey,” he says, stepping toward you slightly. “What’s—”

“Did you tell her about me?” It comes out before he can finish. Before you can stop it.

He freezes. Just for a second. That’s all it takes. “…what?” he asks, slower now.

“Paige,” you say, like the name alone should be enough. “Did you tell her about me?”

There’s a pause. Too long. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes flicking away for half a second before coming back to you. “I—” he starts. Doesn’t finish.

Your stomach drops. “You didn’t,” you say, the words quieter now, but somehow worse.

“It’s not—” he tries again, stepping closer. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” you cut in, your voice rising without meaning to, the frustration finally catching up to everything you’ve been holding back. “Because she came into my job today, Eddie. She told me she didn’t even know I existed.”

His expression shifts again. Guilt. You see it. And that—that hurts more than anything else. “I was gonna tell you,” he says quickly, like that fixes something, like that makes it better. “I just—I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think?” you repeat, letting out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You didn’t think I’d find out? Or you didn’t think it mattered?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, something defensive breaking through now. “You don’t know what happened.”

“Then tell me,” you fire back immediately. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty simple.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to figure out how to say it in a way that doesn’t make it worse. “I messed up,” he admits finally, quieter now. “Okay? I know I did.”

You stare at him. “That’s it?” you ask, voice dropping, something steadier settling in where the anger was before. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” he shoots back, frustration creeping in again. “I can’t— I can’t undo it.”

“No,” you nod slowly. “You can’t.” The room feels smaller. Like everything’s closing in around you.

“I got the deal,” you say suddenly. The words cut through everything else.

He stops. “What?”

“I got it,” you repeat, holding his gaze now, not looking away this time. “Chicago. New York. They want us.”

Something flashes across his face: pride, surprise, something real, then confusion. “Okay,” he says, stepping closer again. “That’s—that’s good, right? That’s what you wanted.”

You shake your head slightly. “I wasn’t gonna take it.” That lands harder.

His brows pull together. “What?”

“I was thinking about staying,” you admit, the words coming out steadier than they feel. “About—about not going. About staying here. With you.” He goes still. Completely. And for a second, you almost hate yourself for saying it. Because now he knows. Now he understands exactly what he just broke.

But it’s too late. You see it in his face. You see it in yours. You let out a slow breath, shaking your head once like you’re clearing it, like you’re pushing something away before it can settle.

“But I’m not doing that anymore,” you say. The shift is immediate. Final.

“I’m taking it.”

“Wait—” he starts, stepping forward again. “Don’t—don’t do that. Not like this.”

“Like what?” you ask, almost calm now. “Like I finally choose something that isn’t going to leave me first?”

“That’s not what this is,” he says, shaking his head, reaching for you like he doesn’t know what else to do.

You step back. Just enough. It’s small, but it’s also everything.

“It is,” you say quietly. “I just didn’t think it would be you.”

That hits him deep; you can see it. But it doesn’t change anything. Nothing changes. You hold his gaze for one second longer. Then you turn, and you walk out.

Two years later, you’re not the same person. Not really.

Hawkins feels smaller when you come back, like something you outgrew without realizing it, the streets too familiar, the air too still. You don’t stay long when you do pass through—never more than a few days, just enough to remind yourself where you started before you leave again.

Your life exists somewhere else now. Stages instead of bedrooms. Crowds instead of the same handful of people. Songs that don’t belong to just you anymore, even when they still feel like they do. You don’t think about him the way you used to. Not constantly. Not like something you’re trying to hold onto. Just—sometimes. In passing. In lyrics, you don’t admit that they are about him. In the way, certain chords still feel like they belong to someone else’s hands.

The club is packed. Hot, loud, bodies pressed too close to the stage, the kind of place where the air sticks to your skin and everything feels just a little too intense. It’s nothing you’re not used to by now. You step into it easily, guitar settling against you like it always does, like it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.

The lights hit. The crowd reacts. And just like that, you’re in it.

The first song starts, your voice cutting through the noise, steady, controlled, practiced in a way that feels almost effortless now. You don’t think about the people watching you. You never do. That’s how you get through it. Song after song. Until—you look out. And you see him. It takes a second. Just one. For your brain to catch up to what your eyes already registered.

Eddie Munson. Standing in the crowd like he didn’t leave, like he didn’t disappear into something you tried not to think about, like he belonged here just as much as you do. Your breath stutters. Barely. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough.

He’s older, but so are you. But it’s still him. Same eyes. Same way of looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out, he already knows the answer to. And for a second—everything else fades. All of it is gone. Just him, watching you. And just like that—you remember everything. “This one’s called All I Wanted.”

this series is my favorite, but maybe I'm just a sucker for heartbreak in my own sick way. don't forget to check out Demolition Lovers if you haven't already!

i've started to add a word count on my posts because i have noticed some comments about the length, so i apologize in advance, my squirrel brain gets an idea and i just type away.

i can also start to make more shorter-form stories, one shots etc. just let me know:)

which wasn't a rarity, it was just that today was particularly awful and nothing on this wretched site is seeming to satiate the ache between your legs.

eddie always seemed to be able to, watching the one video of him being ridden like an absolute stallion over and over until you'd cum enough times to fall asleep.

but you need him, need him here.

the ache keeps coming back, each time worse than before. a deep, aching hunger for this strangers cock. it was debauchery, genuine filthy need to be used by this man that the autoscroll videos of puppies playing with ducklings couldn't even cleanse.

you click the small envelope on his profile on a whim, it's not like he'd ever see your message, god knows how many desperate women and men alike sent him utter vulgarity day in day out. this was more for your own appeasement. to know that you tried, even if you weren't successful.

you've posted a few videos here and there, garnering a couple hundred likes on a few. mostly just of your hand between your legs, shuddered gasps soundtracking the tapes. but you were nowhere near on eddie's level.

he had thousands of followers, all salivating at the mouth, clambering for the next video, the next stream of him mindlessly playing with his cock- hell, they'd cream themselves for just a tweet back saying hi.

🐇baby

i need to fuck u so bad lol.

he wouldn't even see it.

you'd be cursed to a life of anonymous thirsting forever. unless of course you accidentally stumbled upon him in the street, accidentally bumping his shoulder which forces you to apologise, therein which he falls deeply, madly in love, fucking your brains out each and every day until the end of your lives.

but as delusional as you may be, you know that the likelihood of that ever happening is zero to none. so, instead of pining over some dude you'll never meet, you lock your phone and attempt to fall asleep. dreaming sweet musings of curly-headed men who live to make you cum.

-

the shrill ringing of your alarm is abrupt, forcefully prying you from your dreamland and back into the dull dregs of corporate life.

you don't even look at your phone until the coffee is in your mug, leaning over the kitchen island to find what was perhaps the worst notification you could've ever received.

edward🖤 is that u on ur page? if it is....... i'm down very down

oh my god.

your heart thuds, feeling the mismatched beats in your throat.

firstly on account for him even seeing your disgraceful thirsting, but secondly for the fact that he's very down.

very down?

mortification rushes through your veins, heat creeping through your body in complete disgust. and arousal. definitely arousal.

🐇baby oh hey.... didn't think you'd actually see that i'm so sorry🫣 ya they're me but i don't post my face #corporategirl

jesus christ.

you were beyond redemption, so disgustingly down bad for this man that he had you quivering over your burnt black coffee at six thirty in the fucking morning.

that far-fetched, ludicrous fantasy of yours seemed so terrifyingly feasible now that you want to cull it from your mind. rid yourself of any and all fantasies about him, just in case you were to meet and he could somehow read your tainted mind.

work today would only be made a hundred times harder knowing that you'd be waiting for a message back. for some inkling of hope to keep this facade up. he'd probably do it too- play along with your sick games in a bid to get you to pay for his top-tier onlyfans or some shit.

-

it's almost lunch before you're completely calmed down, absentmindedly checking your phone when you see that stupid little black heart again.

edward_munz followed you back!

edward🖤 i see everything lol do you really need to or do you have post nut clarity and regret ever sending that message bc i don't if you were wondering

you hate the fact that he has your ears burning from four silly little messages, only despising yourself more for immediately replying.

🐇baby that's so scary no post nut clarity here

you spare a quick glance around the, mostly silent office, making sure nobody was creeping over your shoulder, checking in on their pervert coworker.

🐇baby you just nutted? without showing me?🥺

you're disgusting.

immediately regretful for your no-better-than-a-dude's words.

🐇baby omg i'm sorry ew

he doesn't reply, or even see the messages. forcing your heart into arrest, your pussy already throbbing at the most surface level flirting the twitter dm's had ever seen.

the knot in your stomach grows with every passing minute, was it over now? before it had even started? you should've kept your mouth shut, participated in the parasocial teasing and then gone home to up your sub amount like a good little follower instead.

ping

edward🖤 sent an image

you tentatively click the notification, it'd be a sub-list. one telling you to send him an extra ten dollars for the dm's package.

oh no.

your head snaps up, glancing at your unassuming colleagues again. double, triple insurance that none of them could see your phone screen.

it's a picture of his lower stomach, covered in a thick white tinted substance, the curly hairs on his groin all slicked with the stuff and the pretty pink tip of his glistening cock in the background.

edward🖤 is that anything? proof enough for u?

🐇baby wow fuck i'm at work rn NEED to fuck you for sure or need you to fuck me maybe

edward🖤 if ur serious, i'm always down ur fucking hot

you're fucking hot?

coming from the very man that had you pleading for mercy from your own bastard hand. you're honoured, completely, unabashedly honoured.

🐇baby i'm so serious are u?? don't make me get my hopes up for nothing edward🖤 ofc i am do u even live anywhere near indiana?

indiana? the love of your life has been in indiana this entire time?

🐇baby i live in indiana! lol i live just outside the city what about you? edward🖤 hawkins lol that's like a 40 minute drive from me u might be worth it tho 🐇baby might be? edward🖤 ok WILL be better?

🐇baby much better r u 100% serious i've never done this before i don't know if you're just trying to be nice edward🖤 100% serious. if ur scared we can always ft before?

you grin at your phone, a loser of the highest order. it was the bare minimum chivalry that one would expect but it had you biting your lip anyway.

edward🖤 but i wanna see you i mean it 🐇baby okay i want to see u too u don't even know what i look like lol edward🖤 true show me if we're gonna make sweet love or wtv i should know 🐇baby lolllll

you scroll through your camera roll, swiping past the numerous images of your food and the sunset in an attempt to find a half-decent picture of yourself. there's one taken from your laptop, lead on your stomach with your feet dangling helplessly in the back with your finger positioned right between your teeth.

edward🖤 reacted ❤️ to your message fuuuucckkkk and you want to fuck me? why?? 🐇baby oh my god don't do that you know ur hot edward🖤 i'm so fucking hard again lol wyd saturday?

it's taking everything within you not to scuttle off to the bathroom to ease the pulsing of your cunt. he was ridiculously smooth. charming his way right into your sodden panties, not that that wasn't an easy feat for someone who looked like him.

