Sophie

SUPERNATURAL:

Dean Winchester

13 REASONS WHY:

Montgomery de la Cruz

Jeff Atkins

Zach Dempsey

STRANGER THINGS

The late afternoon sun spills through the open window of your bedroom, casting golden streaks across the cluttered desk where you sit, needle in hand. The denim jacket sprawled across your lap is heavy, worn soft by years of use, its rips and frayed edges telling stories you can only guess at. Eddie Munson’s battle jacket. His pride and joy, a patchwork of his obsessions—bands like Metallica, Iron Maiden, and Dio, their logos stitched with care, some by you, some by hands long before yours. The fabric smells faintly of cigarette smoke, leather, and that musky cologne he wears, the one that clings to your skin after he’s been close.

You thread the needle with black thread, the patch in your other hand a fresh addition: a snarling skull with crossed axes, something Eddie picked up at a record shop last week. He’d held it up with that boyish grin of his, eyes bright, like he’d found treasure. “You think you can work your magic on this one, sweetheart?” he’d asked, already knowing the answer. You always do. It’s become a ritual between you—your steady hands bringing his chaotic vision to life, stitch by stitch.

The needle pierces the denim, and you pull the thread through, your fingers moving with practiced ease. You’re careful, precise, because you know how much this jacket means to him. It’s more than clothing; it’s armor, a declaration of who he is to a world that’s never been kind to him. You’ve seen the way he wears it, shoulders squared, chin up, like it shields him from the sneers of Hawkins’ small-minded elite. And you love being part of it, weaving yourself into the fabric of his rebellion.

The door creaks open, and you don’t need to look up to know it’s him. The air shifts when Eddie’s near, like the room hums with his energy. “There’s my girl,” he says, voice low and warm, boots scuffing the floor as he crosses the room. You glance up, and there he is—lean frame slouched against the doorframe, dark curls spilling over his shoulders, that damn leather jacket thrown over a faded Black Sabbath tee. His brown eyes, soft and molten, lock onto you, and your stomach flips like it always does.

“Thought you were at band practice,” you say, tying off a stitch, keeping your tone light even as your pulse quickens under his gaze.

“Got done early. Gareth was bein’ a diva about his drum kit, so we called it.” He pushes off the frame, closing the distance between you in a few strides. “Missed you, though.” He drops onto the bed beside your chair, close enough that his knee brushes your thigh. The contact, small as it is, sends a spark through you.

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. “You saw me, like, three hours ago, Munson.”

“Three hours too long.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching your hands work. “You’re makin’ me look cooler than I deserve, you know that?”

You snort, focusing on the next stitch. “You’re plenty cool without me. I’m just… enhancing the aesthetic.”

“Nah,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes you pause. “You make it better. Always do.” His hand finds your knee, warm and calloused, and you feel the heat of it through your jeans. “You’re puttin’ your heart into this, and I don’t take that for granted.”

You meet his eyes, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. Eddie’s good at that—making everything else fall away. You set the jacket aside, needle still dangling from the thread, and turn to face him. “You’re gettin’ sappy on me,” you tease, but your voice is soft, betraying how much his words mean.

“Only for you.” He grins, but it’s not his usual cocky smirk. It’s softer, real. He leans closer, and you can smell the faint mint of his gum mixed with that familiar cologne. “So, how’s my payment plan lookin’?”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up before you can stop it. “Payment plan, huh? You think you can just bat those eyes and get away with it?”

“Oh, I know I can.” He’s closer now, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers splaying wide. “But I’m a man of my word. You sew my patches, I pay you in kisses. That’s the deal, right?”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider. “Hmm. I dunno, Munson. This is skilled labor. Might need more than kisses to cover it.”

His eyes glint with mischief. “Oh, I got plenty to offer, sweetheart. Name your price.”

Before you can answer, he’s pulling you out of the chair and onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs. You yelp in surprise, hands landing on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates through you. His hands settle on your hips, firm but gentle, like he’s anchoring you in place. “Eddie!” you protest, but there’s no heat in it. You’re already melting into him, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

“What?” he says, all innocence, but his thumbs are tracing slow circles on your hips, and you know he’s anything but innocent. “I’m just settlin’ my debts.” He leans in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, teasing, not quite a kiss. Your breath catches, and he notices, his grin widening. “You want more, you gotta say so.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of words. Instead, you slide your hands up to his face, fingers tangling in his curls, and pull him to you. His lips meet yours, soft at first, exploratory, like he’s savoring the taste of you. But then you deepen the kiss, and he responds in kind, one hand sliding up your back to press you closer. It’s not rushed, not desperate, but there’s a hunger there, a warmth that spreads through your chest and makes your toes curl.

When you pull back, he chases your lips, stealing one more quick kiss before letting you breathe. His forehead rests against yours, and you’re both smiling, a little breathless, a little dazed. “That cover it?” he murmurs, voice husky.

“For now,” you say, your own voice low, matching his. “But I’m not done with the patch, so you’re not off the hook.”

“Good.” He shifts, pulling you closer so your head tucks under his chin, his arms wrapping around you. “I like bein’ in your debt.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the jacket forgotten on the desk. His heartbeat is steady under your cheek, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. You talk about nothing important—his band’s latest gig, the D&D campaign he’s been obsessing over, the way you almost burned dinner last night. It’s easy, comfortable, the kind of intimacy you didn’t know you could have until him.

Eventually, you slide off his lap, ignoring his playful pout, and pick up the jacket again. “If you want this done before your show tomorrow, I need to focus,” you say, settling back in your chair.

He leans back on the bed, propped on his elbows, watching you with a look that’s equal parts admiration and desire. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

You smirk, threading the needle again. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head.”

He laughs, and the sound fills the room, bright and unguarded. You work in companionable silence, the needle moving in and out, the patch slowly taking its place among the others. Every so often, you glance at him, and he’s still watching, his eyes soft, like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. It makes your heart ache in the best way.

When the patch is finally secure, you hold up the jacket, inspecting your work. The skull grins back at you, perfectly aligned, the stitches tight and even. “Done,” you say, turning to show him.

He sits up, eyes lighting up as he takes it from you. “Holy shit, you’re a wizard.” He runs his fingers over the patch, tracing the stitches, and you can see the pride in his expression—not just for the jacket, but for you. “This is perfect.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, but his praise warms you from the inside out. “Just don’t rip it up too fast, okay? I’m not made of thread.”

He grins, pulling the jacket on, and damn if he doesn’t look good in it. The patches, old and new, tell his story, and you’re proud to be part of it. “C’mere,” he says, beckoning you with a crook of his finger.

You step closer, and he pulls you into his arms again, kissing you slow and deep, like he’s got all the time in the world. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, his nose brushing yours. “That’s payment number two,” he says. “I’ll owe you a lot more by the time I’m done with this jacket.”

