Hannah

You sat there panting, the haze of sensations slowly fading as Eddie’s head rested in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.

For a moment, everything felt oddly normal. Just you, sitting at your desk, post-sex with a guy you’ve had a crush on for what felt like forever. 

Then the cruel realization began to hit when you analyzed your surroundings: Eddie’s cloaked body and masked face pressed against your bare body, knife still gripped tightly at your side, and the looming fact that your former sorority sisters and friends were all dead. 

Every single one of them. Besides you.

The reality of it settled heavily into your chest as your gaze slowly drifted to the white mask still obscuring his face. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, your hand reached up. Eddie stiffened; you felt that immediately. But he didn't stop you.

Your fingers found the edge of the mask and peeled it away.

Eddie stared back at you. Not a stranger, not some faceless monster, just Eddie. The same dark curls. The same amber eyes. The same face that had smiled at you every morning across a coffee counter. The same face that had called you sweetheart. The same face you'd spent months developing a crush on.

For a second, neither of you seemed capable of processing it. You already knew. Some part of you had known long before he started talking. Long before he'd mentioned the coffee shop. Long before he'd started listing all the tiny details he'd memorized about you.

Still.

Actually seeing him felt devastating. Eddie's expression shifted through a dozen emotions at once. Relief. Fear. Regret. Something dangerously close to panic.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly.

Your throat tightened. "It was you."

Eddie looked away. For the first time all night, he looked genuinely exhausted. He leaned forward, grabbing a discarded shirt from the floor beside your desk before handing it to you.

"Put this on."

You stared at him. For one brief second, he almost looked embarrassed, like the situation had suddenly become too real for him too. Slowly, you pulled the shirt over your head.

Then the bedroom door opened, and both of you looked up.

A second Ghostface stood in the doorway. His gaze bounced between you and Eddie, then to the discarded mask sitting beside him.

"...Oh." The voice was familiar.

Gareth. The freshman. The one they'd all laughed about. The one Madison had humiliated. The one who'd ended up in the hospital.

Gareth slowly reached up and removed his own mask. "Well."

He blinked. "I guess we're past secret identities."

You stared, your brain struggling to keep up.

Gareth looked at Eddie, then at you, then back at Eddie. "What are you gonna do with her?"

The question hung in the room. Eddie's jaw tightened as he turned to you. 

"What do you want?"

You almost laughed. The question felt absurd.

"What do I—" Your voice cracked. "I want to be alive."

Silence. Eddie nodded slowly, like he'd expected that answer. "Okay."

Gareth frowned. "Okay?"

Eddie ignored him. Instead, he stood and began pulling the mask back on. The motion made your stomach drop.

"Eddie..."

He paused, then looked at you. The black eyes of the mask stared back.

"If you're the only survivor who walks out of this house untouched, they're going to arrest you."

The realization hit almost immediately, and your blood ran cold. Eddie continued.

"They'll think you did it."

"They'll think you helped."

"They'll think something."

Gareth shifted awkwardly. "He's got a point."

You looked between them, horrified.

"What are you saying?"

Eddie's shoulders rose and fell. "I'm saying I need them to believe you survived."

The room suddenly felt like it was impossible to breathe in.

"Eddie—"

"I'm sorry." Again, always with the sorry.

Before you could move, his gloved hand caught your shoulder. The next few moments blurred together. A shove, the edge of your desk catching your back hard. The cold tang of a knife slicing your arm. Then a straight plunge into the side of your hip. Pain began to explode behind your eyes.

Next, the floor rushing up to meet you. Voices becoming distant, muffled. Somewhere far away, you thought you heard Gareth arguing. Thought you heard Eddie snap back at him. Then darkness swallowed everything whole.

The next thing you became aware of was noise, so much noise. Radios. Voices. Footsteps. Someone saying your name. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy.

When they finally opened, bright lights immediately stabbed through your skull, and you winced. A police officer was kneeling beside you. Another stood near the doorway.

The room was packed with people. Crime scene tape. Paramedics. Flashlights.

Questions. Questions. Questions.

"What happened?"

"Can you hear me?"

"Do you know your name?"

You swallowed, and your throat felt raw. The last thing you remembered was Eddie. The mask. His eyes. The apology. Then nothing.

As the room spun around you, a paramedic gently guided you back against the wall.

"You were very lucky," she said softly.

Lucky. The word echoed strangely in your head.

The hospital room smelt like antiseptic and soap, and the buzzing of the overhead lights did nothing to soothe the pounding in what felt like your entire head.

It’d been a long day of answering questions between doctors, police officers, FBI agents, and worst of all, your mom.  Every time somebody new walked into the room, it felt like the same conversation all over again.

What did you see? What do you remember? Did either of the attackers say anything? Did you recognize them?

You'd become very good at answering without actually answering.

"No."

"I don't know."

"It happened really fast."

"I'm not sure."

The lies got easier every time, which somehow made you feel worse. By the time the sun started setting outside the hospital windows, a detective was sitting across from your bed with a legal pad balanced on his knee.

"We're almost done," he promised.

He glanced down at his notes. "The nurses said you mentioned seeing two individuals upstairs."

You nodded. "I think so."

"You think so?"

Your fingers tightened around the hospital blanket. "I don't know."

He studied you carefully. "Do you remember anything else?"

The mask. The voice changer. Eddie's face. The flowers Gareth had brought Madison. Coffee cups. Blueberry muffins. Mornin', sweetheart.

You swallowed. "No."

The detective held your gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. "Okay."

It should've felt like a relief. Instead, guilt settled heavier in your chest.

Because you knew things; not everything, not enough, but more than you were telling them. More than anybody else in that building knew.

You'd spent hours trying to understand why. Why you were protecting him. Why every opportunity to tell the truth died before it reached your lips. It wasn't because he deserved it, you knew that much.

People were dead. Girls you'd lived with. Girls you'd laughed with. Girls whose names would be plastered all over the news for weeks. What Eddie did wasn't excusable. There wasn't a version of the story where it became okay.

And yet...

Every time you imagined saying his name aloud, something inside you recoiled.

Maybe because the version of Eddie sitting in your memories didn't match the version everyone was hunting.

Maybe because you couldn't reconcile the guy who fed stray cats and complained about hot dogs with the person standing behind the mask.

Maybe because part of you still couldn't believe they were the same person.

Or maybe because you were a coward. You honestly weren't sure anymore.

The detective eventually left while your mother stayed, unfortunately. The second the door clicked shut, she crossed her arms.

"There's something you're not saying."

You nearly choked. "What?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I know that face."

"There is no face."

"There absolutely is."

You groaned. "Mom."

"I'm serious." She sat down beside the bed. "You look guilty."

"I survived a massacre."

"I know."

The teasing disappeared immediately, and her expression softened. "I know."

After a moment, she reached over and squeezed your hand.

"The police said you can't go back."

You nodded; you already knew that much. 

The sorority house was still an active crime scene. Forensics. Evidence collection. Photographs. Investigations. The place wouldn't be reopened for months, maybe longer.

The thought felt strange. Your entire college life had taken place inside those walls, and now they were covered in yellow tape.

Your mother sighed. "I found you an apartment."

You looked up. "What?"

"Off campus."

"When?"

"Today."

"Mom."

"What?" She shrugged. "I was stressed."

"It's in a good neighborhood."

"According to who?"

"According to me."

"That's not reassuring."

"It has security."

"Mom."

"It has locks."

You rolled your eyes.

She pointed at you. "I'm being serious."

A few hours later, after discharge papers and prescriptions and a dozen final instructions from nurses, you found yourself standing in front of a small apartment building on the edge of town.

It wasn't fancy. Just brick, three floors, quiet. The kind of place students rented when they wanted to avoid roommates and campus drama. Normally you'd have hated it. But tonight, it felt like a fortress.

Your mother helped carry in your things. A few bags of clothes. Textbooks. Your laptop. The essentials.

Neither of you acknowledged how little there was. Most of your belongings were still sitting inside a house nobody was allowed to enter.

Eventually she hugged you goodbye, a little too tightly, then she left. And for the first time since last night, you were completely alone.

You brushed your teeth, changed into sweatpants, and locked the front door twice. Checked the windows, and then checked them again.

By the time you crawled into bed, exhaustion had settled deep into your bones.

The mattress wasn't comfortable. The room didn't feel like yours. The ceiling looked wrong. Hell, everything looked wrong.

You rolled onto your side and pulled the blankets higher.

A week passed. At least, you thought it had been a week. Time felt strange now.

Days blurred together in a cycle of police interviews, missed classes, awkward condolences from people you'd barely spoken to before, and the constant feeling that everyone was looking at you differently.

The Survivor. The Final Girl. The Poor Thing. You hated all of it. The apartment helped a little.

You'd settled into a routine of locking every door twice before bed and checking the windows every night before sleeping.

The bruises across your body had faded from deep purple to sickly yellow, and the stitches in your scalp had finally stopped pulling every time you brushed your hair.

On the surface, things were beginning to resemble normal again. At least as normal as they could. Work had helped more than anything. The coffee shop was familiar, predictable.

Most mornings, you could almost convince yourself your life hadn't exploded. The problem was that every morning at seven, your eyes still drifted toward the front door.

The bell would jingle, A customer would walk in, and for one stupid second, your heart would jump. Only to sink again.

Because it wasn't him, never him. No dark curls. No leather jacket. No crooked smile. No "Mornin', sweetheart."

At first, you'd told yourself it was because he was hiding. Then because he was smart. Then because he was gone. The truth was probably all three. By the end of the week, you'd stopped expecting him altogether.

Which was exactly why you nearly dropped your keys when you walked into your apartment Thursday night.

The place was dark. You'd spent the entire day on campus meeting with professors and trying to convince everyone that no, you didn't need special treatment.

You were exhausted, and all you wanted was a shower and eight consecutive hours of sleep. You pushed open the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind you.

Then, you reached for the light switch, but the lamp in the corner flickered on instead.  You froze.

Somebody was sitting on your couch. For one horrifying second, every muscle in your body locked. Then the figure leaned forward.

Dark curls. Black jeans. Familiar tattoos.

"Eddie."

He was sitting there like he'd been waiting for you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, and an open bag of pretzels resting in his lap.

Like, this was completely normal. Like he hadn't been the subject of a statewide manhunt seven days ago.

Eddie looked different. The dark circles beneath his eyes were deeper than you'd ever seen. His jaw was covered in several days' worth of stubble. But it was him. No mask. No voice changer. Just Eddie.

For a long moment, he simply stared at you, like he was making sure you were actually there. Then he glanced toward the locked door, back at you.

And said the first thing that came to mind. "You didn't rat me out."

You blinked. Of all the things he could've said, of all the possible openings, that was what he landed on.

"You broke into my apartment."

A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "That wasn't a denial."

"Eddie."

"It wasn't."

You stared at him, and he stared right back. The familiar smile slowly faded, until there was nothing left except something that looked suspiciously like disbelief.

"You didn't tell them."

"No."

"Why?"

You looked away first. "I don't know."

"That's a lie."

"Probably."

Eddie exhaled quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor, then back to you. "I kept waiting."

"For what?"

"For the cops to kick my door down."

You swallowed. "Do they know where you live?"

"No." The answer was immediate.

"I haven't exactly been staying there."

Of course he hadn't.

You suddenly realized you'd never actually asked yourself where he'd been.

Eddie glanced around. "You got a nice place."

You looked at him incredulously. "That's your contribution?"

"What?"

"You vanish for a week."

"Mhm."

"I find you sitting in my apartment."

"Technically your living room."

"And your first real observation is that the place is nice?"

He considered that. "Second observation."

You folded your arms. "And the first?"

For the first time since you'd turned on the light, something softened in his expression. The concern you'd seen in your bedroom that night. The concern he'd spent the last week trying and failing to hide.

"You look okay."

You swallowed hard. "I mean, I'm not okay."

The words came out quieter than you'd intended. "How can anyone be okay considering what happened?"

The moment the sentence left your mouth, something changed in Eddie's expression. The concern disappeared; his jaw tightened and his eyes hardened.

He looked away and laughed once, a short, bitter sound. "Right."

"Eddie—"

"No."

He stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away from the couch before dragging a hand through his hair. "No, you're right."

His voice was growing sharper now. "I should've just killed you."

The words hit like a slap, and your stomach dropped. "Eddie."

"I'm serious." He spun back toward you. "This is exactly why I shouldn't have come here."

"Eddie—"

"I knew this would happen."

His hands were shaking, not with fear, but with frustration. "I should've left you alone."

You stared at him, trying desperately to reconcile the guy standing in your living room with the one who'd spent months making you coffee-shop playlists and complaining about professors.

Finally, you found your voice. "Why?"

The question stopped him.

His expression flickered. "What?"