🐇baby nothing or... i can be doing something if u want edward🖤 now you are i'm coming over need to feel u so so bad

there’s a knock at your cubicle wall, startling you out of your skin. kristy swings round, none the wiser to your deplorable antics, "we're gonna grab some lunch, you coming?" so completely oblivious to how much her choice of words rang true.

you shield your phone with your entire body, protecting her from the filth that lay upon it, you're not entirely sure who would end up more traumatised. "oh.. uhm yeah, let me just finish up and i'll meet you downstairs," nodding sweetly, a complete facade to cover up who you really were.

🐇baby i’m so so sorry i have to go work thing i’ll make it up to you later

edward🖤 oh fuck you that’s so mean i’ll remember that i’m gonna stream later you better be there

his invitation makes you smile to yourself, haphazardly tossing your belongings into your bag, hoping your beaming grin and warm skin wouldn't arouse suspicion with your coworkers. you've no idea how you'll make it through lunch, let alone the rest of your workday all the while knowing eddie was barely an hour away, stroking his cock to the thought of you.

🐇baby wouldn’t miss it

-

you don’t waste a millisecond between getting through your front door and thinking about how you’ll make it up to eddie.

shuffling through your usual routine of stripping off your rigid work clothes, reheating whatever bland variation of leftovers left in the fridge and planting yourself on the couch to watch hours of trashy tv. only today, you move upstairs, to your bedroom— to privacy.

you had an array of previously filmed videos, mostly awfully-lit, barely legible thirty second clips of you cumming, made for the sole purpose of garnering likes from thirsty old men online. they wouldn't do, weren't up to the standard that he deserved for your cruel blue-balling.

it comes to you as you finish the borderline inedible spaghetti, sat cross-legged on your bed. you'd make it up to him a thousand times over, and no doubt rile him up a thousand more.

🐇baby when r u going live need to see u

edward🖤 look at you begging for me now you still owe me but give me ten and i'll be live

perfect.

enough time to set yourself up, laptop poised and ready to go, pussy purring for a glimpse of his ringed fingers pumping his shaft. knowing now, that he was just as eager to fuck you, as you were him- you wanted to make this something, worthwhile even. purposefully changing into an especially racy pair of black panties, not that he'd see much, that wasn't the point.

your phone buzzes, snapping you out of the enchanting visions of him fucking you into the mattress. a link, to his stream sits waiting, taunting. making the distracted fluttering of your cunt oh so much worse.

edward🖤 just for you

you tilt the laptop screen, just enough to be captured by your phone, joining the stream to a dimly-lit image of him sat resting on his elbow. one hand wrapped around his phone, the other moving slowly over his hip.

his eyes flit between whatever was on his screen to the chat, thousands of faceless people begging to see more. eddie could go live anytime and be certain that at least a thousand porn-brained sickos would be tuning in to watch.

"how's your day been?" he asks, voice seeping through your dark bedroom, "y'think about me at all?" chuckling low, still engrossed by whatever it was he was watching.

god, you hope it's you.

the chat lights up with a hundred messages. ‘all day everyday!' and 'i never stop thinking about you' fill the screen. he had them wrapped around his little finger, lapping up the petty scraps he threw them.

and don't get it wrong, you were absolutely one of them. look at the state he'd gotten you in without ever touching you.

your hand sinks down between your thighs, phone positioned carefully on your chest as you hit record. he hadn't even started touching himself yet and you were soaked. the commanding boom of his voice, the lazy eye contact with the camera and the sheer exhilaration of knowing you'd see exactly what you do to him on camera.

your fingers dip into the soft lace, circling your clit a few measly times before sliding between your wet folds and into your quivering hole, "oh fuuck," gasping right into the microphone, words intertwined with shaky moans.

eddie looks at the camera, as if he's looking through the plastic right at you, "a little excited today, aren't you?" fucker, it's like he knows. "'m gonna start in a sec.." gripping his dick through the material, ensuring the vulgar outline of his erection can be appropriately seen by all.

"shit.." murmuring without meaning to, so entirely wrecked by just a few words.

he tugs on his sweatpants, tongue peeking out of his shiny lips as his cock jumps up, hitting against his stomach, already glossy with pre-cum. "that what you wanted, hm?" wrapping his hand around the base as his phone falls onto the mattress, images of you already burned into his mind, you hope.

your fingers glide back to your clit, tracing around the thrumming nub, right in time with his fist moving up and down. you share the same tempo, despite the distance. that must mean something, maybe.

“oh eddie,” you whine, the video now a shaky haze, attributed to your imminent orgasm, “touch me.. fuck please touch me,” mewling into your phone, only exaggerating a little, mostly for his benefit.

it doesn’t take long for you to make yourself cum, fucking your fingers desperately, a pool of your spend coating the digits when your stomach flips. projecting a chorus line of expletives, littered with echoes of his name.

he grunts, just as you begin to tremble— connected by a higher being you’re sure. his thumb teasing his tip, drawing this out for as long as it took, milking the drooling sycophants for every last dollar they were willing to tip.

“please please please,” you pant, seeking his permission to let yourself topple over, “thank you.. thank- shit,” crashing into your climax, crying out with little care as to who could hear.

your phone slides from your heaving chest, almost immediately ready to go again when your eyes focus and connect with his.

it takes a minute, but you gain enough semblance of control eventually, tapping hurriedly to get the video sent and into his hands.

his phone brightens up the inked skin of his rib cage and for a moment you think he might just ignore it until he pauses, recognises your name and lets curiosity take over. the camera jolts, his laptop shoved slightly lower, so as to not expose whatever might be waiting behind the notification.

“oh shit,” eddie mutters, glancing at the chat only to instantly flick back to your little pornography attempt. “jesus christ,” swiftly lowering the volume of his phone when the video plays.

this is it.

everything you’d ever wanted, transpiring over a grainy livestream on a rainy thursday evening. it’s awe inspiring, just last night you had meant nothing to him and now you’re making him jitter like a stupid school boy.

the chat awakens when he puts the phone to his face, muffled sounds of your pleas ring out for thousands to hear.

what’s wrong?

pls don’t go!!!

need to see u cum👅

his hand reignites, watching diligently how your hips roll and you fuck yourself to his nonchalance, “fuck.. yeah, that’s it bunny,” he keens, the mindless nickname you’d given yourself tumbling out of his lips.

what’s he watching

who is that lol.

relentlessly fucking his fist now, no longer concerned with the stream, but instead you. every single sense of his is honed into you and his fucking cock.

he has a gf???

“y’gonna take my cock, huh?” voice full of rasp, dominance. you’re shivering all over again, grinding down onto nothing, “gonna cum all over my fuckin’ cock,” a demand, not a question.

your cunt drips, hand now back in your panties, teasing your clit with his words. with the image of him losing all composure to your video. his strangled moans travel through the speaker, masquerading the wet shlick of your pussy.

“doin’ so good f’me..” you can see his fingers scramble restart the recording, the others vigorously pumping around his cock, “ohh.. shit, bunny. fuck, i gotta feel you.. need’a..” trailing off into silence to allow your wails through clearly.

who even is that.

this is so fucking hot🥵

wish that was me

the tattoos littering his body gleam with sweat, flexing with every jerk of his hand, every time your syrupy iteration of his name calls out through the phone. it’s sickening how your own voice makes you shudder, getting off to yourself seemed narcissistic but it fills your stomach with electricity.

eddie must agree, sighing into the air with zero constraint, “gonna fill you up.. yeah? you want that? want me to cum inside y’perfect pussy?”

“fuck yes.. fuck.. please,” begging him, so feeble. at his mercy and so willingly too.

the camera wobbles, matching his ferocious pace though you see him perfectly. see his pretty cock twitch between his palm, “fuck yeah baby.. fuck yes, gonna cum.. gonna cum right here,” garbled nonsense mostly but it sends you hurtling into another orgasm.

seemingly just in front of his own, strained sobs fall out of his pouted lips, deliriously chanting your display name, “yes bunny, take it— take it all,” thick ropes of cum paint his hand and thighs, over and over.

jesus christ🔥🔥🔥🔥

just came everywhere lmao!

he’s ruined, a shell of the cocky, egotistical exterior he had on prior. and all because of you.

his arm falls to his side, then, abruptly the screen goes dark, his laptop snapped shut without so much as a goodbye nary thank you to his loyal following.

there’s maybe a single second of silence before your phone explodes, vibrations one after the other alerting you to his frenzied messages.

edward🖤

ur fucking crazy

genuinely fucked

did you see how much i fucking came

do u want me to lose my mind??

was that u making it up to me bc shit

your heart beats a million miles a minute, if this was what happened over some low quality livestream, how would you ever cope with him in actuality? there’s not a chance in hell you’ll make it out alive.

🐇baby

so you liked it??

edward🖤

i’m abt to drive to your house rn

i’ll show you how much i liked it

loved it

i loved it

🐇baby

please do

i came twice lol

i want u

edward🖤

im gonna cum again

show me u rn

just anything

pls

you diligently open the camera, cheek pressed into the pillow with your eyes wide, gazing directly at him through miles of separation. in the most ludicrous way, it feels like he’s peering right back— together even though you couldn’t be further from it.

edward🖤

fuvkkkk gof

i’m cumming

i’m in love with u

come here

let me come ther idc

come on my face

The door to the bungalow sticks a bit when you try to open it, which causes Eddie to lean his weight into it with his shoulder behind you. Warm air starts to follow you inside along with the smell of salt and sunscreen from the girls and the fried food in the takeout bag Gareth is clutching to his chest. Sand tracks across the tile under your feet even though both girls swore up and down they rinsed off properly at the showers. 

“Shoes.” You remind them quietly, holding the beach bag to your own chest as you nudge the shoe mat into place with your toes. 

Roan kicks her shoes off without looking and they land a few feet from where they should be. Alice slides hers off and sets them on the mat side by side. Alice’s hair is still damp from swimming, hanging down her back in straight pins instead of her normal curls. She pushes it off her shoulder and looks out the glass doors towards the water. 

The sky has gotten darker and the wind was much stronger than it was an hour ago. You can see how things are starting to pick up in the way the palms bend instead of sway. 

Eddie drops the towels over the back of one of the dining chairs and stretches his arms above his head until his back pops, groaning softly. His curls are frizzed from the salt and humidity. “I’m officially done with sand.” He chuckles a bit, walking over to press a warm kiss against the back of your neck. “It’s in places that don’t make sense.”

“You say that every time we visit a beach.” Gareth sighs as he sets the takeout bag and drink carrier down on the table. 

The weather radio on the kitchen counter crackles to life suddenly in a burst of static. Everyone pauses for the automated voice that follows. 

