Sam

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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.

Tag list? Just ask babes

Your eyes immediately drop to the little cardboard box of screws that had apparently slipped from your arm, scattering across the concrete. Before you can bend down, he's already crouched, gathering them one by one.

"Oh my God, thank you," you mutter, already embarrassed. "Today's just... one of those days."

He stands, holding the box out to you. "Trust me, I have a lot of those."

Before you can answer, the tiny voice from your shopping cart pipes up.

"Mama forgot apples."

You look over at your daughter, whose legs are happily swinging from the front of the cart as if the world isn't actively trying to kick your ass.

"We're not at the grocery store, bug."

"I know."

"So..."

"I still wanted apples."

The man snorts, trying to hide it behind his hand, and you can't help smiling despite yourself. He glances at the collection of fittings in your cart before looking back at you.

"So... you remodeling your house or planning on flooding it?"

You hold up the wrinkled list. "My kitchen sink won't stop leaking."

He nods once. "And you got sent here with that list?"

"My landlord told me it'd be an 'easy fix.'"

His face immediately says everything. "Oh..."

"What?"

He scratches the back of his neck. "I mean... no offense to your landlord, but he's either lazy or doesn't know what he's talking about."

You laugh, genuinely this time. "Could be both."

"Probably both."

He steps beside your cart and gently picks up one of the connectors you'd grabbed. "You don't actually need this one."

"No?"

"Nope."

He swaps it for another. "And this thread tape is garbage."

"It is?"

"It's the cheapest stuff they make."

"I picked it because it was the cheapest stuff they make."

He smiles. "Fair enough."

For the next ten minutes, he walks beside you through the aisle, explaining everything in terms that actually make sense instead of sounding like a repair manual. He never talks down to you, never makes you feel stupid, just casually points things out with an easy patience that surprises you.

Your daughter has apparently decided he's the most fascinating person she's ever seen.

She leans over the cart. "Mister."

He looks over. "Yeah?"

"I like your hair."

He instinctively reaches up to touch it. "Thanks."

"You look like a lion."

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

He pauses for a second before grinning. "I've been called worse."

She nods thoughtfully. "I have a unicorn."

"That's awesome."

"It's pink."

"My favorite color."

Her eyes widen. "No way."

"Way."

She gasps dramatically and immediately begins digging through the pile of toys she'd somehow accumulated in the shopping cart.

You rub your forehead. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"She adopts people."

He glances down at the little girl now proudly presenting him with a stuffed dinosaur that has clearly seen better days. "I'm being recruited?"

"I'm afraid so."

He accepts the dinosaur with complete seriousness. "An honor."

Your daughter beams. Mission accomplished.

After another few minutes, he places the final item into your cart. "There."

You stare at the contents. "So... this should actually fix it?"

"Should."

You hesitate, then smile sheepishly. "You don't happen to know how to install it too, right?"

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and you immediately regret them.

"Oh my God, forget I said that."

He laughs. "No, actually..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I do."

"You do?"

"Spent enough years fixing my uncle's trailer. Not licensed or anything, but I know what I'm doing."

You study him for another second. "And what's the catch?"

"The catch?"

"Nobody just offers to fix a complete stranger's sink."

His eyebrows lift. "I wasn't exactly offering."

"No?"

"I was kind of waiting to see if you'd ask."

You laugh. "So now that I have?"

He pretends to think. "Hmm..."

Your daughter kicks her feet again. "Mama makes yummy grilled cheese."

He looks at her. "She does?"

She nods emphatically. "And tomato soup."

You cover your face. "Honey..."

She points at him. "He can come over."

He immediately raises both hands. "For the record, I support stranger danger."

"He doesn't look dangerous."

"I appreciate that very much."

She studies him another second. "You got nice eyes."

His ears actually turn pink. "Thank you."

Then she sticks out one tiny hand. "I'm Rosie."

He shakes it with complete sincerity. "I'm Eddie."

She smiles like she's known him forever.

You don't know what possesses you to trust him. Maybe it's the way he talks to your daughter like she's a real person instead of a nuisance. Maybe it's because he's spent the last fifteen minutes helping you without expecting anything in return.

Or maybe it's because, for the first time in what feels like years, someone looked at you and didn't see a burden. He just saw you. 

"So..." you say carefully. "If you're sure..."

He shrugs. "I'll fix your sink."

"And if it turns out to be a bigger problem?"

"Then I'll tell you honestly."

"And if you can't fix it?"

"We'll order pizza and pretend we never touched it."

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. "That's a terrible plan."

"It's worked for me before."

Rosie is already nodding enthusiastically. "I like pizza."

He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I think she's on my side."

You smile. "I think she’s usually on the opposite of mine."

Neither of you could've known then that the sink would be fixed in under twenty minutes. Or that he'd stay another three hours because Rosie insisted on showing him every stuffed animal she owned.

Or that he'd come back the next weekend because she'd proudly announced she wanted to show him her coloring book.

Or that months later she'd accidentally call him "Dad," clap both hands over her mouth in horror, and burst into tears because she thought she'd hurt his feelings.

And years after that, if anyone ever asked Eddie Munson when he met the love of his life, he'd grin and tell them it happened in the plumbing aisle because a stubborn little girl needed apples and her exhausted mother didn't know the difference between a pipe coupling and a garden hose.

2 years later…

By the time you pull into the driveway, your shoulders are aching from wrestling grocery bags in and out of the trunk, and your patience has been thoroughly tested by the woman in front of you at the checkout who insisted on writing a check in the year 1998.

You manage to hook three bags over one arm, another two over the other, and nudge the front door closed behind you with your hip.

The house is quiet for approximately three seconds, then you hear it: a tiny burst of giggling. Then another. Then Eddie's voice, dramatically lowered into what can only be described as a very serious royal accent.

"I'm terribly sorry, Your Majesty, but Sir Teddy Bear has informed me that the strawberry scones have been stolen by dragons."

Rosie's gasp is so loud you hear it from the foyer. "No!"

"I'm afraid so."

"The pink dragons or the green ones?"

"The pink ones."

She sighs dramatically. "They're always doing that."

You quietly set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter before peeking around the corner into the living room, and your heart almost physically stops.

The coffee table has been pushed against the wall, a floral blanket spread neatly across the rug with every stuffed animal Rosie owns arranged in a perfect little circle. Tiny plastic teacups are balanced precariously in front of each guest, alongside mismatched toy plates covered in invisible desserts.

And sitting right in the middle of it all...is Eddie. 

He's cross-legged on the floor, his long curls pulled into two horribly uneven pigtails secured with glittery pink scrunchies. Rosie has somehow convinced him to wear a feather boa, an oversized plastic pearl necklace, and a paper crown that's hanging halfway off his head.

He still has a black band tee and jeans on, of course. The tiara somehow makes it look even cooler.

Rosie notices you first. "Mama!"

She jumps up and nearly spills an imaginary cup of tea all over herself before sprinting toward you, wrapping herself around your legs.

"Eddie's having tea with us."

"I can see that."

She beams proudly. "He knows all the rules."

You glance over at him as he lifts the tiny plastic teacup with absolute dignity. "I've been informed that my pinky needs to stay out."

Rosie immediately corrects him. "It stays up."

"My apologies."

He raises it another inch. "Better?"

She nods approvingly. "Much."

You can't stop smiling. "What exactly am I looking at here?"

Rosie grabs your hand and starts dragging you toward the blanket. "We're princesses."

Eddie quietly adds, "I'm Princess Sparkles."

You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts. "Princess Sparkles?"

He nods solemnly. "I wasn't given a choice."

Rosie immediately spins around. "You picked that one."

He freezes. "...I was given a choice."

She points a tiny accusing finger at him. "You said it was the coolest one."

"It was."

"You said sparkles make everything better."

"They do."

"So you wanted it."

He looks over at you with complete resignation. "I have no defense."

Rosie climbs right back onto the blanket before patting the empty spot beside her. "Mama, sit."

You carefully lower yourself onto the floor, smoothing your jeans beneath you. Immediately, Rosie starts pouring from an empty plastic teapot into your equally empty cup.

"This one's raspberry."

You take a sip with complete seriousness. "Oh my goodness."

She smiles. "It's yummy."

"It's delicious."

Eddie clears his throat. "If I may..."

Rosie nods graciously. "You may."

He lifts his cup. "I detect notes of raspberry with... perhaps a hint of gasoline."

Rosie frowns. "No."

"No?"

"No gasoline."

"My mistake."

She leans over and whispers loudly enough for everyone to hear. "It's strawberries."

He nods in understanding. "Ah. An excellent vintage."

She looks unbelievably proud of herself.

The tea party continues for another twenty minutes, complete with imaginary cookies, a lengthy debate between Bunny and Mr. Dinosaur over proper table manners, and Rosie insisting everyone sing happy birthday to a stuffed giraffe whose birthday appears to have been invented on the spot.

Eventually, she crawls into Eddie's lap without thinking, settling there like it's the most natural place in the world. He absentmindedly smooths a hand over her hair while continuing an entirely serious conversation with the stuffed giraffe.

"And how old are you turning today?"

Rosie answers for it. "Six."

"Oh wow."

"But not really."

"Oh."

"It's pretend."

"Right."

"You're bad at pretending."

"I'm learning."

She reaches up and gently fixes one of his crooked pigtails. "There."

He smiles. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Your chest aches. Not because of anything dramatic. Not because of all the nights you sat awake wondering if Rosie would grow up wondering why she wasn't enough for someone to stay. It aches because she no longer wonders.

She has Eddie. The man currently accepting fake tea from a five-year-old with the same reverence most people reserve for expensive wine. The man wearing a plastic tiara without a single complaint. The man who never once made her feel like she wasn't his.

He catches your eye from across the blanket, so you smile at him softly. He smiles back.

Then Rosie reaches up and shoves another glittery necklace over his curls. "There."

He looks down. "What does this one make me?"

She grins so wide her cheeks puff out. "My daddy."

Silence settles over the room for just a heartbeat. Eddie doesn't hesitate; he just looks up at her with the gentlest expression you've ever seen and presses a kiss against the top of her head.

"My favorite title I've ever had."

Rosie simply nods like that was the obvious answer all along before returning to her tea.

By the time Rosie is tucked into bed, complete with three stuffed animals, one bedtime story, a glass of water she absolutely won't drink, and a solemn promise that you'll check for monsters under the bed even though she's well aware monsters don't exist, the house has settled into that quiet only late evenings seem capable of producing.

The dishwasher hums softly in the kitchen. The television is on low volume, neither of you really paying attention to whatever old movie is playing.

You've long since changed into one of Eddie's old shirts, sleeves swallowing your hands, and he's stretched out on the couch with his legs kicked over the coffee table, one arm lazily draped around your shoulders while the other balances a bottle of beer against his knee.

You're tucked comfortably against his side, your own beer untouched for the last fifteen minutes because somehow you've become completely distracted tracing absentminded circles against his forearm.

Neither of you says much; you never really have to. Comfortable silence had become one of your favorite languages together. After almost two years, it isn't awkward anymore; it's simply home.

Eddie presses a kiss against your temple before taking another sip of his beer. "Can I ask you something?"

You tilt your head up. "When have you ever waited for permission?"

He grins. "Fair."

He looks back toward the television for another moment before his expression softens. "You don't have to answer."

Your fingers stop moving.

"But..." He shrugs. "I realized the other day I don't actually know what happened."

You don't have to ask; you know exactly what he means.

He keeps his voice careful. "Rosie's dad."

For a second, all you do is stare at the condensation rolling down your bottle. It's funny. People assume single mothers talk about it all the time. In reality...you spend most of your life trying not to.

After a quiet moment, you let out a slow breath. "I was married."

You feel Eddie's arm tighten ever so slightly around your shoulders, but he doesn't interrupt.

"We got married young."

You smile faintly, though there's no humor in it. "I thought that was what you were supposed to do."

He stays quiet.

"So we got married, got an apartment together, talked about vacations we'd never actually take because money was always tight."

You laugh softly. "We used to argue over whose turn it was to buy toilet paper."

Eddie smiles. "The truly romantic stuff."

"The glamorous side of marriage."

Your smile fades. "When I found out I was pregnant... I was terrified."

You look down at your hands. "I remember sitting in the bathroom, staring at the test, thinking there had to be a mistake."

"And then?"

"And then I got excited."

Your voice comes out almost embarrassingly quiet. "I started making lists. I looked at baby names. I started clipping little nursery ideas out of magazines. I remember standing in the grocery store crying because I walked past baby socks."

A tiny laugh escapes you. "They were so little."

Eddie reaches over and quietly intertwines his fingers with yours, and you squeeze them.

"I couldn't wait to tell him."

You stare at the floor.

"He didn't cry. He didn't smile. He just looked at me."

The silence stretches.

"I remember asking him if he was okay. He just stood and told me he'd be back later."

You swallow. "He wasn't."

You blink a couple times before continuing. "He started coming home less. He worked late. He stopped touching me. Hell, he stopped looking at me."

Your voice remains remarkably calm. "I found lipstick on one of his shirts."

Eddie's jaw clenches.

"I asked him about it." You laugh quietly. "He told me I was hormonal."

"A month later, he asked for a divorce."

Eddie finally looks down at you. You don't look angry anymore; you just look tired.

"He actually used the words..." You smile bitterly. "'I think we've grown into different people.'"

He says nothing.

"So I signed." Your thumb rubs absentmindedly over the bottle label. "A week later he moved in with someone else."

"A girl barely old enough to drink." You let out another humorless little laugh. "My mother called it trading in for a younger model."

You look toward the ceiling. "I think she was trying to make me laugh."

"Did it?"

"A little."

Your eyes drift toward the hallway leading to Rosie's room.

"He never came to appointments. He wasn't there when she was born. He didn't call. He didn't write. He never met her."

Eddie's entire face has gone still. "He knows about her?"

You nod once. "He just... didn't want her."

The words hang in the room. Simple, matter-of-fact. Far crueler because of it.

You shrug one shoulder. "It took me a long time not to think there was something wrong with me."

Your voice cracks for the first time. "Then I worried there was something wrong with her."

Eddie turns immediately. "There isn't."

"I know that now."

"But at three in the morning with a newborn who won't stop crying and bills stacked on the counter..."

You smile through watery eyes. "You start asking yourself questions you know aren't true."

Without saying a word, Eddie reaches over and gently takes your beer from your hand before setting both bottles on the coffee table. Then he wraps both arms around you, like he's trying to hold every broken piece anyone else ever left behind.

You bury your face into his shirt, and he presses his cheek against your hair. After a minute, he quietly says, "Can I tell you something?"

You nod.

"The first day I met Rosie..."

You smile despite yourself. "The hardware store?"

"The hardware store."

He chuckles softly. "When she held out that stuffed dinosaur and told me his name was Mr. Pickles..."

You laugh through your sniffle. "It was Mr. Sprinkles."

"Oh." He grins. "See? I wasn't listening."

"You absolutely were."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"I was busy because this tiny little person had just informed me that dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."

"They do."

"They absolutely do." He kisses your forehead. "I remember thinking..."

"...that if I ever got lucky enough to have a kid someday..." His voice lowers. "I hoped they'd look at me the way she did."

You close your eyes.

"And then I kept coming over." Another kiss against your temple. "And somewhere along the way..."

He shrugs against you. "...I stopped imagining some hypothetical kid."

"It was just Rosie."

You feel your throat tighten and he smiles into your hair. "I don't know the first thing about biology. I don't care whose eyes she has. I don't care whose nose she has. I don't care who signed what paper or what his last name was."

He gently tips your chin up until you're looking at him. "I've been hers since she handed me that beat-up stuffed dinosaur."

You can't stop the tears anymore, and he wipes one away with his thumb.

"And for the record..." His voice is impossibly soft. "The biggest idiot in Indiana walked away from you."

He gives you that crooked little grin that still makes your heart flutter after all this time. "Worked out pretty great for me, though."

You laugh, sniffling. "Yeah?"

"Oh, absolutely."

He starts counting on his fingers. "I got the prettiest girl I've ever met."

You roll your eyes. "Mm-hmm."

"I got a kid who thinks dinosaurs eat grilled cheese."

"They do."

"They absolutely do."

"And..." He leans over to steal a quick kiss. "I got invited to tea parties."

"A real privilege."

"The highest honor."

You smile into another kiss. Then he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs so quietly you're not sure he even meant to say it out loud.

"I didn't step up because someone else stepped out." His thumb brushes your cheek. "I stepped up because I fell in love with you."

"And somewhere along the way..." His smile softens into something almost impossibly gentle. "...I fell in love with her too."

You don't answer; you just lean into him until he's practically swallowing you whole with one of his hugs.

The familiar rumble of Eddie's van pulls into the driveway just as Rosie finishes painting approximately half of your thumbnail and almost all of your finger.

She leans back with a look of absolute pride. "There."

You hold your hand up to admire the aggressively uneven layer of bright pink polish coating your nail and cuticle alike. "It's beautiful, bug."

"I know."

She nods very matter-of-factly before dipping the tiny brush back into the bottle with all the confidence of a seasoned professional and absolutely none of the precision. The front door creaks open a second later.

"I'm home!" Eddie calls.

Rosie's head whips toward the foyer so quickly she nearly launches the polish across the living room. "Daddy!"

She abandons your half-finished manicure entirely and hops off the couch, bare feet slapping against the hardwood as she sprints toward him. You hear him laugh before you even see him.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there."

You round the corner just in time to see Rosie wrap herself around one of his legs. Eddie looks exactly like he always does after work at the shop.

