#samazing0831

WARNING - alcohol consumption

The Hellfire room is still buzzing with the aftershocks of victory.

Eddie’s final narration - voice low, gravelly, theatrical - wrapped up the campaign in a swirl of magic and mayhem, and the boys practically exploded with celebration. Even now, the echoes of high-fives and laughter are still bouncing off the walls as everyone trickles out, buzzing about XP bonuses and character arcs.

You help Eddie pack up his Dungeon Master screen and scatter of notebooks. He looks electric - hair wild, eyes lit up, still caught in the afterglow of a campaign well played. There’s a curl to his grin as he glances over at you.

“You were incredible tonight,” you say, holding up one of his battered character sheets. “That death fake-out? Brutal. I almost cried.”

Eddie laughs, tossing his head back. “Are you kidding? I almost cried writing it. I thought Henderson was gonna swing on me.”

He grabs the last handful of dice from the table and dumps them into a velvet pouch, then nudges your shoulder with his own. “But you were the MVP. Seriously. If you hadn’t convinced the cleric to stay behind, the whole thing would’ve fallen apart.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “I just said what I thought my character would say.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “You think like a hero.”

You roll your eyes, playfully bumping him back. “You’re ridiculous.”

The hallway is quiet when you both leave the room, echoing with your footsteps. He walks you out to your car, hands shoved into the pockets of his ripped jeans, the silence between you soft and easy.

At the door, you unlock the car and hesitate. The streetlight hits his profile just right - warm and golden - and his gaze drops to your lips for just a split second.

You swear it happens.

Your heart catches in your throat.

Eddie opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, or do something, but then… he hesitates. He shifts his weight. The moment stretches thin.

Then he grins - quick and crooked - and reaches out, ruffling your hair. “Night, champ.”

You laugh, swatting his hair away. “You’re the worst.”

“Nah,” he says, stepping back, already retreating into the shadows of the parking lot. “I’m just saving the best rolls for the next session.”

You watch him go, your chest aching in a way you don’t totally understand.

Or maybe you do.

And maybe you’re just afraid to admit it.

It all started with a blizzard.

School’s canceled, roads are iced over, and somehow you’ve ended up in Eddie Munson’s living room, your socks drying on a heater grate while he scavenges his kitchen for hot chocolate that may or may not be expired.

“March of ’74,” he calls from the other room. “How do we feel about ancient Swiss Miss?”

You grin. “If you’ve got marshmallows, I’ll risk it.”

He reappears with two mismatched mugs and a sheepish smile. His hair is damp - he’d caught a faceful of snow when you tackled him in the front yard - and his Hellfire Club hoodie hangs off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looks too cozy for his own good.

You settle onto the couch, a heavy quilt shared across both of your laps. On the coffee table: your wet gloves, your shared triumph of constructing a truly cursed snowman, and a growing pile of chocolate wrappers from the baking cabinet raid.

“I can’t believe your uncle didn’t yell at us,” you say, sipping your drink.

Eddie smirks. “He works nights. The man can sleep through a tornado.”

He shifts beside you, knee brushing yours under the blanket. It happens once. Then again, intentional this time. His fingers toy with a loose thread on the hem of the quilt, and you swear his shoulder inches just a little closer to yours.

“You ever think,” he says suddenly, voice lower, “that snow days feel… kind of magic?”

You glance over. He’s looking at you - not grinning, not teasing - just looking.

“Yeah,” you say, heartbeat thudding. “I do.”

The quiet wraps around you both. The snow outside makes the whole world feel muffled and close. Your mug is warm in your hands, and Eddie’s thigh is pressed to yours, and there’s a look in his eyes that feels like the beginning of something.

His hand twitches on the quilt.

You don’t breathe.

Then the phone rings.

The moment shatters like glass.

Eddie curses under his breath, gets up to grab it. “Hello? … Yeah, no, I’m here… Uh-uh…”

He throws an apologetic glance over his shoulder as he keeps talking. You just smile and shrug like your heart isn’t still trying to put itself back together.

