Last Time I Seen The Sun

The night was in full swing. The stench of beer coated patches of the now sticky floors, a sea of red solo cups flooded the kitchen bench, bodies sprawled across couches in a tangle of limbs, people dancing inside or throwing up in the garden, or some spread out and chatting in their cliques while they weren’t yet inebriated. To say your house was a fucking mess was an understatement. It looked like the aftermath of a world war embodied by the pure chaos that a Friday night’s effect had on your classmates. Costumes were creative, slightly bizarre or just about as generic as you could think of. You had started overlooking the anarchy about 30 minutes prior; while you cracked open another can of sweet rum in an effort to distance yourself further from reality.

As you made your way back towards the living room, you spotted a mop of dark curls and denim, a sight you were familiar with at other previous parties. He however, was not here on pleasure, it was always strictly business. The jocks liked to spice up their weekends with underage drinking and a little bit of experimentation, and what better person to go to when in need of supply, than the town freak Eddie Munson.

As you were about to walk past him, ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ began to play; a personal favourite of yours. Eddie’s ears perked up, a highly unusual type of music to be playing at a house party full of popular small town kids. Perhaps he was drunker than he originally thought? He was only there to make a quick buck doing a few deals, and then make himself scarce, but now, he was curious to who the culprit was.

He couldn’t help his amusement, “Finally a house party with good music,” he spoke aloud, aimed at nobody in particular.

You overheard him as you were passing him and flashed a grin, adding, “Oh god, tell me about it, Halloween is the only time of year these assholes somewhat tolerate my music taste and let me play it. The way I would kill to use a Metallica song for one of our cheer routines.” You kept walking while looking back at him, taking pride in the way his eyes widen as he attempts to stop choking on his beer. His reaction had you laughing.

“H-hey, woah, hold on!” He catches up to you, a wild disbelieving look still on his face. He absorbed the image of you in front of him, clad in an uncharacteristically darker get up than what he usually saw you in at school. In normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be caught dead interacting with anyone from the basketball or cheer team, but he was ready to make an exception for you. He had half prepared himself for a humiliating rejection, but your kind eyes spoke for themselves. You understood him more than he ever knew, that the rumours that spread amongst a small town of equally small minds, was bound to be taken with a grain of salt. Or several. You did your own research on Hellfire. They were just kids playing a fantasy tabletop game. As for heavy metal, it was in your blood. You grew up with it and fell in love, because it’s not afraid to be real, the same thing that you had noticed possessed Eddie. You quickly came to the conclusion that he was just a normal guy, who was unapologetically himself, and had his little community of like-minded souls.

“What is the princess of Hawkins High, doing listening to heavy metal?” He interrogated. You took a step closer to him, so you could smell the faint odour of his cologne and smoke that stuck to his clothes.

“I grew up with metalhead parents and I am still in love with it. I like its raw power and authenticity,” you replied simply.

“Sweetheart, you keep talking like that and I’m gonna drop to one knee and propose.” He jokingly warned, but he looked partially serious.

“Tempting. If you did though, I wouldn’t say no,” you fired back, a small smirk forming at the groan he let out.

“H-holy shit. I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he wheezed out, making you laugh.

“And you’re funny? What a man you are, Munson. I think I’ll keep you,” you said. Maybe it was the alcohol warming the blood in your veins, but the room seemed to disappear into the background, as if the only two people left on the entire planet were you and Eddie. The night continued like this as you both kept the conversation alive, never seeming to run out of things to chat about. The both of you had made your way outside, to stare at the night sky, while the buzz around you had died down. Whether that was from people passing out or being dragged out by their designated drivers on curfews. A comfortable silence had settled between the two of you.

“You know, I never believed the rumors people spread about you,” you said, tone shifting, while he turned his full attention on you, “like, DnD is just a roleplaying game that gained a bad rap because of some bullshit the God-fearing mothers made up. The exact same way that the Ouija board was literally supposed to be a game for children before the Exorcist was released and ruined it.” His lack of response caught your attention this time, and your gaze wandered over to find his already on you, a soft and vulnerable heaviness in the pits of his deep brown eyes.

“Yeah, it sucks, but, it is what it is. You get used to it after a while. So long as the people who are important know the truth, that’s really all that matters,” he spoke in defeat. You sympathised with him. It was shit that he was subject to such harsh comments. And they weren’t just from students at school, it went beyond, to the adults and even authorities. His last name had a reputation, you knew that, and you felt bad for him. It wasn’t fair that he had to endure that every single day, and from almost every single person.

“No, you shouldn’t have to put up with any of that, regardless of your kooky interests or how you dress, or even your last name,” you said firm. A thought popped into your head that made you chuckle, “This is incredibly weird of me to say since I know we don’t interact all that much, but if we were to get married, I would happily take your last name. And all of its implications, if it meant that it would get people to see how much of sweetheart you actually are.” He raised his eyebrows in shock at your forwardness.

“Uh- princess, you can’t say things like that,” he whined.

“And why not?” You noticed his fidgeting, the metal of his rings clacking together.

“Because I swear to God, I will follow through with them,” he said pathetically, giving you his sad, wet puppy eyes. There weren’t very many people who were as kind to him as you have proven yourself to be.

“Hey now, don’t threaten me with a good time,” you slyly responded, nudging his shoulder with yours, “but, I’m serious. There is no reason you should ever be treated the way you are. The Hellfire boys are so lucky that they have you to lean on when they need, but I have to ask; who’s doing that for you? Because you deserve that same support too.” You looked at him again, as he tried to blink away his glassy eyes. Your words cut him deep. Who was there to truly support him? His father was a dead beat who only ever made his appearances when he needed something, and didn’t care if that meant he’d exploit his own son and potentially risk his life to get it. His mother was dead, and more than that he had nothing left of her after a fire took her remaining belongings, and his uncle Wayne was doing his absolute best to raise him, provide for him, but that proved to be difficult with opposing schedules and only seeing each other in passing. You’d hit the nail on the head, and that was terrifying.

You noticed he was lost in thought and spoke much softer, “I’m sorry, Eddie, I’ve overstepped, I didn’t mean to, I just-,” he stopped your anxious ramble.

“No, it’s okay, it’s just… nobody else has ever…picked up on that before,” he frowned. His throat felt tight.

“I guess I’m just observant of things and people that fascinate me. But, either way, I just want you to know you have my support.” You said, taking his hand in yours, looping your fingers together and resting your head on his shoulder.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me,” he mumbled into your hair. You moved your head to make eye contact with him, and he began to lean in towards you. You smiled in understanding, and closed the distance. His lips were slightly dry, yet plush and soft, and they fit perfectly with yours. He could taste the strawberry balm that coated your lips, tongue poking to get more. You gladly allowed him access, and he moaned at the contact of your tongue against his. You pulled away gently.

“You know what I just realised?” you whispered and he hummed, “that this is likely gonna be our first and last kiss, because when my parents get back in the morning, I’m cooked. They’re gonna fucking annihilate me.” His head tilted back as he laughed.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let Jason bribe me into using my house for this shit,” you shook your head through laughs, “but that’s alright, I’ll send my mother after him too,” you sighed, as he chuckled, pulling you into his chest. You’d cross that bridge when it comes. For now, Eddie was all that truly mattered to you.  

However, other people weren’t as appreciative of your yapping. They actually found it to be quite annoying and would blatantly tell you so. Growing up, you’d heard numerous family members comment on your habit. You remember one such instance of a family gathering in which you were surrounded by family members. You remember the conversation diverging to movies which began your passionate yapping. You loved movies. They were always a passion of yours and you loved to share any movie knowledge or recommendations with others. During the middle of your talking, one of your uncles interrupted, “I swear every time I see this girl, she’s always running her mouth.”

Immediately, you felt your heart drop to the pit of your stomach. Your face became flushed in embarrassment and suddenly, it felt like the entire room was watching you. You felt the insecurity began to creep in and slither into your veins. Had you been talking too much? Was everyone annoyed? Of course, they’re annoyed! This is what you always do. 

You talk too much. 

You can’t go one minute without running your mouth. 

You’re so annoying and no one wants to be around you.

You felt the sting of tears behind your eyes, but you quickly willed them back. Your voice became quieter during the family gathering. You shrunk yourself further and further inside of yourself. The insecurities were swarming around your head like incessant gnats. You quietly manuvered the environment until you left your room and sat in your bedroom until everyone left. That night, you felt your heart beating faster and faster in your chest, as your mind wondered if you were being a nuisance to your family with your talking. 

So you made an executive decision: you just wouldn’t talk at all. 

Problem solved, right? No. Of course not. Any Black household knows that you’re not allowed to be silent without it being a problem for the general consensus. You felt that your plan was righteous and justified. If everyone had a problem with your talking, then you’d cease to do the thing that was burdening them. You could still hear the insecurities float through your mind as another family gathering was planned. 

At the family gathering, you were more aware of your behavior. Quaint. Demure. But most of all, quiet. Though it made you angsty to not be included in the conversations with your family, you figured that this was for the best. You thought you were being subtle in your behavior, but of course, there always had to be someone who noticed. 

You couldn’t recall if it had been an aunt or a cousin, but you remembered the sound of your name being called followed by the question, “Why aren’t you talking?” 

Immediately, you felt a sudden rage boil through you. First, you were being told that you talked too much and that you were annoying. Next, you were being called upon to explain your silence. It felt like you couldn’t win in a losing battle. 

As you grew older, you learned to care less and less about the opinions of others. You didn’t need to justify yourself to them. You had just as much of a right to express your passions, and you wouldn’t let anyone shame you for it. 

The right person, your person, wouldn’t mind your talking at all. In fact, they would find it so endearing that they would love to hear the sound of your voice, and they would find comfort in hearing your words, even if they were mindless rambles. 

At your current age, you were sure that you had found your person. 

Michael Bakari Jordan. 

Sexiest man alive. Certified nerd. 

It was funny how you met Michael. It was a casual day, in a random shop that sold various media forms of anime. Growing up, your love of cinema, translated over to animated movies and cartoons. You respected the art of a good cartoon just as much as any live action movie. People who stated that anime was for kids truly didn’t know what masterpieces they were missing out on. They’d never know the sheer excitement that came from watching Goku turn Super Saiyan for the first time. They’d never experience the heartbreak from watching Tetsuo be consumed by his hatred and rage in Akira, or even feel the binding love that transcends time between Howl and Sophie. 

Naturally, you were in this store on this fated day that you met the man. You casually sipped your iced coffee and browsed through the collections of manga and vintage VHS tapes. Through your excitement with the prospect of purchasing one of these pieces of art, you neglected to watch where you were going, which led to you colliding into solid mass. Your drink splashed partly onto the hoodie of the other person, who reached out to quickly steady you. 

Looking up, your concerned eyes met another set of deep brown ones, “Oh my god! I’m so sorry, I ruined your hoodie!” 

Quickly, you rummaged through your purse and found your stash of napkins. Without thinking, you grabbed the man’s art where the drink had splashed and dabbed the napkin into the soaked fabric. A few minutes passed of you doing this before you realized what you were doing. A blush crept up your neck before you let go of the mystery man’s arm. “I’m sorry. First, I ruin your hoodie and then I started rubbing your arm like some creep.” 

The man in front of you chuckled and shook his head, “You good, ma.” 

As you looked closer into the man’s face, you immediately recognized him more. Groaning and running your hand across your face, “I hope you don’t think that was some weird way of me trying to touch you.”

Michael laughed more at your embarrassed expression, “I mean when you put it like that, it would be a good method. But don’t sweat it, I’ve had way weirder interactions with fans trying to get my attention.” 

“Well, at least, let me pay for the dry cleaning for your hoodie. It’s the least that I could do.” You offered, pointing at the stained hoodie. 

Michael shook his head at you, “Nah, you don’t gotta worry about that. It was an accident anyways. I think it was on me just as much as it was you. I wasn’t paying attention either which means I owe you an apology for making you waste your coffee.”

“It’s okay. I guess we both were just engrossed in the content. We can call it even,” you said reaching your hand out to Michael. Grabbing your hand in his, Michael shook it and smiled at you. Your heart began to beat faster when you took in the man’s deep dimples. You pulled your hand back to not appear thirsty in front of you. 

“It was nice to meet you. I’ll let you get back to your browsing. Sorry again about the hoodie.” You said, turning to continue your journey. You didn’t look back at Michael for a response and started your journey into the 80’s and 90’s section of anime. You picked up a copy of Perfect Blue and smiled to yourself. Michael, on the other hand, was stunned by how quickly his interaction ended with you. He was used to people feening for his attention and hogging it when he finally decided to give it to them. But not you. You had turned away from him and continued with your shopping like he was just another regular guy. He liked it. He liked that in that moment, you treated him like another guy. 

He craved the normality of it all. He was so used to having his every move be analyzed by people. Having fans fawn over your every move was nice, but sometimes, he just craved to have another person just see him as normal. In his eyes, he was a regular guy. Albeit, a man with many box office hits under his belt, but a certified nerd at the end of the day. Gazing over at you from the corner of the store, he saw you intensely locked onto the 80s-90s anime section. Your beautiful face was scrunched in concentration, and he could tell that you were genuinely locked in. 

Carefully crossing the store, he stood next to you and pretended to browse the section. Your fingers carefully slid over the titles until you landed on one and pulled it out with an excited squeal. Michael chuckled and it seemed to be only at that point that you noticed that he was standing there. You made eye contact and smiled at each other. 

