Leaving Eddie there, alone to rot, felt like a betrayal, and your suffocating guilt convinced you that you were the one who killed him; you were the reason his body was rotting from the inside out.

Every milestone and passing of time was just another reminder that he wasn't coming home, another reminder that he was on his own in the bitter cold in a place you couldn't access. 

The nightmares became so severe that you were too scared to sleep, and eventually, with the constant refusal of rest, the line between your world and reality started to blur. Everyone and everything frightened you; they put you constantly on edge.

"Stop it!" you'd yell, backing into the darkest corner of your room. "I am not leaving this room, I know what you're doing!"

Robin and Steve stood in the opposite corner, pleading with you to come outside and feel the warmth of the sun kissing your face.

"We won't do anything, we swear," Robin said calmly, trying to defend herself with her hands, palms spread and fingers fanned out.

You shook your head violently. "No, no! You lie! I know what's waiting for me out there, you're going to hand me in for killing him!"

Steve's eyes were full of tears at the sight of you.

Your eyes were dull and presented deep, hollow bags, and your clothes that used to fit like a glove were now draping over you, three sizes too big because you were constantly missing meals, feeling too sick to eat.

"You didn't kill him," Steve choked out, his voice cracking. "What happened to Eddie was..."

You flinched, scurrying further back into your room. The sun peeking through your long curtains, burning your eyes only made things worse. 

"Don't say his name! No, no, lalala, I'm not buying it!" You pulled the curtain shut with sudden, frantic force, plunging the room into darkness. You could no longer see Steve or Robin; you didn't want to. "You're both trying to get me locked up, sent away! Get out!! He's dead! I killed him, I killed him!"

Steve and Robin slowly dragged their feet out of your room, their heads bowed in defeat. Outside, they looked up at your terrified parents and shook their heads.

"Nothing," Steve muttered. "She just became angry. Paranoid."

"She's stuck in this state where she believes she's going to be locked up for murder." Robin sighed, trying to avoid eye contact with your parents. 

"Yes," your mother replied, defeated, "Or she's stuck in the moment where he's died, we hear her calling out for him, screaming all night. The same time every night."

Your parents thought your mania would last forever, that your loud and violent outbursts would be the ultimate reason they sent you away for specialised care once they were too old and frail to handle it themselves.

But one day, you stopped eating and drinking completely, unable to open your mouth and talk, or even look away from the centre of your bedroom wall. 

Every part of you that made you you was gone; all that was left behind was a breathing body with no other function but to starve and rot away.

Just like Eddie.

You became glued to the chair in the corner of your room, staring blankly at the wall, often without blinking for long periods of time, causing your eyes to become incredibly dry and bloodshot.

Your mother begged you to do something, like look at her or turn your head, but you never did. She shook you, squeezed your hands, and yelled your name until her throat was sore and hoarse, but nothing changed.

"Please, darling, look at me." She'd beg, a crying mess, "If you can hear me, just blink for me, baby, blink twice for yes and once for no."

You didn't blink. 

Your parents couldn't keep you under their roof with you in such a state, and your refusal to eat and drink would brand them as killers if you were to die from dehydration and starvation. 

The decision wasn't made lightly; it was their last resort, sending you to the psychiatric facility, but in doing so, they allowed themselves to have a sliver of hope that rehabilitation was possible for you. 

"A feeding tube, that would keep her alive, right?" Your father chirped, his eyes the brightest they had been in months. 

"Realistically, your daughter's physical condition would improve. She would put on weight and gain nourishment, but we cannot promise to delay or reverse her severe mental decline."

You would never recover. You were trapped inside your own body, reliving hell over and over without release. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to live.

The hope they had in the feeding tube was a bust, and rather than put on weight, the feeding tube did nothing but put your already declining body in more discomfort. Your organs were failing slowly at first, but towards the end of your last week, the decline became rapid, and there was nothing left to do but put you on end of life care.

"I've notified her friends," the head nurse murmured, "they'll be on their way."

They placed you in a private room, away from the other patients who would only know a long, hollow life inside the facility, free to roam but never free to explore the edges of the earth. 

You were still sitting in a chair in the corner, and the only thing your mind could see was Eddie's dead body, which had become a permanent freeze-frame, burning itself into the screen of your eyelids.

"How is she?" Nancy asked your mom, her small, sharp face full of worry. "They say she's..." Nancy swallowed hard, "End of life now?"

Your mom nodded with her shoulders slumped under the weight of grief. She wanted you to die so you could be at peace, no longer suffering, but for you to die, her baby, would be the ultimate loss she'd never get over. 

"The feeding tube causes her more distress than it's worth, and her body started rejecting it... She's got no quality of life, Nancy, none."

Nancy reached out and held your cold, pale hand, her thumb gently stroking your knuckles. "H-How long does she have?" 

Tears filled your mother's eyes, and her lips quivered. "Not long, Nancy. She probably doesn't have another week in her."

Nancy hesitated for a moment, sharing a heavy glance with Steve and Robin, who stood hovering near the doorway.

Your mother noticed the sudden shift in the room's energy. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"A miracle... really," Nancy said, lowering her voice, "we can't describe o-or even figure out how this happened, but he isn't dead."

Your mother's eyes widened, and her eyebrows pulled together "What?" 

"Eddie is alive."

Eddie appeared in the doorway, covered in deep bruises and brutal scars. His hair was frazzled and stained with blood and a little longer than the night he 'died'.

"Oh my God," your mother gasped, covering her mouth, "This can't be possible."

"We were all hoping that he could give her a chance to fight through this, to come back." Robin spoke up from the corner of the room. 

Eddie felt exhausted, but the moment his eyes locked onto you, he wished he hadn't made it out at all. He closed in on you slowly and couldn't stop staring at you. You were almost completely unrecognisable. 

"Sweetheart?" Eddie called out, loud enough for you to hear, "It's me." He dropped to his knees beside your chair and he took your tiny hands in his.

Everyone in the room expected you to break out of your spell, confused, in disbelief or even totally relieved. They were hoping you would scream and jump out of your chair and into his arms, unable to control your anger for him taking so long to find his way back to you. 

Instead, you just stared through him, your pupils didn't dilate, your emaciated body didn't move. You couldn't see him right there in front of you, living and breathing. 

All you could see was the same freeze frame of his dead body and the blood. 

"Hey, it's me, Babe. Your man is back," Eddie whispered before reaching up with his dirt-coated hands, lightly trembling, as he cupped your hollow cheeks. "I'm alive. C'mon, princess."

Your parents, Steve, Robin and Nancy all watched with deep regret and building remorse for Eddie. Their hearts were shattering at the inevitable, and all they could do was watch as grief began to destroy another pure and soft soul.

Eddie grabbed your limp and cold hand, squeezing and kissing it before he pushed it against his chest, and holding it right over his heart. His heart was beating wildly against your hand, but you couldn't feel it. You wanted to, but you weren't there. 

"Please," he begged, a strangled sob escaping him, "Can't you feel it, baby?" The tears streamed down his face, washed clean tracks through the dirt and dried blood. 

The darkness had completely consumed you and you were too far gone to be reached. It was as if that night in the upside down, you were the one who died. Not Eddie.

Your mother couldn't take any more, and she quickly fled the room, taking your father with her. Nancy stared at you for a moment before following your parents, hoping to provide them with some sort of comfort or support.

Eddie crawled closer to you and placed a soft and desperate kiss against your forehead, and then against your dry and cracked lips. 

"Come back to me, sweetheart." He whispered, "I've just got back, I can't be here alone."

Steve closed in on Eddie and put a hand on Eddie's shoulder, "Munson," he sighed, "I'm sorry but she's gone, man." 

"But she can't be!" Eddie sobbed louder, pulling your fragile body out of the chair and into his arms, tucking you into his chest like a doll, "She's right here, she's here."

Eddie refused to let go, he refused for anyone to try and intervene and as he rocked back and forth, humming and singing your favourite songs from the floor, the colour in your eyes began to fade and your breathing slowed until it finally came to a stop.

Reblogging is a writers best friend :)

You found yourself wistfully staring out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man you were missing. You would catch the occasional glimpse of him stepping out to smoke, but never much more than that. Until Wednesday. 

You watched Steve’s car pull up to the trailer across the street, and part of your heart left with it after you watched Eddie get in the passenger seat. 

You should have been glad that he was still making an effort to get out there, should have been proud that he was working so hard. But you allowed the selfish voice in the back of your head to win, and chose to close your blinds so you wouldn’t be tempted to see him again. 

Time passed, but you were unsure of how long it had been. You lost track of the amount of times you had called home, unsure if you were hitting the daily quota or overshooting. You lost track of the amount of times Steve had come to your door, with or without a friend in tow. You had never answered anyway. 

The closest you had gotten to understanding how long it had been was when your manager called you again to ask when you would be coming back. Though he was less caring this time, much closer to the personality you were used to, he still agreed to give you another week off. 

You considered quitting. You weren’t sure how you were supposed to go back there. The fear of it happening again was intense, but what was worse was the ache in your heart knowing that it was no longer worth it.

Steve began to worry around day 3 of you not answering the door. The sound of your TV playing inside mixed with the fact that your car hadn’t seemed to move since he had dropped it off just assured him that you were going down an all too familiar road. By day 5 you had shuttered the windows, adding sunlight to the list of things you were depriving yourself of. 

You were second on the list of friends that Steve had taken it upon himself to buy groceries for. He held onto a lot of guilt from his late teens, guilt over things you would never believe if he were to tell you. And while neither you or Eddie’s fates were part of that long list, he still felt he could let just a little part of it go by being of help. And he figured it was a good use of the line of credit his dad had opened for him after he had graduated. 

He left a few non-perishables on your doorstep on Tuesday afternoon after knocking for a few minutes with no answer. When he dropped by to pick up Eddie the next day, at Eddie’s request, it was still there. He checked back for the next two days and tried to knock on the door again, but you still never answered. 

He considered using the spare key you had lent him. Each passing day, as the concern festered, he grew closer to breaking and entering. Deep down, he knew that it wouldn’t help. He knew that if any unwelcome guest were to step through that door, it had to be Eddie. Not only because he was the only person you’d want to see, which was only a suspicion on Steve’s part, but it was because he knew that Eddie had to be the one to help you just as you had helped him. 

When Steve would usually drop off groceries to Eddie, someone else would tag along. More often than not it was Dustin, the same boy who had spent weeks travelling to and from the hospital with Steve to reassure himself that Eddie was still breathing. He suspected they both still needed the reassurance, even long after he had been discharged. This week, Steve showed up alone. 

Eddie noticed the lack of sidekick the second he opened the door, but didn’t think much of it at first. It wasn’t until he realized that Steve had brought double the groceries, and saw the guilty smile, that he realized. 

“Don’t even ask, I’m not going over there.” 

“I didn’t even say anything,” Steve tried to defend. 

“So you’re not about to try to get me to bring half of these bags over to y/n?”

In lieu of a reply, Steve scrunched his face in preparation and slid the spare key across the counter towards Eddie. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Eddie, please-”

“No! I already told you I’m not talking to her anymore. It’s better for everyone.” 

“Everyone? Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem too great for her. She won’t answer the phone or her front door, and I don’t think she’s left her trailer since she talked to you.” 

“Doesn’t matter. Depressed is better than dead.” 

Eddie shut down the conversation by beginning to put his groceries away, but Steve had nothing more to say anyway. He couldn’t believe how callous Eddie was being, and he wasn’t having it. 

“Fine, be like that. But if you don’t get over yourself and go over there, she’s just gonna starve to death.” 

“Steve just go drop them off, it’s not that hard.” 

“It is actually. I tried already and she didn’t come to the door. I left some on her doorstep and they’re still sitting out there.” 

“So why don’t you use the key you just left on my counter?”

Steve considered explaining for a second, but he knew that no matter what he said, Eddie would have another excuse. This wasn’t a fight he could win. So instead, he left. 

“Bye Eddie,” he gave the other boy a harsh smile and walked out the door. Eddie called after him, even followed him out the door. But Steve was faster, and he had already put his car in reverse before Eddie could fully process the circumstance Steve had left him in. 

He let out a heavy frustrated sigh before heading back inside. He slammed his cupboards as he put his groceries away. If Wayne were there he would have complained that Eddie was going to break the hinges. 

He sat in his living room in complete silence for two hours. He tried to come up with another plan, some other way to keep the promise he had made to himself. He considered calling Robin, Nancy, Dustin or literally anyone else who would answer the phone. He knew Steve had probably beat him to the punch though. He considered knocking and leaving it on your doorstep, but if you hadn’t grabbed what Steve had left you, there was a slim chance you’d do it this time. 

Sure, he was worried sick about you. He was terrified that he had already ruined your life by putting you through whatever had happened that night. He worried that you shutting Steve out was just the beginning of the end. But he couldn’t convince himself that going over there would do either of you any good. 

He finally got off of the couch when he realized that the sun had gone down and not a single light had come on in your trailer. The thought of you sitting alone in the dark, shutting out the rest of the world, broke his heart more than he was able to deal with. 

He gathered the bags from his counter in one hand, and grabbed the spare key in the other. He had to take mental note of his breathing as he walked over, trying to convince himself that this was still a bad idea. Part of him had been craving seeing you again, but he hadn’t let it get very loud. He had been trying to gaslight himself into believing that he could be fine never seeing you again, never hearing your voice or being the reason you smile. 

He had to take a deep breath before he knocked, fist hovering in front of the door as he tried to gather a nonchalant composure. Four knocks sounded, then a pause. It was silent inside, not so much as a scurry towards the window to see who was at the door. Another four knocks, a little louder this time. Nothing. 

He checked over his shoulder to make sure your car had truly been there the entire time, that you weren’t just out of the house. Sure enough, it was parked exactly where Steve had left it over a week ago. Leaves had gathered on the hood and around the tires, piles not quite as large as the ones around Eddie’s van, but they were getting close to competing. 

Four more knocks, this time as hard as his fist would allow before injury. He sighed when there was no response. Using the key without your permission felt like a violation of trust or privacy or both. But he didn’t have another option, and he was finally beginning to admit to himself that he was concerned for you. 

He clumsily unlocked and opened the door, trying to juggle the heavy grocery bags between hands to get it open. 

“Don’t shoot, it’s just me,” He called out, wincing at how stupid he sounded. Even if you knew who was entering your home, he was probably pretty low on the list of people you would want it to be. 

His stomach sank when there was no response. No annoyed voice telling him to go away. No getting out of bed to scold him for disturbing your sleep. Nothing. 

“Y/n?” He called out again to the dark and seemingly empty trailer. The echo off of the walls felt like adding insult to injury. He stepped inside and tried to look around, but it was pitch black. He did his best to feel his way to your kitchen counter and set down the groceries, before he felt along the walls to turn on the light. 

He finally let out a sigh of relief when the room lit up, revealing your sleeping body on the couch. You were covered with a couple blankets, hair lightly matted and on full display with your face nearly smushed against the back rest. He called your name one more time, a bit louder now that the front door was closed and it felt like no one else could hear him. You didn’t so much as stir. His instinct to stay away from you was superseded by the new fear that your unresponsiveness was causing.

“Y/n,” he pleaded as he kneeled down to shake you. When you didn’t move, he felt that his own life was flashing before his eyes. He suddenly felt like an idiot for fighting Steve on coming over here. He tried again, more urgent this time, calling your name and guiding your shoulder back so your face would turn to him. 

Finally, you left out a soft moan. If the room hadn’t been completely silent he may have missed it, but he had been desperately searching for any sign of life. 

“Hey, come on, wake up,” he shook you one more time before gently tapping your cheeks. They were burning up. 

“Go away Steve,” you groaned quietly, trying to turn back away from him to face the couch again. Your eyes never opened. 

“Not Steve. Turn back to me Sweetheart.” He gently guided you to lay on your back, and rested a wrist on your forehead. “Jesus Christ, you’re burning up.” 

“Eddie?” Your eyes finally cracked open, squinting in an attempt to adjust to the light that you couldn’t remember turning on. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” he hated the awkward tension that he had created, but you didn’t seem to be feeling it at all. In fact, you seemed to barely be aware of anything at all.

“I don’t feel good,” you whined, squeezing your eyes shut again to hide from the light and the splitting headache it was giving you. He could hear the hoarseness of your voice this time. 

He hated to admit that he was relieved. You may have been miserable, but for a second he had felt the fear that he would have turned your body over just to realize it was lifeless. Anything was better than that. 

“You have a pretty high fever. Have you taken anything for it?” 

You only groaned in response. He tried to stir you awake again, but you just groaned louder. He took it upon himself to check your medicine cabinets in search of tylenol, and possibly a thermometer. He returned to wake you again after he had successfully found both and filled a cup of water for you. 

“Open your mouth,” he instructed, hovering over you in wait. He had to be sure your fever wasn’t high enough to need to go to the ER. 

“‘M not hungry,” you mumbled, face pressed firmly against the arm rest of the couch. 

“No, come on,” he chuckled as he guided your chin towards him and placed the thermometer under your tongue. He had to keep an eye on you to make sure you didn’t try to swallow it. 

“102,” he sighed as he took the probe from your mouth, “You gotta take some pills for me, Ok?” 

You moaned in reply yet again, but he wasn’t going to relent. He helped you sit up and guided you to take a drink to swallow the pills he had found for you. “How about we get you to bed?” 

You nodded with a little pout, and it nearly melted his heart. He considered just scooping you up to carry you to your bedroom, but the narrow hallway was just asking for a harsh bonk to your head. He helped you to your feet, wrapped your blanket around your shoulders, and led you down the hall. You collapsed into the bed the second it was in front of you, and he let out an audible laugh. 

“Ok, no, come on,” he took the blanket from you despite your weak protest. He then brought the comforter to lay properly over you, and made sure your head was laying on a pillow. He guided your chin to look at him one last time, pleading with you to open your eyes for just a moment. 

“I’m going to stay on the couch ok? And I’m going to have Steve bring you a few things. If you need anything you just yell or come right out there. Ok?” 

You smiled at him and nodded, but quickly turned your head and fell right back asleep. 

Eddie made his way back out to your living room and towards your phone. He knew he was owed an earful from Steve. All that effort avoiding you just to have him staying on your couch nursing you back to health. But he promised himself that the second you were better, he was going to go right back to keeping his distance. 

“Hey, it’s me,” Eddie sighed when Steve finally answered the phone. 

“Calling me isn’t going to change my mind. You better go over there, Munson.” 

“Yeah, actually that's the thing. I’m over here right now and she’s sicker than a dog. I took her temperature and it’s just over 102, and she's like barely able to form a sentence. Any chance you could bring her some like Nyquil, tissues, soup, that kind of shit?” 

“Yeah,” he could hear Steve’s shit eating grin even through the phone, “You still going to be over there in like an hour? I’ll just drop by.” 

“Yeah, I’ll be here. But I just wanna make it clear, Steve, I’m only staying here because she’s knocking on death’s door. The second she’s feeling better, she’s your responsibility again.” 

“Whatever, Munson. See you in an hour.” 

Eddie waited in your trailer for a full hour, anxiety only rising as Steve's appearance grew nearer. He was worried he would knock too loud and wake you. As he was actively trying to listen for Steve’s car so he could beat him to the door, he heard you shuffle out of bed. He turned his attention towards your bedroom for a second, just in time to see you run into the bathroom. Eddie didn’t consider himself squeamish, but the sounds of you violently vomiting nearly had him doing the same. Though his stomach had already been in knots before you woke. 

He rushed to the bathroom after you, quick to grab your hair and clear it from your face. You didn’t look back at who was there beside you, just let the reassuring strokes of his hand on your back do all the talking. You let out a little broken sob between heaves and Eddie had to steel himself to not gather you up in his arms. 

“It’s ok, sweetheart,” he whispered as he guided you to sit back against the cold tile of your bath. You were barely dry heaving now. “Stay here.” 

He grabbed a clean hand towel and rushed to run it under cold water. He turned back to you and rested the damp cloth over your forehead. 

“Feeling any better?” 

You were back to moaning in response, still evidently miserable. Before Eddie could try to rouse a single word from you, the knock he had been expecting sounded at the front door. 

“Stay right here, ok?” He waited a second for you to acknowledge him, thumb mindlessly wiping a few drops of water that had made their way down your temples. You continued to not recognize that he had even spoken, so he stepped out of the room to let Steve in. 

Steve could both hear and see the distress pouring out of Eddie. In any other circumstance he would do his best to reassure him, but this time he tried not to smile. He gained amusement from seeing Eddie so worried about you despite his insistence that you were better off without him, and he supposed he deserved it after what he was putting you through. 

“I’m going to go help her back to bed, you can just leave that all on the counter.” 

“Sure you don’t want me to do it?” Steve tried to hide his devious smirk. 

“Oh, sure,” Eddie’s brow furrowed only for a second, unable to come up with an excuse to be the one to help you.

Steve tried not to laugh as he left Eddie to be the one to pull your groceries out of the bag. His smile only fell when his eyes landed on you, curled into yourself and barely holding yourself upright against the tub. 

“Hey,” he kneeled down and grabbed your hands from your sides, “Lets get you up.” 

You didn’t respond, but you followed his guiding movements and stood. He did his best to keep you upright as you made your way back to the bed. He tucked you in, a little more haphazardly than Eddie had, but you were still out before he left the room. 

“Damn, you were right,” Steve sounded nearly as stressed as Eddie now, “She really is on her deathbed in there.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie paused, not knowing how to address the elephant in the room. This wasn’t the first time he had insisted you stay away from each other, especially to Steve. He was starting to feel like the boy who cried wolf. He hated to admit that he himself was starting to lose faith that he was capable of staying away. But how much you mattered to him, how much he cared about your wellbeing, that was exactly why you needed the distance. 

“When’s the last time you slept?” Steve asked, entering the kitchen to finish putting away groceries with Eddie. You were going to have a field day reorganizing your cupboards when you felt better. 

“I’m fine.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“Why does it matter?” Eddie shot around to face Steve, tired of being on the receiving end of his criticism. 

“I’m just trying to check in on you. You look exhausted.”

“Yeah well I just had to listen to her puke her guts out and I kind of thought she was dead when I walked in, so excuse me for being a little stressed.” 

“Ok, Jesus.” 

“You should go.”

“Eddie-”

“No, Harrington. I… I just need to know she’s ok. I know I’m being selfish and I know I’m a fucking idiot. I don’t need to hear it from anyone else,” Eddie nearly exploded, but he was still able to keep his voice to a minimum to avoid waking you. 

“I never said you were an idiot.” 

“Yeah, well you didn’t have to,” he sighed in defeat. He walked back to the living room and slumped onto the couch, too ashamed to return Steve’s burning gaze.. 

“I just don’t get why you’re doing this to yourself. Sure, I disagree with your entire thought process here, but if you’re going to insist on not being around her, why are you here?”

“Like I said, I just need to make sure she’s ok.” 