"Why did you do it?"

Silence.

"Eddie."

He looked away immediately. The first genuine hesitation you'd seen from him all night. "Don't."

"Why?"

His jaw tightened. "Because."

"Because what?"

"Eddie."

His refusal somehow scared you more than his anger. Slowly, you reached for your phone resting beside you on the couch. The movement was instinctive; you barely realized you were doing it.

Eddie did. His eyes snapped downward; then he was moving. His hand wrapped around your wrist hard before your fingers ever reached the phone.

You flinched, the reaction hitting him just as hard as it hit you. Eddie froze, staring at you while you gave him a look with scared eyes. Then his grip loosened immediately.

"I'm sorry."

His voice dropped, the anger disappearing almost as quickly as it'd arrived.

"I'm sorry."

He slowly released your wrist. You pulled it back against your chest, both of you breathing harder than before.

"I wasn't gonna call anybody." The lie sounded weak even to your own ears.

Eddie looked unconvinced. Finally, he sat back down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

"The plan wasn't supposed to be this. We were angry."

His eyes remained fixed on the floor.

"After Gareth."

You thought about the stories. The hospital. The rose. The humiliation.

"Originally, it was only supposed to be Donovin."

“The pledgemaster?”

Eddie nodded.

"Just him. We spent weeks planning it."

His laugh was humorless.

"Actually planning it. The mask. The voice changer. The calls. The whole thing."

He shook his head.

"Then Madison happened."

You closed your eyes briefly. The name still hurt.

"She wasn't the only one."

Eddie's voice had grown colder now.

"They all knew. They all laughed, all helped."

You thought back to the common room. The stories. The laughter. The way nobody had seemed bothered. Still.

"They didn't deserve—"

"No." His head snapped up. "They deserved worse."

The intensity in his voice made you recoil. Immediately, he saw it, and immediately, he hated himself for it.

"Eddie..."

He looked away. "You know what the funny part is?"

You didn't answer.

"I didn't even know you were one of them."

That surprised you. "What?"

"The sorority." His eyes found yours. "The day I asked your name."

Your stomach dropped. "My sweatshirt."

"Kappa Delta."

You remembered. "Oh."

Eddie laughed quietly. "I went home, and I was pissed."

The admission caught you off guard. "Why?"

"Because I liked you." Its honesty made your chest ache.

"And suddenly I find out you're one of them."

His gaze drifted toward the window.

"I thought I'd been wrong about you. So I started watching."

The words should've terrified you; they did. But they also sounded deeply pathetic and deeply human.

"I kept waiting for proof."

"Proof of what?"

"That you were like them. You never were."

He looked down.

"I watched you leave parties early. You spent Friday nights reading. You worked extra shifts. You brought leftovers home for the girls who couldn't afford takeout."

Your eyes burned.

"I watched you defend Gareth."

The room fell silent.

"And then I realized you weren't one of them."

A tear slipped down your cheek. "Eddie."

"No." He shook his head. "I know what you're gonna say."

"Do you?"

"They were your friends."

The words shattered something inside you immediately. Because they were. You started crying before you could stop yourself.

"They were." Your voice cracked. "They were my friends."

The apartment blurred.

"I lived with them. I knew them. They had families. They had—"

"I did you a favor."

The words cut through your sentence. You stared at him, horrified.

Eddie looked almost offended by your reaction. "They were awful to you."

"What?"

"They talked about you constantly."

The anger was back. Not directed at you, but at them.

"You think they liked you?"

"Eddie—"

"They made fun of you."

His voice rose. "They called you weird. They called you desperate. They thought you were embarrassing."

You shook your head. "No."

"Yes. They did." The certainty in his voice made your stomach twist.

Eddie leaned forward. "They had plans for you."

The apartment suddenly felt very quiet. "What plans?"

His jaw tightened. For the first time all night, he looked genuinely furious.

"The end-of-year retreat."

You frowned. "What about it?"

"They were going to frame you."

The words hit like ice water. You stared. "What?"

"They wanted to dump all the chapter finances on you."

His eyes darkened. "They were planning to accuse you of stealing."

Your breathing stopped.

"They thought it'd be funny."

"No."

"They did."

"Eddie."

"I heard them."

The conviction in his voice left no room for doubt. "They thought because you were quiet and not that involved, nobody would defend you."

He laughed bitterly. "Madison called you expendable."

The tears kept coming. You didn't know what hurt more. The possibility that he was lying, or the possibility that he wasn't.

Across from you, Eddie sat silently while the tears kept coming. You hated it, hated crying in front of him.

Hated that he was seeing you like this. Hated that some sick part of your brain still found comfort in the fact that he was here at all.

Your vision blurred as you wiped angrily at your face.

"Eddie, they were my friends." The words came out broken.

"They were awful friends." His response was immediate, like he'd been waiting to argue.

You laughed bitterly through your tears. "You don't get to decide that."

"No?"

"No." You shook your head. "You don't get to decide who lives and dies because they were mean."

For a second, you thought he was going to get angry again. Instead, his shoulders slumped.

The fight seemed to leave him all at once. Slowly, he moved closer. You should've moved away; you really should have. But you didn't.

"Eddie—"

"I'm not saying what I did was right."

You looked at him skeptically. "Really?"

"No." The honesty caught you off guard. "I'm saying I'm glad you're alive."

His voice had gone quiet, almost tired. "If that makes me selfish, fine."

You simply stared at him, and he simply stared back. Not like Ghostface, not like the guy the police were hunting, just Eddie.

The same guy who used to lean against the coffee counter every morning and give you butterflies with a simple grin. The same guy who remembered your favorite pastry. The same guy who somehow existed inside the same person who had destroyed your life.

"You deserve more than that place." His voice softened. "You deserve more than people who treat you like an afterthought."

You looked down. "They weren't all bad."

"No." His expression softened too. "I know."

The admission surprised you.

"I know they weren't."

Then Eddie carefully reached over and wiped away a tear you hadn't realized had escaped. The gesture felt strangely intimate.

"I was terrified you died."

Your eyes lifted to his. "What?"

"The night at the house." His jaw tightened. "When you got knocked out."

“Got knocked out.” Not, “After I knocked you out.”

The memory flashed through your mind. The bedroom. The mask. The darkness.

Eddie looked away. "I kept checking the news."

A humorless laugh. "Turns out every news station in the country was talking about you."

The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. "That's creepy."

"I know."

The fact that he agreed immediately made you laugh weakly. For the first time all night, the tension eased. Enough for you to finally ask the question that had been lingering in the back of your mind.

"So where have you been?"

Eddie leaned back into the couch. His expression immediately became more guarded. "What do you mean?"

"You and Gareth."

You shrugged. "It's been a week. No arrests. No suspects. No police showing up at your door. So, where have you been?"

For a moment, he seemed to debate whether he should answer. "Moving around."

"Moving around?"

"We stayed at a motel for two nights."

Your eyebrows rose. "A motel?"

"It was disgusting."

"I can imagine."

"The shower looked like it had diseases."

You snorted.

"I knew you'd find that funny."

The brief smile faded, then Eddie shrugged. "After that we split up for a little bit."

Your stomach twisted. "You split up?"

"Temporarily."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "We figured if they started looking at one of us, they'd find both of us."

Its practicality made your skin crawl, as they'd planned for this. Maybe they had.

"They haven't questioned you?"

Eddie shook his head. "Not once."

"What about Gareth?"

"Nope."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

His expression darkened. "They've been focusing on people connected to the sorority."

Your stomach sank. Of course they had.

"Campus security. Ex-boyfriends. Former pledges." Eddie laughed quietly. "One detective apparently thinks it was a drug deal gone wrong."

"What?"

"I know." He shook his head. "It's ridiculous."

The fact that he found the investigation amusing made you feel sick all over again.

A week ago, that would've been the biggest red flag in human history. Now it barely cracked the top ten.

"So you're just..." You gestured vaguely. "...hiding?"

"Pretty much." His eyes met yours. "We're trying to stay quiet. In case somebody finally starts asking the right questions."

You nodded, looking down at the floor.

You don’t know why you felt the need to tell him this next part. It felt almost as though you owed it to him. Why? You don’t know.

“You know…the uh, hospital had asked me some questions.”

He tilted his head. “What kinds of questions?”

You nervously bit your lip, a nasty habit you picked up somewhere after the events of this week. 

“When they were giving me a full-body exam, you know…checking me out and whatnot. The nurses, they—” you paused, searching for the correct way to put it. 

“They said that my vaginal tissue looked damaged. They assumed that you, that whoever it was—”

“No.” 

You looked at him then, his eyes shifting to a combination of fear and sincerity. 

“I would never do that to you. Do you think—did I?” 

The question hung between you.

For the first time since he'd shown up in your apartment, he looked genuinely afraid of the answer. Not scared of prison. Not scared of getting caught.

Scared of you. Scared of what you might say.

Slowly, you shook your head. “No.”

The tension in his shoulders immediately eased.

“No,” you repeated. “I don't think that.”

Eddie let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for days. “Okay.”

You looked down at your hands. “The nurses kept asking. They asked if I remembered everything.”

Your throat tightened. “They asked if somebody had forced me.”

Eddie's jaw clenched. You could practically see him replaying that night in his head. Every moment. Every choice. Every mistake.

“And?”

You swallowed. “I told them no. I told them I wasn't assaulted.”

Eddie stared at you, the realization slowly settling across his face.

You laughed bitterly. “Which was apparently not the answer they expected.”

“Sweetheart—”

“They wanted to do a rape kit.”

His expression immediately darkened.

You continued before he could interrupt. “And I refused.”

Eddie didn't move, didn't blink, didn’t breathe. He simply couldn’t.

You looked away. “The only DNA they would've found would've been yours.”

The words sounded strange spoken aloud, like you were talking about somebody else's life.

“They would've found evidence you were there.”

His eyes never left you.

You forced yourself to continue. “So I said no.”

Eddie looked stunned. “Why?” The question came out almost immediately.

You laughed once. “That's kind of what everybody keeps asking me. What I keep asking me.”

“No.” His voice was softer now. “Why?”

You rubbed your forehead. “I don't know.”

It wasn't entirely true; you did know, you just hated the answer.

Because somewhere between the coffee shop and the apartment and the hospital room...You'd made a choice.

A terrible one. A great one. One you still couldn't explain.

You looked up at him. “I knew what would happen.”

His brow furrowed.

“If they found your DNA, they'd start asking questions.”

“You covered for me.”

You nodded.

“You covered for me.”

Neither of you spoke for several seconds, then Eddie leaned back against the couch, looking completely bewildered. Like this outcome somehow even surprised him.

“You should hate me.”

The statement caught you off guard. “What?”

“You should.”

His eyes found yours. “Everybody else does.”

The sincerity behind it made your chest ache.

You shook your head. “I do hate you. Part of me does.”

Eddie nodded once, accepting it. “That's fair.”

Tears burned behind your eyes again. “Eddie, I don't understand anything anymore.”

His gaze softened immediately. “I know.”

“I hate what you did.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I lied.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracked. “And I hate that you're sitting on my couch right now and all I can think about is whether you've eaten anything this week.”

The confession slipped out before you could stop it.

Eddie froze.

Eventually, he looked down at the floor, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“I had a gas station hot dog yesterday.”

You stared at him, then groaned. “Eddie.”

“What?”

“A gas station hot dog?”

“It was surprisingly good.”

“You are unbelievable.”

The laughter faded quickly. Not because anything was funny, but because reality was still sitting between you on the couch.

"So what now?" He asked.

You stared down at your hands. You'd spent the entire week avoiding that exact thought. Now here it was, sitting beside you, looking at you, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know."

Eddie nodded once, as he'd expected it.

You swallowed. "I don't know what this is."

His gaze stayed fixed on you.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Then you laughed bitterly. "Part of me still likes you."

The admission hurt more than you'd expected. Because it felt wrong, terribly wrong.

"But every time I look at you..." Your eyes stung. "I see what happened."

Eddie's expression faltered. "I know."

"I see the house."

His jaw tightened. "I know."

"I see Madison. I see all of them."

Eddie looked away first. "I can't change that."

The honesty caught you off guard.

"I know."

"I wish I could."

"What if… I tried?"

You frowned. "Tried what?"

"To make it up to you."

A short laugh escaped you. "How exactly do you plan on doing that?"

"I don't know. But I'd figure something out."

You stared at him. There was something absurd about the conversation.

As if the two of you were discussing a bad breakup instead of mass murder. And yet...a part of you wanted him to prove you wrong, to fix his mistake.

"Okay." The word slipped out before you could stop it.

Eddie blinked. "Okay?"

You nodded slowly. "Okay."

You weren't sure what you were agreeing to. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But for now, it was all you had.