“What you got there?” Michael asked, tilting his head to the side to gaze at the title of the movie.

Immediately your eyes lit up as if a spark was ignited. “Perfect Blue. You ever seen it?” You questioned, holding out the tape to Michael. Michael shook your head and you scoffed slightly, “I’m sorry Mr. Naruto hasn’t seen one of the most iconic animated movies of all time?” You both laughed as you waved your hands around to empahsize your point.

“I can’t say that I have. What’s it about?” That simple question alone sent you into an entire lecture about the plot of the movie, along with prominent themes that most people would miss on their first viewing experience. You further elaborated on design choices and colors present in the movie. It was like you were a well of knowledge and your passion for the movie really shone throught. It was only when you realized that you were still rambling while Michael hadn’t said anything. The intense look on his face said that he was completely locked into every word that you were saying.

There was a flare of insecurity that coursed through you, as you wondered if you were embarrassing yourself in front of your celebrity crush. How were you going to give off mysterious and sexy if you continued to ramble?

“Sorry. I get carried away sometimes, especially if it’s a movie that I like,” You said sheepishly. 

“Don’t apologize for that. Ever. It’s cute seeing you get all lit up about your passions, and I can tell you’re actually interested in this and not just on a surface level.” Michael said, staring into your eyes. For a moment, the two of you held eye contact before you broke it.

You handed the VHS tape over to Michael, “You should take it. I think you’ll really like it.” 

As you handed the tapes over to Michael, your hands brushed against one another. Butterflies fluttered through your stomach, and suddenly, you were transported back to the feeling of when you had a crush as a child. 

“I should let you go. I hope you enjoy the movie,” you said, turning to leave again. 

Michael watched as you moved to go to the door. He felt something shift inside of himself, and there was that distinct feeling that he shouldn’t let you go. He felt that if he let you leave out of that door, he’d never get a chance to see you again. Michael wasn’t one for just random chances, but he believed in fate, and he believed that some force had dropped you into his life for a reason. 

He quickly jogged up to you and grabbed your wrist. You turned to him in surprise, “How will I be able to tell you that I liked the movie?” Okay..not his best pickup line, but with you, he felt like he didn’t need some suave pickup line. 

“I guess I didn’t think about it like that. Well, maybe you just post it on your Instagram and thank the random girl who threw her coffee drink on you for the recommendation.” You joked, waving your empty coffee cup around. 

“I could do that, or I could take you to get another cup of coffee, and you give me more anime recommendations. Then, if the coffee goes well, I get your number so that I can tell you just how much I liked the movie.” Michael suggested, searching your eyes. 

Wait.

Was Michael B. Jordan asking you out for coffee and asking for your number?

This must be one of those dreams that you have on a random weekday, and you wake up with a distinct longing in your chest as it dissipates. However, as you came back to the present moment and noted the longing in Michael’s eyes, you concluded that it was all real. 

You nodded your head and flashed him a smile.

Those simple gestures would cement your place in Michael’s life from that day forward.

_____________________________

Over ten months later, you had officially become Michael B. Jordan’s hot nerdy girlfriend. After your initial coffee outing, you and Michael had texted frequently throughout the following weeks. He had sat down to watch Perfect Blue and couldn’t resist the urge to immediately text you to give his review of the movie. 

Next, he recommended a show to you. 

Then you would recommend a show or movie to him. You’d both immediately text the other to debrief on shocking moments or even themes that you noticed. You both were meticulous with your planning and recommendations for each other. 

It had become an official love language between the two of you, even though you weren’t even dating. 

Texts turned into phone calls. Phone calls turned into FaceTimes. FaceTimes turned into dates. Dates into intimacy. Intimacy, in turn, became the foundation for a healthy friendship and relationship. You had never felt more comfortable and safer in a relationship than the one that you crafted with Michael. 

He was your ‘Kari, and you were his Princess. A nickname that came from his favorite animated movie, Princess Mononoke. 

Here was another thing. Michael loved to listen to you talk. He loved to see you get lost in a passionate rant about things that interested you. You were naturally curious and always researching, so it was only natural that you wanted to share your new knowledge with him. He’d sit patiently across from you and give soft ‘mhmms” to show that he was listening, and would even ask follow-up questions. He’d sit there with this sweet, love-struck look on his face as he watched the corners of your eyes crinkle as you spoke. It was always refreshing to hear you speak. 

Any other man would’ve been quick to point out your habit, but Michael had never given you an indication that he was irritated or annoyed with you. He just sat and listened. You could almost cry at the safe space that he had created for you to express yourself freely. 

As with the good, there always comes the bad. 

And your bad just happened to come on a random Wednesday of all the days. 

You often spent a lot of time at Michael’s house rather than your own rented apartment. It wasn’t anything intentional on your part, but you just naturally ended up at Michael’s house. He had practically moved half of your stuff into his house without you noticing. All of your favorite products had their own designated space within his bathroom. He had even unconsciously started to pick up your designated pads and tampons in case you ever started your period over the house. He knew that you preferred to have the thick pads with the wings. (Sorry to all the Thin Mint pads girlies–no shade). Even when he went grocery shopping, he found himself picking up certain products that he knew you liked to eat when you came over. Shoot, Michael had even bought your favorite bonnet that sat permanently in the drawer next to his durag. 

If that wasn’t love, then you didn’t know what was. 

It started on Wednesday, Michael and his homeboy, Jones, were sitting in the game room, playing Call of Duty. You were in the other room, running your mouth with your homegirl. Your laugh could be heard through the crack of the door. You maneuvered past the door and went to grab snacks for Michael and Jones. You did not doubt that they had run through their acquired snacks already. 

As you walked up the stairs, the crack in the door let you in on the conversation that was happening between your man and his friend. You stopped at the door as you heard Jones say your name. 

“Dang man, your girl know she can run her mouth. You don’t ever get tired of all that yapping,” Jones said, continuing to press the buttons of the control, as if he wasn’t insulting you.

It wasn’t Michael’s friend’s comment that bothered you. It was the fact that he didn’t immediately jump in to defend you. It was his response that opened Pandora’s box of your insecurities.

“I mean…yeah man, it can be a little too much at times. But that’s just her personality.” 

Too much.

A little too much.

You felt the tightness enter your chest, and the panic started to overcome your senses. Tears filled your eyes, but you took a deep breath and willed them away. You were not about to be caught crying with Doritos and Dr. Pepper in your hand. 

You composed your expression and knocked on the door. Michael and Jones both looked back at you as you entered the room. 

“Hey baby,” Michael said, leaning over and placing a kiss on your head as you passed him the snacks. 

“Thank you, I swear we ran through the snacks as soon as we started the game,” He said, continuing to press buttons on the controller. Jones quickly thanked you before locking back into the game.

Clearing your throat, you turned back to Michael, “Hey, imma head out. I’ll see you later.” 

Michael quickly turned and looked at you with a frown on his face, “I thought you were staying over tonight.” 

“Umm..I can’t. I forgot that I gotta go run some errands in the morning.” 

Michael frowned at you more, “I can just drive you there.” 

“Nah, it’s good. It’s with the girls anyway.” You lied. Truthfully, you had planned to spend the weekend with him, but the little conversation put a damper on those plans. 

Michael continued to eye you. He felt like there was something off, especially since you wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Okay, well, text me when you get home.” He pulled you down and pressed his lips against yours. Instead of the usual deep kiss that you would give him, you quickly ended the kiss. As you turned to leave, Michael gently grasped your wrist, “You good?” 

Quickly, you nodded. “Alright, I love you, Princess,” Michael said, looking into your eyes.

“Yep, love you too,” You said quickly before turning to leave.

As he turned back to the game, there was something in his intuition that told him that something was off with you. Jones cut his eyes at him, “You and your girl fightin’ or something?”

“Nah, man, she was all good when she came over here,” Michael said, racking his brain for the answer.

“She on her period or somethin'?” 

“Nah, her period won’t be here until next week.” 

Jones pressed the pause button and turned to him, “Nigga you keep track of her periods?”

Michael laughed and nodded his head, “Yeah, man, that’s my girl. I love her. And let’s backtrack on that earlier comment, don’t be talkin about my girl running her mouth. She can talk just as much as she wants to, especially around here. Sure, you may think it’s a lot, but I love that about her. She’s expressing what she’s passionate about, and the fact that she wants to share that with me means the world.” 

Jones nodded, “My bad, man. I didn’t mean it like that, but still, I’m sorry.”

With that, they both returned to their game while Michael’s mind was still preoccupied with figuring out what was wrong with you.

_____________________

After you left Michael’s house, you spiralled. 

Your mind became preoccupied with all of the times that you had rambled around Michael. Had he been pretending all of those times when he listened to you talk? Was he secretly thinking that it was too much the entire time, but just too polite to say it aloud? 

As the thoughts continued to go through your head, you felt the tears from before begin to surface. Before you knew it, sobs radiated through your empty apartment. You stood in the middle of your living room, all alone with your insecurities. 

You moved to your bedroom and picked out a simple, oversized T-Shirt to sleep in. You lay in the middle of the bed and stared aimlessly at the ceiling. You felt your phone buzz beside you and noted Michael’s name on the screen.

Kari

Hey, did you make it home? 

You looked at the screen and locked it again. You didn’t have the energy to pretend that everything was okay, so you turned over and went to sleep.

Your heart felt even heavier as you pondered if you would ever have a moment where you didn’t feel like this. Where you didn’t feel like you were too much.

______________________________

Saturday came and went without Michael hearing your voice. You had responded to his text messages, but even your replies were off. You weren’t texting with the same amount of excitement as before. It was a lot drier. Michael continued to rack his brain for a possible explanation of something that he did, and each time, he came back blank. 

When Sunday came, he made the executive decision to drive over to your apartment. He picked up your favorite flowers, along with your go-to order from the cafe that you liked. He knocked on the door and waited for you to answer.

You answered the door, and to the normal eye, you looked normal. You were still your usual beautiful self, but to Michael, you looked off. He could tell that there was something off in your demeanor, even as he leaned down to kiss you. Closing the door, you grabbed the flowers from his hand while thanking him. You quickly put distance between you and Michael and worked on putting the flowers in a vase. 

You continued to shape the stems to your liking and arranged them in the vase. Throughout this time, you had yet to meet Michael’s eyes. He reached across the island to touch your hand. Finally, you looked up at him, but continued to steel your expression.

“Is everything okay, Princess?” He asked, moving around the island to stand in front of him. 

You nodded stiffly, “Yeah, I’m just not feeling good.” 

Michael’s expression softened as he pulled you closer into his chest. A few tears escaped your eyes, and you were quick to wipe them away. 

“You need me to run out and get anything? Soup? Heating pads? Medicine?” Poor Michael, he just assumed that you not feeling good meant that your period had started earlier than expected. 

“No, can we just sit and watch TV?” You asked in a small voice. 

Michael nodded and guided you to sit down. He pulled you closer to his chest and handed you your coffee to sip. While you watched TV, your body relaxed into Michael’s arms, but your brain continued to run rampant with insecurity.

Michael looked down and noticed you staring off into space. Whatever you were dealing with, it wasn’t just simple menstrual cramps. It was something more, and he was determined to find out. 

In that moment, he wished that he had superpowers so that he could see inside your pretty head and make it all better. 

______________________________

In the following weeks, you and Michael returned somewhat to your normal routine, but there was still something off with your behavior. You spent less and less time at Michael’s house and more at your own apartment. It wouldn’t have been noticeable at first to any random person, but for Michael, he noticed everything.

He noticed how you had slowly started moving your items from his home. Graphic tees that sat next to his were removed one by one. That loud hair dryer that you had brought over 3 years ago was removed from the bathroom. The groceries that he had bought were untouched and unopened. 

The straw that broke the camel’s back and confirmed Michael’s suspicions of you removing your things was that your trusted bonnet no longer sat beside his durag. 

Yeah, something was definitely wrong here. 

His immediate thoughts went to the fact that you were planning to break up with him, but he questioned why. Things were going well between the two of you. Were you seeing something that he wasn’t? He had even been working up the nerve to ask you to move in with him. Had even gone to get an extra copy of his keys to put on a special keychain for you.

But if you were planning to break up with him, had he missed the signs leading up to this? 

He looked over at you sitting across from him on the other couch. You were multitasking between working on a project for work and watching the episodes of Mitchiko and Hatchin, even though you had seen them more than you could count. 

He called your name, and you looked at him in surprise, “Come here for a second.” 

Like a baby deer, you took hesitant footsteps toward him until you were standing in front of you. Sitting up, he ran his hands up your legs until they reached your thighs. He pulled you forward until you were straddling his thighs. He could feel your body begin to tense up, but he rubbed his hands across your body and felt you melt more into his touch.

“What’s going on, Princess? You’ve been quiet lately and more withdrawn. Was it something that I did?” Michael asked, searching your eyes and pleading for an answer. 

You looked at him. Really looked at him and stared deeply into his eyes. You could see concern paint the corners of his irises, yet you still couldn’t bring your lips to tell him. It was as if you said it–told him what you had heard, then it made it real. It made it concrete, and you were terrified of what it meant if you had the conversation. Would he finally tell you all of his true feelings about you and explain that he actually was exhausted at hearing you talk all the time? Would he do that thing where he hinted at wanting to break up, but danced around, actually saying the words?