“You haven’t had any problem with making that my responsibility so far. So why is it yours now?” 

He knew the answer, he just needed Eddie to admit it to himself.  

“I don’t know. Maybe I should just go,” he groaned and rubbed a stressed hand down his face. 

“That’s not the answer anyone is looking for. I know she wants you here, and you sure as Hell wanna be here too. I just don’t understand why you can’t just let it happen.” 

“And I don’t know how else to explain it.” 

“Fine, whatever. I’ve had a long day, I’m going home. Just… make sure she doesn’t like aspirate in her sleep or whatever.”

“Is that something I actually need to worry about?” Eddie’s eyes shot up to him, but Steve didn’t reply. 

He sat on your couch for half an hour in complete silence yet again. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with himself. He considered turning on the television for some much needed distraction, but he worried the noise would disturb you. After another twenty minutes of sanitizing surfaces in your living room and rummaging around in search of a spare blanket, he finally gave in. He lowered the volume as much as he could while still keeping it audible, knowing full well there was no way he was going to be able to sleep in the silence. He was already going to be struggling with being in a foreign room, especially knowing that someone else was just down the hall. 

He stared at the ceiling with the lights shut off, trying to convince himself he was safe. It wasn’t this hard to fall asleep last time. It had nearly been an accident, with you on the other end of the couch, curled up with your feet nearly touching his. It had been one of the first times that he had felt that safe around another person since he had become the Devil of Hawkins. How he felt now was a stark contrast. 

He was too caught up in thinking about that night to hear you stir awake. You found the blanket that had been wrapped around you earlier that day, discarded at the foot of the bed, and swaddled yourself in it again. You heard the TV in the living room, and couldn’t remember having turned it on, but your memory had been foggy for a day or two. 

The second you had felt the tickle in your throat, you knew this would happen. Sure enough, by the next day, the fever had already begun to set in. You called home to let your mother know you were ill, she understood how scatterbrained you were about to become. You were grateful to be temporarily relieved of your duty to report back home, even considered faking this more often just to have a few days of normalcy. 

Your head felt like it had been bashed into a wall, your sinuses were barely open, and your throat felt raw. The rest of your body was afflicted by a dull ache, barely noticeable in moments and hard to ignore in others. You made a mental note that you needed to check your medicine cabinet for some pills, unsure if you had restocked before last week. 

The last thing you were expecting was the figure on your couch. You let out a gravelly scream, which only made your throat burn worse, but you weren’t focused on the pain. You shot a hand out to turn the light on, hoping that this was just another cruel trick from your imagination. What you weren’t expecting was Eddie, sitting up on his forearms, wide eyed. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, giving you a confused once over. 

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” You didn’t sound mad, just confused, maybe a little bit concerned. “I told you I would be out here,” he furrowed his brow, thinking back to the way your hazy eyes had acknowledged him before drifting off to sleep. 

“What? No you absolutely did not.” 

“Yeah, I did. Right after I helped you to bed. Not long before you puked your guts out in the bathroom.” 

You tried to think back. You didn’t remember getting into bed, the only foggy memory of the day was puking. You remembered how it burned your already raw throat. But you couldn’t remember anyone else being there, you were barely there. 

“Sorry, I don’t remember,” you sniffled, discomfort suddenly hitting you like a bus again, “I get like that when I have a fever sometimes.” 

“Amnesic?” 

“Little bit,” you shrugged, trying to avoid looking in his direction. You couldn’t even begin to imagine why he was there. One of the last things you did remember was being heartbroken over him no longer wanting to be near you. 

In your effort to avoid him, you noticed all the items still resting on your counter. “What are those?” 

“Groceries from Steve. He brought some extra stuff to help you feel better.” 

“Did he happen to bring anything that will make this headache go away?” 

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t take any. I gave you some not that long ago, you aren’t due for more for like another,” he drew out the syllable as he craned his neck to check the clock in your kitchen, “2 hours. Sorry.” 

“Sorry, I don’t remember taking it.” 

“You know, you gotta be careful with that stuff. Might be over the counter, but you can still overdose on that shit.” 

“Trust me, I’m well aware,” there was a pregnant pause in conversation as he stared at you with sad knowing eyes, “Eddie, what are you doing here?” 

He sighed, unsure of what he was supposed to say. “You wouldn’t answer the door for Steve, so he thought I’d have better luck I guess.” 

“And why have you set up camp on my couch?”

“I wanted to make sure you were ok. You weren’t exactly coherent when I got here.” 

“I thought you weren’t going to come around anymore.” 

He didn’t think your voice could hold any more discomfort, didn’t think it had the capacity to sound any more strained. But that sentence sounded like you were speaking around shards, tearing you apart from the inside out. If he hadn’t already been consumed by guilt, that would have got him. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” He looked like a kicked puppy. It wasn’t fair how much your heart wanted you to cross the room to comfort him. 

“How did you even get in? I’ve checked the lock on that door maybe 100 times this week.” 

He reached into his pocket and shamefully pulled out the spare key to present to you. You rolled your eyes and finally crossed the room, just to snatch it out of his hand.

“I’ll take that back.” 

“I’m sorry. We were just really worried about you.” 

“Ok,” that was all you had the energy to say. Fighting was hard for you to do on a good day. All of the things you’d like to say would get caught in your throat and replaced by a polite little statement tied up all pretty in a bow. No one could properly tell you were angry until you hit an exploding point. You felt yourself nearing it, but the ache in your bones wouldn’t let you combust. 

Eddie found no solace in your quiet discomfort. He was used to the explosion. Not just with words, but with throwing objects and fists. Passive aggression was a foreign concept to him, and it felt worse than any physical damage you could have dealt him. 

“Do you want me to leave?” He was hesitant to ask, unsure if he should even give you the option. 

“Kind of,” you answered quickly, standing near the front door now. You couldn’t bring yourself to face him again, to see the surprise written plainly on his face. The last thing he had expected was for you to exile him so easily. 

“Oh… Yeah ok. I’m sorry,” he quickly got off the couch, “Uhm, there’s a bunch of groceries in the fridge and in your cupboards. I left all the stuff you’d probably need right away on the counter though.” 

“I’ve got it, Eddie.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? Just to make sure you stay on schedule with your medicine?” 

“I think I can handle it.”

You sounded cold, calloused, and he hated it. He had done this to himself, he should have felt relieved that you seemed to be fine without him. But as much as he would insist that this was what he wanted, it was never what he truly desired.

“Just… Will you please just let Steve keep an eye on you?”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” 

“Right,” he smiled nervously, “You do need community though. Locking yourself away like this isn’t going to do you any good.” 

“Look who’s talking.” 

“Y/n-”

“No, Eddie, I’m tired of you preaching to me how I need to handle myself when you can’t seem to do the same. I really don’t need the advice from someone who apparently no longer has any interest in being in my life anyway.”

He stood in shock for a moment, not used to hearing your tone so mean. He understood your anger, and he felt he deserved it, but it was just a shock to hear anything but your sweet voice leave your lips. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll stay out of your hair from now on.” 

The second he walked through the front door, you both paused on opposite sides. You couldn’t help the loud sob from escaping you, it had been clawing its way up your throat for the entire conversation, begging to be known. Eddie could hear it from his place on your doorstep. He considered turning around, bursting through the door to apologize and hold you. He wanted to take back everything he had said, everything he had done.

Leaving your trailer, he knew one thing. He had to decide if he had been wrong the whole time.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait, I had a lot of shit going on and really needed the break! 3 parts left after this and I am hoping to keep to the weekly schedule again!

Tags:

You were always the one who gave people way more credit than they ever deserved. Not because you’re naive, but because you truly saw the good in absolutely everyone. 

Time and time again, you’d meet someone new, overlook every warning sign, excuse every bad decision, and convince yourself there was something underneath it all worth sticking around for.

That maybe they were just having a hard time. Maybe nobody had ever been patient with them before. Maybe all they needed was one person to believe in them.

And every single time, they proved you wrong.

Friends forgot about you the second something better came along. Partners made promises they had no intention of keeping. Family members disappointed you in ways that eventually stopped surprising you. It became a quiet sort of routine, collecting little heartbreaks until they stacked so high you almost expected them.

Still, you never seemed to learn. You'd swear this time was different. This person was different. They wouldn't leave. They wouldn't lie. They wouldn't make you regret trusting them.

Then they always did.

Your mother used to tell you that one day you'd have to stop looking for the best in people and start believing them when they showed you who they were.

You hated hearing it growing up; it sounded cynical and bitter. 

Now, years later, you wondered if she'd simply been trying to spare you. The funny thing was, you convinced yourself that you were used to it. 

You told yourself the disappointment didn't sting as much anymore. That you'd learned to expect it. That every broken promise and every person who drifted away had built up some invisible armor around your heart. It was easier that way.

If you expected people to leave, then they couldn't really surprise you when they did. If you kept your expectations low enough, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much when someone forgot your birthday, stopped returning your calls, or looked right through you like you'd never mattered all that much to begin with.

You got very good at pretending those things didn't bother you. You'd laugh them off, shrug your shoulders, and tell anyone who asked that it wasn't a big deal, that everyone has their own lives, and nobody owes you anything.

But every now and then, usually late at night when there wasn't anything left to distract you, you'd wonder why it always seemed to happen to you.

What was so fundamentally wrong with you that everyone else found it so easy to walk away?

By morning, though, you'd bury the thought somewhere deep enough that even you couldn't find it anymore. Then you'd wake up and give someone else the benefit of the doubt.

God, you wanted it to be Eddie Munson so bad.

Wanted him to be the exception. Wanted him to be the one person who proved every disappointment before him wrong.

It wasn't supposed to happen, honestly. If someone had told you a year ago that you'd end up falling in love with Eddie Munson, you probably would've laughed in their face. Not because there was anything wrong with him, but because Eddie had a way of keeping people at arm's length.

He made a joke out of everything, turned every serious conversation into a bit, and acted like nothing in the world could ever really touch him.

Most people stopped there, but you didn't.

You noticed how he always made sure everyone got home safely after a Hellfire campaign. The way he'd hand over his last cigarette without hesitation. The way he'd remember tiny, insignificant details about people and bring them up weeks later like they mattered.

Like they mattered. Like they mattered to him. And maybe that was what did it. Not some grand gesture or some dramatic declaration.

Just a hundred small moments that slowly convinced you that beneath all the noise, beneath the sarcasm and the theatrics and the reputation everyone loved to throw in his face, there was someone unbelievably good. Someone worth believing in.

So you did, and you believed in him with your whole heart.

Even when your friends warned you not to get too attached. Even when every instinct told you that caring this much about another person was dangerous. Even when a small voice in the back of your mind reminded you how every story like this had ended before.

Because this was Eddie. And God, you wanted it to be Eddie so goddamn bad.

It started small, one day while you were waiting outside of the drama room for Hellfire to end so you could bring Dustin home.

Eddie and Dustin came out last; Eddie's arm slung lazily around Dustin's shoulders while the younger boy looked up at him with the biggest grin you'd ever seen, talking so fast his words practically tripped over each other.

Eddie was listening. Not the distracted kind of listening where someone nods along until it's their turn to speak, but genuinely listening. Laughing in all the right places, asking questions, giving Dustin his full attention like there wasn't anywhere else in the world he'd rather be.

You remembered how upset Dustin had been when he and Steve started to drift apart. Something about Steve caring "more about women" and "breaking bro code," delivered with all the dramatics only a fourteen-year-old could manage.

You'd smiled and comforted him at the time, told him people got busy and that it probably wasn't as personal as he thought.

But watching Eddie now, ruffling Dustin's curls just to annoy him before immediately apologizing with a crooked grin when Dustin swatted his hand away, you realized Steve had left behind something Eddie had picked up without anyone asking him to.

You fully expected him to peel away from Dustin with a quick goodbye and disappear into the crowded hallway with the rest of the students.

Instead, he nudged Dustin forward with a light shove and wandered over to where you were leaning against the wall like he'd been planning to the entire time.

"You ever finish that book?"

You blinked. "What?"

"The one you wouldn't shut up about in English." He pointed at you accusingly. "The one with the... existential crisis or whatever."

You stared at him for a second before laughing. "You mean The Stranger?"

"That's the one."

"I finished it weeks ago."

"And?"

"And it was good."

He scrunched his nose. "That's it? You spent ten minutes arguing with Mrs. O'Donnell about symbolism and your review is 'it was good?'"

You couldn't help smiling. "I'm trying to avoid spoiling it."

"For me?"

"You were listening?"

He looked almost offended. "'Course I was listening." The words shouldn't have lodged themselves in your chest the way they did.

It had been weeks. One offhand discussion in a class Eddie barely seemed awake for half the time, and somehow he'd remembered not only the conversation but the specific book you'd been talking about.

It was such a stupid little thing. But nobody ever remembered the little things about you. And somehow, Eddie Munson did.

As the weeks went on, you suddenly became much more interested in waiting in the hallway for Dustin instead of the parking lot like you normally would. You told yourself it was because it was warmer inside.

Because sometimes he took forever to pack up. Because it saved him from having to look around for you.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Eddie Munson inevitably came walking out of the drama room a few minutes later. Absolutely nothing.

Somehow, the conversations became expected.

He'd see you leaning against the lockers and make a beeline over with that same lazy smile, asking about your classes or complaining about a teacher or launching into some dramatic retelling of Gareth doing something stupid during Hellfire.

And every single time he talked to you, it was like the rest of the hallway ceased to exist. He looked at you. Not over your shoulder. Not around the room. Not scanning for someone more interesting to interrupt the conversation.

When you made a joke, he'd laugh without hesitation, his whole face lighting up like he'd genuinely found it funny instead of politely humoring you.

Sometimes he'd laugh so hard he'd have to look down and shake his head before looking back up at you with that stupid grin that was becoming increasingly difficult to stop thinking about.

The first time he held eye contact for so long that you had to glance away first, he just smiled wider. It made your stomach do something embarrassing.

By the time Dustin finally wandered over with his backpack half-open and a handful of dice threatening to spill onto the floor, Eddie would always clap him on the shoulder, throw you a casual, "See you tomorrow," and head off toward the parking lot, like he already knew there'd be a tomorrow.

One afternoon, after Eddie disappeared through the front doors, Dustin buckled himself into the passenger seat with a look on his face that immediately made you suspicious. "What?"

He didn't answer; he just looked at you.

"What?" you repeated.

A grin slowly spread across his face. "Oh, my God."

"What?"

"He likes you."

You nearly missed the key trying to start the car. "Dustin."

"He does."

"He absolutely does not."

"He asked me if you had a boyfriend."

You turned so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. "He what?"

Dustin shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"We were at lunch yesterday. Just me and Mike. He sat down and was acting all weird, and then he goes, 'So... your sister seeing anybody?'"

Your face immediately warmed.

"And what," you asked carefully, "did you say?"

"I told him no."

"Dustin."

"What? It's true."

"Dustin."

He looked over with the most smug expression you'd ever seen on a fourteen-year-old.

"Then he goes, 'Huh.'"

"Huh?"

"Just 'huh.'" Dustin mimicked him with a terrible impression. "'Just curious.'"

You stared straight ahead at the windshield, trying very hard to pretend your heart wasn't threatening to beat its way out of your chest. Beside you, Dustin snorted.

"I can literally hear you smiling."

"I'm not smiling."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You totally have a crush on Eddie."

You finally looked over at him. “Shut up.”

His grin was so wide you could’ve worn his eyes would pop out of their sockets. “Never.”

The first time Eddie approached you when Dustin wasn't anywhere in sight, you were halfway convinced he had the wrong person.

You were standing at your locker, trying to force an algebra textbook that absolutely did not fit into a space that absolutely wasn't big enough, when a familiar voice sounded beside you.

"So."

You looked over to find Eddie leaning against the neighboring locker with his arms folded across his chest, rocking back on his heels with an almost suspicious amount of casualness.

"So?" you echoed.

"So..." He scratched the back of his neck. "You busy tonight?"

You blinked. "Tonight?"

He nodded once. Your brain, completely abandoning you, decided to stop functioning. 

"No?" It came out sounding far more like a question than an answer.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No?"

"No," you repeated quickly. "No, I'm not."

He nodded to himself like he'd just confirmed a theory. "Cool."

You waited for him to elaborate; he didn't. Instead, he looked down at the floor, nudged the toe of his sneaker against the tile once, then looked back up at you.

"Meet me at the Hideout."

Your heart skipped so hard it was almost painful. "The Hideout?"

"Mhm."

"When?"

"Eight."

You stared at him for another second. "Why?"

His smile widened into something almost boyish. "If I tell you, it'll ruin the surprise."

"Eddie."

"C'mon."

"What if it's something weird?"

"It is something weird."

"That is not reassuring."

He laughed, a quiet one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "I promise it's a good weird."

You narrowed your eyes. "I don't know..."

He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "You wound me."

"I don't even know if this is a date."

His eyebrows shot up for the briefest moment before he covered it with another crooked grin. "I didn't say it was."

"You also didn't say it wasn't."

He took a tiny step backward, already beginning to walk away. "Eight o'clock."

"Eddie."

"No excuses."

"What am I even supposed to wear?"

He glanced back over his shoulder. "You'll look pretty no matter what."

And then, before your brain could catch up enough to formulate any kind of response, he turned and disappeared into the sea of students.

You stood frozen in front of your locker for another thirty seconds. When you finally managed to move, you shut it without grabbing a single one of the books you'd opened it for.

By seven-thirty, you had somehow managed to convince yourself not to go. By seven-thirty-five, you had changed your outfit again. By seven-forty-five, you were sitting in your car with both hands gripping the steering wheel, wondering if there was still enough time to fake a flat tire. By seven-fifty, you were pulling into the Hideout parking lot.

The building looked exactly the same as it always did, all faded neon and cigarette smoke drifting out every time someone opened the front door, yet somehow it felt entirely different. Your palms were sweating.

You caught your reflection in the rearview mirror for what had to be the twentieth time before taking a deep breath and climbing out. The second you stepped inside, Eddie looked up.

He'd been halfway through saying something to Gareth at the bar, but the moment he saw you, he stopped in the middle of his sentence and broke into a smile so genuine it almost made you forget how to walk.

"There she is."

He excused himself without another word and crossed the room toward you. "You came."

"You told me to."

"I was hoping you would."

There was something about the way he looked at you that made it impossible to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds.

Every time your eyes drifted away, you'd find him already looking back, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"You look..." He paused for a second, looking you over just enough to make your heart start racing. "Really pretty."

You laughed nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I almost didn't come."

"I'm really glad you did." The words came so naturally that you almost didn't know what to do with them.

He led you over to a quieter booth tucked against the wall, waving off a couple of people who called his name along the way.

Every conversation seemed to circle back to you somehow: your classes, your favorite music, what you wanted to do after graduation, stories from when you and Dustin were kids.

And every answer you gave was met with complete attention. No scanning the room. No waiting for his turn to talk. Just Eddie, chin resting against his hand, looking at you like every sentence was worth hearing.

At one point, you made some stupid self-deprecating joke under your breath.

He frowned. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Talk about yourself like that."

You blinked. "I was kidding."

"I know." His expression softened. "I just don't think it's true."

The conversation moved on, but you couldn't. You were still thinking about it ten minutes later.

By the time the waitress came by with another round of drinks, Eddie had somehow managed to compliment your laugh, tell you your taste in music was "criminally underrated," insist you had "the prettiest eyes in Hawkins," and inform you that your opinions on horror movies were objectively correct.

"You know," you finally said with a suspicious smile, "you're awfully complimentary tonight."

He looked entirely unapologetic. "Should I stop?"

"...No."

"No?"

"No."

"Good." He grinned. "Because I wasn't planning on it."

You laughed again, shaking your head. He watched you for a second before reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a pen.

"So."

"So?"

"You got a phone?"

You looked at him like he'd grown another head. "...Yes?"

"Good." He held the pen out toward you. "Need your number."

"My number?"

"Mhm."

"What for?"

He gave you the most incredulous look imaginable. "So I can call you."

"You could just ask Dustin where I live."

"I could."

He leaned a little closer across the table, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip. "But I'd rather have an excuse to hear your voice."

You could actually feel your pulse in your fingertips. Without another word, you reached over, took the pen from his hand, and scribbled your number across the back of a paper napkin.

He looked down at it, smiled to himself, and folded it with surprising care before tucking it safely into his wallet, like it was something worth keeping.

The drive home felt shorter than it ever had before.

You caught yourself smiling at a red light for absolutely no reason, quickly looking around to make sure no one in the car next to you had noticed before realizing there wasn't even another car there.

Every few miles, you'd replay another little piece of the night. The way he'd looked at you the second you walked in. The way he'd leaned across the table to hear you better, even though the music wasn't all that loud.

The ridiculous amount of compliments he'd managed to slip into completely normal conversations without making them sound rehearsed.

The napkin folded neatly into his wallet. God.

You actually had to grip the steering wheel a little tighter just to stop yourself from smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

By the time you pulled into your driveway, your face genuinely ached. You sat there for another minute with the engine still running, staring at nothing in particular and laughing quietly to yourself like a complete idiot.

It felt embarrassing. It felt juvenile. It felt like every cheesy romance novel you'd ever secretly read under the covers with a flashlight. And for the first time in a long time, it felt nice.

You'd barely made it through the front door before your mother called from the kitchen to ask how your night had been.

"It was good," you answered, hoping she couldn't hear the grin in your voice.

"Just good?"

You kicked your shoes off by the door, trying very hard to sound casual. "Yeah. Good."

She peeked around the corner, took one look at your face, and smiled to herself. You immediately looked away.

After a quick shower and far too much time standing in front of the bathroom mirror replaying every second of the night, you finally crawled into bed, still fully convinced you were making the whole thing up in your head.

Maybe Eddie was just naturally nice. Maybe he complimented everybody. Maybe asking for your number hadn't actually meant anything at all.

You'd just reached over to switch off your bedside lamp when the phone rang. The sound startled you enough that you nearly knocked the thing onto the floor trying to answer it.

"Hello?"

A familiar laugh came through the receiver. "Hey."

Your stomach immediately betrayed you. "...Hi."

"I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No."

"Good."

Then Eddie cleared his throat. "I just wanted to make sure you got home okay."

You smiled before you could stop yourself. "I did."

"Good."

He could have ended the conversation right there. Instead, he asked what you were doing tomorrow. You asked what he and the guys had planned for Hellfire next week.

He somehow ended up telling you a fifteen-minute story about Gareth locking his keys in the van, which spiraled into another story about Wayne accidentally setting off the smoke detector while trying to make grilled cheese, which somehow became a debate over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. You found out your birthdays were only days apart. 

You couldn't remember the last time a conversation had felt so easy. There were no awkward silences to force your way through. No pressure to say the perfect thing. No moments where you felt like you had to perform some better version of yourself. You could just exist.

And somehow, Eddie seemed to like that version best. At one point you laughed so hard you had to pull the phone away from your ear, and through your own laughter you could hear him laughing too.

