Steddie where Steve runs a small bakery with Robin, and Chrissy is one of their regular customers.
She stops by every morning to buy coffee and pastries before she goes to work, always buys a lot of extra goods for her friends too and flirts with Robin as she waits for her order.
Steve teases Robin every freaking day because her infatuated little grin is adorable, but as best friend it's Steve's job to give her shit about her crush.
This goes on for months, until one morning Chrissy shows up at the shop with a hot guy by her side and Steve bluescreens because, holy shit, that must be the hottest guy Steve's ever seen in his life.
But Steve doesn't even have a chance to greet them properly. As soon as the guy catches sight of Steve by the counter, he turns to Chrissy with these big, shocked eyes, betrayal all over his handsome face.
"Chrissy! I can't believe you hid this beautiful creature from me! I thought we were friends!!!"
Takes Steve a moment to realize he is the beautiful creature.
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unpopular opinion: My favorite Steddie trope is when Eddie has a crush on (in his mind) Straight Steve only for Steve to be like "Oh yeah, I've made out with dudes"
My favorite fic is probably when Eddie thinks he's playing Gay Chicken with Steve and Robin asks what will Steve do if Eddie kisses him and Steve says "Kiss him back. Duh." And reveals he's just been making out with dudes, but that's because everyone makes out with everyone. So Robin (and Eddie) tell him that he's bisexual and he's like "what's that?"
And in a later part, Chrissy says she prefers kissing girls over boys and then they have to explain that lesbians are a real thing.
in an alternate universe eddie and chrissy are reverse steve and robin where she has a crush on him but heâs gay and they become besties and also she is a repressed bisexual
"Maybe you should get these guys to do the music for your free program," Dustin says.
"Huh?" Steve's foam rolling his calves, attention all on his sore muscles.
"Corroded Coffin," Dustin practically yells over the music. "For your freestyle!"
"Yeah, right." Steve snorts. "Like they'd want to do music for a figure skater."
"Why not?"
Steve gives him a deadpan stare as heavy bass and drums vibrate his portable speaker.
"It's worth a try!"
"Is it?" Steve goes back to rolling his muscles.
The music stops. "I think so. You wanted something different, right?"
"Okay, one, skating's changed, but not that much. Two, why would they want to?"
"Uh, because you're trying to head back to the Olympics after--"
"So, they'd help me out of pity?"
Dustin rolls his eyes. "Uh, because it's a feel-good, heartwarming story?"
"Haven't noticed them really being a feel-good, heartwarming band."
"Which is why you need it."
"Dustin--"
"Steve, it's February! You're running out of time."
"Dustin--" He swallows back his anger, swipes a hand through his hair. He knows the kid is just trying to help. "I'll think about it, okay?"
"You better."
He excuses himself to the locker room, even though his day is just getting started. Corroded Coffin would be different. It would be fun. He would like it. And isn't the whole reason he came back to have fun? To like it?
Before he goes back to the weight room, he opens Instagram, sends a quick DM to Corroded Coffin's band account.
---
It's Eddie's turn to go through the DMs that Chrissy thinks are important. It's the usual interview requests and publicist reach outs and other verified accounts they don't know. There's one guy he doesn't even recognize, and he absolutely would remember him because this dude is gorgeous.
KingSteve317: You guys wouldn't happen to have any interest in helping a figure skater (me) with some competition music, would you?
He snorts hard enough to make himself cough.
CorrodedCoffin4u: No
And that's that. Or it should be. But he's still chuckling when Jeff, Gareth, and Freak walk into his living room.
"What's funny?" Jeff asks.
"Some figure skater asked us for music for...whatever they do."
"They figure skate, Eddie." Freak says. "Who was it?"
"Uhh, some guy?"
"Give me that." Gareth snatches the phone from his hand. "Some guy?"
"Yeah?"
"STEVE HARRINGTON dm's us and you call him some guy???"
Jeff and Freak start yelling, and his eyes dart between his irate bandmates, cause what the fuck is going on?
He uncurls from the couch, hopping onto the coffee table with a bang. "You can't be mad at me if I have no fucking clue who this guy is!"
"How can you not know?" Chrissy breezes in with a takeout tray of coffees.
"You know him?"
"Uh, duh. He was only, like, the biggest figure skater in the world."