Then Eddie's eyes drifted toward the dark circles beneath yours. The bruises still fading along your jaw. The way your eyelids kept drooping.

"You look tired."

You let out a laugh. "Observant."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

He stood slowly and almost reluctantly. Something in your chest dropped: the realization that he was about to leave, that you'd be alone again.

Eddie shoved his hands into his pockets. "I should go."

You nodded. Then, something took over you. 

"Eddie."

He stopped immediately, turning back. "What?"

The question sat in your throat for several seconds. Long enough that you nearly changed your mind. "Stay."

Your face burned. "I just..."

You looked away. "I don't really want to be alone tonight."

The confession hung awkwardly in the air.

Eddie stared at you, for once looking genuinely surprised.

If anything, he thought you’d want to be alone, at least away from him. He’s the reason you’re afraid of the dark in the first place. But who was he to complain?

His expression softened then, the same way it used to in the coffee shop when you'd hand him a free pastry at the end of your shift.

"Okay."

Your chest tightened. "Okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

The answer was simple, like there had never been another option. You watched him settle back onto the couch. Then he patted his lap once, and you scootched over, resting your head on his thigh. 

Within seconds, his fingers began raking through your hair. And within minutes, you drifted off without a second thought.

When you woke up the next morning, you were in your bed. Blankets wrapped around you just the way you liked, somehow in your pajamas, hair brushed, makeup off.

And Eddie was nowhere to be seen. 

You looked around for a moment, scanning the room. Then the front door clicked open, causing you to jump upright. 

“Who’s there—”

Eddie peeked his head in the doorway with a carry-out tray of coffee in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other, kicking the front door closed with his foot.

“Just me, sweetheart.” He chuckled. “Have you ever seen horror movies? You should never ask ‘who’s there?’ You’re basically asking to get mu—” He paused, reading your expression. 

“Anyway, I got your favorites.”

Your chest fluttered despite the comment. You turn to hop out of bed but pause at your keys still on the nightstand, raising your eyebrow while looking at Eddie.

“How did you…”

“Oh, I uh…made a second set.”

You nodded once, like that made sense. It shouldn’t have made sense.

But, in the series of events from the past week, this was one of the most normal ones. 

"Anyways..." Eddie slid the coffee toward you before taking the seat across from you. "Got any big plans today?"

You pulled out one of the barstools at the small kitchen island. "Class at noon and then another at five."

He nodded.

"After that, I've got some staff and TAs mixer at one of my professors' houses."

"Sounds riveting."

"It'll probably be painfully awkward."

"You're definitely getting cornered by somebody who wants to talk about their dissertation."

"I wouldn’t even know what their dissertation is on."

"Doesn't matter." He shrugged, "They'll find a way."

A laugh escaped you as you unwrapped your breakfast sandwich.

For the next half hour, the conversation drifted effortlessly between complaints about professors, the coffee shop, Gareth's inability to cook anything that wasn't boxed macaroni, and Eddie's insistence that gas station coffee "wasn't that bad."

"It is."

"It builds character."

"It builds stomach ulcers."

"Semantics."

By the time the coffee cups were empty and the paper bag sat crumpled between the two of you, it almost felt normal.

Like you weren't sitting across from a murderer, and like he hadn't shattered your life barely a week ago.

Eventually, Eddie stood, gathering the trash before tossing it into the kitchen garbage.

"I should probably disappear again."

You nodded. "Probably."

He lingered for another second. "You'll lock the door?"

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I'll lock the door."

"And the windows."

"Yes, Mom."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm serious. There are some weirdos out there after all."

"I know."

Satisfied enough, he gave you one last look before slipping quietly out the front door.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

Your classes came and went without you retaining much of anything, your notebook filling with half-finished sentences and absent-minded doodles instead of lecture notes.

Every so often, you'd catch yourself staring out the classroom window, wondering whether Eddie was somewhere out there doing the same.

By the evening, the faculty mixer felt like the last place on earth you wanted to be. You almost skipped it.

Instead, you showed up fifteen minutes late with a bottle of cheap wine and every intention of making a polite appearance before slipping out after twenty minutes.

That plan lasted exactly twenty minutes. Someone handed you a drink, then another. Your professor insisted you stay for dinner. Another TA challenged everyone to a ridiculous card game. Before you knew it, hours had disappeared.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the relief of pretending, just for one evening, that your life hadn't become the lead story on every local news station.

Or maybe trauma had a funny way of convincing you to stay wherever your thoughts couldn't catch up to you.

Whatever the reason, by the time you finally stumbled back toward your apartment, the streetlights had already flickered on.

Your head buzzed pleasantly. You fumbled your keys into the lock and pushed the door open.

"...Huh."

The apartment was completely dark. No lamp by the couch. No light over the stove. You reached instinctively for the switch beside the door.

Click. Nothing. A power outage, perfect. You sighed to yourself, kicking your shoes off by the entryway.

“Fuck it,” You slurred. "I guess I'm going to bed."

Using the light from your phone, you carefully navigated the familiar apartment, shadows stretching strangely across the walls as you made your way toward the bedroom.

You sighed, already reaching for the bedside lamp out of habit, when a gloved hand clamped over your mouth from behind.

Your scream died against warm leather. The phone clattered to the floor, screen cracked but still glowing faintly.

"Shhh, sweetheart," his voice danced right against your ear. "It's just me. Missed you."

Your heart slammed against your ribs, half terror, half something far more dangerous. The alcohol still buzzed warmly in your veins, loosening the edges of your fear into something slick and needy.

You felt the hard press of his body against your back, the robe, the familiar weight of him.

He slowly removed his hand, but the knife's cold, flat side traced lightly down the side of your neck instead.

"You've been drinking," he observed, voice low.

"Did you miss me, too?"

You swallowed hard. "Eddie..."

He spun you around and shoved you back onto the bed. The mask loomed above you in the near-darkness, white and expressionless, knife glinting as he climbed over you.

Straddling your hips, he pinned one wrist above your head.

"I hope you don’t mind, but I read your diary, pretty girl."

The words hit like ice water. Your eyes widened. "You—"

"While you were out playing normal at that mixer." He tilted his head, the mask's black voids staring down at you. "Couldn't help myself. You left it right there on your nightstand like an invitation."

His free hand roamed down your body, squeezing your breast through your top, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaked.

"All those late-night entries about the mask. About the knife. About wanting to be chased. Caught. Used." He chuckled lowly. 

"My sweet, filthy girl. You get wet thinking about the man who slaughtered your friends, pinning you down and ruining you."

Heat flooded your face. Shame. Arousal. The conflicting storm that had lived in you since that night.

You squirmed beneath him, but his weight kept you trapped.

"Eddie, I—"

“Uh, uh,” he tsked. “I know what you really want, princess. We can have fun, but I don’t want to hurt you."

He tilted his head in thought, slowly sliding the knife down the side of your face.

"How about we make a safe word. You know what that is, sweetness?"

You nodded once, “Mhm.”

“Good girl. If anything gets to be too much, just say ‘red’, okay, sweetheart? I’ll stop the second you say it. No questions."

You nodded pathetically and quickly. 

"Good girl." The knife slid lower, slipping under the hem of your shirt and slicing upward in one clean rip.

Fabric parted like paper, baring your breasts to the cool air. 

He groaned. "Fuck, look at you. Been hard for days thinking about this."

He rocked his hips against yours, letting you feel how hard he already was under the robe.

The knife traced circles around one nipple, the sharp point never quite breaking skin, just enough pressure to make you gasp and arch.

"You like this, don’t you?" He leaned down, mask brushing your cheek. "The monster in your room while you’re drunk and helpless, begging to be caught."

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him. He laughed darkly and shoved your skirt up, yanking your panties aside.

Two fingers pushed into you without warning, curling deep.

"So fucking wet already. Greedy little thing." He pumped them slowly, scissoring, stretching you while the knife stayed pressed to your sternum like a threat and a promise.

You moaned, clenching around his fingers. He added a third finger, fucking you harder, thumb grinding against your clit.

"Eddie—please—"

"Please, what?" He pulled his fingers out and flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so you were ass-up, face pressed into the mattress.

The knife traced down your spine, then lower, teasing between your cheeks. "Please fuck you? Please hurt you? Please remind you exactly who you belong to now?"

You heard the rustle of fabric as he shoved the robe open. Then his cock, hot and bare, nudged against your entrance. He rubbed it through your slick folds, teasing.

"Say it."

"I want it," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Want you. Want all of it. Please."

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out, the stretch burning so good.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He fucked you hard, one hand fisted in your hair, the other pressing the flat of the knife to your throat from behind.

"Such good little girl," he growled through the changer, hips snapping relentlessly.

He perfectly dragged inside you with every stroke, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. 

"Taking my cock so well. You tremble under me, and yet, you’re still creaming all over the monster who owns you."

You were babbling, moaning, pushing back to meet every thrust.

The knife stayed at your throat, a constant cold edge that made your pussy flutter tighter around him. He reached around and rubbed your clit in tight, merciless circles.

"Cum for me, sweetheart. It’s all yours."

The orgasm crashed over you violently, your whole body shaking as you clenched and pulsed around him. He fucked you through it, snarling praise and filth, until your legs gave out.

He pulled out, flipped you onto your back again, and straddled your chest. The mask hovered above you as he stroked himself fast and rough. 

"Open."

You obeyed, tongue out, eyes locked on the white mask. He came with a guttural groan, painting your tongue, your lips, your tits in thick ropes. You swallowed what you could, dazed and trembling.

Eddie dropped the knife to the side and finally tugged the mask off, tossing it aside. His real face, flushed, curls wild, eyes dark with obsession and something softer, stared down at you.

He leaned down and kissed you messily, tasting himself on your tongue.

"Still with me?" he murmured against your lips. 

You nodded, boneless and floating. "Yes..."

He huffed a quiet laugh and collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest. His fingers stroked through your hair, gentle now, the chaos temporarily sated.

“That wasn’t too much?”

You shook your head against his chest, humming something incoherent. Your body still buzzed, boneless and warm, the ache between your thighs a pleasant reminder of how thoroughly he’d wrecked you.

Eddie pressed a kiss to the top of your head, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other tilted your chin up for a lazy, lingering kiss. “C’mere. Let me take care of you.”

He slipped out of bed after a minute, disappearing into the hallway. You heard him fumbling around, then a few distant clicks. 

The lights in the apartment hummed back to life, the lamp on your nightstand flickering on and bathing the room in a soft glow.

Eddie reappeared in the doorway, wearing nothing but his boxers and that crooked, satisfied smile.

“Breaker box in the hall closet,” he explained with a shrug, like breaking into your apartment and knowing its secrets was the most normal thing in the world.

“Figured you’d want to see my pretty face afterwards.”

He returned with a warm, damp washcloth from the bathroom, a glass of water, and one of your oversized t-shirts.

Settling back into bed, he gently cleaned you up; careful between your legs, wiping away the mess with tender strokes and soft murmurs of praise.

Once you were clean, he helped you into the shirt, then tugged you back against his chest under the blankets.

His arms wrapped around you securely, one leg tangled with yours as he pressed lazy kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, voice low and sweet. “Need anything else?”

You smiled and shook your head sleepily, curling tighter into him. It was strange, really, the stark contrast from how he had acted ten minutes before to now.

The switch was so effortless it made your head spin, as though the tenderness and the terror had always belonged to the same person. 

hope y'all enjoyed ;)

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You sat there panting, the haze of sensations slowly fading as Eddie’s head rested in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.

For a moment, everything felt oddly normal. Just you, sitting at your desk, post-sex with a guy you’ve had a crush on for what felt like forever. 

Then the cruel realization began to hit when you analyzed your surroundings: Eddie’s cloaked body and masked face pressed against your bare body, knife still gripped tightly at your side, and the looming fact that your former sorority sisters and friends were all dead. 

Every single one of them. Besides you.

The reality of it settled heavily into your chest as your gaze slowly drifted to the white mask still obscuring his face. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, your hand reached up. Eddie stiffened; you felt that immediately. But he didn't stop you.

Your fingers found the edge of the mask and peeled it away.

Eddie stared back at you. Not a stranger, not some faceless monster, just Eddie. The same dark curls. The same amber eyes. The same face that had smiled at you every morning across a coffee counter. The same face that had called you sweetheart. The same face you'd spent months developing a crush on.

For a second, neither of you seemed capable of processing it. You already knew. Some part of you had known long before he started talking. Long before he'd mentioned the coffee shop. Long before he'd started listing all the tiny details he'd memorized about you.

Still.

Actually seeing him felt devastating. Eddie's expression shifted through a dozen emotions at once. Relief. Fear. Regret. Something dangerously close to panic.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly.

Your throat tightened. "It was you."