You laugh, resting your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “I’m counting on it, Munson.”

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend previous part

EPILOGUE

August’s heat lingers in Hawkins, the air warm with the scent of cotton candy and popcorn, the Hawkins County Fair a kaleidoscope of lights and laughter spilling across the open field. The sky is a deep indigo, stars peeking through the glow of neon signs and the spinning Ferris wheel, its pastel cabins swaying gently against the horizon. You’re weaving through the crowd, your hand laced with Eddie Munson’s, his fingers warm and steady, his rings cool against your skin, a tether that grounds you in the chaos of barking vendors and shrieking kids. Your denim skirt swishes against your thighs, your loose blouse catching the breeze, and a soft smile curves your lips, your heart light, the weight of the past—Eddie’s betrayal, the months of silence—now a distant memory, dissolved by forgiveness and love. The trailer’s kisses two months ago, the stargazing under the pines, sealed a bond that’s grown stronger, your rogue-and-cleric saga now a shared life, woven through late-night campaigns and quiet moments, a love you’ve named and claimed.

Eddie’s beside you, his leather jacket swapped for a faded Black Sabbath tee, his hair tied back in a loose bun, strands escaping to frame his grin, boyish and radiant as he tugs you toward a game booth, its shelves stacked with plush dragons. “C’mon, cleric,” he says, his voice extra soft, teasing, his shoulder brushing yours, a touch you welcome, warmth seeping through your blouse. “Let’s win you something to guard our campaign table.” His eyes sparkle, and you laugh, the sound bright, your hand squeezing his, the black-and-silver d20 a faint bulge in his pocket, a symbol of the journey from fracture to forever.

“Only if you don’t cheat,” you reply, your voice gentle, leaning into him, your hip grazing his, the contact easy, natural. The fair hums around you—bells ringing, a calliope’s jaunty tune, the sizzle of funnel cakes frying—and you feel at home, not just in Hawkins but with him, the boy who broke your heart and rebuilt it with patience and care. His stand against Tara, his campaign devotion, and those kisses—soft, heated, starlit—have become the foundation of this, a love that feels like a critical hit, a roll you’re glad you made.

At the booth, Eddie tosses a softball, his aim comically off, the ball sailing over the milk bottles, and you nudge his shoulder, your laughter mingling. “Some rogue you are,” you tease, and he grins, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his lips brushing your temple, a fleeting kiss that sends a flutter through you. “Good thing I’ve got my cleric,” he murmurs, his voice low, warm, and you lean into him, your hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, the moment a quiet vow in the fair’s chaos.

Robin appears, her band jacket slung over her shoulder, a candy apple in hand, her grin sly as she spots you entwined. “You two are disgustingly perfect,” she says, her voice teasing but fond, her eyes flicking to your joined hands. “Save some romance for the rest of us, yeah?” You blush, your smile shy, and Eddie laughs, his arm tightening around you, his voice playful. “No promises, Buckley.” Robin rolls her eyes, stealing a sip of your lemonade, and rambles about Steve’s failed attempt at the ring toss, her presence a reminder of the friends who’ve cheered this love along, their support a quiet thread in your story.

The crowd thins as you wander toward the Ferris wheel, its lights casting a soft glow across Eddie’s face, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the spark in his eyes. You pause, your hand still in his, and he turns, his grin softening, sensing the shift in you. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice extra soft, his thumb tracing your knuckles, a touch that steadies you, the fair’s noise fading to a hum.

“Just… us,” you say, your voice gentle, meeting his gaze, your eyes reflecting the wheel’s colors. “How far we’ve come.” The words carry the weight of the quarry’s confrontation, the trailer’s forgiveness, the kisses that rebuilt you, and he nods, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek, a touch you lean into, your heart full.

“Wanna see the stars from up there?” he asks, nodding to the Ferris wheel, and you nod, your smile radiant, your hand squeezing his. The operator waves you into a pink cabin, its seat creaking as you settle, Eddie’s arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, your head resting against his chest, the warmth of him a shield against the night’s breeze. The wheel lifts, the fair shrinking below, the lights a mosaic of color, the stars above clearer, brighter, a mirror of the night you forgave him.

You tilt your head, your lips finding his in a kiss that feels like coming home, soft and sure, your hand sliding to his neck, fingers brushing his hair, the strands soft under your touch. His lips move with yours, a gentle rhythm that deepens, his hand cupping your face, his thumb tracing your jaw, the kiss carrying the fair’s magic, the summer’s warmth, the love you’ve built. You taste the sweetness of lemonade on his breath, the faint salt of his skin, and feel the trailer’s kisses, the stargazing’s passion, all woven into this moment, a promise kept. The wheel pauses at the top, the cabin swaying gently, and you pull back, your forehead against his, your breath mingling, your smile shy but open, your voice extra soft. “I love you,” you whisper, the words a truth you’ve held, now free, your hand on his chest, feeling his heart race.

His eyes widen, a flicker of awe softening into adoration, and he grins, his voice low, warm. “I love you too, sweetheart,” he says, his lips brushing yours again, a fleeting kiss that seals the words, his hand sliding to your waist, holding you close, the stars above a witness. The wheel descends, but you stay there, hands entwined, the fair’s glow wrapping you, the dice in his pocket a symbol of the bond now unbreakable, a love that’s weathered the storm.

Back on the ground, you wander to a quiet corner, a grassy patch by the fair’s edge, the noise softer, the stars brighter. You sit on the grass, Eddie beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, a thermos of coffee between you, its bitter warmth a contrast to the night’s sweetness. Fireflies drift, their glow a nod to the trailer’s night, and you lean into him, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you, a touch that feels like forever. “Think we’ll make it?” you ask, your voice gentle, your fingers lacing with his, the future a canvas of possibilities.

He nods, his grin boyish, his voice warm. “With you? I’d bet all my dice on it.” You laugh, the sound bright, and kiss his cheek, a soft press that sparks a grin, his hand tightening on yours. The fair hums in the distance, the Ferris wheel spinning, the stars above a map of your love, a story written in dice rolls, kisses, and trust, a redemption complete, a future begun.

TAGLIST:

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THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND LOVELY COMMENTS ❤️

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend previous part - next part

FIFTEEN : A ROLL FOR FORGIVENESS

June’s balmy embrace settles over Hawkins, the air thick with the scent of blooming clover and warm asphalt, the trailer park bathed in the soft glow of twilight, fireflies flickering like tiny lanterns among the pines. You’re inside Eddie Munson’s trailer, the folding table a battlefield of graph paper, dice, and pizza boxes, their grease stains blooming like inkblots under the golden haze of Christmas lights strung along the walls. The familiar chaos—Metallica posters curling at the corners, a stack of cassettes teetering on a shelf, the faint cedar hum of incense—wraps you in comfort, a haven built through months of rebuilding. The kisses in your bedroom last month—your lips on his cheek sparking the first, your heated press igniting the second—pulse in your chest, a bridge crossed but not fully settled. His stand against Tara, his unwavering care in your weekly D&D campaign, have softened the scars of his betrayal—the months he chose her, the silence that broke you. You’ve held forgiveness at arm’s length, trust a fragile bloom, but tonight, as your campaign reaches its climax, you feel the weight of it shifting, your heart ready to let go.