“Tropical storm warning in effect for coastal areas through tomorrow morning. Guests are advised to remain indoors and avoid shoreline activity.”

Roan looks up from her seat on the couch, peeking towards the glass doors, “that doesn’t sound great.”

“Resort said storms swing wide half the time.” Gareth says with a shrug as he starts unpacking the food. “We’re solid here, girls. Don’t worry.”

Eddie just nods, hoping that Gareth’s right. “Reinforced windows, my little cryptids. We’re okay.”

Then the thunder starts to roll in.

Nobody rushes around, trusting that Gareth and Eddie know what they’re talking about. If you can’t trust your dad then who can you trust? So they open containers of food and let the steam rise. The normal motions help settle the girls, passing things around, making plates, giving out napkins, but Eddie can tell just how thick the tension in the room is. 

Then the lights flicker overhead. 

Alice looks up, frowning a little, “that better not keep doing that.”

“It won’t.” Eddie says softly, turning where he sat to look towards the hall, trying to remember where the flashlights he’d seen were stashed. “Probably just wind on the lines. Everything’s fine.”

The lights flicker again, gone for longer this time, before they steady back out. 

And then the rain begins. It’s loud on the roof. Hard enough you can hear the individual impacts of the drops hitting the tin before it blends into a steady roar. The wind follows, blowing heavily in uneven gusts. And halfway through eating their dinner, the power cuts out completely. 

Everything drops to black instantly. And it gets so quiet. There’s no hum of the AC, no talking, just the noise of the storm outside. 

Roan exhales heavily, a bit of a shake in her breath. “Okay… I hate this.”

“Just… stay where you are, okay?” You say softly, setting your food aside to reach out for your daughter. 

“I got it.” Eddie says at the same time you speak. He pushes himself up and moves quietly, his hand brushing against the wall to guide him. You hear a closet door open and something plastic knocks over, as well as a few expletives from your husband. Then you hear a click and a flashlight beam opens up brightly in the hallway. He walks it back into the room and hands it over to Alice. 

“Hold that for me.”

She takes it and nods, straightening her posture just a bit as she holds the flashlight. 

Then another gust of wind hits the little bungalow. Roan shifts a bit closer to Gareth, who just sighs and drapes a comforting arm around her. “You’re fine.” He says softly. 

“Dad’s grabbing more lights.” You remind the girls as you catch a glimpse of your oldest’s face. “Ed, there’s two more in the kitchen drawer.”

The sound of the storm grows even louder. The rain is coming down at a slant now, hitting the glass door hard. The girls are doing their best to act unfazed, but you can see how their eyes keep drifting to the windows. 

Eddie comes back with the flashlights and turns them on, setting them out to light up the room. Then he claps his hands together once, softly, “Hey? You girls wanna help me with something?”

Roan looks over from where she sat with Gareth, “what?”

“A fort.” He shrugs. 

She gives him a strange look and then peeks at you before back to him, “seriously?”

“Yeah, why not?” He says with a little chuckle. “Gives us something to do.”

And it doesn’t take long for the girls to give in. Couch cushions come off and dining chairs get brought into the living room. You pull extra blankets from the hall closet and Gareth braces them on the backs of the chairs so they don’t slide. Hands move and adjust and restack everything. The wind keeps howling outside, but inside this little project gives them something to focus on. 

When the fort is finished, it’s fortunately big enough for all of you, albeit the low ceilings. You set the flashlights up in mugs on the inside to bounce the light around the space, which now glows in a soft honey color. 

The girls crawl in first, then you, then Eddie and Gareth follow. The air on the inside of your fort is warmer, which has you pinning up your makeshift door. The rain keeps drumming harshly above you, and thunder cracks louder and closer.

Alice jumps slightly and Eddie’s hand finds her arm, rubbing slowly just like he used to do when she’d get scared as a little girl. 

“It’s just noise, Tater.” He whispers to her, “We’re good.”

Gareth opens the candy bag he’d been stashing and passes it over to the girls without so much as a joke. And then the girls start to get comfortable, lying back where they can (as close to Eddie as they can get). Roan tries to steady her breathing and Alice makes shapes with her fingers in the light.  

Eddie watches them quietly in the dim light. Roan’s asleep first and Alice follows not too long after. He smiles a bit and looks over at you. 

“You okay, Bats?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah.” You nod, leaning against his shoulder. 

He nods, lying back himself, pulling you with him. He stretches out his legs, careful not to kick Gareth’s snoring body. He kisses your head and pulls the blankets up over you both. 

Outside, the storm keeps moving around you and inside, your family settles in the space. Knowing that Eddie would never let anything happen to any of you. 

The beach is hot at midday. Much hotter than it is in LA, or Indiana, where they normally spend the first few weeks of summer break. But now, they’re somewhere Eddie couldn’t pronounce with the sun sitting high in the sky. there’s a breeze blowing in steady off the water. The air around them carries a mix of salt and the smell of coconut scented sunscreen up the sandy coast. The resort staff has been more attentive than you could ever imagine. The second you had mentioned maybe heading out to the beach, they’d already set up your chairs, an umbrella, and placed thick towels rolled at the end of each lounge chair. 

Roan grins wide, dropping into one of the chairs with a happy sigh. “This place just gets it.”

Alice claims the lounge chair closest to the water and kicks her sandals off, tossing them to the end of her chair. “If anyone needs me,” she sighs happily as she leans back, sliding her sunglasses onto her face. “don’t.”

“You’re both spoiled, I hope you know.” You chuckle softly as you move the lounger around a bit to be closer to Eddie’s. 

“You made us this way.” Alice just shrugs and slides in her earbuds, opening the book she’d brought along with her. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Eddie drops the beach bag down beside your chair and sits in his with a huff. He stretches his legs out into the sand in front of him and smiles up at you. He looks so different when he’s truly off duty. His hair, which is just above shoulder length these days, is pulled back in one of your elastics and he’s wearing an old band tee and his swim trunks. His sunglasses are on but they’re slipping down his nose with each turn of his head. 

Gareth settles into the chair on your other side and tips his face up towards the sun, absorbing the rays just like a plant, as he kicks back to lounge. “I’m not moving for at least an hour.”

After about twenty minutes of Alice being occupied by her book, the girls eventually drift down towards the water. Drawn by the noise and motion of other kids their age. Roan runs into the water with little hesitation and yelps at how cold it is. Alice follows her into the water, much slower, but laughing just as loud as soon as the waves start to lap around her knees. A small group of boys joins their orbit after a few moments and before you knew it, they were talking, splashing, and showing off to one another very badly in front of the Munson girls. 

Eddie watches everything unfold from behind his sunglasses and brings his beer to his lips. 

You turn a page in your own book, glancing over at him before back down at the page in front of you, “you good?”

“Mhm.” 

You just nod and smile softly.

He rolls his eyes, leaning forward to reach over your body and pluck your drink from the table on your opposite side that you and Gareth were sharing. He smiles as he does, winking as he’s still leaned over you. You can feel your cheeks getting hotter, even after all this time. He takes a sip, immediately scrunching his face. “That looks better than it tastes.”

He sighs and sets the drink back on the table, careful not to spill the beer in his other hand as he leans back in his lounge. 

“You don’t like it?” You ask.

“No. That shit’s awful. Dunno how you drink it.” He chuckles and rests his hand on your thigh as he relaxes back in his seat. You turn back to your book, skin feeling hot where he touches. 

Right behind you, two women pass your row of chairs and you can see when the recognition hits them. They do a double take at Gareth and Eddie. You can see them whisper to one another and motion to Gareth— the one with the wife sitting right beside him is off limits, you suppose— before they step over and say hello. 

Gareth sits up a little when he notices them, lifting his head and pushing his sunglasses up to pin his curls out of his eyes. He’s got a little shy smile on like he’ll just charm the pants off these women in three seconds flat. He answers their questions happily, even asks them some of his own. He nudges the eyes that wander over to Eddie back on him without really having to try. After that, it turns into a quiet conversation with really no effort at all. The redheaded woman laughs at something he says and reaches out to touch his forearm. He doesn’t pull away. He’s acting a little flustered, for the show, but he’s comfortable. After years and years of the exact same situation— this was his element. 

You turn your head towards your husband and raise an eyebrow, your words coming out quiet enough Gareth doesn’t notice. “You gonna get him?”

Eddie peeks over and then takes a sip of his drink, taking note of the rings on each girl’s hand, shaking his head slightly. “Nah.”

In the water, Alice is laughing at something one of those boys said. The sound carries up the beach and Eddie smiles and nods his head towards the girls when you catch his eye. “Think they’re okay?”

“They are.” You nod and place your hand over his on your thigh, giving him a reassuring squeeze. 

You both watch as Roan tries to dunk someone and ends up getting dunked herself. She comes up sputtering and furious. The boys scatter, laughter ringing out. Alice is doubled over, laughing so hard she can’t even help her. 

And beside you, Gareth keeps the conversation going. He’s got an easy rhythm going now. He’s telling stories and sharing complaints about his years traveling and the weather today and music festivals he was playing here soon. The blonde sits on the empty lounger beside him, shamelessly flirting. Eddie lets it run on a bit longer while you both peek again. Eddie catches a glimpse of the men who must belong to the girls talking to one another a few yards away. He finishes his beer and pulls his hand away from yours to dust the sand off his lap. Then he leans forward in his chair to look past you and over at his stupid stupid best friend. 

“Gare.”

Gareth stops mid story and looks over, annoyed, “what?”

“They’ve got husbands.” He nods to their hands, each adorning golden bands.

Eddie raises an eyebrow as Gareth keeps on. Okay then, get your ass handed to you, I’m not stepping in.

“I’m just having a conversation.” Gareth sighs and turns back to the women in front of him as he waves his hand dismissively, “He does this. Just ignore him.”

A few moments later, one of the women blushes as they both stand and says, “We were actually going to see if you guys wanted to come down to the bar later…”

Then unfortunately for him as he’s about to agree, a man who Gareth deems can definitely take him in a fight, wanders up and wraps an arm around the blonde’s waist. Gareth sighs and looks at Eddie for a moment. Eddie just lifts one shoulder in response before leaning back in his chair. Then Gareth glances at the girls. He really doesn’t feel like getting his ass kicked today, “It was really nice talking to you.”

They must take it well, because they’re still smiling when they leave and head off to the bar along the boardwalk with their men in tow. 

Gareth sighs again and sits back, reaching for his beer on the table. “You realize you and your observations are keeping me from getting laid.”

Eddie laughs, “You’re welcome.”

“That is not a thank you situation there.”

Eddie chuckles and shrugs again, “I’m keeping you from getting your pretty boy ass kicked and catching something.”

Gareth sighs and just drags his sunglasses back down over his eyes as he settles back in his lounger.