Eddie looked away. For the first time all night, he looked genuinely exhausted. He leaned forward, grabbing a discarded shirt from the floor beside your desk before handing it to you.

"Put this on."

You stared at him. For one brief second, he almost looked embarrassed, like the situation had suddenly become too real for him too. Slowly, you pulled the shirt over your head.

Then the bedroom door opened, and both of you looked up.

A second Ghostface stood in the doorway. His gaze bounced between you and Eddie, then to the discarded mask sitting beside him.

"...Oh." The voice was familiar.

Gareth. The freshman. The one they'd all laughed about. The one Madison had humiliated. The one who'd ended up in the hospital.

Gareth slowly reached up and removed his own mask. "Well."

He blinked. "I guess we're past secret identities."

You stared, your brain struggling to keep up.

Gareth looked at Eddie, then at you, then back at Eddie. "What are you gonna do with her?"

The question hung in the room. Eddie's jaw tightened as he turned to you. 

"What do you want?"

You almost laughed. The question felt absurd.

"What do I—" Your voice cracked. "I want to be alive."

Silence. Eddie nodded slowly, like he'd expected that answer. "Okay."

Gareth frowned. "Okay?"

Eddie ignored him. Instead, he stood and began pulling the mask back on. The motion made your stomach drop.

"Eddie..."

He paused, then looked at you. The black eyes of the mask stared back.

"If you're the only survivor who walks out of this house untouched, they're going to arrest you."

The realization hit almost immediately, and your blood ran cold. Eddie continued.

"They'll think you did it."

"They'll think you helped."

"They'll think something."

Gareth shifted awkwardly. "He's got a point."

You looked between them, horrified.

"What are you saying?"

Eddie's shoulders rose and fell. "I'm saying I need them to believe you survived."

The room suddenly felt like it was impossible to breathe in.

"Eddie—"

"I'm sorry." Again, always with the sorry.

Before you could move, his gloved hand caught your shoulder. The next few moments blurred together. A shove, the edge of your desk catching your back hard. The cold tang of a knife slicing your arm. Then a straight plunge into the side of your hip. Pain began to explode behind your eyes.

Next, the floor rushing up to meet you. Voices becoming distant, muffled. Somewhere far away, you thought you heard Gareth arguing. Thought you heard Eddie snap back at him. Then darkness swallowed everything whole.

The next thing you became aware of was noise, so much noise. Radios. Voices. Footsteps. Someone saying your name. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy.

When they finally opened, bright lights immediately stabbed through your skull, and you winced. A police officer was kneeling beside you. Another stood near the doorway.

The room was packed with people. Crime scene tape. Paramedics. Flashlights.

Questions. Questions. Questions.

"What happened?"

"Can you hear me?"

"Do you know your name?"

You swallowed, and your throat felt raw. The last thing you remembered was Eddie. The mask. His eyes. The apology. Then nothing.

As the room spun around you, a paramedic gently guided you back against the wall.

"You were very lucky," she said softly.

Lucky. The word echoed strangely in your head.

The hospital room smelt like antiseptic and soap, and the buzzing of the overhead lights did nothing to soothe the pounding in what felt like your entire head.

It’d been a long day of answering questions between doctors, police officers, FBI agents, and worst of all, your mom.  Every time somebody new walked into the room, it felt like the same conversation all over again.

What did you see? What do you remember? Did either of the attackers say anything? Did you recognize them?

You'd become very good at answering without actually answering.

"No."

"I don't know."

"It happened really fast."

"I'm not sure."

The lies got easier every time, which somehow made you feel worse. By the time the sun started setting outside the hospital windows, a detective was sitting across from your bed with a legal pad balanced on his knee.

"We're almost done," he promised.

He glanced down at his notes. "The nurses said you mentioned seeing two individuals upstairs."

You nodded. "I think so."

"You think so?"

Your fingers tightened around the hospital blanket. "I don't know."

He studied you carefully. "Do you remember anything else?"

The mask. The voice changer. Eddie's face. The flowers Gareth had brought Madison. Coffee cups. Blueberry muffins. Mornin', sweetheart.

You swallowed. "No."

The detective held your gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. "Okay."

It should've felt like a relief. Instead, guilt settled heavier in your chest.

Because you knew things; not everything, not enough, but more than you were telling them. More than anybody else in that building knew.

You'd spent hours trying to understand why. Why you were protecting him. Why every opportunity to tell the truth died before it reached your lips. It wasn't because he deserved it, you knew that much.

People were dead. Girls you'd lived with. Girls you'd laughed with. Girls whose names would be plastered all over the news for weeks. What Eddie did wasn't excusable. There wasn't a version of the story where it became okay.

And yet...

Every time you imagined saying his name aloud, something inside you recoiled.

Maybe because the version of Eddie sitting in your memories didn't match the version everyone was hunting.

Maybe because you couldn't reconcile the guy who fed stray cats and complained about hot dogs with the person standing behind the mask.

Maybe because part of you still couldn't believe they were the same person.

Or maybe because you were a coward. You honestly weren't sure anymore.

The detective eventually left while your mother stayed, unfortunately. The second the door clicked shut, she crossed her arms.

"There's something you're not saying."

You nearly choked. "What?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I know that face."

"There is no face."

"There absolutely is."

You groaned. "Mom."

"I'm serious." She sat down beside the bed. "You look guilty."

"I survived a massacre."

"I know."

The teasing disappeared immediately, and her expression softened. "I know."

After a moment, she reached over and squeezed your hand.

"The police said you can't go back."

You nodded; you already knew that much. 

The sorority house was still an active crime scene. Forensics. Evidence collection. Photographs. Investigations. The place wouldn't be reopened for months, maybe longer.

The thought felt strange. Your entire college life had taken place inside those walls, and now they were covered in yellow tape.

Your mother sighed. "I found you an apartment."

You looked up. "What?"

"Off campus."

"When?"

"Today."

"Mom."

"What?" She shrugged. "I was stressed."

"It's in a good neighborhood."

"According to who?"

"According to me."

"That's not reassuring."

"It has security."

"Mom."

"It has locks."

You rolled your eyes.

She pointed at you. "I'm being serious."

A few hours later, after discharge papers and prescriptions and a dozen final instructions from nurses, you found yourself standing in front of a small apartment building on the edge of town.

It wasn't fancy. Just brick, three floors, quiet. The kind of place students rented when they wanted to avoid roommates and campus drama. Normally you'd have hated it. But tonight, it felt like a fortress.

Your mother helped carry in your things. A few bags of clothes. Textbooks. Your laptop. The essentials.

Neither of you acknowledged how little there was. Most of your belongings were still sitting inside a house nobody was allowed to enter.

Eventually she hugged you goodbye, a little too tightly, then she left. And for the first time since last night, you were completely alone.

You brushed your teeth, changed into sweatpants, and locked the front door twice. Checked the windows, and then checked them again.

By the time you crawled into bed, exhaustion had settled deep into your bones.

The mattress wasn't comfortable. The room didn't feel like yours. The ceiling looked wrong. Hell, everything looked wrong.

You rolled onto your side and pulled the blankets higher.

A week passed. At least, you thought it had been a week. Time felt strange now.

Days blurred together in a cycle of police interviews, missed classes, awkward condolences from people you'd barely spoken to before, and the constant feeling that everyone was looking at you differently.

The Survivor. The Final Girl. The Poor Thing. You hated all of it. The apartment helped a little.

You'd settled into a routine of locking every door twice before bed and checking the windows every night before sleeping.

The bruises across your body had faded from deep purple to sickly yellow, and the stitches in your scalp had finally stopped pulling every time you brushed your hair.

On the surface, things were beginning to resemble normal again. At least as normal as they could. Work had helped more than anything. The coffee shop was familiar, predictable.

Most mornings, you could almost convince yourself your life hadn't exploded. The problem was that every morning at seven, your eyes still drifted toward the front door.

The bell would jingle, A customer would walk in, and for one stupid second, your heart would jump. Only to sink again.

Because it wasn't him, never him. No dark curls. No leather jacket. No crooked smile. No "Mornin', sweetheart."

At first, you'd told yourself it was because he was hiding. Then because he was smart. Then because he was gone. The truth was probably all three. By the end of the week, you'd stopped expecting him altogether.

Which was exactly why you nearly dropped your keys when you walked into your apartment Thursday night.

The place was dark. You'd spent the entire day on campus meeting with professors and trying to convince everyone that no, you didn't need special treatment.

You were exhausted, and all you wanted was a shower and eight consecutive hours of sleep. You pushed open the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind you.

Then, you reached for the light switch, but the lamp in the corner flickered on instead.  You froze.

Somebody was sitting on your couch. For one horrifying second, every muscle in your body locked. Then the figure leaned forward.

Dark curls. Black jeans. Familiar tattoos.

"Eddie."

He was sitting there like he'd been waiting for you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, and an open bag of pretzels resting in his lap.

Like, this was completely normal. Like he hadn't been the subject of a statewide manhunt seven days ago.

Eddie looked different. The dark circles beneath his eyes were deeper than you'd ever seen. His jaw was covered in several days' worth of stubble. But it was him. No mask. No voice changer. Just Eddie.

For a long moment, he simply stared at you, like he was making sure you were actually there. Then he glanced toward the locked door, back at you.

And said the first thing that came to mind. "You didn't rat me out."

You blinked. Of all the things he could've said, of all the possible openings, that was what he landed on.

"You broke into my apartment."

A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "That wasn't a denial."

"Eddie."

"It wasn't."

You stared at him, and he stared right back. The familiar smile slowly faded, until there was nothing left except something that looked suspiciously like disbelief.

"You didn't tell them."

"No."

"Why?"

You looked away first. "I don't know."

"That's a lie."

"Probably."

Eddie exhaled quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor, then back to you. "I kept waiting."

"For what?"

"For the cops to kick my door down."

You swallowed. "Do they know where you live?"

"No." The answer was immediate.

"I haven't exactly been staying there."

Of course he hadn't.

You suddenly realized you'd never actually asked yourself where he'd been.

Eddie glanced around. "You got a nice place."

You looked at him incredulously. "That's your contribution?"

"What?"

"You vanish for a week."

"Mhm."

"I find you sitting in my apartment."

"Technically your living room."

"And your first real observation is that the place is nice?"

He considered that. "Second observation."

You folded your arms. "And the first?"

For the first time since you'd turned on the light, something softened in his expression. The concern you'd seen in your bedroom that night. The concern he'd spent the last week trying and failing to hide.

"You look okay."

You swallowed hard. "I mean, I'm not okay."

The words came out quieter than you'd intended. "How can anyone be okay considering what happened?"

The moment the sentence left your mouth, something changed in Eddie's expression. The concern disappeared; his jaw tightened and his eyes hardened.

He looked away and laughed once, a short, bitter sound. "Right."

"Eddie—"

"No."

He stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away from the couch before dragging a hand through his hair. "No, you're right."

His voice was growing sharper now. "I should've just killed you."

The words hit like a slap, and your stomach dropped. "Eddie."

"I'm serious." He spun back toward you. "This is exactly why I shouldn't have come here."

"Eddie—"

"I knew this would happen."

His hands were shaking, not with fear, but with frustration. "I should've left you alone."

You stared at him, trying desperately to reconcile the guy standing in your living room with the one who'd spent months making you coffee-shop playlists and complaining about professors.

Finally, you found your voice. "Why?"

The question stopped him.

His expression flickered. "What?"

"Why did you do it?"

Silence.

"Eddie."

He looked away immediately. The first genuine hesitation you'd seen from him all night. "Don't."

"Why?"

His jaw tightened. "Because."

"Because what?"

"Eddie."

His refusal somehow scared you more than his anger. Slowly, you reached for your phone resting beside you on the couch. The movement was instinctive; you barely realized you were doing it.

Eddie did. His eyes snapped downward; then he was moving. His hand wrapped around your wrist hard before your fingers ever reached the phone.

You flinched, the reaction hitting him just as hard as it hit you. Eddie froze, staring at you while you gave him a look with scared eyes. Then his grip loosened immediately.

"I'm sorry."

His voice dropped, the anger disappearing almost as quickly as it'd arrived.

"I'm sorry."

He slowly released your wrist. You pulled it back against your chest, both of you breathing harder than before.

"I wasn't gonna call anybody." The lie sounded weak even to your own ears.

Eddie looked unconvinced. Finally, he sat back down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

"The plan wasn't supposed to be this. We were angry."

His eyes remained fixed on the floor.

"After Gareth."

You thought about the stories. The hospital. The rose. The humiliation.

"Originally, it was only supposed to be Donovin."

“The pledgemaster?”

Eddie nodded.

"Just him. We spent weeks planning it."

His laugh was humorless.

"Actually planning it. The mask. The voice changer. The calls. The whole thing."