When the conversation finally lulled again, you glanced over at the digital clock on your nightstand.

1:43 a.m.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"We've been talking for..." You looked again. "Almost four hours."

There was a brief silence, then Eddie chuckled quietly. "Huh."

"Huh?"

"I didn't even notice." Neither had you.

"I should probably let you sleep."

"...Probably."

"But I don't really want to."

You tucked your knees up against your chest beneath the blankets. "I don't really want you to, either."

The line went quiet again. You could hear him breathing. Then, softly enough that you almost thought you'd imagined it, "I'm really glad you came tonight."

You closed your eyes. "I'm really glad you asked."

When you finally hung up twenty minutes later, you set the receiver back into its cradle with more care than necessary and just sat there for a moment in the dark. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

As you rolled over and pulled the blankets up to your chin, one thought drifted lazily through your mind before sleep claimed you. Maybe your mother had been wrong, maybe there really was someone worth believing in after all.

After that, it was almost impossible to remember a time when Eddie wasn't somehow part of your day. Sometimes he'd call before school just because he'd been up since six and was "bored out of his fucking mind."

Sometimes the phone would ring at eleven-thirty at night, and before you could even say hello, he'd say, "Hypothetically speaking, if a raccoon learned how to drive, do you think it'd obey traffic laws?" and the conversation would somehow last until nearly three in the morning.

He'd call just to tell you he heard a song that reminded him of you. He'd call because Wayne had made chili and insisted on putting cinnamon in it. He'd call because he wanted to know what you thought happened after people died. He'd call because he missed your voice.

He never actually said that last one. But sometimes he'd let the silence linger for so long that you knew.

The dates weren't really dates. At least, neither of you called them that. He'd show up outside your house with no plan whatsoever, and somehow the two of you would end up spending five hours together anyway.

He'd take you to the record store and spend twice as long watching you flip through albums as he did looking for anything himself.

You'd sit on the hood of his van in abandoned parking lots, sharing gas station snacks while he pointed out made-up constellations with complete confidence until you laughed so hard he couldn't keep the lie going anymore.

Once he drove for 30 minutes because you mentioned wanting to try a milkshake from some tiny roadside diner you'd seen in passing weeks earlier.

Another afternoon, you wandered around a thrift store with exactly four dollars between you, leaving with a hideous ceramic frog and an ugly orange sweater because Eddie insisted they had "character."

He made you try the sweater on. Then proceeded to spend the next ten minutes telling you that orange might actually be his favorite color now. You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck while he just grinned.

Sometimes he'd come over just to sit on your porch steps. No music. No television. No plans.

The two of you would just sit there talking until the sun disappeared and the mosquitoes forced you inside. Every now and then, the conversation would run dry, and you'd apologize.

Eddie always looked confused. "For what?"

"I don't know... not saying anything."

He'd just shrug. "I like hanging out with you."

"...Even when we're not doing anything?"

He'd look at you like you'd asked the dumbest question in the world. "Especially then."

And slowly, so slowly you almost didn't notice it happening, Eddie became your first thought in the morning and your last thought before bed.

You'd catch yourself reaching for the phone to tell him something insignificant before realizing you hadn't even finished thinking it yourself.

You started noticing songs because he'd like them. Funny stories because you couldn't wait to hear him laugh. You started looking for him in every hallway without meaning to. The terrifying part wasn't that you were falling in love with Eddie Munson; the terrifying part was that it felt so natural.

When Eddie asked if you wanted to get dinner Friday night, you didn't even try to hide your smile. "Like... dinner dinner?"

He laughed through the phone. "Last I checked, yeah."

"What if I wanted breakfast?"

"Then you're about nine hours too late." You could practically hear him grinning, "I'll pick you up at seven?"

You tucked the phone closer against your ear. "Seven sounds perfect."

You spent half the next day thinking about it. The other half was spent trying very hard not to think about it.

By lunchtime, Robin had already asked you why you looked so distracted, and Dustin had spent an embarrassingly long amount of time making kissy faces every time your name and Eddie's ended up in the same sentence.

By five-thirty, you'd already changed twice. At six-fifteen, the phone rang.

You answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"...Hey." His voice sounded different. Not bad, but just quieter. "So... listen."

You sat down on the edge of your bed without realizing it.

"I was thinking."

"Dangerous."

Usually he'd laugh; this time he just let out a small breath. "Can you come over instead?"

You frowned. "What about dinner?"

"I know." Another pause. "I just... I think we should talk first."

Your stomach sank so suddenly that you almost felt it physically. "...Okay."

"I don't want you freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out." You were absolutely freaking out.

"I just wanna talk."

"Okay."

"I'll see you in a bit?"

"...Yeah."

When you pulled into the trailer park twenty minutes later, Eddie was already sitting outside on the steps. He stood when he saw you, smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

For a long minute, neither of you spoke. He rubbed his hands together, then looked down at them.

"So..."

You tried to smile. "So."

He exhaled through his nose. "I've been thinking a lot lately."

Your heart was beating so loudly you wondered if he could hear it.

"And I..." He stopped himself, trying again. "You're leaving next year."

It took you a second to understand what he meant. "For college."

"Yeah."

"I'm only going an hour away."

"I know."

"I can come back whenever."

"I know."

He stared out toward the road. "I just don't think I'm looking for anything serious right now."

You felt something inside your chest quietly crack.

You nodded before he could see your face. "Okay."

"I really like spending time with you."

"I know."

"And I don't want to lose this."

"I don't either."

He looked over then, studying you carefully. "I just don't think it's fair to start something when you're leaving."

"I'm going an hour away, Eddie."

"I know."

"You act like I'm moving across the country."

"I know."

The repetition almost hurt more than anything else. He knew, and it didn't change anything.

He swallowed. "So..." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Would you be okay with just... this?"

You looked at him. "This?"

"What we've been doing."

"What are we doing?"

His expression faltered. "You know what I mean."

Long phone calls. Random drives. Accidental hand brushes. Stolen looks. Every conversation that felt suspiciously like a date despite nobody ever calling it one. Everything except the part where he'd actually choose you.

You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell him that it wasn't enough. That somewhere along the way you'd fallen hopelessly, stupidly in love with him, and pretending otherwise was becoming impossible.

Instead...You smiled. The same smile that had gotten your heart broken your entire life.

"I think I'd like that."

The relief that washed over his face was immediate. He looked like he'd been carrying something impossibly heavy and had finally been allowed to set it down. "Really?"

You nodded. "Really."

He stared at you for another second before quietly scooting closer. "So we're okay?"

You looked at him and lied without hesitation. "We're okay."

His hand found yours so naturally it almost made you forget what had just happened. His thumb brushed across your knuckles once, twice. Then he leaned forward so slowly that he gave you every opportunity in the world to pull away, but you didn't.

His lips met yours softly, cautiously, like he'd been wanting to do it for weeks but wasn't entirely sure he was allowed. It wasn't rushed, and it wasn't desperate, but it was gentle enough to make your chest ache.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours and laughed quietly. "I've wanted to do that for a while."

You smiled because he couldn't see your eyes. "I know."

He kissed you again. And because you loved him...you let yourself believe that maybe this was enough.

Maybe labels didn't matter. Maybe loving someone without asking them to love you the same way wasn't the worst thing in the world.

You'd spent your whole life convincing yourself to accept less than you wanted; it came as naturally as breathing.

The saddest part was that Eddie never asked you to settle. He simply offered you what he could, and you loved him enough to convince yourself it was everything.

A couple of days later, you found yourself curled up on the couch in Eddie's trailer with your legs tucked underneath you and absolutely no memory of how you'd ended up there.

One minute you'd been talking to Wayne in the kitchen while he made coffee. The next, Eddie had wandered in, stolen your spot without asking, and somehow convinced you to sit beside him instead.

Wayne took one look at the two of you, hid a smile behind his mug, and muttered something about needing to run to the store.

You were halfway through telling him about something Robin had said at lunch when you felt his fingers absentmindedly reach for a strand of your hair.

You stopped talking. "What?"

He didn't even look embarrassed. "Hm?"

"You're playing with my hair."

"Oh."

He glanced down like he'd only just noticed. "Sorry."

He made absolutely no effort to stop. Instead, he carefully tucked the strand behind your ear before lazily winding another piece around his finger.

You couldn't help smiling. "You know that's weird, right?"

"I've been informed."

"And yet..."

"And yet."

A few minutes later, after the conversation had drifted somewhere else entirely, you shifted to get comfortable.

Without saying a word, Eddie's hand found the center of your back. His thumb traced tiny circles through the fabric of your shirt, and you melted before you could stop yourself.

A smug grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You like that."

You looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar."

His hand moved again, gently rubbing across your shoulders. You sighed.

"There it is."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No..." You smiled despite yourself, "I really don't."

He laughed quietly and kept tracing slow circles across your back while the conversation faded into nothing.

At some point, he started absentmindedly braiding tiny sections of your hair despite having absolutely no idea what he was doing.

You reached up to feel it. "Eddie."

"What?"

"This isn't a braid."

"It is spiritually."

"It is spiritually a knot."

"I prefer the term artistic interpretation."

You laughed so hard you nearly knocked into him. He just looked at you, and kept looking. Long enough that your smile slowly faltered into something softer.

"What?"

He didn't answer.

"Do I have something on my face?"

"No."

"What?"

Still nothing, just that impossibly gentle expression.

Then, almost quietly, "I think you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen."

Your face immediately warmed. "Eddie."

"I'm serious."

"You say that to everybody."

"I absolutely do not."

"You definitely do."

He shook his head. "I don't."

"You have to stop saying things like that."

"Why?"

"Because..."

You couldn't even finish the sentence because he leaned a little closer. "Because what?"

"It makes me nervous."

His smile somehow softened even more. "I know."

"Then stop."

"I'm not gonna lie to you." You looked down at your hands. "I don't think I'm anything special."

He was quiet for a second, then he reached over and gently tilted your chin back toward him.

"I do." With complete certainty,  "I think you're beautiful."

You could barely hold his gaze.

"I think you're funny." His thumb brushed softly across your cheek. "I think you're smarter than you realize."

Another pause. "I think you're kinder than anybody deserves."

Your chest hurt. Not because of what he was saying, because you believed he meant it.

He looked at you for another long second before smiling to himself.

"I also think your left eyebrow does this weird little thing when you're embarrassed."

"My what?"

He pointed. "There."

"It does not."

"It absolutely does."

You covered your face with both hands, and he laughed.

"Oh my God, there it is again."

From behind your fingers, all you could manage was a muffled, mortified, "Shut up."

Instead of teasing you more, he gently took your wrists and pulled your hands away from your face. "Hi, pretty girl."

Then, like it was the easiest thing in the world, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Not your lips, just your forehead.

The trailer was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old couch springs as Eddie shifted beneath you.

His fingers had long since stopped pretending to braid your hair; they just stroked through it now, slow and absent, like he couldn’t help touching you. 

The forehead kiss from earlier still lingered on your skin like a brand.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. His lips brushed your temple. “You okay?”

You nodded against his skin, not trusting your voice. Instead, you tilted your head and kissed the underside of his jaw. He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Yeah?” he asked softly, checking in like he always did. Like he could read every unspoken thing you tried to hide.

“Yeah,” you whispered, and kissed him properly this time; slow, a little desperate. He met you gently at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against yours with that careful patience that made your whole body warm. 

His free hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your lower back, holding you there like he was afraid you might vanish.

You shifted until you were straddling his lap, knees sinking into the worn cushions on either side of his hips. Eddie groaned quietly into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathed, breaking the kiss just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, but still so soft. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let me see you.”

He tugged your shirt up slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, but you didn’t. The fabric whispered over your head and landed somewhere on the floor. His gaze dragged over you, reverent and almost stunned.

“Goddamn,” he said under his breath, hands sliding up your ribs to cup your breasts through your bra. “Look at you. So fucking pretty for me.” 

His thumbs brushed over your nipples until they peaked, and you arched into the touch with a shaky breath. “That’s it… just like that. Let me hear you.”

He sat up a little, mouth finding your collarbone, then lower, kissing and nipping softly while his fingers worked the clasp of your bra. 

When it fell away, he pulled back to watch your face as he took one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling, gentle suction that made your hips roll against him instinctively.

“Eddie—” His name came out broken.

“Right here, baby. I’ve got you.” He switched sides, lavishing the same attention on the other while one hand stroked down your spine, soothing the tremble in your muscles. “You’re shaking. You want this?”

You nodded fast, grinding down against the growing hardness in his jeans. “Please.”

He hummed against your skin. “Good girl. Arms around my neck—yeah, just like that.” He stood suddenly, hands under your thighs to hold you up, and carried you the short distance to his bedroom. 

The door clicked shut behind you. The fairy lights he’d strung up weeks ago (because you’d mentioned liking them once) cast everything in a soft, golden glow.

He laid you on the bed carefully, like you were something breakable, then stripped off his own shirt and jeans, never taking his eyes off you. When he crawled over you, the weight of him felt like safety and ruin all at once. His hand slid between your legs, cupping you through your panties.

“Already so wet,” he murmured, voice low and awed. He rubbed slow circles over the fabric until you were rocking against his palm. “All this for me? Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and tugged them down your legs, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered: your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thigh. When he settled between your legs, he looked up at you, chin resting lightly on your mound.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart. Want you to watch.” His breath ghosted over you, making you clench around nothing. Then his tongue was there—hot, slow, licking a broad stripe up your center before circling your clit with devastating patience. He talked the whole time, voice muffled but steady. 

“Taste so fucking good… That’s it, baby, just relax for me. Let me take care of you. You feel that? Right there?” He sucked gently, two fingers sliding into you with almost no resistance, curling just right.

You moaned, hand flying to his hair. He groaned in response, the vibration pulling you higher. He kept talking you through it, praise and instructions and soft curses, until your thighs were shaking and you came hard around his fingers, back arching off the bed.

He worked you through it, gentling his touch but not stopping until you were whimpering. Only then did he crawl back up, kissing your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breast, your throat, your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue, and it made something inside you ache even sweeter.

“Eddie… please,” you whispered against his lips, hands tugging at his boxers.

He helped you push them down, kicking them away. He wrapped a hand around himself, stroking slowly while he looked at you. “You sure? We can stop—”

“I want you.” You reached for him, pulling him closer. “Please.”

He nodded, forehead dropping to yours. “Okay. Okay, baby. Breathe for me.” He lined himself up and pushed in; slow, so slow, inch by inch, whispering the whole time. “Fuck, you’re tight… so warm. Taking me so well. That’s my girl. Just a little more—there you go. You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You gasped at the stretch, nails digging into his shoulders. He stilled when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, letting you adjust while he kissed your face; your eyelids, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth. 

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Not gonna move until you’re ready.”

You rocked your hips experimentally, and he cursed, burying his face in your neck. “Jesus Christ. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.” 

Then he started moving, deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips to take him even deeper. The other braced beside your head, thumb stroking your cheek.

“Look at me,” he breathed. You did. His eyes were glassy, hair wild, face flushed with effort and something deeper. 

“Best fucking thing I’ve ever felt. Best sex I’ve ever had, baby. No one else—no one—makes me feel like this. Just you.”

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. You moaned his name, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as the pleasure built again, sharper this time, edged with the ache of everything unsaid. 

He kept talking you through it, right there, just like that, come on, let go for me, until you shattered around him a second time, clenching so hard he groaned like it hurt.

He followed right after, hips stuttering, spilling deep inside you with a broken sound of your name. He collapsed over you, careful not to crush you, face tucked into your neck as you both caught your breath.

For a long minute, the only sounds were your heartbeats and the soft rustle of sheets. He pressed lazy kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your lips, sweet and lingering. His hand stroked up and down your side like he couldn’t stop touching you.

“You okay?” he whispered eventually, brushing damp hair from your forehead.

You nodded, even as the familiar crack in your chest widened. It was painfully sweet, and almost perfect. And still not enough.

But you smiled anyway, because that’s what you did. “Yeah, Eddie. I’m okay.”

A week later, you had become embarrassingly good at pretending not to notice the things Eddie said. Not because they didn't mean anything, but because they meant entirely too much.

You'd be halfway through some rambling explanation about a fantasy novel you'd just finished, going on about world-building and obscure folklore and symbolism, and he'd just stare at you with the most hopelessly fond expression.

Then he'd grin. "God, you check every box."

You'd laugh it off. "What boxes?"

He'd shrug. "The boxes."

"Very descriptive."

"You know what I mean." You, in fact, did not, and he never elaborated after that. 

Another day, you were flipping through records in a shop when you found some obscure metal band neither of you thought anyone else in Hawkins had ever heard of.

You held it up triumphantly, and his face lit up.

"No fucking way."

"What?"

He looked at you like you'd just personally hung the moon. "You know them?"

"I literally told you about them."

"I know."

"So why are you acting surprised?"

"'Cause normal people don't actually listen when I talk."

You frowned. "I listen."

"I know." There was that goddamn smile again. "Trust me. I know."

It happened constantly. You'd steal one of his rings just because, and he'd spend the next ten minutes trying to figure out which finger fit yours best.

He'd absentmindedly tuck your hair behind your ear while talking to somebody else. If you got cold, he'd hand you his jacket before you even had the chance to say anything.

If someone interrupted you, he'd immediately turn back and go, "Wait, she was talking."

Little things, tiny things. The kind of things that didn't mean anything on paper, except they did.

One afternoon, the two of you were sprawled across the couch in his trailer, sharing a bag of pretzels while a movie neither of you was paying attention to played quietly in the background. You started explaining some random mythology fact you'd learned in class.

Halfway through your sentence, Eddie just looked over at you and laughed.

"What?"

He shook his head. "I can't believe you're real."

You smiled. "What does that even mean?"

"It means you're pretty."

"Eddie..."

"It means you're funny."

He nudged your knee with his. "It means you're a giant nerd."

"I'm aware."

"It means somehow every time I think I've figured you out, you say something that makes me like you even more."

You looked down at your lap before he could see your face.

He reached over and laced his fingers through yours without a second thought. "So..."

"So?"

This is it, you thought.

"If I had made a list when I was twelve of everything I'd think was cool in a girl..."

He squeezed your hand. "...you would've checked every damn box."

Your heart practically stopped; you didn't know what to say, so you didn't say anything at all.

You just sat there, letting him hold your hand while your mind raced a hundred miles an hour. Because people who didn't want anything serious didn't say things like that.

People who didn't want anything serious didn't look at you the way Eddie looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

They didn't call just because they couldn't sleep. They didn't remember every insignificant detail you'd ever mentioned. They didn't introduce you to Wayne with this quiet sort of pride in their voice. They didn't reach for your hand automatically. They didn't smile every time you walked into a room.

So maybe...maybe he was just scared. Maybe he'd been hurt before, and maybe he just needed time.

Maybe one day he'd wake up and realize that what the two of you already had was everything people spent years trying to find.

And maybe then he'd ask. Maybe then he'd call you his girlfriend. Maybe then he'd look at you and say he'd changed his mind. 

The hope settled so naturally into your chest that you barely noticed it happening. You watered it with every lingering glance. Every compliment. Every soft touch. Every almost-confession.

You built an entire future in your head out of maybes.

So that’s why, when the shift came, you’d convinced yourself you were being dramatic.

At first, it was so subtle you could explain it away. He took an hour to call instead of ten minutes. He canceled one night because Gareth needed help with something. He seemed distracted once or twice, his mind somewhere else while you were talking.

Normal things, completely normal things. People got busy. People had bad days; you of all people knew that.

So when a conversation ended a little earlier than usual, you told yourself he was tired. When he forgot to call one night, you figured he'd fallen asleep. When he promised he'd ring you after Hellfire and didn't, you reminded yourself that he wasn't obligated to account for every second of his day.

You refused to let yourself become the kind of person who overanalyzed everything. Still...

You started noticing little things. He stopped absentmindedly reaching for your hand quite as often. The compliments didn't disappear, but they became less frequent, almost like he was catching himself halfway through saying them.

The pauses on the phone became quieter and longer. Sometimes they'd end not because either of you wanted to hang up, but because it felt like neither of you quite knew what to say anymore.

And every single time, you blamed yourself. Maybe you'd been talking too much. Maybe you were becoming annoying. Maybe you'd imagined half the chemistry in the first place. Maybe he'd realized you weren't nearly as interesting as he'd initially thought.

You never blamed him, not once. You blamed yourself so instinctively it didn't even occur to you there might be another explanation.

Every now and then, though, he'd do something that unraveled all your worries in an instant.

He'd look at you with that same impossibly soft expression. He'd brush your hair away from your face without thinking. He'd tell you you looked pretty. He'd laugh at one of your stupid jokes so hard he'd have to wipe tears from his eyes.

And you'd think: See? You're overreacting. He's still here. He's still calling. He's still kissing you. He's still choosing to spend his time with you.

Everything's fine, everything has to be fine.

Looking back, you'd eventually realize that the saddest part wasn't the shift itself. It was how desperately you wanted it not to be real.

Sometimes, usually on the nights when you couldn't sleep, you'd let yourself imagine another version of the story, one where Eddie really had loved you.

One where every compliment was genuine, every late-night phone call meant exactly what you'd hoped it meant, every lingering touch and forehead kiss and the whispered, you check every box had been as real to him as they were to you.

Maybe he got scared, or maybe one day it all stopped feeling hypothetical and started feeling dangerously real.

Maybe he'd looked at you and realized that if he let himself fall any further, there was no pretending it was casual anymore.

Maybe he'd remembered you were leaving in less than a year and decided it would hurt less to loosen his grip now than have you ripped away later. Maybe he'd convinced himself he was protecting both of you.

You thought about that possibility more often than you'd ever admit because it was kinder than the alternative.

Kinder than believing he simply woke up one morning and decided you weren't worth choosing.

But the truth was you didn't know, and you probably never would. Because one missed phone call became two. Two became a week. A week somehow became a month.

And somewhere in all that silence, neither of you reached across it. There was no screaming match. No cruel words. No dramatic goodbye. No slammed doors. 

Just the slow, almost imperceptible fading of someone who had once occupied every corner of your life. The kind that leaves you wondering if you imagined the whole thing.

Every now and then, Dustin would mention him in passing. Robin would ask if you'd seen him lately. Steve would look between the two of you from across a room with the unmistakable expression of someone who knew there was a story there but had enough sense not to ask.

You'd just smile, "Nah. Haven't talked in a while." 

Like it didn't still hurt to say.

Maybe Eddie Munson was just another person who left. Or maybe he was the first person who wanted to stay and got too afraid to try.

In another life, maybe one conversation would've changed everything.

Maybe if he'd been a little braver. Maybe if you'd been a little less willing to accept almosts instead of certainties. Maybe if one of you had simply looked the other in the eye and said what you were actually feeling.

But there was no other life; there was only this one. And in this one, the last thing Eddie Munson ever gave you wasn't a kiss.