Alice and Roan come running back up the sand just a few minutes later, dripping wet with sea water. Alice grabs her towel from the end of her chair and starts drying her brown curls more harshly than probably necessary. “Those boys are idiots.”

“Most are.” Eddie chuckles. 

She narrows her eyes at him and huffs. “Did you say something to them?”

“No! When would I have the chance? I haven’t moved from your mother’s side.” He chuckles softly. 

Roan drops into the chair beside her sisters. “He didn’t. He just stared at us all the whole time.”

“I did not!”

“You did!” Roan laughs quietly.

Alice groans and rolls her eyes, “that’s worse, dad.”

Eddie rolls his eyes yet again and just reaches forward to pull her towel tighter around her shoulders as Roan looks over. 

Eddie sits back again and just glances at you. “Having a good day?” he asks. 

You nod, closing your book. “Yeah. It has been.”

Gareth shows up around noon, unannounced but not completely unexpected. He’s at your house more often than not on Saturdays. Sometimes he’ll pop in during Eddie’s usual rush around the house and they’ll sit outside for a smoke and a laugh and he’ll end up staying through dinner. You heard that damn hummer pull up out front, followed by the usual slam of the door and his, “Alright, where’s Tater at?” before you even made it out of the kitchen. Now, just a few hours later, he’s sitting with his legs outstretched in a patch of grass not too far from the back porch steps with a plastic mixing bowl in his lap and mud streaked halfway up his arms.

Alice is in her tiny yellow rain boots and one of Eddie’s old Corroded Coffin shirts that hangs almost to the ground and standing beside him with a stick in her hand. “Stir gentle, Uncle Gaff,” she huffs and frowns.

“Gentle, huh?” Gareth echoes her request, doing his best to stay patient with her as he swirls the stick through the murky mixing bowl. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” she nods, pushing curls away from her face with little mud caked hands. “’Cause it’s potion! For Daddy’s hair.”

From the porch steps, Eddie snorts around the neck of a budweiser. “My hair doesn’t need a potion, baby. It’s magic all on its own.”

You glance over from where you’re sitting at the table, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “It’s frizzy all on its own, too.”

He rolls his eyes, twisting at the waist to look over his shoulder at you. “Bats! Really?! In front of our child?”

Alice glances between the two of you, confused only for a moment before the mud potion in her Uncle’s lap takes up her mind again. She looks at Gareth and giggles, “Daddy needs sparkles.”

Gareth snorts, pulling a small handful of gravel from the bucket (they’d gathered the contents from the driveway) beside them. “Alright then, sparkles it is.” He chuckles softly as he sprinkles the stones into the bowl. He gives a nod when Alice leans over his shoulder to look and inspect their concoction. “This’ll make the shiniest hair west of the Rockies, guaranteed.”

Eddie groans from his spot on the stairs, tipping the bottle back up to his lips, “If you dump that on me, Gareth, so help me—”

He’s cut off because it’s already too late. Alice scoops up a very wet handful of her mud and stones and drops it right in Eddie’s lap. “Potion!”

By the look on his face you’d think someone had killed his dog rather than drenched him in mud. “Gareth, you turned my best friend against me!”

Alice lets out a shriek of laughter as Gareth leans back on one arm and tries to wipe the mud from his jeans with his other hand. “It was your decision to make me her Godfather, man.” He lazily shrugs. “I’m just fulfilling my sacred duty of corrupting your offspring.”

Eddie sighs, placing his drink on the stair beside him before he stands and scoops Alice up in his arms. She squeals, kicking her muddy feet coating her, Eddie, and Gareth all in mud again. You can’t help but laugh, watching them spin together in the soft gray post-rain light. When Gareth finally stands, he brushes the grass from his knees and ass, and then glances at you as he shakes his head.

“You married a lunatic.” He mumbles, catching a glimpse of your husband now throwing a very happy daughter into the air before catching her again. 

You take a sip of your coffee, eyes trained on Eddie and Alice in the yard. “Yeeaaaah.”

The clouds start their assault again, just a little drizzle over the course of several minutes. It’s soft and cool and Eddie tilts his face up toward it. Alice giggles even louder than the hum of the rain. 

“See, Bats?!” He calls over, turning back to you with wet bangs now plastered to his forehead. “We’re making memories!”

You shake your head, smiling. You swear you fall more and more in love with him every day. “You’re making more laundry.”

He grins, bright even in the rain, “same thing, sweetheart.”

It’s hotter than you expected it to be this far into the woods. It’s not suffocating or sticky, but you can definitely feel the humidity has gone up in the last ten yards. Cicadas are buzzing overhead so loudly, you think they may be trying to out scream one another. Somewhere deeper up the trees, a bird takes off in a startled flutter as you continue on in its direction. 

Eddie follows behind you, breathing heavily and flooded with mock suspicion. 

“Bats.” he calls, shoes crunching over each and every twig you encounter. “If you wanted to murder me, all you had to do was ask. We could’ve done it at the house and saved ourselves this hike.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, the blanket still tucked under your arm and the basket swinging in your hand. His face is flushed red and his bangs are damp. You just smile. “You think I’d murder you in broad daylight?”

He looks up, squinting at what little of the sky is visible through the canopy. “Sun’s going down. That’s like… prime slasher lighting.”

You roll your eyes and turn back towards the direction you were walking, “you watch too many movies, Ed.”

He just rolls his own eyes, picking up his pace to pull you against him. You start. You both laugh. You share a kiss between smiles and giggles. 

When you finally break free from one another, you push through one last curtain of low branches and step into the clearing your brother had shown you once. It opens up soft and lush and so green in front of you both. Tall grass littered with purple flowers sways gently and there’s a narrow stream off to the side. The sunlight reflects off of it and catches the glint in your boy's eyes. The sun’s already starting to dip low, you made it just in time. 

Eddie is quiet behind you and that’s how you know you made a great decision on the location of your date. You turn and catch him standing there, unsure of how to position himself. His curls are frizzing from the humidity, his shirt is sticking to him— no doubt from the sweat the hike has worked up. But his brown eyes look warm in the light. He’s taking it all in. He doesn’t want to miss a single inch of this place. 

“Okay.” He breathes out finally, his hands settling on his hips. “Yeah. If you murder me here? Definitely worth the last hour we spent walking uphill.”

You snort out a laugh and walk further out into the grass. “Just lay down, drama queen.”

You spread the blanket out. He takes off his jacket, tosses it in the grass beside him, and then he drops onto the blanket immediately, grinning. “I live to serve.”

“You live to be annoying.” You counter.

He just smiles at you brightly, folding his hands behind his head and crossing his legs at the ankle. Just getting himself comfortable. “You brought snacks?” he asks. 

Instead of answering, you just sit beside him and start unpacking the basket’s contents. A couple of unfortunately warm sodas, the chips you know he likes, a few sandwiches, and an entire container of fresh strawberries. “You planned a whole picnic for me?”

“Obviously.” You shrug, pretending it’s not that big of a deal— even if your stomach is doing that stupid fluttery thing. “You said you’ve never just… watched a sunset without, like, being chased or grounded or in trouble or something.”

He laughs quietly. It’s not even really a laugh, it’s just a faint huff of breath with a grin attached. “Yeah, well, Hawkins isn’t big on peaceful moments for the freaks, baby.”

You just nudge his shoulder, “you’re not a freak, you know?”

He turns his head towards you, eyebrows raising when he meets your gaze. “Bats. I play D&D in Gareth’s basement and own more black clothing than a funeral home would know what to do with.”

“And? That makes you a freak?”

“Nah, think the devil worshipping did that.” He jokes softly. 

You lie back beside him then, using one of his arms as a pillow. The grass around you is warm and scratchy, even through the blanket. And the stream makes this quiet and steady sound of water slipping over stones in the background. 

And for a while, you both just talk. 

You talk about nothing and about everything. He tells you about this new campaign idea he has, gesturing wildly at the sky above where the clouds pass over slowly. You pluck a strawberry from the container and press it against his lips mid-sentence until he bites it, grumbling through a mouthful of the fruit. 

“You’re distracting the dungeon master.”

You laugh and just roll onto your side, facing him as you prop yourself up on your elbow. The sun’s lowering faster now, the sky turning a bright orange and then a deeper pink. The light hits his cheekbones just right. Makes his eyes look like molten gold.

He catches you staring and his cheeks tinge pink. “What?” he asks, just a little quieter. 

“Nothing.”

“Bats.” 

You reach out to trace the faint white line of a scar near his chin. He instinctively chases after your touch. “You look… different out here is all.”

“A good different?” He asks, voice dipping to a low whisper. 

“Yeah.” You whisper. “Of course a good different.”

He just looks at you, studying your features for a second as you watch the gears turn in his brain. Then he reaches over and hooks a finger in the belt loop of your shorts, tugging you into him so you land on top of him with a small oof. 

“There.” He mumbles, “Now you look a good different too.”

Your hair falls around the both of you, blocking out some of the pink light reflecting off his skin. His hands settle at your waist and then slide into your back pockets. 

“You ever think about getting out?” you ask him quietly, tracing the collar of his shirt with your fingertip. 

“Out of Hawkins?”

“Yeah.”

“Literally all the time.” He breathes out softly and sighs, blinking as he looks up at the sky. “But I dunno… It’s like… I talk this big game. Like we could go on tour. We could blow this joint. Gareth thinks we could, anyway. But then I think about Wayne and Dustin and the other kids and I’m not sure… And now…” His eyes flick over to yours. “Now I think about you too and I definitely don’t want to leave without you. But—”

You swallow. There goes your stomach again. 

“I’d make it with you in my corner… You don’t scare easy.” He says softly. “Most people do.”

“I’m not most people.” You point out. 

“No,” he agrees. One of his hands leaves your back pocket and slides up your back. His fingers find their home splaying between your shoulder blades to press you closer to him. “You’re not.”

The sun is dipping lower now. The sky is shifting into streaks of faint purple and amber. Fireflies start blinking around you, settling onto the purple flowers and tall grasses. It’s beautiful and magical and Eddie is definitely not watching it. 

He’s watching you.

And then, he tilts his head up and kisses you. It’s not rushed. Neither of you have nowhere to be but wrapped up in one another. It’s not heated in the way it sometimes gets when you’re making out in his van— there are no windows to fog up after all. This kiss is slower and softer. His lips are warm from the sun and faintly sweet from the strawberries. 

You kiss him back and you swear you’re starting to feel something. It isn’t fireworks and it isn’t panic, you can’t quite place it— but you’re pulled from the very thought when he rolls you over, pressing you to your back on the blanket and holding himself above you. 

He pulls back barely an inch. Hooded eyes blinking as his mouth brushes yours, speaking, “Hey.” He mumbles, his voice staying low so he doesn’t disturb the crickets starting to chirp along the bank of the stream. 