His curls are tied back in a loose bun that's already halfway fallen out; there's grease smeared across his cheekbone and forearms, his old band shirt is stained with oil, and his jeans look like they've survived some kind of explosion underneath a car.

He crouches down anyway. "Hi, sweetheart."

She immediately wrinkles her nose. "You're dirty."

He looks down at himself. "...Little bit."

"A lot bit."

"Maybe a lot bit."

She reaches up and pokes a streak of grease on his arm with one tiny finger. "Ew."

He gasps dramatically. "Excuse me? This is artisan-grade mechanic seasoning."

"It looks yucky."

"It probably is."

He scoops her up anyway, careful to keep his hands away from her clothes as much as possible before carrying her over to where you're standing. His tired eyes immediately soften the second they land on you.

"Hi, pretty girl."

You smile. "Hi yourself."

He leans down, stopping just short of kissing you. "I'm gross."

"I noticed."

"You sure?"

You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him anyway, grease and all. When you pull away, he looks almost offended. "I literally smell like motor oil."

"And?"

"And you kissed me."

"I happen to like motor oil."

He grins. "Liar."

Rosie wedges herself between the two of you. "You both smell funny."

You snort. "Thanks, Rosie."

"You're welcome."

Eddie presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. "I'm gonna go shower before I contaminate the entire house."

She watches him head toward the hallway before suddenly remembering something incredibly important. "Wait!"

He turns. "Yeah?"

"I'm painting nails."

His eyebrows lift. "Are you now?"

She proudly holds up the tiny bottle. "And after Mommy's..."

She points directly at him. "...I'm doing yours."

He looks at you, and you very helpfully shrug. "I don't make the rules."

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. "I've been selected?"

"You have."

He smiles at Rosie. "You got black?"

She blinks. "What?"

"Black nail polish."

She looks down into the little plastic basket of colors before digging through every bottle with increasing concern. "No..."

He sighs dramatically. "Of course."

She brightens. "I have sparkles."

He looks at you, and you bite your lip. He already knows he's doomed. "Well..."

He says carefully. "...dealer's choice."

Rosie gasps like she's just been entrusted with the nuclear launch codes. "Really?"

"Mhm."

She nods once with complete seriousness. "I know exactly what to do."

You exchange a look with Eddie. He mouths, Help. You smile sweetly. Absolutely not.

Twenty minutes later, he's freshly showered, hair still damp around his shoulders, wearing an old pair of gray sweatpants and one of your favorite oversized Sabbath shirts. He sits obediently on the living room floor while Rosie carefully arranges her entire nail polish collection around him. You curl up on the couch behind them, pretending to read while secretly watching everything.

Rosie picks up one bottle, sets it down. Another, sets it down. Then…she finds it. The brightest, loudest, most offensively glitter-infested neon purple imaginable. You physically have to cover your mouth.

Eddie eyes it suspiciously. "...That's the one?"

She nods enthusiastically. "It's princess purple."

"Oh."

"And sparkles."

"I see."

"And hearts."

"I can... also see that."

"And glitter."

"I definitely see that."

She beams. "It's pretty."

He looks at her, then at the bottle, then back at her. Without another word, he extends both hands. "Do your worst."

Rosie giggles so hard she almost falls over. For the next half hour, she paints with absolute artistic freedom. The polish ends up on his fingers, his knuckles. One suspicious streak somehow appears halfway up his thumb.

She pauses every few minutes to inspect her work before adding another layer. When she's finally done, she grabs both of his hands and holds them up proudly. "There."

Eddie examines them with complete sincerity. "...Rosie."

She waits expectantly. 

"I think these are the coolest nails I've ever had."

Her entire face lights up. "Really?"

"Oh yeah." He wiggles his fingers dramatically. "I've never looked more fabulous."

She immediately launches herself into his lap for a hug. He catches her without hesitation, wrapping one arm around her while being careful not to smudge his fresh manicure. You watch them from the couch, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

Rosie pulls back just enough to admire his nails again. "I made you pretty."

He gently tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "You always do, sweetheart."

She yawns a huge, sleepy little yawn, the kind that scrunches up her whole face. Eddie notices instantly.

"You getting tired?"

She shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."

"Mhm."

"I'm not." Another yawn.

He smiles knowingly. "Sure."

She curls herself against his chest anyway. Within maybe three minutes, she's completely asleep. Eddie looks over at you, careful not to move too much.

His hands are still decorated in violently purple glitter polish. His stepdaughter is slightly drooling on his shirt. His hair is still damp. He looks happier than you've ever seen another human being.

You quietly reach over and lace your fingers with his. He glances down, then back at you.

"So..." You whisper. "You gonna keep the nails for work tomorrow?"

He looks at his hands, looks at Rosie, looks back at you, and smiles. "Absolutely."

"You know the guys are gonna make fun of you."

He shrugs. "They can."

You raise an eyebrow. "They won't bother you?"

He looks down at the little girl asleep against his chest and gently kisses the top of her head.

"I'd let this kid paint my entire face green if it made her smile."

He glances back at his sparkly purple fingertips. "As far as I'm concerned..."

He wiggles them proudly. "...these are the coolest damn mechanic hands in Hawkins."

The house has long since gone quiet.

The dishes are done, the lights downstairs are off, and somewhere outside, rain taps softly against the bedroom window. The fan hums overhead, filling the room with the kind of gentle white noise that always seems to lull everyone to sleep.

Rosie had insisted on one extra story tonight. Then one extra hug. Then one extra glass of water. Then one extra kiss for Mr. Sprinkles. Then another for herself. If you give a mouse a cookie, or whatever they say. 

By the time you'd finally pulled her bedroom door closed, she'd already been halfway asleep.

Now you're curled beneath the blankets with your head resting on Eddie's chest, absentmindedly tracing lazy circles against his side while he combs his fingers through your hair. Neither of you is talking anymore, the exhaustion of the day settling comfortably over both of you.

His lips brush the top of your head. "You asleep?"

"Almost."

"Liar."

"Mhm."

"You drooled on my shirt."

"I absolutely did not."

"You absolutely did."

You smile into his chest. "I think you're making things up."

"I would never."

"You literally convinced Rosie last week there were raccoons that delivered pizza."

"There could be."

"There aren't."

"You don't know that."

You laugh quietly, the sound muffled against him. "I love you."

He doesn't even pause. "I love you more."

"You can't prove that."

"I can."

"How?"

"I made you grilled cheese with the crusts cut off yesterday."

"I didn't ask you to."

"You didn't have to."

You shake your head, smiling to yourself. You don't know how much time passes before a tiny knock sounds against the bedroom door. Three little taps, then another.

Then the knob slowly turns. The door opens only wide enough for a small face to peek through. Rosie's eyes are watery; her little bottom lip trembles when she spots the two of you.

"Mama?"

Your heart immediately softens. You sit up before she's even finished speaking. "What is it, bug?"

She clutches Mr. Sprinkles tighter against her chest. "I had a bad dream." Her voice is so quiet you almost don't hear it.

You hold your hand out. "C'mere."

She doesn't hesitate. Bare feet shuffle across the hardwood before she climbs onto the bed, crawling right between the two of you without so much as asking permission, as though she'd done it a hundred times before.

Maybe she has. You immediately pull the blankets over her little shoulders while Eddie scoots closer from the other side, making sure she's tucked safely between you.

Rosie simply curls into your side, one hand reaching across until it finds Eddie's sleeve. She hangs onto it tightly. You smooth her hair back from her forehead.

"Wanna tell us about it?" 

She shakes her head. "It was scary."

"I know."

"There was a loud noise."

You gently rub circles against her back. "But you're here now."

She nods once, then another sniffle. "You guys are here."

"We are."

"And we're not going anywhere."

She wiggles a little closer until she's practically glued to both of you at once. Eddie quietly reaches over and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

"You know what's nice about bad dreams?"

She looks up at him with sleepy, curious eyes. "What?"

"They end."

She thinks about that. "They do?"

"They always do."

"And then you wake up."

She nods slowly. "I woke up."

"You did."

"And then I came here."

"You did."

"And now you're with us."

Rosie looks down at Mr. Sprinkles before whispering, "He got scared too."

Eddie leans over to inspect the stuffed dinosaur with complete seriousness. "He seems pretty brave to me."

"He was pretending."

"Oh."

"He didn't want me to be scared."

Eddie smiles softly. "I think he did a pretty good job."

Rosie considers that before giving the dinosaur a little kiss on the nose. After another quiet minute, she yawns. One of those enormous little yawns that seems far too big for someone so tiny.

You can't help smiling. "Tired?"

She immediately shakes her head, then yawns again. "No."

"Mhm."

"No."

She curls up even smaller anyway, one hand still tangled in your pajama sleeve now, the other resting against Eddie's arm.

You feel Eddie's hand find yours over the blankets, his fingers lacing through yours without a word. Rosie's eyes are already drifting closed. Just before she falls asleep, she mumbles something so quietly you almost miss it.

"I'm happy."

You glance across at Eddie, and he's already looking at her.

"What made you think of that, sweetheart?" he asks softly.

Her eyes never open. "I like when we're all together."

Your throat tightens instantly.

She nestles deeper beneath the blankets. "I like my home."

A few seconds later, she's asleep; completely, peacefully asleep.

You and Eddie don't move; you don't dare. He looks over at you in the darkness, and there's something in his expression that says everything words can't.

You reach over the little lump of blankets between you and rest your hand against his cheek. He turns just enough to press a kiss into your palm.

this shit actually made me ugly cry from pure content

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“Hey…” Nancy’s voice shifts you back into the present. She’s standing at the foot of your bed, soda bottle in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. You lift your jaw just enough to acknowledge her presence, eyes quickly scanning the scene.

“Your mom said you hadn’t been out much, so I wanted to bring your favorite. Chicken sandwich, extra pickles, no tomato, right? And a Coke, of course.”

You turn your head away, nodding once. “Yeah, that’s great. Thanks, Nance.”

She half-smiles, placing the contents onto your crowded nightstand and slowly approaching you, kneeling on the floor. “We all miss you, y’know? I know school starting tomorrow may be hard, but I think you should try to go.” 

She means well; you can tell that much. Nancy would never try to make you do something out of her own selfish desires. And, to a point, she is right. You have a couple more months of school left; then you never have to step foot in Hawkins High ever again. 

If only it were that simple, though.

Because now, not only do you have to attend school with the same assholes who make your life a living hell, you now have to do it alone. Sure, you have the party, but it’s not the same. 

Nobody's going to walk down the hallways holding your hand, obnoxiously loud and completely unashamed of it. Nobody's going to lean against your locker and make stupid comments just to get a smile out of you. Nobody's going to slip notes into your textbooks or steal fries off your lunch tray while insisting he was "saving you from yourself."

Nobody's going to be there. 

The realization still hits you at random. Like a punch. Like a car crash. Like waking up every morning and having to remember all over again.

Nancy watches your face carefully; she's always been good at reading people.

"You don't have to stay all day," she says softly. "Just... maybe try first period. See how it feels."

You let out a dry laugh. "See how it feels?"

Nancy's shoulders sink slightly. "I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant." Your eyes stay fixed on the wall. "It's just funny."

The word funny comes out sounding anything but. "You know what's gonna happen tomorrow?"

Nancy doesn't answer.

"People are gonna stare."

Your throat tightens.

"They're gonna whisper."

You look down at your hands.

"And they're gonna talk about him."

The room falls silent, because you both know exactly who him is. Not Eddie the person. Not Eddie who spent three hours teaching Dustin how to play guitar. Not Eddie who drove halfway across Indiana because you casually mentioned wanting to see a meteor shower.

No.

They're going to talk about Eddie Munson. The freak. The murderer. The devil worshipper. The missing suspect. The monster. The version of him Hawkins created because the truth was too complicated.

Nancy looks away first. You hate that; you hate when people do that. When they can't even argue because they know you're right.

"He isn't dead." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

Nancy freezes. Because nobody talks about it, not really. The Party knows. Steve knows. Robin knows. Nancy knows. Your parents know because they had to. And that's it.

The secret sits between all of you like a loaded gun. Two states away. In a hospital room. Machines breathing and blinking and keeping time. Eddie Munson: twenty feet from life, twenty feet from death. And nobody knows which direction he's moving.

"He isn't dead," you repeat quietly.

Nancy's eyes soften. "I know."

"No, you don't." The words come out sharper than intended. You immediately see the hurt flash across her face.

But you're too tired to apologize. Too angry. Too exhausted. Too everything.

"Everyone keeps acting like he's gone."

"Nobody thinks that."

"You do."

Nancy shakes her head. "I don't."

"You do." Your voice cracks. The first crack all day, the first sign that maybe the anger isn't holding as well as you thought. "Because every time someone talks about him, they use the past tense."

Nancy goes silent. 

"'He was funny.'" Your eyes burn.

"'He was brave.'" Your fingers curl into the blanket.

"'He loved you.'" A laugh escapes you. "Like he's already dead."

You stare at the ceiling while Nancy stares at the floor. And neither of you says anything for a long moment.

Finally, she speaks first, "Have you talked to Dustin?"

You immediately scoff. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't want to talk."

Nancy gives you a look. "Dustin always wants to talk."

You shake your head. "Not anymore."

And that's the worst part, because Dustin Henderson used to talk constantly. Now every conversation feels like pulling teeth.

Every answer is one word. Every smile is fake. Every joke sounds rehearsed. The kid who used to light up every room he walked into now looks permanently pissed off at the world. You understand why, you really do. Because every morning you wake up angry too.

Angry at Vecna. Angry at Hawkins. Angry at the government. Angry at every stupid machine keeping Eddie alive while refusing to wake him up.

Some days you're even angry at him. For being brave. For being stupid. For staying behind. For making the choice he made. But it wouldn’t be Eddie without some stupid decisions, right? 

A month into the school year, you'd developed a routine. Not because things had gotten easier, just because people could get used to almost anything, even misery.

You woke up. You got dressed. You ignored your reflection. You went to school. You came home. You stared at the ceiling until sleep finally dragged you under, then you did it all again.

The hallways of Hawkins High felt different now. People had moved on from the "earthquake", from the deaths. From the nightmares...at least on the surface.

But grief had settled into the cracks of everything. You saw it every time you looked at Dustin. At first, everyone had hovered around him. Mike. Lucas. Will. His mom. You.

The entire Party treating him like he might shatter if somebody breathed too hard. The problem was that Dustin Henderson hated being treated like glass. So eventually everyone stopped, everyone except you.

Not because you thought he was fragile, but because you knew exactly how much energy it took to pretend you weren't. You saw it in the way he walked through the halls now: head down, shoulders tense, jaw constantly clenched.

The bright-eyed kid who used to wave his arms around while talking now kept his hands shoved into his pockets. The kid who used to laugh loud enough to get yelled at by teachers now barely spoke in class. And whenever somebody mentioned Eddie, you saw it.

The split-second flinch to the immediate anger. The way he looked like he wanted to swing at somebody. So you stayed close.

Not hovering, just nearby, close enough to step in when necessary. Which, unfortunately, was becoming a full-time job.

"Dude, seriously, stop." You grabbed the back of Dustin's jacket as he attempted to launch himself across the cafeteria.

"LET GO OF ME."

"No."

"He's literally asking for it."

Across the room, Jason Carver's former teammates sat laughing at a table. One of them made a dramatic devil-horn gesture when he noticed Dustin looking. The others laughed. Dustin immediately tried to commit murder, again.

You hauled him backward. "Dustin."

"He called Eddie a freak."

"He always calls Eddie a freak."

"Exactly."

"Dustin."

"Let me hit him."

"No."

"One punch."

"No."

"Half a punch."

You sighed. "No such thing."

He groaned loudly as you dragged him toward the exit doors. "You're worse than Steve."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"It is today."

The second the cafeteria doors shut behind you, Dustin yanked his arm free. "Why do you keep stopping me?"

You stared at him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." His face was red, eyes bright with anger. "Nobody does anything."

"Dustin—"

"They say whatever they want." His voice cracked. "They get to talk about him like he's some psychopath and everybody just lets them."

The fight immediately left your body, because there it was: the real reason. Not anger, pain.

You leaned back against the wall. "He thinks he knows who Eddie was. But we know the real him, and that's what matters"

Dustin looked away. "It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"No." His laugh sounded bitter. "It really doesn't."

The hallway fell quiet. Students passed by, lockers slammed, a teacher yelled somewhere in the distance. But neither of you moved.

Finally, Dustin muttered, "I should've been quicker."

Your heart dropped. "Dustin."

"I should've."

"You know that's not true."

"How?" His voice rose immediately. "How do you know?"

You pushed away from the wall. "Because if you had gone back, you'd be dead too."

"Maybe."

"No."

"DON'T."

Several students turned to look. Dustin lowered his voice immediately, but somehow it sounded even worse. "Don't tell me what would've happened."

You swallowed. Because this conversation? Is one that kept coming back, the one neither of you ever won.

"He was alone."

"Dustin."

"He was alone, and I was too injured to get there quicker."

Your throat tightened, because you'd thought the same thing. A thousand times. Ten thousand. Every night. Every morning. Every second in between. But you couldn't let him live there, not forever.

"You know what would've happened if you went back? If you tried to step in?"

Dustin crossed his arms. "What?"

"Eddie would've thrown you through a wall and made you leave."

His mouth twitched, just barely. The smallest crack in the anger.

"He would've. You know he would've"

Dustin rolled his eyes. "Probably."

"Definitely."

"He would've called me a little shit."

"Absolutely."