Later, when the snow melts and you remember this day, it won’t be the cocoa or the snowman you think of first.

It’ll be how close he came to kissing you - and how he didn’t.

Wayne’s working a double shift, the trailer is yours for the night, and Eddie’s declared it mandatory cinematic education. You’re halfway through a grainy VHS copy of The Lost Boys and three-quarters through a shared bag of popcorn when it happens.

It’s late - like late late. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, and Eddie’s sprawled beside you, long legs stretched out, one socked foot pressing lightly against your ankle under the blanket. Your head tilts toward him naturally, like a compass needle drawn to something magnetic. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“You know,” he murmurs around a mouthful of popcorn, “if you ever become a vampire, I’ll still hang out with you. As long as you don’t eat me.”

You glance over at him with a smirk. “That’s your takeaway from this movie?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, lifting a hand in mock surrender, “if you ever go full bloodsucker, I want it in writing that I get to be your Renfield or something.”

You laugh, soft and a little sleepy. “Eddie Munson, forever loyal minion. I can live with that.”

The movie keeps playing, but neither of you are watching it. The flicker from the TV casts long shadows across his face. He turns to look at you, and for a moment, the air is charged. He’s close. Really close. You could count the freckles on his cheeks if you wanted to. His gaze drops to your lips - just for a second - and your breath hitches.

There’s a moment. A pause. You think this is it.

But then he blinks, clears his throat, and turns back to the screen. “Man, the soundtrack on this is killer.”

You blink too, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your chest. “Yeah,” you say, quieter. “It really is.”

He doesn’t move away, and you don’t either. But he doesn’t kiss you.

Corroded Coffin is buzzing.

The Hideout’s crowd was small but loud, half drunk and wholly into it. You’d never seen Eddie so electric - sweat-slick curls clinging to his forehead, fingers flying over guitar strings like he was built from lightning and feedback. He’d kept sneaking glances your way from the stage, flashing that lopsided, sharp smile he reserved just for you.

Afterward, the others pile into Gareth’s beat-up van to grab greasy food and gloat over a decent set. Eddie lingers behind, guitar case in one hand, the other fiddling with his jacket zipper as the parking lot empties around you.

“Hey,” he says, toeing a loose rock with his boot, “thanks for coming. Always play better when I know you’re out there.”

You smile, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “You were incredible tonight. Like… seriously. That solo on the last song? Stupid good.”

“Stupid good?” he teases, stepping closer. “You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t. The space between you shrinks and vibrates with everything unsaid. The streetlight overhead flickers once, humming, as Eddie looks at you - really looks at you - eyes dark and warm and searching.

He leans in, just a breath closer. You tilt your head up instinctively.

“Can I -”

Headlights flare at the corner of the lot, and Gareth’s voice cuts through the quiet like a hacksaw: “Munson! You making out with your guitar back there or what?”

Eddie jumps like he’s been shocked. His laugh is strangled and awkward. “Guess that’s my cue.”

You force a smile, heart sinking somewhere below your ribs. “Yeah. Go.”

He pauses, opens his mouth like he wants to explain something, then thinks better of it.

“Goodnight, rockstar,” you say gently.

He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “’Night, (Y/N).”

And just like that, it’s another almost.

The party was louder than either of you expected. Jason Carver’s “everyone’s invited” senior rager had turned into a full-house mess of red Solo cups, Bon Jovi on repeat, and people grinding in the living room like it was some kind of terrible teen movie.

You were two drinks in - just enough for a buzz, not enough to ignore how out of place you felt. Eddie, naturally, was performing: throwing sarcastic commentary left and right, air-guitaring to Poison, throwing devil horns at everyone who gave him weird looks. But even he was starting to wear thin around the edges.

“Can’t believe you dragged me into this,” he muttered dramatically, slumping onto the couch beside you.