It wasn't a promise; it wasn't even an explanation. It was a question you'd probably spend the rest of your life trying to answer:

Was it ever casual?

thank a very evil man for the inspiration for this fic.

taglist:

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

@abbysleftbicepp @britttzy267 @ssculker @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch

It had been a month since you all failed to stop Vecna from opening the four gates. Hawkins was a mess, to say the least. The government had taken over and quickly at that. It was a different world now. A strange and unusual one that no one was prepared for. Well, no one but perhaps you and the gang. Even then, it was still strange and unusual for you.

​

Eddie was feeling better. The wounds healed fairly quickly. Now it was just trying to figure out this new life, this sheltered life. There were curfews in place and limitations on what you could do in the town now. Your own parents were wary of even letting you leave the house. You had to practically beg them to go to the town memorial for those lost in the earthquake.

​

Earthquake.

​

That’s what everyone was calling it. That’s what the town thought had happened. Some weird and random earthquake in the middle of Indiana that fractured the town to pieces. It just went to show that the people liked living with the curtains closed, placing their trust in a government even if it was corrupt.

​

“Got everything we need?” You asked as you and Eddie climbed the hill that overlooked Hawkins. He flashed that cheesy grin of his as he held up the little cooler he was carrying.

​

“Beer. Beer. Oh, and more beer!” He said, peeking into the cooler. You playfully rolled your eyes before stopping just at the top of the hill.

​

“Well. This is it.” You said softly, taking the blanket you had under your arm and waving it out. You placed it down before you, and Eddie sat on the blanket together. He cracked open a beer, handing one to you before taking one for himself.

​

This had become a habit for the two of you. You would climb to the top of the hill, sit on a blanket, and drink. You would drink as you stared out at the town you once knew. The town that seemed so foreign to you now.

​

“To those who we lost in the battle.” You said as you held up your beer. Eddie looked at you, eyes locking together as he held his beer can close to yours.

​

“To Max.” He said quietly.

​

Max.

​

You hadn’t ever really talked to her. You only knew of her through Lucas, and that was only when he showed up to DnD nights, which wasn’t often before everything happened. But you knew what had happened to her. You knew that Lucas was sitting at her hospital bedside every day since Vecna practically killed her. And so when you and Eddie would sit at this hill, thinking of all the people lost from the battle you tried to stop, you always toasted to Max. Always.

​

“Robin said they’re going to go visit her this weekend. Should we go with?” You asked after taking a nice long sip of the beer. You weren’t ever really a big fan of it. Honestly? You hated beer. But it was one of the few things Eddie could get. So you didn’t complain.

​

“I don’t know…” Eddie said, his voice trailing off.

​

Eddie didn’t care for hospitals. Not after he spent so much time in them when he was younger, back when his mother was sick. It reminded him too much of how he lost her. It reminded him of how he had to watch her slowly lose herself.

​

“I know you aren’t a fan of hospitals, but I think it would mean a lot to Lucas if you went. We don’t have to stay for long.” You said in an encouraging tone.

​

Eddie’s eyes stayed on the horizon of the town. The fences that now blocked the city view were lined with barbed wire running across the top. He glanced at the many guard towers, where men with large guns paced back and forth.

​

Everything felt so military now. It felt so reformed. Controlled. Eddie hated control. He let his feet rest on the blanket with his knees up, his arms hanging off his knees as his beer can lazily swayed in his hand a bit. His eyes slightly squinted at the setting sun as he continued to stare towards the town.

​

“I know. I’ll go. Soon. I promise.” He said in a quieter tone than you were used to. You took the moment to watch his side profile. You always admired the kind of beauty Eddie held. It wasn’t conventional in any sense. But it was there. The way he had smile lines in his eyes. The shape of his jaw. The way his curls would carefully blow against his cheek in the wind.

​

“Whenever you’re ready. though it should be sooner rather than later.” You finally replied back. Eddie finished off the beer can, crushing it in his hands before tossing it to the side. He grabbed another one and forced an awkward laugh, cutting into the tension that was building around the two of you.

​

“Gonna go through these quick today, aren’t we?” He asked through that same awkward laugh. He was hiding in his feelings again. You could see it. Feel it. Hear it. Your eyes studied him as he started to throw back another beer.

​

“Eddie…” You started to say, but he quickly cut you off.

“Don’t.” He said. Firm. Concise. There was a deepness in his voice you had only really heard when he was being serious.

​

“I know you’re scared–” You started to say, but Eddie cut you off once more.

“I said don’t.” He said with that deepness once more, but this time in a louder tone. His voice rumbled as he spoke, sending chills all over you. You had seen Eddie angry before. But this. This was different. This wasn’t just anger. This was fear manifesting itself as anger. In some ways, this was scarier.

​

“You can’t avoid the hospital forever. Lucas is your friend, Eddie. You should be there for him.” You repeated your words, which was a dangerous choice. Other people called Eddie a freak. Some were terrified of him. Some thought that he was the devil himself. But you knew different. You knew that Eddie’s rage, that this dangerous side of him, it wasn’t the devil or any kind of freak nature. It was the fear he had of himself. The fear he had of being what everyone thought he was.

​

“And you can’t tell me what to do. What because you saved my life you think you can boss me around?” Eddie snapped, words he would almost instantly regret even if he didn’t show it.

​

The words caused you to shift a bit. You felt the wind blow past you, moving your hair a bit as your eyes locked on his. He was lashing out at you. You didn’t deserve this. Not in the least.

​

“I never said anything like that. Do not put those words in my mouth.” You said in a louder voice. Eddie stood up, and you instantly followed him.

​

“What do you want of me? Hm? You–you want me to go to the hospital? To sit there with Max and remind myself that we failed? Is that what you want? To know that Lucas probably hates me because we didn’t do what we were supposed to do?” He asked as he stood closer to you.

​

“You didn’t fail, Eddie; we all failed! We did the best we could, but Vecna–” Eddie didn’t even give you a chance before he was ranting again.

​

“Vecna accomplished what he wanted because we didn’t do shit. Because I failed. I let my friends down. I let–” He cut himself off this time, trying to catch his breath as his fists rested on his hips.

​

“I let–” He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t get the words out. They suddenly felt impossible to say, even if they were words he had been thinking since you pulled him out of the upside down to fix his wounds.

​

“You what? Say it.” You said in a softer tone. There were just inches between the two of you after you took a step toward him, closing the gap even more. Eddie’s hands fell to his side as his eyes danced around yours.

​

You searched his eyes, trying to see if he was going to say what you thought he would say. If he was, you knew it was a damn lie. Because there was no way what Eddie was about to say could ever be true.

​

“Say. It.” You said once more, slowing your words and putting emphasis on them . Eddie seemed as if he had a lump in his throat. He let his lips part, ready to speak but…nothing.

​

He stared down at you as if anything he could say would be hopeless. He pushed his lips together once more before turning around and walking away from you. The distance of each step felt like a string breaking from your heart.

​

“Where are you going?” You asked, starting to storm off after him. He could run all he wanted, but you would always be there to follow. Always.

​

“Just stop. Let me go home.” He said as he started the long walk down the hill. You followed behind, moving as fast as you could to catch up to him.

​

“Go home. But I’m following you until you tell me what you were going to say.” You stubbornly announced. This wasn’t the first time you and Eddie had an argument of some sort, and it probably wouldn’t be the last time either.

​

“You’re being stubborn,” Eddie immediately called out your actions, “just go home.”

​

“No. Not until you tell me.” Your words were sharp, quick. You could see Eddie getting more and more frustrated. His chain on his pants swung harder with each heavier step he took.

​

“You know what I was going to say. Otherwise you wouldn’t be following me.” Eddie snapped in that sarcastic tone of his. You could hear his voice getting higher, more agitated.

​

“But I want you to say it. I want to hear you say it.” You said in that same stubborn tone. Eddie finally stopped, spinning around as his eyes faced yours with a darkness so deep it scared you.

​

“I let you down! I let you down, and you matter more than anyone.” Eddie finally said, and you felt your heart racing.

​

This was it.

​

This was your moment to finally push for the real feelings. To finally understand this feeling you had been fighting for years. Both of you.

​

“Why?” You asked, forcing Eddie to give you a confused look.

​

“Why? What–what do you mean why?” He asked through a soft breath. You felt the tips of your fingers twitching, wanting to reach out to him.

​

“Why do I matter more than anyone?” You asked, quietly and demanding answers.

​

Eddie answered with hesitation, “Because you’re my best friend.”

You shook your head, unable to accept such an answer. There had to be more. There just had to. You felt it. You had felt it for some time. Eddie had to feel it too. You felt that twitching feeling in your fingers once more.

​

“Why? Why do I matter more than anyone?” You repeated once more, and it seemed to be clicking to Eddie what you were saying as his eyes widened just a touch.

​

“Because–”

​

A pause.

​

A hesitation.

​

A moment where everything felt still. The Earth had stopped moving. The clouds were frozen in the sky.

​

When Eddie finally spoke, you were almost worried he would hide it again. Worried he would continue to fight those feelings as he pushed everything down until he felt no more. But he didn’t do that. In fact, he did the exact opposite.

​

By the time you were old enough to understand what people were saying when they lowered their voices as you walked by, they'd already made up their minds about you anyway.

Your father had disappeared when you were seven. Some people said he ran off with another woman somewhere down in Indianapolis, others insisted he'd gotten himself arrested, and there was even an old rumor floating around The Hideout that he'd wound up dead in a ditch halfway across the state. 

Your mother never corrected anyone. Most days she couldn't remember what she'd told one person from the next, usually too busy sitting on the front porch with a cigarette hanging from her lips and something stronger than beer hidden in a paper bag at her feet.

As the years passed, she became less "that poor woman whose husband left" and more "the drunk over on Maple."

Kids snickered when she stumbled through the grocery store. Adults looked away when she nodded off at church picnics. The police knew your address without needing directions.

By association, everyone knew you too.

It didn't seem to matter that you always said yes when Mrs. Henderson needed help carrying groceries to her car, or that you babysat Dustin Henderson for practically nothing because you knew they couldn't afford much more.

It didn't matter that you stayed after class to help clean paintbrushes in art or volunteered at bake sales or smiled politely at teachers who looked at you with barely concealed pity.

You ironed your own clothes because your mother wouldn't. You packed your own lunches. You left early enough every morning to stop and make sure she hadn't fallen asleep with the stove on or a cigarette lit. You did everything in your power to prove you weren't her.

Still, every time attendance got called, somebody found a reason to laugh. "There she is."

"Bet her mom's plastered already."

"My dad says their electric got shut off again."

"I heard she steals."

The funny thing was, you never actually defended yourself anymore.

You'd tried when you were younger. Tried explaining, tried arguing, tried insisting they were wrong, only to discover that people who enjoyed believing the worst about someone rarely changed their minds because of facts.

So eventually you just kept your head down, smile, take your notes, go to work after school, come home, repeat. It was easier that way.

Or at least it had been until one Tuesday afternoon when Tommy Hagan decided the cafeteria was a suitable stage and announced to half the room, "Wonder who her mom will sleep with next. My money's on Carver's dad. He's always had an infatuation with the less fortunate."

The laughter came exactly when expected, almost comforting in its consistency. You looked down at your tray, swallowed hard enough that your throat hurt, and simply kept walking.

No comeback. No tears. No scene. Just another Tuesday. You were halfway to the table by yourself when somebody else spoke instead.

"Damn."

The voice was lazy, amused in that way that always made it impossible to tell if Eddie Munson was joking or dead serious.

"What an asshole."

Tommy rolled his eyes. "Mind your business, freak."

Eddie looked around theatrically before pointing at himself. "Me? I thought I was minding it just fine."

A couple chuckles scattered through the room. Tommy scoffed and walked away with his little entourage, deciding it wasn't worth getting into another screaming match with Hawkins High's resident freak. 

You figured that was the end of it. It wasn't.

The next day you sat down at your usual empty table near the windows, unpacked your lunch, and had barely taken one bite before someone dropped onto the bench across from you with all the grace of a falling tree.

You looked up. Messy curls and a grin that looked entirely too comfortable on someone who was supposedly as intimidating as everyone insisted. "Hey."

"...Hi."

He pointed across the cafeteria with his carton of milk. "That guy's still an asshole."

Despite yourself, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "I've noticed."

"I heard what he said yesterday."

"So did everybody."

"Doesn't make him less of an asshole."

You shrugged and peeled the corner off your napkin without really thinking about it. "People say stuff."

"They say stuff about me too."

You let out a tiny laugh through your nose. "Yeah, but you're Eddie Munson."

"So?"

"So... you don't seem to care."

He leaned back, studying you for a second before giving the smallest shake of his head. "Nah."

The answer came so quickly you almost believed it. He reached over and stole one of your fries before you could protest. "I care a lot."

Your eyebrows shot up.

"I just figured if everyone already thinks I'm Satan reincarnated, I might as well give 'em something interesting to gossip about."

That earned a real laugh, quiet but unmistakable. For a second, he just looked at you, then he smiled too. "There it is."

"What?"

"I've seen you around for like... two years? First time I've seen you produce a real smile."

Your face immediately warmed. "I smile."

"Nope. Not like that."

"I do."

"Haven't seen it."

"Maybe you're not looking."

"Nah, sweetheart." He popped the stolen fry into his mouth and pointed at you like he'd solved some impossible equation. "I think you've just been trying way too hard to convince everybody you're not who they already decided you are."

You looked down at your lunch again. "...Maybe."

Then, almost casually, he shrugged. "For what it's worth..."

You glanced back up.

"I don't think you've gotta convince me."

It became something of an unspoken routine after that. Nothing dramatic, nothing anybody else would've noticed if they were looking in from the outside.

Eddie would throw himself into the seat across from you at lunch like he'd been doing it his whole life, steal a handful of fries or half your dessert if you happened to bring one, complain about whichever teacher had irritated him that day, and somehow manage to make you laugh at least once before the bell rang.

He never asked to walk you home, never pried. Never asked about your mother or why your sleeves always smelled faintly of laundry detergent, or why you looked perpetually exhausted by first period.

He just... sat with you. It was strange, really. Most people in Hawkins saw you as a cautionary tale. Eddie looked at you like you were actually a person.

A week later, after another particularly bad evening of listening to your mother cry over somebody who had been gone for nearly ten years, you found yourself doing what had quietly become your own ugly little habit.

You waited until she finally passed out on the couch. Walked three blocks with your jacket pulled tight around yourself. Slipped behind the abandoned picnic shelter at the park where nobody could see you from the road.

Then, after checking over your shoulder twice despite knowing there was nobody around, you dug into your pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

You hated them. You hated the smell. You hated the taste. You hated the way your fingers smelled after.

Every single drag made your chest ache and your eyes water. But for five minutes, all you had to think about was breathing in and breathing out, nothing else.

The lighter clicked as the end began to glow orange. You leaned back against one of the support beams, staring out into the empty darkness beyond the playground.

"You know those'll kill you."

Your entire body jerked so violently you nearly dropped the cigarette.

You whipped around to find Eddie standing a few feet away with both hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, looking almost apologetic.

"Oh, my God!"

"Sorry."

"You scared the shit out of me."

"I gathered."

Your face immediately flushed as you instinctively tucked the cigarette behind your back.

For a second, he just looked at you before reaching into his own jacket pocket and pulling out a pack.

"...Really?" He held it up, "I feel like we're past pretending."

Your shoulders relaxed just enough to pull your own hand back into view. He wandered over and leaned against the wooden railing beside you, taking a drag before looking out over the empty park.

"I always figured you hated me."

Your eyebrows pulled together. "What?"

"You look at me like I'm contagious."

"I don't."

"You kinda do."

"No, I..." You laughed quietly to yourself. "I just thought you thought I was pathetic."

He turned so fast he looked genuinely confused. "Why the hell would I think that?"

You shrugged. "'Cause everybody does."

He stared at you for another second before huffing out a laugh through his nose. "Jesus."

"What?"

"You really believe that, don't you?"

You didn't answer, so he looked back out into the darkness. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why do you care so much what these assholes think?"

You looked down at the cigarette between your fingers. "I don't."

"Bullshit."

"I don't."

"You apologize when people bump into you."

"...So?"

"You help every old lady in Hawkins carry groceries. You volunteer for school shit nobody wants to do."

You sighed. "So?"

"So, none of it's for you."

Your jaw tightened. "I'm just trying to prove that I'm not..."

He finished it for you. "...your mom."

You stared at the ground. "My dad left."

He nodded once. "I know."

"I just..." You swallowed. "I keep thinking if I can just be good enough then eventually people will realize I'm not gonna end up like her."

Eddie actually laughed, not meanly, more out of disbelief.

You frowned. "What's funny?"

"They won't. They already decided who you are."

You looked over at him.

"They've had your whole life to change their minds. They haven't."

You hated how quickly tears threatened your eyes. "So what am I supposed to do?"

He looked over at you like the answer was obvious. "Fuck 'em."

You blinked. "What?"

"Fuck. Them."

"Eddie—"

"No, seriously." He flicked ash onto the pavement. "You could cure cancer tomorrow, and half this town would still whisper about your drunk mom."

You stayed quiet.

"You could save somebody's life. You could become valedictorian. You could go to church every Sunday. And Tommy Hagan's still gonna call you trailer trash because it makes him feel better about himself."

You stared out into the empty darkness.

"So stop trying."

Your eyebrows knit together. "...Stop trying?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"That's terrible advice."

"It is."

"You know it is."

"I do." Another tiny smile tugged at his mouth. "But tell me I'm wrong."

You couldn't. Because somewhere deep down, in the place you tried very hard not to look at, you knew he wasn't.

He turned to face you fully now. "You spend every damn day trying to prove to people who don't care that you're worth something."

His expression softened just a fraction. "They don't get to decide that."

He nudged your shoulder with his. "You know what I'd do?"

"What?"

"I'd give 'em something to actually bitch about."

You looked at him like he'd grown another head.

"I'm serious, “ he grinned. "Skip class."

"No."

"Steal a stop sign."

"No."

"Spray paint Principal Higgins' parking spot."

"Eddie."

"I'm brainstorming."

Despite yourself, a laugh escaped, and he pointed at you immediately. "See? You’re considering it!"

You rolled your eyes. "You're a bad influence."

He smiled wider. "Nah."

He bumped your shoulder again. "I just think life's a hell of a lot easier when you stop begging people to like you."

You looked back down at the cigarette between your fingers. Then quietly asked, "And if they hate me?"

His answer came so fast it almost overlapped the question. "They already do."

You frowned, and he shrugged. "So you might as well have some fun."

By the time you got home that night, your mother's bedroom door was shut. You didn't bother checking if she was asleep; you already knew she was.

The television droned quietly from the living room, throwing blue light across the peeling wallpaper while an empty bottle sat on its side where she'd left it earlier in the evening. 

You stood there for a second, keys still dangling loosely from your fingertips, looking at the familiar scene with the same detached exhaustion you'd carried for years before quietly setting your bag down and making your way toward your room.

You should've done your homework. Should've packed your lunch. Should've folded the load of laundry that had been sitting in the dryer since yesterday. Instead, you sat on the edge of your bed and stared at your bedroom window.

"So stop trying."

The words refused to leave your head. You'd spent so much of your life worrying about what people thought of you that the idea of simply... not caring felt impossible.

You almost laughed when you got to the picnic shelter and found him already there.

Eddie was sitting on top of one of the weathered tables with one boot planted on the bench beneath him, lazily flipping a guitar pick between his fingers like he'd been expecting you all along.

The second he noticed you, the corner of his mouth curled upward. "I was beginning to think you were responsible."

"I am responsible."

"Ah. My mistake."

You rolled your eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Hanging out."

"By yourself?"

"For about..." he checked an imaginary watch on his wrist. "...forty-seven minutes."

"That's kind of sad."

"It is."

You stood there awkwardly for another second before shoving your hands into your jacket pockets. "So..."

"So,” then he suddenly hopped down from the table. "Wanna commit a crime?"

You blinked. "...Excuse me?"

He pointed dramatically toward the road. "Nothing huge."

"Eddie."

"Nothing illegal-illegal."

"Eddie."

"Victimless." He grinned, "Mostly."

You stared at him, and he stared back. "...I'm kidding."

You visibly relaxed.

Then he added, "Unless you say yes."

"I am not committing a crime."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He started walking anyway. Curiosity got the better of you after about twenty feet.

"...Where are you going?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Benny's."

"The diner?"

"The abandoned diner."

"It's closed."

"Very observant."

"Eddie."

"What?"

"We can't just..."

He raised an eyebrow. "...Walk inside?"

"Yes."

"Sure we can."

"No, we can't."

"We absolutely can."

"No."

He looked at you for a second before smiling that stupid smile again. "You comin' or what, sweetheart?"

You should've gone home; you knew that. You knew it with absolute certainty. Instead, after one quick glance up and down the empty road...you followed him.

The chain-link fence surrounding the old property had long since been bent out of shape in one corner, creating an opening just wide enough to squeeze through if you turned sideways.

Eddie slipped through first with practiced ease before holding the fence open for you with an exaggerated little bow.

"M'lady."

"This is trespassing."

"It absolutely is."

He didn't even sound concerned. You ducked through anyway.

The parking lot was cracked apart with weeds growing through the pavement, faded yellow lines barely visible beneath years of neglect. The old sign still hung crookedly above the building, half the letters missing, while dark windows reflected only the moonlight overhead.

You suddenly became very aware of how quiet everything was.

"Eddie..."

"Hm?"

"What if somebody sees us?"

"They'll think we're teenagers."

"We are teenagers."

"Exactly."

He reached the side entrance and gave the handle a tug. Locked.

He frowned dramatically. "Foiled."

A second later, he leaned down, reached beneath a loose cinder block, and triumphantly pulled out a rusty spare key.

Your jaw dropped. "Eddie."

"What?"

"How did you know that was there?"

He slid it into the lock. "I have my secrets."

The door creaked open with enough noise to make you physically cringe.

Dust floated lazily through the beams of moonlight pouring in through broken windows while overturned stools still rested upside down on counters exactly where they'd been left years before. Everything smelled faintly of mildew and old coffee.

You looked around slowly. "This is..."

"Kinda cool?"

"Kinda creepy."

"I'll take that."

The two of you wandered quietly through the empty diner, your fingers ghosting over chipped countertops and faded booths, every little sound seeming amplified in the silence.

You paused in front of one of the old menus still bolted to the counter.

Cheeseburger. $2.15. Coffee. 40¢.

You smiled to yourself. Then all the lights overhead suddenly flickered.

You froze. "Eddie."

No answer. "Eddie?" Silence.

You slowly turned, and he was gone.

"...Eddie."

A low voice echoed somewhere deeper inside the kitchen. "You should not have entered this place..."

You immediately covered your mouth, trying not to laugh.

"...for many years..." The voice dropped lower. "...the spirit of Benjamin has wandered these halls..."