The corner of his mouth lifted, then immediately fell again. But it was something. You'd learned to count those moments.

The knock came a little after nine. You almost didn't hear it.

The cigarette balanced lazily between your fingers as you sat on the front porch steps, wrapped in one of Eddie’s old hoodies despite the lingering warmth of September. The neighborhood was quiet. Crickets sang somewhere in the distance, and a dog barked a few houses over.

For the first time all day, your head had finally gone quiet. Then came the knock. Not on the front door, but on the porch railing. You turned your head and immediately sat up.

"Dustin?"

His left eye was swelling. There was blood on his lip. More smeared across the collar of his shirt. One knuckle looked completely split open.

"Dustin, what the hell happened?"

He shrugged the world's most Dustin Henderson shrug. "Got into a fight."

You stared. "A fight."

"Yeah."

"Dustin."

"What?"

"Dustin."

His eyes rolled. "Oh my God, please stop saying my name like that."

You stood up. "What happened?"

"Some guy."

"What guy?"

"Some asshole."

"What asshole?"

"The usual kind."

You sighed. Of course. Of course it was that. You already knew before he even said it. The bruises. The expression. The way he was trying way too hard to act normal. Somebody had said something about Eddie. Again.

You moved aside and jerked your head toward the porch steps. "Sit."

"I'm fine."

"Dustin."

"Okay, Jesus."

He sat. You disappeared inside long enough to grab a first aid kit from the bathroom before returning. The second you sat down beside him, he groaned.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"You aren't my mom."

"Thank God for that."

He snorted.

You grabbed his chin before he could protest and turned his face toward the porch light. The split lip looked nasty. Nothing broken, probably. Hopefully.

"You should see the other guy."

"Did you win?"

A small grin appeared. "Barely."

"Proud of you."

"Thank you."

"You shouldn't have done it."

"I know."

You dabbed antiseptic against his lip, and he hissed. "Ow."

"Good."

"You're mean."

"So I've been told."

The conversation faded after that. You finished patching up his knuckles while he stared out into the darkness beyond your yard.

Eventually he spoke.

"I miss him." The words came so quietly you almost missed them.

"I know."

Dustin swallowed; you could see the tension building in his jaw. The way he was trying to keep himself together. The way he'd been trying for months.

"He would've loved this."

You glanced over. "What?"

"The fight." A watery laugh escaped him. "He would've thought it was hilarious."

You smiled despite yourself. "He would've bought you ice cream afterward."

"Exactly."

"And told everyone you won way harder than you actually did."

Dustin nodded. "Exactly."

"I hope he wakes up," he whispers.

You looked down at the bandage wrapped around his hand. "So do I."

"No." His voice cracked. "I really hope he wakes up."

And there it was, the thing neither of you ever said out loud. Because hoping meant acknowledging the possibility that he might not.

The possibility sat in the corner of every room. Every conversation. Every hospital update. Every phone call. Nobody wanted to look at it, but it was always there.

Dustin wiped aggressively at his eyes, angry at the tears before they even fell.

"I just..." His shoulders shook. "I just need him to wake up."

Your chest tightened. "Dustin."

"He deserves to." The tears came anyway.

"I know."

"He deserves to see Wayne again."

"I know."

"He deserves to play another show."

"I know."

"He deserves—" His voice broke completely; the rest of the sentence never came out.

You wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer immediately. No hesitation, no questions. Because some hurts couldn't be fixed, only carried. And for a few minutes, Dustin cried.

Hard enough to let some of it out, enough to breathe again. Eventually he leaned back, red-eyed and embarrassed. You pretended not to notice, a kindness the both of you appreciated. Then his gaze landed on the cigarette still burning between your fingers.

"Oh."

"No."

"What?"

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "You know what I'm gonna ask."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on."

"No."

"One hit."

"Dustin."

"One."

"No."

"I'm basically an adult."

"You are fifteen."

"Close enough."

You laughed. "Not even remotely."

He groaned dramatically. "Please."

You stared at him, then at the bruises, then at the exhausted expression. Then back at him.

"This is a horrible idea."

"Probably."

"A terrible one."

"Definitely."

"You better not tell anybody."

His face lit up as you handed it over, immediately regretting every life decision that had led you here. Dustin took the cigarette, trying very hard to look cool. Trying even harder to look experienced. Then he inhaled.

A second later, he nearly died. The coughing started instantly, while you doubled over laughing.

"Oh, my God."

"SHUT UP."

He coughed harder. "THAT'S DISGUSTING."

"You're such an idiot."

"Why do people do that voluntarily?"

"Excellent question."

Dustin handed the cigarette back as if it had personally betrayed him. You were still laughing when the phone rang, freezing you both. You exchanged a look, then stood.

"Probably my mom."

"Probably."

The phone continued ringing. You stepped inside, crossed the living room, and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

Static. Then, "Get to the Wheelers."

You blinked. "Steve?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Mandatory meeting."

"What happened?"

"Can't say."

"Steve."

"Can't say."

"Steve."

"Nope."

"What kind of mandatory meeting?"

Steve sighed. "The kind where everyone needs to be here."

“Fine.”

The second you walked into the Wheeler basement, you knew something was wrong. Not apocalypse wrong, not Upside Down wrong, just...wrong.

Everyone was there. Mike sat on the couch, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Will was beside him, staring holes into the carpet. Lucas and Max occupied the recliner, knees bouncing anxiously. Robin was pacing. Nancy stood with her arms folded. And Steve—

Steve looked like he was about to deliver the world's worst speech. The second Dustin entered behind you, the room went quiet. A sinking feeling settled into your stomach.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

Nobody answered, which was answer enough. Dustin immediately turned around. "Nope."

"Dustin—"

"Nope."

"Dude, just sit down."

"Nope."

Steve stepped forward. "Dustin."

"What?"

"Sit."

Dustin looked at the room, then at you, then back at the room. His face twisted immediately. "Oh, my God."

"Dustin—"

"You guys are serious?"

You rubbed a hand down your face. "Steve."

"We just want to talk."

The words sounded rehearsed, which meant they probably were.

Dustin barked out a laugh. "Oh, this is an intervention."

Robin immediately pointed at him. "Okay, don't call it that."

"It literally is."

"It isn't."

"It literally is."

"It isn't."

"It definitely is."

"Can everybody just sit down?" Nancy asked.

Against every instinct in his body, Dustin finally dropped onto the couch, and you sat beside him. Steve cleared his throat, then immediately looked uncomfortable.

"We're worried about you."

Dustin stared, blank-faced and silent as Steve continued. "You've been getting into fights."

No response.

"You're getting detention almost every week."

Nothing.

"You skipped three classes last Thursday."

Dustin finally spoke. "Four."

Steve blinked. "What?"

"It was four."

"Dustin."

"I'm just correcting you."

You could practically feel Mike's patience evaporating. "Dude, that's not the point."

Dustin turned toward him. "Then what's the point?"

Mike opened his mouth, hesitated, then realized the only way out was through. "The point is you're acting like an asshole."

The room immediately went still. You closed your eyes, because there it was, the exact wrong thing to say.

"Damn it, Mike."

"What?" Mike asked.

"Dude."

"What?"

Dustin laughed. "Oh, I'm acting like an asshole."

Mike groaned. "That's not what I meant."

"No, it is."

"Dustin."

"No, go ahead." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Tell me how much I suck."

Nobody spoke, and the tension thickened. Lucas finally leaned forward. "Dustin, nobody thinks you suck."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because we're worried."

"About what?"

Lucas hesitated, and that hesitation said everything. Because nobody wanted to say it.

Nobody wanted to admit it. Nobody wanted to be the first person to acknowledge what everyone already knew.

You watched Dustin realize it in real time. Watched the anger drain away, and saw something else take its place. Something worse.

"You think I'm becoming him."

The room froze, and Mike immediately shook his head.

"No,” but it sounded weak.

"You think I'm becoming Eddie."

"Dustin—"

"No."

His voice rose. "You think I'm becoming some angry screw-up who gets into fights and skips class and ends up dead."

The word dead hit the room like a gunshot. Robin looked away. Nancy swallowed. Will stared at the floor. And Steve looked heartbroken. "Dustin."

But Dustin was already standing. "You know what's funny?"

Nobody answered.

"You all get to be worried." His voice shook. "You all get to sit here and talk about grief and healing and moving forward." The room fell silent. "But nobody asks me."

"I'm done."

"Dustin."

"No."

"Dustin."

"No."

And then he was gone, storming up the basement stairs. The door slammed hard enough to shake the room. You stood fast enough that your chair nearly tipped over.

"Seriously?"

Steve blinked. "What?"

"What?" The word came out sharp, months of anger suddenly finding somewhere to go. "What the hell was that?"

Steve's face immediately hardened. "We were trying to help."

"No."

You shook your head. "You were trying to fix him. And nice going, by the way. Real efficient work." 

By the time you got upstairs and outside, Dustin was long gone. You knew exactly where he’d be hiding, but you knew better than to provoke him when he was feeling this way. So, you leaned against the Wheelers’ house and sparked another cigarette.

You remembered how Eddie would always read you like a book; the mere sight of you with a cigarette tucked behind your lips always earned a “What’s stressing you out, sweetheart?” The thought of him tucking your hair behind your ear while he asked caused a teary-eyed laugh to escape you. 

“You okay?” Steve asked, popping around the side of the house. 

You laughed, pulling another long drag before answering, “Peachy.”

Steve shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and leaned against the siding a few feet away. The cigarette glowed softly between your fingers. The sounds of the Wheeler basement drifted faintly through the house. You already knew everybody inside was talking about Dustin.

Trying to figure out what went wrong. Trying to figure out how to fix him, like he was a broken appliance.

"You know," Steve finally said, "the intervention wasn't just for him."

You looked over. "What?"

His jaw tightened. "It was for you too."

Immediately, your expression darkened. "Excuse me?"

Steve sighed. "I knew you'd react like that."

"No, seriously." You pointed at yourself with the cigarette. "Explain."

"You've been letting him get away with everything."

You actually laughed; a short, humorless sound. "Oh, we're doing this?"

"Yeah." Steve straightened. "We are."

You stared at him, waiting.

"He's getting into fights every week."

"He misses Eddie."

"Everybody misses Eddie."

"Right, because you and him were so close."

Steve stared you down for a second, then continued.

"And every time he gets himself into trouble, you're right there covering for him."

You scoffed. "Because somebody has to."

"No." Steve shook his head. "Somebody has to be the adult."

You looked away, taking another drag, trying very hard not to lose your temper; it wasn't working.

Steve continued anyway. "He smells like cigarettes now."

Your eyes narrowed. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Steve."

"He smells like cigarettes."

Your stomach dropped, because of course he'd noticed. Everyone probably had. Dustin had only taken a couple of drags that night, but still. You knew where this was heading.

"You think I encouraged him to smoke?"

Steve gave you a look, a look that answered the question all by itself. 

You barked out a laugh. "Oh, my God."

"I'm serious."

"You think I'm corrupting Dustin?"

"I think you're both spiraling."

The cigarette trembled slightly between your fingers. You hated that he wasn't entirely wrong, and you hated it even more because he was saying it.

"That's rich."

Steve's eyebrows furrowed. "What does that mean?"

You looked at him. And suddenly all the anger you'd been carrying around for months rose to the surface; raw and ugly. 

"You wanna know what's rich?" Your voice dropped, dangerously calm.

"Maybe if you weren't trying so hard to play hero for Nancy..."

Steve immediately froze.

"...Eddie would've never had to."

The silence that followed felt radioactive. Steve's face went blank, then hardened fast.

"Don't."

"Oh, don't?" You laughed. "No, let's."

"Don't do that."

"Let's." You took another long drag, tilting your head back to exhale.

"I think the real reason why you're so pissed that Dustin is acting this way is that he's pushing you away. Which is funny, isn't it?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "While you were busy chasing tail and pushing him away, he found someone who actually cared about him and his interests. Kinda selfish to ask him to just fall back into your arms now, isn't it?"

His jaw clenched. "Eddie didn't have to play hero either."

The words hit you like a slap, causing your eyes to widen. "What?"

"He didn't."

Steve stepped closer. "He made a choice."

"He saved your life."

"He made a choice."

"He saved everyone's life."

"He made a stupid choice. And for what? The towns still fucked."

Something inside you snapped. The cigarette hit the grass; you flicked it away so hard it disappeared into the darkness.

"What did you just say?"

Steve immediately realized he'd gone too far. But it was already out there, already hanging between you. Already impossible to take back.

"He shouldn't have stayed."

Your chest tightened. 

"He shouldn't have been there."

"Steve."

"He shouldn't have gone back."

"Steve."

"He shouldn't have—"

"He did it because you couldn't!" The words exploded out of you. Steve physically recoiled. "He did it because somebody had to."

"That's bullshit."

"No." You stepped closer. "That's the truth."

His face darkened. "No."

"Eddie picked up the slack."

"Stop."

"Somebody had to save everyone."

"STOP."

The shout echoed through the quiet neighborhood, and you both froze, breathing hard. Months of grief. Months of guilt. Months of anger. All finally spilling out.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, looking absolutely exhausted.

"You wanna know what nobody says?"

Your stomach dropped because his tone had changed. This wasn't anger anymore; this was something worse, something bitter and ugly.

"Nobody says what happens if he wakes up."

You stared, not understanding. "What?"

Steve laughed, but there wasn't anything funny in it. "If he wakes up."

The words felt wrong, like hearing someone curse in church. If. If. You couldn't breathe. 

Steve looked away toward the road, toward the darkness, towards anywhere but you. "You think everything just goes back to normal?"

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. "Steve."

"No."

"Everybody keeps talking about him waking up like it's some miracle ending."

Your hands curled into fists. "Stop talking."

"But what then?"

"Steve."

"What then?"

His eyes found yours. "And before you say it, I know he's innocent." The words came fast now, years of frustration pouring out. "But Hawkins doesn't."

You shook your head. "Stop."

"Half the town thinks he murdered people."

"Steve."

"The cops still want him."

"Steve."

"And if he comes back—"

Your stomach twisted. "Shut up."

"—if he comes back—"

"Shut up."

"—he's still gonna be the freak."

The world narrowed. "Steve."

"He's still gonna be the murderer to them."

"Stop."

"And honestly?" The next words sealed his fate. "All it's gonna do is make everyone's lives harder."

You hit him, hard. The crack echoed across the Wheeler yard. Steve stumbled backward, completely shocked, one hand immediately flying to his jaw.

You'd never hit anybody before, not like that. Not with every ounce of anger in your body behind it. But this? This felt easy.

Steve stared at you, breathing hard, and you stared right back. Eyes burning, tears finally spilling over.

Months of grief. Months of fear. Months of watching the person you loved fight for his life hundreds of miles away. Months of pretending you were okay, gone.

"Fuck you, Steve." Your voice shook. "Fuck. You."

Steve didn't say anything. Maybe because he knew he'd crossed a line. Maybe because part of him agreed. Maybe because he saw the tears. You didn't care; you just turned and walked away.

And when Steve called your name, you didn't stop.

The ride to the hospital was a long, blurry mess. After Steve’s botched attempt at an intervention, you ran home and immediatley hopped in your car. The only person you wanted to see was five hours away, and nothing was stopping you from seeing him, even if that person couldn’t talk back. 

By the time you arrived, it was well after midnight. The familiar fluorescent lights of the hospital made your stomach twist the same way they always did. You knew the route by heart now. Past the front desk. Down the long hallway. Left at the nurses' station. Third door on the right.

You hated that you knew it by heart.

The room was dark except for the glow of the monitors. The steady beeping filled the silence as you stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind you. Eddie looked exactly the same as he had the last time you were here. Same pale skin. Same curls spread against the pillow. Same stillness that made your chest ache every single time you looked at him.

"Hey, handsome." Your voice sounded rough.

You dropped your bag onto the chair and moved toward him automatically, settling into your usual routine. The nurses knew you by now. They never stopped you when you came in. Half the time they left extra blankets in the room because they knew you'd end up staying all night.

You sat down beside him and reached for the brush on the nightstand. Carefully, gently, you began working through his curls.

"You're getting ridiculous, you know that?" you murmured. "I swear your hair is longer than mine now."

The corners of your mouth twitched. "You'd probably love that."

Once his curls were untangled, you reached for the small cassette player you'd practically worn out over the past few months. The tape clicked softly as it started playing. His mixtape, the one he'd made for you. The one you'd listened to so many times that every crackle and skip was memorized.

The music filled the room quietly. For a moment, you just listened. Then your eyes burned again. Because of course they did.

"You remember when you gave me this?" you asked softly. "You spent three days pretending it wasn't a gift because you were nervous."

A laugh escaped you. "You literally left it in my locker and acted shocked when I found it."

Your hand found his; cold and still.

"You were so bad at flirting." You stared down at your intertwined fingers.

"You know, I was thinking about that day at Lover's Lake. The one where you nearly tipped the boat because you were trying to impress me."

A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "You swore you knew what you were doing."

You laughed through your nose. "You absolutely did not know what you were doing."

The memory lingered for a second before fading. And suddenly the smile disappeared, just like it always did. Because every good memory ended the same way now. With the realization that it was a memory. Not something you'd get to experience again. At least not yet.

Your throat tightened. "Dustin's having a rough time."

Your voice dropped. "He got into another fight."

You rubbed your thumb across the back of Eddie's hand. "I think he misses you more than he knows how to admit."

The tears came before you could stop them. "He acts tough about it. Tries to be angry instead of sad."

You swallowed. "Guess he learned that from us."