You were afraid to journey down either of those paths. 

So you lied. Well, only partly.

“No, uh, I’ve just been having a couple of off weeks. You know, bad brain days and all that.” The way you said it, all constricted and stiff, let Michael know that you were only partially telling the truth. Over the course of your ten-month relationship, he had learned to read all of your tells. 

Clearly, there was something wrong that you didn’t want to talk about right now. Michael accepted that he would have to wait a little longer for you to come to him. But for now, he would make sure that you knew that he was there. Patient. Willing. “I know something’s wrong, but I can see that you’re not ready to talk about it. I just need you to know that I love you. Whatever you need, I’m right here for you. Always.”

With that, he pulled you further into his body. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and relaxed your head into his neck. You could smell the faint cologne that he liked to wear throughout the week, and it brought you more comfort than you could express. He clearly loved you–at least that’s what his mouth was saying. 

Maybe you could try to make this work. 

____________________________

A week later, Michael’s family had decided to have a big get-together that would be hosted at his parents’ house. Naturally, you were invited as Michael’s girlfriend. Your relationship with his family had progressed as your relationship with Michael grew. Any time that his family had an event, they naturally expected you to show up alongside Michael. 

Things between you and Michael were still tense, even though you craved for things to return to normal between the two of you. You knew that it was a bit childish for you to not communicate with Michael, but confrontation had never been one of your strong suits. You grew up in a home that treated confrontation or negative emotions as a battlefield. You had learned to suck up your feelings and hide them beneath a poorly painted facade to uphold peace. You always became anxious when it came to having hard conversations, thus you usually tended to avoid them. 

You and Michael were dancing on a delicate line within your relationship. 

Walking up the front door of his parents’ home, Michael opened the door and ushered you in with his hand on your back. The two of you walked in the kitchen and were greeted by his parents. You were all smiles as you hugged his mom and dad. Michael’s father asked him to come help him with grilling. You were left in the kitchen with Michael’s mom, sister, and aunts. 

As he exited the kitchen, Michael noted the natural ease that you had with the women in his family. Maybe you’d be more open to sharing with the women in his family as opposed to him. 

You listened intently to the conversations that were happening around you. Each of the women shared tea and updates from their own lives. Michael’s aunt was telling the story of how she suspected that her neighbor’s wife was cheating on him with their other neighbor. The conversation shifted at multiple points, yet you only added minimal feedback to the conversation. You were trying to be normal, you really were. But there was still the fear and conversation that rang through your mind. If Michael was thinking that you talked too much, then maybe his family felt the same way? 

Unbeknownst to you, Donna Jordan kept a watchful eye on you. 

You were a favorite of hers by far in terms of her son’s girlfriends. Similar to Michael, she liked how passionate you got when you were talking. She had noted your talking, but what she liked about it was that the words that you were saying weren’t empty. Each word always had an intention behind it. You both had bonded over your work as a nurse who specialized in Black women’s health. You were passionate about the overall well-being of black and brown women, especially in a world that treated black women like an afterthought.

It was through her own time of getting to know you that she could easily pick up on the fact that something was wrong with you. You weren’t your useful, lively self. You were quieter and withdrawn. A little too stiff for her liking. 

It just so happened that your eyes met hers, and you gave her a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. 

She would definitely be pulling her son aside to see what was going on.

As the cookout progressed, the food was set out in the kitchen. Naturally, the women in the family, including you, had taken up the duty to fix plates for the children and men. Michael watched as you listened intently to one of his little cousins as they told you everything that they wanted on their plates. He watched the ease with which you naturally adapted to the child’s request and helped them. He imagined what that would look like one day when the two of you had kids of your own. 

After you had made his cousin’s plate, you worked meticulously on making his plate with everything that he liked. Donna watched you as you made her son’s plate and admired the obvious care that you were putting into making it. It was obvious that you loved Michael, but there was still something there.

Sitting next to Michael, you continued to listen to the conversations around you, still with limited feedback of your own. It wasn’t until you heard your own name being called that you looked at one of Michael’s aunts, who was addressing you. “Baby, you’re a nurse, what do you think about all of this that’s going on with the hospitals and women’s reproductive health?”

You placed your fork down, “It’s horrible. I mean, not only does it hurt women all over who are trying to have babies, but it especially affects a lot of black and brown women. So many black women already fight to have their voices heard in the labor and delivery room, but these recent changes just allow more negligent care to happen when black women are delivering their kids.”

You continued your talk, and every person there hung onto every word that you said. Michael seemed more entranced than anyone at the table. It was the most that he had heard you talk in weeks, and he realized that he missed hearing you go on your long rants. God, why had you been keeping your voice from him?

Michael’s uncle, who sat on his right, leaned over, “Aye, nephew, you got you a good one. You might wanna go ahead and marry her.”

‘That’s the plan.’ Michael thought to himself.

____________________

Later, everyone sat in the living room and continued to enjoy each other’s presence. Michael went into the kitchen to check on his mother, who was cutting up slices of pie for everyone. 

“Hey, ma, you need help with anything?” He asked, standing across from her.

Donna shook her head and continued to cut the pie, “Naw, baby, why don’t you sit down for a second? Is there something going on between you and that baby in there? She just seems a little off since she got here today.”

“I was meaning to talk to you about that. I don’t know, ma. It’s been weird between us for a couple of weeks. I asked her about it, but she just keeps saying that it’s nothing. I keep trying to see if it’s something that I did, but so far, I can’t come up with anything.” 

In the living room, you sat next to one of Michael’s cousins and casually talked about how she was doing in college. You could hear the sounds of the younger kids playing and talking with each other. One of the kids, Nala, talked animatedly. Her little hands gestured wildly around her, and it seemed like her words were going a mile a minute. You and a couple of the adults in the room were tuned into her little speech. 

“Lord, that lil girl know she can run her mouth. I hope she grow out of that cause don’t nobody find all of that talking attractive.” Michael’s uncle stated. There were a few sounds of agreement from the other adults in the room, and you felt yourself tense up.

The conversation shifted, but none of the adults noticed that Nala had heard her uncle’s statement. Immediately, you watched as she quieted down and saw her begin to withdraw within herself. She quickly got up, tears filling her tiny eyes, and walked quietly out of the room. None of the adults was aware of the turmoil that the little girl was going through. But you. You saw Nala, and you weren’t going to let her carry that burden alone. 

Standing up, you followed behind Nala and found her sitting in one of the spare rooms in the Jordan household. Slight sobs racked her tiny body, and you felt your heart break for her. Knocking lightly on the door, you stood in the doorframe, “Hi, do you mind if I sit here with you?”

Nala nodded, and you sat next to her on the floor.

She wiped her hands across her face, but tears continued to escape her eyes. “I’m sorry that you heard that. You know, you deserve to talk just as anyone else.”

Nala sniffled, “I’m not trying to be annoying. I just get excited when I’m talking. But everybody keeps saying that I talk too much.”

You nodded your head softly, “I know how you feel. When I was growing up, people used to always tell me that I talked too much. They would make me feel bad for expressing myself, but I want you to know that there’s nothing wrong with you. Your voice is important. It’s a gift. And you know what, somebody out there needs your voice. I’m a nurse, which means I work with many people who are ill. I work with a lot of women who are having new babies, and sometimes they get so scared. But once I start talking to them, they feel better. You’re going to do that one day. Someone out there is going to thank you for speaking.”

Nala hung onto every word that you said. Right there, she made up her mind that she wanted to be just like you. She wanted to use her voice to help others in the world.

“Now, why don’t you tell me all about those Disney princesses that you were talking about earlier. And don’t leave out any details.” 

With that, Nala launched into an animated conversation with you about Disney princesses. That’s where Michael found you. Sitting on the bedroom floor beside Nala, engrossed in an intense conversation. He could tell that both of you were enjoying the conversation. His heart clenched in his chest, and he knew that even more, he wanted to marry you.

By the end of the night, everyone was leaving with their to-go plates in hand. Nala was exiting the house with her parents, but not before she turned back and ran towards you. You bent down so that you could be eye level with her, and immediately, the younger girl launched herself into your arms. She whispered something in your ear–a secret that was only meant for the two of you. 

She gave you one last smile and ran back to her parents. 

Michael placed his arm around you and pulled you close to his side, “So you and Nala best friends?” 

“What? You jealous?” You joked, poking him in his side. You and Michael continued to joke with each other, and his mother watched you two fondly.

She prayed that everything would be okay between the two of you.

__________________________

On Sunday, you were at Michael’s house. 

It was your normal routine between the two of you. You would casually lounge around the house together, enjoying your respective coffees and each other’s company. 

You were working on a creative project on your laptop.

“I’m going to the bathroom. Be right back,” You said, standing and stretching. 

Michael continued to sit at the kitchen table and casually scrolled through his phone. Your laptop dinged, announcing that you had a message. A couple of seconds went by before another ding sounded throughout the kitchen. Michael moved to lock your laptop, but stopped once he noticed that your messages were open. 

Now, he wasn’t one to snoop, and it was all an accident, but he only looked at your computer because he saw his name pop up in your messages with your best friend.

Bestie

So you still haven’t told Mike that you heard him and his homeboy talking about u the other day??

You

No…i always start to say something, but then I stop.

You know how i feel about confrontation

Plus, I’m just scared of what he’s going to say

What if he just finally decides that I’m too much and this isn’t what he wants? 

Bestie

Girl, I promise you’re not too much. You’re perfect. 

Just talk to him and let him know how you’re feeling. If he decides that he can’t handle you, then forget him.You deserved to be loved for every single aspect of you . I’m here if you need me…..or if you want me ball his lips up.

You

Okay ima go talk to him now. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Michael heard the sounds of your footsteps coming down the stairs and quickly moved away from your laptop. You rounded the corner and looked at him, “Hey, baby, can I talk to you?” 

Michael nodded, and you sat across from him.

There was a quick beat of silence in the kitchen. You rubbed your hands around your designated mug that had a home in Michael’s cabinet. “I know that you’ve noticed that I’ve been acting weird lately. I only told you half of the truth when I said that I was having a bad brain week. I have been having a hard time mentally. But…it’s because..well, I heard you and Jones that day. The whole thing about me running my mouth. It wasn’t the fact that Jones said it–I mean I’m used to people commenting on that. But it was you, you said ‘yeah man, it can be too much at times.” 

Sighing, you looked down and felt the anxiety claw beneath your ribs, but you pushed it down. You had to stop being afraid of tip toeing around other peoples’ feelings and sacrificing yours. 

“Quite frankly, Michael, it hurt. Not only did you not correct him, but you agreed. You know how hard it’s been for me with hearing that statement throughout my life. I told you how much it hurt to hear that growing up! I thought that you liked it about me, but you said it was too much.”

You paused, tears of frustration stinging at your eyes, “I’m tired of making myself smaller so that you and everyone else can feel comfortable! Yes, I talk a lot! I like to run my mouth, but you know what? I don’t see that as a flaw. I thought that you didn’t either, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe you aren’t my person at all.”

With that, you felt a huge weight lift off of your shoulders. You had been carrying this fear and pain around for weeks, and it felt nice to finally release it. It didn’t matter what everyone else thought. Your feelings were your only priority at this moment.

Michael watched as you let out a deep breath. Your shoulders visibly relaxed and he realized just how much you had been carrying these past weeks. All of that pain and he was the one that started it. Guilt bloomed at his chest. He should’ve been more careful with his words, especially when it came to you.

“I’m sorry.”

You looked over at Michael, who continued speaking, “I’m so sorry, Princess. You’re right, I should’ve corrected Jones in the moment, and I shouldn’t have said what I said. You have every right to feel that way that you do. I’m sorry that you’ve been having to carry this all alone, and that I’m the reason that you felt that you had to.” 

Michael rounded the table and kneeled in front of you. Your eyes were looking past him and Michael felt crushed at seeing the pain that was there. You had always been someone who wore their emotions on their face, so it was often hard to hide it. He noticed you playing with the rings on your hands–another nervous tick. He grabbed your hands and softly massaged it between his. 

“Can you look at me,” He asked, hoping to catch your gaze. Your eyes finally met and Michael made sure to keep your attention on him, “I love you. I love you so much that I wanna spend the rest of my life with you. Seeing you around my family made me think about our future together. Baby, I want all of that with you. You took time out to sit with Nala, talking about Disney princesses. I couldn’t imagine any other woman that I would want to my wife and the mother of my children. I love hearing you talk. Even if it’s about something small, like that day when you wanted to talk about different clouds and which one was your favorite. I’m not annoyed with hearing you talk. Actually, hearing you go on those lil rambles is the best part of my day. I’m constantly checking my phone to see when you’re coming over, so I can hear what new thing you learned. And, I’m so sorry for making you feel any other way.” 

You played the words over and over in your head. 

A sudden smile overtook your face, “You know that’s the longest I’ve ever heard you talk since we’ve been together.”

Michael laughed and pulled you closer to him, “Princess, you’re the only one that I would ever give monologues like that too. If you want me to spend the next days of our lives together showing you how much I love you, then I will. Hell, I’ll send you an-hour long voice note if you want me to baby.” 