“You said, and I quote,” you say, mimicking his voice, “‘It’ll be hilarious watching all the jocks try to remember how to talk without a playbook.’”

He gave you a smirk. “I’m pretty sure I did say that.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “You also said you’d dance with me if the opportunity presented itself.”

Eddie blinked. “I said that?”

“You did.”

Just then, as if summoned by the universe’s impeccable comedic timing, the playlist shifted. The music slowed. Someone hollered out a drunk “awwwww yeahhh!” as “I Remember You” by Skid Row started playing over the speakers.

Eddie groaned. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You stood and held your hand out toward him. “C’mon. You promised.”

He stared up at you. “You want me to slow dance with you to Skid Row at Jason Carver’s house party.”

“Yes.”

“...God, you’re irresistible.”

He took your hand.

You found a small spot of space near the back sliding door, where the crowd had thinned. It was far enough from the blaring speakers and too-close bodies that you could hear each other breathe. Eddie’s hands were unsure at first, hovering near your waist, then settling. Yours landed on his shoulders - he was warm beneath the denim jacket, hair brushing the side of your hand.

You swayed.

He was stiff at first, teasing and exaggerated. “This is so dumb,” he whispered.

“But you’re still doing it,” you teased back.

“Because you’re the only person in this godforsaken house worth dancing with.”

You looked up. His smile had softened. The goofy mask slipped just a little.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just - don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

You didn’t mean to lean in. Not consciously. But your hands tightened just a little on his shoulders, and your body moved just a little closer. He smelled like leather and faint cigarette smoke, and there was this second - this second - where you felt him shift toward you.

But someone stumbled into him from behind, sloshing beer down the back of his jacket and knocking you two apart.

“Jesus Christ!” Eddie shouted, twisting around. “Do you mind?”

The guy just slurred something that vaguely resembled an apology and wandered off.

You and Eddie looked at each other. Both of you flushed. The moment was over.

Eddie ran a hand through his hair. “Guess that’s our cue to leave.”

You nodded, trying to hide your disappointment. “Yeah. Probably.”

But as you turned to grab your coat, you swore you heard him say - soft, under his breath - 

“Almost.”

The van’s engine hums softly, and the world outside feels miles away. You’re parked at the local drive-in, the screen glowing with the cheesy B-movie currently playing. The night air is cool, but there’s a fuzzy warmth between you and Eddie, a sense of familiarity you’ve built over the months.

The seats are reclined, a thick plaid blanket tossed over the both of you as you share a half-open bag of Twizzlers. Eddie’s thumb taps rhythmically on the wheel, his leg bouncing with the beat of a song from the radio, but his eyes are glued to the flickering screen. Every now and then, you both burst out laughing at the ridiculous lines, but the laughter doesn’t reach your heart the way it does when it’s just the two of you.

“You know,” Eddie begins, his voice low and a little rough, “this movie is so bad, it’s almost like it’s got its own charm. Like… a trainwreck charm.”

You chuckle, nudging him with your shoulder. “Yeah, but I think you’re giving it too much credit. I can barely understand what’s going on.”

Eddie shifts, turning to face you. His arm brushes against yours as he moves the blanket, settling it more comfortably over your laps. There’s a half-smile on his lips, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world outside the van is on pause.

“I guess you’re right. It’s just one of those movies you watch when you’re bored and hoping for something to make you feel something,” he says, his voice trailing off. But then, almost as if he realized what he just said, he laughs nervously. “Or, uh, you know, it’s just something to pass the time.”

You nod along, but the words don’t quite match the way your pulse is starting to race. There’s something in the air between you, an electricity that’s been building with every stolen glance and every moment that’s been shared. You glance over at him, just for a second, and notice the way his eyes hold yours, a little more intense than before.

The awkward silence stretches out, but it’s not uncomfortable. It's soft. Familiar. And it makes your heart beat a little faster.