"Didn't you look him up?" Freak asks.
"Literally, why would I do that?"
Gareth and Chrissy facepalm with matching groans.
"You can't seriously want to help him with music for his skater--thingy?"
"You're hopeless," Jeff says. Which Eddie thinks is very unfair. How's he supposed to know one random figure skater? This is not common knowledge, he refuses to believe it.
"Whatever." He hops off the coffee table. "We have real band business to discuss."
---
Eddie's probably cursed, is the thing. He hasn't stopped thinking about stupid figure skating Steve Harrington since he read that dm.
And he can't sleep, insomnia his only repeat nightly visitor, and all the lyrics he's written in the notebook beside him are garbage, so it's not like it's really his fault when he grabs his phone and opens Harrington's Instagram.
He's beautiful, there's no denying it. Like, Eddie has eyes. The shirtless pics alone are enough to leave him panting like some horny cartoon character. But he can't compromise his integrity for a piece of ass, even a perfect one.
He watches Steve on the ice, spinning and jumping. Steve lifting weights in a sweaty tank top that reveals just enough chest hair to make Eddie forget how to think. Steve with his friends. Steve coaching a group of delightfully mouthy teenagers. And sometimes, sometimes, he'll be in what looks like a hotel room, in bed, and his hair is soft around his forehead and he wears these round tortoiseshell glasses, and it activate something deep in Eddie's brain that wants to claim.
It's 4am when he Googles. When he learns that Steve Harrington was the gold medal favorite at the last Olympics. He was sixteen and a prodigy and untouchable, with an attitude to match. He was sixteen, at the Olympics, talking shit and swaggering through interviews. He was sixteen when he performed his short program and fell on every jump. He was sixteen when he didn't even make the podium, not even close, finishing 15th.
When the games were over, he disappeared. Social media dormant, interviews non-existent. He never retired but the figure skating world assumed he was done. Until he resurfaced a year ago.
Steve did a couple of interviews, and he's fully a different person. Calm, poised, quietly confident. Everyone asks about the Olympics, that short program, and he talks about feeling like he had something to prove, the pressure, and right when he stepped out on the ice, right when it mattered most, he buckled.
And it's 5am, right? Eddie hasn't slept, but he opens the band's Instagram and finds the conversation with Steve.
CorrodedCoffin4u: You still want to use our music?
He's not expecting an answer, it's early, but his phone vibrates almost instantly.
KingStever317: Not anymore
He barks a laugh, starts typing.
CorrodedCoffin4u: I'm sorry about before
KingSteve317: Oh, now an apology. Do you talk to all your fans like that?
He can't help but grin. Steve Harrington is really something.
CorrodedCoffin4u: Depends on how nicely they ask
CorrodedCoffin4u: I shouldn't have been a dick before. But we'd like to help
KingSteve317: So, you Googled me and this is pity?
"Ugh, fuck." Eddie buries his face in his hands.
CorrodedCoffin4u: Not pity. Thought more about it, seems cool.
KingSteve317: You're a real asshole, you know?
CorrodedCoffin4u: So I've been told
KingSteve317: You're in LA? I'll be in town next week. Let me know when we can meet up
His sigh of relief is so hard that it makes his bangs flutter.
---
"Oh my god, stop fidgeting." Robin swats at his hands as he tugs at the hem of his polo.
"I'm rethinking the shirt."
"Too late, bud. I told you not to wear it."
"I wanted to look pro--"
"Do not say professional to me right now, you are a figure skater."
"So, I can't look professional?"
"To meet a heavy metal band?"
"For business!"
She mutters something under her breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing." She grins. "You look very handsome."
"Shut-up," he sighs. He tugs at his shirt and she smacks his hands again.
"Steve Harrington, right on time," a voice calls and his attention pops towards the sounds.
Striding towards them is none other than Eddie Munson and Steve honest-to-god stops breathing. He's so--well. Breathtaking. Steve thinks about simply passing out at the proximity, but Eddie reaches to shake hands and his muscle memory takes over. He says words that he won't ever remember, and then Eddie is ushering them into the band's practice space.