“Hey.” You whisper back. 

His nose nudges yours as he places another gentle peck against your lips, “You’re real pretty like this.”

The sky behind him has melted into a deeper shade of violet with its last streaks of gold. The last of the light catches in his lashes. All you can do is swallow and will any heat threatening to creep up your neck away. “Like what?” you whisper. 

“With me.” He says softly. 

Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric at his shoulders. He just kisses you again, just as slow as the last one. 

The stream keeps moving a few yards away. The sky keeps deepening until it spreads out into an inky black twinkling with your favorite stars. The world narrows down to the weight of him on top of you, the warmth he radiates, and the way his thumb brushes across your cheek. 

And that’s when it hits you. 

You love him. 

This ridiculous, loud, big-hearted boy who thinks he’s harder than he is. This boy who swears too much and laughs too loud and doesn’t judge you for any of the things you love. He looks at you like you hung the damn moon in the sky just to see him smile. 

He’s not kissing you now. He’s talking about something. About how if he ever does make it big, he’s buying you “a stupid big house with, like, gargoyles or some shit.” and you just smile up at him because he has absolutely no idea of how full he makes your chest. 

“Eddie,” you whisper. 

“Yeah?”

You hesitate to answer. Not because you’re unsure. But just because you want to stay in this moment with him just a second longer before you go and change everything. So you just slide your fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck and pull him down into another kiss instead. 

He hums against your lips, pleased with you or himself, you aren’t sure which. And he melts into your body. 

The sun is gone completely now, leaving the sky bruised and twinkling. It’s beautiful. The fireflies flicker brighter now, and the first cool hint of the night creeps across your skin. 

But you don’t say it. 

Not yet. 

He lies beside you then, his arm hooked under your head as his fingers lazily draw patterns along your shoulder. Right now, you know you love him. You know your life will never be the same without him. 

And somehow, you think maybe he knows it too. 

The arcade noises on Starcourt’s upper floor spills out of the doors and fills the space above you. The fountain splashes away a few feet to your right and the smell of buttered popcorn from the theater mixes with the sugary pretzels and fried food in the food court. 

And it’s just bright enough inside that Eddie squints and shields his eyes with his hand. “Jesus.” he mumbles, “do they need this many lights?”

You roll your eyes, “don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”

“No.” He chuckles a bit. “I’m sensitive to artificial lighting.”

You pause for a moment, both eyebrows raising, “Eddie… You sell drugs behind a gas station.”

“That’s literally under like… one lightbulb.”

This is only the second time you’ve hung out and he walks beside you now with his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans. He’s abandoned his jacket, a plain black shirt taking its place. His curls are just a bit frizzy from the humidity outside and you half have a notion to pull it back in that bandana. Keep it out of those pretty brown eyes you actually enjoy seeing from time to time. 

He bumps into your shoulder lightly as you pass the entrance to the theater. “We’ve still got time.” He says softly, glancing at the showtimes posted above the ticket counter. 

You nod, shrugging, “yeah… thought we could grab something first.”

He shrugs himself, “works for me.”

The food court is pretty busy, almost every table is half full. The soda machines along the side hiss every few seconds while someone fills a cup. Trays clatter as they’re smacked against tabletops and the smell of fries smothered in vinegar lingers in the air longer than you’d prefer. You manage to claim a small table near the railing, overlooking the lower floor after retrieving your tray. You place it on the table between the two of you before sitting down. 

Eddie drops into the chair across from you and stretches his legs out beneath the table. He doesn’t even wait before reaching over and stealing one of your fries. 

You raise both of your eyebrows, puzzled. 

He pauses midbite of fry and looks back at you, genuinely confused on your reaction. “What?”

When you don’t respond, he smiles, lifting another fry. “This is shared territory now, sorry to say.” 

You shake your head, heat creeping up the back of your neck. How does he manage to keep you feeling like this? You reach out and lift your cup, taking a sip as you watch the people moving through the food court around you. A little kid runs past your table, chasing another one while their mother calls after them to slow down and watch where they’re going. 

Then you hear a faint clink of metal against the tabletop and see Eddie tapping his rings. He clears his throat and leans forward, crossing his arms to rest on the table. “You come here much?” He asks after a few minutes. 

“Oh… sometimes.” You say softly. “Mostly when it was new. Don’t see a point in coming by myself really.”

He nods and looks around again. It’s not exactly his scene and you can absolutely tell. The place is too bright, too full of screaming children and women who look like they’ve got too much money to burn. He takes it all in, curious, and hopes to God your movie will be playing soon. 

You scoot your chair in a bit and push the tray a little closer to him. “You can have some more of the fries, you know?”

He nods and reaches for another one, which makes you smile and reach across to grab a fry for yourself. Your hands brush lightly against one another. He doesn’t move away. A crash echoes through the room at that moment, so he glances over his shoulder at the sound before back at you. 

“You know,” He starts quietly, sliding the fry through a glob of ketchup. “This might be the nicest place anyone’s ever taken me on a date.”

You look at him confused. It’s the mall. “You’re kidding right?”

He shrugs one shoulder, leaning back in his chair again. “Usually it’s like… a picnic table somewhere where we won’t be seen. Or the back of my van or something.”

“That’s very…” You want to say awful. But the sarcasm beats it out. “Romantic.”

A quiet moment settles in after that. The noise of the food court fills the space between you while you both just watch the people pass. After another moment slips by with nothing happening, you know you’ve bombed this. Your pretty almost rockstar from the bar you slip away to see every Tuesday will never accept another one of your calls. 

And then he nudges your shoe lightly with the toe of his sneaker under the table. “Are you having a good time?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah.” You nod. Does that sound sincere?

“You sure?”

You smile a little, nervous, and nod. “Yeah, Eddie. I’m having a good time.”

He takes his time, studying your face. Is he trying to decipher if you’re lying or not? Why would you lie, he should know you want to be here with him. Just as that familiar embarrassed warmth starts to bloom across your chest, he nods. You almost sigh in relief as he seems satisfied by the answer. He reaches over to grab another fry from the tray. 

After a few more moments just sitting together, he glances toward the theater and then pushes his chair back. “C’mon.” He smiles, standing and grabbing the tray before you could even think about doing it. “Movie’s starting soon.”

You stand with him now, watching as he tosses the empty cups into the nearest trash can you pass. 

Eddie slows beside you while the crowd shifts a bit in the ticket line. The smell of the popcorn, all warm and buttery, gets stronger the nearer you get to your destination. And he’s standing so close. So close that your arms touch. Your hands brush against one another and without really thinking about it, he hooks his pinky around yours. 

It’s such a small thing, but it makes your heart leap out of your chest. You look at him and you can swear there’s the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

And he doesn’t let go, not until you reach his van after the credits roll. 

You’ve interviewed legends.

Not the kind of bands people think are big, not the ones that trend for a month and disappear just as quickly, but the kind that leave dents in history, the kind that redefine what music is supposed to sound like. 

You’ve sat across from Black Sabbath while they spoke like they were half myth, half memory, watched Mötley Crüe tear through a press room like it owed them something, listened to Metallica answer your questions with that controlled, coiled intensity that always feels like it could snap if pushed just a little too far.

And you never flinched.

That’s what people know you for, what your editor at Rolling Stone likes to brag about when your name comes up in meetings. The way you don’t soften your questions, the way you lean in instead of back, the way you can pull something real out of men who have spent years perfecting the art of giving nothing away.

Misty Meadows, they call you.

It sticks better than your real name ever did.

So when your manager steps into your office without knocking, already holding a folder like it’s something he expects you to take without question. You don’t even look up at first, just finish scribbling the last line of your notes before you speak, voice even, unimpressed.

“Unless they’ve come back from the dead,” you say, flipping your pen between your fingers, “I’m not interested in another reunion piece.”

There’s a pause. The kind that tells you this isn’t routine.

“You’re going to want this one,” he says, and when you finally glance up, he’s already sliding the folder across your desk, the name printed across the front in bold, black lettering.

Corroded Coffin. You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to. Not confusion, but recognition.

Your jaw tightens, just slightly, just enough that someone who doesn’t know you wouldn’t catch it, but your manager does, because he’s been watching you work long enough to recognize when something actually gets under your skin.

“No,” you say flatly, pushing the folder back toward him without opening it. “Give it to someone else.”

He doesn’t take it. “I insist.”

That makes you laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just disbelief, sharp and quick. “Insist all you want, I’m not doing it.”

“Misty—”

“No,” you repeat, firmer this time, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you’ve already closed the conversation.

“I know who they are. I know who he is. And I’m not babysitting some up-and-coming frontman with an attitude problem just because he thinks being difficult makes him interesting.”

Your manager exhales through his nose, slow, measured, like he expected this, like he was already prepared for the pushback.

“He’s not up-and-coming,” he says. “Not anymore.”

You don’t respond, but he doesn’t need you to.

“They’ve blown up,” he continues, tapping the folder lightly against your desk. “Sold-out tours, charting records, the whole thing. And every single interviewer we’ve sent in there walks out with nothing usable because he won’t play nice. Dodges questions, turns it into a joke, or just shuts down entirely.”

Your eyes flicker back to the name. Corroded Coffin. Eddie Munson.

“Sounds like a them problem,” you mutter.

“It’s a you solution,” he counters immediately. “You’re the only one who can handle him.”

That gets your attention. Not because you agree, but because you hate that a part of you might.

Your gaze lingers on the folder for a moment longer before you finally reach for it, flipping it open with a kind of reluctant precision, scanning headlines, photos, snippets of interviews that say everything and nothing all at once.

Rough around the edges. Unpredictable. Difficult. Your lips press into something almost like a smirk.

“Fine,” you say, closing the folder with a soft snap. “But if he wastes my time, I’m walking.”

Your manager’s shoulders loosen just slightly, victory settling in before you even fully commit to it.

“He won’t,” he says. You don’t answer that.

By the time you step out of your office later that afternoon, you already look the part, not that you ever really turn it off.

Your hair falls in dark waves past your shoulders, black as ink, broken up only by chunky highlights of platinum that catch the light every time you move, sharp and deliberate. Like they were put there to make sure no one forgets what you look like after you leave the room.

Your tattoos aren’t hidden, not completely. They trail down your arms and neck in a mix of fine lines and heavier ink, some delicate, some bold, disappearing beneath the sleeves of your jacket, reappearing at your wrists, at the edge of your collarbone, like glimpses of a story people don’t get to fully read.

Everything about you is intentional.

The way you dress, the way you walk, the way your gaze lingers just long enough to make people second-guess themselves before you look away, as if they were never worth your time to begin with.

Misty Meadows isn’t just a name. It’s a reputation. One you’ve built carefully, piece by piece, interview by interview, until it became something people either respect or fear, depending on how much they have to hide.