The two of you broke into loud laughter. It was a running joke between the two of you because you often liked to send Michael long voice notes about something that was going on. Michael called them your little podcast episodes, and he always kept each one that you sent. He liked to hear your narration for each story and how you would change your voice, depending on who was apart of the story.

“You’d start a podcast for me, Kari?” 

“Princess, I’d start a whole production with 20-episode seasons if you wanted me to,” Michael said. He leaned forward and kissed you deeply. He wanted to convey his love to you, in every sense. He needed you to know how much he cherished you.

“Now can you catch me up on everything that I’ve been missing about you. And don’t leave out any details.” 

Your eyes lit up and with that, you went to yapping, and filling Michael on everything in your world. He sat and listened patiently. And you know what, he never got tired of it. 

He could listen to you for hours.

His little chatterbox. 

His future wife. 

Yeah, he couldn’t wait to spend forever with you.

end.

Nobody:

Everyone in the ton knew two things the moment Anthony Bridgerton married you: first, that you were the one woman capable of softening him in a way nobody had ever managed before, and second, that nothing on this earth, not God nor king nor country, could ever stop him from protecting you with his entire soul, which - unfortunately - only made certain men, desperate, jealous, or foolishly curious, even more determined to test the boundaries of the Viscount’s temper by seeking your attention, your smile, your presence, as though you were a prize rather than a person, as though they did not fear the consequences of stepping too close to the edge of the man who had already proven himself willing to burn for the ones he loved.

Tonight, at Lord Hawthorne’s spring ball, their hunger became a little more obvious, their gazes lingering too long, their whispers too bold, their nightly drinks loosening the caution they should have held close to their chests; and while Anthony was called away by his brothers for a brief discussion about some estate matter, you felt it - an unease settling under your ribs, a prickle up the back of your neck - until a man whose name you barely remembered but whose reputation was well-known for arrogance and indulgence stepped too close, his breath thick with drink, his smile sharp in a way that made you instinctively step back, only to find the ballroom too crowded to move freely.

“Lady Bridgerton,” he drawled, eyes flicking over you with a familiarity he had not earned. “Your husband… always leaves you unattended. A pity, truly.”

You stiffened, keeping your voice polite. “The Viscount will return shortly. If you will excuse me-”

But his hand shot out, fingers clamping around your wrist with a strength heightened by drink and entitlement, his nails digging in just enough to make your breath hitch as he tugged you forward with a force that left the floor tilting slightly beneath your feet.

“No need to scurry away,” he murmured, his grip tightening even as you attempted to twist free. “We are quite alone here, aren’t we?”

You swallowed. “This is highly inappropriate-”

“Oh, come now,” he whispered, leaning too close, his breath fanning over your cheek, “surely the Viscount cannot blame a man for admiring beauty when it is so very tempting.”

You jerked your arm back, but he only laughed, guiding you, step by step, toward the terrace doors - dark, half-open, unguarded - until the cool night air spilled over your skin and the room disappeared behind you, the sounds of violins muffled as he closed the door with a slow, deliberate click.

“Let go,” you said, your voice shaking despite your attempt to remain steady.

He did not.

Instead, he crowded you against the stone balustrade, the pressure of it pressing coldly into your lower back, his fingers sliding up your arm until they reached your jaw, tilting your face toward his with a horrifying gentleness that made your stomach drop. “You deserve someone who sees you,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the corner of your lip in a gesture that made revulsion crawl up your spine. “Someone who is not too busy being Viscount to remember he has a wife.”

You twisted your head away just as he dipped toward your mouth, his lips skimming the edge of your cheek, damp and unwanted, sending a jolt of panic straight through your chest as his other hand seized your waist, pulling you closer, closer-

And something inside you broke.

You reacted without thinking, teeth sinking sharply into the skin of his cheek, just below his lip, tasting copper, hearing the hiss of pain as he reared back, shock flashing across his face before it twisted into something dark, ugly, dangerous.

“You little-”

The slap came before you could brace for it, white-hot and stunning, snapping your head sideways, the world tilting violently as his hand shoved you, hard, sending you stumbling into the stone railing, pain blooming along your ribs as your breath punched out of your lungs in a strangled gasp.

You barely had time to catch yourself before he grabbed your shoulders, shaking you once, twice, his grip unforgiving as you tried to push him away, voice trembling: “Stop… please… stop-”

And then-

A sound you had never heard from Anthony before tore through the night.

It wasn’t a shout.

It wasn’t a call.

It was a roar.

Animal.

Raw.

Murderous.

“TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE.”

The man barely had time to turn before Anthony collided with him, the impact so violent you heard the air punched from his lungs as they hit the terrace floor, Anthony’s fists already swinging, relentless, punishing, each blow a horrific crack of knuckles against bone as he straddled the man’s chest, eyes wide and wild, breathing like a man who had been denied oxygen for too long.

“You touched her,” Anthony growled, voice low and shaking with rage so deep it bordered on madness. “You dared lay a filthy hand on her-”

Another punch.

“And you think you will breathe after that?”

Another.

Your voice scraped out of your throat. “Anthony-”

He didn’t hear you.

He couldn’t.

He was gone.

Lost.

You watched with trembling limbs as Anthony seized the man by the collar, dragging him upward only to slam him back down, the sickening thud echoing in the night as the man whimpered, blood already streaking down his chin.

Anthony’s hands moved to his throat.

“No-” you gasped, stumbling forward, “Anthony, please-”

But Anthony’s fingers tightened, squeezing, pushing the man’s head back into the stone, his jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck stood out, his entire body shaking with the sheer force of his fury as he leaned over the man, voice low and lethal: “I should end you for touching her. I should end you right here.”

The man choked, struggling weakly.

Anthony pressed harder.

“ANTHONY!” Benedict’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

Suddenly there were hands grabbing Anthony’s shoulders, arms wrapping around his torso, pulling, tugging, fighting him; Benedict on one side, Colin on the other, both straining from the sheer strength of a man gone feral with fear and rage.

“Anthony! Stop! You’ll kill him-”

“Let go of him, brother- he cannot breathe-”

“He hurt her,” Anthony shouted, voice cracking with something guttural and shattered. “He hurt her, let me go… LET ME GO-”

But his brothers held him, panting, grunting with the effort, until at last his hands slipped from the man’s bruised throat, leaving him gasping and coughing on the ground.

And then Anthony saw you.

Finally saw you.

The bruises forming on your arm, the reddened handprint on your cheek, the tear tracks you hadn’t even realized were there.

Anthony froze.

Everything inside him - rage, movement, breath - stilled.

He stumbled toward you, eyes wide, horrified, devastated in a way that made your heart twist because you had never seen him look like that, never seen him genuinely afraid.

“Sweetheart…” he breathed, voice breaking, “my love- what has he- what did he -”

He reached for you, then stopped, hands hovering inches from your skin as though he feared he might hurt you simply by touching, his chest rising and falling too fast, too sharply.

“Anthony,” you whispered.

He crumpled.

Quite literally - his knees hit the stone as he pulled you into his arms with a gentleness that contradicted every violent breath he’d taken moments before, his hand sliding behind your head, his other sweeping around your waist, holding you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly.

“I’m here,” he whispered into your hair, his voice shaking as tears slipped down onto your shoulder. “My darling girl, I am here, I am here, you’re safe, you’re safe now, I swear it-”

You trembled in his hold, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, breathing him in, grounding yourself in the scent of sandalwood and clove and the warmth of his chest pressed tightly against yours.

Benedict and Colin exchanged a look - relief, horror, pity - before stepping away to retrieve their mother, who emerged moments later with a gasp of horror, hands covering her mouth, her eyes shining with sympathy and devastation as she hurried to your side.

“My dear,” Lady Bridgerton whispered, cupping your uninjured cheek with a mother’s tenderness. “Come, let us get you home.”

But Anthony was already rising to his feet, scooping you into his arms without hesitation, his jaw set, his eyes burning, his voice firm and low as he addressed his mother:

“I am taking her home. No one else touches her. No one.”

His mother nodded softly, surprised by neither his protectiveness nor the terrifying certainty in his tone.

You buried your face in Anthony’s shoulder as he carried you through the house, ignoring the shocked gasps and murmurs that spread like wildfire through the guests. He did not slow. He did not explain. He did not acknowledge anyone.

He simply held you.

As though you were the only thing that existed.

————————

The carriage ride home felt strangely silent despite the pounding of hooves, the creak of wheels, the frantic rhythm of your own heart. Anthony had you gathered in his lap the entire time, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as though you were made of glass and he feared even the vibration of the road might cause you more pain. His chin rested against your temple, his breath shaky every few seconds - he tried to hide it, but he couldn’t, not like this, not when the adrenaline had faded and left nothing but fear and guilt in its wake.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he whispered into your hair, voice hoarse. “Tell me the moment you feel discomfort, and I will stop the carriage, I’ll carry you the rest of the way, I do not care how many miles remain.”

“I’m alright,” you murmured, your voice still trembling from what had happened. “You don’t need to-”

Anthony flinched. Actually flinched.

“Do not say I don’t need to,” he whispered, pulling you tighter, “because I do. I need to hold you. I need to touch you. I need to know you’re still here. I nearly-” His voice cracked, the words breaking apart. “I nearly lost myself entirely when I saw him shove you. If Benedict and Colin had not-”

You felt his throat move as he swallowed hard.

“…I don’t know what would remain of me,” he finished in a whisper.

You tightened your grip on his waist, and Anthony made a sound - low, raw, relieved - burying his face in your shoulder.

When the carriage finally stopped outside Bridgerton House, Anthony didn’t wait for the footman. He simply stood, lifting you into his arms with a strength that was gentler than anyone would have expected from a man who’d been moments away from killing someone with his bare hands.

The maids rushed toward the door the moment he crossed the threshold, but Anthony’s voice was firm, icy, brooking no argument.

“No one touches her,” he ordered. “No one enters our room. I will tend to her myself.”

They curtsied and disappeared quickly, wide-eyed and whispering - but none dared disobey.

Anthony carried you through the halls with steps that grew faster the closer he came to your room, as though the only place he trusted the world with you was behind that locked door. When he reached it, he nudged it open with his shoulder and set you down only when he had no other choice, his hands sliding slowly down your arms as though afraid you might dissolve the moment he let go.

“Sit, my love,” he whispered, guiding you to the edge of the bed. “Let me… let me take care of you.”

Your throat tightened at the way his hands trembled as he reached for the laces of your gown. Anthony Bridgerton - your husband, your steady, fierce, impossibly controlled husband - was shaking.

“Anthony,” you whispered.

“Please,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your bruised cheek like it physically hurt him to look at it. “Let me do this.”

So you let him.

He unlaced your gown with slow, reverent hands, peeling away the fabric inch by inch, murmuring apologies every time you winced, even when you insisted the pain was mild. His jaw flexed when he found the bruise forming on your shoulder from where you had been shoved. His breath hitched when he saw the angry red marks around your arm where you had been grabbed.

And then he dropped to his knees.

Just… dropped.

As though the sight of the damage had pulled the ground out from under him.

“Anthony-”

“I should have been there,” he whispered, his hands hovering just above your skin. “I should never have let you walk away alone. I will never - never - allow such a thing to happen again.”

“Anthony, it wasn’t your-”

“It was,” he said sharply - not angry at you, but angry at himself, furious in a way that trembled beneath the surface. “Your safety is my charge. Your wellbeing is my duty. Your happiness is-” He broke off, dragging a shaking hand through his hair. “I failed you tonight. I failed my wife.”

You lifted his chin gently.

His eyes were wet.

“Anthony,” you whispered, “I’m not afraid of you.”

He froze.

Actually froze.

You cupped his face more firmly, bringing his forehead to yours. “Look at me,” you whispered. “I’m not afraid of you. Not your anger. Not your temper. Not your fists. Not your voice. Not anything you did tonight. You were protecting me.”

He inhaled sharply, a wounded sound that split your heart in two.

“You cannot know how that comforts me,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “You have no idea what a mercy that is to hear.”

You brushed your thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Come here.”

He climbed onto the bed slowly, almost cautiously, as though afraid he might break something by moving too quickly. You lay back, pulling him with you until his body was half draped over yours, his head on your chest, his hand pressed over your heart like he needed proof it was still beating.

For a long time, he didn’t speak.

He simply breathed you in, his fingers tracing your ribs, your waist, your thigh, as though reacquainting himself with every piece of you he had feared losing.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft, vulnerable, shattered in the way only a man deeply in love can be shattered.

“May I… kiss them?” he whispered, nodding to the bruises.

You nodded.

So he kissed them.

Every one.

Your cheek.

Your shoulder.

The marks on your arm.

The small bruise forming on your hip.

Each kiss was slow, reverent, full of apologies he didn’t have the words to say.

When he reached your lips, he paused, his forehead against yours.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “Name it, and I will give it to you.”

“I just need you,” you murmured, threading your fingers into his hair. “Stay with me. Lie with me. Hold me.”

Anthony exhaled shakily, the relief in his eyes almost painful to witness.

“Always,” he whispered.

He slid beneath the blankets with you, pulling your body against his chest, wrapping himself around you as though trying to form a shield with his own limbs. His hand splayed over your back, warm and steady. His lips brushed the crown of your head again and again, murmuring soft reassurances between breaths.

“You’re safe.”

“You’re mine.”

“I’m here.”

“I won’t let anything hurt you again.”

“I love you. God, I love you.”