Eddie introduces them to the rest of Corroded Coffin, and they make small talk, and it's all easy. As comfortable as meeting the biggest band in the world could be. Sometimes his gaze will fall on Eddie, and their eyes will meet and Eddie will smile, and then Steve will smile, and the conversation stumbles to a halt, and Steve can't even be embarrassed. Not when Eddie grins like that, not when those molasses dark eyes sparkle like that.
Eventually, though, the Corroded guys stand and head over to where their gear is setup. Eddie slips the guitar strap across his chest, messes with the frets, fingers fiddling with the strings. It's the first time he's seemed nervous, but then, that's ridiculous. Who is Steve to make a guy who sells out stadiums across the world nervous?
"Okay, so." Eddie licks his lips, taps a fingernail against the guitar's body. "We just sort of whipped this one up. It's totally cool if you had something else in mind, but--"
"Eddie, start the song," Freak complains from behind the drums.
He starts playing but the others don't join in. It's only him and his guitar and his voice, raspy and uncharacteristically soft. The rest come in, slow, one at a time, the song building, and he's transfixed. The lyrics grab him I know you want me to be perfect; I can't be perfect all the time; and when will the best I can do be enough for you and will you still be here when I can't perform; when the spotlight's gone?
It doesn't start out as a typical Corroded Coffin song, but at the half-way point, Eddie screams it to life. It's hard, fast, demanding, sure of itself. Robin keeps nudging him, but he's lost in it, goosebumps rising on his neck.
The song ends and he's out of his seat. "That's it, that's perfect." He can hardly stand still, has the unhinged impulse to throw himself into Eddie's arms and vomit every feeling he's ever had onto a rock band he barely knows.
It shouldn't be this easy. Shouldn't be this perfect. And yet--
He and Robin walk back into the still bright sun, and he can only look at her and smile, shake his head. There aren't enough words.
---
Corroded Coffin records the song and sends it to Steve. He, in turn, sends them videos of him practicing. Eddie can't stop watching them, the way Steve and his team translate the song he wrote into movement.
He also can't stop thinking about Steve, or watching his Instagram. He posts trainings and workouts, of course, but there's a bunch of him goofing off with Robin and those kids he coaches. They're silly and funny and, throughout it all, Steve is happy and free and so, so beautiful.
Life goes on, writing music, working in the studio, and then he gets a text from a number he doesn't know, a link to tickets to some figure skating competition called the Cranberry Cup and a message reading, "will you come?"
This can only be one person, and his heart is beating out of his chest. "Wouldn't miss it for the world" he responds.
The typing bubbles pop up and disappear, pop up and disappear, and then a new message, "I really want to see you. If that's okay"
"More than okay, sweetheart," he responds. He resists the impulse to scream into the pillow next to him. It can't be real life that Steve wants him just as bad. It can't be real life that Eddie wants to hangup his rockstar lifestyle for a figure skater.
He's late, the day of the event, and it kills him to miss wishing Steve good luck in person, to miss the short programs. But he's ready and seated--to much fanfare and delight from the crowd--when it comes time for the free skates.
As soon as Steve hits the ice, Eddie stops breathing. He's seen the program before, the costume, but it's totally different in real life, has him pressing his knuckles to his lips to not shout something embarrassing at the guy he's head over heels for.
The music starts and the crowd mutes, like someone hit a button. They all watch Steve skate, spin, twirl, hit a triple axle triple toe combo, hypnotized. The song builds and the crowd's energy with it. Everyone is clapping to the beat, cheering, something electric building between them and Steve. It's wild, euphoric, and Eddie is so, so in love.
Steve comes in second, but that doesn't seem to register. He won in everyone's hearts.
It takes a while for Eddie to make his way down to the main concourse, and he should've known that the song would cause an uproar. He's stopping for pictures when he gets a text from Steve, "will be with media for a while. Find me after?" And he should have anticipated that too.
Finally, though, finally, he reaches the empty locker room, pushes open the door, and there's Steve, hair wet from a shower, shirt half-unbuttoned, and he's rushing towards Eddie.
It's nothing to wrap Steve in his arms, sweep him up tight. Murmur, "you were amazing out there," into the strands of his clean hair.
"I'm so glad you could make it." Steve's hands clutch into the black fabric of Eddie's sweater.
"I'm so sorry I was late. I wanted to--"
Steve laughs. "Why are you apologizing? You're here now."
