summerlow

They met the way most flatmates do—through a rushed message, a couple of awkward texts, and a shared understanding that New York rent prices didn’t leave room for pickiness.

Joe arrived first, a suitcase in one hand and a guitar case in the other, looking like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up there. Y/N showed up ten minutes later, keys already in hand, scanning him once before saying, “You’re Joe?”

“Yeah. You’re—”

“Don’t say it like a question,” she cut in, brushing past him to unlock the door. “I'm your new flatmate.”

That set the tone.

At first, they existed around each other more than with each other.

He made coffee too early. She stayed up too late. He hummed melodies in the kitchen; she played music loud enough from her room to drown him out. They shared a fridge, a couch, and very little else.

Joe was careful. Quiet. He asked before borrowing anything, knocked even when her door was open, and apologized for things that didn’t need apologizing.

Charlotte found it… irritating.

“Relax,” she told him one night when he asked if it was okay to use the olive oil. “You live here.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry.”

“…sorry.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t push it.

It changed slowly.

It was in the way he started lingering in the kitchen instead of escaping with his mug, in the way he’d sit on the opposite end of the couch instead of retreating to his room, in the way he began to look at her like he actually expected her to answer when he spoke.

“What’s your full name?” he asked one evening, glancing up from tuning his guitar.

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Charlotte.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Charlotte.”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“I’m not making it a thing.”

“You’re making it a thing.”

“I’m literally just saying your name.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He smiled—just a little.

The first time he called her “Lottie,” she almost choked on her coffee.

“Morning, Lottie.”

Silence.

Then: “Absolutely not.”

He blinked. “What?”

“No. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” She pointed at him like he’d committed a crime. “That nickname thing. I hate it.”

“Lottie’s not that bad.”

“It’s terrible.”

He leaned against the counter, clearly amused now. “It suits you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“Joe.”

“Lottie.”

She stared at him. He didn’t back down. And that—that was new.

She didn’t even realize when she started calling him David. It slipped out one afternoon while he was messing with the Wi-Fi.

“David, did you try restarting it?”

He froze mid-step.

“David?”

She frowned. “What?”

“That’s—”

“I know what it is.”

“You’ve never called me that.”

“Well, now I am.”

“Oh, okay.”

There was something in the way he said it. Softer. Like he liked it more than he wanted to admit. After that, it stuck.

“David, you’re hogging the bathroom. - David, your music taste is questionable. - David, if you eat my leftovers again, I will end you.”

And every time, he’d glance at her with that same small smile.

The confidence crept in without permission.

He stopped asking before sitting close to her. Stopped apologizing for existing. Started teasing her back, pushing just enough to get a reaction.

“You’re grumpy today, Lottie.”

“I’m always grumpy.”

“Yeah, but today it’s… enhanced.”

“Say enhanced again and see what happens.”

“Enhanced.”

She threw a cushion at him. He caught it easily, laughing. She slowly realized he wasn’t the same guy who’d stood awkwardly in the doorway with a suitcase. He was… comfortable with her.

The moustache was a mistake. At least, that’s what she told herself.

He appeared in the kitchen one morning, casual as anything, like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered his face. She stared at him just a second too long.

“What?” he asked, reaching for a mug.

“What is that?”

He touched his upper lip, feigning innocence. “This?”

“Yes, that.”

“It’s a moustache.”

“I know what it is, David. Why?”

He shrugged. “Felt like it.”

“It’s bad.”

“It’s not bad.”

“It’s terrible.”

He turned toward her fully now, leaning back against the counter. “You hate it?”

“Yes.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

“Shame,” he said, voice quieter now. “I kind of like it.”

She did hate it. At first.

It was distracting. Annoying. Completely unnecessary.

And yet— There was something about the way he carried himself with it. Like it had unlocked something. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He stood closer now. Looked at her longer. Smiled slower.

“Still hate it, Lottie?” he asked one evening, stepping into her space just enough to make her notice.

“Yes,” she said quickly.

“Hmm.”

His hand brushed hers when he reached past her.

It lingered.

She didn’t move. It hit her all at once. Not in a dramatic moment. Not in some cinematic realization. Just a quiet, stupid second where he laughed at something she said, head tilted slightly, that ridiculous moustache framing a smile she suddenly couldn’t ignore.

Oh.

Oh, that was—

No.

Absolutely not.

“Why are you staring?” he asked.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Shut up.”

He stepped closer.

Too close.

“Still hate it?” he murmured, softer now.

Her brain said yes.

Her mouth didn’t cooperate.

“…maybe less.”

He smiled—slow, deliberate.

“Yeah?” he said.

And there it was.

The problem.

Because somehow, against all logic, against her own very clear opinions—

Eddie Munson wasn’t quiet very often. He was loud in the cafeteria, dramatic in the halls, expressive with his hands and his voice and his entire existence. He filled space like he was afraid it might disappear if he didn’t.