Eddie shifts again, leaning over the center console just slightly. “Do you -” He stops himself and seems to gather his thoughts, staring down at his hands for a second before glancing back at you. “Do you ever feel like, I don’t know… sometimes the best moments are the ones you don’t plan for?”

His words are so genuine, so raw, that you can’t help but nod slowly. You want to tell him that you feel the same way. That every moment with him - every silly little thing, every inside joke - has turned into something better than you could have imagined. But all you do is smile softly, a little breathless.

You both sit there, the world outside fading away as the silence stretches, filled with words neither of you are quite ready to speak. And just as you’re about to look away, he does something that makes your breath hitch: he leans forward, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is gentle, tentative, like neither of you quite knows if it’s real or just some wild fever dream. His lips press softly against yours, hesitant at first, as if waiting for permission. It’s not the desperate kiss you’ve imagined, or the impulsive one from a moment of pure passion. No, this one feels like the start of something, like two people finally acknowledging what’s been right in front of them all along.

His hand comes up, cupping your face gently, and you feel the heartbeat in the kiss - steady, like his pulse is as calm as yours feels in that moment. The sound of the movie plays in the background, but it’s muffled now, drowned out by the feel of Eddie’s lips moving against yours.

When he pulls away, just enough to leave a tiny space between you, there’s a soft smile on his face, one that makes your heart swell. You’re both still for a moment, eyes meeting as if you’re both unsure of what comes next. But you don’t need to rush. You don’t need to say anything, because this moment has already said it all.

“Been meaning to do that for a while now,” Eddie whispers against your lips.

You laugh softly, trying to keep your pulse from giving away how much that kiss meant.

Fred Weasley never told you how he felt.

Not when you bandaged his hand after a failed fireworks charm in fourth year.

Not when Snape paired you together in Potions and you spilled Amortentia all over his notes - and he didn’t care, because your laugh sounded exactly like the fizzing of a sweet joke just before it exploded.

Not even after the war, when you’d grown into your own kind of brilliant, training under the best curse-breakers while he rebuilt the shop and himself at the same time.

You were always in his orbit. Close enough to touch. But never quite his.

He flirted with everyone. Everyone except you.

Because it would have meant something. Too much.

So he didn’t say it.

Not until the day the curse made it impossible not to.

The last thing Fred remembered before the spell hit was the sound of George saying, “You absolute idiot, don’t eat that -”

Then:

Snap.

Spark.

Dark.

Then:

Truth.

The owl arrived with an irritated rattle of wings and an urgent red seal.

You barely glanced up at first - still hunched over a centuries old scroll, ink smudge on your fingers, neck aching from the angle you’d been craning for hours. You were in the middle of translating an ancient ward-breaking glyph from a Celtic tomb, halfway between brilliance and burnout.

But then your eyes caught the Ministry mark.

You unrolled the parchment with growing unease.

“Urgent magical accident. Diagon Alley. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Spontaneous compulsion spell - patient unable to lie. Curse-breaker assistance required immediately.”

When you saw the name, you cursed under your breath - not because it was Fred Weasley.

But because it was Fred Weasley.

You muttered something unprintable under your breath, grabbed your satchel, and Disapparated without even changing out of your work clothes.

Wind whipped at your scarf the moment you reappeared on the cobbled edge of Diagon Alley. The early evening air was brisk, tinged with wood smoke and the sugary scent of something exploding several doors down.

You climbed the stairs to the flat above with dread curling low in your stomach. You hadn’t seen Fred in months - not since that mutual friend’s wedding, where he’d danced like a man trying to forget something.

You hadn’t forgotten anything.

The door creaked open before you knocked.

“Of course it’s you,” Fred groaned, flopped across the old settee with one hand over his eyes. “Of all the curse-breakers in Britain…”

You dropped your bag by the fireplace and gave him a once-over: flushed cheeks, twitchy fingers, and a slightly panicked glint in his eyes.

“You look like hell,” you said flatly.

Fred blinked. “You smell amazing.”

A pause.

Your brow raised.