You rounded the corner to find Eddie standing half-hidden behind the old serving window with both hands raised dramatically in the air, eyes rolled upward in what had to be the worst ghost impression ever performed by a human being.

"...searching eternally..."

His voice deepened another octave. "...for the teenager who last desecrated this place."

You snorted. He continued anyway. "...many have entered..."

He slowly pointed toward an old stain on the floor. "...none have survived..."

Your shoulders were already shaking. He took one giant theatrical step forward. "...except Gary."

You blinked. "...Who's Gary?"

He pointed randomly toward an overturned booth. "I don't know, some virgin, probably."

Another pause. "He seems alright."

That was it. A laugh burst out of you so suddenly and so loudly that it echoed through the entire empty building, the kind that made your stomach hurt.

When you finally caught your breath enough to look back at him, Eddie wasn't talking anymore.

He was just standing there with his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, looking at you with the tiniest smile you'd ever seen on him.

"What?"

He shook his head once. "Nothing."

"What?"

"I just..." He looked down at the floor before letting out a quiet little laugh. "I don't think anybody's made you laugh in a really long time."

The smile faded from your face, replaced by something softer.

"...No."

He nodded as if he'd already known the answer. Then he looked around the abandoned diner before grabbing an old salt shaker off one of the tables and setting it carefully on top of the jukebox.

You frowned. "What are you doing?"

He looked back with complete seriousness. "Leaving evidence."

Your eyes widened. "Eddie."

"Gotta keep 'em guessing, hon."

Looking back on it later, you wouldn't have been able to pinpoint the exact moment things started getting out of hand. There wasn't some grand declaration, no dramatic pact.

No night where you suddenly decided to become a completely different person. It happened the way sunsets happened, so slowly you didn't notice until it was already dark.

The first "crime" had been wandering through Benny's abandoned diner and leaving a saltshaker on the jukebox as “proof of entry”. 

Then it was climbing onto the roof of Hawkins High after midnight just to watch the stars because Eddie insisted they looked better from up there.

Then it was buying one gas station soda and sharing it because neither of you had enough money for two. Then it was skipping the last period on Fridays because "Coach barely takes attendance anyway."

Then somehow...

You found yourself sitting on top of Skull Rock with your legs dangling over the edge, a warm beer balanced between your knees while Eddie attempted to explain why Black Sabbath was objectively superior to every other band in existence.

"I don't think objective means what you think it means."

"It absolutely does."

"No."

"It does when I'm right."

"You are impossible."

"I'm also correct."

You took another sip and immediately grimaced. "This tastes disgusting."

He looked genuinely offended. "It's beer."

"It's awful."

"You'll acquire the taste."

"I don't want to."

"You will."

"I won't."

Three weeks later, you'd stolen half of his can before he'd even asked. The scary part wasn't that you were changing; it was how easy it was.

One Saturday afternoon the two of you wandered aimlessly through Starcourt with exactly eleven dollars between you, neither of you intending to buy anything because neither of you could afford to.

You drifted through little novelty shops, picking up snow globes and cheap plastic rings and tiny stuffed animals before putting them back exactly where they belonged.

Eddie stopped in front of a rack of ridiculous keychains. He picked up one shaped like a tiny rubber chicken. Held it up, looked at you, looked back at the keychain, then quietly slipped it into his jacket pocket with all the subtlety of someone hiding a television.

Your eyes widened. "Eddie."

"What?"

"You just stole that."

"I did no such thing."

"I watched you."

"You have no proof."

"I literally saw it."

He leaned in conspiratorially. "Allegedly."

Five minutes later, he casually dropped the little rubber chicken into your hands while pretending to examine baseball caps. "For you."

You looked down at it. "...Why?"

He shrugged. "It looked stupid."

You laughed. "I love him."

"I knew you would."

The next store over, your eyes landed on an embarrassingly ugly pair of fuzzy six-sided dice hanging from a rotating display. Purple. Covered in silver glitter. Absolutely hideous.

You looked around once, twice. Your heart hammered so loudly you were convinced everybody could hear it. Then your hand darted out almost involuntarily before shoving them into your pocket. You practically speed-walked out of the store.

By the time Eddie caught up with you outside, your face was bright red.

He stared. "...Did you?"

You silently pulled the fuzzy dice from your jacket. For exactly three seconds, he looked completely speechless. Then he started laughing so hard he had to lean against the side of the building.

"You committed a felony for ugly fuzzy dice."

"I know."

"They're hideous."

"I know."

"I love them."

You shoved them into his chest. "They're yours."

His smile softened almost immediately. "For me?"

"They looked like something you'd hang in the van."

He looked down at them, then back at you, then quietly looped them around his fingers. "They're the nicest thing anybody's ever stolen for me."

From then on, it became something of a game. Nothing valuable and certainly nothing useful. Just tiny, ridiculous little things.

A plastic dinosaur. A guitar pick with flames on it. A novelty lighter that barely worked. A little ceramic gnome. An ugly pin with a smiling hot dog on it. Cheap friendship bracelets. A pair of sunglasses with one cracked lens.

Each one ending up in the other's pocket with no explanation beyond, "Saw it. Thought of you."

It wasn't about having things; neither of you really had anything. It was about choosing something absurd and deciding that it belonged to the other person.

The biggest offense came a month later. You and Eddie sat in the grass across from the Hawkins water tower while he shook a can of black spray paint absentmindedly.

He looked at it, then at the tower, then at you, then back at the tower. "...Terrible idea."

"Horrible."

"We absolutely shouldn't."

"Nope."

Silence.

"...Wanna?"

You looked at the water tower, looked back at him. Thought about every report card you'd brought home. Every teacher you'd smiled politely at. Every grocery bag you'd carried for strangers. Every time someone had looked at your mother's face and decided they knew yours too.

Then you looked back at Eddie. "...Yeah."

The climb was terrifying; your knees shook the entire way up. Halfway up, you almost turned around. So, when he noticed your hesitation, he reached down, grabbed your hand without saying a word, and helped pull you onto the platform.

Your breathing hadn't settled by the time he handed you the spray can. "You do it."

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head. "No."

"You should."

"I can't."

"Sure you can."

"I've never spray-painted anything."

"So make it memorable."

You looked over the sleeping town stretched out beneath you. Every little house. Every little street. Every little person who thought they already knew exactly how your story ended.

Your thumb pressed down as the black paint hissed into the cool night air. In embarrassingly uneven letters, you wrote exactly two words.

FUCK 'EM.

You stared at it. Then immediately covered your mouth with both hands as laughter escaped you. Not because it was particularly funny, but because it felt impossible.

Eddie looked at the words, then started laughing too. The kind that echoed into the darkness. When the laughter finally died down, he bumped your shoulder with his.

Quietly, almost fondly. "I like you a lot better like this."

You looked over. "...Like what?"

He smiled at the town below. "The version of you that isn't apologizing for existing."

One day, Eddie's shoulder would brush yours, and you'd think nothing of it. Next, you'd find yourself looking around the cafeteria for him before you even realized you were doing it. Then suddenly every stupid thing he did became inexplicably funny.

Every time he walked into a room, your eyes followed him without permission. Every time he leaned over your shoulder to point something out in a comic book or hand you the lighter or steal your cigarette, your brain seemed to short-circuit for reasons you couldn't quite explain.

You tried very hard not to think about it. Mostly because it was Eddie; everybody knew Eddie flirted with everyone.

Everybody knew Eddie called half the female population of Hawkins "sweetheart." Everybody knew Eddie was just... Eddie.

Besides, you had more important things to worry about than some embarrassingly obvious crush.

Which was exactly what you were trying to tell yourself while staring at him instead of paying attention to whatever story he was currently in the middle of telling.

He stopped midsentence. "...Hello?"

Your eyes blinked. "Hm?"

"I lost you."

"I was listening."

"You absolutely were not."

"I was."

"What did I just say?"

You looked at him confidently. "...Something profound."

He burst out laughing. "Sweetheart, I was talking about Wayne accidentally super-gluing his fingers together."

"See? Profound."

He shook his head. "You are hopeless." The unfortunate part was that he wasn't entirely wrong.

By the time Founders Day rolled around, the rest of Hawkins seemed determined to spend the afternoon pretending the town was charming.

Children ran around with balloons tied to their wrists. Families wandered between food stands. Music drifted through the streets. Little American flags poked out of flower pots and storefront windows.

You and Eddie were approximately as interested as two stray cats.

Instead, the pair of you disappeared into the woods behind one of the nicer neighborhoods bordering town, settling beneath a cluster of trees, swapping what seemed like endless amounts of joints back and forth. 

The conversation drifted lazily from one topic to another, interrupted every few minutes by laughter over absolutely nothing.

At some point, Eddie had ended up stretched out flat on his back beside you, one arm folded behind his head while the other lazily pointed up through the branches.

"I still think that cloud looks like Ozzy Osbourne."

You squinted. "...That's a squirrel."

"A very metal squirrel."

"It has ears."

"So does Ozzy."

"I don't think that's his defining characteristic."

He looked over at you. "I think you're judging me."

"I absolutely am."

He clutched dramatically at his chest. "How rude!"

The breeze pushed through the leaves overhead while somewhere in the distance fireworks cracked faintly against the afternoon sky. You rolled onto your side to look at him, but he was already looking at you.

Neither of you immediately looked away. Your stomach did something deeply inconvenient. So naturally… you blurted out the first ridiculous thing that came to mind.

"...Let's go swimming."

He looked around. "In...the forest?"

"No."

"Okay."

You pointed vaguely through the trees toward the expensive houses on Loc Norah beyond them.

"The rich people."

His eyebrows lifted. "The rich people?"

"They all have pools."

"They do."

"They're all at Founders Day."

"They probably are."

"So..." He slowly sat up. "...Are you suggesting we trespass?"

You smiled innocently. "No…I'm suggesting we very politely borrow their pool."

He stared at you for a long moment, then a grin spread slowly across his face. "Holy shit."

"What?"

"You've officially become the bad influence."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

"I think it's community service."

He laughed so hard he had to put his head in his hands. "Community service."

"They aren't using it."

"You are unbelievable."

"So are you coming or not?"

He stood up, brushing leaves off his jeans. "I'd follow you into active traffic at this point."

The neighborhood was eerily quiet. Massive houses sat empty beneath the afternoon sun, perfectly trimmed hedges lining pristine walkways that looked like nobody had ever actually walked on them.

You both crouched behind somebody's decorative bushes, trying very hard—and failing—not to laugh.

Eddie whispered, "We're gonna get arrested."

"No, we're not."

"We absolutely are."

"We're invisible."

"You are giggling."

"I'm whisper-giggling."

"That's somehow worse."

You covered your mouth, shoulders shaking anyway. Finally, you reached the backyard fence.

You looked at Eddie. "...Well?"

He vaulted over first before reaching a hand back for you. The second your feet hit the grass, the two of you looked around one last time before dissolving into another fit of laughter for absolutely no reason other than the absurdity of existing there.

Eddie looked over at the perfectly still water before glancing back at you. "So... now what?"

You shrugged. "I don't know."

"We didn't exactly think this through."

"No."

Then, with absolutely no warning whatsoever, you kicked your shoes off and sprinted across the backyard.

His eyebrows shot up. "Wait—" You didn't.

You reached the edge of the pool and jumped anyway, the splash echoing through the quiet neighborhood before your head broke back through the surface a second later, immediately pushing your soaked hair out of your face.

The first thing you saw was Eddie still standing exactly where you'd left him, staring at you in complete disbelief.

You grinned. "C'mon!"

"We are absolutely getting arrested."

"We're already trespassing."

"Fair point."

He looked around one last time before muttering, "Fuck it," kicking off his own boots and launching himself in after you.

The resulting wave soaked both of you, earning another uncontrollable fit of laughter as he surfaced, coughing dramatically and slicking his curls back out of his face.

"Oh, that's cold."

"It's the middle of July."

"It's still cold."

You rolled your eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"I've been told."

For the next ten minutes neither of you did much of anything besides drift lazily around the pool and make complete idiots of yourselves.

You splashed him, and he retaliated by creating a tidal wave large enough to drench your face. You accused him of attempted murder. He insisted it was self-defense.

At one point he disappeared entirely beneath the water only to grab your ankle a second later, making you shriek loud enough that both of you immediately froze and looked toward the dark house.

Nothing happened. The silence lasted exactly three seconds before the two of you were laughing all over again. Eventually the laughter faded on its own, and the water settled with it.

You floated onto your back, staring up at the stars beginning to appear overhead while distant music from the Founders Day fair drifted faintly through the trees.

For a little while, neither of you spoke. You were just... there. Weightless. Peaceful. You turned your head just enough to find Eddie floating only a few feet away, looking over at you instead of the sky.

"What?"

He smiled. "Nothin'."

"No, what?"

He shrugged. "I just don't think I've ever seen you look..."

He searched for the word. "...happy."

Your expression softened. "I don't think I have been."

He drifted a little closer without seeming to realize he was doing it. "So..."

"So?"

"I'm glad you're here."

Your stomach immediately betrayed you. "I'm glad you're here too."

The distance just seemed to disappear all on its own until your shoulders brushed beneath the water, creating tiny ripples that spread lazily across the otherwise still surface.

You looked at him. His curls were dripping into his eyes, his denim vest abandoned somewhere in the grass, his stupid rings catching little flashes of moonlight every time his hand skimmed through the water.

He looked back at you with that same familiar softness he'd somehow always reserved just for these quiet moments.

His voice came out barely louder than the water around you. "...Can I kiss you?"

Your ears turned pink. "I was kinda hoping you'd ask."

The kiss itself was awkward in the sweetest possible way, interrupted almost immediately by the fact that neither of you had accounted for the simple logistics of trying to kiss while floating.

You bumped noses. He accidentally laughed into your mouth. You both pulled back, laughing just as hard, trying again only to nearly lose your balance and send another wave sloshing between you.

"Oh, my God."

"I'm trying."

"I can tell."

"I'm doing my best here."

"You suck at this."

"I've literally never kissed you before."

"Fair."

He looked at you for another second before gently reaching up and brushing a wet strand of hair away from your face. Then, slower, he leaned in again.

Just the quiet press of his lips against yours while the water rocked softly around you and fireworks bloomed somewhere beyond the trees, hidden from view. When you finally pulled apart, you stayed close enough that your foreheads rested together.

Then Eddie let out the tiniest laugh. "So..."

The water lapped gently around your shoulders as you stayed close, foreheads still touching, breaths mingling with the faint chlorine scent and the distant pop of fireworks. 

Eddie’s eyes were dark in the low light, that familiar mix of chaos and softness that always made your chest ache in the best way.

“So?” you echoed, voice barely above a whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips.

His thumb brushed your jaw, slow and reverent, like he was still processing that this was real. “So… I’ve been wanting to do that for a stupid amount of time.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head, letting your nose graze his. “Took you long enough, Munson.”

He huffed a laugh against your mouth and closed the distance again. This kiss was less clumsy, and more certain.

His hand slid into your wet hair, holding you steady as the water rocked you both. Your arms looped around his neck, bodies pressing closer beneath the surface, legs brushing in the cool depths. 

Somewhere along the way, it turned hungry, tongues meeting in a slow, exploratory glide that sent heat pooling low in your belly despite the chill of the pool.

He tasted like summer and stolen moments, and when he nipped at your bottom lip, you couldn’t help the soft sound that escaped you.

Eddie pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours again, breathing hard. “Fuck… you’re gonna kill me.”

You grinned, fingers tracing the damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Not yet.”

Another kiss, messier this time, laughter bubbling up between you as you both tried to stay afloat without completely tipping over. His hands roamed down your back, over your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You could feel him, half-hard already through his soaked jeans, and the realization made you bold. You rocked against him experimentally, earning a low groan that vibrated through his chest.

“Sweetheart…” he murmured, his voice rough. He glanced toward the dark house, then back at you, eyes gleaming with that reckless spark you loved. “You wanna do something really illegal?”

Your pulse jumped. “Define illegal.”

He jerked his head toward the cabana at the far end of the pool: a fancy little pool house with wide glass doors, loungers visible inside, probably some rich asshole’s private oasis.

“In there. With you. Right now.”

You bit your lip, heat flooding your cheeks even as excitement coiled tight in your core. “Yeah. I do.”

He kissed you once more, quick and fierce, then helped boost you out of the pool. You both dripped across the grass, giggling like idiots as you tried to stay quiet, shoes forgotten somewhere behind you. 

The cabana door was unlocked, because of course it was in a neighborhood like this, and Eddie ushered you inside first, sliding the door shut behind him with a soft click.

A wide daybed took up most of one wall, piled with towels and cushions. Eddie turned to you, water still dripping from his curls, his expression suddenly softer.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low. “We can just make out. Or not. Whatever you want.”

You stepped closer, peeling your soaked shirt over your head and letting it drop with a wet slap.

“I’m sure. I mean, I haven’t, like, done it with anyone else before. But I’ve… you know.” Your voice dropped, a little shy but steady. “I know what I like.”

Eddie’s eyes widened. “Shit. That’s… yeah. Okay. Fuck, that’s hot.” He reached for you, hands gentle on your waist as he walked you back toward the daybed. “Tell me what feels good, alright? We go slow.”

Clothes came off in a tangle of wet fabric and breathless laughs. Your shorts and underwear, his jeans sticking stubbornly until you both nearly fell over trying to help. Naked, he was all lean muscle and ink and those damn rings he didn’t even think to take off. 

He laid you down on the soft cushions, hovering over you, kissing you deeply as his hand slid between your thighs.

You were already slick, and when his fingers found your clit, circling with surprising patience, you arched into him with a gasp. “Eddie—”

“Like that?” he murmured against your neck, kissing down to your collarbone. He took his time, learning you, adding a finger when you rocked against his hand and whispered for more. 

The stretch was new but welcome, especially with the way he praised you in that wrecked voice, so good, so wet for me, fuck you’re perfect, until you were trembling on the edge.

When you finally tugged him up, legs wrapping around his hips, he looked at you reverently. “Still good?”

“Yeah. Want you inside me.”

He groaned, reaching down to line himself up. The first push was slow, careful, the blunt head of his cock stretching you open. 

It burned a little, but you breathed through it, hands in his hair, urging him deeper.

“More,” you whispered, surprising even yourself with how steady you sounded. “I can take it.”

Eddie’s hips stuttered, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna ruin me.” 

He sank in inch by inch, gentle but relentless, until he was buried to the hilt. You both stilled, foreheads pressed together again, breaths ragged.

“You okay?” he asked, voice strained.

You rolled your hips experimentally and moaned at the full feeling. “Move, Eddie. Please.”

So, he did. Slow, deep thrusts that built steadily, his mouth on yours, on your neck, whispering filthy-sweet things between kisses.

You surprised him again when you clenched around him deliberately, nails digging into his back, urging him faster. 

The gentle rhythm shifted, turning hotter, needier. He hit that perfect spot inside you, and you cried out, legs tightening around him.

“That’s it, baby. Let me hear you,” he panted, one hand slipping between you to rub your clit. The pressure coiled tighter, and when it finally snapped, you came hard around him, pulling him over the edge with you. 

Eddie buried his face in your neck, groaning your name as he spilled deep inside, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

For a long moment, you just held each other, hearts pounding, skin slick with pool water and sweat. He kissed your temple, lazy and soft. “Holy shit.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Yeah.”

Then, the backyard floodlights snapped on with a harsh buzz. Voices carried faintly from the house. “What the hell—?”

“Shit!” Eddie’s eyes went wide. You both scrambled up, grabbing clothes in a frantic tangle, still half-naked and laughing hysterically as you bolted for the door. 

He yanked it open, you shoved his jeans at him mid-run, and the two of you sprinted across the grass toward the fence, wet footprints and discarded shirts left in your chaotic wake.

“Run, you beautiful criminal!” he wheezed between laughs, boosting you over the fence first.

You dropped to the other side, heart racing, adrenaline singing in your veins as he landed beside you. Hand in hand, still giggling like maniacs, you disappeared into the night, clothes askew, bodies buzzing, the stolen moment burning bright between you.

You'd never run so fast in your entire life.

The second somebody inside the house had shouted, every coherent thought in your brain had completely evaporated, replaced entirely by blind panic and the overwhelming instinct to get as far away from the expensive neighborhood as physically possible.

"Eddie!"

"I'm running!"

"I can see that!"

"Then why are you yelling my name?"

"Because I'm freaking out!"

"So am I!"

You were both laughing despite yourselves, tripping over roots and ducking beneath low branches as you tore through the woods with absolutely zero concern for where you were actually going.

Somewhere behind you, a dog barked.

You immediately grabbed Eddie's arm. "Oh, my God."

"It's fine."

"What if they're following us?"

"They're definitely following us."

"Eddie!"

"I'm kidding!"

"You are the least reassuring person alive!"

He reached back long enough to catch your hand, practically dragging you over a fallen log before the familiar outline of his van finally appeared through the trees.

"There she is," he breathed dramatically.

"My hero."

He fumbled with his keys, somehow dropping them twice before finally getting the door unlocked.

The second you both climbed inside, he slammed the doors shut, and the silence that followed seemed almost deafening.

You just sat there trying to catch your breath, exchanging one look before immediately dissolving into helpless laughter all over again.

"I cannot believe we just did that."

"I cannot believe we got caught."

"I cannot believe you said we were 'politely borrowing the pool.'"

"We were!"

"Eddie."

"We gave it back."

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt. He reached behind the driver's seat and blindly started digging through the pile of jackets, shirts, and miscellaneous clutter that permanently seemed to live in the back of the van.

Eventually, he triumphantly pulled out an old Hellfire shirt and tossed it into your lap. "It's clean."

You held it up skeptically. "...How clean?"

He paused. "...Cleaner than the floor."

"I'll take it."

You disappeared behind the open side door just long enough to tug it on before climbing back inside, the oversized sleeves swallowing your hands almost entirely.

The shirt smelled faintly of laundry detergent, weed, and whatever incense Eddie occasionally remembered to fumigate the van with after cyph sessions.

It was strangely comforting.

When you looked back over, he was already looking at you, and there was that stupid grin again.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"Eddie."

"Nothin'."

"You keep looking at me."

"'Cause you're wearing my shirt."

"So?"

"So..." He rubbed the back of his neck with a laugh, suddenly looking far less confident than usual. "Looks nice."

Your face warmed immediately. "You think?"

"I know."

The adrenaline had started wearing off, replaced by something quieter. Something that suddenly made the cramped little van feel very small.

Eddie leaned back against the driver's seat, studying you with an expression that was almost disbelieving. Then he let out a quiet laugh to himself and shook his head.

"What?"

He looked at you again. "I've been wanting to kiss you for, like..." He paused dramatically, "...an embarrassingly long time."

You smiled. "I noticed."

"And now I finally can." His smile widened.

"...Yeah."

He reached over, tucking a strand of wet, messy hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness before pressing another quick kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally another soft one to your lips.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours for just a second and muttered with a little laugh, "Fucking finally."