The campaign, your private rogue-and-cleric saga, has built to this moment: your characters facing the wraith queen in her cursed shrine, a spectral fortress woven with shadows and starlight in Eddie’s vivid narration. You’re perched on a folding chair, your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, your fingers tracing the black-and-silver d20, its weight a tether to the bond you’ve rebuilt, a gift that survived the fracture. Eddie sits across, his Iron Maiden shirt rumpled, his hair loose after he tugged out his ponytail, his grin boyish as he leans forward, elbows on the table, graph paper crinkling. “The shrine pulses,” he narrates, his voice low, theatrical, “the wraith queen’s eyes blaze, her voice a hiss: ‘You dare challenge me?’ Your cleric stands tall—what’s your move?”

You meet his eyes, your smile soft, the campaign a mirror for your journey—truth sought, shadows faced. “I cast Holy Light,” you say, your voice steady, rolling a 17, the die clattering across the table, landing near a pizza crust. Eddie nods, his grin widening, and you add, “My cleric calls to the rogue, ‘Together, we end this.’” The words carry weight, a nod to your real-world alliance, and he leans closer, his knee brushing yours under the table, a touch you welcome, warmth seeping through your jeans.

“The light flares, searing the shadows,” he says, his eyes locked on yours, “but the queen lashes out, tendrils coiling toward your rogue. He’s pinned—cleric, it’s on you.” His voice dips, urgent, and you feel the stakes, the campaign echoing the choice before you: to trust, to forgive, to fight together. You pause, your fingers tightening on the die, and declare, “I use Sacred Bond to shield him, tying our fates.” It’s a rare spell, one you’ve held back, and you roll a 20, the table erupting in your shared cheer, your hands brushing as you high-five, his fingers lingering, a spark shooting through you.

“The bond glows, a golden thread,” Eddie narrates, his voice soft, almost reverent, “the tendrils shatter, the queen screams, her form unraveling. One final strike—what do you do?” His eyes hold yours, a question beyond the game, and you lean forward, your shoulder grazing his, your voice gentle but firm. “We strike together,” you say, rolling the d20 again, an 18, and he mirrors you, his rogue’s dagger flashing in the story, the queen’s defeat sealed in a burst of starlight.

The campaign ends, the shrine fading, your characters victorious, camping under a fictional sky. The trailer falls quiet, the pizza cold, the Coke cans empty, the air heavy with what’s next. You look at Eddie, his grin fading into vulnerability, his hands fidgeting, the dice a glint in his pocket, and feel the past dissolve—the hurt, the silence, the months apart. “Eddie,” you say, your voice extra soft, standing to move around the table, sitting beside him, your knee pressing against his, a touch you initiate. “I forgive you.”

The words are a release, a roll that lands true, and his eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief softening into awe. “You mean that?” he asks, his voice low, trembling, his hand hovering near yours, waiting for permission, his rings catching the light. You nod, your smile radiant, and take his hand, your fingers curling over his, the warmth grounding you. “I do,” you say, your voice gentle, “you’ve shown me, every week, every game. I trust you now.”

He exhales, his grin blooming, and leans closer, his shoulder against yours, a touch you welcome, the air humming with relief and possibility. “I don’t deserve it,” he murmurs, his voice soft, “but I’ll spend every day making sure I do, sweetheart.” His thumb traces your knuckles, a slow, tender motion, and you feel the bridge complete, the campaign’s victory mirrored in this moment.

The tension shifts, forgiveness a spark that ignites something deeper, and you lean in, your heart leading, your lips finding his in a kiss that seals the night. This kiss is soft but profound, a gentle press that carries the weight of your trust, your lips parting slightly to taste the faint salt of pizza on his breath, the warmth of his mouth a vow fulfilled. His hand rises to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, steady and warm, his fingers threading into your hair, the strands slipping through his rings, cool against your scalp. You press closer, your hand sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken through his shirt, your knee brushing his, the trailer’s glow wrapping you in its embrace. The kiss deepens, a slow dance of lips and breath, your fingers curling into his shirt, anchoring you as the moment stretches, each second weaving the months of hurt into something new. His lips move with yours, soft but insistent, a quiet rhythm that speaks of apologies and promises, the Christmas lights casting golden flecks across your closed eyelids. You taste the warmth of him, the trailer’s cedar scent mingling with his Old Spice, and feel the campaign’s victory, the quarry’s stars, the bedroom’s kisses—all converging here, a homecoming in his touch.

You pull back gently, your lips tingling, your breath uneven, your hand still on his chest, his on your cheek, a connection unbroken. “Eddie,” you whisper, your voice extra soft, your eyes meeting his, shimmering with the light’s reflection, your smile shy but open. “We’re okay now.” He nods, his grin tender, his thumb tracing your cheek, but the air hums, a hunger lingering, the months apart a void you both feel.

The spark reignites, and you lean in again, your heart surging, your lips crashing into his with a heated urgency, a kiss that burns to reclaim the lost time. This kiss is fierce, your lips parting wider, tasting him deeply, the salt sharper, his breath quickening, a soft groan escaping his throat. Your hands slide to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging with a gentle insistence, pulling him closer, your chest pressing against his, the quilt bunching beneath you. His hands find your waist, gripping with a quiet intensity, his fingers warm through your sweater, drawing you nearer, the contact electric. The kiss is a storm—lips moving faster, breaths ragged, hearts pounding—a reclaiming of every missed moment, every silenced laugh, yet it’s softened by your trust, your fingers brushing his jaw, his thumb tracing your hip. You feel the trailer fade, the world narrowing to this heat, this want, and when you ease back, your lips hover, your breath mingling, your eyes locked, a shared longing that leaves you both wanting more. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low, husky, his grin wide, “you’re gonna kill me.” You laugh, a soft, breathless sound, your forehead against his, your fingers still in his hair, the moment a vow to keep exploring this love.

You sit there, hands entwined, knees pressed, the campaign notes scattered, the Christmas lights glowing, the dice in his pocket a symbol of the bond you’ve rebuilt, now ablaze with love. You’re not just forgiving him—you’re starting anew, the kisses a bridge to a future you’re ready to write.