So when you found him quiet, you knew it meant something. It happened on a late afternoon when the trailer park was unusually still, the sky painted in soft oranges and purples. You were sitting on the steps of his trailer, knees pulled to your chest, listening to the distant hum of cicadas. Eddie sat beside you, shoulder pressed against yours, guitar resting across his lap. He wasn’t playing it. That alone made you glance over.

He was watching the sky, curls lit by the setting sun, expression calm in a way that felt rare and intimate. Like you were seeing a version of him most people didn’t get access to.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

He smiled—small, genuine. “Yeah. Just… nice out.”

You leaned into him a little more, your head resting against his shoulder. He froze for half a second before relaxing, like he always did when he realized he was allowed to be soft with you.

After a moment, his free hand found yours. His fingers were warm, calloused, familiar. He laced them together without ceremony, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie Munson held your hand like it mattered. Like it was precious.

You stayed like that for a while, watching the sky change colors, saying nothing. Silence with Eddie was different. It wasn’t empty. It was full of comfort and shared understanding and the quiet knowledge that you didn’t have to perform for each other.

Eventually, he glanced down at you. “You hungry?”

You smiled. “Always.”

“Cool,” he said, already standing. “I have… approximately one bag of chips and some questionable soda. Five-star dining.”

You laughed as he pulled you up with him, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. Inside the trailer, music played low from a cassette player, something familiar and comforting. Eddie tossed you one of his hoodies without thinking.

“You’ll get cold,” he said.

You slipped it on, drowning slightly in the sleeves. It smelled like him—smoke, laundry detergent, and something uniquely Eddie.

He noticed you smiling and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said. “Just… you.”

He ducked his head, cheeks pink. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

Later, you ended up curled together on the couch, your legs tangled, his arm wrapped around you. The movie played unnoticed in the background. Eddie absentmindedly traced shapes into your arm with his fingers, slow and gentle.

“You ever think about the future?” he asked quietly.

You looked up at him. “Sometimes.”

He nodded. “Me too. And, uh… you’re always there. In it. Just thought you should know.”

Your heart softened in a way that felt almost painful.

You shifted closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He turned his head instinctively, catching your lips instead. The kiss was sweet, unhurried, full of warmth. When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“This,” he said softly, “is my favorite part of everything.”

You smiled. “Mine too.”

I’m taking fic requests for:

🖤 Eddie Munson

🔥 Johnny Storm

🤍 Joseph Quinn

Two months and three weeks after the breakup, you still knew the sound of Joseph’s laugh better than your own breathing.

It found you before you found him.

Joe’s house was full in that loose, familiar way it always was—people sitting on the arms of couches, half-empty glasses on every flat surface, music low enough that conversations overlapped without competing. The kind of night that felt unplanned even though Joe had absolutely planned it.

You stood in the kitchen pretending to be deeply invested in the contents of the fridge when the laugh cut through the noise. Warm. Bright. A little unrestrained.

Your chest tightened.

You closed the fridge slowly, giving yourself a second. You’d known he might be here. Joe had warned you—just so you know, Joseph might swing by—like that made it easier. Like anticipation softened impact.

It didn’t.

You turned, heart already racing, and there he was. Leaning against the doorway to the living room, shoulders relaxed, hair curling more wildly than you remembered. He wore a dark jumper you didn’t recognize, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his wrists. He looked thinner. Or maybe sharper around the edges. Like someone who’d been living inside his own head a little too much.

He was laughing at something Joe had said, head tipped back, eyes crinkled in that way that used to make you feel like the luckiest person in the room.

Then his gaze shifted. Found you. The laugh faded—not abruptly, just gently, like a dimmer switch being turned down. His mouth parted slightly, surprise flickering across his face before something softer replaced it. Something careful. For a heartbeat, the room disappeared.

You wondered if he could hear your heart pounding. Wondered if he felt it too—that invisible pull, that instinctive recognition that no amount of time had erased.

He nodded at you. Not a big gesture. Just a quiet acknowledgment. Hi. I see you. I’m here. You returned it, swallowing past the tightness in your throat.

Joe, oblivious or pretending to be, clapped Joseph on the shoulder and wandered off toward the kitchen. You shifted aside, giving him space, suddenly very aware of how exposed you felt.

You busied yourself with a drink you didn’t really want. For a while, that’s how the night went. You existed in the same orbit without colliding. You laughed with friends, listened to stories, nodded along to conversations. Sometimes you forgot he was there.

And then he’d laugh again. Or you’d catch him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

When he finally approached, it was quieter than you expected.

“Hey,” he said. You turned. Up close, the familiarity hit harder. His eyes—still that impossible shade between green and hazel—searched your face like they were checking something important.