He shook his head.

"Then Madison happened."

You closed your eyes briefly. The name still hurt.

"She wasn't the only one."

Eddie's voice had grown colder now.

"They all knew. They all laughed, all helped."

You thought back to the common room. The stories. The laughter. The way nobody had seemed bothered. Still.

"They didn't deserve—"

"No." His head snapped up. "They deserved worse."

The intensity in his voice made you recoil. Immediately, he saw it, and immediately, he hated himself for it.

"Eddie..."

He looked away. "You know what the funny part is?"

You didn't answer.

"I didn't even know you were one of them."

That surprised you. "What?"

"The sorority." His eyes found yours. "The day I asked your name."

Your stomach dropped. "My sweatshirt."

"Kappa Delta."

You remembered. "Oh."

Eddie laughed quietly. "I went home, and I was pissed."

The admission caught you off guard. "Why?"

"Because I liked you." Its honesty made your chest ache.

"And suddenly I find out you're one of them."

His gaze drifted toward the window.

"I thought I'd been wrong about you. So I started watching."

The words should've terrified you; they did. But they also sounded deeply pathetic and deeply human.

"I kept waiting for proof."

"Proof of what?"

"That you were like them. You never were."

He looked down.

"I watched you leave parties early. You spent Friday nights reading. You worked extra shifts. You brought leftovers home for the girls who couldn't afford takeout."

Your eyes burned.

"I watched you defend Gareth."

The room fell silent.

"And then I realized you weren't one of them."

A tear slipped down your cheek. "Eddie."

"No." He shook his head. "I know what you're gonna say."

"Do you?"

"They were your friends."

The words shattered something inside you immediately. Because they were. You started crying before you could stop yourself.

"They were." Your voice cracked. "They were my friends."

The apartment blurred.

"I lived with them. I knew them. They had families. They had—"

"I did you a favor."

The words cut through your sentence. You stared at him, horrified.

Eddie looked almost offended by your reaction. "They were awful to you."

"What?"

"They talked about you constantly."

The anger was back. Not directed at you, but at them.

"You think they liked you?"

"Eddie—"

"They made fun of you."

His voice rose. "They called you weird. They called you desperate. They thought you were embarrassing."

You shook your head. "No."

"Yes. They did." The certainty in his voice made your stomach twist.

Eddie leaned forward. "They had plans for you."

The apartment suddenly felt very quiet. "What plans?"

His jaw tightened. For the first time all night, he looked genuinely furious.

"The end-of-year retreat."

You frowned. "What about it?"

"They were going to frame you."

The words hit like ice water. You stared. "What?"

"They wanted to dump all the chapter finances on you."

His eyes darkened. "They were planning to accuse you of stealing."

Your breathing stopped.

"They thought it'd be funny."

"No."

"They did."

"Eddie."

"I heard them."

The conviction in his voice left no room for doubt. "They thought because you were quiet and not that involved, nobody would defend you."

He laughed bitterly. "Madison called you expendable."

The tears kept coming. You didn't know what hurt more. The possibility that he was lying, or the possibility that he wasn't.

Across from you, Eddie sat silently while the tears kept coming. You hated it, hated crying in front of him.

Hated that he was seeing you like this. Hated that some sick part of your brain still found comfort in the fact that he was here at all.

Your vision blurred as you wiped angrily at your face.

"Eddie, they were my friends." The words came out broken.

"They were awful friends." His response was immediate, like he'd been waiting to argue.

You laughed bitterly through your tears. "You don't get to decide that."

"No?"

"No." You shook your head. "You don't get to decide who lives and dies because they were mean."

For a second, you thought he was going to get angry again. Instead, his shoulders slumped.

The fight seemed to leave him all at once. Slowly, he moved closer. You should've moved away; you really should have. But you didn't.

"Eddie—"

"I'm not saying what I did was right."

You looked at him skeptically. "Really?"

"No." The honesty caught you off guard. "I'm saying I'm glad you're alive."

His voice had gone quiet, almost tired. "If that makes me selfish, fine."

You simply stared at him, and he simply stared back. Not like Ghostface, not like the guy the police were hunting, just Eddie.

The same guy who used to lean against the coffee counter every morning and give you butterflies with a simple grin. The same guy who remembered your favorite pastry. The same guy who somehow existed inside the same person who had destroyed your life.

"You deserve more than that place." His voice softened. "You deserve more than people who treat you like an afterthought."

You looked down. "They weren't all bad."

"No." His expression softened too. "I know."

The admission surprised you.

"I know they weren't."

Then Eddie carefully reached over and wiped away a tear you hadn't realized had escaped. The gesture felt strangely intimate.

"I was terrified you died."

Your eyes lifted to his. "What?"

"The night at the house." His jaw tightened. "When you got knocked out."

“Got knocked out.” Not, “After I knocked you out.”

The memory flashed through your mind. The bedroom. The mask. The darkness.

Eddie looked away. "I kept checking the news."

A humorless laugh. "Turns out every news station in the country was talking about you."

The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. "That's creepy."

"I know."

The fact that he agreed immediately made you laugh weakly. For the first time all night, the tension eased. Enough for you to finally ask the question that had been lingering in the back of your mind.

"So where have you been?"

Eddie leaned back into the couch. His expression immediately became more guarded. "What do you mean?"

"You and Gareth."

You shrugged. "It's been a week. No arrests. No suspects. No police showing up at your door. So, where have you been?"

For a moment, he seemed to debate whether he should answer. "Moving around."

"Moving around?"

"We stayed at a motel for two nights."

Your eyebrows rose. "A motel?"

"It was disgusting."

"I can imagine."

"The shower looked like it had diseases."

You snorted.

"I knew you'd find that funny."

The brief smile faded, then Eddie shrugged. "After that we split up for a little bit."

Your stomach twisted. "You split up?"

"Temporarily."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "We figured if they started looking at one of us, they'd find both of us."

Its practicality made your skin crawl, as they'd planned for this. Maybe they had.

"They haven't questioned you?"

Eddie shook his head. "Not once."

"What about Gareth?"

"Nope."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

His expression darkened. "They've been focusing on people connected to the sorority."

Your stomach sank. Of course they had.

"Campus security. Ex-boyfriends. Former pledges." Eddie laughed quietly. "One detective apparently thinks it was a drug deal gone wrong."

"What?"

"I know." He shook his head. "It's ridiculous."

The fact that he found the investigation amusing made you feel sick all over again.

A week ago, that would've been the biggest red flag in human history. Now it barely cracked the top ten.

"So you're just..." You gestured vaguely. "...hiding?"

"Pretty much." His eyes met yours. "We're trying to stay quiet. In case somebody finally starts asking the right questions."

You nodded, looking down at the floor.

You don’t know why you felt the need to tell him this next part. It felt almost as though you owed it to him. Why? You don’t know.

“You know…the uh, hospital had asked me some questions.”

He tilted his head. “What kinds of questions?”

You nervously bit your lip, a nasty habit you picked up somewhere after the events of this week. 

“When they were giving me a full-body exam, you know…checking me out and whatnot. The nurses, they—” you paused, searching for the correct way to put it. 

“They said that my vaginal tissue looked damaged. They assumed that you, that whoever it was—”

“No.” 

You looked at him then, his eyes shifting to a combination of fear and sincerity. 

“I would never do that to you. Do you think—did I?” 

The question hung between you.

For the first time since he'd shown up in your apartment, he looked genuinely afraid of the answer. Not scared of prison. Not scared of getting caught.

Scared of you. Scared of what you might say.

Slowly, you shook your head. “No.”

The tension in his shoulders immediately eased.

“No,” you repeated. “I don't think that.”

Eddie let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for days. “Okay.”

You looked down at your hands. “The nurses kept asking. They asked if I remembered everything.”

Your throat tightened. “They asked if somebody had forced me.”

Eddie's jaw clenched. You could practically see him replaying that night in his head. Every moment. Every choice. Every mistake.

“And?”

You swallowed. “I told them no. I told them I wasn't assaulted.”

Eddie stared at you, the realization slowly settling across his face.

You laughed bitterly. “Which was apparently not the answer they expected.”

“Sweetheart—”

“They wanted to do a rape kit.”

His expression immediately darkened.

You continued before he could interrupt. “And I refused.”

Eddie didn't move, didn't blink, didn’t breathe. He simply couldn’t.

You looked away. “The only DNA they would've found would've been yours.”

The words sounded strange spoken aloud, like you were talking about somebody else's life.

“They would've found evidence you were there.”

His eyes never left you.

You forced yourself to continue. “So I said no.”

Eddie looked stunned. “Why?” The question came out almost immediately.

You laughed once. “That's kind of what everybody keeps asking me. What I keep asking me.”

“No.” His voice was softer now. “Why?”

You rubbed your forehead. “I don't know.”

It wasn't entirely true; you did know, you just hated the answer.

Because somewhere between the coffee shop and the apartment and the hospital room...You'd made a choice.

A terrible one. A great one. One you still couldn't explain.

You looked up at him. “I knew what would happen.”

His brow furrowed.

“If they found your DNA, they'd start asking questions.”

“You covered for me.”

You nodded.

“You covered for me.”

Neither of you spoke for several seconds, then Eddie leaned back against the couch, looking completely bewildered. Like this outcome somehow even surprised him.

“You should hate me.”

The statement caught you off guard. “What?”

“You should.”

His eyes found yours. “Everybody else does.”

The sincerity behind it made your chest ache.

You shook your head. “I do hate you. Part of me does.”

Eddie nodded once, accepting it. “That's fair.”

Tears burned behind your eyes again. “Eddie, I don't understand anything anymore.”

His gaze softened immediately. “I know.”

“I hate what you did.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I lied.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracked. “And I hate that you're sitting on my couch right now and all I can think about is whether you've eaten anything this week.”

The confession slipped out before you could stop it.

Eddie froze.

Eventually, he looked down at the floor, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“I had a gas station hot dog yesterday.”

You stared at him, then groaned. “Eddie.”

“What?”

“A gas station hot dog?”

“It was surprisingly good.”

“You are unbelievable.”

The laughter faded quickly. Not because anything was funny, but because reality was still sitting between you on the couch.

"So what now?" He asked.

You stared down at your hands. You'd spent the entire week avoiding that exact thought. Now here it was, sitting beside you, looking at you, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know."

Eddie nodded once, as he'd expected it.

You swallowed. "I don't know what this is."

His gaze stayed fixed on you.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Then you laughed bitterly. "Part of me still likes you."

The admission hurt more than you'd expected. Because it felt wrong, terribly wrong.

"But every time I look at you..." Your eyes stung. "I see what happened."

Eddie's expression faltered. "I know."

"I see the house."

His jaw tightened. "I know."

"I see Madison. I see all of them."

Eddie looked away first. "I can't change that."

The honesty caught you off guard.

"I know."

"I wish I could."

"What if… I tried?"

You frowned. "Tried what?"

"To make it up to you."

A short laugh escaped you. "How exactly do you plan on doing that?"

"I don't know. But I'd figure something out."

You stared at him. There was something absurd about the conversation.

As if the two of you were discussing a bad breakup instead of mass murder. And yet...a part of you wanted him to prove you wrong, to fix his mistake.

"Okay." The word slipped out before you could stop it.

Eddie blinked. "Okay?"

You nodded slowly. "Okay."

You weren't sure what you were agreeing to. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But for now, it was all you had.

Then Eddie's eyes drifted toward the dark circles beneath yours. The bruises still fading along your jaw. The way your eyelids kept drooping.

"You look tired."

You let out a laugh. "Observant."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

He stood slowly and almost reluctantly. Something in your chest dropped: the realization that he was about to leave, that you'd be alone again.

Eddie shoved his hands into his pockets. "I should go."

You nodded. Then, something took over you. 

"Eddie."

He stopped immediately, turning back. "What?"

The question sat in your throat for several seconds. Long enough that you nearly changed your mind. "Stay."

Your face burned. "I just..."

You looked away. "I don't really want to be alone tonight."

The confession hung awkwardly in the air.

Eddie stared at you, for once looking genuinely surprised.

If anything, he thought you’d want to be alone, at least away from him. He’s the reason you’re afraid of the dark in the first place. But who was he to complain?

His expression softened then, the same way it used to in the coffee shop when you'd hand him a free pastry at the end of your shift.

"Okay."

Your chest tightened. "Okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

The answer was simple, like there had never been another option. You watched him settle back onto the couch. Then he patted his lap once, and you scootched over, resting your head on his thigh. 

Within seconds, his fingers began raking through your hair. And within minutes, you drifted off without a second thought.

When you woke up the next morning, you were in your bed. Blankets wrapped around you just the way you liked, somehow in your pajamas, hair brushed, makeup off.

And Eddie was nowhere to be seen. 