Later, you step outside, the trailer park hushed, the air cool against your flushed skin, the stars a glittering canopy above the pines, their light weaving a tapestry across the velvet sky. You spread a worn blanket over the damp grass by the trailer’s steps, the fabric soft but warm beneath you, and settle beside Eddie, his shoulder brushing yours, a thermos of hot chocolate between you, its rich cocoa scent curling upward, mingling with the pine’s sharp tang. Fireflies drift, their golden pulses mirroring the campaign’s starlight, and you tilt your head, your hair catching the breeze, your sweater slipping further, the night air kissing your bare shoulder. The kisses in the trailer—soft, then fierce—linger like a heartbeat, their heat a promise, and you glance at Eddie, his profile soft in the moonlight, his grin boyish as he points to a constellation, his voice low. “That’s Cassiopeia,” he says, his finger tracing the stars, “like our cleric, shining through the dark.”

You smile, your voice extra soft, leaning closer, your knee pressing against his. “You’re such a nerd,” you tease, and he laughs, the sound warm, his eyes meeting yours, sparkling with the same fire you felt inside. “Your nerd,” he murmurs, his hand finding yours, fingers lacing, the warmth grounding you, the dice in his pocket a quiet vow. The air shifts, the night’s quiet amplifying your closeness, and he turns to you, his gaze tender, a question in the way his thumb brushes your hand. “Wanna lie down?” he asks, his voice gentle, careful, and you nod, your smile shy but open, your heart ready for this moment.

He shifts, guiding you gently, his hands steady as he lays you down on the blanket, the grass cushioning beneath, its cool dampness seeping through the fabric, grounding you in the earth’s embrace. He lies beside you, propped on one elbow, his hair falling over his shoulder, framing his face, the starlight catching his eyes, a mirror of the sky above. You reach for him, your fingers brushing his cheek, and he leans in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels like the stars themselves are singing. This kiss is tender yet passionate, a soft press that deepens quickly, your lips parting to taste the cocoa on his breath, the warmth of his mouth a spark that reignites the trailer’s fire. His hand slides to your waist, fingers splaying gently, pulling you closer, his touch warm through your sweater, while your hands tangle in his hair, tugging softly, the strands cool and silky under your fingers. The kiss grows hungrier, lips moving with a quiet urgency, breaths quickening, your chest brushing his, the blanket crinkling beneath you. You feel the night dissolve, the stars, the fireflies, the pines—all fading into this moment, his thumb tracing your hip, your fingers grazing his jaw, a dance of want and trust. You pull back, your lips tingling, your breath ragged, your eyes locked, a shared smile blooming, the kiss leaving you both anchored in this new beginning.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice low, warm, his forehead resting against yours, “you’re my whole sky.” You laugh, a soft, breathless sound, your hand slipping to his chest, feeling his heartbeat, your voice extra soft. “And you’re mine, dungeon master.” You lie there, hands entwined, the stars above a map of your future, the fireflies dancing, the hot chocolate cooling, forgotten, as you hold each other, the kisses a vow to write this story together.

TAGLIST:

Something Else (Choi Seung-Hyun x Fem!Reader)

Been holding this draft for far too long

EIGHT

The trouble started small, a crack you didn’t notice until it split wide open. It was a Friday, six weeks since the cowboy hat sparked everything, and you were at Seung-Hyun’s loft, sprawled on his couch with a glass of wine he’d poured from a bottle too expensive for casual drinking. He was across the room, hunched over a sketchpad, scribbling ideas for some project—music, art, you weren’t sure anymore; his mind was always spinning three steps ahead.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, a text from a friend you hadn’t seen in weeks: Drinks tonight? Missed you. You hesitated, thumbs hovering over the screen. Lately, it’d been all him—nights here, dinners out, the cabin, the exhibit. Your world had shrunk to fit his orbit, and it hit you then, sharp and sudden: you hadn’t seen your people in too long.

“Gonna head out for a bit,” you said, casual, standing to grab your jacket. “Catch up with some friends.”

He didn’t look up right away—just kept sketching, the pencil scratching louder in the quiet. “Yeah?” he said finally, tone flat, like he was tasting the words. “Which ones?”

You zipped up, shrugging. “Just the usual crew. Haven’t seen them since... well, you.”

He set the pencil down, leaning back in his chair, eyes locking on you now—dark, unreadable. “Since me,” he echoed, and there was an edge there, not sharp enough to cut but enough to feel. “Been keeping you busy, huh?”

You laughed, trying to keep it light. “Something like that. Don’t wait up, okay?”

But he stood, crossing the room in that slow, deliberate way of his, hands in his pockets. “You’re taking the hat?” he asked, nodding at it on the hook—your hook now, a spot he’d cleared weeks ago.

“Nah,” you said, brushing it off. “Not tonight.”

He stopped a foot away, head tilted, and the air shifted—thicker, heavier. “What’s going on?” he asked, voice low, direct. “You’ve been off all week.”

You froze, caught off guard. He wasn’t wrong—you’d felt it too, a restlessness you couldn’t pin down, like the walls of this thing you’d built were closing in just a little. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, but it sounded weak even to you. “Just need a night out. That a problem?”

His jaw tightened, just a flicker, but you saw it. “Not a problem,” he said, stepping closer, close enough you could smell the faint smoke on him from earlier. “Just don’t bullshit me. If you’re pulling back, say it.”

“I’m not pulling back,” you snapped, sharper than you meant, and there it was—the crack widening. “I just need some space, Seung-hyun. It’s been you and me nonstop. I’m losing track of everything else.”

He stared at you, eyes narrowing like he was peeling you apart layer by layer. “Space,” he repeated, slow, tasting it. “Funny. Thought we were past that.”

“Past what?” you shot back, arms crossing. “We’re not glued together. I can have a night without you.”

“Yeah, you can,” he said, voice dropping, cold now. “But this isn’t about a night. You’re running scared, and I’m not chasing you down.”

That stung—harder than it should’ve. “I’m not running,” you said, but your voice cracked, betraying you. “I just... I don’t know what this is anymore. It’s too much, too fast.”

He laughed then, short and bitter, turning away to grab his beer off the table. “Too much,” he muttered, taking a swig. “You stole my hat, moved into my life, and now it’s too much. Make up your mind.”

Anger flared, hot and quick. “Don’t put this on me. You’re the one who kept pushing—dragging me to the cabin, the dinners, all of it. I didn’t ask for a whole damn world takeover.”

He set the bottle down hard, the clink echoing. “Didn’t hear you complaining,” he said, stepping back into your space, voice low and dangerous. “You wanted this as much as I did. Don’t play like you didn’t.”

“I did,” you admitted, quieter now, the fight draining out of you. “But I’m drowning in it, okay? I need a second to breathe.”

He went still, eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, you thought he’d push harder—force the argument into something uglier. But he just nodded, sharp and final, stepping back. “Take your second then,” he said, turning to the sketchpad, picking up the pencil like you weren’t there. “Door’s open.”