Your gaze dropped to the floor. The words started spilling out before you could stop them, like they always did when it was just the two of you, him awake or not. 

"Everybody's falling apart, Eds."

Your voice cracked.

"Mike and Lucas keep snapping at each other. Robin's pretending she's okay. Nancy barely sleeps. Wayne calls every week asking if there's any change and I never know what to tell him."

Your shoulders slumped. "And Dustin..." You shook your head. "Dustin's breaking my heart."

The room remained silent, only the music answered. Only the machines. Only the steady reminder that he was still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.

You wiped angrily at your eyes. "I'm trying."

Another tear slipped down your cheek. "I'm really trying."

"I keep telling myself if I can just hold everybody together a little longer, you'll wake up, and everything will be okay."

You laughed. The sound was pathetic. "I know that's stupid."

Your eyes closed. "Some days I don't even feel like me anymore."

The tears came harder now. Months of grief finally finding somewhere to go.

"I punched Steve." A watery laugh escaped you. "There. Thought you'd appreciate that."

You sniffled. "He said some really awful stuff."

Your voice trembled. "So I punched him."

Another laugh, another sob. "Honestly, you'd probably be proud."

You covered your face. The ugly crying started then, the kind nobody ever talks about. The kind that leaves your chest aching, your nose running, and your entire body shaking. You stared down at the floor. At your shoes. At anything except him. Because looking at him hurt too much.

"I miss you." The words came out broken. "I miss you so much."

You squeezed your eyes shut. The tears wouldn't stop. "I need you."

Your shoulders shook. "Please wake up."

Nothing. Just silence. Just the tape playing softly. Just another night. Just another conversation that would never be answered. You dropped your head, staring at the floor. Crying too hard to even wipe your face anymore.

Then, a rasp. Tiny, barely audible. Your brow furrowed, and you froze. The room suddenly felt too quiet. Another sound, a rough inhale.

And then, "Hey..."

Your head snapped upward and every muscle in your body locked. For one horrible second, you thought you imagined it. Thought exhaustion had finally gotten to you. But then you saw it. His eyes. Open. Heavy. Groggy. Confused. But open.

Your breath caught violently in your throat. Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. Eddie blinked slowly. His gaze wandered around the room before finally settling on you. Even exhausted. Even weak. Even after everything, he recognized you immediately.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, pretty girl."

A sob escaped you; fresh tears immediately spilled down your face.

Eddie frowned weakly, or at least attempted to. His voice came out rough and scratchy from disuse.

"No crying."

You laughed and cried at the same time, completely unable to stop either. His eyes fluttered slightly, still fighting to stay open.

But the smile remained. "No crying, sweetheart."

The next hour felt less like reality, and more like some strange dream you were terrified of waking up from. You cried, a lot. Eddie was awake for maybe thirty seconds before you burst into tears all over again, which earned you a weak, sleepy laugh and a very groggy, "Jesus Christ, sweetheart."

Then you cried harder. Then a nurse came running in because your hysterical sobbing had apparently convinced half the floor that somebody was dying. Then doctors appeared. Then more nurses. Then you got shoved into the hallway while they checked everything.

And the entire time, Eddie never took his eyes off you, like he was afraid if he blinked you'd disappear. The second a doctor finally confirmed that yes, Eddie was awake, yes, he was responding appropriately, and yes, this wasn't some bizarre fluke, your hands immediately found the nearest phone.

The first call was Wayne. You barely got through the words. "He's awake."

The line went silent, then you heard Wayne start crying.

The second call was Dustin. You didn't even bother with hello. "Get in the car."

"What?"

"Get in the car."

"Why?"

"Dustin."

A pause. Then, "...why are you crying?"

You laughed, the first genuine laugh you'd had in months. "Just get in the damn car."

Twenty minutes later, every person you knew seemed to be squeezing into a hospital room designed for about three people.

Robin was crying. Nancy was crying. Wayne was definitely crying. Lucas looked like he was trying not to cry. Mike had completely given up trying not to cry. Will was standing quietly in the corner looking like he might pass out from relief.

And Dustin? Dustin hadn't left Eddie's side once. Not for a second. Not even when nurses politely suggested giving the patient some room, especially not then. You stood near the back of the room watching as Dustin practically sat on the edge of the hospital bed.

"You're an asshole."

Eddie blinked slowly. "What?"

"You're an asshole."

A weak smile pulled at Eddie's lips. "Good morning to you too."

Dustin's face immediately crumpled. "You suck."

"Dustin—"

"You suck."

Eddie's expression softened immediately, months of missed conversations suddenly sitting between them. "I know."

Dustin looked away. His eyes were already watering again. "You weren't supposed to do that."

The room went silent. Nobody interrupted, and nobody moved. Because this wasn't for them; it never was.

Eddie swallowed. "You okay, Henderson?"

Dustin laughed, A broken sound. "No."

Eddie nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Then Dustin did something that would've mortified him under normal circumstances. He hugged him, immediately and without warning. Without caring who saw, practically throwing himself against Eddie's side. You quietly slipped from the room before anyone noticed. Or at least before anyone besides Steve noticed.

The hospital coffee tasted exactly how hospital coffee always tasted. Like disappointment. You stood beside the vending machine, staring out the window while the paper cup warmed your hands.

The sunrise was beginning to creep over the horizon. Everything felt strange. Good, but strange. You still hadn't quite convinced yourself this was real. Footsteps approached; you didn't need to look up to know whose they belonged to. 

"Hey, Harrington."

"Hey." Steve stopped beside you. "You hit really hard."

You barked out a laugh, and Steve rubbed his jaw dramatically. "I'm serious."

"Oh my God."

"I think you rearranged my face."

"I barely hit you."

Steve stared. "Nancy literally begged to take me to the hospital. Or the dentist."

You snorted into your coffee. "That's embarrassing."

"It is."

A small smile appeared on his face, the first you'd seen in a while. Then it disappeared.

"Hey."

You looked over; Steve shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm sorry. For what I said."

The exhaustion in his voice sounded genuine. "I shouldn't have said it."

You stared down into your coffee.

"No." You swallowed. "You shouldn't have."

Steve nodded. "For the record."

You glanced over as Steve pointed toward the room. "If Munson finds out you broke my face, I'm telling him it was self-defense."

You laughed despite yourself. "You literally outweigh me by fifty pounds."

"And?"

"I'll hit you again."

“I’m sure you would.

Eventually the two of you made your way back down the hallway. The closer you got to the room, the louder the voices became. Robin. Dustin. Wayne. Mike. Everybody talking over each other, just like old times.

The second you stepped inside, Eddie's attention immediately snapped toward the door. Still pale. Still exhausted. Still looking like he'd been through hell. But awake.

A smile tugged at his lips when he saw you, then his eyes drifted toward Steve. His brow furrowed immediately. "Whoa."

The room quieted, and Steve froze. Eddie squinted, looking genuinely concerned. "Harrington."

Steve sighed. "No."

"What happened to your face?"

Steve pointed directly at you. "Ask your girlfriend."

A couple of weeks passed.

Not enough time to undo everything that had happened. Not enough time to heal months of fear and grief and nightmares that still woke everyone up in the middle of the night.

But enough for things to start feeling... possible again.

The doctors were cautiously optimistic. Eddie was still weaker than he'd ever admit out loud, still attending physical therapy, still complaining every single time someone reminded him to take it easy, but he was alive. Awake. Walking. Talking. Smiling.

Complaining. Which, according to Wayne, was the best sign of recovery they could've asked for.

The situation with Hawkins, however, was a little more complicated.

You'd gone straight to Hopper. He hadn't even let you finish your sentence before pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering, "Kid, I'm already working on it."

The whole story had been laid out in front of him. Owens had done what he could behind the scenes, Hopper had done the rest, and somewhere between paperwork, witness statements that would never see the light of day, and a whole lot of pulling strings that probably weren't entirely legal, the investigation into Eddie Munson quietly lost steam.

No dramatic public apology, no newspaper retracting everything they'd said, no magical moment where Hawkins suddenly realized they'd been wrong.

Just the charges disappearing. The warrants disappearing. His name disappearing from conversations. It wasn't justice, but it was enough.

Enough that Eddie could come home. Enough that he could enroll again. Enough that, after everything, he was finally going to graduate.

The morning he walked through the front doors of Hawkins High, the entire Party had insisted on escorting him in like he was some kind of celebrity. Dustin practically refused to leave Eddie's side for the entire day.

Eddie looked around the hallway with that same crooked grin you'd fallen in love with and whispered, "I still hate this place."

You laughed so hard you had to grab onto his arm. Months ago, you'd convinced yourself you'd never hear his voice again. Now he was complaining about school. Life was weird, wonderfully weird.

By the end of October, he'd started driving again. By November, he'd started playing guitar again.

The first time he picked it up, he'd only made it through half a song before quietly setting it back down, frustrated with how stiff his fingers felt.

You hadn't said a word. You'd just sat beside him, rested your head on his shoulder, taken his hand.

He looked at you for a long time before muttering, "You'll tell me if I suck now, right?"

You smiled. "I always did."

He rolled his eyes. "Brutal."

"You love me."

"I do." Then, after a dramatic pause, "But you're brutal."

Eventually the leaves started changing. The air turned cold enough that Eddie started stealing your jackets instead of the other way around.

One afternoon the two of you drove with no destination in mind until you ended up parked beside an open field just outside town. The grass had gone golden, the sky stretching endlessly overhead.

No monsters. No sirens. No hospitals. No machines. Just silence.

You spread out an old blanket and laid down first, staring up at the clouds. A second later, Eddie flopped down beside you with an exaggerated groan before immediately rolling over and pulling you against him.

You pressed your face against his chest, just because you could. His fingers absentmindedly combed through your hair.

Neither of you spoke for a while; you didn't have to. Eventually, he broke the silence, because of course he would.

"You know..."

"Hm?"

"I don't remember everything."

You tilted your head just enough to look at him. "What do you remember?"

He thought about it. "Bits."

"The bats."

You nodded.

"Wayne."

Another nod.

"I remember you crying."

You laughed quietly. "That doesn't narrow it down much."

"It really doesn't."

He smiled, then his expression softened. "I remember hearing your voice."

Your chest tightened. "When?"

"I don't know." His thumb brushed gently across your cheek. "It felt like every day."

You swallowed hard. "I talked a lot."

"I know."

"I told you everything."

"I know."

"I talked about Dustin."

"I know."

"I complained about Steve."

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I definitely know."

Your eyes stung. "I played your mixtape until I think I almost broke it."

His smile only grew. "I know that too."

You stared at him, confused.

"I heard you."

The world seemed to stop. "What?"

His voice was barely above a whisper. "I couldn't move."

"I couldn't answer." His own eyes had started to water now. "But I heard you."

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

"I heard every story."

Another.

"I heard you tell me about Dustin getting into fights."

Another.

"I heard you complain about hospital coffee."

You laughed through your tears, he reached up and brushed them away with his thumb.

"And..." His own voice cracked. "I heard you tell me you weren't giving up on me."

You couldn't speak; your throat had closed completely. So you just nodded a tiny, shaky nod.

Eddie smiled, small and tender. "You didn't."

"No."

"You could've."

"I wasn't going to."

"You should've."

"I wasn't going to."

Silence settled between you again. Then you leaned forward until your forehead rested against his.

"I would've sat in that hospital room for another ten years if I had to."

He shut his eyes, and a tear escaped anyway. "I know."

"I would've waited twenty."

"I know."

"I would've waited my whole life."

His breathing hitched.

You smiled through your own tears. "There wasn't really another option."

He looked at you for a long moment before leaning in and kissing you. Slowly, with no urgency and no desperation. Just gentle, soft enough that it felt more like a promise than a kiss.

When he pulled away, his forehead stayed against yours. "I love you."

You smiled. "I know."

He immediately frowned. "That's it?"

You laughed. "I love you too."

"Better."

Another kiss. Then another. One pressed against your forehead. Another against your temple. One against the tip of your nose just because he knew it made you laugh.

The sun continued sinking lower across the field.

Wrapped up in his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, you realized this was something that would've seemed impossible a few months ago.

Who cutting onions!?!?!?!

I'm sorry, I had to write this, though. I had that fight scene with Steve in my brain for a while.

hope you all enjoyed :')

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You laid sprawled over Eddie's bed, stomach down and feet kicked up into the air in they're usual position as you picked at your nails. School had just let out for Spring Break, and you were ecstatic, especially after the day you had. It felt ridiculous that just one day of peace was impossible for you in Hawkins High, and as much as you tried to brush off snarky comments and being shoved in the hallway and look forward to the break, it bothered you. But the waiting was over. Two weeks of doing nothing but smoking weed and Eddie, your best friend in the entire world. There wasn't any way anything could bother you then. You were sure of it.

Eddie sat on the other side of the bed, rolling up for your second smoke of the day, bringing the joint up to his mouth and licking the edge gently to seal it.

Eddie introduced you to the wonderful world of marijuana when you two were twelve and thirteen. The memory of sitting in the woods behind Hawkins Middle, heart pounding as the paper burned between your fingers. Hesitation took over your body as your eyes flickered to Eddie, crouched down a couple of inches from you. You remembered the way he studied your face for doubt, and his hand gently taking the rolled cylinder as he sensed that you weren't sure.

"No, give it back." You protested. "You said yourself—no one comes out here. I'll be fine."

Truthfully, you had no idea if you were lying, but you were sure of one thing: the trust you had for Eddie. The part of you that screamed it was an awful idea, and that even though you were an outcast, you weren't a rule breaker flew out of the window the moment Eddie said he had to show you something.

He reluctantly stretched his arm back out towards you and allowed you to take it from his hand, and with one deep breath, you swallowed and let courage take over instead. With cautious movements, you brought it up to your mouth.

You had no idea how important that moment would be. Not only for the fact that now, being a senior in high school, you couldn't live a day with out it, but Eddie had implanted himself so deep into your life that day that you were sure nothing could dig him back out.

As he finished rolling, the two of you moved in sync. You sat yourself up and moved closer towards him, the bed squeaking and dipping lower under your weight as you rested against the wall. Eddie crossed his legs and placed the tray on the the comforter below him, routine settling in as his hands wrapped around the kitchen lighter.

Your shoulders dropped once you settled into a comfortable spot on the bed. Muscles that you couldn't even tell were tense relaxed—something about the familiar ritual alleviated your anxiousness in a way that you could only blame on Eddie.

School measured up to be exceptionally worse than usual. You shuddered at the thought of having to explain the large F on your chemistry test to your parents, even though in hindsight, it was completely your fault. Reruns on TV dipped into your study time the weeks leading up to the test, and as you tried to make up for your procrastination one day in advance, you'd convinced yourself to surrender your hopes of getting a good grade. It was future yous problem, and unfortunately, future phased into present, and you had to deal with the consequences. You hoped you could put it off for a couple of days, or maybe attempt to fake your moms signature again.

You didn't realize the way you stared deep into Eddies comforter until the sound of him clearing his throat snapped you out of it. You blinked, head jerking up and a short hum leaving your throat.

"Are you going to babysit that the entire time?" The corners of Eddies mouth twitched into a teasing smirk as his eyes darted down to the burning paper between your fingers.

Your brows drew together briefly before you extended it. He took it between his own fingers carefully and led it to his lips.

"What's up?" The tone in his question came out raspy as he held the smoke in his throat. It filled the air as he exhaled.

"Rough day." A dry laugh withdrew from your throat, though there was a lack of humor behind it. The lingering smile slowly dimmed as you exhaled a sigh.

Eddie arched a brow in curiosity, a spark of concern gleaming in his eyes as he stared back at you. An indication of reluctivity and worry fell evident in his question, "Do you… wanna talk about it?"

You shrugged casually, bringing your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around your legs. You paused, eyes running over the bleach stains on your pants you'd acquired from washing them wrong. "Not really. It's nothing new, just same ole' school stuff."

An understanding smile tugged at Eddies lips. Part of the reason you and Eddie clicked so fast was because you both understood how it felt to be perceived in a negative light by your peers. Conformity felt like the only way to fit in, and sure, you'd tried it for a while, but with every small slip up, the gossiping would resume. Eventually, you just learned to live with it. Eddie had dealt with it his entire life. Before you, he'd never fit in anywhere.

The burning cylinder between your lips heated up as you inhaled it deeply, smoke building up in your lungs and burning your throat, causing a raw cough to escape your throat; your face turned a deep red as you fought for air, eyes squeezing shut, head shaking side to side as you try to gain your composure.

"Ah, c'mon, you're being a baby." Something felt consoling within Eddies mockery, as if every time he did it, it was him subconsciously saying that he sees you. Most friends that you'd attained throughout the years strayed away from playful insults, instead focusing on the more favorable attributes.

But not Eddie. Eddie saw everything. Eddie knew everything.

A final cough cleared your throat, eyes rolling as an amused smile danced across your face, "Not my fault you have shitty weed."

Eddies arms crossed dramatically and a scoff left his mouth, but despite being "offended", a hint of amusement flickered across his face. "Well, I always provide it, and you haven't once contributed to our smoke sessions, so I wouldn't complain."

Your gaze met his as the words left his mouth, eyes running up and down his frame as a smug expression dragged across your face, "And that's how it'll always be, because you love me. I'm also broke, so there's that."

Brows raising, Eddie protested light-heartedly, "I am, too."

A gentle deflated sigh left Eddies parted lips, shoulders dropping. You watched as his lips pressed together and curled into an almost-smile, eyes darting back up to meet his stare.

"But yeah, it'll always be like that. Because I love you." Eddies head cocked to the side and lines settled near his eyes as he grinned sarcastically.