You looked around for a moment, scanning the room. Then the front door clicked open, causing you to jump upright. 

“Who’s there—”

Eddie peeked his head in the doorway with a carry-out tray of coffee in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other, kicking the front door closed with his foot.

“Just me, sweetheart.” He chuckled. “Have you ever seen horror movies? You should never ask ‘who’s there?’ You’re basically asking to get mu—” He paused, reading your expression. 

“Anyway, I got your favorites.”

Your chest fluttered despite the comment. You turn to hop out of bed but pause at your keys still on the nightstand, raising your eyebrow while looking at Eddie.

“How did you…”

“Oh, I uh…made a second set.”

You nodded once, like that made sense. It shouldn’t have made sense.

But, in the series of events from the past week, this was one of the most normal ones. 

"Anyways..." Eddie slid the coffee toward you before taking the seat across from you. "Got any big plans today?"

You pulled out one of the barstools at the small kitchen island. "Class at noon and then another at five."

He nodded.

"After that, I've got some staff and TAs mixer at one of my professors' houses."

"Sounds riveting."

"It'll probably be painfully awkward."

"You're definitely getting cornered by somebody who wants to talk about their dissertation."

"I wouldn’t even know what their dissertation is on."

"Doesn't matter." He shrugged, "They'll find a way."

A laugh escaped you as you unwrapped your breakfast sandwich.

For the next half hour, the conversation drifted effortlessly between complaints about professors, the coffee shop, Gareth's inability to cook anything that wasn't boxed macaroni, and Eddie's insistence that gas station coffee "wasn't that bad."

"It is."

"It builds character."

"It builds stomach ulcers."

"Semantics."

By the time the coffee cups were empty and the paper bag sat crumpled between the two of you, it almost felt normal.

Like you weren't sitting across from a murderer, and like he hadn't shattered your life barely a week ago.

Eventually, Eddie stood, gathering the trash before tossing it into the kitchen garbage.

"I should probably disappear again."

You nodded. "Probably."

He lingered for another second. "You'll lock the door?"

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I'll lock the door."

"And the windows."

"Yes, Mom."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm serious. There are some weirdos out there after all."

"I know."

Satisfied enough, he gave you one last look before slipping quietly out the front door.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

Your classes came and went without you retaining much of anything, your notebook filling with half-finished sentences and absent-minded doodles instead of lecture notes.

Every so often, you'd catch yourself staring out the classroom window, wondering whether Eddie was somewhere out there doing the same.

By the evening, the faculty mixer felt like the last place on earth you wanted to be. You almost skipped it.

Instead, you showed up fifteen minutes late with a bottle of cheap wine and every intention of making a polite appearance before slipping out after twenty minutes.

That plan lasted exactly twenty minutes. Someone handed you a drink, then another. Your professor insisted you stay for dinner. Another TA challenged everyone to a ridiculous card game. Before you knew it, hours had disappeared.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the relief of pretending, just for one evening, that your life hadn't become the lead story on every local news station.

Or maybe trauma had a funny way of convincing you to stay wherever your thoughts couldn't catch up to you.

Whatever the reason, by the time you finally stumbled back toward your apartment, the streetlights had already flickered on.

Your head buzzed pleasantly. You fumbled your keys into the lock and pushed the door open.

"...Huh."

The apartment was completely dark. No lamp by the couch. No light over the stove. You reached instinctively for the switch beside the door.

Click. Nothing. A power outage, perfect. You sighed to yourself, kicking your shoes off by the entryway.

“Fuck it,” You slurred. "I guess I'm going to bed."

Using the light from your phone, you carefully navigated the familiar apartment, shadows stretching strangely across the walls as you made your way toward the bedroom.

You sighed, already reaching for the bedside lamp out of habit, when a gloved hand clamped over your mouth from behind.

Your scream died against warm leather. The phone clattered to the floor, screen cracked but still glowing faintly.

"Shhh, sweetheart," his voice danced right against your ear. "It's just me. Missed you."

Your heart slammed against your ribs, half terror, half something far more dangerous. The alcohol still buzzed warmly in your veins, loosening the edges of your fear into something slick and needy.

You felt the hard press of his body against your back, the robe, the familiar weight of him.

He slowly removed his hand, but the knife's cold, flat side traced lightly down the side of your neck instead.

"You've been drinking," he observed, voice low.

"Did you miss me, too?"

You swallowed hard. "Eddie..."

He spun you around and shoved you back onto the bed. The mask loomed above you in the near-darkness, white and expressionless, knife glinting as he climbed over you.

Straddling your hips, he pinned one wrist above your head.

"I hope you don’t mind, but I read your diary, pretty girl."

The words hit like ice water. Your eyes widened. "You—"

"While you were out playing normal at that mixer." He tilted his head, the mask's black voids staring down at you. "Couldn't help myself. You left it right there on your nightstand like an invitation."

His free hand roamed down your body, squeezing your breast through your top, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaked.

"All those late-night entries about the mask. About the knife. About wanting to be chased. Caught. Used." He chuckled lowly. 

"My sweet, filthy girl. You get wet thinking about the man who slaughtered your friends, pinning you down and ruining you."

Heat flooded your face. Shame. Arousal. The conflicting storm that had lived in you since that night.

You squirmed beneath him, but his weight kept you trapped.

"Eddie, I—"

“Uh, uh,” he tsked. “I know what you really want, princess. We can have fun, but I don’t want to hurt you."

He tilted his head in thought, slowly sliding the knife down the side of your face.

"How about we make a safe word. You know what that is, sweetness?"

You nodded once, “Mhm.”

“Good girl. If anything gets to be too much, just say ‘red’, okay, sweetheart? I’ll stop the second you say it. No questions."

You nodded pathetically and quickly. 

"Good girl." The knife slid lower, slipping under the hem of your shirt and slicing upward in one clean rip.

Fabric parted like paper, baring your breasts to the cool air. 

He groaned. "Fuck, look at you. Been hard for days thinking about this."

He rocked his hips against yours, letting you feel how hard he already was under the robe.

The knife traced circles around one nipple, the sharp point never quite breaking skin, just enough pressure to make you gasp and arch.

"You like this, don’t you?" He leaned down, mask brushing your cheek. "The monster in your room while you’re drunk and helpless, begging to be caught."

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him. He laughed darkly and shoved your skirt up, yanking your panties aside.

Two fingers pushed into you without warning, curling deep.

"So fucking wet already. Greedy little thing." He pumped them slowly, scissoring, stretching you while the knife stayed pressed to your sternum like a threat and a promise.

You moaned, clenching around his fingers. He added a third finger, fucking you harder, thumb grinding against your clit.

"Eddie—please—"

"Please, what?" He pulled his fingers out and flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so you were ass-up, face pressed into the mattress.

The knife traced down your spine, then lower, teasing between your cheeks. "Please fuck you? Please hurt you? Please remind you exactly who you belong to now?"

You heard the rustle of fabric as he shoved the robe open. Then his cock, hot and bare, nudged against your entrance. He rubbed it through your slick folds, teasing.

"Say it."

"I want it," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Want you. Want all of it. Please."

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out, the stretch burning so good.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He fucked you hard, one hand fisted in your hair, the other pressing the flat of the knife to your throat from behind.

"Such good little girl," he growled through the changer, hips snapping relentlessly.

He perfectly dragged inside you with every stroke, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. 

"Taking my cock so well. You tremble under me, and yet, you’re still creaming all over the monster who owns you."

You were babbling, moaning, pushing back to meet every thrust.

The knife stayed at your throat, a constant cold edge that made your pussy flutter tighter around him. He reached around and rubbed your clit in tight, merciless circles.

"Cum for me, sweetheart. It’s all yours."

The orgasm crashed over you violently, your whole body shaking as you clenched and pulsed around him. He fucked you through it, snarling praise and filth, until your legs gave out.

He pulled out, flipped you onto your back again, and straddled your chest. The mask hovered above you as he stroked himself fast and rough. 

"Open."

You obeyed, tongue out, eyes locked on the white mask. He came with a guttural groan, painting your tongue, your lips, your tits in thick ropes. You swallowed what you could, dazed and trembling.

Eddie dropped the knife to the side and finally tugged the mask off, tossing it aside. His real face, flushed, curls wild, eyes dark with obsession and something softer, stared down at you.

He leaned down and kissed you messily, tasting himself on your tongue.

"Still with me?" he murmured against your lips. 

You nodded, boneless and floating. "Yes..."

He huffed a quiet laugh and collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest. His fingers stroked through your hair, gentle now, the chaos temporarily sated.

“That wasn’t too much?”

You shook your head against his chest, humming something incoherent. Your body still buzzed, boneless and warm, the ache between your thighs a pleasant reminder of how thoroughly he’d wrecked you.

Eddie pressed a kiss to the top of your head, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other tilted your chin up for a lazy, lingering kiss. “C’mere. Let me take care of you.”

He slipped out of bed after a minute, disappearing into the hallway. You heard him fumbling around, then a few distant clicks. 

The lights in the apartment hummed back to life, the lamp on your nightstand flickering on and bathing the room in a soft glow.

Eddie reappeared in the doorway, wearing nothing but his boxers and that crooked, satisfied smile.

“Breaker box in the hall closet,” he explained with a shrug, like breaking into your apartment and knowing its secrets was the most normal thing in the world.

“Figured you’d want to see my pretty face afterwards.”

He returned with a warm, damp washcloth from the bathroom, a glass of water, and one of your oversized t-shirts.

Settling back into bed, he gently cleaned you up; careful between your legs, wiping away the mess with tender strokes and soft murmurs of praise.

Once you were clean, he helped you into the shirt, then tugged you back against his chest under the blankets.

His arms wrapped around you securely, one leg tangled with yours as he pressed lazy kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, voice low and sweet. “Need anything else?”

You smiled and shook your head sleepily, curling tighter into him. It was strange, really, the stark contrast from how he had acted ten minutes before to now.

The switch was so effortless it made your head spin, as though the tenderness and the terror had always belonged to the same person. 

hope y'all enjoyed ;)

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The apartment is quiet when Robin unlocks the door, quiet enough that she immediately freezes. Because the apartment is never quiet.

Usually, there’s the hum of the refrigerator, or the upstairs neighbors stomping around like they’re rehearsing for Riverdance, or music coming from somewhere down the hall. But tonight there’s something different underneath it all, soft music drifting faintly from the bedroom she’s supposed to be sharing with a complete stranger.

Robin tightens her grip on her keys. Right, she thinks, New roommate day.

She’d almost forgotten about Keith being insufferable for eight straight hours and Steve pretending not to care about his hair getting rained on. Robin nudges the door shut behind her and kicks off her shoes, already preparing herself for awkward small talk and forced introductions.

Instead, she walks into what looks like an enchanted forest, and she actually stops dead in the hallway.

The bedroom door is open just enough for warm golden light to spill out across the carpet. Fairy lights twinkle along the walls, tangled through hanging ivy vines that drape across the ceiling. Little paper stars sway lazily overhead whenever the fan turns. Your side of the room is all soft blankets and patchwork quilts and stacks of books and tiny trinkets tucked into every possible corner. 

Robin stares for a full five seconds before blurting: “What the fuck?”

Your head immediately pops up from the floor where you’re sitting cross-legged beside an open box. “Oh my God, hi!”

And there you are. You’re wearing this oversized sweater that’s practically swallowing your hands, hair messy from unpacking, surrounded by candles and records and enough decorative mushrooms to concern the average person.

Robin blinks. “You’re real,” she says.

You laugh softly. “I think so?”

“No, because I thought maybe the apartment got cursed while I was at work.”

That makes you laugh harder, bright and pretty and completely unembarrassed. Robin feels herself relax instantly.

“Sorry,” you say, standing up quickly. “I didn’t mean to completely fill the room. I just started unpacking, and then I kinda blacked out.”

Robin looks around again. Honestly? The room looks amazing, like one of those bedrooms in magazines that people pretend they casually threw together when in reality it probably took seventeen hours and emotional warfare.

“Are those stars hanging from the ceiling?”

You beam immediately, like you’ve been waiting for someone to ask.

“Yes! Okay, so technically they’re supposed to be Christmas ornaments, but I thought they looked magical, so—”

And that’s it. That’s the beginning of the end for Robin Buckley. Because ten minutes later, she’s sitting cross-legged on your bed while you excitedly explain every little thing you unpacked.

The moon-shaped lamp you thrifted for three dollars. The pressed flowers tucked into frames. The tiny ceramic frog named Ferdinand.

“Named?” Robin repeats.

You look at her like that’s the stupidest question she’s ever asked. “Obviously.” Robin snorts so hard she almost chokes.