You stood there, chest tight, wanting to fix it but not knowing how. The hat stared at you from the hook, a silent question, and you grabbed your bag instead, walking out without another word. The door clicked shut behind you, softer than it should’ve, and the street outside felt too big, too empty.

He didn’t call that night. You didn’t either. Drinks with friends were loud, forced—your laugh didn’t fit right, and every glance at your phone came up blank. By midnight, you were back home, staring at the ceiling, the hat still at his place like a piece of you left behind.

Morning came, gray and heavy, and your phone buzzed once—a text, short, from him: Hat’s here when you want it. No apology, no plea, just him—stubborn, steady, waiting.

The challenge was real now: you’d built something unshakable, but it’d grown faster than either of you could handle. Space was one thing; walking away was another. And as you stared at that text, you knew the next move was yours—back to him, or out for good.

The text sat unanswered on your phone all morning, a stubborn little weight. No groveling, no anger—just Seung-Hyun, leaving the door cracked open, waiting for you to walk through or slam it shut. You paced your apartment, coffee cold in your hand, replaying the fight—the bite in his voice, the way you’d stormed out, the empty space that followed. It gnawed at you, not because it was over, but because it wasn’t. Not really.

By noon, you couldn’t stand it anymore. You grabbed your jacket—not his, this time—and headed to his loft, no plan, just a need to see this through. The ride over was a blur, your pulse kicking harder with every block, and when you buzzed up, his voice crackled through the intercom, flat but not surprised: “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” you said, and the door clicked open without another word.

He was on the couch when you walked in, sketchpad abandoned on the coffee table, a beer in his hand despite the hour. The cowboy hat hung on the hook, untouched, and he didn’t stand—just looked at you, eyes dark and steady, like he’d been expecting this. “Back for the hat?” he asked, voice low, testing.

“No,” you said, shutting the door behind you, staying where you were. “Back for you.”

That got a reaction—a flicker in his jaw, a tightening of his grip on the bottle. He set it down slow, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Thought you needed space,” he said, not sharp this time, just quiet, peeling back the layers.

“I did,” you admitted, stepping closer, arms crossed like armor. “Still do, maybe. But I don’t need it without you.”

He exhaled, a short, rough sound, running a hand through his hair. “You’re a mess, you know that?” But there was no heat in it—just a crack of a smile, the first sign he wasn’t shutting you out.

“Says the guy drinking at noon,” you shot back, and that broke it—he laughed, soft and real, shaking his head.

“Fair.” He stood then, crossing the room, stopping just shy of you. Up close, he looked tired—shadows under his eyes, tension in his shoulders—but he was there, solid, not running either. “So what’s this, then? You’re here, but you’re still halfway out the door. Talk to me.”

You swallowed, the words tangling before they came loose. “I got scared,” you said, voice steadying as you went. “It’s been six weeks, and I’m in so deep I can’t see straight. I needed a night to remember who I was before you, but it didn’t work—it just felt wrong without you in it.”

He didn’t move, just listened, eyes locked on yours, taking it in. “And me?” he asked, quieter now. “You think I’m not in deep? You think I let just anyone crash my life like this?”

“No,” you said, softer. “But you’re you—Choi Seung-hyun, big shot, untouchable. I’m just... me. I didn’t know how to keep up.”

He stepped closer then, close enough you could feel the warmth off him, his hand lifting to brush your cheek, thumb lingering. “You don’t have to keep up,” he said, voice low, firm. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re the one who stole my damn hat, turned my world sideways. I don’t want you to be anyone else.”

Your chest tightened, the fight draining out of you. “I don’t want space from you,” you said, reaching for him, fingers curling into his shirt. “I just need room to breathe with you. Not all or nothing.”

He nodded, slow, like he was piecing it together. “Okay,” he said, hand sliding to your neck, pulling you in. “We figure that out. Together. No running.”

“No running,” you agreed, and then he kissed you—not desperate, not angry, just steady, like sealing a pact. You melted into it, hands fisting in his shirt, and when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling.

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered, half a confession. “Letting someone in. But I’m trying. For you.”

“Me too,” you said, and that was it—the crack mended, not perfect but stronger for it. He tugged you to the couch, pulling you down beside him, arm around your shoulders like it belonged there. The hat stayed on the hook, a quiet witness, and you talked—really talked—about boundaries, about balance, about how to make this work without losing yourselves.

Later, he cooked—terrible eggs again, but you ate them anyway, laughing when he cursed the stove. Night fell, and you stayed, curled up with him, the sketchpad back in his hands as he doodled something absently, your head on his shoulder. It wasn’t fixed in a flash—it was a start, a promise to bend without breaking.

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend previous part - next part

FOURTEEN : A KISS THAT LINGERS

May’s warmth envelops Hawkins, the air rich with honeysuckle and the crisp scent of freshly mowed grass, your bedroom window open to a breeze that stirs the cotton curtains, their soft dance catching the late afternoon light. You’re sprawled on your bed, the quilt a patchwork of faded blues and greens, a D&D campaign binder open in your lap, its pages crinkled from weeks of planning. Posters of Joan Jett and The Clash line your walls, a corkboard pinned with Polaroids—one of you and Eddie Munson at the arcade, grinning over a claw machine prize—glinting in the sunlight. The quarry moment last week lingers in your chest, your confession to Robin about more-than-friend feelings, the way Eddie’s hand curled over yours under the starlit cliffs, his thumb tracing your knuckles. His stand against Tara, his care in your weekly campaign, have woven a delicate bridge, softening the pain of his betrayal—the months he chose her, the silence that fractured you. You’re not ready to forgive him fully, trust a tender shoot, but you’re open, your heart softer, pulled by his warmth and the rogue-and-cleric bond that feels like home, now laced with a love you’re starting to embrace.

Eddie’s due for a campaign planning session, the two of you plotting the next chapter of your rogue and cleric’s quest, the wraith queen’s defeat on the horizon. His van’s rumble announces his arrival, the familiar growl of its engine sending a flutter through you, a smile tugging at your lips as you smooth your hair, your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, the cotton cool against your skin. You pad downstairs, your socks muffling your steps on the hardwood, and open the door to find Eddie, his leather jacket open, his Dio shirt wrinkled, his hair a loose cascade framing his grin, warm and boyish, his eyes sparkling as they meet yours.

“Hey, cleric,” he says, his voice soft, stepping inside, his boots scuffing the entryway rug, the black-and-silver d20 a faint bulge in his pocket, a quiet symbol of your bond. “Ready to slay some wraiths?” He holds up a spiral notebook, its cover doodled with dragons, and you laugh, the sound light, your heart lifting at his presence.

“Hey, dungeon master,” you reply, your voice teasing, extra gentle, leading him upstairs, your shoulder brushing his as you climb, the contact warm, welcomed. “Don’t think you’re killing my cleric yet.” His chuckle follows, a low hum that wraps around you, the air charged with the ease you’ve rebuilt, now tinged with something deeper.