"I wanted to see you." The simplest answer in the world.
"Eddie," Steve says, voice ragged.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
And Steve's looking at him with those eyes, big and doe-wide and beautiful. Without thought, his hand slips into Steve's chestnut hair, and he brings their mouths together. It's sweet and desperate and Eddie is certain he could die a blissful death right here, with the taste of Steve Harrington on his lips.
Steve breaks the kiss slow, pressing their foreheads together.
"Eddie, I can't." Steve says between panted breaths. "I've gotta focus on training, the Olympics....nationals are only a few months away, and I can't--"
"I know, I know." Eddie doesn't let him go on. "Can I wait for you? I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, and--can I, Steve? Wait? I will. For as long as you'll have me."
"I can't ask--"
"You wouldn't have to. I'm yours, sweetheart. Have been since I answered your dm."
Steve grins, bashful, delighted. "You're such an asshole."
"I know," Eddie smiles back.
"I'll understand if you can't--it's a lot to ask someone to wait for, this life."
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Summary: Insecurities after Eddie casually mentions the perfection that Chrissy Cunningham is. What if the unspoken feelings are mutual between the two?
The furious scratching of your pen halted when Eddie's voice broke through the silence.
"Do you think I could ever do Mrs. Wheeler?" Your head snapped up, disbelief flashing across your face. Eddie leaned back, blunt dangling between his fingers, smoke curling lazily around his grin. That grin always managed to look both reckless and stupid while remaining devastatingly charming.
"What." The word came out flat, sharp, your chest tightening at the audacity of his question.
He exhaled slowly, eyes glinting with mischief. âYou heard me. I mean, do you think I could realistically bag Mrs. Wheeler?â
You licked your lips as you stared at the man in front of you. The old wooden table creaked as he shifted to face you fully, curls falling into his eyes. You stared at him, trying to find the right words, trying not to betray the fact that you were hopelessly and irreparably in love with him. No matter how stupid his questions could be.
"No."' you shrugged your shoulders a bit and looked at the now deflated smile on your best friend's face. A triumphant smile creeping up on your own. All this before looking down at your sheet of paper, going back to writing the essay you had been putting off, one that you would surely have to convince Eddie to do.
âWhy not? Think about it- me and Mrs. Wheeler would be the hottest couple in Hawkins.â His voice carried that theatrical cadence, the voice that painfully screamed Eddie. The same one he used when narrating Hellfire campaigns, except now it was about Nancy Wheeler's mother not to mentions mikes mother.
You sighed, lips twitching despite yourself. âOkay, number one: sheâs Mikeâs mom. Two: sheâs married. And three: sheâs waiting for me to turn a respectable age so she can leave her husband and marry me.â
Eddies mouth a gap. Eddie Munson's theatrics came in full kick.
Eddieâs jaw dropped, hands flying wildly in protest. âYouâre insane. Sheâd pick me over you any day. Iâm her dream man.â
âYou donât have boobs, Eddie. Everyone likes boobs. Doesnât matter if youâre gay or straight- boobs are boobs.â
The argument spiraled, your essay forgotten, laughter and sharp words bouncing between you. Then, in a rare moment, Eddie passed you the joint.
A rare occurrence for Eddie Munson. When he first met you, he noticed you hated the smoking. He always noticed the way your nose scrunched when he smoked, the way your eyes lingered on the burning paper. He offered every time, and sometimes you accepted. Not because you liked it, but because it felt like sharing the blunt was sharing something deeper, something intimate. Like every inhale was a kiss youâd never get to have. You hated the idea and sight of him burning up his lungs and ruining them. You constantly joked about how he would die with his lung suddenly bursting and him blowing up.
It started when life got harder, and you needed comfort, that, and you just felt that it brought you closer to Eddie as if the high bonded your souls together.
Eddie rambled on, his theatrics pulling smiles from you despite the heaviness in your chest. But then his tone shifted.
âIâm gonna need you to write down Cunninghamâs name in that list thing you keep.â His gaze landed on your face once again, scanning over you as he played with his rings, his untamable curls framing his face.
Your head snapped towards him. âCunningham? As in Chrissy Cunningham?â
He nodded, lips curling into a small, almost shy smile. âYep. That one.â
Your brows furrowed. âSheâs buying?â You had never heard of or imagined perfect little Chrissy Cunningham near Eddie, much less buying from him.