You ramble when you’re excited, words tumbling over themselves while your hands move animatedly through the air, and Robin finds herself completely locked in. You talk about books you love like they personally changed your life. You tell stories with your whole body. Every emotion crosses your face so openly that it’s impossible not to get swept up in it.

Most people make Robin feel too loud.

You make her feel matched. At some point, you end up sitting on the floor together, eating vending machine snacks from Robin’s backpack while music hums softly through the room.

“You know,” Robin says after a while, “I was terrified I’d get assigned someone horrifying.”

You gasp dramatically. “Robin!”

“I’m serious! One time, Steve had a roommate who clipped his toenails in the living room.”

You stare at her in horror.

“See?” she says. “Exactly my reaction.”

You laugh again, smiling so hard your nose scrunches a little, and Robin decides right then she likes you, a lot. Like enough that she’s already mentally preparing how to introduce you to the rest of the group. Which, honestly, might turn out to be a mistake. Because if Robin thinks you’re charming now, she has absolutely no idea what’s about to happen when Eddie and Steve meet you.

Robin calls it an apartment warming party even though it’s really just: cheap beer, frozen pizza, three folding chairs, and whoever happened to answer their phones. Which means by seven-thirty, the apartment is full of loud voices and wet shoes piled by the door from the rain outside.

You’re in the kitchen trying to separate paper plates that are aggressively sticking together when the front door swings open. Steve Harrington walks in first. And unfortunately, he’s very pretty.

Tall, broad shoulders shoved into seemingly too-tight tan jacket, hair still annoyingly perfect from the rain somehow. He’s carrying a case of beer under one arm while arguing with Robin before he’s even fully inside.

“I’m telling you, this is not enough food.”

“There are twelve people here, Steve, not the population of Indiana.”

“That doesn’t matter—”

Then he sees you and stops talking mid-sentence. You blink back at him, and Robin immediately notices the exact moment Steve Harrington develops a crush on you. It’s physically visible.

“Oh,” Steve says.

You smile politely. “Hi.”

Robin groans quietly into her drink. “Steve,” she says flatly, “don’t.”

“What? I didn’t even do anything.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

Before Robin can roast him alive, another figure shoves through the doorway behind him.

“Move your gigantic hair outta the way, Harrington, some of us are carrying important cargo—”

And then he walks in. Leather jacket damp from the rain, dark curls pushed messily out of his face, and a cigarette tucked behind one ear despite Robin threatening murder every time he smokes near the building.

Eddie looks up, sees you, and completely loses his train of thought. “…holy shit.”

Robin closes her eyes. “Oh no,” she mutters, because she recognizes that look too.

You’re still standing by the kitchen counter holding a stack of paper plates, but suddenly you feel oddly frozen under Eddie’s attention. Not in a bad way, but in a terrifying way. Like your entire nervous system just sat up straight. Eddie stares at you for half a second too long before Robin finally speaks.

“Eddie,” she says slowly, “this is my new roommate.”

You say your name softly. Eddie repeats it immediately, like he’s testing how it sounds in his mouth. God. And then he smiles at you, crooked, warm, a little shy underneath all the theatrics. And you are done for instantly.

“Nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

Robin physically watches your soul leave your body. Steve notices too, which is unfortunate for everybody involved. The night only gets worse from there, because Eddie is everywhere.

Sprawled across the couch, telling dramatic stories that make you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. Talking with his hands when he gets excited, grinning every time he catches you already looking at him. And the thing is, you can tell immediately he’s smart.

Not school smart, necessarily. But passionate smart, the kind of person that collects knowledge simply because he loves things deeply.

At one point, he starts passionately ranting about some fantasy campaign he’s writing while Gareth and Jeff argue with him from across the room, and you swear you could listen to him talk for the rest of your life. Which apparently becomes very obvious, because Robin leans against your shoulder at some point and whispers:

“Oh, you are gone.”

You shove her lightly. “Shut up.”

“You have not stopped staring at him for twenty minutes.”

“I have absolutely stopped staring at him.”

Across the room, Eddie glances over at you instantly as if he felt it, then grins. You almost choke on your drink.

Later, after more people show up and the apartment gets louder, you slip away to your room for a breather because your room is softer than the chaos outside. You’re fixing one of the strings of stars above your bed when there’s a knock against the open door.

You turn, and there’s Eddie, leaning against the doorway carefully, like he’s not sure if he’s intruding. “Whoa,” he says quietly.

You smile a little. “Hi.”

“Robin said your room was cool, but she severely undersold this.”

You laugh softly. “You think?”

“Think?” Eddie steps inside slowly, eyes darting everywhere at once. “Sweetheart, this looks like a woodland creature got accepted into art school.”

You burst out laughing, and the sound alone visibly delights him.

“Oh my God,” you say. “That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I’m serious!” Eddie says, already wandering toward your shelves. “You’ve got little potions and shit in here.”

“They’re crystals.”

“Ah. Magic rocks. My mistake.”

You shake your head, smiling helplessly while he picks up one of your tiny ceramic frogs with absolute reverence. “This guy rules.”

“That’s Ferdinand.”

Eddie looks at you immediately. “He has a name?”

“Obviously.”

Eddie presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “You get me.”

And that’s it, that’s the exact moment you fall hopelessly, stupidly in love with Eddie Munson. Because instead of making fun of you, he lights up.

Every little thing in your room fascinates him. He asks questions about every trinket and listens to your answers like they’re genuinely important. Gets excited when you explain the meanings of your crystals. Tells you your room feels “safe in a really cool way.”

At some point, the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, talking while the party carries on without you. 

The party finally dies sometime after one in the morning.

Jeff and Gareth leave first, still arguing over something stupid. Robin disappears into the apartment, muttering about cleaning tomorrow because “future Robin deserves to suffer, not current Robin.” And somehow that leaves Steve and Eddie alone, hauling empty pizza boxes down the apartment stairs toward Steve’s BMW.

Rainwater glistens across the pavement outside as Eddie lights a cigarette the second they step outside, leaning against the passenger door while Steve tosses the trash into the dumpster nearby.

For a minute, neither of them says anything. But Eddie’s brain is still upstairs, still stuck in your room. Your laugh. Your stupid little fairy lights. The way your eyes lit up every time he asked about something on your shelves like nobody had ever cared before. Jesus Christ.

He takes a long drag from his cigarette while Steve shuts the trunk. “So.”

Eddie immediately narrows his eyes. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a man about to say something deeply irritating.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but there’s this weird grin pulling at his mouth. And Eddie suddenly knows, his stomach dropping in an instant. “Oh no,” Eddie mutters.

Steve leans against the car beside him. “What?”

“You like her.”

Steve pauses, then laughs once under his breath. “Is it that obvious?”

Eddie stares out at the wet parking lot instead of answering. Because yeah, yeah, it is. Of course it is. Why wouldn’t Steve Harrington like you?

You’re pretty and sweet and charming, and you looked at people like they mattered when they talked. You had this soft, dreamy thing about you that made people want to lean closer without realizing it. And Steve? Steve always got the girl.

Not because he was a bad guy. Honestly, that almost made it worse. Steve was good-looking, kind, and dependable in a way Eddie never felt he could compete with. Eddie flicks ash onto the pavement.

“Dude,” Steve says carefully, “you okay?”

“Mhm.”

“That sounded fake.”

“Kinda was.”

Steve snorts quietly, then he says, “I dunno. I just really liked her.”

Eddie’s chest physically aches because he really liked you, too. Pathetically fast, honestly. The kind of fast that should concern medical professionals.

But the second Steve says it out loud, Eddie can practically feel himself shoving the whole thing down into his ribs where it can’t embarrass him. He laughs once instead, forcing casualness into his voice.

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “She’s cool.” The words taste awful immediately.

Steve glances over at him, and Eddie knows Steve’s looking for something there. Some reaction. Some claim. But Eddie just shrugs and opens the passenger door. Because what’s he supposed to say?

“Actually, Steve, I think I fell in love with her in approximately four minutes while she explained the lore behind a ceramic frog collection?” No fucking thank you.

Steve hesitates before climbing into the driver’s seat. “You sure?”

Eddie forces a grin. “Harrington, if I fought you every time we liked the same girl, we’d both be dead by now.”

Steve laughs at that, thankfully. But Eddie turns toward the window before he can see his face. The whole drive home hurts. Steve keeps talking about you absentmindedly, not even realizing that each thing he says is basically another nail in Eddie’s coffin.

“She’s funny.”

“Mhm.”

“And smart.”

“Tragic, really.”

“And did you see her room? It looked like a fairy exploded in there.”

That one almost makes Eddie smile despite himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It was nice.”

Steve glances over at him again. “You really think so?”

Eddie thinks about you sitting cross-legged on the floor under warm golden lights, looking at him like every word out of his mouth mattered.

He swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I really think so.”

But by the time Steve drops him off at the trailer, Eddie’s already making up his mind. He’s not doing this again. He’s not letting himself get stupid over someone who’s obviously gonna realize Steve Harrington is the better option eventually.

So whatever this thing is blooming in his chest, he’s gonna kill it before it gets embarrassing.

The next time everyone hangs out is at Steve’s place. Robin drags you there after work with the promise of free food and “at least three people getting into an argument dramatic enough to count as entertainment.” You spend almost the entire drive fixing your hair in the passenger mirror while pretending not to.

“Oh my God,” she says. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not nervous.”

“You’ve checked your lip gloss four times.”

“I just like to look nice.”

“For Eddie.”

You groan and shove her shoulder while she laughs all the way into the parking lot. And honestly? You’re excited to see him. Pathetically excited. Ever since the apartment party, Eddie’s been stuck in your head constantly. The way he listened to you. The way he smiled when you talked. The softness underneath all the theatrics.

You’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time replaying that night in your mind. Which is why the disappointment hits so hard when you walk into Steve’s living room, and Eddie barely looks at you. Not barely looks at you because he’s distracted, but barely looks at you on purpose.

“Hey,” you say softly when your eyes meet his.

Eddie gives you a quick smile from where he’s sitting in the armchair. “Hey, sweetheart.”

And then he looks away, that’s it. No wandering over to talk to you. No easy teasing. No immediate gravitational pull toward you like before. Your stomach sinks a little.

Meanwhile, Steve lights up the second you walk in. “There she is,” he says dramatically from the kitchen. “Thank God. Robin almost bought generic chips.”

“I did buy generic chips,” Robin calls back.

You laugh despite yourself, and Steve stays beside you basically the entire night. At first, you don’t think much of it because Steve is naturally affectionate and attentive, but after an hour, it becomes impossible not to notice the contrast between him and Eddie.

Steve sits beside you on the couch. Steve hands you drinks before you ask. Steve remembers tiny details you mentioned in passing. While across the room, Eddie barely speaks to you at all. And every time you try to talk to him, he gives you these short, polite answers before redirecting himself somewhere else. It hurts more than it should.

By the time the movie starts, you’re curled into the corner of the couch trying not to visibly mope while Steve talks animatedly beside you.

Robin notices everything immediately; her eyes narrowing toward Eddie across the room. Eddie pointedly avoids looking over. Coward.

Halfway through the movie, Steve leans closer to whisper some joke in your ear that makes you laugh. And from the recliner across the room, Eddie finally glances over. Then he stands up.

“I should head out,” he says suddenly.

Everyone looks over. Robin frowns. “Already?”

“Early shift.”

“That’s literally a lie,” Gareth says.

“Wow,” Eddie says flatly. “Didn’t know you knew work my schedule better than I did.” But he’s already grabbing his jacket. 

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

Eddie finally looks at you directly for the first time all night. And for one awful second, something vulnerable flickers across his face, something almost guilty.

“Night, sweetheart.” Then he leaves.

A week later, Steve asks you out. Not dramatically or arrogantly, he actually looks kind of nervous. The two of you are walking back toward the apartment after grabbing coffee while Robin is in class, and Steve suddenly rubs the back of his neck before blurting:

“So… would you maybe wanna go out sometime?”

You stop walking. Steve immediately winces. “Jesus, that bad?”

“No!” you say quickly. “No, Steve, oh my God.”

He laughs awkwardly. You feel terrible instantly because Steve is wonderful, truly wonderful. But he’s not Eddie. And unfortunately for you, every stupid thought in your head still somehow circles back to Eddie Munson.

You exhale softly. “Steve…”

“Yeah?”

“I really, really like somebody.”

His face falls a little, though he tries to hide it. “Oh.”

“And it’s—” You hesitate. “It’s Eddie.”

Steve stares at you, then blinks. “…Eddie?”

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“Don’t be.” Steve nudges your shoulder lightly. “Can’t exactly control who you like.”

Then your face brightens suddenly. “Wait.”

Steve eyes you cautiously. “That look concerns me.”

“No, listen, I have a friend.”

“Oh no.”