“Hey,” you replied.

An awkward pause hovered between you. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

“How are you?” he asked.

You almost laughed at how simple it was. How loaded.

“I’m good,” you said honestly. “I mean… yeah. I’m good.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been bracing for a different answer. “That’s good. I’m—” He stopped himself, smiled faintly. “I’m glad.”

You believed him.

Conversation followed, tentative at first, then easier. You talked about work, about Joe’s terrible habit of over-inviting people to his tiny house, about a mutual friend’s recent disaster of a date. You laughed—really laughed—at something stupid Joseph said, and the sound startled you both.

“I missed that,” he admitted quietly.

You looked at him. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Your laugh. It—it’s different when you’re really laughing.”

Your chest tightened. “You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” he said softly.

The room thinned as the night wore on. People left in pairs, in small groups, with lazy hugs and promises to text. Joe disappeared upstairs with someone, shouting a half-hearted goodbye.

You checked your phone. Later than you’d planned.

“I should head out,” you said.

Joseph nodded immediately. “I’ll walk you.”

You blinked. “You don’t need to—”

“I know,” he said, a little too quickly. Then gentler, “I want to.”

You hesitated, then nodded.

Outside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of rain. The street was quiet, bathed in orange light. You walked side by side, arms brushing occasionally, each accidental touch sending a jolt through you.

“I drove,” he said. “Car’s just over there.”

You stopped. “Joseph… my place is completely out of your way.”

“I know,” he said, meeting your eyes. “I don’t mind.”

Something in his expression—open, earnest—made it impossible to argue.

The car ride was strangely domestic. He adjusted the heat without asking, lowered the music when you started talking. You caught yourself watching his hands on the steering wheel, familiar and steady.

When you reached your building, disappointment flared before you could stop it.

“Thanks,” you said. “For tonight.”

“Anytime,” he replied. Then, after a beat, “Can I walk you up?”

Your heart skipped. “You really don’t have to.”

“I know,” he smiled softly. “I just… I’d like to.”

The elevator ride was quiet. Intimate. The hum of it felt loud in the small space. When it jolted slightly, his arm brushed yours, and neither of you moved away.

At your door, you fumbled with your keys.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked, the words leaving your mouth before your brain could catch them.

His eyes widened just a fraction. Then he nodded. “Yeah.”

Inside, everything felt suddenly exposed. This was your space—your routines, your quiet, your healing. And now he was in it. He looked around slowly.

“You rearranged,” he said.

“Needed a change.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

Silence settled, thick but not uncomfortable. You turned to face him.

“I didn’t expect seeing you to feel like this,” you admitted. “I thought I’d moved on more.”

His jaw tightened. “I tried to tell myself I had.”

You stepped closer. The space between you felt electric.

“I missed you,” he said suddenly. “I missed you so much it was stupid. I kept thinking—if I just gave it time, it’d stop.”

Your voice shook. “Did it?”

He smiled sadly. “No.”

Your hand lifted, almost without permission, brushing his arm. He inhaled sharply.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

You answered by closing the distance.

The kiss was gentle at first, careful and reverent, like you were both afraid of breaking something fragile. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb warm against your skin.

When it deepened, it felt inevitable. Like coming home.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads touching, you were both breathing a little heavier.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you whispered.

Joseph smiled, soft and hopeful. “We don’t have to decide tonight.”

Eddie is half-asleep before he even realizes it.

You’re tucked against his side on the couch, the TV playing something neither of you is actually watching. His arm is draped over you in that loose, careless way—like he put it there without thinking and now his body refuses to move it.

“You still awake?” you murmur.

“I'm listening,” he mumbles, voice thick and soft, words slurring together just a little. His chin rests on the top of your head, curls tickling your forehead.

You shift slightly, trying to get more comfortable. Immediately, Eddie tightens his hold—gentle but firm, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his grip.

“Nope,” he mutters. “Stay.”

You smile into his shirt. “Bossy when you’re sleepy.”

He hums. “Protective.”

The trailer is quiet except for the low buzz of the TV and Eddie’s breathing—slow, warm, steady. His fingers trace lazy lines along your arm, not even patterns, just movement for the sake of touch.

“You’re comfy,” he says after a moment. “Like… stupid comfy.”

“High praise,” you whisper.

He presses a sleepy kiss into your hair. It’s clumsy, barely there, but it makes your heart feel full in that gentle, glowing way.

Somewhere between one blink and the next, Eddie shifts so you’re fully against him—your back to his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed like it belongs there. His forehead rests between your shoulder blades.

“If I snore, wake me up” he murmurs, already drifting.

You laugh quietly. “Okay.”

His breathing evens out, but his thumb still rubs small circles into your side, even in sleep. Like muscle memory. Like reassurance.

You feel him smile against your shoulder.

Safe. Warm. Held.