You couldn't help smiling. "Took you long enough."

He looked mock-offended. "Me?"

"Absolutely you."

He pointed at himself. "I was being respectful."

"You were being a coward."

He gasped dramatically. "I have a reputation to uphold."

"You have many things."

"And?"

"Coward is one of them."

He laughed, nudging your shoulder. "Yeah..."

His voice was quieter this time. "Worth the wait, though."

hope you all enjoyed<333

dividers by @dividers-are-us

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Sam

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

The silence in the downstairs bedroom was textured by the ghost of a life that hadn’t been his. Sam sat upright, his back propped against the mountain of pillows Jolene had meticulously arranged, his gaze fixed on the single window that looked out into the yard. Outside, a squirrel skittered across the neglected lawn, its movements erratic as it scampered around, indifferent to the man watching from behind the glass. Sam felt a bitterness toward the creature’s mobility. Envy that he immediately tried to swallow down.

His eyes drifted to the corner of the room, lingering on a stack of old books tucked away on the mahogany dresser. Relics of the man who had breathed his last between these four walls. Every time the sun dipped low and the room bathed in that twilight orange, Sam felt the weight of it. He hated this. He hated that Jolene’s compassion had forced her into this temporary sanctuary, because he knew it contained the geography of her grief. Worse than that, he was a constant reminder of mortality in a room that already held too much of it. The memory of that raw moment only a few nights ago, where Jolene had finally stopped holding back her tears and begged him to just be kind, still hummed beneath his skin like an open nerve. It had been the point of no return.

Two days later, at his first physical therapy appointment, he hadn't been focused on the stretches or the ache of the metal plates in his leg. He had been looking for a way to stop the poison. He remembered the antiseptic scent of the clinic, the way he’d cornered his doctor near the supply closet, his voice softly demanding in a way that left no room for debate: Cut the dosage. As much as possible or switch him to naproxen. He had lied to her at the pharmacy later that same afternoon, saying that with the progress his doctors were going to stop writing a prescription for the good stuff. When she’d looked at the bottle, her brow furrowed in that way that usually preceded a question, he’d told her it was just a switch because he was doing so well. He had looked her in the eyes, his own vision swimming with the beginnings of withdrawal, and lied with a steadiness that made him feel like a stranger to himself.

He’d made the choice because he had finally understood the situation he was in. The pain of a throbbing, broken leg was a penance he could endure because comparatively, the agony of hearing Jolene’s voice crack as she pleaded for him to stop being cruel? That was something he couldn't survive. But the reality of the trade-off was becoming so intense in his leg, that he felt more delirious from the pain than he had at times from the medications. The physical pain, previously dampened by the haze of narcotics, had returned with a vindictive clarity. It was a constant, pulsating agony that made his teeth ache, a fire that crept up from his ankle and anchored itself behind his eyes.

Even worse was the mental fog. Coming off the high-dose regimen hadn't been the instant return to clarity he’d naively anticipated. Instead, it was a blurred transition. His nerves were frayed wires, reacting to the slightest shift in the room's temperature. Reality felt slippery. One moment dizzying then sharp all at once. He struggled with discerning the paranoid echoes of the drugs and the painful truth of his own fragility. Sam was in control, and for the first time, he was terrified of what he might say if the pain finally pushed him over the edge again.

The shift in his chemistry had stripped away the golden haze that used to soften the edges of the world, leaving Sam’s senses uncomfortably attuned. It was as if he’d been watching a film in a blur, and someone had suddenly snapped the focus into place, revealing a level of detail that was both addictive and overwhelming.

He found himself cataloging Jolene like a man starving for reality, his eyes tracing the minutiae of her existence. He’d spent days watching her move through the room, tethered to the rhythm of her habits. It was in the small notes she left on the nightstand. Like reminders to drink water or eat, written in her hurried, slanted script. He’d been staring at one for twenty minutes, fixated on the way she wrote her G’s. They weren’t standard loops. She pulled the tail up and tucked it in, a weird, idiosyncratic shorthand that looked like a combined C and T fused together. It was a bizarre, tiny piece of her anatomy he’d never noticed before.

Then there was the way she looked when she didn't know he was watching.

He tracked the stubborn, tight curl pattern at her temples. There was a lock that always fought the gravity of the rest of her hair. It would dive into her cheek, dancing along the line of her jaw, before springing back out with a life of its own. He watched the light catch the strands, the way the deep auburn fire of her hair transitioned into that lighter, softer shade of copper as it moved down her back.

In the evenings, when the house finally quieted and the weight of his own body forced him to retreat to the bed, she would slide in beside him, carrying the scent of soap and steam from the shower. It was the only time he felt truly steady. He’d watch her settle, her breathing slowing as the fatigue of the day finally claimed her. When her eyes fluttered shut, he was struck by the vulnerability of her face. Her lashes were thick, but he noticed how the very tips of them were thin and light, almost translucent against the porcelain pale of her eyelid. In the harsh glare of the daylight, he knew those same lashes were weighed down by dark mascara. But here, in the private sanctuary of their life, she was unadorned.

But even unadorned, she felt unreachable, and that was the knife twist.

Sam shifted his weight, his leg sending a flare of hot, white static up his thigh. It was difficult to rationalize that he was still paying for his months of medicated cruelty. He kept his gaze fixed on the yard, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with pain as he measured the distance between him and Jolene.

He thought about the way her bottom lip tucked just slightly under her top while she slept, a habit he’d only just identified. It made her look younger, softer, and infinitely more fragile. It made him want to reach out and brush his thumb against it, to see if she would wake up and smile, or if she would flinch, expecting a lash of his tongue instead of a caress. That was the terrifying crux of his sober reality. Yes, he was seeing her clearly, but he was simultaneously terrified that his presence was a permanent blight on her peace.

The squirrel was gone, leaving nothing behind but the empty, swaying branch. The house felt suffocatingly quiet. He felt a bead of sweat track down his temple. Every memory of the last few months flooded back. Every harsh word, every time he’d seen her flinch, every time he’d let his own physical torment dictate his humanity, was replaying in high definition. He looked down at his own hands and wondered how she had stood it. How she had continued to make him dinner, how she had continued to adjust the pillows, how she had continued to look at him with anything other than patience. But even as the thought unnerved him, a far more pressing reality began to claw at his lower abdomen. The water he’d forced down an hour ago, an attempt to flush the medicinal rot from his system, was demanding an exit.

Jolene was at the shop. He was alone, and he was faced with the most humbling gauntlet of his recovery.

He gripped the edge of the mattress, his knuckles turning a bloodless white. His leg felt like a rusted pipe filled with molten lead, and as he shifted his weight to pivot, a groan ripped from his chest before he could stifle it. He had to be careful. The physical therapy team had been clear about the rotation limits, but in the solitude of the room and driven by the need to piss, he felt reckless. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sudden shift in blood pressure causing his vision to white out for a moment. He waited, teeth gritted, until the world stopped spinning.

The wheelchair sat like a waiting predator a few feet away. Reaching it was a series of small, agonizing calculations. He moved in increments, using his good leg to push, his upper body sweating beneath his t-shirt. When he finally locked his hands onto the armrests and hoisted himself across. He breathed a sigh of relief, unlocking the wheels with a clack. Rolling toward the en-suite felt like maneuvering a barge through a narrow canal. The chair rolled over the hardwood, the sound amplified by his own heightened senses. Once inside the bathroom, he had to navigate the tight turn. He backed in, the wheels scraping the doorframe, until he was positioned just right.

He reached for the handheld urinal. It was ironic. A man who so frequently pissed in plastic bottles on the job, he felt the burn of shame in his own house with a medical piece of plastic that accomplished the same objective. He fumbled for his sweatpants, the simple act of undoing the drawstring feeling like a battle against his own lack of dexterity. His hands shook. As he maneuvered, the ache in his leg flared into a localized sting at the site of his surgical incisions. He kept his eyes fixed on the scuffed wood of the floor, his breathing shallow. The act itself was a grueling exercise in focus. A series of micro-adjustments to ensure the plastic was positioned correctly while keeping his injured leg extended and stable, all while every movement was a negotiation with gravity. 

He waited, impatient and irritable, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. When he was finished, the task of cleanup and then stowing the container and securing himself back into his pants felt like running a marathon. He was exhausted. Drained by a simple life function that used to take him seconds.  He sat there for a long moment in the bathroom, listening to the drip of the faucet, feeling the sweat cool on his neck. He was clean, he was managed, but he was utterly, painfully alone. The silence of the house pressed in, no longer filled with the comforting sound of Jolene’s humming or the clatter of the kitchen from when she ran by at lunch. He looked at his hands again, noticing how they were still trembling, and felt unfiltered anger at the man he had become. Sam knew that the hardest part of the day wasn't the pain. It was having to face himself in the mirror when he passed it, and seeing the hollow look of a man who was still trying to figure out how to come to terms with his new life. He gripped the rubber-rimmed wheels, his shoulders burning with the exertion as he turned the chair around, maneuvering in the cramped bathroom. The path toward the bed felt longer than it should have, but as he passed the bathroom vanity, he couldn't help but flick his eyes upward, an involuntary glance he immediately regretted. 

The bathroom mirror was a liar. It showed a man Sam didn’t recognize. His hair was the worst of it. A chaotic crown of overgrown, honey-brown curls that felt like a mocking costume. They were too soft, too long, too much like the life he was supposed to be living now, rather than the one he’d been stripped of. The chair itself felt like a cage beneath him, which was ironic considering the actual cage holding his bones together. The silence of the Virginia house was deafening with Jolene still at work. It gave the pain too much room to breathe. 

Permanent Medically Retired. The phrase echoed in his skull. Sure, it wasn’t official, but his command wouldn’t be blunt with him about the harsh reality of the situation if it weren’t on the horizon. That line jotted down on a document was months off but the reality was being lived actively, even if he was only temporarily placed on medical leave. 

Sam leaned forward, his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of the sink. His fingers brushed against the cabinet door below. He knew what was in there. He’d always kept them in the downstairs bathroom for Sunday afternoons. The ritual with him and Jolene took place at the kitchen table while Chewie ran in the backyard. It was a relic from a time when life was much simpler and not defined by his medical chart. He dug in the cabinet depths until his fingers closed around the heavy plastic of the clippers. Body on autopilot as he plugged them into the wall outlet, snatching the towel off the wall and tossing it over his lap. The motor kicked over with an aggressive buzz that vibrated straight through his palm and up his arm, grounding him for a fleeting second. Sam didn't hesitate. He pressed the cold steel teeth directly against the center of his forehead, right at the hairline where the curls were thickest.

With a single, steady shove, he plowed the clippers back. A massive hunk of dark, curly hair fell away, tumbling onto his shoulder before sliding down to the wood floor below. He watched it in the mirror, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He did it again. And again. The clippers moved in desperate swathes with slightly trembling hands. The soft, civilian curls he’d grown in the hospital being replaced by the pale, vulnerable skin of his scalp. It looked raw. The sight suddenly offputting instead of relieving. "Too much," he whispered. 

The intense pain in his leg made the falling hair look like it was moving in slow motion, drifting through the air like autumn leaves. He was trying in vain to claw back to the only version of himself that made sense. The one who was stripped down, ready for the dirt, and unburdened by the softness of a life he no longer knew how to navigate. He was halfway through, his head a mess of uneven stubble and patches of skin, when the sound of the front door distracted him. He stared at his reflection with head half-shorn, eyes wild and rimmed with red, and paused. The front door clicked shut, followed by the familiar scuff of Jolene’s boots on the hardwood. "Sam? Sorry I’m running late. The pharmacy took forever and 64 was a nightmare, I can start on din–"

She stopped dead in the bathroom doorway. She looked at the floor, covered in dark, severed curls, and then at Sam. He was hunched over in the chair, the clippers frozen against the side of his head, looking like a man trying to skin his own shadow.

Jolene took a slow, steadying breath, her eyes darting from his wild gaze to the lopsided mohawk he’d carved into himself. "Well," she said, her voice forced into a lightness that didn't quite reach her eyes, "I knew you were bored, Sam, but I didn't think you were this bored. I feel like you should’ve said ‘It’s Britney Bitch’ when I walked in."

The joke hit the air and lingered. Sam’s hand trembled, the clippers still buzzing, but the manic energy suddenly drained out of him. His shoulders slumped, the weight of the moment crashing down as the fog of his mind swirled. "I just..." He looked down at his lap, at the hair clinging to his shirt. "I couldn't look at it anymore, Jo. Every time I saw it, I just saw a guy who’s supposed to be able to stand up and walk out the door." He rubbed a hand over the raw, stubbled patch above his ear, his expression twisting. "I look like a half-plucked chicken. God, I’m an idiot. I shouldn't have... fuck–"

Jolene moved then, closing the distance between them. She didn't scold him. She didn't look horrified. She just reached out and gently took the clippers from his hand, switching them off and setting them on the counter.

"Hey," she whispered, cupping his jaw and she knelt enough to match his height. "Look at me."

"I’m a mess," he muttered, his eyes glassy. "The pain makes everything feel like a good idea for five minutes and then a disaster for the next fifty."

"Clearly," she murmured, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. "You could’ve at least slapped a guard on the thing, Sam. You didn't have to go full deployment mode. I would've helped you with a fade if you'd just waited twenty minutes." She stepped behind him, her hands moving to the collar of his t-shirt. "Come on. Out of this."

He leaned forward, allowing her to pull the shirt over his head, the fabric catching on the loose hair. Once he was bare-chested, vulnerable in the harsh fluorescent light, she tilted the wheelchair back slightly so his head rested against her stomach as she ran her fingers over the sections until she determined there was no salvaging it. She picked up the clippers, clicking them back to life. The sound was steadier in her hand. As she began to mow down the remaining patches of curls, the metal felt cool against his heated skin. "Good grief, Sam," she commented softly as a fresh wave of honey-brown hair fell away, revealing the stark whiteness of his scalp. “We’re definitely going to need to get some sun on this before you go out in public, or you’ll blind the physical therapist."

Sam closed his eyes, the vibration of the clippers humming through his skull. The anger was gone, replaced by a quiet exhaustion, but her touch kept him from drifting too far into the dark. He just sat there letting her finish the job he’d started in a moment of brokenness. Jolene worked with a steady hand, the clippers humming a monotonous tune that finally started to drown out the buzzing in Sam’s head. He watched in the mirror, his eyes tracked the silver blades as they mowed down the last of the defiant curls over his ears. As the symmetry returned, the man looking back at him was stark, his features sharpened and his brow appearing heavier without the soft fringe of hair to break it up.

"There," she murmured, flicking the power switch. He reached up, his palm rasping against the velvet-short stubble. It felt like sandpaper. But seeing the pile of hair in the sink made a fresh knot of guilt tighten in his stomach. The graveyard of hair she had started to twirl around her finger while they watched movies in the evenings, now stuck to his chest and in his lap. Hair she’d spent weeks praising as it grew back in the hospital, tracing it with gentle fingers while he slept.  "Jo, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. He didn't look at her, only at the reflection of her hands resting on his shoulders. "I know you liked it."

Jolene leaned down, pressing her cheek against the top of his head. She caught his gaze in the mirror and held it. "Sam, look at me," she said. "I fell in love with a guy who rocked a buzzcut. It’s just hair, remember?" She gave his shoulders a playful squeeze, trying to pull him back from the edge of his own regret. "Besides, let’s be real. I know one day this is all going to start retreating on its own anyway. I’m still going to be right here. I'm not going to care then, and I certainly don't care now." Sam let out a long breath, his head dropping back against her. The tension didn't leave him entirely, but the edges of his internal monologue started to dull. "You really are covered in this, though," she noted, brushing a stray clump of hair off his collarbone. "We need to get you in the shower and wash the rest of this off before it drives you crazy."

She moved to the side, reaching for the shower handle to let the water warm up, and then she paused, glancing back at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"So, tell me now," she teased, pointing a finger at him. "Are you going to be a total grump about me helping you in there tonight? Because last night was truly awful, Sam. I’ve had more cooperation from a wet cat. If you're going to give me that 'I can do it myself' glare while I'm trying to make sure you don't slip, I might just leave you in here to itch."

Sam managed a weak, ghost of a smile. The first real one in days. The pain laced exhaustion made his limbs feel like lead, and the thought of navigating the bench and the handheld spray felt like a mission he wasn't prepared for alone. "No," he muttered, his voice low but sincere. "No grumping. I promise. Just... keep the water hot."

Jolene didn’t wait for him to change his mind. She knelt on the cold floor, her movements methodical as she reached for the roll of heavy-duty plastic wrap and the waterproof medical tape they kept stocked. "Okay, G.I. Jane," she murmured, "Let’s get the hardware ready for the car wash."

Sam looked down at his leg, and the familiar wave of detachment hit him. His leg wasn't really a leg anymore; it was a construction project. The Taylor Spatial Frame was a nightmare of stainless steel rings and telescopic struts that pierced through his skin and anchored directly into the shattered remnants of his tibia and fibula. The six carbon-fiber rods were adjusted by millimeters every day to pull his bone back into alignment, a slow, agonizing stretching of his anatomy. Something he’d assumed by now he’d be used to and yet, continued to be surprised to learn he hadn’t acclimated yet. Jolene began the tedious process of wrapping the frame. She worked from the top ring down to the ankle, winding the plastic tight enough to keep the water out but loose enough not to compress the sensitive soft tissue.

"I have to say, Sam," she said, glancing up with a half-smirk as she smoothed the tape over the top seal, "I’m genuinely impressed. In the middle of your manic moment, you actually had the foresight to toss this towel over the cage." She patted the thick terrycloth that had shielded the frame from the falling hair. "If we’d gotten those tiny hairs into your pin sites, we’d be looking at a one-way ticket to an infection and a very angry orthopedic surgeon."

Sam grunted, his fingers tightening on the armrests of the wheelchair. "Didn't want the pins to itch. Bad enough as it is." And he wasn’t lying. The way the pin sites still continued to produce a nasty ooze of fluid, leaving them to eventually dry and crust over meant a constant state of itching sores he couldn’t scratch. It reminded him of childhood when his mom would get on him about scratching mosquito bites on his legs, warning they’d scar. Ironic now, Sam huffed at the thought.

"Well, thank God for small mercies," she said. She stood up, checking the watertight seal one last time. The frame looked like a bizarre, translucent cocoon as it did every time he’d wanted to bathe in the last few months.

The transition from the chair to the shower bench was the part Sam hated most. It was infuriating for him having to be assisted in a simple shuffle from one seat to another. But, he couldn't just stand and pivot. His proprioception was shot, and the weight of the frame alone added a clumsy, unbalanced five pounds to a limb that refused to obey him. "Hands on me," Jolene commanded, stepping into his space. He reached out, his arms wrapping around her neck as she braced her knees against the front of his chair. He felt the familiar, humiliating lightness of his own lower body as she helped him heave his weight upward. It was a strained, jerky dance. Sam’s good leg shook with the effort of bearing his full weight, while the caged leg dangled, the steel rings clinking softly.

Jolene didn't flinch. She bore his weight with a strength that always surprised him, guiding his hips toward the plastic shower bench. With a low groan, Sam settled onto the seat, his breath coming in hitches. She carefully lifted the caged leg, supporting the weight of the frame with both hands to ensure the pins didn't torque against his skin, and eased it over the lip of the shower basin.

"See? Being an asshole isn’t a necessary part of shower OPs," she teased him, reaching for the handheld showerhead. She turned the water on, testing the temperature against her wrist before directing the spray at his shoulders. As the warm water hit him, the thousands of tiny, shorn hairs began to run down his chest and back in dark, swirling rivulets. "God, you really did a number on yourself," she laughed softly, using a washcloth to gently scrub the stubborn stubble from the crook of his neck. "You’re shedding more than Chewie in the summertime. I’m going to be finding hair in the grout for the next three weeks."

She moved the spray higher, rinsing his head gently while her other hand kept the water from running into his eyes. Sam let his head tip back. Her fingers followed the water, massaging soap into his skin with tenderness.

"It’s so much easier when you just relaxed," she whispered, her voice losing its teasing edge for a second as she looked at the stark white of his scalp. "But even when you are grumpy, you're still you. The only man I want in my shower. Shaved head, bone cage, and all."

As she leaned over him to adjust the handheld sprayer, Sam’s hand heavy and uncoordinated as it drifted toward the brass zipper of her navy work coveralls. His fingers fumbled with the tab, the fabric damp from the spray, but he managed to hook it and tug downward, exposing the fabric of her camisole. Jolene let out a startled, breathless laugh, batting his hand away as she repositioned the showerhead. "Oh, for the love of–Sam! Even in pain, you’re still a pervert. Can we focus on the medical-grade de-fuzzing first?"

Sam offered a sluggish, half-lidded shrug, his back resting against the shower wall. "Priorities, Jo." She reached for the bottle of shampoo, squeezing a small drop into her palm, but Sam let out a low, disgruntled grunt, shaking his head. "Why even bother? There’s nothing left to wash." The regret was back. He looked down at the dark curls swirling around the drain.

"Because I know you think it feels good," she countered, her fingers beginning to work the lather. The massage was intentional, her nails lightly scraping the skin in a way that made his toes curl. "And maybe if we stimulate the follicles, it’ll grow back faster."

Sam groaned, the sound echoing off the shower stall. "I remember the first time you saw me like this. Before that first deployment after we started dating. You cried the entire time you ran the clippers. You hated it."

Jolene’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, her expression softening. He remembered the way her tears had hit his bare shoulders, as if the terror of the unknown manifested in the loss of his hair. "Things change, Sam."

"Yeah," he muttered, his jaw tightening. "Back then it was functional and served a purpose. Now, I just hate the way I look. Cue the bald jokes. I look like a damn thumb."

"Technically, you’re not bald," she teased, rinsing the suds away with a gentle stream of water. "There’s still stubble here. Unless, of course, you want me to break out the shave cream and make it truly shiny? We could go full Mr. Clean."

Sam let out a grumble, leaning forward until his head knocked into her hip. "Absolutely not."

"I don't know," she said, her voice dropping to a playful, sultry hum as she tilted his chin up to look at her. "It could be sexy."

Sam looked up at her, the steam clinging to her eyelashes, his gaze landing on the bone cage that sat like a monstrous piece of scaffolding around his leg. The contrast between her vitality and his wreckage felt insurmountable. "Doubtful," he said, though the way she was looking at him like he was still the only man in the world, made the lie a little harder to believe.

“Do you really think so little of me, Sam?" Jolene asked, her voice dropping the teasing edge for something more grounded. She leaned over him, her damp coveralls clinging to her skin as she caught his gaze. "You think I’m going to stop finding you attractive just because you had a disagreement between your pain brain and a pair of clippers?"

Sam let out a hollow laugh, his head lolling against her. "It’s not just the hair, Jo. It’s the fact that you’re having to bathe me like a child. I’m sitting on a plastic bench while you scrub my back because I can’t stand up without a spotter. Not exactly the height of rugged masculinity."