The room grew quiet.

Your breathing steadied.

His heartbeat settled.

And in the darkness, with his arms tight around you, with his breath warm against your skin, with the weight of his devotion pressing softly into your bones-

You felt safe.

You felt protected.

You felt loved.

And for the first time since the terrace, the terror finally melted away.

———————

When Chan first talked to you about keeping your relationship a secret, you had agreed right away. You were a pretty private person anyway and the fact that it wasn’t a complete secret - the members, your families, close friends, and management all knew - helped a lot too.

You know that Chan is mainly worried about crazy fans who might start targeting you, while you’re less concerned about your safety and more focused on how the news would negatively impact his reputation and career as an idol. Both of you know that it would make all the work that you’ve done as a producer for JYPE that has helped with Stray Kids songs seem less professional and more like favouritism.

Although you wish that you didn’t have to hide, pretending to be single has been something that the two of you have struggled with multiple times in the past, you know it's for the best. At least working for the same company has its own perks, such as being able to work together on songs without it being suspicious and the knowledge that most of the time, you're only a few floors away.

So on nights like tonight, when you've ended up working late and most of the other staff have gone home for the day, you can just text Chan to ask if he wants to meet up.

[Sent 8:02pm]

Hey are you still at the company?

[Received 8:04pm]

Yup

You too? It’s so late…

[Sent 8:04pm]

Says you

but yeah, I’m about to leave

[Received 8:06pm]

Come say hi?

I’m getting ready for a schedule

Chan sends you the number of the room that he’s in and you quickly finish packing your things so that you can make your way over. The door is closed when you arrive, but since Chan invited you, you knock and open it yourself.

But there’s still a bit of time

What you find inside makes you raise an eyebrow. 

Chan is sitting in a chair with headphones in and eyes closed, he likely didn’t hear you knock. But what surprises you is his makeup artist.

You’re no stranger to the way that the stylists and makeup artists have to be physically close with the idols and you’re pretty comfortable with it since you know it’s strictly professional. But the way that this makeup artist has positioned herself is a little suspicious.

She’s pressed herself as close to Chan as possible and has both hands touching his face as she applies eyeshadow. Her own face is unnecessarily close to Chan’s.

She must realise how questionable it must look because when you clear your throat to try and get their attention, she jumps away immediately, almost poking Chan in the eye with the eyeshadow brush in the process. It causes Chan to notice, and he pulls off his headphones, face brightening once he sees you.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Nope, all good,” Chan reassures you. “Have you two met before? Y/nnie, this is Harang-ssi, one of our makeup artists, she’s here to make me look presentable before my schedule. Harang-ssi, this is Y/n-ah.”

“Nice to meet you, Harang-ssi,” you say, bowing slightly.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Harang echoes politely. As she looks at you, she spots something that makes her eyes widen and her smile a bit more genuine. “Oh, are you also staff?”

“Yeah,” you say slowly, looking down at your lanyard that must have given you away. “I'm a producer with the company.”

For some reason that relaxes Harang even further. Instead of commenting, she steps closer to Chan again, reaching towards him to continue applying makeup. You stare, surprised by her boldness and how oblivious she seems to the way that Chan has started to angle his body away from her, trying to create distance between the two.

“Well?” Harang asks impatiently after you don't say anything else. “Go ahead with whatever you’re here for. Chan-ssi has a schedule soon.”

You stare at Chan, not sure how much he wants to share. To someone observant, he’s already given you away by using a nickname and speaking to you far more casually than he would if you were only a producer. The two of you dating isn’t exactly a secret, but the more people who know, the more likely it might get leaked to the public.

“Uhm,” Chan says, looking at you as if to gauge your expression as he speaks. At the sound of his voice, Harang pulls away from him slightly, clearly surprised that he’s speaking first. “Actually, I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but Y/nnie isn’t just a producer at JYPE. I asked her to come by because she’s my girlfriend.”

“What?” Harang’s face drops. She looks devastated, although by the time Chan looks away from you, she’s managed to school her face into one of polite surprise and let out a fake giggle. “Oh I didn’t- I didn’t know you were seeing anyone, Chan-ssi.”

“Yeah, that’s good actually! We’re trying to keep it quiet,” Chan explains. “You understand, right? You can’t be too careful these days.”

“Of course,” she agrees immediately. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Great, thanks.” Chan smiles and Harang’s whole face lights up in response. Before she can say anything else though, Chan turns to where you’re still hovering by the door and reaches a hand out. “Y/nnie, why are you still so far away? Come over here.”

It’s hard to stop the blush that erupts on your face. You think that Chan is so cute when he’s clingy, but you haven’t had any opportunities to get used to PDA so it’s still a little embarrassing. From the corner of your eye, you can see that Harang’s face is puckered like she’s swallowed something really sour. When you get close enough to grab Chan’s hand, he pulls you into his arms. Since he still hasn’t gotten up from his chair, he’s practically buried his face into your stomach.

“Yah!” you laugh. “You’re going to get makeup all over my shirt!”

“Oh sorry.” Chan pops his head back up, blinking at you owlishly. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” you reply, using your free hand to comb through his hair, smiling as Chan leans into your touch. “But I’m not sure if I can say the same for Harang-ssi, you’re ruining her hard work!”

Chan turns away from you, looking surprised when he sees Harang hovering awkwardly at the table where all the makeup is spread out. 

“Ah, you’re still here?” he asks innocently. You wince inwardly, knowing that even though Chan didn’t mean anything by asking, but even to you it sounds passive aggressive.

"Oh sorry, I wouldn’t want to get in the way, I'll just take a quick break and come back in a second!" she says, smiling sickly sweet when Chan thanks her even though it’s obvious that she doesn’t really want to leave.

"That was kind of… awkward," you comment as soon as the door closes behind her, not quite sure what to make of her conflicting behaviour.

"What do you mean?"

"Were you not there? She basically glared at me when you told her that we were together, she clearly did not like me."

"It could be that she was just caught off guard, I mean, I haven't exactly been broadcasting to all of JYPE that I have a girlfriend."

“Yeah and she probably imagined herself as being able to fill that role. She was so touchy!” You don’t want to be a whiny girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean you can’t complain when somebody is showing obvious interests in your boyfriend and he’s doing nothing to stop them.

“Oh, that’s just how she always is.” Chan shrugs. “With the rest of the guys too, we’ve all gotten used to it. Really, she doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“So since she does that to everyone, it’s okay?”

“Y/n-ah, just leave it!” Chan groans. “I didn’t ask you to come by so that we could argue about something stupid.”

“Fine,” you say, a little hurt and uneasy that Chan’s just brushing you off. “If you say so. I guess I just don’t know her that well.”

“I promise she’s a good person. I don't want you wasting your time worrying about her. Now, how was your day?”

“It was good, busy. I didn't mean to stay so long, but I got caught up with something and didn't realise how much time had passed. Actually, I should probably go now,” you say.

“What? But you just got here,” Chan whines. 

“You have a schedule soon,” you remind him gently. “And as you said, it's late. I'm going to head home and eat something.”

“You didn’t eat yet? Y/nnie, you shouldn’t skip meals! Here, I can order you something, what do you want?”

“It’s fine, I’ll just grab something on my way home,” you say. “And you’re one to talk, did you eat dinner yet?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. I tried a new place and it was good!” Chan pauses for a second to take out his phone. “Actually, I think you’d like it, I’ll just get you what I got and you can tell me what you think.”

“Oppa, it’s fine-”

“Too late!” Chan proudly shows you his screen which shows that in just a few seconds, he’s finished placing an order. “It’ll arrive around the time that you get home.”

“Thanks oppa,” you say fondly, kissing the top of his head, then the dimple that forms on his cheek as he smiles. “I hope your schedule goes well and that you don’t have to stay for too long.”

“Text me when you get home, okay?”

“Okay. I'll let you know how the food is.”

You don't stay long after that, quickly saying goodbye before leaving the room. You find Harang waiting in the hallway, typing on her phone. When you let her know that she can go back and apologise for interrupting, she barely acknowledges you, just rolls her eyes and walks past.

You try to not let it bother you, but her two-faced attitude rubs you the wrong way. At least you likely won't have to deal with her again, you only met now after working at the same company for a few years and you're in no hurry to change that.

—

A few days later, you get an instagram notification that someone has requested to follow you. It's unusual because you’re not the type to post much and your account is private, even though you're still careful to avoid any pictures or mentions of Chan or the rest of Stray Kids.

It’s Harang.

Odd, since she definitely gave off the impression that she didn’t like you.

Curious, you click on her profile. It's fairly generic at first glance, a majority of the photos feature her which isn’t much of a surprise. However, one of the most recent pictures catches your eye.

It's a mirror selfie taken in one of the company rooms that the stylists and makeup artists typically use. There's someone in the background and although their face isn't showing, you can tell it's Chan. The picture itself is harmless, Harang could have been a bit more vigilant before posting it, but it could easily be explained away as a mistake. It’s when you see the number of likes and comments compared to her normal posts that has you concerned. 

Opening up the comments just proves that your wariness of Harang wasn’t entirely unfounded. One of the top posts is a comment that says ‘Is that your boyfriend?? you look so cute togetherrr’ to which Harang just replied ‘🤭’. There's another reply that makes your stomach drop ‘isn't that Chan?? he's dating someone????’ 

A number of comments argue about whether or not it’s Chan, if the photo has been edited, and questioning who Harang is. They talk about the clothes the man in the picture is wearing, his posture, height, hair, and compare it to other pictures of Chan.

Scrolling through some older posts, you start to find a pattern of pictures that are similarly suspicious. None of them are completely obvious, the man’s face is always turned away or cropped out, but there’s enough showing for you to recognize it to be Chan and you know that his fans are observant enough to do the same.

"Hey," you say, pulling Chan’s attention away from where he’s playing a game on his phone. "You know that makeup artist I interrupted the other day?"

"Yeah, Harang? What about her?"

"She requested to follow me on Instagram," you say slowly, still trying to figure out how best to word everything. "Did you know?"

"Did I know she sent you a follow request? How would I know that?" he asks incredulously.

"No, more like, did you know about her account."

"Well I'm certainly not surprised that she has one, but no, I haven't looked at it before. Why? What's with the sudden interrogation?"

“I think that she’s been posting photos with you in them,” you say, putting it bluntly.

“With me? Are you sure?”

“Not directly you, but just. It’s like, the side of you or your back or something. But I can tell.”

“All the staff have contracts that prohibit taking pictures with or of us. Y/n, I get that she made you feel a bit uncomfortable that time you met her and I’m sorry, but do you really think she would risk her job like that?”

“Well when you put it like that-” you start to say.

"I know you two maybe got off on the wrong foot, but Harang is really sweet," Chan interrupts. “We’ve worked with her for years and she’s been nothing but nice. Maybe she’s a bit more touchy than others, but she’s never crossed any boundaries.”

"Something about her feels weird, like there’s something more going on. These posts-”

“Just drop it, there’s nothing to be concerned about. She’s harmless.”

“You keep saying that but I’m telling you-”

"Why, are you jealous?" he asks, adopting a teasing voice. He pulls you into his arms. "You know that you're my girl, right?" 

“Chan, I’m not jealous!” you snap, pushing him away. Chan looks at you, startled by your seriousness. “I really don’t like her. And you keep defending her and I don’t know how to feel when you’re taking her side and not mine.”

“Okay fine,” Chan says, finally backing off although he seems a bit annoyed. “I can’t avoid her at schedules, but I’ll be careful when she’s around, okay?”

“Okay.”

There’s a moment of silence and you think the conversation is over, but Chan speaks again.

“I just wish that you’d trust me a little more. You know that I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Of course I trust you,” you say. “I just don’t trust her, she’s- I can tell she’s up to something.”

“Well she can be up to whatever she wants, it’s not going to change the fact that you’re the one I love. She can have feelings for me, but I’m never going to reciprocate them.”

“Fine, I won’t bring it up again,” you say, feeling exhausted. 

Dropping the issue without getting Chan to fully understand your concerns feels like defeat, but you can tell that pushing more won’t get you anywhere. You haven’t even broached the part that bothered you most about the posts - the fact that Harang has been seemingly pretending that Chan was her partner - but if Chan already doesn’t care, this detail isn’t going to change his mind.

You don't want to make too much of a fuss about it, maybe it really is a non-issue and you're overreacting, but something about this whole situation just doesn't sit right with you. 

—

You're a bit surprised when a few weeks later, Chan asks you to go on a date, even more so when he mentions that he was able to book a private room at a fancy restaurant the two of you had talked about trying before. It wasn't that he never treated you or made time for you, it was just that his busy schedule and caution around fans finding out about you meant that the two of you stayed in more often than not.

The last time you had done something like this was on your anniversary a few months ago and while you enjoy the comfortable and quiet dates at home that you usually have, you're touched by Chan's initiative to do something more special.

The night of the date, you're still in the process of getting ready when Chan texts.

[5:47 pm - received]

Have some things that I need to finish up

Sorry baby, I'm going to be staying late tonight

You know how much Chan tries to prioritise spending time with you, so you figure that it must be something really important that came up. You understand that he doesn't have much of a choice when the higher ups ask something of him, but it's hard to stop the disappointment that crashes over you. Still, you want to support him and cheer him up, guessing that he already feels bad about having to bail.