And as you tuck the Corroded Coffin file under your arm, heading out the door with that same steady confidence, there’s only one thought sitting at the back of your mind, quieter than the rest, but persistent.

You already know exactly what kind of man Eddie Munson is. The question is whether he has any idea what kind of woman he’s about to sit across from.

The door to the dressing room is already half-open when you get there, music bleeding out into the hallway in low, distorted waves, something loud and fast and a little unpolished, like it hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be yet.

You pause just long enough to take a breath, not out of nerves, but habit, the kind you’ve built from years of walking into rooms where everyone thinks they have the upper hand until you prove otherwise.

Then you push it open.

The room smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne layered over something metallic, amps humming softly in the corner, guitars propped against walls like they’ve been abandoned mid-thought, and the band scattered around in various states of half-prep and half-chaos, conversation cutting off just slightly when you step inside, not completely, but enough that they’ve clocked you.

Good.

You let the door fall shut behind you, unbothered, unhurried, your gaze sweeping the room once, taking everything in before it lands exactly where you expect it to.

Eddie Munson.

He’s slouched back on a worn couch like he owns the place, one arm thrown over the back, rings catching the dim light, dark curls pushed out of his face just enough to reveal eyes that are already on you, sharp, assessing, a little amused, like he’s been waiting for something interesting to happen.

You cross the room like it belongs to you, extending a hand just enough to be polite, not enough to feel like you need him to take it.

“Misty Meadows,” you say, voice smooth, practiced, just the right amount of detached. “I’ll be doing the interview.”

His gaze flicks to your hand, then back up to your face, dragging just a second too long to be accidental, taking in the highlights threaded through your hair, the ink along your arms, the way you’re standing like you couldn’t care less whether he cooperates or not.

He doesn’t take your hand. Instead, his mouth curls, slow and crooked, something lazy but intentional.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough around the edges in a way that feels almost curated, like he knows exactly how it sounds. “Figured it was you.”

You don’t pull your hand back immediately, just let the silence stretch a fraction longer before dropping it on your own terms, like it never mattered in the first place.

“Good,” you reply lightly. “Then we can skip the part where you pretend you don’t know who I am.”

A couple of the guys in the room snort under their breath, shifting, suddenly a little more interested, but your attention doesn’t leave him.

Eddie leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees now, like you’ve earned a closer look, like he’s recalibrating in real time.

“You always this friendly,” he asks, head tilting just slightly, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to place something he hasn’t quite figured out yet, “or am I just special?”

There it is. You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you let the silence stretch, just a second too long to be accidental, your gaze flicking over him in return, not shy about it, not apologetic, taking him in the same way he just took you in, like you’re assessing, filing things away for later.

Then, slowly, something like a smile curves at the corner of your mouth, quieter this time, less sharp, more knowing.

“Still deciding,” you say, stepping past him, close enough that the space between you feels intentional, like you’re aware of it, like you chose it, your attention already shifting as you set your bag down on the cluttered table, pulling out your recorder with practiced ease.

Behind you, there’s a soft exhale of a laugh, but Eddie doesn’t move right away. You can feel it. The way he watches you.

“I don’t usually get interviewers that hesitate,” he says after a beat, voice lower now, less performative, like he’s speaking more to you than the room. “Thought you’d have me figured out by now.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, one brow lifting slightly, like the assumption almost amuses you.

“If I figured you out that quickly,” you reply, tone even, but lighter, “this would be a very short interview.”

That does it. Something shifts in his expression, not disappearing, not softening, but sharpening in a different way, like you’ve given him something to work with instead of something to push against.

“I could make it easy for you,” he offers, leaning forward just a little, forearms resting on his knees now, attention locked in. “Answer all your questions, behave, be real helpful.”

You turn fully this time, meeting his gaze without rushing it, without breaking first.

“But you won’t,” you say.

Not a question. He smiles, slower now, like you got it right.

“No,” he agrees.

Challenge accepted. 

The red light on your recorder glows steadily between you, small but authoritative, a quiet reminder that whatever this is, whatever this turns into, it’s being captured, documented, turned into something the rest of the world will eventually consume.

You settle back into your chair like you’ve done this a thousand times, pen poised, notebook open, gaze lifting to the band for just a moment before landing, inevitably, right back on him.

“Alright,” you say, voice even, professional without losing that undercurrent of something sharper.

“Corroded Coffin. You’ve gone from playing small venues to selling out entire tours in what feels like no time at all. What changed?”

It’s an easy opener, intentional. Eddie notices.

You can tell by the way his mouth curves, like he recognizes the setup, like he knows you’re giving him room to either play along or ruin it.

“People finally got good taste,” he says, leaning back into the couch, one arm draped over the back again, casual, effortless.

A couple of the guys laugh, chiming in with half-serious agreement, but you don’t write it down right away. Instead, you watch him for a second.

“Is that the official answer,” you ask, “or the one you give when you don’t feel like thinking too hard?”

There’s a quiet shift in the room. Eddie’s eyes flicker, something amused sparking there, but he doesn’t deflect this time.

“Depends,” he says, gaze holding yours, “you gonna make me think?”

You don’t look away. “I can,” you reply simply.

Then he exhales, something almost like a laugh slipping out under his breath as he leans forward, elbows on his knees again, posture changing just enough to signal he’s playing differently now.

“Alright,” he says. “We stopped trying to sound like anyone else.”

That, you write down. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he continues, glancing briefly at the rest of the band before looking back at you, “we used to chase what we thought people wanted to hear. Bigger bands, bigger sounds, whatever was working at the time. And then we kinda just… stopped.”

Your pen moves more slowly now, more deliberate. “And that worked.”

“It worked because it was real,” he corrects, not defensive, just certain. “Turns out people can tell when you’re faking it.”

Your lips press together slightly, not quite a smile, but close.

“Careful,” you murmur as you jot that down. “That almost sounded sincere.”

There’s a low chuckle from the room, but Eddie’s focus doesn’t break.

“Don’t get used to it,” he says.

“I won’t.”

You flip the page in your notebook, shifting gears smoothly.

“Your lyrics,” you continue, “they’re darker than what’s charting right now. Less polished, more personal. Where does that come from?”

This time, he doesn’t answer right away. You don’t fill the silence. You let it sit, let it stretch, because that’s where the real answers tend to live.

Eddie’s gaze drops for half a second, fingers tapping once against his knee before stilling, like he’s deciding how much to give you.

“Life’s not exactly clean,” he says finally. “Didn’t really make sense to write it like it is.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him, not pushing yet, but not letting it go either.

“Most artists still dress it up,” you say. “Make it easier to swallow.”

“Yeah,” he nods once. “That’s boring.” That earns him a small, genuine smile this time, quick but there.

“I’ll make sure to quote you on that.”

“Please do.”

There’s a moment where neither of you speaks, something quieter settling in under the surface of the conversation, something that feels less like an interview and more like something else.

You clear it before it lingers too long.

“Your fans,” you say, glancing briefly at your notes before looking back up, “are very… invested. There’s a kind of intensity there you don’t see with every band. Why do you think that is?”

He huffs out a soft laugh, leaning back again, but it’s different now, less dismissive, more thoughtful.

“They see themselves in it,” he says. “In the music, in us. We’re not exactly polished.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

He grins at that, just slightly. “You disagree?”

“I think,” you say, tapping your pen once against the page, eyes never leaving his, “you know exactly what you’re doing.”

That lands heavier than anything else you’ve said. You can tell by the way his expression stills, just for a second, like you’ve stepped a little closer to something he didn’t expect you to reach.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

You don’t elaborate, you don’t need to. Eddie leans forward again, slower this time, like he’s choosing it.

“And what do you think I’m doing?” he asks.

Your thumb brushes lightly over the side of your recorder, grounding, steady. Then you meet his gaze fully, unflinching.

“Keeping people at just enough of a distance,” you say, voice calm, measured, “that they want to get closer.”

His mouth curves, not wide, not performative, something smaller, something more real.

“Sounds like someone I’m talkin’ to right now.”

You don’t react right away. Just hold his gaze, steady, unwavering, before finally glancing down at your notes, breaking it on your terms.

“Maybe,” you say lightly, turning the page like nothing just happened. “But I’m not the one being interviewed.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

You hear it. Your lips twitch, just barely, before you press on, voice smooth, composed, like you didn’t feel the shift at all.

“Last question,” you say. “Where does Corroded Coffin go from here?”

He watches you for a second longer before answering, like he’s deciding whether to say something else instead.

Then, “Wherever we want,” he says. “We’re not really the type to sit still.”

You nod once, clicking your pen shut. “That much is clear.”

You reach forward, stopping the recorder, the soft click louder this time, more final. The room exhales around you, conversation starting to pick back up, movement returning, but for a second longer, neither of you moves.

Eddie’s still watching you. And this time, there’s no performance in it at all.

“Not bad, Meadows,” he says, voice quieter now, meant just for you. “You might actually be worth the hype.”

You gather your things with practiced ease, slipping the recorder back into your bag before finally looking at him again, expression unreadable, but not cold.

“Careful,” you echo softly. “You’re starting to sound impressed.”

He smiles at that. Slow. Certain. “I am.”

You don’t answer. You just sling your bag over your shoulder, turning toward the door like you’ve already decided this is over, like you’re done here. But just before you step out, you pause, glancing back at him one last time.

“Next time,” you say, almost offhand, like it doesn’t matter, “try not to hold back so much.”

And then you’re gone. Leaving him with just enough to want more.

The bar is dim in the way you like, not trying too hard to be atmospheric, just naturally worn in, low lights casting everything in amber and shadow, the kind of place where no one asks too many questions and no one cares if you sit alone for hours with a drink you barely touch.

You come here because of that.

Because after a day of being Misty Meadows, of being sharp and composed and just a little untouchable, it’s one of the few places where you can slip out of it without anyone noticing the difference.

Or at least, that’s the idea.

You slide onto your usual stool, ordering without looking at the menu, something simple, something you don’t have to think about, fingers tapping lightly against the bar as you wait, your gaze drifting out over the room more out of habit than interest, and then it lands on him.

Eddie’s across the bar, half-turned toward one of his bandmates, something animated in the way he’s talking, hands moving, head tipped back slightly as he laughs at something you can’t hear from here. He looks different outside the dressing room, less contained somehow, like the energy he kept just under the surface earlier has nowhere to go but out now.

For a second, you consider leaving. Not because you’re avoiding him. Just because you don’t need this to turn into something.

But then your drink is set in front of you, condensation already forming against the glass, and you take a slow sip instead, eyes flicking away like you never noticed him at all.

It’s easy enough to pretend. You’ve done it before.

You angle your body slightly toward the bar, back half-turned to the room, attention dropping to the faint ring your glass leaves against the wood as you set it down again, letting the noise of the place blur into something distant.

A few minutes pass. Maybe more. And then—

“Didn’t think you were the type to stick around after the job’s done.”