“I - I mean -” He turned desperately to George, who was seated on the armrest with a half-eaten Cauldron Cake. “See? I’m broken.”

George choked on his cake, coughing through a laugh. “Oh, he’s so broken.”

Fred didn’t stop talking for the next ten minutes.

It wasn’t that he meant to - in fact, you could see the moment he realized he couldn’t help it, eyes wide with horror as each confession tumbled out of his mouth like a poorly warded truth serum.

“I used to doodle your name and mine in the margins of my Charms notes but made them invisible.”

“I definitely faked a nosebleed once to get you to fix it. You touched my face. It was a whole thing.”

“I flirted with Angelina to distract from the fact that I was in love with someone else. Obviously, it didn’t work.”

You stared at him.

“I -” he began, horrified, “I didn’t mean to say that. Wait. No. I did. I just didn’t mean to say it now.”

You slowly closed your diagnostic journal and looked at him - not the patient, not the prankster, but the boy you used to pass notes to in the library. The boy you tried so hard to ignore, even when he sat two rows over, turning your insides to jelly every time he laughed.

“Well,” you said, rising to your feet, “this is going to be interesting.”

The day faded into a dusky blue-gray outside, street lamps flickering to life below the window. You’d stayed longer than you meant to - partly for professional reasons, partly because Fred had finally stopped talking and fallen asleep, and partly because…

Well.

Because being in that flat again felt like stepping backward into something half-familiar and half-forbidden.

You moved quietly through the room, setting up the last of the diagnostic wards around his bed for overnight monitoring. A soft glow followed your wand tip, encasing the mattress in a protective shimmer.

That’s when you saw it - a photo, old and curling at the edges, tucked just under his lamp.

You reached for it without thinking.

It was one of those enchanted prints from Hogwarts: you and Alicia laughing on the lawn, books open but forgotten. Behind you, Fred photobombed with both thumbs up, mid-wink, grinning like he knew a secret.

He’d cut the photo unevenly to frame just you.

He caught you looking.

“I’ve had that since sixth year,” he said softly. “I never showed anyone. George would’ve never let me live it down.”

Your fingers lingered on the edge of the photo. Something in your chest tightened - an old, bruised feeling you’d never let surface until now.

You remembered that day.

You remembered the way Fred kept circling, teasing Alicia, always just barely brushing by you.

You thought it was a coincidence.

But now… now you weren’t so sure.

Truth, unfortunately, doesn’t sleep.

You’d only been back at the Weasley flat for one day and already regretted not charging triple.

The spell was something you hadn’t seen in years - an ancient truth-compulsion enchantment originally designed by paranoid Ministry officials during the early wizarding trials. It latched onto emotion. Instinct. Buried thoughts.

It wasn’t just a compulsion to speak.

It was a pressure point in the soul - twisting at instinct and memory, unraveling the threads people usually kept hidden. The deeper someone buried a thought, the faster it rose to the surface. Emotion made it worse. Shame made it impossible. The spell clung to those things like a bloodhound with a grudge.

In short: Fred was a live wire with absolutely no filter.

And he hated it.

Morning light spilled through the window of the flat like a spotlight on bad decisions.

You were in the sitting room again, running another scan - wand calibrated to a specialized focus stone, fingers ready, voice neutral. Fred sat on the edge of the couch, slouched forward slightly with the grim posture of a man preparing to embarrass himself in real time.

He was trying not to look at you.

Bad idea.

“Honestly?” Fred muttered as you hovered a spell-focus over his chest to measure magical resistance, “I can feel your hand through my shirt and it’s killing me. Thought you should know. For science.”

You didn’t blink. “Noted.”

“You’re very professional. That’s frustrating.”

“You can stop talking any time.”

“I really can’t,” he said miserably. “Also, your hair looks really soft today.”

You dropped the focus on his stomach.

He wheezed.

You stepped back calmly, scribbled a note, and pretended not to notice the color blooming at the tops of his ears.