âYeah. Shocked me too.â His grin widened, rings glinting as he toyed with them.
âAnd youâre selling to her?â Your voice was sharper now, suspicion lacing every word. Your eyes squinting at Eddie to see if it was one of his thoroughly played out jokes
âYeah. We talked earlier. I was debating it, though. I wouldnât want to ruin her.â
The words hit like a punch to your gut.
Wouldnât want to ruin her.
Your stomach dropped. The sudden spiral of thoughts going through your head overwhelming every sense of your being. Did Eddie think you were ruined? Damaged goods because you occasionally smoked with him, always laughed with him, and lived in his chaotic orbit? Was Chrissy untouchable, pure, while you were already a damaged good? Were you a lost cause for not being an untouchable being that Eddie couldn't obtain?
You swallowed hard, his voice fading into background noise as he rambled about Hellfire.
I wouldn't want to ruin her.
wouldn't.
want.
to.
ruin.
her.
Sure, the comment was made with no malice behind it, but you knew about Eddie's middle school crush on Chrissy Cunningham. You had met Eddie in 8th grade. Well, his 8th grade your sixth. You only realized your crush on Eddie in the 8th and his sophomore year.
But the words hung in the air. You swallowed.
Did Eddie think he ruined you? Were you damaged goods now that you indulged and hung around him? Was Chrissy this untouchable being pure of sin or whatever made you ruined? Did the smoking make you broken or ruined? Did he mean to say that Chrisy was worth more to a degree, or was she held to a higher pedestal than you because she was Chrisy?
"They have no idea what's coming, I mean, I have been working on this for weeks-" Eddie, being caught off guard by the look on your face.
"Ruin her?" the slight hurt and pit in your stomach fighting hard to be masked and hidden away, or at least attempted to be hidden from Eddie.
"You think you will ruin her with weed?"' confusion took over, rather than that overbearing feeling in your chest.
Eddie froze, wincing. âI didnât mean it like that. I just mean⊠sheâs Chrissy. She wouldnât be caught dead doing this. Not that itâs bad. Itâs just⊠sheâs Chrissy.â
He gave a half smile, still wincing as he heard his own response leaving his mouth.
"Oh." you swallowed hard trying to shake the sinking feeling in your gut.
Shes Chrissy.
You felt yourself slipping into your head and rubbed your fingers against the table. Eddie opened his mouth, closed it and swallowed.
The name echoed in your head, heavy and cruel. You werenât Chrissy.
You smiled up at him with a tight line.
"So, at what time is your next campaign I need to know what Henderson has to say about it."
Eddie hesitated, guilt flickering across his face, but then he launched back into his rant, words tumbling out with his usual flare. You nodded, pretending to listen, eyes drifting back to your paper.
But the essay blurred, meaningless. All you could hear was the echo.
A week had passed since you had become hyperaware of Chrissy Cunningham's existence, your eyes would linger as she passed by the halls. Chrissy Cunninghamâs name had become a ghost that haunted every hallway, every classroom. Your eyes lingered on her without meaning to, tracing the way she laughed with her friends, the way she seemed untouchable. Even when Eddieâs arm draped casually around your shoulders, the warmth that used to feel protective now burned with doubt. It wasnât the same flare of happiness it once sparked it felt hollow, like a reminder of what you werenât. You told yourself Eddie didnât think of you as ruined, that he loved you in his own way, maybe not the romantic kind you dreamed of, but something deeper, something platonic and safe. And wasnât that better than nothing? Better to be loved in fragments than not at all. Still, the words hung in the air. I wouldnât want to ruin her, echoing like a curse, twisting every smile into a question you couldnât answer.
Movie nights with Eddie were your sanctuary, the one place where the world blurred into laughter and comfort. You couldnât always afford the tapes, but somehow Eddie always managed to pull one out of thin air, grinning like heâd just robbed the universe.
âAlright, sweetheart, tonightâs feature presentation: low-budget horror with questionable acting and even worse wallpaper choices,â Eddie announced, throwing his arms wide as if he were on stage.
You laughed, shaking your head. âYouâre ridiculous. Who paints their kitchen lime green?â
âThe true horror isnât the killer, itâs the interior design, blind, I tell you. All of them blind,â Eddie quipped, leaning forward with mock seriousness.