In your room, you settle on the bed, cross-legged, the binder between you, while Eddie sprawls beside you, propped on one elbow, his notebook open, his pen tapping a rhythm on the page. The breeze carries jasmine’s sweetness through the window, mingling with the faint Old Spice on his skin, and you lean closer, your knee grazing his, a touch you don’t shy from, your heart fluttering at the closeness. “So,” you say, your voice soft, pointing to a sketch of the shrine, “after the wraith queen, what’s next? A dragon hoard?”

He grins, his eyes locking on yours, his pen pausing. “Maybe,” he says, his voice low, playful, “but I’m thinking a cursed mirror, one that shows your deepest fear. Your cleric’s gotta face it, with my rogue right beside her.” His shoulder presses against yours, a deliberate touch you allow, the warmth seeping through your sweater, and you nod, your smile mirroring his, the campaign a mirror for the fears you’re both navigating.

You spend an hour plotting, your voices weaving traps and treasures, your laughter spilling as he mimics a wraith’s hiss, his hands flailing dramatically. The binder fills with notes—your cleric’s spells, his rogue’s stealth rolls—and the past and present blur, the boy who hurt you now the one who makes your heart race. The sun dips, painting the room in amber, and your hands brush as you reach for the same pencil, the contact lingering, his fingers curling slightly, a question you answer with a soft smile, letting his hand stay.

The air grows quieter, the campaign fading as you close the binder, setting it on the nightstand, the room humming with a tension building since the quarry. You shift, facing him, your knees touching, the quilt soft beneath you, and he sits up, his eyes searching yours, his grin fading into tenderness, vulnerability. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, extra soft, his hand resting near yours, not taking it but close, waiting for your lead.

Your breath catches, your cheeks flushing, and you feel a pull, the spark Robin hinted at now a flame. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur, your voice gentle, your eyes holding his, the space between you shrinking. Without thinking, you lean forward, your heart pounding, and press a kiss to his cheek, the gesture impulsive, warm, your lips brushing his skin, soft and faintly stubbled, his scent grounding you.

He turns, his movement slow, deliberate, his eyes wide with surprise softening into longing, and his lips find yours, a gentle meeting that feels like a dice roll landing true. The kiss is soft, tentative, his hand rising to cup your face, his thumb tracing your jaw, the touch light but steady, a warmth spreading through you. You melt into it, your hand on his chest, feeling his heart’s rapid beat through his shirt, the quilt crinkling as you shift closer, your knees pressing against his, the world narrowing to this moment.

The kiss deepens, his lips moving with yours, a quiet dance of warmth and want, his fingers threading into your hair, the strands slipping through his rings, cool against your scalp. You taste the faint mint of his gum, the softness of his breath, and feel the trailer nights, the quarry talks, the campaign laughter—all woven into this touch, a promise he’s keeping. Your hand slides to his shoulder, gripping the fabric, anchoring you as the kiss lingers, each second a step toward something new.

You hesitate, not harshly but gently, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips tingling, your breath uneven, your hand still on his shoulder, a connection you don’t break. “Eddie,” you whisper, your voice soft, trembling, “I… I don’t know if I’m ready for this.” It’s honest, extra gentle, a confession wrapped in warmth, your eyes searching his, your heart open but cautious.

He nods, his grin small, understanding, his hand sliding from your face to your knee, a touch you allow, his thumb tracing a slow circle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, tender, echoing your quarry words. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. We go at your pace, always.” His eyes hold yours, a vow in their warmth, and you smile, your fingers squeezing his shoulder, a silent thank you.

His words settle, his patience a spark that ignites a surge of courage, a flame fanned by the warmth of his touch. You lean in again, your heart leading, and kiss him, your lips crashing into his with a heat that surprises you, a hungry edge tempered by tenderness. This kiss is yours, a choice to dive deeper, your lips pressing harder, parting slightly to taste him, the mint sharper now, his breath quickening against your mouth. Your hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging gently, the strands soft and warm, pulling him closer. His hand tightens on your knee, fingers gripping with a quiet urgency, his other hand finding your waist, resting lightly, a question you answer by shifting closer, your chest brushing his, the quilt bunching beneath you. The kiss burns, a brief flare of passion—lips moving faster, breaths mingling, hearts racing—yet it’s soft at its core, your foreheads pressing together as you ease back, your lips hovering, your breath ragged, your smile shy but radiant. “Eddie,” you whisper, your voice extra soft, a tremor of awe, your fingers still in his hair, the moment a bridge you’re crossing together.

He exhales, his grin wide, his eyes bright with a mix of surprise and adoration. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low, warm, his thumb tracing your waist, a gentle anchor. “You’re… wow.” You laugh, a soft sound, your hand slipping to his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow, the connection unbroken as you sit there, knees pressed, hands touching, the breeze stirring the curtains, the room aglow with fading light. The binder lies forgotten, the Polaroid a witness, the dice in his pocket a symbol of the bond you’re rebuilding, now laced with love. You’re not forgiving him fully, but you’re closer, these kisses a bridge, your hesitation a pause, not a wall.

That night, you find yourself at the diner, the neon sign casting a pink and blue glow across your booth, its vinyl seat creaking as you settle in, the jukebox humming “Dancing in the Dark,” Springsteen’s voice a quiet ache threading through the air. The diner smells of coffee and fryer grease, the counter lined with truckers nursing mugs, their murmurs blending with the clink of dishes. You order a strawberry milkshake, the glass cold against your fingers, its pink foam swirling as you sip, the sweetness a counterpoint to the warmth in your chest, the kisses replaying—Eddie’s lips on yours, your spark igniting the second, the way his thumb steadied you.

You trace the glass’s rim, your sweater sleeve slipping, your smile small but radiant, the memory of his touch—cheek, lips, knee—a spark that lingers. The diner’s hum feels alive, a cocoon for your thoughts, and you glance at the window, the stars beyond a mirror of the quarry’s sky. Robin slides into the booth across from you, her band jacket slung over her shoulder, her grin sly as she steals a sip of your shake. “You’re glowing,” she says, her voice teasing but soft, her eyes narrowing. “Spill—what’s got you all dreamy?”

You blush, your fingers fidgeting with the straw, your voice extra gentle. “Just… a moment with Eddie,” you admit, your smile shy, the kisses a secret you’re not ready to share fully. “It’s new, scary, but… good.” Robin’s grin widens, nodding approvingly, and she launches into a story about Steve’s latest arcade fail, giving you space to savor the moment, the milkshake’s cold grounding you.