“She’s in one of my lit classes.”

“You’re trying to set me up?”

“She’s gorgeous.”

“Dangerous opening statement.”

“And she loves dumb movies and rambling and stupidly nice people.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “Are you calling me stupid?”

You grin. “A little.”

And somehow Steve agrees to meet her at the next group hangout. Which turns out to be the best decision of his life. Because the second your friend walks into the diner and immediately starts arguing with Steve about whether Die Hard counts as a Christmas movie, Steve falls catastrophically in love. Like, immediately.

Robin watches it happen in real time. “Oh my God,” she whispers to you from across the booth. “He’s gone.”

Steve is sitting there staring at your friend like she personally invented happiness. Meanwhile, your friend is laughing so hard at one of his jokes that she’s nearly crying.

“You know what?” Robin says thoughtfully. “They’re gonna get married.”

And honestly? You kind of think so, too. Which would all be great news if Eddie hadn’t spent the last three weeks completely disappearing from your life.

Eddie sees them completely by accident, which somehow makes it worse. He’s cutting through downtown after leaving the record store, headphones hanging around his neck and a cigarette tucked between his lips, when he glances across the street and nearly walks directly into a parking meter.

Steve is sitting outside the little café near campus. And across from him is a girl Eddie’s never seen before. Not just sitting, holding hands, laughing. Steve looks disgustingly happy about it, too, leaning across the tiny table while she steals fries off his plate.

Eddie stops dead on the sidewalk, and his stomach twists immediately. “What the fuck,” he says out loud.

Because no. No no no. Steve Harrington did not spend weeks following you around like a lovesick puppy just to immediately start dating another girl. Eddie’s chest burns hot, and before he can think better of it, he’s already crossing the street.

Steve notices him halfway there and grins automatically. “Munson!”

Eddie does not grin back. Steve’s smile slowly fades. “Uh oh.”

Eddie walks right up to the table, pointing accusingly. “What the hell, man?”

The girl blinks between them. Steve looks genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

“I literally don’t.”

Eddie gestures wildly at the girl sitting across from him. “This!”

Steve stares, the girl stares, and Eddie looks personally betrayed.

“You spent all that time chasing after her, and now you’re out here cheating on her in broad daylight?”

The girl chokes on her drink. Steve’s eyes widen in horror. “What?!”

“Don’t what me, Harrington!”

“Eddie,” the girl says carefully, trying not to laugh, “I think maybe—”

“No, because this is insane behavior!” Eddie continues. “You were obsessed with her!”

Steve suddenly realizes. And then, unbelievably, he starts laughing. Like full-body laughing.

Eddie glares at him. “Oh, cool. Awesome. Glad infidelity is hilarious to you.”

Steve physically puts his head in his hands. “Oh my God,” he groans through laughter. “You are so stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

The girl beside Steve is openly giggling now. Steve looks up, finally, still laughing. “She turned me down, dumbass.”

Eddie blinks. “What?”

“She turned me down because she likes you.”

Silence, actual complete silence. Even the traffic noise suddenly feels far away. Eddie just stares at him. “…what?”

Steve looks at him like he’s witnessing a medical emergency. “She likes you,” he repeats slowly. “She literally told me she had feelings for you.”

Eddie’s brain completely short-circuits. “Nah,” he says automatically.

“Yes.”

“No, she—”

“Eddie.” Steve points at him. “The girl spent an entire party staring holes into your head.”

Eddie opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “She… what?”

Steve looks genuinely offended now. “How did you not notice?!”

Because Eddie had been so busy convincing himself Steve would win again that he never even considered the possibility that you’d wanted him back. You wanted him. Oh my God.

Ohhhhhhh, shit.

Every interaction over the last month slams into him at once. You laughing at all his jokes. You always gravitate toward him. The way your face fell every time he pulled away. The hurt in your eyes the last night everyone hung out. Eddie physically pales.

Steve watches as the realization hits him in real time. “There it is,” Steve says flatly. “That’s the face of a man realizing he ruined his own life.”

“Oh my God,” Eddie breathes.

“You stopped talking to her!”

“I know!”

“You idiot!”

“I KNOW!”

The girl across from Steve is laughing so hard she’s wiping tears from her eyes. Eddie runs both hands through his hair frantically. “Oh my God,” he repeats. “She probably thinks I hate her.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Steve points down the sidewalk dramatically. “Go fix it!”

Eddie doesn’t even argue; he turns so fast he nearly trips over the curb before sprinting back down the street.

Eddie almost falls up the stairs to your apartment, seriously. He misses the second step entirely because his brain is moving faster than the rest of his body, heart pounding so hard it feels painful.

You like him. You liked him the whole fucking time. And he spent the last month acting like a wounded puppy instead of just talking to you like a normal person. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself, shoving a hand through his curls as he reaches your door.

The lights are on inside. Good, good. Eddie knocks once. Then, immediately again, louder this time because he suddenly cannot breathe properly. And the door swings open. Oh. Oh, he is so unbelievably screwed.

You’re standing there fresh out of the shower, hair still damp around your shoulders, oversized sleep shirt slipping off one side slightly. No makeup. No jewelry except the tiny rings you always wear, soft skin still a little damp.

You look sleepy. Comfortable. Beautiful in this terrifyingly effortless way that makes Eddie’s brain go completely blank. Your eyes widen when you see him standing there looking half feral. “Eddie?”

His name leaves your mouth softly, confused. Your brows knit together a little. “Hi.”

And God, that almost kills him too, because even after he’s been avoiding you for weeks, you still sound happy to see him.

“I’m an idiot,” Eddie blurts immediately.

You blink. “What?”

“I’m, like, a catastrophic idiot, actually.”

“Okay…”

“I thought you liked Steve.”

You stare at him for a second. “Oh, my God.”

“I KNOW.”

“You thought I liked Steve?”

“He asked you out!”

“And I said no!”

“Yeah, apparently everybody knew that except me!”

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. Eddie looks so distressed standing there that it’s honestly a little adorable. His cheeks are flushed pink from running over here, his curls are windblown, and his chest is still rising too fast.

“I thought,” he says breathlessly, softer now, “I thought for one second maybe I actually had a shot with you, and then Harrington told me he liked you and I just…” He laughs once at himself. “I don’t know. I got weird.”

You stare at him because suddenly everything makes sense. The distance. The avoiding you. The weird tension every time Steve sat beside you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

“I know, sweetheart, trust me, I know.”

“You thought I wanted Steve Harrington over you?”

Eddie grimaces. “When you say it out loud, it sounds stupid.”

“It is stupid.”

“I’m aware.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself now. And Eddie looks at you like the sight of that smile physically revives him. “I really hurt your feelings, didn’t I?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate, which is an answer enough. Eddie closes his eyes briefly like he hates himself for it. “Shit.”

Before you can respond, he suddenly steps closer. “You have any idea,” he murmurs, voice rough, “how hard it’s been not to talk to you? See you?”

Your breath catches instantly while Eddie’s gaze drops to your mouth, then back to your eyes. And when you don’t move away, that’s it. His hand slides gently against your jaw, and suddenly, he’s kissing you. Like he’s been starving for it. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks, which, to be fair, he has. 

You make this tiny, surprised sound against his mouth before immediately melting into him, hands sliding up his chest to the back of his neck as he kisses you harder. Eddie groans softly the second you kiss him back.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes against your lips. “Thank fucking God.”

You’re laughing a little now between kisses, dizzy from how fast this is happening. “You are insane,” you whisper.

His hands slide carefully to your waist, pulling you closer as he kisses you again, slower this time, savoring every ounce of attention you're gracing him with. He walks you backward into the apartment without breaking the kiss, one hand still cradling your jaw like you might disappear if he lets go. 

The door clicks shut behind him, and he spins you gently, pressing your back against it. “Been losing my mind over you,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough. “Every fucking night.”

You make a soft, overwhelmed sound and pull him closer by his jacket. He shrugs it off in one messy motion, letting it hit the floor, then his hands are back on you, sliding under the hem of your shirt, palms greedy against your bare waist.

“Eddie—”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He kisses down your neck, open-mouthed and reverent, like he’s memorizing the taste of you. “Tell me what you need.”

You don’t even know how to answer. You just tug at his shirt until he yanks it over his head, revealing all that pale skin and dark ink. Your hands explore him immediately, tracing over every tattoo and piece of him that you can get ahold of. 

He walks you toward your bedroom, never letting you get more than a breath away. When the backs of your knees hit the bed, he eases you down like you’re something precious, then follows, crawling over you.

“Look at you,” he whispers, eyes dragging over your body. Your shirt has ridden up; he pushes it higher, exposing your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your breasts. “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh breathlessly, a little shy under the intensity of his stare, but he leans down and kisses the sound right out of your mouth. Then lower, your collarbone, the swell of your chest, the soft underside of one breast. When his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue teasing, you arch with a broken moan. He hums in satisfaction. 

Eddie takes his time, like he’s making up for every second he wasted avoiding you. He maps your body with his mouth and hands, murmuring filthy-sweet things the whole time.

When he finally hooks his fingers in your panties and tugs them down, he actually curses under his breath at how wet you are. Two long fingers slide through your folds, circling your clit with devastating patience until your thighs start shaking.

“Eddie, please—”

“I got you.” He kisses the inside of your thigh, then looks up at you through those dark curls, eyes almost black with want.

He doesn’t tease for long. The first slow drag of his tongue has your back bowing off the bed. He groans like you’re the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth, licking and sucking with messy enthusiasm, two fingers curling inside you just right.

One of your hands fists in his hair; the other clutches at the patchwork quilt beneath you.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, crying out his name in a broken whimper. He keeps going through it, gentling you down with soft licks until you’re trembling and oversensitive.

When he finally crawls back up, his mouth is shiny, pupils blown. You pull him into a deep kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and reach between you to palm him through his jeans.

He hisses, hips jerking. “You sure?” he rasps, already sounding wrecked. You nod, helping him as he desperately tries to take his belt off. 

He hovers over you for a second, then smirks as he reaches to your shelf and turns Ferdinand around. “Look away, buddy,” he mumbles. 

He leans back into you, kissing you gently as he settles between your thighs. He braces one forearm beside your head and looks down at you, suddenly serious beneath the hunger.

“You sure?” he whispers. “We can slow down. I’ll wait as long as—”

You cut him off with a kiss and guide him to your entrance. “I want you. Now.”

He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. When he bottoms out, he stays there, buried deep, just panting against your mouth.

“Fuck… you feel like heaven, baby.”

Then he starts moving, slow rolling thrusts that drag against that spot inside you with every stroke. Eddie’s mouth stays on yours, on your neck, on your chest, wherever he can reach. His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together beside your head while he fucks you harder.

“Look at me,” he breathes. “Want to see you when you come again.” 

You do; staring into those big brown eyes while the pleasure coils tighter and tighter. He angles his hips just right, and you shatter around him with a sharp cry, clenching so hard he curses and follows right after, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and groans your name, followed by a couple of “fuuucks” for good measure. 

For a long minute, the only sound is your mingled breathing and Eddie’s rabbiting heart. Eddie collapses half on top of you, face tucked into your neck, arms wrapped around you like he never plans to let go. You’re both smiling in that dazed, exhausted kind of way, the kind that feels a little unreal.

Eddie presses one slow kiss against your shoulder. “You alive there, sweetheart?”

You giggle softly into your pillow. “Barely.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs smugly.

You snort immediately. “Don’t start.”

“I earned starting.”

“You are so annoying.”

“And yet,” Eddie says dramatically, motioning to the predicament the two of you are currently in. 

You laugh again, turning your head slightly, and then you notice it. Your tiny ceramic frog statue is still sitting on the bookshelf, facing the wall.

You go completely silent, Eddie noticing instantly. “What?”

Slowly, you point toward the shelf. Eddie follows your gaze and physically freezes.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Eddie immediately starts laughing. Not a cute laugh either, a full body, wheezing, face-in-your-neck laugh.

“I cannot believe you turned Ferdinand around!”

“He didn’t need to see all that!”

You burst into helpless laughter beneath him. “Eddie!”

“What?!” he says between laughs. “You said he had feelings!”

“He is ceramic!”

“Yeah, and he could have been a traumatized ceramic!”

You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts now, trying to shove at his shoulder while he grins down at you completely unashamed. “I cannot believe you did that.”

“I was respecting the sanctity of your weird little frog son.”

“That is actually insane behavior.”

“Says the woman with an emotionally significant amphibian collection.”

You groan loudly into your hands while Eddie keeps laughing. Then suddenly, he pushes himself up just enough to glance toward the shelf again.

“…do you think he’s mad at me?”

You stare at him for half a second before dissolving all over again, while Eddie looks absolutely lovestruck watching you laugh beneath him.

:))

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