The movie played, but Eddie was louder than the actors. He imitated the protagonistâs screams, clutching his chest dramatically. âOh no! Iâve been stabbed! Tell my story, Y/N!â
You shoved him, laughing. âYouâre such a dork, Munson.â
âCorrection: Iâm a loser and a dork. I'm a double threat, sweetheart. We have to get my title right.â He lunged at you, and suddenly, you were wrestling on the couch, laughter spilling out of both of you. His fingers dug into your sides, tickling mercilessly, and you squealed, begging him to stop.
"Eddie Munson i mean it, stop it right-" your breathless laughs and heavy breaths being pushed out of your chest without your permission.
You flipped him, breathless, hair falling into your face, and Eddie grinned up at you, curls wild, eyes shining. âCareful, sweetheart. Youâre playing with fire.â His voice dipped, teasing, but there was something in his gaze that made your stomach twist with butterflies.
You tickled him back, Eddie yelled and screeched, telling you to cut it out.
Both of you breathlessly lay there, you on top of Eddie. The floor of his trailer digging into his back. Your hair falling into your face, tickling at eddies cheek from the proximity.
For a moment, the world stilled. His eyes flicked to your lips, and you leaned down, heart pounding, breaths mingling. His lips brushed yours, soft, hesitant, electric, and you felt yourself melt into the warmth of him. The kiss lingered, the feeling electric despite your lips not connecting yet, the feelings you bottled up for so long making their way up, ready to be released with a kiss.
Then the phone rang.
You both jolted apart, hearts racing. Eddie gave you an apologetic smile, exaggeratedly groaning as he dragged himself to the wall phone. Your chest still buzzed with childlike excitement, the thought screaming in your head: you almost kissed Eddie Munson. A breathless laugh leaving your chest.
Eddie picked up the phone, his smile and frizzy hair making him look all the more breathtaking, the moment still fresh and new to both of you. You watched him smile brightly on your face, still feeling the proximity both of you shared. But then his smile faltered, voice dropping. âWait⊠Chrissy, slow down. What happened?â
And just like that, the butterflies died. The pit in your stomach returned, heavier than before. Chrissyâs name hung in the air, and the comfort of Eddieâs laughter dissolved into something sharp, something that reminded you....
Sheâs Chrissy. Youâre not.
You sat on the couch, chest heavy, the movie flickering across the screen like it was mocking you. Every scream, every chase scene blurred into background noise against the sound of Eddieâs voice on the phone. You tried not to listen, tried to let the static drown it out, but Chrissyâs crying bled through, sharp and undeniable. Each word Eddie spoke carved deeper into you.
âItâs going to be okay, Chrissy, I promise I-â
âWait, no. Donât apologize. You needed someone to hear you. Thereâs no need to-â
âChrissy, you arenât a burden. I promise.â
Your stomach twisted, sinking into itself as you stared blankly at the screen. The protagonist was running toward safety, the last survivor, her blonde hair catching the light, her delicate smile untouched by the horrors she lived around her. She looked like Chrissy. She looked like everything you werenât.
âNo need to thank me. Bye, Chrissy. Iâll talk to you soon. Good night.â
Eddie sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips as he hung up. His mood was dampened by Chrissy's situation, but he couldn't help the giddy feeling in him. He turned, eyes finding you on the couch, hair tangled, face half-lit by the glow of the TV. For a moment, he just stared, like he was memorizing you, before he let out a dramatic groan and flopped across the couch, sprawling until his head landed in your lap.
âJasonâs a real prick, holy crap,â he muttered, looking up at you with a grin that carried a glint of something unspoken. His eyes lingered, analyzing you, searching for a reaction you refused to give. You kept your gaze locked on the TV, pretending the movie mattered more than the ache in your chest.
âSooooo⊠about that thing earlier, I think it was-â
âItâs getting late, Eds. I should head home.â Your voice was steady, but the words cut through him. His smile faltered.