By mid-afternoon, the flat had grown stifling - too small, too loud, too filled with unsaid things that Fred might accidentally say. You relocated to the front of the shop under the guise of needing open space for magical threshold testing, but really, you just needed to breathe.

George had roped Lee Jordan into helping restock a shipment of Fainting Fancies, while you and Fred camped near the warded entrance with a stack of charm protocols and a battered diagnostic wand that sparked if you angled it wrong.

It was mostly boring.

Until you added a layered pressure charm - subtle, but enough to press against the edges of his aura, and casually asked, “How do you feel under magical strain?”

“Terrible,” he said automatically.

You nodded, taking notes.

He paused.

“Also I think about kissing you at least once a day, and it’s so inconvenient.”

You froze.

Fred’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t supposed to come out.”

You didn’t move..

“It’s not new,” he rushed on. “Since sixth year. That stupid Amortentia lesson Snape had us paired up in? Yours smelled like ink and cloves. Mine smelled like you.”

You looked up sharply.

Fred winced. “See? This is awful. You’re going to run back to the Ministry and leave me to rot.”

You let the silence stretch for just long enough to make him sweat.

Then, finally: “I’m not leaving,” you said, quiet but certain. “But you do need to shut up before you give yourself a heart attack.”

“Too late. Already dying. Will definitely haunt you.”

You shook your head, trying very hard not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirked. “But charming.”

“Unfortunately.”

That night, the flat settled into a soft quiet - the kind that only comes after a day spent pretending not to feel what you’re feeling.

You stayed in the spare room, door slightly ajar. Moonlight filtered in through the window, painting silver lines across your notebook as you sat cross-legged on the bed, journal open, mind racing.

Fred had always been flirtatious - you knew that. He’d turned it into an art form. But this… this wasn’t practiced lines or clever banter. It was too raw. Too uncertain. Too honest.

He wasn’t performing anymore.

He was unraveling.

You traced the edge of the page in your journal, half-distracted.

You’d written his name dozens of times today.

Across the hall, Fred lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might answer all the questions he was too afraid to ask out loud.

Somewhere between blurting out his feelings and realizing you hadn’t run screaming for the hills, something had shifted.

You weren’t just a memory of laughter in a Gryffindor common room anymore. You weren’t just a ghost from a chapter in his past.

You were here. Now.

And the truth was out in the open.

Fred wasn’t sure if that terrified him or freed him - maybe both - but one thing was certain:

He’d waited years to tell you any of this. And now that the dam had cracked, the only thing he wanted was to keep going.

Even if it killed him.

The day had been nonstop mayhem.

One of the Pygmy Puffs escaped. George accidentally sold a pair of reversible boxers that swapped genders and houses. And Fred? He knocked over an entire display of Banshee Buttons with his elbow, triggering a five-minute wail so loud it shattered two Sneakoscopes and scared a tourist into buying one.

You barely had time to recast the floor-warding spells before locking up.

Now, hours later, the three of you collapsed in the flat upstairs. The lights were low, the fire warm, and half-finished bottles of Firewhisky and butterbeer were scattered across the floor like trophies. You were curled up on the loveseat. Fred sat on the rug nearby, back against the sofa, legs stretched out. George was perched on the windowsill, swirling a cocktail that glowed faintly green.

“This batch might actually kill people,” he said cheerfully. “Which means it’ll sell brilliantly.”

You raised your butterbeer. “To war crimes in candy form.”

Fred clinked his bottle against yours. “Cheers.”

You were all exhausted, a little buzzed, and laughing in that slow, golden way that only happened late at night, when the chaos finally settled and the quiet came.

Which is exactly when George decided to ruin it.

“So,” he said casually, not looking up, “how long did your little school crush on Freddie here last?”

You blinked. Fred turned his head toward you, eyebrows lifting.

You scoffed. “What?”

“Oh come on,” George said. “Everyone knew. Back at school - all those stolen glances over cauldron smoke. The time you tripped over your own robes when he winked at you in Transfiguration?”