His voice is closer than you expect. Right behind you. You don’t turn right away.

Instead, you take another sip, slow, deliberate, setting the glass down before finally glancing over your shoulder, just enough to catch him standing there, hands shoved loosely into his pockets, expression somewhere between curious and amused.

“Didn’t think you were the type to follow your interviewers,” you reply, tone easy, like this is nothing, like you didn’t clock him the second you walked in.

His mouth quirks at that, but he doesn’t rise to it the way he did earlier.

“Didn’t follow you,” he says. “Been here.” You hum softly, turning back to face the bar, but you don’t dismiss him.

Then the stool beside you shifts, the faint scrape of it against the floor as he takes the seat without asking, close enough that you’re aware of him, not close enough to crowd.

“Hi, Meadows,” he says, a little quieter now, like it’s meant just for you.

You let out a small breath that almost passes for a laugh, finally turning your head to look at him properly, something lighter in your expression this time, less guarded.

“That’s not my real name,” you say, matter-of-fact, like you’re stating something obvious. “Just my pornstar name.”

He blinks, his body going completely still. 

And then you break, a soft chuckle slipping out as you shake your head slightly, like you couldn’t even keep a straight face through it.

“Relax,” you add, glancing back at your drink before lifting it again. “I’m kidding.”

Eddie’s watching you in a way that feels different now, less like he’s trying to figure you out and more like he’s just taking you in.

“Yeah?” he says, a hint of a grin pulling at his mouth. “Had me convinced.”

“I get that a lot,” you reply easily.

Another small pause settles between you, but it’s not awkward.

You tap your fingers once against the side of your glass before finally offering, a little more genuine this time, a little less Misty.

“It’s—” you start, then give your real name, letting it sit there between you without dressing it up, without turning it into something performative.

He repeats it under his breath, like he’s testing the way it sounds, like he’s committing it to memory.

“Better than Misty Meadows,” he decides.

You glance at him, one brow lifting slightly.

“Careful,” you murmur. “That name pays my bills.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back slightly in his seat, eyes still on you. “But this one sounds like you.”

That catches you off guard. Not enough to show it, but enough that you don’t answer right away.

Instead, you take another sip of your drink, gaze drifting forward again, a faint smile lingering at the edge of your lips like you’re deciding what to do with that.

“Don’t get used to it,” you say finally, softer now, but not pulling away. “You don’t get the off-the-record version of me that easily.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh beside you, something warm threaded through it.

“Funny,” he says, turning slightly toward you, elbow resting against the bar. “Could say the same thing.”

You glance at him again, slower this time. “Good,” you reply. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

And just like that, the game begins.

Then, from across the bar—“Eddie!”

One of his bandmates, loud, half-laughing, waving him over like whatever’s happening over there is more chaotic, more immediate, more them.

Eddie doesn’t look away from you right away. His eyes linger, like he’s weighing something, like he’s deciding whether to ignore it, like he’s not quite ready to let this moment go just yet.

“C’mon, man!” the voice calls again. “You’re missin’ it!”

You tilt your head slightly, glancing past him toward the group before looking back at him, expression unreadable but just amused enough to push.

“Go,” you say lightly, lifting your glass to your lips. “Wouldn’t want to keep your audience waiting.”

His mouth twitches, something reluctant in it now, something that wasn’t there before.

“Try not to disappear,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he’s not entirely joking.

You don’t promise anything. Just hum softly, like you might, like you might not. It’s enough.

He pushes off the stool, dragging his gaze off you with a kind of effort that doesn’t go unnoticed, stepping back toward his band, the noise swallowing him up almost immediately, laughter and voices and movement pulling him right back into it.

And just like that, you’re alone again. Or, at least, you look like you are. You take another sip of your drink, slower this time, eyes fixed forward, but your awareness doesn’t dull, not completely. It never does.

You can feel it again, the shift. The attention that comes when someone new takes notice. It doesn’t take long.

“Mind if I sit?”

The voice is unfamiliar, a little too confident, a little too practiced, and when you glance to the side, there’s a man standing there, already halfway into the motion of pulling out the stool like he expects you to say yes.

You consider him for a second. Then—“Depends,” you say, turning slightly toward him, letting your gaze linger just long enough to feel intentional. “Are you interesting?”

He laughs, a little surprised, but not put off.

“I can be,” he says, settling into the seat beside you anyway. “Guess that’s up to you to decide.”

You hum, tilting your glass gently, watching the way the light catches against it before looking back at him, something softer in your expression now, something easier.

“Alright,” you concede, like you’re granting him something. “You’ve got five minutes to convince me.”

Across the bar, Eddie hears it. He doesn’t mean to, but he does. And when he glances over, you’re turned toward someone else. Closer than you were with him.

Your posture is open, relaxed in a way that feels different. The guy says something you don’t catch, but you laugh, quiet and genuine, your hand brushing briefly against his arm like it’s nothing, like it’s instinct.

Eddie stills. Not obvious. Not enough for anyone else to call him on it. But his attention locks in.

Back at the bar, you lean just slightly closer to the man beside you, lowering your voice like you’re letting him in on something, your smile curving in a way that feels a little more deliberate now, a little more crafted.

“And what do you do,” you ask, fingers idly tracing the rim of your glass, “when you’re not trying to impress strangers at bars?”

He grins, leaning in to match your energy. “Who says I’m trying to impress you?”

You glance at him, slow, measured, like you’re considering that. Then, “Because you’re still here,” you say simply.

He laughs again, a little louder this time, a little more hooked.

Across the room, Eddie exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, gaze flicking away for half a second before snapping right back, like he can’t help it.

He watches the way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your smile shifts depending on what you’re given, the way you let the guy think he’s doing well, like he’s keeping up.

But Eddie knows better. He’s seen the version of you that doesn’t give anything away. And this—This isn’t that. This is intentional. Controlled. A performance. Your performance.

Back at the bar, your eyes flicker, just briefly, just enough to catch him looking. You don’t turn your head. You don’t break your conversation. But your lips curve, just slightly, into your glass as you take another sip. Like you know exactly what you’re doing. And exactly who you’re doing it for.

The conversation lingers just long enough to feel believable.

He’s talking more now, a little too comfortable, a little too confident in the way people get when they think they’ve figured you out, when they mistake your attention for interest instead of something far more temporary.

You let him. For a minute, maybe two. Long enough for it to matter.

“So what, you just go around interviewing rockstars all day?” he’s saying, leaning closer, voice dipping like he thinks it makes him sound more interesting. “That’s gotta get old.”

You tilt your head slightly, considering him, letting your gaze soften just enough to keep him talking.

“Sometimes,” you murmur, fingers tapping lightly against your glass. “Depends on the rockstar.”

He grins at that, like he’s in on the joke, like he’s earned it. “Yeah? Bet most of them aren’t as fun as me.”

His hand slides over your arm then, casual in the way men think passes for smooth, fingers brushing your skin like it’s an afterthought, like you won’t notice, or worse, like you won’t mind.

You do, but you don’t pull away. Not immediately.

Instead, your gaze drops to where his hand rests, slow, deliberate, giving him just enough time to realize what he’s done, just enough time for the moment to stretch. Then you move.

Your hand comes up, light but precise, wrapping around his wrist, not tight, not aggressive, just controlled. You lift his hand off your arm like it weighs nothing. Plop it back onto the bar between you. Your touch lingers for half a second longer than necessary.

Then you look back at him, expression calm, almost pleasant.

“Time's up. You’re not that interesting,” you say lightly.

The smile on his face falters, just slightly, confusion flickering in where confidence used to sit, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking.

You don’t give him the answer. And before he can recover—“Hey, babe.”

The voice cuts in from your other side, familiar, rougher now, edged with something that wasn’t there before. Eddie.

He doesn’t wait to be acknowledged, stepping in close enough that the space shifts immediately, presence taking up more room than it should, like he’s claiming it without asking.

Your gaze lifts to him slowly, measured, taking him in the same way you did earlier, but there’s something new in it now, something more aware.

“Thought I lost you,” he continues, tone easy on the surface, but there’s an undercurrent there, something tighter, something that doesn’t quite bother to hide itself.

“C’mon, we’ve got a table open.”

You glance past him briefly, toward the pool tables in the back, then back at him again, one brow arching slightly. “Do we?” you ask.

His mouth tilts, not quite a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “We do.”

You let it hang, just long enough to make it clear you’re choosing, not being pulled.

Then you turn back to the guy beside you, offering him a small, almost apologetic shrug that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Duty calls,” you say, like it’s unfortunate, like you might have stayed if things were different.

He blinks, still a little thrown, still trying to catch up.

“Right,” he mutters. “Yeah, sure.”

You’re already standing before he finishes, sliding off the stool with practiced ease, grabbing your drink, and downing the last of it in one smooth motion before setting the empty glass back on the bar.

Then you turn to Eddie. Close now, closer than before.

Your head tilts just slightly as you look at him, something amused flickering there, something that says you noticed everything.

“Babe?” you echo, soft, almost teasing.

He doesn’t back off. Doesn’t correct it.

“Seemed like it worked,” he says simply.

Your lips curve, slow and deliberate.

“Aw,” you murmur, stepping past him toward the back, not waiting to see if he follows, because of course he will. “Did someone get jealous?”

Behind you, there’s a quiet, low laugh. “Wouldn’t go that far,” he calls after you. But he’s already moving to catch up.

And neither of you believes that for a second.

By the time you reach the pool tables, the air shifts again, thicker back here, louder in a different way, the crack of balls against each other cutting through the music, laughter bouncing off the walls, neon lights catching on glass and metal and movement. Eddie’s right behind you.

“Oi, Munson,” one of the guys calls out, cue already in hand, grin sharp. “You finally done brooding or what?”

Eddie scoffs lightly, brushing past him, but there’s no bite in it, just familiarity. “Shut up.”

Then, with a tilt of his head toward you, “you guys remember—” he pauses, glancing at you like he’s giving you the choice.

You give your real name again. Not Misty. Not here.

“—and she’s with me,” he finishes, like it’s obvious, like it doesn’t need explaining.

“Gareth,” the same guy says, offering you a quick nod, eyes already curious, already clocking you in a way that feels more open than Eddie’s measured stare. “And that’s Jeff.”

Jeff gives you a small wave, more relaxed, but just as observant.

You return it easily, already picking up on the dynamic, the way Gareth leans loud and teasing, the way Jeff hangs back just enough to watch before he speaks.

“Teams?” Gareth asks, twirling his cue. “Or are you just here for moral support?”

Eddie glances at you, something almost challenging flickering there. “You play?”

You don’t answer right away. Just reach for a cue, spinning it once in your hand like you’ve done it a hundred times, like it’s muscle memory, not something you have to think about.

“I get by,” you say lightly. That’s all the confirmation he needs.