âWhat? Why?â
âIt sounded like Chrissy needed you. And we finished our movie. Besides, I need to brush my hair.â
His brows furrowed, lips parting like he wanted to argue. âYou can always spend the night. I mean-â
âNo, itâs okay, Eds.â You stood, brushing off your shorts, forcing a smile. âThank you for the movie night. See you tomorrow. I hope Chrissyâs okay.â
âWait-â His voice cracked slightly, softer than usual, but you didnât let yourself turn back.
You left, practically running from Eddieâs trailer, the night air biting at your skin. Only when you were far enough away did you let out a tired sigh, clutching at the stitch in your side. âShit, I really have to work on my cardio.â The words came out bitter, half a laugh, half a sob.
And still, the thought gnawed at you: did Chrissy ever feel this way? Did she ever have to wonder if Eddie Munson would choose her over the rest of the world?
You hadnât really heard from Eddie all weekend. The silence gnawed at you, every hour replaying that almost-kiss until it drove you insane. By Monday, when he waved at you in the hallway, his small smile felt like a knife twisting in your chest.
âI didnât hear much from you this weekend, Eds.â
âYeah, I know. Iâm sorry. I was busy.â He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away. âChrissy really needed to talk. We kinda smoked, I showed her around town. I was gonna call, but⊠I needed her advice. Then Jason didnât drive her to practice, it was this whole thing.â
Your chest caved in. That moment between you and Eddie hadnât stopped replaying in your brain, the proximity, the way your thoughts short-circuited. And now it was all overshadowed by Chrissy Cunningham. Again.
He kept talking, voice casual. âThen the cheerleaders are having these tryouts since one of them broke her leg. Theyâre looking for a replacement andâŠâ
That was when the idea hit you. If Eddie liked Chrissy so much, if he cared about her practices, maybe he could care about yours. Maybe if you were more like her, heâd look at you differently.
âIâm actually trying out.â
His head snapped toward you. âWhat?â
âIâm trying out to be a cheerleader.â The words felt foreign, heavy, like they didnât belong to you. Your stomach turned, but the thought of Eddie caring about your practices the way he cared about Chrissyâs made it worth saying.
âSince when do you like cheerleading?â His tone wasnât cruel, nor was it meant to mock you, but it stung.
âWhat, you donât think I can make it?â The defensiveness hit before you could stop it, insecurity clawing at your chest.
He shook his head. âNo, itâs just⊠I didnât think the whole prep thing, skirts, pompoms, makeup, was your thing.â
Maybe the issue was that you werenât feminine enough. You liked who you were, you thought Eddie did too. But in that moment, you realized he liked those things in a friend, not in a partner.
So for the next two weeks, you worked. Stretching, practicing, forcing yourself into routines that didnât feel like yours. Eddie asked if you were sure, more than once, his voice carrying doubt you couldnât shake. The pit in your chest grew. The feeling in your stomach continuously sank as anxiety and insecurity crept up.
Tryouts came. Everything was going well, you felt your palms sweating, your heart beating ringing in your ears. Everything was fine everything was perfectly fine, the anxiety you felt was nothing, or so you told yourself.
That was until you slipped, crashing hard onto the gym floor. Eddie was in the bleachers, you hadnât known heâd be there. He wasn't supposed to be there. Your heart dropped when you realized he was there for Chrissy. His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he almost jumped from the bleachers.
Chrissy ran forward, concern etched across her features. âAre you okay?â she asked, genuine kindness in her voice a panic rising behind her. genuine concern was all that her features showed. And you understood why Eddie liked her. She was light, effortless.
But Eddieâs voice cut through, frantic. âOh my god, are you okay? Hey, look at me.â His eyes locked on yours, wide and terrified.
Your pride burned hotter than your knee. âYeah, Iâm fine."
They continued asking, especially about your knee, the pain throbbing from it almost distracting you from the humiliation that you were currently facing. Tears burned in your eyes, you refused to let them fall as you blinked them away, anxiety making its way back up.
"That was so embarrassing. Iâm sorry.â Your voice shook your heart beat overwhelming you.
Chrissy shook her head. âDonât apologise. Donât stand on it, youâll hurt yourself more.â
Eddie reached out to steady you, but you pulled back. âI promise Iâm fine.â
âYouâre not,â he insisted, voice breaking, eyes pleading.