[5:52 pm - sent]

It's fine! Don’t work too hard ^.^

[5:55 pm - received]

Thanks

Miss you

[5:56 pm - sent]

It had been so long since you had been on a proper date with Chan that you had started getting more and more excited as the day had approached. You had even bought a new dress that you'd been eyeing for a while and had left work a little bit earlier than usual to get ready. Now it feels like it was all for nothing. At least he told you before you left the house, but you've already finished your makeup.

Miss you toooo

Not wanting to waste the evening, you message a couple friends and make plans to grab dinner. It’s been a couple months since the three of you have been able to get together and you have fun catching up at a pocha eating street food.

When you finish your meal, the three of you discuss going to a noraebang next and you take out your phone to help search for the nearest one.

You get a notification that one of your friends has posted a story of you and your dinner, so you open up Instagram to like it. You’re about to switch to Naver Map when the screen changes to a story that Harang has posted. The second that you see it, there's this horrible, heavy feeling that starts to grow in your chest, making it harder to breathe.

The picture is focused on the food that’s on the table, but even a short glance is enough for you to recognize that the hands of the person sitting across from Harang belong to Chan. If you weren’t sure from just the hands, his signature bracelets and the bunched up sleeves of his hoodie confirm your suspicions. Even the food that has been ordered matches Chan’s preferences.

Oh.

So Chan wasn't working late.

He was out. 

Having dinner.

With Harang. 

The girl that you had warned him about. 

The one that he had promised to stay away from.

Instagram moves to another story, but you navigate back to Harang’s page to look at the picture again. This time, you notice that there’s a caption at the bottom of the screen that says ‘late night meals with him <3’.

You want to throw up.

Instead, you lock your phone with shaky hands and take a deep breath, trying to stop the tears that have begun to sting your eyes. You don’t want to be the crazy, jealous, and possessive girlfriend that overreacts or jumps to conclusions every time they see their partner spending time with others. 

But this isn’t you randomly accusing him without any cause. It’s reasonable for you, his girlfriend, to be upset when he’s spending time one-on-one with another woman, even more so because that other woman is pretending online that she's dating him.

No matter what you think, there is no good reason that would explain why Chan would have dinner with Harang tonight. If it was just the picture, you could have accepted it as Harang being her usual, delusional self, but the fact that Chan would cancel plans and deliberately lie to you about it…

“-okay, Y/n?”

You just manage to catch the end of your friend's question and you look up to find both your friends staring at you with identical concerned expressions.

“What?” you ask, trying to play it off by laughing but even you can tell it doesn't sound convincing. “Sorry, I think I zoned out.”

“Are you okay?” one of them repeats gently. “Did you get some bad news?”

“No, not that, it's just I’m not feeling well all of a sudden. I think I should go home,” you say to your friends. You must look just as horrible as you feel because as soon as they see your face, they immediately stop what they’re doing to fuss over you.

“What do you think it was?” one of them asks.

“I think something just didn’t agree with me,” you say weakly.

“But we shared all our food, were you feeling sick earlier?”

“No, it's fine, I think I just need to rest a bit.”

As much as you want to spill everything to them, to yell and scream and cry. To shake them and ask what you've done to deserve this. To make them check and see if you're actually going crazy. You can't.

They don't know Chan, they wouldn't understand how complicated your secret relationship is. But mostly, you don't want them to know. You want to keep the shame and embarrassment that's clawing in your chest to yourself.

You don't think you could handle it, watching their expressions turn to one of pity. You know there's nothing they could say to make you feel better anyway.

Your friends order you a taxi to take you home, making you promise to message them when you make it back safely. You manage to do that, sending a couple words to your group chat the second you stumble out of the vehicle.

Somehow you make it back to your apartment. You didn't drink tonight, but the way that the ground seems to be moving from under you, the unsteadiness of your hands as you try to unlock your door, and the roiling nausea that you've barely kept at bay, it feels like you've finished a couple bottles of soju by yourself.

You had suspected something was going on and this was just confirmation that you were right. Maybe it had been dumb of you to just believe Chan when he said there was nothing to worry about - of course he would say that. You had chosen to trust Chan and he had let you fall.

The worst part is, you don't even feel mad.

In fact, you don't feel anything at all. The gross and sick feeling that had taken over your body has been replaced with a heavy numbness. It fills your limbs and dulls the pain that you know is simmering just underneath your skin so that all that's left is this deep ache.

You don't sleep at all that night.

Parts:

Profiles & extras: Delulu House | Stray Kids | Playlist

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Bonus Content Unlocked: Mystery Trip with Y/n playlist

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20 (fin)

Bonus Content Unlocked: Memes

—

Buy me a coffee?

This morning, he’s leaning against the wall by your locker, his leather jacket creased, his hair a wild tangle barely contained by a bandana, his hands fidgeting with a pencil like he’s nervous you’ll bolt. “Hey,” he says, his voice soft, cautious, his brown eyes searching yours for any sign of softening. You pause, your fingers fumbling with your locker combination, and glance at him, your stomach twisting at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, a hint he’s been crying again. The memory of his tears at the quarry, mirroring your own, tugs at you, but you shove it down, pulling out your books without a word, your silence a shield.

“I noticed your car’s wiper was loose,” he says, his voice faltering, a small offering laid at your feet. “Fixed it this morning in the lot. Didn’t want you stuck in the snow.” He gestures toward the parking lot, where your beat-up sedan sits, its wiper now secure, and you freeze, your hand tightening on your biology textbook. It’s a practical gesture, the kind of thing Eddie used to do without asking—checking your tires, taping your cracked Walkman—but it stings, a reminder of the friend you lost, the one you’re not ready to let back in.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice flat, barely meeting his eyes, and turn toward class, your ankle brace clicking faintly with each step. You feel his gaze on your back, heavy with hope and regret, but you don’t look back, your tears threatening to spill as you round the corner. The hallway buzzes with students, their laughter a stark contrast to the quiet storm in your chest, and you blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall where anyone can see.

At lunch, you hide in the library, a sanctuary of musty books and silence, your tray untouched as you stare at a dog-eared copy of The Hobbit. Your grades are slipping again, your focus fractured by the hurt Eddie caused, the way he threw away your mixtape, your hoodie, your trust. Your thoughts drift to the dice, the ones you saved for months to buy, the ones he kept when he discarded everything else, and a tear escapes, sliding down your cheek to stain the page. You wipe it away angrily, your jaw clenched, but the ache persists, a tangle of anger and longing you can’t unravel.

Robin finds you, sliding into the chair across with her band folder thumping onto the table, her freckled face a mix of concern and determination. “He’s trying, you know,” she says, her voice gentle but firm, cutting through your silence. “Eddie’s a mess without you. Keeps asking me if you’re okay, if you hate him.”

You shrug, your eyes on the book, another tear falling despite your efforts. “Doesn’t change what he did,” you say, your voice low, cracking with the weight of it. “He chose her, Robin. He let her call me nothing, let her throw out my stuff. I can’t just… forget that.”

She nods, her eyes softening, a flicker of understanding in her gaze. “I know,” she says, leaning forward. “But he’s not giving up. Fixed your wiper, didn’t he? That’s Eddie, trying to show you he cares. Maybe it’s not enough yet, but it’s something.”

You don’t respond, your tears falling faster, and she lets the silence sit, her presence a quiet comfort. When she leaves, you find a note slipped into your backpack, Eddie’s messy handwriting scrawled across a torn notebook page: I’m sorry. I’ll keep proving it. – E. You crumple it, but don’t throw it away, tucking it into your pocket where it burns like a coal, a weight you’re not ready to release.

The next day, he’s waiting by your car after school, a single red M&M—the only kind you eat—balanced on the hood, a small, deliberate gesture. “Thought you’d need a pick-me-up,” he says, his voice tentative, his eyes red again, tears barely held back. You pause, your fingers brushing the candy, the cold metal of the hood grounding you, and for a moment, you want to thank him, to smile, but the memory of his silence, of Tara’s sneer, stops you. You take the M&M, pocketing it, and climb into your car without a word, driving off as he watches, his shoulders slumped.

At home, you eat the candy, its sweetness sharp against the bitterness in your chest, and tears spill over, soaking your pillow as you curl up, the Polaroid of you and Eddie at the arcade staring from your corkboard. The note in your pocket joins others you’ve kept, a growing pile in your desk drawer, each one a whisper of his remorse you’re not ready to hear.

Eddie’s efforts don’t stop. He shows up at the record store where you work, not to talk but to browse quietly, his presence a steady hum in the background. He leaves another red M&M on the counter, slipping out before you can react, and you pocket it, your heart a tangle of resentment and something softer, unnameable. At school, he offers rides you refuse, his van idling in the lot, Metallica faintly audible through the windows. Another note appears in your locker, this one with a cassette: Songs for the Cleric, scrawled in his handwriting, filled with Metallica, Dio, and a Journey ballad that feels like an apology. You don’t play it, but you keep it under your bed, its plastic case a weight you can’t ignore.

Your friends push gently, their hope a pressure you resist. Dustin corners you in the hallway, his eyes bright with excitement. “Eddie’s done with Tara,” he says, bouncing on his heels. “He’s trying so hard for you—fixed your wiper, made you a mixtape! Maybe give him a chance?” His enthusiasm grates, and tears prick your eyes as you shake your head.

“It’s not that easy,” you say, your voice cracking, wiping your tears with your sleeve. “He hurt me, Dustin. I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.” He deflates, nodding, and leaves you to limp to class, your ankle brace a metaphor for your heart—slowly healing, but not there yet.

Steve, at the video store, watches you rent The Breakfast Club, his voice careful. “Eddie’s beating himself up,” he says, handing you the tape. “Doesn’t mean you have to forgive him, but he’s not the same guy who screwed up.” You nod, your throat tight, tears threatening, and leave, the movie unopened on your nightstand.

Max, at the arcade, sees you avoiding Eddie’s gaze when he walks in, his eyes red with unshed tears, another M&M left on your car. “He’s a mess, but he’s trying,” she says, her voice blunt but kind. You don’t respond, but her words linger, another crack in your walls.

Eddie’s at Hellfire Club, his campaigns lackluster without you, the empty chair where your cleric sat a silent accusation. Gareth and Jeff notice his tears during a break, his voice low as he admits, “I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.” They offer no solutions, but their presence keeps him grounded, their faith in you both a quiet support.

One afternoon, you’re at the library, tucked in a corner with your homework untouched, when Eddie finds you. He doesn’t sit, just stands there, his hands in his pockets, the dice a faint bulge against his jeans. “I miss you,” he says, his voice breaking, tears welling in his eyes. “Not just at Hellfire, but everywhere—in the halls, at the arcade, in my van blasting Dio. I know I don’t deserve you back, but I’m not stopping. I’ll keep showing up, even if you never look at me.”

You meet his gaze, your own tears spilling, and the sight of his pain mirrors yours, a shared grief for what was lost. “I don’t hate you,” you say, your voice small, the first crack in your armor, tears streaming down your face. “But I can’t trust you, Eddie. Not yet. I don’t know if I can.”

He nods, a tear sliding down his cheek, and he wipes it away with his sleeve, his rings glinting. “I get it,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion. “I’ll keep proving it, every day, until you can. Or until you tell me to stop.”

He leaves, and you cry quietly, the library’s silence swallowing your sobs, your tears staining your notebook. His words, his tears, his persistence—they’re chipping at your resolve, but the hurt is too deep, the memory of his silence too vivid. You’re not ready to forgive, but you’re starting to see him, the boy who kept your dice, who’s fighting for you with every small gesture.

TAGLIST:

That was the first sentence Eddie Munson had ever uttered to your humble person. You were eating your lunch in peace, staring into space as per usual when he suddenly spoke to you. You blinked. You looked around to make sure he was indeed talking to you. He snorted.

“Yeah. You. I’ve been watching you for the past five minutes and you haven’t stopped staring at me all this damn time. What ? Got a problem with my face, Gazer ?”

Gazer ? You blinked again and chuckled awkwardly before you tried to defend yourself. “I…No. Not at all. I just…I wasn’t staring at you I swear. I was just—”

“Yeah ?” He interrupted you. “Well from where I’m standing. It kinda looked like you were. And I don’t like people staring at me. It ain’t cool.”

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole when everyone at your table was suddenly staring at you. You pulled your cap down over your face in shame and begged for a reprieve of this moment of sheer embarrassment. And as if you had been heard, a voice raised behind you.

“Munson. Cut it out.” One of the school monitors spoke up and Eddie huffed—but still complied. He sat back down with an angry thud and his arms crossed over his chest. Once the monitor was gone though, he glared at you.

“Don’t think this is over. I’m onto you, Poker Face. One more weird look from you and I’m breakin’ out the tinfoil helmet, got it ?”

You were speechless. You hadn’t meant to be staring at him. It was just that sometimes you had episodes of complete absence and you just started staring into space. It wasn’t your fault. You swear you hadn’t meant it. But before you could apologise, he was gone…You stood up as well and walked towards the exit. You REALLY didn’t want to run into him again.

…

The next time you saw Eddie, it was two days later—during a fire drill. You were standing on the grass near the edge of the baseball field, biting your nails and trying not to look like a lost idiot in a sea of yelling classmates. Your class was grouped loosely together, but you’d instinctively drifted off to the side, head down, eyes fixed on the trees past the fence. Until someone bumped your shoulder—deliberately. You blinked and turned. There he was. Eddie Munson. Same wild hair, same jean jacket, same permanent scowl. He stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, tilting his head like he was trying to figure you out.