Jolene scoffed, the sound echoing off the tile as she turned off the water. She reached for a plush grey towel and began to pat the water from his shoulders. "Please. I’ve seen you at your worst, and honestly? I still find you incredibly sexy, Sam." She gave the top of his head a playful little tap with her palm. "The hair will grow back babe. The leg will heal. But the ego? That’s the part we really need to work on." She moved with the efficiency of someone who had turned this new way of life into a routine. Standing in front of him, she draped the towel over his lap, careful not to snag the plastic-wrapped cage. "Alright, lean into me. Big heave on three."

It was the same strained, awkward physics as before. Sam gritted his teeth, his good leg trembling as he pushed off the bench, his arms locked around Jolene’s neck. He could feel the heat of her skin through the damp fabric of her coveralls, a reminder of the woman who hadn't flinched once since he’d come back broken. With a pained grunt, he pivoted, his weight shifting heavily until his hips hit the seat of the wheelchair with a thud. Jolene didn't let go immediately; she stayed braced against him, ensuring he was stable before she reached down to lift his bad leg. "Easy, easy," she murmured, supporting the weight of the steel rings as she guided his leg back onto the elevated footrest. She stood back, wiping a bead of condensation from her forehead with her sleeve, and looked down at him. "There. One clean, impulsive SEAL, ready for transport."

Getting Sam dressed was a choreographed struggle. Always a series of grunts and apologizes-for elbows. Because of the frame, normal pants were a relic of the past; Jolene reached for a pair of modified gray sweats with the bottom half of one pant leg cut off. He leaned forward, bracing his triceps on the armrests to lift his hips just enough for her to slide the fabric underneath. It was an undignified process. She worked upward, her fingers deft and certain, while Sam focused on the ceiling’s exposed wood beams to keep the nausea from peaking in the heat of the post shower air of the bathroom.

Once a soft, faded Navy PT shirt that hung loose on his frame was over his head, Jolene stood up and grabbed a broom from the corner. She began to sweep, the dry sound of the bristles against the tile filling the small room. "Stay put for a second," she murmured, her eyes on the floor. "I don't want you tracking this all over the place."

But Sam was already moving. He gripped the cold chrome rims of his wheels, his muscles straining as he maneuvered the chair toward the fogged-up vanity. He reached out a trembling hand, his palm wiping a clear streak through the condensation. The man who looked back was a stranger. Without the curls, his face looked gaunt, the shadows under his eyes deeper, his jawline more severe. The pale, buzzed scalp made him look like a prisoner of war or a monk. 

"God," he croaked, his fingers tracing the stubble near his temple.

Just then, a heavy click-clack of claws sounded on the hardwood in the hallway. Chewie trotted into the bathroom, his tail giving a single, tentative wag. He stopped short, his head tilting so far to the left it was almost horizontal. The dog looked at Sam, his dark eyes wide and confused, his ears twitching as if trying to reconcile the familiar scent with the unfamiliar silhouette of the man in the chair. Chewie let out a soft, inquisitive whimper, his nose dropping to the floor. He approached the pile of hair Jolene had swept near the door, his nostrils fluttering as he took a deep, lingering sniff of the discarded curls. He looked back up at Sam, then back down at the pile, let out a confused huff, and sat back on his haunches, waiting for an explanation that Sam didn't have the heart to give.

Jolene reappeared with the dustpan, pausing to ruffle the dog’s ears. "He’s wondering where the rest of his human went," she teased gently, though she kept her eyes on the pile of hair. 

The dustpan clattered against the floor as Jolene caught the look in Sam’s eyes. The light, teasing air she’d been trying to maintain collapsed instantly. Sam wasn't looking at the dog anymore. He was staring at the clear streak he’d wiped through the steam on the mirror as the first sob broke through. His head dropped into his hands, his shoulders shaking with a violence that made the wheelchair rattle. Jolene was at his side in an instant, sinking to her knees beside the wheel.

"Sam, oh god, Sam, I’m sorry," she whispered, her hands reaching up to catch his wrists. "I was just trying to–"

"I hate it," he choked out, his voice thick and distorted. "I hate it so much, Jo."

He pulled his hands away, his face flushed a deep, painful red under the harsh bathroom lights. "The officer who stopped by... the pain... how bad I’ve been treating you. It’s all too much. Sitting here, listening to them list off everything I can't do anymore. Telling me that I’ll probably be classified as ‘Totally disabled’ before it's all said and done. Like I’m a piece of equipment that’s beyond repair. I felt like the SEAL was being ripped away from me. I wanted to hand it over with some fucking dignity, not live in this purgatory where I am still legally one but know deep down there’s never a chance at going back to it." He gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles turned white. "I just wanted to be that guy again. I thought if I looked like him I’d feel like myself.”

He looked at the pile of curls on the floor, then back at the mirror, the realization of what he’d done finally settling in with agonizing clarity. "I look awful." He let out a dry, bitter laugh that turned back into a sob. "Before I left for that last op, I told you I wanted to retire. I told you I never wanted to touch those damn clippers again. I wanted to grow it out, be a civilian, be with you. And then I panicked and did this. I’m so stupid."

"You’re not stupid, Sam," Jolene said firmly, her thumbs brushing the tears from his cheeks. "You’re grieving and trying to process all that happened. You’re allowed to have a moment where you just want to go back to what felt safe."

"It’s stupid," he snapped, though there was no heat in it. He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for the lie he was sure was there. "There is no way after all that’s happened you can be proud of what you see.”

“It’s not true," Jolene didn't flinch from the raw, wet grief in his eyes.

"How can it not be?" Sam shot back, his voice cracking as he gestured vaguely toward his own body. "Look at me, Jo. I’ve changed so much. I’ve lost thirty pounds. My legs are wasting away. I’m scarred, I’m hardly even able to put together a thought and now I’ve gone and shaved my head like a lunatic." He looked at the way the bathroom light caught the warmth in her auburn hair and the steady, unwavering strength in her posture. "I’m not the same man you’ve been dating for the last two years. I’m not the guy who could pick you up and carry you over the threshold. And you’re still the most beautiful woman in the whole world."

Jolene didn't let him spiral. She reached out, her fingers curling around his shoulders to pull him closer to her. "Stop," she whispered. She leaned back, tilting her head. Sam opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked back at his reflection. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the hum of the bathroom ventilation and the rhythmic thumping of Chewie’s tail against the floor. For the first time since he’d picked up the clippers, the buzzing static in Sam’s brain began to settle. He looked at her and the realization began to sink in that his own self-loathing was a wall he was building between them, stone by stone. "I..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to his lap. He felt diminished, a fragmented version of the man who had left for that final op. 

“Sam. You’re still my guy." she whispered through a sigh, kissing the tip of his nose as if signaling she was not going to continue pushing him. Her allowance of his own self loathing if he chose feeling more freeing in a weird way. "Let’s get you out of this chair before the dog decides to eat the rest of your hair."

Jolene helped Sam navigate the final, grueling transfer from the chair to the edge of the mattress, her strength anchoring him until he could finally collapse back against the pillows. "Stay put," Jolene murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I'm going to grab some water and your meds." Sam didn’t have the energy to move even if he wanted to. He lay there, staring at the ceiling fan. The silence of the room was heavy until the bed shifted.

Chewie didn’t hesitate. The big German Shepherd hopped up, his weight tilting the mattress as he crawled toward the headboard. He circled once, then dropped down right next to Sam’s head. The dog leaned in, his wet nose twitching as he took a long, confused sniff. Before Sam could react, a massive, sandpaper-rough tongue swiped across the entire side of his head from his temple to his crown. "Ugh, Chewie! Gross," Sam scoffed, trying to pull away, but the dog just huffed and licked him again.

Jolene walked back in holding a glass of water, and the sight stopped her mid-stride. She looked at Sam currently being power-washed by a hundred-pound dog and her composure shattered.

She let out a loud, genuine wheeze of a laugh that made her double over, her hand catching the doorframe for support. The sound filled the room in a way that made the heavy atmosphere of the last few hours vanish. Sam watched her, his annoyance fading. He realized then how much he’d missed that sound. The unbridled, belly-deep laugh that meant she wasn't worried about his pin sites or making sure he had all he needed for a fleeting second. He was just her guy getting lovingly mauled by their dog.

"I'm glad my misery is so entertaining," Sam grumbled, though a small, real smile was finally tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye as she stood back up, still breathless. "It’s just, he’s being so cute! It’s like he thinks you’re a giant tennis ball, Sam."

Chewie seemed to agree. The dog let out a satisfied sigh and slumped down, resting his heavy, blocky head directly on Sam’s chest, his golden-brown eyes looking up with unwavering devotion. Sam looked down at the dog, then back at Jolene, and gave a helpless, lopsided shrug. "Well. At least someone likes the new look," Sam muttered.

Jolene’s eyes lit up as she spotted her Polaroid camera sitting on the dresser. She reached for it immediately. "Jo, no," Sam groaned, instinctively trying to raise a hand to cover his face. 

"Sam, please," she said, her voice dropping into that soft, persuasive tone he could never fight. She held the camera up, her finger hovering over the shutter. "It’s for me. It’s a good moment. I want to remember it."

Sam looked at her, then at the dog pinned to his chest, and finally let his hand fall back to the duvet. "Fine," he sighed, the defeat flavored with a strange sense of peace. "Take the damn picture."

The flash flared, bright and sudden, followed by the mechanical whine of the film ejecting. In the quiet of the Virginia evening, the sound felt like a period at the end of a very long, very hard day. The flash of the Polaroid died away, leaving a lingering purple bloom in Sam’s vision that danced against the shadowed corners of the bedroom. Sam squinted at Jolene. "How the hell did you get that camera so fast?" he muttered, his voice raspy from the earlier crying. "You were just holding a glass of water."

Jolene didn’t answer right away. She was busy shaking the film, watching the milky white surface begin to resolve into the shape of a man and a dog. A ghost of a smirk played on her lips as she reached into the deep cargo pocket of her work coveralls. Instead of answering, she pulled out a second, already-developed photo and slipped it into his hand.

Sam held it up to the bedside lamp. It was only a few minutes ago. In the frame, Chewie was standing over the massive, chaotic pile of curls on the wood floor. The German Shepherd’s head was tucked low, his ears pinned back in total bewilderment, staring at the hair as if it were a downed piece of prey that might suddenly spring back to life and reattach itself to Sam’s head. The photo captured Chewie’s legendary underbite. Two bottom teeth hooked over his upper lip, making him look like a very concerned gargoyle. Underneath, in Jolene’s effortless script, she had written: Detective Chewie investigating the scene of Dad’s Impulsive Haircut. The suspect is currently bald and confused.

Sam looked from the photo to the actual dog currently pinning his chest to the mattress. He reached out a heavy hand, scratching the thick fur behind Chewie’s ears. "Sorry, buddy," he murmured, his voice thick. "Sorry for freaking you out. Didn't mean to lose my mind in front of you."

Jolene let out a soft snort, moving the Polaroid camera back to the dresser. "You don't need to apologize to the dog for your Britney moment, Sam. He’s seen you through worse. But I’m keeping that photo. It’s the kind of thing we’re going to look back on in a year and laugh about until we can't breathe."

Sam huffed watching as she reached for the long brass zipper of her coveralls. With a weary motion, she slid it down, stepping out of the heavy navy fabric until she was standing in just her black ribbed tank top and underwear. She looked exhausted, the faint grease stains from the shop still smudged near her collarbone, but she didn't complain. She just climbed into the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight as she tucked herself into his side.

He leaned his head into the crook of her neck. Her hand immediately found the back of his scalp, her thumb tracing. "I realized I never even asked," Sam whispered, the guilt of his self-absorption finally hitting him. "How was work? I... I had this whole plan, Jo. I was going to have dinner ready when you got home."

Jolene’s fingers slowed their movement, her voice a soft hum against his temple. "It’s okay, Sam. Work was work. The world didn't stop turning because you didn't make pasta. Just being here when I walk through the door is enough."

"It's not, though," he countered, his jaw tightening. "At least let me sit with you in the bathroom while you take your shower. I can wheel in there, keep you company, and order a pizza so you don't have to think about food. It’s the bare minimum."

"Sam, that’s really not necessary," she said, though her tone was more tired than dismissive. He feared for a moment she was getting a flash back to his time in the bathroom while she showered back in Maryland but the fear dissipated when she seemed more tired than fearful.

"I disagree," he said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. "I’m living rent-free in your house, Jo. I’m not contributing a dime of effort while you’re working forty-plus hours at the shop and then coming home to play nurse for the rest of the night. I’m not going to just lie here like a piece of furniture while you do everything. I’m ordering the pizza, and I’m sitting in that bathroom with you. Deal with it."

Jolene looked at him for a long beat, seeing the stubborn glint of the Navy SEAL she’d fallen in love with peering out. Jolene’s head felt heavy against his shoulder, her breathing already beginning to slow as the sheer exhaustion of her life caught up to her. The tension in her limbs, which had been wound tight as a spring while she was scrubbing his scalp and wrestling with the Taylor frame, finally began to unspool.

"If you're really calling it in," she murmured, her voice thick and slurring at the edges with impending sleep, "can you get those mozzarella sticks..?"

Sam felt a ghost of a grin pull at his lips. The contrast from the hollowed-out grief that had consumed him only an hour prior to feeling pride at being given a way to take care of her softened him. "Jo, you can have whatever you want. I’ll order the whole damn menu if it means you don't have to touch a stove tonight."

She let out a soft, contented hum, melting into his side until she was draped across him like a blanket. Her hand, still resting on the prickly, shorn nape of his neck, gave a lazy, affectionate squeeze. "I love how you still take care of me, Sam," she whispered into the cotton of his shirt. "Even when you think you're not doing anything... you're still looking out for me."

He stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way the painkillers couldn't numb. For weeks, his internal monologue had been a relentless loop of broken, useless, burden, and bastard. He had viewed every act of her kindness as a debt he couldn't repay. A tally of his own failures as a partner. He’d seen himself as a project she was managing, a patient she was discharge-planning, a shell of a man she was pitying all while letting him treat her like shit.

But in that one sleepy, unfiltered sentence, she had flipped the script.

She wasn't seeing a man who couldn't walk; she was seeing the man who still anticipated her hunger, who still prioritized her comfort after a long day at the shop. Who, even in the middle of his own identity crisis, was still hers. She was acknowledging that his contribution wasn't measured in the weight he could lift or the miles he could run, but in the way he held space for her needs. The lump returned to his throat, but this time it wasn't born of shame. It was a quiet, staggering realization that his value to her wasn't tied to his status as a SEAL. It was tied to the soul of the man who was currently holding her while she drifted off.

He reached down, his fingers threading through her auburn hair, anchoring himself to the reality of her warmth. "I've got you, Jo," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'll always take care of you, Baby."

He stayed like that for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall, before he carefully reached for his phone on the nightstand. He moved with quiet purpose, navigating the call log till he found the shop so often providing their meals these days with a focus that felt like his first successful mission in months. He ordered the extra cheese, the mozzarella sticks, and a side of the wings she liked, feeling a strange, steadying pride in the simple act.

As he waited for the teenager to read it back to him, he looked at his reflection in the mirror on the bedroom wall, seeing the buzzed head and tired eyes. He didn't look like a hero, and he certainly didn't look like a soldier, but as Jolene shifted in her sleep, he realized he could still be exactly what she wanted. He could still be the one to provide, even in the smallest, most domestic ways. 

In the kitchen, the challenges of his height became apparent, but he adapted. He hooked his good foot under the cabinet for leverage, leaning precariously out of the chair to reach the fridge. He found the leftover roast chicken and some greens, tucking them into a container for Jolene’s lunch tomorrow. He moved to the coffee pot, straining his core to reach the water reservoir and the filter, setting the timer for 05:00. It was a clumsy, slow-motion version of his old self, but as he clicked the 'Auto' button, a fierce sense of pride bloomed in his chest.

He rolled back into the bathroom, turning the shower on to let the steam build, then finally made his way back to the bedroom. Jolene was sprawled sideways across the mattress, her auburn hair fanned out like a sunset against the white duvet. She looked soft, vulnerable, and utterly wiped out. Sam reached out, his hand resting on her hip, and gave her a gentle shake.

"Hey. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," he murmured, his voice energized, vibrating with a renewed sense of purpose. "Shower’s hot. Pizza’s twenty minutes out."

Jolene let out a long, protesting groan, her eyes fluttering open and squinting against the soft bedside light. She looked at the bright, alert look in his eyes, and a sleepy, lopsided smile touched her lips. "Mm... you’re loud," she mumbled, reaching up to rub her eyes. "Why are you barking orders at me like a recruit?"

"Because I've got a schedule to keep," Sam said, his tone playfully bossy. He maneuvered the chair closer, nudging her shoulder. "I've already got your lunch packed and the coffee set. Now, get up. I’m not letting you go to sleep covered in garage grease."

Jolene didn’t even look back as she stood, her movements fluid and unbothered by the cool air of the room. She reached for the top of her tank top, pulling it over her head and tossing it toward the hamper in one practiced motion. Then, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear, stepping out of them as she turned toward the dresser, her pale skin glowing in the amber spill of the hallway light. She started rummaging through a basket for a clean change of close, her back turned to him, completely exposed. Sam didn't hesitate. He rolled the chair forward just enough to close the gap, and with a crisp smack, his palm connected with her bare behind.

Jolene jumped, her shoulders hitting her ears as she spun around, her eyes wide with mock outrage. "Sam!"

Sam didn't back down. He didn't offer the sheepish, apologetic smile he’d been wearing for weeks. Instead, he leaned back in the wheelchair, crossing his arms over his chest, his jaw set. He looked every bit the Petty Officer as he pointed a commanding finger toward the steaming bathroom door. "I gave you an order, Jolene," he said, his voice dropping into a register that left no room for debate. It was the tone he used when the clock was ticking and the mission was live. "Shower. Now."

Jolene stared at him, her indignation melting into an amused smirk. She braced her hands on her hips, her gaze dragging over his pale, buzzed scalp and then back to his eyes. "Oh, I see," she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "He shaves his head and suddenly he’s back to being the bossy Petty Officer." She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth were twitching. "You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re being a tyrant."

"Less talking, more scrubbing," Sam countered, his eyes flashing with a spark of the dominance he’d feared was buried under layers of hospital gauze. "Move it."

"Yes, sir," she drawled, giving him a mock, two-finger salute that was entirely disrespectful and exactly what he needed.

As she turned and sauntered toward the bathroom, the sway of her hips deliberate, Sam felt a predatory grin spread across his face. For the first time in a long time, the man in the chair felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be: In charge of his house, his woman, and his life. The wheelchair hummed over the bathroom floor. Sam didn't stop at the door. He navigated the tight turn, bringing the chair flush against the side of the shower stall. The plastic curtain was a translucent barrier, blurred by the spray, but he reached out with a steady hand and hooked the edge, peeling it back just enough to reveal the silhouette of her body slick with water.

Jolene spun around, the spray hitting her shoulders and sending a cascade of droplets. She caught his eye, a playful scowl tugging at her lips as she reached for the bar of soap. "Sam! You are absolutely unbelievable," she scoffed, though the glint in her eyes was anything but annoyed. "Since when does the commanding officer conduct mid-mission inspections?"

"Since the mission involves high-value assets," Sam countered. He leaned back in the chair, his eyes trailing the path of the water down her spine.

Jolene didn't offer him the satisfaction of an immediate surrender. Instead, she turned her back to him again, the muscles of her legs and lower back shifting under the hot spray. She gave her hips a slow, deliberate shimmy. A blatant, taunting shake of her ass that was designed to remind him exactly what was currently out of his reach. "You’re a menace, Sam. Go wait for the pizza before you hurt yourself."

"Don't taunt me, Jo," Sam warned, his thumb tracing the cold chrome of his wheel. "Just because I’m in this chair doesn't mean I’ve lost my edge. I’m a SEAL. We’re trained to be adaptable. I’m a very creative man, and I promise you, I will still find a way to have my fun with you."

Jolene paused, the soap abandoned. She turned slowly, moving with a grace that made his breath hitch, until she was facing him fully. She stood bare and unashamed under the deluge, the water slicking her auburn hair against her neck and tracing the curves of her breasts and stomach. She leaned one hand against the wall, a challenge written in the curve of her brow. "Oh, really?" she asked, her voice dropping to a sultry, daring silk. "And how exactly do you plan to do that? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve got a lot of hardware between you and me."

She didn't move to cover herself; just stood there, a vision of wet, glowing skin and defiance, waiting to see exactly how far his creativity would go. Jolene didn't move to close the curtain. Instead, she reached for the handheld sprayer, the water hissing as she began to rinse the lingering suds from her shoulders. She moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the spray tracing the curves of her body, turning her skin into a landscape of glistening, translucent pearls.

She looked at him through the mist, "Well?" she prompted. "Enlighten me. I’m all ears. Because from here, it looks like I’m the one with the tactical advantage."

She stepped closer to the edge of the stall, the water splashing against her shins, and waited. Sam didn’t look away. The frustration that had fueled his impulsive haircut had transmuted into something cooler, sharper, and much more dangerous. He reached out, his large hand gripping the area where the wood panel wall gave way to the shower stall. He felt the phantom pressure of the soldier he used to be. The one who didn't see obstacles, only secondary routes.

"Step one," he said, his voice dropping into uncompromising command. "Turn the water off."

Jolene’s smirk faltered just a fraction, replaced by a flicker of genuine intrigue. She reached back, her fingers finding the handle and twisting it. The sudden silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of the showerhead.

"Step two," Sam continued, his gaze dragging upward to her eyes. He didn't move the chair; he didn't have to. The sheer gravity of his presence seemed to pull the air out of the room. "Come closer. Right to the edge. I want to see exactly what I’m working with."

Jolene hesitated, her breath hitching as she looked at the man before her. He had lost so much of his softness, leaving behind the  intensity of the man she’d seen in those deployment photos. One who survived things people weren't meant to survive. She took a step forward, the water on her skin dripping onto the bathmat as she leaned over the edge of the shower stall, her face inches from his.

"Alright," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of defiance and desire. "Now what?"

Sam didn't give her a chance to overthink it. He reached out, his hands certain as he gripped her hips, the skin still slick and hot from the spray. With a firm tug, he pulled her toward him until she was standing directly between his thighs, her knees brushing against the cold metal frame of the wheelchair.

Jolene gasped, her breath catching as she stumbled slightly, her wet hands reflexively flying out to find his shoulders for balance. Her eyes went wide, darting down to the Taylor frame and the precarious way she was boxed in by his legs. "Sam! Be careful–"

"Stop worrying, Jolene," he growled, "I’m not going to break."

He didn't wait for her to argue. He leaned forward, his strong arms locking around her waist. The scent of her damp skin and hibiscus soap filled his senses.