“Alright,” Gareth claps once, already moving to rack the balls. “Munson and—” he repeats your name, testing it, “against me and Jeff.”

“Hope you don’t suck,” Jeff adds, not unkindly.

You glance at him, a faint smile pulling at your mouth. “I won’t.”

The game starts.

Eddie breaks first, the crack loud and clean, balls scattering across the table in a messy spread, and for a second, it looks like any other casual game, like nothing’s riding on it, like it doesn’t matter who wins.

Then it’s your turn. You step forward without hesitation, leaning over the table, lining up your shot with a kind of quiet precision that doesn’t match the casual way you’ve been carrying yourself all night.

There’s a brief pause. Then, you sink it. Clean. No bounce, no hesitation, just a smooth, controlled shot that drops exactly where you want it.

Gareth straightens slightly.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Beginner’s luck.”

You don’t respond. Just circle the table, lining up the next one. And the next. And the next. Each shot is deliberate, calculated, effortless in a way that stops feeling like luck about halfway through your turn. By the time you finally step back, handing the table over, the energy has shifted completely.

Jeff lets out a low whistle.

“Alright,” he says, glancing between you and Eddie. “What the hell was that?”

Eddie’s not even trying to hide it now. The way he’s looking at you, it’s not surprise. It’s something way closer to impressed.

“Yeah,” Gareth adds, narrowing his eyes slightly, like he’s trying to piece it together. “Where’d you learn that?”

You twirl the cue lightly in your hand, shrugging one shoulder like it’s nothing.

“Playing pool with Mötley Crüe will do that,” you say, casual as anything.

“No way,” Gareth blurts, stepping closer like he needs to hear it again. “You’re serious?”

You glance at him, amused now. “Why would I lie about that?”

Jeff’s already leaning in, interest fully piqued.

“Wait, wait—okay, hold on,” he says, pointing at you like you might disappear if he doesn’t anchor the moment. “You’ve actually met them?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly. “I’ve interviewed them.”

That does it. “Jesus,” Gareth breathes, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, that’s—okay, that’s insane.”

“What are they like?” Jeff cuts in immediately. “Like, actually? Are they as wild as people say?”

“And Sabbath?” Gareth adds quickly. “You’ve done them too, right? What’s Ozzy like in person? Is he—”

“Do they remember your name?” Jeff interrupts. “Or is it like in and out, next person?”

“Have you ever had one go completely off the rails?” Gareth piles on. “Like mid-interview, just—gone?”

The questions start stacking, overlapping, rapid-fire, both of them talking over each other now, completely locked in, like they forgot the game entirely.

You laugh, real this time, holding a hand up slightly like you might try to slow them down, but not actually stopping them, not when it’s so easy, so natural to slip into this version of yourself.

Across from you, Eddie watches it all unfold. Quiet. Observing.

The way you answer without hesitation, the way you pick and choose what to give them, what to hold back, the way you shift between stories and half-truths and teasing deflections like it’s second nature.

Like you’ve done this a hundred times. Like you belong in those rooms. And for the first time tonight, he’s not trying to match you. He’s just taking it in.

“You always this popular?” he mutters finally, just loud enough for you to hear over the noise.

You glance at him, a slow smile pulling at your lips. “Only when I’m winning,” you reply.

By the time the game dissolves into something less structured, less competitive, and more just hanging around, the drinks have stacked up enough that the sharp edges of the night start to blur.

Gareth’s gotten louder, Jeff’s leaning into stories that take too long to land, and Eddie—

Eddie’s still close. Not hovering, but never far. You feel it in the way he keeps drifting back toward you, in the way his attention snaps back every time you speak, even when someone else is mid-sentence.

At some point, your glass is empty again. You don’t remember finishing it. You set it down anyway.

“I should go,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else, but Eddie hears it.

“Yeah?” he asks, straightening slightly, like the word 'go' pulled him back into focus.

You nod, pushing yourself off the edge of the table, smoothing your hands over your jacket like it’s a habit, like you need something to ground you for a second.

“Early morning,” you lie easily.

He huffs a quiet laugh at that, not calling it out, but not believing it either. “Right.”

There’s a pause, then he’s grabbing his jacket. “I’ll walk you.”

You glance at him, one brow lifting slightly, a hint of amusement cutting through the haze.

“Wow,” you murmur as you start toward the exit, not waiting to see if he follows. “Didn’t peg you for a gentleman.”

“Don’t spread it around,” he replies easily, falling into step beside you. “Ruins my reputation.”

You hum softly, pushing the door open, cool night air hitting your skin just enough to clear your head a little, the noise of the bar fading behind you as you step out onto the street.

For a while, you walk in silence. The kind that doesn’t need filling.

Your shoulder brushes his once, twice, not quite accidental, not quite intentional either, and neither of you comment on it.

“So,” he says eventually, glancing down at you, hands shoved into his pockets. “This your usual post-interview routine? Bars and mysterious exits?”

You glance up at him, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Only for the ones that keep things interesting.”

He huffs, shaking his head slightly. “Good to know I made the cut.”

You don’t answer that.

Just let it sit between you as you turn down your street, the buildings quieter here, lights lower, everything settling into that late-night stillness.

When you stop in front of your building, it feels abrupt. Like something’s being cut off before it’s ready. You turn to face him, shifting your weight slightly, keys already in your hand.

“Well,” you say lightly, gesturing toward the door. “This is me.”

Eddie nods once, slower now, like he’s taking it in, committing it somewhere. “Yeah.”

“Thanks,” you add, a little quieter. “For the walk.”

“Anytime.”

You turn then, stepping up to the door, unlocking it with a soft click before pushing it open, slipping inside without looking back right away. Because you don’t need to. You already know he’s still there. You can feel it.

And sure enough, when you glance over your shoulder—He’s turned slightly, like he’s about to head back the way you came, like he’s already made the decision to leave.

Something in your chest tightens, just enough.

“Hey.”

It stops him. He looks back.

You hesitate for half a second, fingers tightening slightly around your keys before you tilt your head toward the open doorway.

“You can come up,” you say, like it’s nothing, like it’s an afterthought. “If you want.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but enough for it to matter. Eddie studies you for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles into something quieter, something more certain.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You shrug lightly, stepping back just enough to make space for him to follow. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes. He steps forward, closing the distance between you, the door falling shut behind him with a soft click that echoes just a little too loudly in the quiet.

The hallway up to your apartment is dim, the kind of building that’s seen better years but doesn’t bother pretending otherwise, worn carpet, flickering light at the far end, the faint echo of someone’s music bleeding through the walls. You don’t comment on it.

Just lead him up like it’s routine, like you’ve done this a hundred times, keys already in your hand by the time you reach your door. There’s a small pause as you unlock it. Then you push it open.

Eddie steps in behind you, and for the first time all night, he actually goes quiet.

Your place isn’t polished. Not in the way people expect from someone with your job.

It’s dimly lit, warm, the kind of space that feels lived-in rather than staged.

Black and deep red tones everywhere, a worn leather couch that looks like it’s seen long nights and longer conversations, records stacked in uneven piles near an old turntable, band posters peeling slightly at the corners, some framed, some not, overlapping in a way that feels intentional without trying too hard.

There’s a faint scent of incense in the air, something smoky and sweet, curling through the space, mixing with the lingering city air from a cracked window.

Your jackets are thrown over the back of a chair, boots kicked off near the door, a half-finished notebook sitting open on the coffee table like you just stepped away from it.

It’s messy, but curated. Like you.

Eddie lets out a low breath, stepping further in, eyes dragging over everything, taking it in piece by piece.

“Shit,” he mutters, almost to himself. “This is… not what I expected.”

You shut the door behind him with a soft click, already moving past him like you didn’t hear it, or like you did and just don’t feel the need to explain.

“What, you thought I lived in a hotel room?” you toss over your shoulder.

“Thought you’d be cleaner,” he admits, glancing back at you, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth.

You glance at him, unimpressed. “Disappointed?”

“Not even a little.”

That earns him a small smile, quick, gone just as fast. You move into the kitchen without asking if he wants anything, already opening the fridge, the light spilling out across the dark space.

“Beer?” you call, like it’s the only option.

“Yeah.”

You grab two, popping the caps off against the counter with practiced ease before tossing one to him without looking. He catches it easily, a soft thunk of glass against his rings.

By the time he looks back up, you’ve already taken a sip of yours, leaning back against the counter, watching him over the rim like you’re assessing something all over again. He doesn’t say anything.

Just takes a long drink, then moves further into the apartment, drawn toward the couch like it’s calling him.

He drops onto it without ceremony, limbs loose, head tipping back against the worn leather with a quiet exhale, like he’s finally letting himself settle.

“Comfortable?” you ask, tone light as you push off the counter, crossing the room.

“Dangerously,” he replies, glancing at you from where he’s sprawled out. “Might not leave.”

You huff a soft laugh, setting your bottle down on the table before lowering yourself onto the arm of the couch instead of beside him, close enough to feel his presence, not close enough to give in to it.

“Bold of you to assume you’re invited to stay that long.”

He turns his head slightly, looking up at you now, eyes a little darker in the low light, something slower settling into his expression.

“You let me in,” he points out.

You tilt your head, considering him for a second, something unreadable flickering there.

“Don’t read into it,” you say, softer now, but not pulling away.

He studies you for a beat longer, like he might push, like he might say something that tips this into something else entirely. But he doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he lifts his beer slightly in your direction.

“To not reading into things,” he says.

Your lips curve, just faintly, as you reach for your own, clinking it lightly against his.

“Sure,” you murmur. But neither of you really means it.

For a while, it’s just the quiet hum of the room. The low crackle of a record you didn’t even remember putting on, something slow and heavy, the kind of sound that settles into your bones, mixed with the occasional clink of glass when one of you sets your beer down a little too hard.

Eddie shifts on the couch, turning slightly so he’s angled more toward you, one arm draped over the back, the other loosely holding his bottle, eyes lingering on you like he’s been watching longer than he should admit.

“So,” he says finally, voice rougher now, less performative than it was earlier, something quieter threading through it. “Where’re you from?”

You glance at him, not immediately answering, like you’re deciding how much to give.

“New York,” you say after a second, simple and easy.

He hums, like that tracks, like it makes sense. “Figures.”

Your brow lifts slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but his gaze doesn’t leave you, something almost amused flickering there.

“Just explains it,” he says. “The attitude. The way you walk into a room like you already own it.”

You let out a quiet breath that almost passes for a laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Or maybe I just do.”

That gets him. A small grin tugs at his mouth, slower this time, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe you do.”

“Family there?” he asks, like it’s casual, but it lands a little heavier than that.

You pick up your beer again, rolling the bottle lightly between your hands before answering.

“My dad,” you say. “Music production. Small stuff, nothing huge, but enough that I grew up around it.”