“I tripped because Ron threw a Quill-Chewing Chizpurfle at my head,” you muttered.

George smirked. “Right. Sure you did.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t a big deal. Everyone had a crush on Fred back then.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Did they?”

You waved it off, too quickly. “It was school. We were sixteen. It didn’t mean anything.”

The silence that followed landed like a hex.

You didn’t notice it at first - not until Fred sat up straighter. His drink hung forgotten in his hand.

When he spoke, his voice was too quiet to be casual.

“I certainly didn’t have a crush on you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked at you - really looked - and in the firelight, his eyes weren’t playful. They were glassy. Raw.

“It wasn’t a crush,” he said again. “A crush was what I had on Angelina in fourth year. It lasted three weeks and ended when she jinxed my eyebrows off. I had a crush on that Slytherin in fourth year who looked like she’d stab someone with a sugar quill.”

He gave a single, humorless laugh.

“You?” He ran a hand through his hair, searching for words. “You were different.”

George, to his credit, said nothing.

Fred turned back to you. His voice steadied - low, but certain.

“I noticed you before you ever noticed me. You were the one person I couldn’t joke with the same way - not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t trust myself. Because you mattered.”

Your breath caught.

“I used to memorize where you sat in class,” he said with a crooked smile. “So I’d know where not to sit. Being near you made me forget punchlines.”

Your heart was thudding now, traitorously loud.

“And during the Battle…” His voice faltered. “I didn’t see you at first. And then I did. You were hexing a Death Eater - twice your size, might I add - with your arm bleeding down to your fingertips, and you still yelled at me to keep moving.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I thought I was going to lose you. And that night, when you limped past me holding your wand like it was the only thing keeping you upright - I wanted to say something. Anything. I even wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t.”

Silence.

Then:

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” Fred said softly. “And now this bloody curse is dragging it out of me like some sort of humiliating game and - Merlin, I wish I’d just told you before. When it was mine to give.”

You stared at him, the past rewriting itself behind your eyes.

George stood quietly. “Right. I’m suddenly feeling very much… like I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, disappearing down the hall with his drink and saintlike timing.

You were still staring.

“I thought you were just… Fred,” you said finally. “Friendly. Charming. Untouchable.” 

He looked at you then - broken open, not smiling.

“You were always the untouchable one.”

The flat was still.

Outside, Diagon Alley lay hushed beneath a soft coat of snow, the lamplight glinting off frost-laced eaves. Inside, the fire had dwindled to embers, casting sleepy gold shadows across the floorboards. Fred was curled on the couch beneath a frayed Gryffindor blanket, hands wrapped around a mug of cooling tea.

You sat beside him - not touching, but close enough to feel the space between you hum with everything unsaid.

Neither of you had spoken much since George had retreated to bed with an overly dramatic yawn and an oddly well-timed exit. That conversation - that confession - still hung in the air like dust, impossible to ignore.

You could feel Fred watching you from the corner of your eye.

But you didn’t look.

Not yet.

You were flipping through your spell journal, feigning focus, when Fred flinched.

Your head snapped up. “What was that?”

He winced, one hand going to his side. “Just a flare. Feels like something’s… pushing out.”

You shifted toward him instinctively. “You didn’t say anything earlier.”

“I didn’t want to -” He stopped, then gave a crooked smile. “Didn’t want to interrupt the awkward silence.”

You rolled your eyes, already tugging the blanket aside. Your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.

“Lift up,” you murmured.

He obeyed.

Beneath his ribs, magic shimmered faintly beneath the skin - a bruised glow ripping with each breath.

You pressed your wand gently to its edge. “This’ll tingle.”

Fred didn’t flinch.

“I trust you,” he said.

You froze.

Just for a second.

Those words landed deeper than they had any right to.

Whether Fred noticed or not, he didn’t let on. He just watched you - quiet, steady, while you worked.

When the charm finished settling and the light faded, you lowered your wand and leaned back with a quiet breath.