Both Eddie and Chrissy crowded in too close, their voices overlapping, Chrissyâs soft, careful questions and Eddieâs frantic insistence that you werenât fine. Their concern pressed down like a weight, suffocating, leaving no room to breathe. Every word felt like pity, every touch like proof of how small and fragile you must have looked sprawled on the gym floor. Your pride burned hotter than the pain in your knee, humiliation clawing at your chest until it spilled out sharp and raw.
âEddie, stop it! Just stop already â I get it, okay? !â The words tore from you before you could stop them, tears blurring your vision as both of them froze, their kindness suddenly unbearable.
Tears spilled down your cheeks. Eddie froze, startled. âWhat do you mean? Hey, hey, look at me. Youâre okay.â
âJust stop.â
You turned, limping out of the gym, leaving Eddie and Chrissy behind. The parking lot was empty except for his van and a few teachersâ cars. You sat on the sidewalk, knee throbbing, tears burning. You hated being seen like this. You hated that youâd snapped at Eddie when all heâd done was care. You hated that Chrissy was everything you werenât.
The gym doors slammed behind you, and Eddie stood frozen, heart pounding in his chest. He hadnât meant for it to spiral like that. He hadnât meant for you to think Chrissy mattered more. Hell, he hadnât even come for Chrissy, he came because he knew youâd be here, because he wanted to see you try, wanted to be the one cheering you on.
But then you fell. And the look on your face when you pulled away from him, that hurt worse than anything.
He grabbed the ice pack from the nurseâs office, snagged some painkillers, and pushed through the doors into the parking lot. The night air was heavy, and there you were, sitting on the curb, shoulders shaking. Eddieâs chest tightened.
He walked over, slow, uncertain, holding the ice pack out like it was some kind of peace offering. You didnât look at him, but you didnât push him away either. He sat down beside you, the silence stretching between you like a chasm.
You sighed, voice breaking. âIâm sorry.â
Eddie shook his head, eyes locked on you. âDonât be. You think I came here for Chrissy?â His voice was quiet, raw, stripped of its usual theatrics. He winced slightly as he asked.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, curls falling into his face. â I donât care about cheerleading, or pompoms, or whatever. I care about you. I wanted to see you out there because it mattered to you. Because you matter to me. I wasn't there for Chrissy. I was there for youâ
His words hung in the air, heavy and trembling. He wanted to reach out, to steady you, to make you believe him. But he stayed still, afraid youâd pull away again.
âI know you think Chrissyâs perfect. And yeah, sheâs kind, sheâs sweet. But sheâs not you. Sheâs not the one I spend every night with, laughing at dumb horror movies, wrestling on the couch, and always wondering if it's the right time to kiss you or hold you close. I mean we almost-â He stopped himself, biting his lip, heart racing.
Eddie glanced at you, eyes soft, vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see. âI donât want you to change. Not for me, not for anyone. Youâre already⊠youâre already everything.â
The silence pressed down again, but this time it wasnât empty. It was charged, aching, full of everything Eddie couldnât quite say.
"I'm sorry", your voice small.
Eddieâs eyes softened, his voice quiet but steady. âDonât be. I was there for you, not Chrissy. And Iâll always be there for you.â
He swallowed hard, curls falling into his face as he leaned closer. âAnd you arenât ruined. That came out so wrong. Youâre the most perfect person I know, and it scared me half to death. I love you. Iâm so, so, so sorry.â
Your breath caught, eyes burning as the insecurities that had weighed you down seemed to lift, replaced by something warmer, lighter. Tears welled fresh, but this time they carried relief. You smiled through them, voice trembling. âI love you, you big loser.â
You leaned in, lips brushing his, and Eddie met you halfway. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like both of you were afraid it might shatter. But then it deepened, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, the taste of smoke and sweetness lingering as your lips moved together. It wasnât rushed or desperate; it was slow, tender, the kind of kiss that felt like home. Every second carried unspoken promises, every breath shared like it was something sacred.
When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, both of you smiling through the tears. âI think I fucked my knee up. We might have to go to the doctor. And I hate cardio.â
Eddie laughed, the sound warm and unrestrained, breaking the heaviness in the air. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, grinning. âCome on, sweetheart. Letâs get you to a doctor before you start running laps out here.â
He helped you up carefully, his arm steady around your waist, and for once the pain in your knee didnât matter. Because Eddie Munson was holding you, and he wasnât letting go.