“You doing it again.” He finally told you.

Your throat went dry. “Doing what ?”

He gestured to your eyes. “Staring. Spacing. Whatever the hell it is. Just…do it somewhere else, alright ?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Where else were you supposed to do that ? It’s not like the fire drill had been your idea. “I wasn’t looking at you.”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Sure you weren’t, Poker Face.”

You frowned. Why wouldn’t he just leave you alone ? You had apologised. Multiple times. “Why do you keep calling me that ?”

Eddie tilted his head again, then shrugged before taking a step forward. “Because you’ve got this…blank look. Like you’re just…trying to win at an invisible game of poker in your head.”

You took a small step back. “I just…sometimes I space out. It’s not personal. I swear. I wouldn’t be staring at you if I could help it. I really just space out and you happen to be in my line of vision often when that happens for some reason.”

He blinked. The hardness in his eyes flickered for a moment. “…You for real ?”

You nodded, pressing your lips together, embarrassed again. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It just happens.”

“Huh.” He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “Well. You should tell people that.”

“I tried to tell you,” you muttered and looked away.

He didn’t respond for a second, then replied with a slight wince, “…Yeah. Right. Sorry. Guess I kinda jumped the gun on that one.”

You looked—really looked—and for a split second, he looked…sheepish ? Before you could say anything else, the principal blew a whistle, yelling for everyone to get back inside.

Eddie gave you one last look and finally smiled. Then he playfully ruffled your hair and told you: “Still think Poker Face fits though. But I ain’t upset anymore and I accept your apology. We cool, Gazer.”

And then he walked off. You were stunned by the unexpected exchange and it took you a second to get back inside…only to have one of the monitors tell you something that you really didn’t expect…

That night:

You were already sitting when Eddie strolled in the detention room. He froze. He really didn’t expect you to be there. But he then dramatically dropped into the seat beside you with a groan that was louder than necessary. The teacher at the front—Mr. Keller, who clearly didn’t want to be there either—glared briefly, then returned to his newspaper.

Eddie leaned over, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So…” he whispered conspiratorially. “Was it you ?”

You blinked at him. “Was what me ?”

“The fire,” he insisted, like it was obvious. “You started it ? I’ve heard of love burning bright, but damn, Gazer.”

Your face dropped. “What ?”

He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “I’m just saying, if this was all some Bonnie-and-Clyde way to get my attention, it worked. You even got us detention together. Real smooth.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Eddie. It was a toaster short-circuiting in the teacher’s lounge.”

“Oh, sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “But was it a metaphorical toaster ? That’s the question.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto the desk. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Flattered.” He shot back with a smirk.

You turned your head just enough to glare at him sideways. “You do know why I’m actually here, right ?”

Eddie blinked at you. It was his time to be surprised. But it quickly turned into amusement. “…Because you’re a criminal mastermind ? No ? Enlighten me.”

You sat up, arms crossed. “Parker. In biology. Said I was ‘ogling’ you during class. Then he told the teacher I was your stalker.”

Eddie stared at you—dumbfounded. “Wait—what ?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Apparently, I’ve been ‘following your every move’ and ‘writing your name over and over in my diary.’ Which is funny, because I don’t even own a diary.”

He leaned back slowly in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Wow. So you’re my stalker and a pyromaniac. What a résumé.”

You let out a heavy sigh. “Eddie.”

He put his hands up. “Kidding. Jeez.” Then, after a beat, “Parker’s such a dick.”

You blinked. He actually agreed with you. That was unexpected. He almost seemed to be feeling sorry for you…

Eddie then sighed and tilted his head towards you. “Alright, Gazer. Poker Face. Whatever. For real—I didn’t think you were, y’know, actually stalking me. I just thought you were…weird.”

“Thanks,” you replied dryly.

“But not in a bad way,” he added quickly and looked down—playing with his rings. “Like…you’re weird the way I’m weird. Which is probably why I reacted like a cornered cat.”

You eyed him skeptically and Eddie drummed his fingers on the desk, suddenly fidgety. “Look, I’m not great at the whole…being nice thing. But maybe I shouldn’t have called you out like that in the cafeteria.”

You stared at him. “Is that an apology ?”

He winced. “It’s the Eddie Munson Special™ version of one.”

You cracked the tiniest smile despite yourself and he grinned—proud of himself for making you slip. “You’re smiling. See ? We’re bonding.”

You rolled your eyes and looked away. “I still don’t like you.”

He smirked and nodded. “Even better. All the best friendships start with mild hatred.”

You rolled your eyes again…Right. As if…

The next morning:

You’d barely stepped into the building when you heard the whispers.

“That’s her.”

“No way. Eddie Munson ?”

“I heard they did it in the chemistry closet.”

Your stomach dropped before you even made it to your locker. You could already feel it—the way people’s eyes clung to you, half disgust, half fascination. The cliques didn’t even try to lower their voices. You saw Parker leaning against a locker with his smug little smirk, whispering animatedly to a few wide-eyed girls.

And then you reached your locker.

Spray paint. Sloppy, red, and dripping.

Devil’s Whore.

You froze. Your mouth went dry. Someone behind you giggled. You didn’t even turn to look. For a second, it was like everything slowed down. Your ears rang. Your fingers curled into fists.

I didn’t even do anything.

I didn’t even touch him.

You wanted to scream. Instead, you just stood there—glued to the floor.

“Hey.”

You turned—Eddie. He’d just rounded the corner, binder under his arm, chewing the end of a pencil. His eyes landed on the locker and he immediately stopped chewing and straightened up.

“What the—” He stepped closer, his voice sharper. “Who the hell did this ?”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. You were still frozen in place. Eddie looked at you. Really looked. And his usual teasing, cocky expression faded fast. You shook your head just a little, lips pressed together. He turned towards the hallway, eyes scanning the nearby faces like a wolf catching scent.

“Who the fuck wrote this ?” he barked and slammed his hand against the tagged locker. “Huh ? Parker ? Was it you, you little rat-faced shit ?”

Parker laughed. “Man, don’t look at me. I just heard what everyone else did. Gazer over here’s been—”

Eddie was already moving. He was about to deliver a punch that would hopefully rearrange the idiot’s brain right. But you quickly grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t. Please.”

He looked back at you, jaw clenched so tight it ticked. “They don’t get to do this to you.”

“They already did.” Your voice cracked. You hated that it cracked. The hallway was starting to go quiet. Too many people watching. Too many grins. But you didn’t want Eddie to get into trouble. He already had more than enough on his plate.

He finally glared at the students watching and raised his middle finger at them. “Anyone else wanna say something ? Huh ? Step right up. Come on. I’ve been dying to use my evil powers on all of you assholes.”

Silence. Everybody eventually looked away.

The bell rang.

Later, in the hallway outside the front office, Eddie leaned against the wall as you sat beside him on the floor. A janitor had painted over your locker in rushed, messy brushstrokes.

“You know,” he spoke up, “if we had slept together, I guarantee you’d remember it.”

You shot him a look.

He smirked. “Too soon ?”

You huffed. “Way too soon.”

Silence…Then—

“…You’re strong,” he complimented you suddenly, the teasing gone. “Most people would be crying in a bathroom stall right about now.”

“I wanted to,” you admitted. “Still might.”

He nodded once, slow. “I guess I’ll wait outside the stall today, just in case.”

You smiled and he smiled back at you. He then nudged his foot against yours.

“Come on. Let’s go. I suddenly got the urge to go to class.”

You were surprised, but smiled nonetheless and nodded before standing up and he smiled back at you before following you.

A few days later…

You were halfway through stabbing a sad excuse for a salad when she approached.

Marcie Winters.

Cheerleader. Always smelled like strawberries and money. She sat down across from you like you were already friends.

“Hey,” she said, all faux-sweetness and sugar-coated venom. “You don’t mind if I sit here, right ?”

You blinked. “Uh…”

You were pretty sure she had never talked to you before…She didn’t even wait. Just plopped down with her friends and leaned across the table like she was about to share a secret.

“So,” she started, voice dropping to a whisper. “How big is he ?”

You stared at her with a confused expression. “W-What ?”

She smiled innocently. “Munson. You know. Big.”

Your stomach turned.

“I mean,” she continued, totally unbothered, “people say he’s crazy in bed, like wild. I just figured you’d know.” Her smile widened. “Unless the rumor was just fake and you didn’t actually—”

“Are you serious right now ?”

She blinked at your defensive tone, as if you were the one being unreasonable.

“I didn’t sleep with him,” you told her truthfully. “That was a lie. Someone made it up. And even if I did, why would I ever share such an intimate information with you ?”

Marcie pouted. “That’s a shame. I kinda liked the idea of him being as much a freak in the bed than in his everyday life.”

You stood up so fast your chair scraped loudly against the floor. But before you could say something that would land you in another detention, a familiar voice rang out behind you.

“Wow. Really classy, Marcie.”

You froze.

Eddie.

He’d shown up with a half-eaten bag of chips in one hand and a “do not test me” expression that was usually reserved for people who tried to touch his guitar without asking.

Marcie scoffed. “What ? I was just curious. Jeez.”

Eddie stepped between you and her, putting himself squarely in her line of sight. “You wanna know how big I am ? Why don’t you ask your boyfriend ? I hear he’s got a measuring tape and plenty of insecurities he’s trying to hide. Sooo…instead of asking the poor girl embarrassing questions, how about you take care of your own backyard for once, hmm ?”

The lunchroom snorted. Someone two tables over even clapped.

Marcie’s jaw dropped in shock before she scoffed. “You’re disgusting.”

“No,” he quickly answered, popping a chip into his mouth. “I’m selective. And you didn’t make the cut.”

She was silenced and stormed off with a huff. You were still standing there, wide-eyed.

Eddie turned to you and his gaze grew concerned. “You alright there, Gazer ?”

You blinked before sighing and huffing a bitter laugh. “Why are you always showing up right when things get really humiliating ?”

He grinned. “Maybe I’ve got a sixth sense for it. Or maybe,” he said, lowering his voice as he leaned just a little closer, “I don’t like when people talk shit about someone I like.”

Your heart skipped and your eyes widened significantly. “You like me ?”

He raised an eyebrow and smirked at the shock on your face. “I was kidding. Don’t flatter yourself, Poker Face. I just hate Marcie.”

He walked away, tossing the empty chip bag into the trash, but not before glancing back—just once—to make sure you were smiling.

You were.

A few days later…

You were nose-deep in a history book, fully zoned out when—

Tap.

You jolted so hard you knocked your pen across the table.

“Jesus—!”

Eddie was crouched behind your chair, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Hi,” he said sweetly.

You slapped a hand to your chest. “Eddie. You can’t just do that—”

He didn’t move. Still crouched. Still smirking.

“I’ve been here for five minutes,” he informed you. “You didn’t even notice me creeping up. I could’ve been a serial killer.”

You snorted. “I wish you were. Then maybe I’d have peace.”

He gasped—mock hurt. “Gazer. Wounding me.”

You glared at him and turned back to your book, trying not to acknowledge the fact that your pulse was still hammering. But then—

Poke.

Your eyes went wide. His fingers had poked your ribs. Right under your arm. You stiffened.

“Oh ?” Eddie exclaimed, leaning closer, mischief radiating off him like heat. “Was that a reaction ?”

You gave him a warning glance. “Don’t.”

He wiggled his fingers again. “I’m looking for it. The tickle spot. I know it’s there.”

You tried to use the back of your chair as a shield against the assault. “I will kick you in the shin.”

“Promises, promises,” he sing-songed.

You glared at him and tried to focus back on your page, ignoring how close he was now, chin resting on the back of your chair. But he poked your side again and you yelped—actually yelped.

“There it is,” he grinned, triumphant. “Bullseye.”

You shoved your book closed and gave him a half-hearted glare, cheeks warm. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be ?”

“Probably,” he admitted with a grin. “But I like bothering you more.”

You huffed and stood up to walk out. You then sat cross-legged under the old tree near the edge of the field, unmoving. Your eyes were fixed somewhere off in the distance—nowhere, really—and then you just went into one of your weird spacing out episodes.

From the path, Eddie spotted you.

At first, he thought you were ignoring him. Then he realized that you weren’t.

He slowed as he approached.

“Hey…” he said softly, crouching in front of you. No reaction.

He waved a hand near your face. “Earth to Poker Face.”

Nothing.

He paused. This wasn’t the first time. He’d seen it happen before, but never quite this…deep. Instead of pushing, Eddie exhaled through his nose and lowered himself into the grass beside you. He sat close—but not touching—watching you out of the corner of his eye. You were still breathing slow. Calm. Peaceful, even. His gaze wandered. And then he saw it—your hand, resting lightly against your thigh, fingers relaxed. Something stirred in his chest. He looked around for any potential witnesses but no one seemed to be around at this hour.

Left. Right. No one watching.

His tongue poked out briefly as he wet his lips. He looked at your face again, searching for any flicker of awareness.

Still nothing.

So slowly—ever so slowly—he reached out. His hand hovered for a moment over yours like he was afraid you’d burn him. Then, inch by inch, he slipped his fingers between yours. His palm pressed against yours with the lightest pressure.