The waitress, a familiar face with a teased perm, refills your water, her smile warm. “You look happy, kid,” she says, and you nod, your smile growing, her warmth echoing the diner’s embrace. You’re not thanking her directly, but you feel the community’s quiet pulse, the diner a haven for this shift. You’re not ready to name this love, not yet, but it’s a heat, a roll you’re warming to, Eddie’s patience a promise. The stars outside wink, and you lean back, your heart whispering what your lips have already begun to say.

TAGLIST:

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend MASTERLIST previous part - next part

THIRTEEN : A SPARK BEYOND FRIENDSHIP

You’re perched on a low stone wall, your sneakers swinging, a half-eaten apple in your hand, its crisp sweetness lingering on your tongue. The sun warms your shoulders through your oversized sweater, its soft cotton brushing your skin, a comfort against the flutter in your chest. The sleepover in Eddie Munson’s trailer last month hums in your thoughts—his whispered “I miss you,” your quiet “I know,” the way your fingers traced his jaw, a gesture that cracked a door open. His stand against Tara, his care in your D&D campaign, have softened the scars of his betrayal—the months he chose her, the silence that left you hollow. You’re not ready to forgive him fully, trust a fragile thread, but you’re gentler, your smiles brighter, drawn by his persistence and the pull of your rogue-and-cleric bond, a history of shared campaigns and late-night laughter that pulses beneath every glance.

Eddie’s across the courtyard, leaning against an oak with Hellfire Club, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, his hair a wild cascade catching the light as he gestures animatedly, likely spinning a tale of a dragon’s hoard. His eyes find yours, a grin blooming, warm and unguarded, and he waves, a small gesture that sparks a flutter in your chest. You wave back, your smile soft, and he breaks away, weaving through the crowd to join you, his boots scuffing the grass, his Black Sabbath shirt clinging to his frame. “Hey, cleric,” he says, his voice warm, settling beside you on the wall, close enough that his knee brushes yours, a deliberate touch you don’t shy from. His rings glint as his hand rests near yours, the contact light but electric, and you let it linger, a quiet sign of the trust you’re rebuilding.

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend MASTERLIST previous part - next part

TWELVE : A WHISPER OF TRUST

March weaves a tentative warmth through Hawkins, the frost retreating into muddy fields, the air alive with the scent of damp earth and budding pines. The trailer park lies hushed under a star-scattered sky, its gravel paths glinting faintly in the moonlight as you sit cross-legged on the floor of Eddie Munson’s trailer, the folding table before you a battlefield of graph paper, character sheets, and a pizza box, its edges curling with grease. Christmas lights drape the walls, their golden glow softening the chaos—Metallica posters peeling at the corners, a stack of cassettes teetering on a shelf, a battered acoustic guitar leaning against a chair, its strings catching the light. The faint hum of incense, cedar and patchouli, mingles with the pepperoni’s tang, wrapping you in a cocoon of familiarity. Your private D&D campaign, a weekly sanctuary since January, has become a fragile bridge, its warmth threading through the pain of Eddie’s betrayal—Tara’s venom, his months of silence, the way he let her dim you. His efforts—red M&Ms left at the record store, notes slipped into your locker, his fierce stand against Tara in the parking lot—have softened your heart, though trust remains a distant roll. You’re kinder now, your laughter freer, drawn by his relentless care and the nostalgia of your rogue-and-cleric days, when you’d conquer imaginary realms in Wayne’s trailer, your voices echoing with joy.

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend MASTERLIST previous part - next part

ELEVEN : A SHIELD AND A STEP CLOSER

February’s chill clings to Hawkins, the air sharp with frost and the faint smoke of wood-burning stoves, the school parking lot a patchwork of slush and tire marks glinting under the sodium glow of streetlights. You trudge toward your car after a late shift at the record store, your sneakers crunching through the icy crust, your breath fogging in the dusk. Your ankle’s healed, but you move with care, a reflex from months of limping through both physical pain and the emotional wreckage left by Eddie Munson’s betrayal. The private D&D campaign in his trailer, now a weekly ritual, has spun a delicate thread between you, its warmth softening the edges of Tara’s venom, Eddie’s silence, and the way he let her erase your friendship. His gestures—red M&Ms on your car hood, notes tucked into your locker, the mixtape Songs for the Cleric hidden under your bed—pulse quietly, easing the anger that once defined you. You’re not ready to forgive him, not when trust is a fragile braid, but you’re gentler, your smiles warmer, pulled by his persistence and the nostalgia of your rogue-and-cleric days, when you’d slay dragons in Wayne’s trailer, laughing until dawn.

You’re halfway to your car, your keys jangling in your gloved hand, the cold metal biting through the wool, when a voice slices through the quiet—sharp, venomous, a ghost you thought you’d outrun. “So, you’re back to stealing him, huh?” Tara stands by the bike racks, her blonde hair a halo under the streetlight, her eyes narrowed with a fury that knots your stomach. She’s alone, her usual posse of sneering cheerleaders absent, but her presence is a storm, her leather skirt and cropped jacket screaming defiance. Her breath clouds the air, and her hands tremble, not from cold but from a desperation you hadn’t seen before, a crack in her polished cruelty that makes her seem smaller, more human, yet no less dangerous.

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend MASTERLIST previous part - next part

TEN : A CAMPAIGN TO MEND

January’s grip tightens on Hawkins, the air a sharp blade of cold, the school parking lot slick with patches of ice that glitter under the streetlights. You limp toward your car, your ankle brace gone but your steps cautious, a habit born from months of physical and emotional recovery. The library scene with Eddie Munson lingers—his tear-streaked face, his vow to keep proving himself, the mixtape Songs for the Cleric still unplayed under your bed. His gestures—red M&Ms on your car hood, notes in your locker, the fixed wiper—have become a quiet rhythm, chipping at the fortress around your heart. The quarry’s tears, your shared grief, and his dice, the ones you saved for his birthday, haunt you, stirring a longing you’re not ready to embrace. You’re not forgiving him, not after he chose Tara, not after the silence that left you hollow, but you’re less sharp, your anger dulled by exhaustion and the pull of the boy who was once your rogue to your cleric.

Eddie’s waiting by your car, leaning against the hood in his leather jacket, his hair tucked behind his ears, his hands fidgeting with a pencil like he’s bracing for rejection. His eyes, red-rimmed from tears barely held back, light up when he sees you, a cautious hope that makes your chest ache. “Hey,” he says, his voice soft, almost swallowed by the wind, his breath fogging in the chill. The sight of him—his rings glinting, the faint scent of Old Spice and cigarette smoke—tugs at memories of late-night van rides, Dio blasting, your laughter filling the space between you.

You pause, your keys cold in your hand, and meet his gaze, your own eyes stinging with unshed tears. The memory of his plea at the quarry, his tears mirroring yours, softens your edges, and you nod, your voice quieter than the harsh rebukes you gave before. “Hey,” you say, leaning against the car, keeping a small distance but not turning away, your ankle twinging faintly as you shift your weight.