Even though they weren't rare, every time those three words left Eddies mouth, your stomach erupted into a sickening flutter. It was strange—the love you had for Eddie never fit in a specific box. He was your lifeline—your justification for your heart beating. You'd always joked that he was your platonic soulmate and the universe sent him down from some ethereal planet to save you.

Suddenly, an enthusiastic gasp sounded from beside you, followed by Eddies hands coming together in a loud clap.

"I have news. Really exciting news." He shifted slightly and leaned over slightly, his posture faltering.

"Oh, yeah?" The question left your mouth as your head dipped low, anticipation and a bit of skepticism filling your voice. Truthfully, you'd doubted heavily that he was about to spill anything revolutionary. Half of the things Eddie said to you made you question how he'd made it past the seventh grade. It was a big reason why you loved him, though—not because you felt better or smarter in any way, but because he was never afraid to be his true, authentic, embarrassing self around you.

"I…" Eddie started, dragging the word out. You watched as his hands slapped the bed repeatedly to mimic a drum roll, earning a playful scoff.

"Oh my god." You muttered under your breath, the words coming out as more of an exhale than a sentence.

"…have a date." Eddie straightened his back as a vain expression painted itself across his face, arms crossing across his chest smugly.

Involuntarily, your smile faltered for a brief moment, and you blinked twice slowly—for some reason, you couldn't pinpoint where the shock of his confession came from. Eddie had crushes on people before, mainly students at school who'd he never really spoke to, so it shouldn't have been a surprise once Eddie finally did find someone who was romantically interested back. Still, your chest burned an unfamiliar feeling—Jealousy? Envy? Anger? It didn't make any sense. You ran his words through your head again and again, and every time, it was as if the words "Eddie" and "date" didn't quite fit together.

Then came the guilt. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably as you wondered why you didn't feel happy. Eddie was your best friend, your better half, the one thing in this sick world that could ground you and bring you back to reality.

Eddie had crushes before. What was different about this one?

You thought that maybe it could be coming from a place of protectiveness. The memory of having to console Eddie over being asked out as a joke flashed across your eyes. You remembered the way his eyes puffed up from sobbing into his pillow right before you'd cautiously shuffled into his room. You remembered the anger you felt then—the way you'd marched over to her at recess, face red as fury pumped through your veins. It was the first and only time you'd laid your hands on another person.

That anger felt different to the feeling you felt boiling over in your chest. Your stomach twisted as he continued.

"She doesn't go to our school. She's home schooled, if you can believe it. I thought that only the Amish home schooled or something. We met at the music store. She was looking through a stack of records and I bumped into her like one of those cheesy romance movies you like so much." Eddies rough hand nudged your bare arm, skin burning under the playful gesture.

You could only blink, your brain attempting to process the information he was spilling out with that goofy grin slapped on his face. The way your chest burned fought harder than your silent reasoning you repeated desperately in your head. It was bound to happen eventually, and you'd been on a couple of dates, too. Eddie deserved happiness. You couldn't shake the guilty feeling that lingered with the burning in your chest. The entire thing seemed ridiculous—feeling such a strong physical reaction towards something so simple.

"Are you listening?" Eddies voice cut through your spiral like a knife.

You glanced up at him, eyes glossed over with something behind them that he couldn't quite recognize. You didn't mean to look at him like you were just told your mom died, but you couldn't stop it before it was already done. The realization that he noticed how off you were acting made you ball your fingers into fists. You shoved them into your lap quickly and exhaled a sigh to cover it up, because how do you even explain that?

"Yeah, of course I'm listening." A weak smile flashed across your face, but it didn't quite reach your eyes. The feeling of your heart crashing against your chest, thumping harder than you'd ever felt it before, drew all of your attention away from Eddies articulation, and the only thing running through your head now was the silent hope that he couldn't tell you were lying straight through your teeth.

Eddie somehow always knew. Most of the time, it felt as if Eddie could implant himself into your thoughts and dissect every single one like they were his own.

But not this time. Maybe he was too distracted going on and on about the date, or too excited to notice the way your demeanor changed the moment the words left his mouth. And what felt the most ridiculous was the fact that both instances seemed the worst—Eddie noticing or the fact that he didn't.

Eddie insisted on bringing you home, even though you repeatedly reassured him that you'd be fine walking. It wasn't out of the ordinary for Eddie to drive you home, but truthfully, being around him made it extremely difficult to think—and God, you had so much thinking to do when you got home.

You didn't have the energy to argue though, really, even if a nice stroll through Hawkins sounded nice to the alarm blaring in your skull.

Only an hour had passed since Eddie dropped his news on you, and still four hours until curfew. Usually, you'd stay with him from the moment that the school bell rung to early hours in the morning, but after spending the past hour obsessing over every interaction he described in detail with, what he described, his dream girl, you couldn't do it. Half of the time you'd spent concocting some reason to go home. The excuse was bullshit, of course, and something about the way Eddies brows drew together made it obvious that he knew you were full of shit. But you didn't care. Not really. You were freaking out, and you knew that being alone gave you the only shot to shut your brain up.

The passenger door swung open and you crawled into the van like it was habitual, and in some way, it sort of was. You'd spent so many hours in Eddies dingy van that the smell and the stains on the seats were a part of you. The two of you fell into the same routine every time—Eddie would make an effort to open the passenger door for you, mumbling something about being a perfect gentleman to get a rise out of you, you'd both make your way into your seats, and Eddie would remind you to rummage through the glove box and pick a cassette. Music always brought the two of you together, and blasting metal in the van so loud that you couldn't hear yourself think slowly became your favorite part of your day.

But that didn't happen. For the first time ever, you silently clicked your seatbelt and let your head fall and rest on the back of the seat.

Eddie followed into the van, taking his time (as always) to climb into the drivers seat. The engine roared to life as he turned the key. Something heavy lingered in the air, causing your stomach to twist violently. You wondered if he felt it, too, or if it was just another day for him.

As you stared up at the vehicle ceiling, you could feel Eddies eyes on you, scanning your expression with concentration heavy on his face. You blinked, and looked to your left to catch him in your peripheral. The outline of his fingers loosely on the steering wheel caught your attention. He obviously wasn't in a rush, and although you recognized that there wasn't anything wrong with that, you wanted him to rush, and something about how impatient you felt made you feel shameful.

"You alright?" Eddie asked, his voice dipping low in concern.

Here you were, bringing down the mood and sulking in his passenger seat, instead of enjoying the start of spring break like you'd spent weeks and weeks planning.

"Yeah, just really tired." The words sounded off as they left your mouth, your face crinkling up awkwardly. You lifted one shoulder and let it fall in a small shrug.

Eddies gaze lingered on you for a couple seconds too long before he stared back out the windshield. You knew that he knew something was wrong, and you also knew he'd ask about it later—but Eddie wasn't the type of person to pry, and for that, in that exact moment, you were eternally grateful.

The drive home fell uncomfortably quiet, the only sound coming from the rumble of the van engine and the same repeating clink that you'd begged him to get checked out months ago. You remembered the way he argued about mechanic pricing and time. The reminder almost earned a smile from you, lips twitching at the corners. You chewed on your bottom lip and your eyes burned as they stared out of the window.

Although the air around you both stayed consistently quiet, your brain wouldn't shut up. You didn't realize you could feel so many emotions at once—confusion, frustration, guilt. It all coated the inside of your stomach and stuck like it was permanent. But it couldn't be permanent. You couldn't feel like this around Eddie forever. You wouldn't allow it. Besides, at least if you could recognize or name the feeling, you could talk to him and maybe get to the bottom of it together. But how do you tell your best friend, the person that you'd trust your life with, that you're not happy for him? How do you willingly hurt him like that?

The other option it to ignore it. You could sleep it off and if things feel the same in the morning, you could pretend like the burning in your chest doesn't exist. That's it, you thought, pretend. It felt like the only logical way.

The brakes squealed and the van halted to a stop in your driveway. Staring through the windshield, you'd never been more happy to see those cream colored shutters—but somehow, that feeling made you feel sick to your stomach. On a normal day, when Eddie would drop you off, the two of you would sit in the van and soak up as much time as possible, smoking or passing the time with theories about people at school. You'd even kept one of your favorite body sprays in the back seat to hide the marijuana scent when you finally did decide to begrudgingly sloth up the porch stairs. If you were in your driveway before curfew, technically, you weren't breaking any rules. Eddie came up with that conclusion a year and a half ago, and the two of you absolutely ran with it, treating it as if it were scripture. You remember the way your parents tried to fight it, arguing about school nights and education being a more important thing to focus on, but after a couple of weeks, they just let it slide. It wasn't worth the fight, and to be fair, you were always able to come up with a valid counterargument.

The seatbelt clicked as you unbuckled it, and it shot back into the retractor quickly. Instinctively, you paused and breathed a sigh out of your nose. Moving even an inch felt like it was confirming something that you were deathly afraid of, and if society would allow it, you were sure that you'd stay right there in that van forever, living out the rest of your days sitting in the thick air surrounding the two of you.

But you had to go inside, eventually, and if it wasn't for Eddie, that process would've been painfully prolonged.

"Do you want me to walk you inside?" His voice cut through the quiet like a sword, shaking you out of your thoughts.

As your eyes shot over towards him, you felt your body immediately retreating, gaze faltering the moment it landed on his. Instead, it landed on the rings lining his finger. Under the flood lights shining through the windshield, they sparkled, silver and white light blinding you. Somehow, it felt better than struggling to look him in the eye.

"I think I've got it. If you come with me, you may never get home." A dry, humorless laugh left your throat, a lingering weak smile flashing as you glanced up to him.

"Why does that have to be a bad thing?" And there it was again, the sinking feeling—the pit in your stomach and that goofy smile that somehow made even the worst situations okay again.

You felt like you were about to choke, your throat constricting and only allowing a couple of words out. The defense in your voice startled you, though, and you could see the change on Eddies face as you spoke, "It doesn't. I'm just tired."

Eddie blinked twice, an almost stunned look on his face. It wasn't that you sounded mean per say, but unless you were joking back and forth, your tone always sounded gentle to him.

"Yeah, okay. Go get some rest. Will you call me in the morning?"

Eddie pressed his lips together to keep the smirk already tugging at the corners of his mouth from giving him way, settling instead for a quiet tsk of feigned annoyance. He didn’t bother replying as he led his little group of black sheep further down the hall.

Instead, he let the noise of the hallway fill the silence while his mind drifted back to the events of last night. And despite his best efforts, that smirk found its way onto his lips anyway.

Ever the observant one – unlike Gareth, who was operating purely on horny teenage instinct – Jeff noticed it immediately the second he fell into step beside Eddie.

“Yeah,” he breathed out dramatically, jerking his head towards Gareth as he leaned down just enough to look at Eddie properly. “He’s a goner.”

Gareth’s brows shot up as he leaned in for another look at him.

“Jesus,” he snorted. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger, don’t she?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, though the warmth climbing up the tips of his ears betrayed him instantly.

“Fuck off.”

“No, seriously,” Jeff continued, smacking a hand against Eddie’s shoulder while a mischievous grin tugged at his lips. “I’ve never seen you like this. It’s a good look on you, buddy.”

Eddie’s ringed fingers twitched around the handle of his metal lunchbox as he fought the urge to roll his eyes again and throw some snarky comment back at them.

Instead, he let the endless blabbering of his best friends fade into the background noise of the hallway while his eyes wandered over the sea of students around him, his mind drifting elsewhere entirely.

This morning had been a good one.

Birds had chirped softly from the electricity wires high above the trailer park while the quiet dripping of the coffee machine filled the delicate silence inside the trailer. Eddie had spent most of it half-awake, just letting his eyes wander across your face as you slept beside him – taking in the soft breaths leaving your nose and the way every muscle in your face had relaxed completely against his chest.

Not even Wayne nearly ripping the front door off its hinges on his way bay inside had managed to pull a harsh reaction out of him.

It had been a little after six when Eddie finally gently nudged you awake, the sky outside already splitting open with warm streaks of sunshine, and honestly? It almost pained him to do it – which was a realization he still wasn’t entirely comfortable unpacking.

But he’d figured you should probably get home to get ready for school, and besides, he wanted to give you the option of driving your own car instead of being stuck with him again.

Still, the image of your sleepy blinking, eyelashes brushing softly against your cheeks while you tried to wake up, had carved itself a permanent place somewhere inside his brain.

And frankly? That scared the living shit out of him; how easily he could slip into this whole… thing the two of you had going on.

Eddie was brought back to the present when his shoulder accidentally slammed into another student.

“Watch it, freak,” someone muttered while brushing past him.

“Yeah,” Gareth snorted. “Lover boy’s not mentally present right now.”

Somewhere near the end of the hall, Nathalie sucked thoughtfully on her bottom lip while one of her brows slowly arched upward as she stood in front of a corkboard, pretending to read one of the random flyers pinned to it.

Gareth froze for a second before quickly clearing his throat.

Then he muttered something about a blonde babe looking lost under his breath and immediately veered off in her direction.

Eddie barely seemed to notice – but if he did, he wasn’t particularly interested in it.

Beside him, Jeff pursed his lips thoughtfully like he was turning something over in his head before nudging Eddie with his elbow and jerking his head back towards the entrance doors.

“Wanna smoke one more time before we get tortured?” he asked, already patting his pockets for his cigarettes.

He pretended to think about it for a second before finally nodding and turning back towards the entrance, Jeff falling into step beside him.

The hallway had emptied out considerably in the few minutes they’d spent standing there, most students finally dragging themselves to class as the first warning bell echoed faintly through the building.

By the time they stepped back outside, the morning air felt even warmer than before.

The two of them made their way towards the picnic table – far enough from the entrance to avoid attracting the attention of any faculty member wandering around in search of students skipping class.

Jeff tossed his battered pack of Marlboros towards Eddie before hopping up onto the tabletop beside him. He flicked his lighter open and lit the cigarette hanging between his lips, squinting his eyes when he felt the flame a little too close from his face for his liking.

The two of them sat there quietly for a moment, smoke curling lazily into the warm morning air while chirping birds overhead filled the silence between them.

“So, what’re you gonna do about it?”

Eddie furrowed his brows slightly as he pulled a cigarette from the pack. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

Jeff snorted softly around his cigarette before taking another drag.

“C’mon man,” he muttered, smoke still trapped in his lungs. “I’m not stupid.”

That made Eddie still for half a second before he leaned back on his free hand.

The morning air sat warm and still around them while late students trickled through the parking lot in the distance, the faint rumble of car engines drifting across the school grounds.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” he muttered after a while, finally lighting the cigarette between his lips.

Jeff only shrugged one shoulder. “It means, you’ve been weird as Hell lately.”

Eddie just snorted softly around his cigarette, muttering something about Jeff needing to stop analysing his bullshit all the time.

“Nah, man, I’m serious.” His best friend pointed at him with the two fingers holding his cigarette. “You disappeared last night, and this morning you come back looking like you’ve received divine revelation.”

“That’s just my face.”

“You can bullshit me all you want,” Jeff replied, bringing the cigarette back to his lips for a quick drag, “but you can’t bullshit yourself.”

Eddie rolled his eyes automatically, though it lacked most of its usual bite, and tapped ash onto the dry soil beside his sneakers as his jaw tightened slightly.

“She’s just…” he started before trailing off. “Y’know?”

Jeff glanced sideways at him immediately, catching the hesitation and the way Eddie pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

“You sound like a fucking thirteen-year-old trying to describe his first crush,” Jeff chuckled.

Eddie lamely flipped him off before busying himself with his cigarette again.

The thing was, he knew his best friend wasn’t wrong – and that was exactly the problem.

Because he’d done this before – the hooking up, the lingering stares during sets, messy almost-somethings that burned out long before they ever even got the chance to matter.

But this?

This felt dangerously close to mattering – and he wasn’t used to that.

His fingers tightened slightly around the cigarette while his eyes drifted out towards the empty football field beyond the parking lot fence.

“She liked you too, y’know,” Jeff muttered before taking one last drag. “Could see it on her face when we played.”

“Yeah,” he muttered back, almost absentmindedly letting the words slips out before he could stop them. “That’s kinda what scares me.”

Eddie still carried the conversation around his head long after he and Jeff had parted ways towards their own classes.

Chairs had already stopped scraping against the tiled floor by the time he stepped into Mr. Sullivan’s classroom, though class hadn’t started just yet.

He let out a quiet sigh as his fingers dragged through his hair while he made his way towards the back of the room where he usually sat.

The bell rang just as Nathalie jokingly shoved you through the doorway, the two of you laughing about something incomprehensible with a grumpy Mr. Sullivan trailing closely behind.

The loud teenage noise filling the classroom didn’t dull immediately when the teacher walked in, but something inside Eddie’s mind did the second he laid his eyes on you.

Whatever words you’d been about to say to Nathalie died on the tip of your tongue when your eyes flicked towards him. Instead, you swallowed softly before offering him a small, shy smile as you slipped into your usual seat.

Your hair shifted over your shoulders when you turned back for one quick glance at him before facing forward again as the scratching sound of chalk against the blackboard filled the room.

You hadn’t brush it, or applied whatever the Hell Eddie thought girls usually used to make it look all neat and perfect. Instead, you’d left it messy – like it had been when you woke up beside him this morning.

And just like that, Jeff’s words came back to haunt him again.

Unfortunately for Eddie, lunchtime only made things worse.

Jeff didn’t even have to look up from his disgusting sandwich to make Eddie feel painfully called out – and neither did Gareth, who seemed far more enthralled with a certain blonde sitting a few feet away than with whatever was sitting on his lunch tray.