You didn’t pull away. He wasn’t sure that you were even aware that he had decided to hold your hand. So he stayed like that. Sitting beside you, hand in yours, heartbeat skipping like a stone across water.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves above.

He looked at you again—studying the curve of your eyelashes, the calm in your brow, the stillness that always made people whisper, what’s wrong with them ? But not him. He didn’t think anything was wrong with you. He thought you looked like someone who just…lived in a different kind of quiet. And maybe, for once, he wanted to know what that quiet felt like. So he stayed. Just sat there. No jokes. No jabs. Just some guy with his hand in yours, hoping maybe when you came back to the world, you wouldn’t let go.

A few moments later…

You blinked slowly and the haze lifted. Your fingers twitched and tightened slightly around a warmth you hadn’t expected. Turning your head just a little, you saw him—Eddie, eyes closed, head tilted back against the tree trunk, breathing steady and calm. He was asleep. His hand still held yours, fingers loosely intertwined. You hesitated for a moment, the instinct to pull away warring with something deeper. Then, instead of moving away, you shifted closer, letting your shoulder rest against his. The grass was cool beneath you, the sky above muted and gray, but in that instant, the quiet felt safe.

You closed your eyes.

The soft rise and fall of his breath was soothing to you. Minutes stretched and slipped by. And somewhere between the crunch of leaves and the distant chatter of classmates, you both drifted into a peaceful nap—side by side, hands still touching, shoulders leaning in.

…

The moon hung low and silver, casting long shadows across the empty field when you woke up. You stirred first, eyes fluttering open to the chill night air. Your heart jumped when you realized you were still pressed up against Eddie’s shoulder—and your hand was still in his. You jerked awake, coughing softly to cover your sudden fluster. Quickly, carefully, you slipped your hand out of his grasp, trying not to disturb him.

“Sorry,” you whispered, voice barely audible in the quiet.

Eddie stirred too, blinking slowly as he registered where he was and who was beside him. He smirked, eyes half-lidded in that trademark devil-may-care way.

“’S fine,” he mumbled, stretching one arm above his head like it was the most natural thing in the world. The two of you then stood up and started walking towards the school ground exit. The street was empty, quiet but for the wind rustling through the trees and your slow footsteps on the pavement. Eddie shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.

“…You wear that cap a lot,” he noted casually and gestured to the one you were wearing. “Like, a lot a lot.”

You looked down quickly, fingers twitching with the urge to adjust the brim again.

“Yeah,” you acknowledged. “I know.”

He let the silence stretch, giving you the chance to fill it if you wanted to. You did.

“It’s not just because I like it. It’s sort of…a shield.”

Eddie raised a quizzical eyebrow at you. “A shield ?”

You nodded. “From people. From their eyes. I have a…habit. Sometimes I space out and stare. It makes people uncomfortable. Makes them think I’m doing it on purpose.”

Eddie tilted his head, quiet now.

You kicked a rock on the sidewalk. “So I wear the cap low. It gives me something to look at. Lets me hide a little. I know it’s weird.”

Eddie was quiet for a second longer, then replied with a shrug, “That’s not weird.”

You glanced at him and he looked away.

“I mean,” he shrugged again, “people stare at me all the time. But I guess it’s only cool when they do it.”

You smiled, surprised by his reassuring words.

He looked ahead again, a breeze lifting his curls. “So what, the cap’s like—your armor or something ?”

You nodded. “…Kind of, yeah.”

He smiled. “Well, I dig it. It’s got that mysterious ‘who is she under that brim ?’ vibe. Very mysterious and dramatic.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Thanks, Munson.”

He was quick to retort. “You’re welcome, Poker Face.”

And with that, the silence returned. You both kept walking, your cap tugged low and your secret out in the open. Eddie glanced down at his hand—still swinging loosely by his side—and suddenly stopped walking. You paused too, watching as he wiggled his fingers, the silver of his many rings catching in the streetlight.

“You know…” he began, quieter now, “these aren’t just for show.”

You tilted your head. “They’re not ?”

He held up his hand, turning it side to side, letting each ring glint like a tiny spotlight.

“Most people think it’s just part of the whole… metalhead, freak-show image. And I mean, yeah, sure—some of it is. Gotta look cool when you’re scaring preps and failing math.”

You let out a small chuckle. He smiled faintly, but didn’t drop his gaze from his fingers.

“But I started wearing them when I was like… twelve. Found one in a pawn shop. Cheap as hell. Felt heavy. Solid. Like I had control over something.” He glanced at you now, his face more serious as he continued. “It was stupid, but I used to think if I had rings on my fingers, no one would notice they were shaking.”

Your breath caught and your eyes widened slightly. He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Still do it. If my hands are bare, I feel…I don’t know. Off. It’s stupid really.”

You were quiet for a beat, then replied softly, “That’s not stupid.”

He looked at you again. You hesitated, then tugged your cap a little higher—just enough for your eyes to meet his. Eddie held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary. You didn’t look away this time. His lips quirked up into something real.

“Well then,” he said softly. “Guess we’ve both got our special armor.”

You hesitated just a moment—then, without a word, your fingers reached out and intertwined with his. The weight of his rings pressed softly against your skin. Eddie’s eyes flicked down to your hands, then back up to your face, surprised but not pulling away.

“If…you ever feel like your hand is shaking…you can just…hold my hand.” You suggested and for a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then, Eddie’s usual smirk softened into a small, genuine smile.

“Thanks, Poker Face. I think I’ll take you up on that generous offer.”

You chuckled. “Actually, the name’s Y/N.”

He gave you a dumbfounded look. “Yeah, I know. But I prefer Poker Face or the Gazer.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “…Wow. Thanks a lot, Munson.”

But you then both burst out laughing as you kept walking hand in hand.

The next morning:

You were walking towards the front steps of Hawkins High with a bounce in your step. The memory of yesterday still lingered—your hand in Eddie’s, the quiet promise you’d made. For once, school didn’t feel so unbearable.

Then you saw them.

Eddie leaning against the side of the school, talking to Marcie Winters—her laugh shrill and fake, her manicured fingers grazing his sleeve. He handed her something small—probably another drug deal—and for a moment, it was normal.

Until she looked up and spotted you.

Smirk.

Without hesitation, she grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. You froze. You knew she had probably done that to make you jealous. However, your stomach didn’t twist with jealousy. It twisted with rage. You stormed forward, every step harder than the last. Eddie pulled back, clearly startled, but before anyone could speak, you ripped your cap off and slapped Marcie across the face with it.

Whack.

Gasps echoed from nearby students.

“YOU NEVER KISS ANYONE WITHOUT PERMISSION, BITCH !” you shouted, fury lighting up your face.

Marcie stumbled back, stunned, hand flying to her cheek.

“AND YOU GOT A FUCKING BOYFRIEND !” you continued, voice cracking from the emotion bubbling out of you after years of staying quiet. “LEAVE EDDIE ALONE !”

Silence. Eddie stood frozen, eyes wide, half in shock and half in awe.

Marcie sputtered, “Wha—are you crazy ?!”

You didn’t even give her the dignity of a reply. You turned your back on her, shoved your cap back on, and looked to Eddie. Eddie blinked. Then grinned.

“…Holy shit.”

He then looked down at Marcie on the ground, then back at you, then at the students around with this look of ‘have you seen that shit ?’.

You barely registered Eddie grabbing your hand. One second you were standing your ground in front of a gasping crowd, and the next, you were running away from the scene. He tugged you through the hallway, laughing breathlessly as you ran past lockers and students to finally slip into a dark, musty janitor’s closet. The door shut with a quiet click. You stood in the darkness, the scent of mop water and dust in the air, your chest heaving from the sprint—and from what you’d just done.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” you whispered, pulling your cap low again. “I didn’t mean to—I just saw her, and then she kissed you, and she has a boyfriend, and I just—shit, Eddie, I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice was rising, a full-blown panic ramble—Until he grabbed your face and kissed you.

Full stop. No warning. No build-up.

Your breath caught in your chest and your pupils started dancing around in their eye sockets as you tried to make sense of what was happening. Your heart exploded in your chest and your hands flailed up and down in the air like a headless chicken.

When he finally pulled back, he was grinning like you’d just lit the world on fire.

“That,” he breathed, eyes gleaming, “was the sexiest, most badass thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You blinked, stunned into silence.

Eddie leaned in again, forehead resting against yours, breath warm. “You really just smacked Marcie Winters with your damn cap, Poker Face ?”

You stammered and tried to justify yourself. “…It-It was the only weapon I had.”

He barked a laugh, squeezing your hand tightly. “You’re fucking insane. And I mean that in the best way possible.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away. Not this time. “…You’re not mad ?”

He scoffed. “Mad ? I’m in love.”

Your lips were still tingling from the kiss. His words—I’m in love—echoed in your head like a dropped match in a room full of fireworks. You blinked. And then—

Gone.

The janitor’s closet faded. His voice, the heat of the moment, the nearness of him—it all softened into static as your mind slipped.

Eyes open, but not seeing.

Still. Silent.

You were staring into nothingness again.

Eddie tilted his head. “Hey…?”

No response.

“…Shit,” he murmured under his breath, the playful spark in his eyes softening instantly. “You’re doing the thing again.”

He didn’t try to shake you. Instead, he sighed and crouched a little lower, gently resting one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hand—the one still warm from his grip.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, “I got you.”

He glanced at your face. You looked calm. Peaceful, even. Like you were off somewhere far away where none of this mess existed. After a beat, he slowly moved to sit on the floor beside you, shoulder brushing yours again—just like that day in the grass.

“I’ll wait,” he whispered. And he did.

Suddenly, your lashes fluttered. The mop bucket and dim fluorescent light above came back into focus. The weight of the air shifted. You blinked, head turning slowly, and saw Eddie sitting next to you on the floor—elbow resting on his bent knee, eyes watching you carefully.

“…How long was I out ?” you asked, your voice still distant, like you’d just woken from a dream.

“Just a couple minutes,” he replied with a smile. “Not too bad.”

You looked down at your lap. Embarrassment started creeping in again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” he cut in, his voice firmer this time.

You looked up at him with wide eyes when he cut you off and he smiled. He shrugged, fiddling with one of his rings absentmindedly. “I mean…I get it now. You weren’t ignoring me. Or zoning out ‘cause I’m boring.” He smirked a little, but it faded quickly. “You’re just built different, huh ?”

A pause.

Then he asked. “Is it scary ? When it happens ?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Sometimes.”

Eddie leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling like he was thinking hard about something.

Then, “Well…for what it’s worth ? You don’t look weird when it happens. You just look like you’re somewhere important. Like your brain’s off doing spy shit and forgot to bring the rest of you.”

You laughed, startled and warm. “Spy shit ?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You probably know all the secrets of the universe and just can’t tell me ‘cause I’d freak out.”

He nudged your shoulder gently. “Anyway, I’ve decided I’m gonna be your handler now. Like, your official lookout. You space out, I keep you safe. No questions asked.”

You tilted your head. “And what do I do for you ?”

Eddie grinned. “You hold my hand when it shakes. We’ve already got a deal, remember ?”

You smiled—small, shy, and utterly real. “…Okay.” Then you let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of your neck nervously. “We should…probably get back to class though.”

Eddie groaned dramatically, tilting his head back against the wall like you’d just told him finals were moved to today. “Ugh, why ? We just committed a public slap. Shouldn’t we be fugitives by now ?”

You stood slowly, brushing dust off your pants. “You can go full fugitive if you want. I still have homework due.”

“God,” he sighed, getting to his feet and stretching his arms overhead, “you’re such a nerd.”

You shot him a dry look beneath your cap. “And you kiss nerds. So what does that make you ?”

He paused. Then grinned, stepping a little closer, his nose brushing yours. “A nerd lover, apparently.”

You blinked—then smacked him lightly in the chest with the back of your hand. “Let’s go, Romeo.”

As you reached for the doorknob, Eddie gently caught your wrist. “Hey…seriously.”

You turned back before he continued.

“Thanks for what you did. With Marcie. No one’s…ever done something like that for me before.”

You felt your throat tighten—but managed a quiet, honest: “Anytime.”

And with that, you slipped out into the hallway. Whispers were already crackling through it like static—students leaning in close to each other, nudging shoulders, darting glances. You didn’t need to hear the words to know what they were about.

You were walking beside Eddie Munson. And he was holding your hand.

You felt it then—that rising heat under your skin, the old instinct to shrink, to disappear, to pull the cap lower and pretend none of it was real. So you looked down. Your hand in his. His fingers tangled with yours.

Slowly, gently, you opened your hand—leaving it there for him, but giving him the choice.

If he wanted to let go, he could.

For a second, nothing happened.

And then—

His fingers tightened.

He didn’t let go. Instead, he laced your fingers together more firmly and lifted your joined hands a little—almost like a dare to the hallway around you. You looked up at him. He was already looking at you.

“Poker Face,” he whispered under his breath, leaning in just enough so only you could hear, “I’d rather be holding your hand than pretending I’m not.”

The whispers got louder.

But suddenly, they didn’t matter.

Not when his thumb brushed the back of your hand like it was second nature. Not when you realized he hadn’t even looked at them. Not once.

Just you.

Always just you…

You smiled and dared to stare into his eyes.

He smiled as his eyes met yours. “Welcome back to Earth, Y/N.”