He takes a deep breath, the pencil twisting in his fingers, his voice faltering but earnest. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “About us, about how things used to be. I know Hellfire’s too much right now, and I get why—you don’t trust me, and I deserve that. But what if we started smaller? Just you and me, a D&D campaign like when we were kids, sprawled on Wayne’s floor, making it up as we went.” His voice cracks, tears welling, and he blinks them back, his grin shaky. “No pressure, no big stakes. Just a story, a way to… find our way back.”

The idea hits like a warm breeze, stirring memories of twelve-year-old you, cross-legged in Wayne’s trailer, giggling as Eddie narrated a dragon hoarding tacos, his hands flailing for effect. It’s tempting, a flicker of the safety you lost when Tara’s jealousy drove a wedge between you, but the pain—his silence, your hoodie in the trash, her voice calling you nothing—holds you back. Tears prick your eyes, and you blink them away, your voice soft but guarded. “Why, Eddie?” you ask, your hands tightening around your keys. “Why now? Why do you think a game can fix this?”

He swallows, a tear slipping down his cheek, and he wipes it with his sleeve, his rings catching the streetlight. “Because I miss you,” he says, his voice raw, trembling with a vulnerability that mirrors the quarry night. “Not just at Hellfire, but in my life—in the van, at the arcade, in every damn song I hear. I know I broke that, and I hate myself for it. I’m not asking you to forgive me, not yet. I just want to give you something good, something we used to love, even if it’s just for a few hours.” His tears fall faster, and he doesn’t hide them, his hands still now, the pencil forgotten on the hood.

Your own tears spill, hot against the cold air, and you wipe them away, your heart a tangle of hurt and nostalgia. You want to say no, to protect the fragile pieces of yourself, but his sincerity, his quiet persistence—the M&Ms, the mixtape, the note you kept—makes it harder to push him away. “I don’t know,” you say, your voice trembling, softer than the quarry’s cold rejection. “I’m still mad at you, Eddie. I’m still hurt. A game… it’s not enough.”

“I know,” he says, nodding, more tears falling as he steps closer, stopping short of touching you. “It’s not enough, and I don’t expect it to be. I’m just asking for a chance to start, to show you I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere. If you say no, I’ll keep trying—more notes, more M&Ms, whatever it takes. But if you say yes…” He trails off, his grin small, hopeful, tears glinting in his eyes. “I’ll make it worth it.”

You look at him, his tear-streaked face, the dice a faint bulge in his pocket, and feel a shift, small but undeniable. You’re not ready to trust, but you’re tired of running, of carrying the weight of his absence alone. Tears stream down your cheeks, and you wipe them with your sleeve, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay,” you say finally, your smile small, hesitant. “One session. That’s all I’m giving you.”

His grin blooms, cautious but bright, and he wipes his tears, nodding quickly. “One session,” he says, his voice thick with relief. “Saturday, my place. I’ll have pizza, Coke, the works. Just… thank you.” His eyes shine, and you see the boy you loved, the one who’d share your fries, who’d narrate your cleric’s triumphs with pride.

You nod, your throat tight, tears still falling, and climb into your car, the engine’s rumble a shield against the emotions swirling inside. “Don’t make me regret this,” you say, your voice soft, a warning wrapped in hope, and he nods, stepping back as you drive off, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror.

At home, you collapse on your bed, tears soaking your pillow as you stare at the Polaroid of you and Eddie at the arcade, its faded edges a reminder of what was and what might be. Agreeing to the campaign feels like a leap, a roll of the dice you’re not sure will land in your favor, but his tears, his promise, make you want to believe, even if just a little.

Saturday arrives, and your nerves hum as you knock on the trailer door, the chill air nipping at your fingers. Wayne’s at work, and Eddie opens it, his Iron Maiden shirt wrinkled, his grin tentative but warm. “Welcome to the Munson Dungeon,” he says, bowing slightly, and you manage a small smile, the familiarity easing your tension, though tears prick your eyes at the sight of his effort—the table set with a pizza box, two Cokes, graph paper, and dice.

Inside, the trailer’s warm, lit by Christmas lights, the scent of pepperoni and incense wrapping around you. He’s prepared a simple campaign—a rogue and cleric seeking a lost relic in a haunted forest, a nod to your old adventures. You sit across from him, the table small enough that your knees nearly brush, and he hands you a character sheet, your cleric’s name in his messy scrawl. “No pressure,” he says, his eyes soft, tears glinting as he looks at you. “We go slow, at your pace.”

You nod, tracing his handwriting, a tear falling onto the paper, and you wipe it quickly, your voice soft. “Let’s play,” you say, and the campaign begins, his voice weaving a tale of misty woods and hidden traps. You play cautiously, your cleric reserved, but his storytelling draws you in, his rogue’s banter a faint echo of the Eddie you knew. When you cast a spell to light the path, he grins, his voice warm. “That’s my cleric,” he says, then catches himself, his eyes wide, afraid he’s overstepped.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice gentle, another tear falling as you meet his gaze. “Just… keep going.” It’s not forgiveness, but it’s a bridge, a small step you’re willing to take.

The session ends on a cliffhanger, the relic in sight but guarded by shadows. You’re both quiet, the pizza cold, the Cokes half-empty. “Thanks for coming,” he says, his voice low, tears welling again. “It… it meant everything.”

You nod, wiping your tears, your heart lighter but still guarded. “It was nice,” you admit, your voice hesitant, a smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe… we can do it again.” The words surprise you, a crack in your armor you didn’t expect, and his eyes brighten, tears spilling as he nods.

“Yeah?” he says, his grin wide, hopeful. “Same time next week?”

“Maybe,” you say, standing, your smile small but real, tears drying on your cheeks. He walks you to your car, his hands in his pockets, the dice a quiet weight, and you drive home, tears falling as you replay the night—the game, his care, the way it felt like home, if only for a moment.

At school, your friends notice a shift. Robin, at lunch, sees your brighter eyes and says, “You’re smiling a little. Eddie’s doing something right?” You shrug, a tear pricking, but nod, admitting, “Maybe.” Dustin, in the hallway, whispers to Steve, “She played D&D with him!” Max, at the arcade, watches you pocket another M&M from Eddie, her grin sly. “He’s trying hard,” she says, and you nod, your voice soft. “Yeah.”

That night, you sit on your porch, the cold air sharp, the mixtape in your hands, its tracklist a promise you’re not ready to hear. You don’t play it, but you hold it close, the stars above a quiet witness to the hope you’re starting to feel, a roll you’re not sure you’ll take but can’t rule out. Eddie’s out there, the dice in his pocket, his tears a vow to keep fighting, and you’re here, your heart bruised but stirring, the game a fragile thread pulling you closer.

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