Honestly, Dustin and his annoyingly observant eyes were more than enough.

“So, like, are you guys a thing now, or what?” Dustin muttered casually before shoving a handful of cold fries into his mouth.

Jeff finally looked up at that, chewing slowly while his hips twitched around an amused grin.

“What? No,” Eddie coughed out immediately – a little too quickly. “Jesus, Henderson.”

The boys exchanged smug looks instantly, completely ignoring the daggers Eddie shot at them across the table.

He opened his mouth to throw an insult back at them when the sound of loud laughter cut through the cafeteria noise.

His head turned before he could stop himself.

You sat across from Nathalie, absentmindedly picking at your food with the plastic fork in your hand while the blonde dramatically waved her hands around like it was absolutely necessary to do so while she rambled on about whatever story had currently taken over her brain.

The sunlight spilling through the cafeteria windows caught in your hair as you glanced around the room over your shoulder – eyes lazily scanning the neighbouring tables until they landed on him.

And just like that, your entire face softened.

Fuck.

And apparently so did his, judging by the way Jeff’s eyes suddenly glimmered a little more than usual; the insufferable grin spreading across his face certainly didn’t help either.

“Don’t even,” Eddie muttered quickly before swallowing hard.

Jeff only snorted under his breath. “You’re both disgustingly obvious.”

Eddie ignored him completely, though the warmth creeping up the back of his neck betrayed him instantly.

“You too, Loverboy,” Jeff added while nudging Gareth with his elbow after noticing he was still openly staring at the blonde without an ounce of shame.

Meanwhile, two tables down diagonally, Nathalie continued waving her hands around while complaining about the fact that you and Eddie had forced her to take the remaining two thirds of Corroded Coffin.

Well, complaining wasn’t exactly what she was doing – although she clearly liked to think she was. In reality, there was a new glimmer in her eyes you’d never really seen before, accompanied by a small smile she kept unsuccessfully trying to brush away.

Your hand curled around your water bottle while her voice faded in and out in the background, your attention too busy stealing quick glances over your shoulder instead.

“Are you even listening to me?” she sighed dramatically before tossing a cold fry at you.

It hit right beneath your clavicle before dropping soundlessly onto your lap – but it was enough to pull you back into the conversation.

“Of course I am,” you mumbled with a soft furrow between your brows.

“No, you aren’t.”

“You were pretending not to like Gareth’s cologne,” you replied matter-of-factly with an arched brow.

Nathalie froze for half a second, her eyes widening slightly.

“No, I wasn’t,” she answered a little too quickly.

“Yes, you were,” you laughed softly.

Her pale eyes flickered briefly towards your neck before returning to your face again.

“Yeah, well,” she muttered grumpily, clearly displeased that you’d called her out, “I didn’t let a vampire abuse my neck like some people.”

Now it was your turn to freeze in your seat before quickly averting your eyes.

You blinked a few times too many while your brain scattered desperately for some kind of snarky remark to throw back at her.

“No comment,” you mumbled back.

Her eyes flickered back towards the bruises before drifting over to the other table and then back again, her brows pulling into a deep furrow.

She looked back down at her cold fries like they held all the answered to the questions she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to ask you.

“Would it be weird,” she started softly, almost hesitantly, “for, y’know…”

She pushed her tray away with obvious disgust written across her face before her expression softened again.

“For me to be a little worried about you?”

That pulled your eyes back to her face immediately.

“Why would you be worried about me?” you asked nervously. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I can clearly see that,” she absentmindedly pointed towards your neck before rolling her eyes jokingly, like that might somehow soften the weight of her next words.

She leaned back in her chair, rolling her shoulders as she carefully considered what to say next.

“I’m just scared people are gonna treat you differently,” she mumbled quickly under her breath, almost like she was ripping off a bandage in one quick pull. She noticed the way your shoulders tensed immediately – not anxiously, but defensively.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nat.”

“I’m not. Just… listen,” she muttered softly while reaching across the table to intertwine her fingers with yours, her thumb brushing gentle circles against the back of your hand. “Hawkins is cruel to girls.”

Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer.

“People don’t care what boys do,” she sighed before letting her eyes drift towards the Hellfire table. “But a girl like you? I’m scared they’ll turn you into a story.”

Her thumb continued its slow movements against your skin while she let the weight of her words settle between you for a moment longer.

“But, I can also tell you’re serious about this, about him,” she added quietly, the look in her eyes softening once again. “And I saw the way he looked at you yesterday, too.”

The fluorescent lights overhead were too harsh on her features, but somehow, they still couldn’t harden the gentleness she only seemed to reserve for you. For a moment, neither of you spoke, and the silence between you filled itself with the loud teenage noise surrounding your table.

Nathalie’s teeth found her bottom lip when she noticed the quiet, gradual way your expression fell.

And she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Eddie did too – even from where he sat.

He could feel the start of something uncomfortable settling somewhere behind his ribs the second he noticed the quick glance Nathalie sent towards his table.

But then your eyes slowly found him instead, and the soft smile you gave him when your gazes locked again was more than enough to quiet the uneasy buzzing beneath his skin.

Nathalie’s words continued echoing somewhere deep in your mind even after the four classes that followed lunch period – even with the hallways buzzing with teenage chatter, squeaking sneakers against tiled floors, and entirely too much hairspray for a Wednesday afternoon.

You knew her words came not only from concern, but love too, and because of that, they didn’t settle quite as wrong in the pit of your stomach as you’d expected them to. That didn’t make you safe from your nasty habit of overthinking everything, though.

You flinched when you accidentally yanked a little too hard on your locker door, sending a book and far too many loose papers spilling onto the floor. Like the imaginary eyes you’d felt following you around all day weren’t enough, now you had actual fucking people staring while you let out an exasperated sigh and dropped to your knees.

The first thing that came into view were the harsh reflections of the fluorescent lights overhead – honestly, they hurt your eyes – before you tilted your head back and found yourself staring at a familiar mess of dark curls.

“B plus on an algebra test?” Eddie scoffed while reaching down to grab one of the papers that had escaped your locker. “Why isn’t this hanging on your family’s refrigerator?”

You huffed out a quiet laugh while taking the thin stack of papers from his hands.

“Because it’s not a big deal,” you mumbled back while shoving everything carelessly inside your locker again.

“Sweetheart, if I was getting anything above a C,” Eddie started, another soft scoff slipping from his lips, “I’d be buying drinks for everyone at the Hide Out.”

You rolled your eyes at him while putting away the books you didn’t need to bring home, replacing them with the ones you did. Eddie shifted his weight awkwardly as his eyes flickered around the hallway.

“So…”

“So,” you echoed, a soft smile slowly creeping onto your lips.

“Speaking of drinks…” He forced a cough into his fist when he felt his voice slipping somewhere it definitely wasn’t supposed to. “Do you, like…”

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder before closing your locker and turning back towards him again.

His hand stayed tucked deep inside the front pockets of his jeans while he awkwardly nodded to himself, like the absentminded movement might somehow help him force the words out.

“Do you wanna get something to drink?” he asked quietly under his breath. “Like… I dunno, a milkshake or something?”

Eddie’s eyes flickered nervously from you to the ground and back up again while he bit awkwardly at the inside of his cheek, suddenly realising he’d just asked you out – in quite possibly the lamest way imaginable, too.

“That sounded pathetic, didn’t it?” He visibly cringed at himself, his nose scrunching as he looked somewhere over your shoulder instead of directly at you.

You, on the other hand, nervously bit down on your lower lip while his words continued echoing through your head.

“No, it didn’t,” you answered softly, your gaze dropping away from him when the warmth creeping across the tips of your ears started spreading down your neck. “I’d love to.”

Someone near the end of the hallway suddenly shouted something just as Eddie opened his mouth to answer you, pulling both of your attention away for a brief moment.

Lockers continued slamming in the background, along with the obnoxious squeak of brand-new sneakers against tile, while Eddie let the words die on his tongue instead. He dragged a ringed hand through his hair – a nervous habit he never quite managed to shake, even after all the times his curls had gotten caught around his rings and yanked painfully. Your eyes drifted back towards him just in time to catch the funny face he pulled after accidentally tugging a few strands too hard.

“Ah, fuck,” hissed quietly while scowling at absolutely nothing in particular.

The sight in front of you pulled a small, disbelieving laugh out of you – one that only worsened when you noticed the soft pout forming on his lips while he untangled the strands of hair caught around his rings.

“So,” you murmured once you’d finally gotten your laughter under control, “what time were you thinking?”

Eddie’s eyes widened slightly as his eyebrows shot upwards.

“I, uh…” he trailed off before scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I was kinda thinking… now?

“Now?” you laughed, already gesturing down at your clothes. “You don’t even want me to change into something a little nicer?”

“I couldn’t care less about your outfit, Sweetheart,” he murmured back, a soft grin tugging at his lips.

You hummed softly before raising a brow at him.

“That’s not what you said yesterday.”

He slowly looked away, his teeth catching his bottom lip as warmth into his cheeks at the memory of the previous night. After a second, he let go of it and pursed his lips instead.

“Y’know what?” Eddie scoffed softly while finally looking back at you again. “I got nothing to say to that.”

That pulled another quiet laugh out of you while you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Your fingers tightened slightly around the strap of your bag.

“Follow me back home?” you murmured softly, already starting to walk towards the main exit leading out to the parking lot. “Or am I supposed to drive myself home tonight?”

The deep rumble of Eddie’s van died the moment he turned the key before glancing over at you.

“You ready to terrorise the diner?”

Your eyes had already been on him, too busy taking in the way the neon lights bled through the windshield and across his face, painting his pale skin in shades of pink, orange, and bright red. It made you wonder how he’d look on a real stage – one big enough for him to thrive even more than he already did at the Hide Out.

“Never been more ready,” you replied while forcing yourself back into the moment.

The harsh slam of the van’s creaking doors echoed loudly into the open air, starting a few birds from their comfortable spots atop the electrical wires as the two of you made your way towards the diner entrance. The small bell above the door chimed softly when Eddie pulled it open for you, holding it there with a dramatic flourish of his free arm and a low milady slipping from his lips.

The old Wurlitzer tucked against the back wall hummed softly in the background, filling the diner with some cheesy love song from the fifties while the occasional burst of laughter and clatter of plates blended into the warm noise around you.

“You got a favourite seat?” you asked while stepping further inside, immediately getting hit with the thick scent of French fries and the faint underlying smell of industrial cleaning supplies.

“At the back there,” Eddie replied, pointing a ringed finger towards the vinyl booths tucked near the jukebox.

The two of you slid into the booth furthest from the windows, the old leather squeaking softly underneath you movements while a waitress somewhere behind the counter shouted another order into the kitchen. The song currently humming through the diner crackled softly as it came to an end, only for another to slowly drift through the staticky speakers a second later.

Your brows lifted slightly when Eddie’s ringed fingers immediately started tapping against the tabletop in perfect rhythm with the beat – not absentmindedly, either. Knowingly.

“What?” he asked after catching you staring.

“Just didn’t expect you to know this song,” you replied with a quiet laugh.

Eddie scoffed dramatically, pretending you’d just personally offended him. “Of course I know it. It’s the Hollies.”

Your lips parted slightly in surprise before small smile slowly spread across your face.

“That one band I played yesterday?” you laughed softly under your breath. “You actually listen to them?”

“C’mon, Sweetheart,” Eddie tsked while shaking his head jokingly. “Show some respect.”

His fingers kept drumming lazily against the tabletop while he leaned further back into the booth.

“Besides, good music’s good music,” he shrugged simply. “I contain multitudes.”

That pulled another laugh out from you.

“A random – what is it, sixties – love song?” One of your brows lifted playfully. “You’re kinda ruining your whole spooky metalhead reputation right know, y’know.”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie started dramatically while placing a hand over his chest, “metalheads are allowed emotional depth too.”

“Is that what this is?” you teased. “Emotional depth?”

“No,” he deadpanned immediately. “This is me being devastatingly cultured, something we unfortunately cannot say about you.”

Your laughter mixed softly with the music drifting through the diner, and for a moment, Eddie found himself growing quiet again. Not awkwardly – just enough to watch the way the warm amber lights overhead reflected in your eyes while you smiled at him from across the table. And somewhere underneath the diner lights, with What Kind of Girl Are You still humming softly through the speakers, Eddie realised this felt dangerously close to the kind of night he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

The waitress finally wandered over with a tired – yet somehow still welcoming – smile and a notepad tucked against her apron.

“What can I getcha?”

Eddie barely glanced at the menu before looking up at her. “Chocolate milkshake.”

“Pictured you as a strawberry guy.” Your brows lifted slightly.

He gasped dramatically. “Pink’s definitely not metal, Sweetheart. C’mon, now.”

“Neither are the Hollies.”

The waitress snorted softly under her breath before scribbling the order down. “One milkshake or two?”

Eddie visibly short-circuited – you could practically see the exact moment his brain stopped functioning behind his eyes.

“Can I get a vanilla shake, please?” you answered softly before he could completely spiral.

“You betcha,” the waitress replied absentmindedly while finishing the order. “Be right back.”

The Hollies had taken it upon themselves to fill the soft silence that settled between the two of you for a little while longer, the playful, teasing melody lingering gently over the table.

Eddie absentmindedly played with his rings – turning one around his finger before pulling it off completely, only to slide it back on again a second later. There wasn’t any pressure lingering between the two of you anymore – no pressure to act a certain way or force conversation into every quiet moment just to fill the space. Just… comfortable silence – the kind where two people simply existed beside each other without needing anything more.

“So, vanilla, huh?” Eddie said after a few seconds, something dangerously close to mischief settling in your eyes.

“If you’re about to call me boring,” you deadpanned while narrowing your eyes at him, “I will kick you.”

“You’re everything but,” he murmured under his breath – just quietly enough that the waitress couldn’t hear it when she returned balancing two tall glasses in her hands.

Eddie nodded faintly in appreciation when the waitress placed both milkshakes down onto the table before disappearing again almost immediately. His dark eyes stayed glued to the perfect milky swirls sitting in front of you.

“What?”

“Oh, y’know,” he started while softly pursing his lips to stop himself from smiling, “just wondering if it tastes as boring as it sounds.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

Before you could kick him, or he could stop myself, Eddie’s fingers curled around the short stem of your milkshake glass and pulled it closer before taking a quick sip from your straw.

He let the taste settle on his tongue for a second before swallowing. And then he froze; not because of the brain freeze, either.

“…I don’t know why I just did that.”

One of your brows lifted slightly while your lips curled into an amused little smirk.

“Well?” you murmured teasingly. “Is it boring?”

“Not in the slightest,” he answered after a moment, his eyes still fixed on yours.

Eddie’s fingers drummed lazily against the steering wheel while the radio played quietly in the background. The neon diner lights had long since been replaced by the soft amber glow of the sunset streaks stretching across the windshield while he drove with an unusual kind of calmness settling over him.

He’d noticed the way you’d lazily kicked off your shoes and stretched your legs across the dashboard, your head softly bobbing along to whatever song was currently playing – one he could barely hear properly anymore after the years of playing music without bothering to protect his ears. His gaze kept flickering between the road and you, stealing quick glances while the glowing fifties sign slowly disappeared into the distance behind you.

“Do you, uh… wanna go home yet?” he asked carefully, almost like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to interrupt the comfortable silence the two of you had fallen into.

You slouched a little further into the vinyl seat before finally dragging your gaze away from the passing window outside.

“Not really, no,” you admitted without even taking a second to think about it.

That pulled a small smile from Eddie while he nodded faintly to a beat only he could hear, his fingers tapping softly against the steering wheel along with it. The windows had been rolled down, letting the early-summer evening air drift through the van. It felt noticeably softer now than it had that morning while Eddie drove the two of you in the opposite direction of your house. His curls blew carelessly in the wind while his free hand briefly stopped tapping against the steering wheel to pull down the visor.

Storefronts and average buildings blurred into grey smudges that slowly gave way to stretches of green the further Eddie drove from downtown, until the loamy scent of wet earth and mineral-laced air drifted in through the open windows before Lovers Lake finally revealed itself ahead.

Gravel crunched softly underneath the tires when Eddie finally pulled the van to a stop near the edge of the lake. He killed the engine and, for a moment, the sudden quiet rang loudly in your ears before the slow croaking of frogs gradually drifted into the foreground instead.

“C’mon,” he murmured after a while, already pushing open his door.

The back doors of the van creaked loudly when he pulled them apart, revealing a wooden crate stuffed with old blankets, a concerning amount of empty soda cans shoved into a grocery bag, and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and worn leather. He reached for one of the blankets along with his trusted metal lunchbox before tilting his head back slightly, silently coaxing you to follow him while he nudged van doors shut again and started towards the docks.

“So, I was thinking,” he started slowly, turning his head just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, “how about I teach you how to roll, hm?”

Eddie stopped a few feet from the edge of the pier before setting his lunchbox down with a soft metallic clank. He unfolded the blanket and spread it across the wooden planks as neatly as he could, despite the occasional breeze trying to fold the corners back over themselves.

The green, damp tang of early-summer lake water felt stronger now, faint hints of fish and algae lingering in the air around you while the vivid trills of crickets rose and fell in soft waves through the trees. Warm streaks of sunset still glimmered from behind the thick trees, though somehow they still managed to find their way across Eddie’s face when he sat down and patted the free space in front of him before reaching for his lunchbox. You sat cross-legged in front of him, your eyes lingering on his face while you took in the way the golden streaks of sundown made him look even softer than the diner lights had.