He tilted his head back, his eyes never leaving hers for a heartbeat before he leaned towards her. Jolene let out a strangled moan as he wrapped his lips around her breast, his tongue swiping across the sensitive, wet peak. The heat of his mouth was a startling contrast to the cooling air of the bathroom, and she arched into him, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as her panic melted.

Sam didn’t let up, his tongue swirling against her damp skin. Her fingers were firm around the back of his head, her hips pressing instinctively closer despite the looming presence of the steel frame. Then, the rap-rap-rap of the front door echoed through the hallway.

Jolene jumped, her body tensing as she pulled back, her chest heaving. "Sam, the pizza," she said , her eyes wide and dark with a sudden, disoriented flush. "I should go–"

Sam’s hands tightened on her hips. He looked up at her, his eyes firm and dark. "Stay put," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "I’m going to get the food. When I come back, I want you sitting on that. Right on the edge." He pointed a blunt finger at the bathroom counter.

"Sam, I'm wet, I'm naked, and the pizza guy is–"

"No," he cut her off, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Vanity. Now."

He let go of her and expertly spun the chair around, the wheels whispering over the floor as he rolled out of the bathroom. As he navigated the hallway toward the front door, his mind was a riot of static and heat. For weeks, the high doses of oxycodone had turned his body into a numb, heavy thing. The pills usually acted like a wet blanket on his libido, leaving him feeling disconnected from his own skin. But in the quiet hours while Jolene was at the shop, the frustration would build until it was unbearable.

He’d spent countless afternoons staring at the ceiling, his hand working beneath the covers as he envisioned her. Not as his nurse, not as the woman wrapping his leg in plastic, but as the woman who used to wrap herself around him in the dark. He’d jerk off to the memory of her scent, his teeth gritted against the phantom pains in his tibia, desperate for a shred of the intimacy that felt like it was slipping through his fingers. He wanted to prove that even with a shattered leg, he could still make her lose her mind.

He reached the front door, his pulse hammering in his throat. He’d deal with the pizza, he’d pay the man, and then he was going back into that bathroom to reclaim the only part of his life that still felt like it belonged to him. The heavy front door clicked shut, the transaction handled with a curt, efficiency. Sam didn't linger. He shoved the pizza boxes onto the kitchen counter, the smell of garlic and toasted dough trailing behind him like an afterthought, and pivoted the chair back toward the bathroom.

When he rolled through the doorway, the steam had begun to thin, settling into a heavy, translucent dew on the mirrors. Jolene was exactly where he’d ordered her to be. She was perched on the vanity, her legs dangling, her pale skin still flushed from the heat of the water. She was working a wide-toothed comb through her damp, auburn hair, the long strands catching the light like polished copper.

She looked up as he approached, the comb pausing mid-stroke. Her eyes were wide, a mix of lingering arousal and the reflexive, caretaking instinct she couldn’t quite turn off. "Sam," she started, her voice soft and slightly breathless. "You really don't need to do thi–"

"Hush," he cut her off.

He didn't stop until the front of his wheelchair was pressed against the vanity, boxing her in. Without a word, he reached out and took her ankles in his hands. Her skin was cool now, but still damp against his palms. He simply tugged, pulling her feet forward until her heels were resting firmly in his lap. The contrast was striking: her soft, arched feet resting against the rough fabric of his sweats and the cold, unforgiving steel of his leg cage.

"The pizza?" she asked, her voice wavering as he began to trace the line of her instep with his thumb.

"In the oven," Sam murmured, his focus entirely on the delicate bones of her feet. "Warmer is on. Stop worrying."

He began to rub the arches of her feet, his thumbs pressing into the muscle with a slow pressure that was designed to ground her. He knew how much she stood at the shop. He knew the toll the long hours on the concrete floor took on her body while she was busy worrying about his.

"I want you to relax," he said. He looked up, his head tilted back so he could catch her gaze. For a moment he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind her. The harsh bathroom light sharpened the planes of his face, making him look less like a patient and more like a man reclaiming his territory. "For the next few minutes, there is no physical therapy, there are no pin sites, and there is no 'medically retired' bullshit. There’s just you and me. Now, put the comb down."

Jolene let out a shaky exhale, her shoulders finally dropping as she set the comb on the counter beside her. She leaned back on her hands, her chest rising and falling, her eyes never leaving his. The dominance in his tone wasn't just a performance. He was desperate to drag her out of the role of the provider and back into the simplicity of being wanted. Sam didn’t give her time to think, his hands shifting from her arches to the backs of her thighs. He pulled her forward until her hips were flush against the very corner of the vanity. 

"Sam–" her voice was a breathy, startled hitch.

"I said stop worrying," he murmured.

With a controlled motion, he lifted her right leg, guiding it up until her calf was draped over his broad shoulder. He leaned forward into the space between her thighs, his chest pressing against her knees as he boxed her in. He didn't hesitate. He buried his face in the damp heat of her, his lips finding the sensitive, aching center of her with a precision that made Jolene’s head snap back against the vanity mirror.

The first contact was slow. A lingering, hot press of his mouth as he tasted her own unique sweetness. He moved his lips, his tongue sweeping upward in long, firm strokes that traced the delicate architecture of her body. Every motion was intentional. Jolene’s fingers scrambled for purchase, her knuckles turning white as she arched her back. A high, thin whine escaping her throat. He used the stubble on his chin to ghost against her inner thighs, as the abrasive friction heightened the sensitivity until she was shaking under his hands.

Jolene’s heels dug into the tops of his thighs as she tried to anchor herself against the storm he was creating. She was shaking, her entire body vibrating with a tension that was finally, mercifully, snapping. Her fingers scrambled blindly behind her on the countertop, knocking over a bottle of lotion that clattered into the sink. "Sam... Sam," she sobbed his name, her head falling back until it thudded against the mirror.

He heard the change in her voice. The high-pitched catch that signaled she was right on the edge. He leaned forward even more, the end of the wheelchair’s seat biting into his hamstrings as he pressed his face deeper into her, his tongue moving with a relentless energy that ignored the throbbing protest in his pinned leg.

This was it. The bridge back to himself.

For months, he’d been a project to be managed, a body to be mended, and a burden to be carried. He’d watched her exhaust herself for him. Seen her hands steady his trembling ones. He’d felt the crushing weight of his own perceived uselessness. He’d also felt the overwhelming guilt of being such a nasty jerk to her that it brought her to tears. But right now, in the humid heat of the bathroom, the power dynamic had shifted. He wasn't the one receiving; he was the one giving. He was the one in control of the sounds tearing out of her throat.

He used his hands to spread her further, his thumbs hooking into the soft skin of her inner thighs to keep her open for him. He was thorough, his mouth hot and unyielding as he chased her climax. When it finally hit, it was violent. Jolene’s hips jerked off the vanity, her muscles coiling tight as she let out a long, choked-off cry that ended in a series of shuddering gasps.

Sam didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his forehead resting against the soft curve of her belly, his own breath coming in bursts. He could feel as the tremors in her legs subsided.

He felt a tear prick at his eye, hidden against her skin. It was the first time since the explosion that he felt like a man who was still capable of taking care of his woman. He wasn't just a patient anymore. He was Sam. And he had a long road ahead of him to remind her exactly why she had stuck around for him.

Jolene’s hand came down, her fingers shaking as they found the prickly, buzzed hair on the back of his head. She didn't say anything; she just held him there, her palm grounding him as the steam in the room slowly began to dissipate. She didn't move to cover herself. Instead, she leaned forward, her hands sliding from the prickly nape of his neck to cup his face, her fingers damp with steam and the salt of her own skin. She forced him to look up, her thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes where the exhaustion still lingered.

"Sam," she whispered, her voice a beautiful rasp. "Look at me." He raised his head. "Don't you ever," she started, her voice shaking, "don't you ever tell me you aren't the same man. I don't care about the chair. I don't care about the hair. That?" She gestured vaguely to the space between them, her face flushing a deep pink. "That was you. All you."

She leaned down, pressing her forehead against his, her nose brushing his. A small, tearful laugh bubbled out of her. "You’re still a bossy, arrogant, over-achieving SEAL, Sam. Even if you are currently doing it from a seated position."

Sam let out a breath. The weight on his chest didn't vanish, but it shifted. It became something he could carry. "I told you I was creative," he murmured, his hands sliding up to grip her waist one last time.

"You're a menace," she countered, though she kissed him then. It was deep, with a lingering taste of gratitude and rediscovered fire. She pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching his. "Now, I think I hear a pizza calling my name, and if I don't get those mozzarella sticks in the next five minutes, I might actually faint."

"Can't have that," Sam said, his smirk returning as he felt more confident than he had all day. He began to back the wheelchair up, giving her space to slide off the counter. "Don’t even think about putting those clothes on, Jolene. I want you ready for round two. That's an order."

She hopped down, her legs still a little unsteady as her feet hit the bathmat. "Yes, Sir," she teased, blowing him a kiss before starting off towards the kitchen.

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

Weeks later, and Sam’s mind drifted to the nights like that, which felt like a fragile truce with the universe. He wished the energy he’d captured in that bathroom, and later in the bedroom where he’d pulled her thighs up over his shoulders, could be bottle-fed to the daylight hours. It was a fierce kind of worship. A way to anchor himself to her when his nerves were fraying at the edges. But for every evening of slowly reclaimed intimate release, he kept coming up short on the grueling, mundane terrain of day-to-day existence. He told himself he was doing better, and he clung to that mantra like a buoy in a storm. Something is better than nothing. But the illusion of his recovery fractured the moment the rest of his team arrived, and the stability he’d fought so hard to cultivate began a slow, almost undetectable slide backward.

Jolene had been a saint, hosting them at the house, ensuring the cooler was packed with beer and the kitchen stocked with enough food to feed a battalion. It had started lighthearted enough. The guys rolled through the front door like a wave of familiar noise, filling the quiet Virginia house with the heavy, unpolished cadence of a life Sam had once owned. They were playful, checking on the hardware strapped to his leg, poking at the scars, and firing off jokes that had lost their teeth years ago. The relief of being back in the same place together was glaringly apparent, even if no one said it. It had even felt genuine when Ray recounted the story of that day in the chaos. The ridiculous, surreal image of Sam’s dick hanging out of his trousers mid-shuffle toward the tank for the medical evacuation.

But as the sun began to dip, the relief of simply laying eyes on one another evaporated. The energy that had defined their arrival bled out of them, leaving the back porch heavy and stagnant. The conversation drifted into the quiet, hollow spaces where words usually went to die. As the evening air grew crisp, the cold began to prickle along the length of Sam’s leg, a phantom needle-stitching that seemed to mock the stillness. The group went catatonic, sinking into that terrifying silence shared only by men who had survived something gut-wrenchingly awful. A collective refusal to admit that a piece of their souls had been left behind in that house, buried in the blood, dust and the heat of Iraq.

Jolene, sensing the shift, had kept her distance, retreating inside with Tina. The two women had sequestered themselves, and he imagined Jo was likely investigating the… situation. That had become the focal point of the night, surfacing during one of those midnight debriefs in the bedroom that made Sam feel, for a fleeting moment, like a human being again.

Sam had opened the door to his squad and pulling up the rear had been Tina. Frank’s wife had stood there, clutching a newborn to her chest as if she were hiding behind it. The kid was impossibly tiny, skeletal-looking, especially considering the confident, booming claims Frank and Tina had made about a normal, healthy birth. Sam had enough experience from his sister’s extremely early delivery to recognize the telltale signs of a preemie. This wasn’t just a small baby.

“There’s no fucking way, Sam,” Jolene had murmured to him later, her voice a low vibration against the pillows in the dark. She was tracing the line of his hip, her touch tentative.

Sam shifted, the metal in his leg biting into the mattress. “The kid’s got brown eyes,” he whispered back, the words tasting like copper. “Last time I checked, Tina’s got green ones, and Frank’s are blue as the fucking sky.” He let out a dry chuckle, but there was no mirth in it. It wasn’t that he was laughing at the betrayal, or the fact that his teammate’s wife had clearly spent the deployment bedding someone else. It was purely simple gossip that made him forget reality.

He remembered the way Frank had looked back in October when he’d announced the pregnancy. He’d seen the shadow of doubt in his friend’s eyes. A flicker of denial that Frank had been nurturing for months and now was clearly failing to acknowledge what was screaming at him from the cradle. That whole night Sam felt nauseous when he realized he was surrounded by a house full of men who couldn't admit they were broken, a woman who couldn't admit she was unfaithful, and himself who couldn't admit that he was more afraid of his own sobriety than he was of the war he’d been pulled away from. In the silence of the bedroom, he felt the walls closing in, the weight of their collective lies pressing against his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.

In the weeks after, life took a different form. The arrival of the guys was a complicated mercy. It acted as a buffer, a shifting of the weight that had been crushing Jolene’s spine for months. With Erik having traded the grit of the field for the polished sterility of a desk job, and Ray climbing the ranks to Petty Officer, Sam found himself in a peculiar position. His squad had become a skeleton of its former self. And if he was honest, with Frank’s reassignment back in '03 and Tommy’s in '06, the faces that moved through his living room were familiar, but the context had irrevocably shifted. They were moving forward, carving out lives that didn't revolve around the next deployment or the next firefight, while Sam remained anchored in the quiet hum of the Virginia house.

Yet, there was a relief in the transition. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the suffocating atmosphere of the homefront began to thin. Whether it was the gradual tempering of the medication withdrawal or the slow, grinding progress of his physical therapy, Sam began to reclaim small, vital pieces of his autonomy. He was leaning less on Jolene, and that reduction in his total reliance felt like the first breath of air after a long submersion. It didn’t negate the pulsing, white-hot reminder of the hardware in his tibia, nor did it fully quell the prickle of irritation he felt whenever Erik arrived to shuttle him to rehab or Ray stopped by to perform a casual, "bro-to-bro" wellness check. It was annoying, the constant intrusion on his fragile independence, but it was also a shield. It meant he was a man with a network, and that alone shaved down the edges of the self-loathing that had been eating him alive.

His connection to the world beyond these four walls also began to stretch back toward home. Since early March, he’d forced himself to initiate calls to his mother. He had to bite his tongue, grinding his molars to keep from snapping when she demanded granular updates on his recovery or launched into her standard, heavy-handed interrogation regarding his lack of a ring. “That girl has bled herself dry for you, Samuel. You better have a plan to take care of her once you are able,” she would murmur into the receiver. A soft, feminine tone that couldn't mask the steel-toed boot of her words. He never fought her on it. He didn't have the energy, and frankly, he couldn't disagree. He was just tired of the cadence of the conversation, the way it highlighted exactly how much he was failing to be the man Jolene deserved.

Then came Stephanie. Her brief arrival for Spring Break was a sudden, welcome gust of normalcy. She didn't stay long, and for a while, the dark, paranoid corner of his mind tried to convince him it was because he was too broken to look at. But Stephanie was focused on her own trajectory, eyes bright with the news of a potential summer internship with a congressional campaign. He was proud of her and in a moment of selfish, quiet maneuvering, he’d talked her into being his driver. He hadn’t given Jolene a heads-up, a failure of communication he chose to ignore until the moment of impact. 

“What do you mean he didn’t say anything?” Stephanie yelped, her voice hitting a panicked register as she stared at the unblinking, unreadable mask Jolene had settled into. Jolene was standing in the hallway, her lunchbox still gripped in her hand, her gaze locked onto Sam with silent intensity.

“He didn’t tell me shit,” Jolene scoffed. She set the cooler down on the counter with a heavy thud and paced around the table as she reached them.

“Sam!” Stephanie turned to him, her hands fluttering in the air, desperate to bridge the gap as she started an apology that wasn't hers to make. Jolene merely held up a hand, silencing her without looking away from him.

“It’s his body, Steph,” Jolene said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. “If he wants to decorate it, that’s not something he needs to ask permission for.” She leaned in, her eyes tracing the line of his arm, her expression a mix of frustration and morbid curiosity. “Well? Let’s see the new paint job.”

Sam complied, his movements slow as he pulled his shirt sleeve up over his shoulder. The ink was fresh, still vivid and angry. It was a sprawling, intricate piece. Hades, the God of Death, etched in the same stark style as the Poseidon he already wore on his ribs. It spanned his entire shoulder and bled down into his bicep. Stephanie had drafted the design back in December, while he was still haunting the hospital corridors, and for months, he’d stared at the framed sketches on his bedroom wall until the desire to wear the art had become an obsession. If he was going to be forced to live inside a body that was essentially a collection of shattered parts and metal, he was damned if he wasn’t going to claim the canvas. He’d rather look at the shadow of a god than the ruin of a soldier.

Jolene’s eyes didn’t widen, she simply leaned in closer, the overhead kitchen light catching the almost detached appraisal in her gaze. She traced the edge of the dark, stippled ink where it met the healthy skin of his shoulder, her thumb ghosting over the lines of Hades’ crown. To Stephanie, standing across the table with her hands gripped tightly in her lap, the sheer scale of the permanent addition probably seemed like a massive, impulsive argument starter. But Jolene didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head, noting how the tattoo’s dark pigments deepened the pallor of his skin, and let out a soft, hummed sound of acknowledgement.

Watching her, Sam felt a realization settle in his chest. Of course she wasn’t freaked out. She had spent the last four months watching his body get dismantled and reassembled by surgeons, watching his mind unravel in the wake of medication, and watching the man she loved turn into a stranger before slowly dragging himself back toward the surface. A tattoo, even one that covered half his arm, wasn't a crisis. It wasn't a flare-up of nerve pain, it wasn't a night terror, and it wasn't a mood-driven explosion. In the hierarchy of the disasters Jolene had managed, this was merely a cosmetic change. 

That night, the house settled into its usual, heavy silence. Sam was propped up against the pillows, his leg throbbing with that familiar ache that signaled the end of the day. The new tattoo felt tight and inflamed. It was hot and itching against his shoulder, tugging whenever he moved.

Jolene came out of the bathroom with a small tube of ointment and a clean, lint-free cloth. She didn’t ask if he was managing. She simply climbed onto the bed, her movements purposeful and quiet, and reached for his arm before he could offer a protest.

"Have you taken care of it yet?" she asked, her voice barely a murmur.

"I've got it," Sam said, reaching for the supplies he’d gotten that afternoon. "I can handle it, Jolene. It's just a tattoo."

She ignored him and tilted his arm in a way that brooked no argument. She pulled his sleeve up, her fingers cool against the feverish heat of the ink. She began to work the ointment into the skin, careful to avoid the tender, raised lines. Sam watched her as she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration. The light from the bedside lamp hit the translucent tips of her lashes, casting soft shadows on her cheeks, and for a moment, the world felt agonizingly still. He looked down at her hands unbothered by the permanent ink he’d just introduced to his already battered canvas.

"Why didn't you freak out?" he asked, the question escaping him before he could curate it. "It’s a lot of ink, Jolene. I just went and did it, didn't tell you, didn't ask... most people would be losing their minds."

Jolene didn’t look up. She smoothed the ointment over the shading of Hades’ face, her thumb pressing firmly against his bicep. "Sam," she said, her tone level, almost tired, "you’ve spent the last few months trying to find ways to take control of your own body again. If this is how you decide to do it, then that’s your choice." She finally looked up, her green eyes meeting his with a clarity that made him feel entirely transparent. "I’ve seen you lose your grip on everything else. If a tattoo is the thing that makes you feel like yourself again, then go ahead and get a hundred more. It’s just ink. It’s not the kind of thing I see worthy of an argument. It’s just you, existing in your own skin, and honestly? That’s all I’ve been waiting for you to do for a while now."

Her words hit him with more force than any lash of his own temper ever had. He sat there in the bed. Sam watched her thumb trace the edge of the fresh work, his jaw muscles tight as he waited for the other shoe to drop. He needed to be sure. He needed to know if this was just her playing the long-suffering saint, or if he’d actually managed to cross a line he hadn’t fully mapped out.

"You're not pissed?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. "I should’ve told you. It’s a pretty big commitment to just... show up with."

Jolene stopped her gentle rubbing, looking up at him with a look that was almost amused. She let out a soft, huffing laugh, shaking her head. "Sam, I’m not mad. I was surprised, yeah. Mostly because it was a hell of a surprise to come home to after a ten-hour shift. But mad?" She tapped his bicep lightly, a playful jab. "No. I’m not mad."

She went back to the ointment, her touch feather-light against the raw, stinging skin. "Honestly? I’ve been more shocked that you only had the one all this time. You’ve got the Poseidon, and even that’s tucked away on your ribs where no one really sees it unless they’re... well, unless they’re me." She looked up again, her expression softening into something reminiscent of the ease they’d had before the world had gone sideways. "My dad was practically a walking canvas, you know that. And the guys who come through here? They’re all covered in ink, half of them look like they’ve been doodled on by a toddler with a sharpie. I always assumed you were either the outlier or it was just a matter of time before you decided to add to the collection."

"I didn't want to be like them," he admitted. "I wanted to look like... I don't know. Like I hadn't been through the grinder. Like I was just a regular guy."

"And now..." she let the words trail off, her gaze flickering down toward the thick, rigid scarring on his thigh from the deep cut that luckily avoided his artery. It was silent evidence of the violence he’d endured. Sam didn’t need her to finish the sentence. He gave a single, slow nod, a gesture that carried the heavy weight of admission. It explained everything, from the reckless appointment to the permanence of the ink.

As Jolene settled back against the pillows with a book, he let his mind wander back to the years he’d spent calculating his future, treating his body like a portfolio he needed to keep pristine. He’d always operated on the assumption that there would be a "post-Navy" life. A civilian life that required suits, interviews, and the kind of professional anonymity that ink usually compromised. He’d looked at the guys in his unit who treated their skin like a communal scrapbooking project, and promised himself he wouldn't be that guy. He’d kept the Poseidon on his ribs, a secret he could hide beneath a uniform or a dress shirt, ensuring that when the time came, he could fold back into society without anyone asking questions about the man underneath. But the reality of his present was a cruel correction to those carefully laid plans. The metal around his leg, the limp that would likely define his stride, and the scars that mapped out the wreckage of his survival had marked him. He was a walking testament to violence, and the idea of "professional anonymity" felt like a cruel joke he’d stopped telling himself.

He told himself the new ink was just about reclaiming the canvas. A way to make the story his own rather than having it dictated by a roadside IED. It was a logical, aesthetic choice. Or at least, that was the narrative he fed his own brain. He had to believe that. He needed it to be a conscious, calculated evolution of his identity, anything to keep the memory of that afternoon in the bathroom with the clippers at bay. He would not allow himself to be so undone by something as simple as appearance. He didn't want to be that man again. So, he built this newer, colder justification for the tattoo. He convinced himself this wasn't an impulsive lash-out, even though, deep down, the urge was the same. He was just better at dressing it up in logic now. He watched his own reflection in the dim light of the bedroom, touching the fresh work on his shoulder, and prayed that if he kept covering the scars with art, eventually, he might actually believe he was the one in control.

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