When Eddie finally flicked his gaze up from the lunchbox beside him, his brows furrowed slightly.

“C’mere, turn around,” he mumbled lazily motioning his ringed finger in a small circle.

“Hm?”

“It’ll be easier to teach you like that.”

So you did just that – clumsily turning around on the blanket until your back faced him instead. One of Eddie’s ringed hands settled carefully against your waist while he shuffled closer behind you until the warmth of his chest pressed softly against your back, each of his legs splayed comfortably on either side of you. You all but melted when the soft warmth of him spread across your back and his chin found its place on your shoulder.

“A’ight, first step,” he mumbled softly while passing you the flimsy rolling paper, “you’re gonna hold it between your thumb, pointer, and middle finger. Like this, see?”

And for the next twenty minutes, his chin barely left your shoulder while his uncontrollable laughter rang in your ear every time your fingers clumsily failed to follow his instructions.

“Oh, God,” he breathed out, his curls brushing against your cheek even after he’d finally managed to get his laughter under control. “It’s like watching Bambi try to roll a joint, but worse.”

Somewhere between shared laughter and exhausted, belly-aching sighs, Eddie had eventually pulled the crinkled rolling paper from your hands with the clear intention of salvaging whatever damage you’d managed to inflict on it. Expert fingers quickly rescued it before he rolled the joint shut and held the sticky edge up towards your lips.

“See?” he murmured softly after sealing it closed. “That’s how you do it.”

He handed the finished joint over to you while patting himself down in search of hi lighter.

“Ah, fuck,” he mumbled quietly to himself. “Think I left the lighter in the van.”

“It’s in the inside pocket of your jacket.”

Eddie stilled for half a second before pulling open the front of his jacket and reaching into the inside pocket with two fingers.

“Huh,” he mumbled quietly once the lighter landed in his palm.

Then his hand found your waist again, gently tugging your back a little closer to his chest before he pressed a quick kiss against your cheek. The joint had been lit in the gentle silence surrounding the two of you, with only the crickets and early-summer cicadas filling the open air.

You took another small, tentative drag before passing it back to Eddie, blowing the smoke upwards as you watched the breeze curl it softly through the air until it disappeared altogether. His arm had long since snaked around your frame to keep you tucked closer against him while neither one of you had bothered moving from your original positions.

Somewhere between the lazy haze settling behind your eyes and the fading reflections trembling across the water, your fingers had found his hand resting against your waist and quietly intertwined with his.

As the sun dipped lower and the world seemed to exhale alongside the two of you, the sky softened into streaks of molten gold and bruised violet. The last remaining rays of sunlight slipping through the thick trees stretched across the still lake water in shimmering ribbons. The shadows along the shoreline deepened while the water slowly darkened into shades of indigo and shifting silver, like the lake itself was holding onto the sunset without any hurry to let it go. The slow, unhurried transformation of the glowing horizon into softened amber spread a gentle calmness through your chest as you instinctively snuggled a little closer into him.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked softly, your eyes already closed while your head lulled heavily against his chest.

“How pretty it looks,” Eddie murmured quietly before taking another drag from the joint.

Your eyes slowly opened again, heavy with warmth and smoke, taking in the view stretched out in front of you without realising Eddie hadn’t been talking about the sunset at all.

Soft streaks of morning sunlight stretched across your room until they landed on the leather jacket tossed carelessly over your bed – like it didn’t hold as much meaning as it actually did – while you actively tried to pretend you weren’t searching your closet for something that looked good with it.

Eddie had draped it over your shoulder the previous night when the glittering stars overhead had given way to a colder breeze rolling off the lake, and he hadn’t asked for it back before you made the short walk from the driveway to your front door.

It was far too early in the morning to be wearing a leather jacket – and far too early for Nathalie’s words to already find their way back into your overthinking mind. So you shoved both thoughts aside and pulled the sleeves over your arms before heading out to school.

The excruciating heat trapped beneath the dark leather wasn’t the only thing making you feel claustrophobic – gossiping eyes and turning heads followed your every move the second you stepped out of the car, only worsening the closer you got to the school entrance. And it wasn’t even about being seen in Eddie’s jacket as much as it was about the judgment already dripping from every lingering stare thrown your way – the confused expressions, the overly critical furrow of brows while people leaned forward their friends to whisper about how you’d been wearing a completely different jacket just two weeks ago.

By the time you reached your locker, your fingers had already curled around the hem of the sleeve twice with the intention of pulling it off – but you stopped yourself both times. The scent of cigarette smoke, worn leather, and cheap cologne still clung faintly to the inside lining, grounding you just enough to keep your hands still.

“Jesus Christ,” Nathalie muttered the second she rounded the corner and spotted you leaning against your locker. “They’re acting like you showed up pregnant.”

Your eyes flickered uncomfortably towards the groups of students lingering further down the hallway before settling back on her again. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well…” she grimaced slightly while adjusting the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder. “You are wearing Eddie Munson’s jacket like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

“Jesus,” you mumbled under your breath while heat immediately crawled up the back of your neck.

Nathalie’s eyes flickered briefly towards the jacket again before she nudged your shoulder lightly with her own. “For what it’s worth, you look cute.”

Before you could answer, your head instinctively turned towards the loud burst of laughter that suddenly echoed through the hallway.

And so did Eddie’s.

He’d been halfway through saying something to Gareth when his eyes landed on you standing by your locker – or, more specifically, on the oversized black leather jacket hanging from your shoulders.

Jeff immediately noticed the way Eddie’s entire body stilled.

“Holy shit, dude,” he whispered dramatically while grabbing Eddie’s shoulders hard enough to jolt him slightly. “She wore the jacket.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered automatically, though the words came out far weaker than intended.

Because you had worn the jacket. Not just publicly – but at school. Like it had never even been a question.

And suddenly, Eddie felt something uncomfortable settle beneath his ribs when he became painfully aware of every set of eyes flickering between the two of you in the hallway, followed by whispers, blatant stares, and the heavy judgment already threatening to settle over your shoulders right alongside his jacket. But when your nervous eyes finally found his across the crowded hallway, you still reached up and pulled the leather tighter around yourself instead of taking it off – like not even the awful crawling anxiety underneath your skin could convince you to let go of it.

And then you gave him a small smile from where you stood – one that quietly told him you were going to be okay. Eddie’s breathed caught softly in his throat before he slowly smiled back.

The second bell still rang loudly in your ears even minutes after it had stopped echoing through the hallway. You adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder while hurrying towards the biology classroom through the empty hall. Besides the sound of your footsteps, the silence around you was only broken by the crinkling hallway slip clutched tightly in your other hand after Mr. Flanagan had kept you behind to talk about an essay you’d written.

A soft creak suddenly echoed through the hallway before an arm shot out from the janitor’s closet and yanked you inside. “What the–”

“Shhh,” Eddie whispered quickly while peeking back out into the hallway to make sure no one had seen the two of you disappear inside. “I’ve been waiting for ages. What took you so long?”

“Mr. Flanagan wanted to talk about an essay I wrote,” you answered breathlessly before confusion pulled at your brows. “Why are we hiding in the janitor’s closet?”

His curls bounced softly when he turned back towards you, his hand immediately finding your hips before gently pulling you flush against his chest.

“Because,” he started while tilting his head slightly backwards, a mischievous grin slowly spreading across his lips, “you kinda short-circuited my brain when you walked into school wearing my jacket.”

Warmth instantly crawled into your cheeks when he leaned down just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss against your cheekbone before his expression softened again afterwards.

“I just…” he hesitated briefly, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your hips. “I hope people haven’t been assholes to you because of it.”

Eddie’s grip on your hips tightened ever so slightly before his thumbs started tracing soft circles against the denim of your jeans. You blinked at him a few times before a shy, knowing smile slowly tugged at the corners of your lips. Your hand lifted to his cheek, and you couldn’t help the quiet hum that escaped you when he immediately melted further into your touch, his dramatic persona slipping away just as easily as it always seemed to around you.

“It’s okay–”

“No, it’s not,” Eddie cut you off softly, his head still tilted into his palm while his eyes stayed closed. “You don’t deserve any of it.”

“It’s okay, Eddie,” you said a little more firmly while your thumb started brushing softly against his cheek. “They’ll get bored eventually.”

The two of you fell quiet again for a moment, but neither of you made any move to pull away. Your eyes drifted briefly towards the sleeve hanging loosely from your shoulder before a small smile tugged softly at your lips.

“It made it easier, y’know.”

Eddie’s brows furrowed slightly. “What d’you mean?”

“The jacket,” you shrugged one shoulder lightly. “It smells like you.”

That alone was enough to make his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your hips again.

“The cigarettes?” he snorted softly.

“The cigarettes,” you hummed jokingly before your expression softened again. “The leather. Your cologne.”

Your eyes flickered back towards him again.

“It made it easier.”

He went completely still – not dramatically, just enough for you to notice the way his eyes searched your face for a second longer than usual, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the confession you’d just handed him. Something vulnerable flickered underneath his usual teasing expression before he looked down briefly and softly exhaled through his nose.

“You can’t just say stuff like that to me,” he muttered quietly, almost more to himself than to you. A snort escaped you. “Why?” “Because,” Eddie mumbled while his thumbs absentmindedly brushed over your hips again, “you keep making me feel things, Sweetheart. It’s very inconsiderate of you.”

That pulled another snort out of you.

And maybe it was the quietness of the closet, or the lingering warmth of the previous night still stubbornly clinging between the two of you, but your hand instinctively slid from his cheek towards the back of his neck instead. Eddie’s eyes flickered briefly down to your lips before slowly lifting back up again. Your breaths tangled together in the cramped little space while he leaned down carefully, giving you more than enough time to pull away if you wanted to – but you didn’t. Your lips met his softly – careful at first, almost hesitant – before the kiss deepened ever so slightly when your fingers curled gently against the nape of his neck.

But then, the sharp sound of footsteps suddenly echoed right outside the closet door, making the two of you jolt apart immediately.

“You still in there, Munson?” “Shit,” Eddie muttered while nearly knocking over a mop bucket beside him. “Gimme ten more minutes, Jared, and I’ll give you a discount.” “Fuck, kid. Don’t gotta tell me twice,” the older voice replied from the other side of the door before the footsteps slowly faded down the hallway again. You bit down hard on your lip to stop your laughter while Eddie frantically dragged a hand through his curls. “Did you just–” A chuckle escaped you before you could finish. “Did you just bribe the janitor?” “First of all,” he whispered dramatically, pointing an accusing finger at you, “that was not a bribe.” You raised a brow. “You literally offered him a discount.” “That,” Eddie corrected while grabbing the mop bucket before it fully tipped over, “was a mutually beneficial business arrangement.” Your laughter echoed softly through the cramped closet before his grin slowly softened again when he looked back at you. “Now, c’mon,” he murmured while reluctantly stepping closer again just to steal one more quick kiss. “Before he makes me give him a whole ounce for free.”

As the day dragged on and classes came and went, you’d slowly started growing used to the lingering stares and the occasional whispers by the time you stepped into the cafeteria with Nathalie glued firmly to your side.

The dramatically loud overlapping noise of teenagers immediately swallowed the both of you whole – trays clattering against tables, bursts of laughter echoing through the room, chairs screeching loudly against the tiled floor.

And somehow, despite all of it, your eyes still immediately found Eddie’s.

He sat slouched lazily at the Hellfire table with Jeff beside him and Gareth halfway through dramatically retelling something with his hands flying around like his life depended on it. But the second Eddie noticed you standing near the cafeteria entrance, the distracted grin on his face softened almost instantly.

Jeff noticed it too, unfortunately.

“C’mon, bro,” he groaned jokingly and loudly enough for the entire table to hear while leaning back in his chair. “You two are becoming unbearable.”

Dustin immediately twisted around in his seat to follow Jeff’s line of sight.

“No way,” he breathed out while pointing an accusatory greasy finger towards Eddie. “She’s still wearing it.”

“Thank you, Henderson,” Eddie deadpanned while flipping him off without even looking away from you. “None of us would’ve noticed otherwise.”

He rolled his eyes automatically, but the smile tugging stubbornly at the corners of his mouth ruined any attempt to annoyance. Then his gaze flickered briefly back towards the jacket still hanging from your shoulders.

And the rest of the day went on exactly like that – Eddie’s gaze flickering towards you whenever he got the chance, his jacket still hanging from your shoulders while small smiles tugged at his lips even when you weren’t actively looking at him.

His leg had bounced relentlessly through the entirety of last period, anxiously shaking beneath his desk while every word leaving Ms. Sullivan’s mouth completely flew over his head as she explained whatever equation currently covered the blackboard.

He wasn’t even supposed to be sitting through Algebra. And yet he’d still shown up anyway just so his eyes could linger on you a little longer.

The final bell rang, and Eddie all but shot out of his chair with his lunchbox clutched tightly in one hand as he made his way over towards your desk.

Before you could even reach for your bag yourself, his free hand had already curled around the strap and tossed it over his shoulder instead.

“You know I can carry my own bag, right?” you joked while quickly shoving your notebook and pen inside as he held it open for you.

“I’m asserting dominance and all that,” Eddie replied lazily, a crooked grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

You snorted softly while shaking your head before gently tugging him along towards the hallway. As usual, the halls buzzed incessantly with exhausted teenage energy – lockers door slamming, squeaking sneakers echoing against tile, and the occasional dramatic just one more day of hell shouted somewhere in the distance.

“So…” Eddie trailed off while angling his body sideways to avoid accidentally shoulder-checking a freshman.

He briefly licked his lips before turning his face towards yours.

“You got any plans tonight?” he asked softly. “Or d’you maybe wanna hang out?”

Besides his words earlier, there was nothing particularly soft about Eddie now when he pushed you back against the trailer door the second the two of you finally stumbled inside.

His ringed hands found your cheeks almost instantly, and a moment later his lips crashed back onto yours to continue what the two of you had started earlier in the janitor’s closet.

A muffled mmpff! escaped your lips when Eddie deepened the kiss, his body pressing you more firmly against the trailer door.

It took you only a split second to recover from the sudden intensity before your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, one of your hands immediately threading through his curls and tugging softly at the roots just to pull him closer still. Your breath hitched, eyes suddenly shimmering beneath the warm amber light when Eddie finally pulled away just enough to look at you. Heat flooded your face so quickly it almost felt like the sun itself had melted into your skin when his hands pressed just slightly harder against your cheeks.

“Bedroom?” he breathed out shakily.

The small nod you gave him was all the answer he needed.

Eddie’s grip on your face softened almost immediately before one of his hands slid down to intertwine with yours instead, gently tugging you towards the bedroom with a patience that hadn’t existed even seconds earlier when he’d kissed you against the trailer door. The electric warmth of Eddie’s hand wrapped around yours sent a shiver racing up your spin while he pushed open the bedroom door.

Your eyes immediately flickered towards the unmade bed sitting in the corner, heat quickly flooding your cheeks again at the fleeting memory of two nights ago when you realised he still hadn’t changed the sheets.

He still held your hand when he sat down on the edge of the mattress, gently pulling you between his legs before softly guiding you down into his lap.

“This okay?” he asked quietly, like he hadn’t just pushed you against the trailer door and kissed you hard enough to leave both of you breathless seconds earlier.

“Yeah,” you nodded softly while your arms curled around his neck once again.

Eddie felt his heart hammering violently against his ribs as he took in the warm slants of sunlight filtering through the blinds, stretching across your face like threads of gold.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” he whispered almost absentmindedly, like he hadn’t meant for the words to slip out loud in the first place.

Your breath hitched once again as you sank deeper into his touch, warmth spreading across your face so intensely it almost felt like it had seeped into your bones. You tried focusing instead on the way your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, your eyes locked briefly onto the faint bruise peeking out from beneath the collar.

His bedroom suddenly felt too small and far too vast all at once, every shift in your breathing echoing loudly in your ears like thunder.

But you didn’t pull away – instead, you buried your face into the crook of his shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered softly, splaying one of his hands on your back. “Where did you go just now?”

“I’m… just not used to that.” You took a second before continuing. “Being called that.”

Eddie’s arms tightened around you almost instinctively at that, like he could physically shield you from the vulnerability creeping into your voice. His nose brushed softly against your temple before he leaned back just enough to look at you properly again, one of his hands still spread carefully against your back while the other stayed warm against your waist.

“Beautiful?” he asked quietly.

You nodded once against his shoulder, eyes still avoiding his.

A soft breath escaped him through his nose – not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief either. More like he couldn’t fully wrap his head around the fact you genuinely didn’t know.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie murmured gently, thumb brushing slow against your side, “I don’t think I’ve thought about anything else since the moment you walked into the Hide Out.”

Heat immediately rushed back into your face, while your fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of his shirt as a nervous breath, somewhere between a laugh and something far more overwhelmed.

“Hey,” he whispered again, softer this time. “C’mere.”

His arms wrapped more securely around you before he carefully pulled you closer against his chest again, one of his hands sliding up your spine in slow, grounding movements.

“There’s no rush here, okay?” he murmured into your hair. “We can just sit here if you want. I kinda like holding you anyway.”

That finally pulled a tiny smile from you against his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie breathed out without hesitation. “You’ve very holdable.”

A soft, disbelieving chuckle escaped you before you finally pulled away from his shoulder just enough to look at him properly again.

Eddie’s warm eyes melted into yours, and every nerve in your body seemed to light up from the simple act of being this close to him. You pressed your forehead gently against his, breathing in the scent of sun-warmed skin, faint traces of cologne, and something deeper underneath it all that felt uniquely him. Your fingers twitched lightly against the fabric of his shirt before you slowly tilted your head downwards again until your lips brushed softly against his.

The kiss stayed soft and warm, but every movement of Eddie’s lips still sent electric jolts racing down your spine until your fingers suddenly tightened around his shirt like you needed something solid to anchor yourself to.

Eddie pulled away just slightly afterward, taking a quiet moment to study your face like he was trying to commit every detail to memory – the arch of your eyebrows, the softness of your lips, the shy warmth still lingering in your eyes. Then he leaned in again, closing the small distance between you once more. His lips brushed gently against yours at first, feather-light and careful, before the kiss depend when his hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb slowly tracing along your jaw.

For a moment, everything else faded away – the crunch of gravel beneath passing cars outside, the distant chirping birds, the faint rattling of the trailer walls whenever the wind shifted. There was only him – only the warmth of his mouth against yours and the quiet way he poured every ounce of longing he had into the kiss, like somehow you’d understand all the things he still didn’t quite know how to say out loud.

He pulled away again afterwards, resting his forehead gently against yours while his chest rose and fell unevenly between shallow breaths.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered before stealing another quick kiss. “Especially wearing my jacket.”

The hand resting against your back slowly slid lower until it settled against your waist instead, holding you gently while his thumb traced absentminded circles beneath the hem of your shirt.

“Can I…” Eddie trailed off quietly, swallowing hard when his fingers accidentally tightened around your waist for a brief second before loosening again. His eyes flickered carefully between yours. “Can I show you? What you do to me?”

He leaned back just enough to properly look at your face again, like he was trying to read every reaction before he moved any further.

Your breath hitched when you felt him twitch under you.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, your chest rising faster than it had just a few seconds before.

Eddie pushed his mouth gently back onto yours, lips moving softly as he almost hesitantly pushed your lips open to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip in that way that made your stomach tighten, while your hands found his hair.

“Can I take this off?” he whispered against your lips as his hands brushed softly against the rough material of your jeans.

You nodded softly, eyebrows furrowing as your heart hammered into your ribs.

“I need to hear you say it, Sweetheart,” he whispered before he gave you another quick kiss.

“Yeah, t-that’s okay,” you whispered back.

Leaning in, he captured your lips with his, while his hands roam over your jeans-clad thighs.

He tilted his head and kissed softly along your jaw, relishing the soft gasps that escaped you as he nuzzled your neck, and breathed in your scent as his hands tighten their grip on you just slightly.

Eddie’s ringed fingers found themselves undoing the button of your jeans, slowly lowering zipper while his other hand grabbed at your hip, anchoring himself as he gazed up at you. His hand slid inside your jeans until his palm pressed against your clothed heat. He then leaned in again, capturing your lips in a slow kiss, and poured everything he couldn’t say out loud into the slide of his tongue against yours, the nip of his teeth at your bottom lip.

His hands move underneath your ass before he scooped you up, gently lying you down on his bed to carefully slide your jeans over your hips and down your legs. Then, he grabbed at your thighs again, spreading them gently as he settled between them before his fingers moved to carefully remove his jacket off your frame, followed by your shirt.

He drank in the sight of your clothed breasts, desire coiling tight in the pit of his stomach before he forced himself to snap out of it.

“I wanna see you in just my jacket, would that be okay?”

With a shaky breath and a nod, you gulped down before your fingers reached behind you to loosen your bra. Eddie slowly slid it off your shoulders before he reached for the jacket, and helped you put it back on. The heavy jacket against your bare skin fuelled his need as he settled between your legs once more, pressing reverent kisses along your inner thighs while working his way up higher. Meeting your gaze again, he sought affirmation before he took his time pulling your panties down slowly.

“Just tell me if you wanna stop, okay?” He murmured as his thumbs brushed softly against your knees. “Any time.”

“O-okay,” you breathed out.

Eddie’s curls brushed softly against your inner thighs as he leaned in, and pressed a tender kiss right above your pussy before taking you into his mouth. His eyes fell closed the second his tongue delved to taste your essence, a shaky, muffled groan escaping him when his pink lips latched onto your clit.

Moans spilled freely from his lips, muffled against your glistening pussy, when his eyes travelled up your body until they found the sight of your furrowed eyebrows and mouth lulling open. Eddie then doubled his efforts as soon as a broken gasp escaped your lips, swirling his tongue around your swollen clit, and alternating between firm flicks and gentle suckling.

“I- fuck, Eddie.”

Gently, he slipped one of his fingers into you, pumping softly in and out of your dripping core while his lips continued latching onto your clit.

“This is all I could think about today,” he whispered softly against your swollen nub, his own eyebrows furrowed as his eyes travelled down your body until his gaze fell on the way his finger disappeared inside of you. “Eating you out in my bed, wearing only my jacket.”

Another groan escaped his lips when your hand found his curls, tugging harshly at the strands when you felt him gently add another finger into your dripping core.

“Fuck, look at you, Sweetheart,” he chuckled breathily, licking his lips as his gaze travelled up, taking in the way your hard nipples peeked from under your bra, and the way the oversized jacket fell to your sides. “So fucking beautiful, all for me.”

“E-Eddie–”

He could tell you were already getting close by the way your pussy fluttered around his invading digits and the desperate arch of your hips seeking more of his lips. Eddie was desperate to push you over the edge, and sealed his lips around your clit once again and sucked hard, thrusting his fingers in and out of you faster while your slick gushed onto his tongue. He alternated between lock licks and fast flicks, savouring the tangy-sweet taste or your slick coating his tongue, while he curled his two fingers until they rubbed against that special spot.

It didn’t take long for you to clench around his fingers, followed by broken whimpers as you gushed over his chin. Eddie lapped tenderly at your sensitive clit until your thighs twitched around his face, an utterly spent and satisfied hum leaving your lips.

“Jesus,” you mumbled breathlessly. “You… Fuck.”

Something new flickered underneath the adoration in his eyes when he finally pulled himself back from between your legs and shifted over you again, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“I’m obsessed with you,” he admitted breathlessly, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them. A helpless little smile tugged at the corners of his slick mouth while his hand rose to gently cup your face again.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly while you tried to catch your breath, Eddie’s words still sinking slowly into your bones.

His thumb brushed softly against your cheeks while his gaze lingered on your face, taking in the warmth flooding your skin, the breathless little puffs leaving your lips, and the way you looked back at him like he’d hung the moon himself.

“I’m obsessed with you too,” you whispered quietly before your hand slowly drifted down towards the button of his jeans.

Eddie’s other hand immediately wrapped gently around your wrist, stopping you before your fingers could move any further.

“It’s okay,” he whispered softly while licking his lips nervously. “You don’t have to.”

His chest started rising a little faster above you anyway, your fingers still rested lightly against the button of his jeans.

“But I want to,” you whispered back. “Will you show me?”

Eddie’s cheeks somehow flushed even warmer as his brows pulled together, like your words had physically pained him.

“I…” he trailed off, forcing a dry lump down his throat as he suddenly felt far too aware of himself. “Are you sure?”

Your breath caught softly at the uncertainty suddenly flickering across his face – the same boy who had kissed you breathless against the trailer door, and eaten you out, now looked almost nervous above you, like he was terrified of crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. So you lifted your hand from where he still held your wrist and gently pressed your palm against his cheek instead.

“I’m sure,” you whispered softly.

Eddie’s eyes searched yours for another long moment, like he needed to be absolutely certain before the two of you went anywhere further. Then he slowly nodded once, distracted by the shy little smile that had found its place on your lips.

“Okay,” he breathed out shakily.

His hand loosened around your wrist before his fingers intertwined carefully with yours instead, guiding your hand back down with a patience that made warmth bloom all through your chest.

“C’mere,” he murmured quietly, the tips of his ears still flushed red while a nervous little smile tugged at his lips. He pulled you upright and let himself indulge in another kiss. “I’ll… fuck, I'll show you.”

He slowly unbuttons himself before pulling down the zipper, and pulls at his jeans until they pooled around his ankles. He looks painfully hard when he palms himself over his boxers, pulling the material slowly down his thighs until his cock springs out – flushed and leaking at the tip. Eddie’s wrapped a fist around the base, stroking languidly as he gives you another kiss.

“First thing,” he breathed out shakily as his eyes open to look deeply into yours, “come sit between my legs.”

You gulped nervously as your socked feet touched the floor before you did what he just told you. Kneeling on the carpet felt somewhat grounding, even with the muffled scrape and gentle drag on your skin. Your hands grab at his thighs, brushing your thumbs against his skin as you wait patiently for his next instructions.

Eddie’s eyes glistened when he looked down at you – sitting prettily between his legs, your fingers twitching nervously against his thighs while the leather of his jacket shifted softly with every rapid breath you took. Something overwhelmed flickered across his face for a brief second, like he still couldn’t fully process that you were here with him like this. His free hand came up almost instinctively to brush a loose strand of hair away from your face before his thumb lingered gently against your bottom lip.

“Jesus. You’re gonna kill me one day,” he breathed out softly, more to himself than to you. He then gulped down and licked his lips while he continued lazily stroking his cock. “Can you– can you open you lips for me, Sweetheart?”

He moved his thumb away from your bottom lip, and slowly replaced it with his swollen tip.

“Th– this is gonna sound stupid,” he chuckled breathlessly, slightly shaking his head at himself, “but it’s kinda like… sucking on a lollypop?”

Eddie’s cock twitched when you looked up at him – eyes glimmering, slick lips after you gave him an experimental lick – and hesitantly wrapped your lips around him. His hips jerked ever so slightly as you tentatively moved your tongue. Your mouth felt velvety smooth and slick around his cock as you slowly took more of him.

“T-that’s it, Sweetheart,” he groaned softly, furrowing his brows as he tried to burn the image in front of him into his brain: your soft, pink lips wrapped unsurely around his cock with your hard nipples peeking from under his jacket. “T-take– fuck. Take all the time you need.”

His brown eyes fluttered shut when you gave him a tentative suck before you tried getting more of him into your mouth. His free hand brushed softly against your cheek, then slid to the back of your head before curling his fingers into your hair – he didn’t push himself deeper into you, instead, he just held you softly.

“Jesus, just like that, baby,” he groaned out with furrowed eyebrows as he looked back down at you.

His head fell back when he saw the way your eyes glistened and your eyebrows furrowed as your throat strained around his cock.

“I’m– fuck, Sweetheart,” he whimpered out, soft yet desperate as you continued bobbing your head tentatively. “I’m close.”

You looked up at him, desperate to see his face as you brought him closer to the edge, and quickened up your pace just slightly. Eddie’s cock twitched as he released into your mouth with one last whimper. He groaned when your tongue continued lapping at his slit, despite the sudden and unusual taste of his tangy cum filling you before you swallowed it down.

Your eyebrows furrowed as he gently pulled at your hair when he started to feel overstimulated, and pulled his cock from between your lips. A string of spit and cum hung between your pink lips and his swollen tip. Eddie blinked tiredly at the view before he wiped his thumb against your bottom lip, his chest rising rapidly as he watched it break and drop down your chest.

“Jesus, fuck,” he gulped nervously.

“W-was that… was that okay?” you asked nervously blinking up at him while you slowly brought your twitching hands back into your lap.

Eddie’s brows shot upwards immediately, clearly not expecting that question to leave your mouth – not after the breathless mess you’d just turned him into. He swallowed hard, his chest still struggling to steady itself.

“O-okay?” His eyes widened before a broken, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Sweetheart, that was fucking amazing.”

Warmth flooded your face instantly.

His hands immediately found your cheeks again, gently pulling you up and closer towards him like he physically couldn’t help himself.

“You’re fucking amazing,” he whispered breathlessly before crashing his lips back onto yours.

Eddie pulled you back into his lap before wrapping both arms tightly around your frame, pressing your chest flush against his again. The heavy leather of his jacket stayed trapped between the two of you while he pulled you into another soft kiss, softer this time and far less desperate than before.

His hair had become a complete mess from the amount of times he’d dragged his hand through it when you had him in your mouth, loose curls brushing and tickling against your face while you melted further into his touch.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered quietly against your lips.

“I really like you too,” you giggled before closing your lips against his once again.

That pulled a soft, breathless laugh out of Eddie before he kissed you again, smiling so hard against your lips it almost made you laugh. He murmured a teasing yeah? between kisses, though the flushes cheeks and warmth in his eyes completely ruined any attempt at sounding smug.

Your fingers curled gently into the back of his shirt while you nodded against him. “Yeah.”

Something unbearably fond flickered across his face then – something so open and unguarded it almost stole the breath from your lungs all over again.

“Fuck,” he whispered quietly while pulling you impossibly closer against his chest, like he still couldn’t fully believe you were real.  “Good. ‘Cause I think I’m in pretty deep here, Sweetheart.”

His hands found their way to your naked hips, tightening his grip on you. “Especially when you look like this.”

You giggled shyly as you hid your face in the crook of his neck, feeling somewhat embarrassed at the way you probably looked – breathless, messy hair, his jacket basically swallowing your naked frame.

“Stop it,” you said flustered, brushing your nose against his neck.

“No way, Sweetheart,” he chuckled before placing a quick kiss against your temple. The warmth in Eddie’s laugh rumbled softly underneath your cheek when you buried yourself further into his neck, clearly far too pleased with how flustered he’d made you. “You’re adorable when you do that,” he murmured teasingly while his fingers continued tracing lazy patterns against your hips underneath the oversized leather swallowing you whole.

A groan immediately escaped you.

“No, seriously,” Eddie snorted softly before tilting his head just enough to brush another kiss against your hairline. “You’re sitting in my lap, wearing my jacket and looking all fucked-out and shy. What exactly do you expect me to do with that?”

Your entire body heated up instantly. “Eddie,” you whined into his neck, horrified laughter muffled against his skin.

That only made him laugh harder, breathing dramatically while tightening his arms around you again. “I’m a weak man.”

He gently pulled you away from the crook of his neck, thumbs brushing softly against your hipbones while his eyes searched lazily for yours again.

“You, uh…” Eddie licked his lips, visibly getting distracted for a second by your flushed face and thoroughly kissed-swollen lips before he managed to gather his thoughts again. “You hungry?”

A soft giggle escaped you before you nodded.

“Alrighty,” he mumbled warmly before suddenly scooping you up into his arms just enough to place you carefully back down onto the mattress.

The springs creaked softly underneath you while Eddie leaned over you again, his ringed fingers gently tugging at the sleeves of his jacket still hanging loosely from your frame.

“There they are,” he murmured teasingly under his breath once he finally pulled it free, clearly far too pleased with himself when he caught sight of your naked breasts and still-hard nipples.

“Eddie,” you groaned softly while hiding your face behind your hands.

His laugh came out low and warm while he leaned down to scatter a trail of soft kisses across your cheek and jaw.

“I’m kidding,” he whispered against your skin before pressing one final kiss beneath your ear. “Mostly.”

Your heard drawers opening somewhere behind you before Eddie reappeared beside the bed again, wearing a clean pair of boxers and holding one of his shirts.

“C’mere,” he murmured gently while helping you out of the jacket and pulling the shirt over your head.

The shirt practically swallowed you whole, sleeves falling far beyond your hands while Eddie stared at you for a second longer than necessary afterwards.

“…Okay, maybe I’m not surviving this actually,” he breathed out dramatically.

A few minutes later, your legs dangled from where you sat on the kitchen counter while you watched Eddie frantically move around the kitchen, trying not to somehow burn the pasta he was cooking for the two of you. Your laughter mixed softly with the record playing in the background while Eddie cursed under his breath somewhere near the stove.

The oversized Motörhead long sleeve hung from your frame shifted when you swung your legs lightly against the cabinet beneath you, watching Eddie with warm amusement while golden evening sunlight stretched through the tiny trailer kitchen.

“What?” he asked suspiciously when he caught you staring.

“Just…” A soft smile tugged at your lips while heat immediately rushed into your cheeks. “How easy this feels.”

Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard the second the words left your mouth. And apparently Eddie noticed too, because his eyes widened slightly in realisation before a smug grin slowly spread across his face. His soft chuckle filled the tiny trailer kitchen, low and warm and completely unrestrained. Then, without warning, he abandoned the stove entirely and crossed the kitchen towards you instead.

“Hi,” he murmured softly once he settled himself between your legs.

Your hands slowly lowered from your face again. “Hi.”

One of his hands settled against your thigh while the other gently brushed your hair behind your ear.

“You look really pretty in my clothes,” he admitted quietly, like the confession had slipped out before he could stop it.

The softness in his voice immediately stole whatever teasing remark you’d been about to throw back at him.

Somewhere behind him, the pot suddenly boiled over with an aggressive hiss.

“Shit,” Eddie yelped before whipping back towards the stove.

Your laughter immediately echoed through the kitchen and into the living room while Eddie pointed accusingly over his shoulder at you.

“This is your fault, Sweetheart.”

⋆˚꩜｡a/n: eeeep!!! we're almost at the last chapter guys :( ugh i love them sm i think i'll cry of how much i'll miss writing them </3 pls lemme know what you thought about it <3 thank you for reading, love u

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As I finish up Chapter 16, I figured I'd drop a little no context hinting... mostly because I sent this to @peterhollandkait and thought everyone else may get a kick out of it. Anyways, link to Chapter 15 from last Friday, and hoping to have Chapter 16 up on this Friday.

May we all get a much needed laugh today.

Reminder to drink water and call a loved one.

Peace and Love, Mae

Series Masterlist

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