“Thanks,” he said, still watching you like he wasn’t quite ready to stop.

“You should’ve told me it was getting worse.”

He shrugged. “I figured if I ignored it, it might go away.”

You gave him a look. “Has that ever worked?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “No. But that didn’t stop me from trying. With everything else, too.”

The fire crackled. SIlence stretched - not uncomfortable, but fragile.

Fred set down his mug, slowly, like it had become too heavy to hold.

“I thought if I told you,” he said, his voice quiet and raw, “I’d lose you.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Back in school. After the battle. Even when you walked in yesterday. I thought if I said something real, it’d break whatever version of you I still had.”

You stared into the fire. Your chest ached.

“But now…” Fred exhaled, low and shaky. “Now I think I’m losing myself instead.”

You turned toward him.

Really turned.

Fred Weasley - the one who always had a joke, a smirk, an escape route - looked worn thin. Like the weight of years, of unspoken truths, had finally caught up.

“I didn’t want it to be a curse that made me say it,” he murmured. “But it did. And now you know. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You hadn’t realized you were leaning in until you noticed the shift in his gaze - down, briefly, to your mouth.

His breath caught.

So did yours.

And for one suspended heartbeat, you both leaned closer.

Heat. Tension. Gravity.

But then -

Fred paused.

Just enough to pull back.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his eyes dropping.

You eased back too, your heart aching and alive.

“No,” you said softly. “Don’t be.”

Because you weren’t ready. Not yet. Not tonight.

But your hands still tingled from touching him.

And your chest was still tight from almost hearing everything you’d once told yourself not to hope for.

The room went quiet again.

But this time, the quiet wasn’t empty.

It was full of maybe.

And maybe it was almost loud enough to believe in.

The library at Grimmauld Place smelled like parchment and ghosts.

Dust curled in the corners. Enchanted books drifted lazily above their shelves, still dutiful after decades of neglect. Overhead, the chandelier flickered with an eerie blue light, casting shadows that shifted with the turn of every page.

You and Fred sat opposite each other at the long oak table, a fortress of books stacked between you - most cracked open to smudged entries on psychological hexes, emotional compulsion spells, and ancient, half-forgotten curses. The kind of magic people whispered about, but rarely wrote down.

Fred’s hair was a mess, and his jumper had a new hole scorched into the sleeve from a misfired detection charm. He looked exhausted.

You weren’t faring much better.

But there was something about this - about being here, late, together - that made the silence feel full rather than empty.

You ran a hand through your hair and murmured, “Found something.”

Fred glanced up.

You slid a battered tome across the table. The page was marked with a shaky scrawl and a rust-colored fingerprint. The entry read:

Spell Type: Veritas Malefica

Often mistaken for a standard truth compulsion. Rooted in grief-based magic.

Enchantment reacts violently to emotional suppression - not lies told to others, but lies told to oneself.

Fred blinked slowly. “What does that mean?”

You swallowed. “It means… the more you try to bury what you’re feeling - especially from yourself - the worse it gets.”

He leaned back, the realization settling like stones in his chest.

“So I’ve been making it worse,” he said, voice hollow. “Every time I pretended it didn’t matter. Every time I told myself it wasn’t -”

He didn’t finish.

You looked down at your hands. “You’re not cursed because you lied to other people, Fred. You’re cursed because you’ve been lying to yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp - it was heavy. Knowing.

Then Fred laughed - just once. Bitter and tired.

“Of course it’s emotional repression. I couldn’t have just accidentally swallowed a cursed sweet like a normal idiot.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

But then: “There’s something else.”

He looked over.

You hesitated, then pushed forward. “I think I’m the trigger.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Every time the curse flares - it’s when I’m nearby. When I ask you something real. When we’re close.”

Fred stared at you.

Still, you didn’t stop.

“I’m not saying I’m bad for you. I’m saying… I’m the one person you’ve spent years pretending you didn’t feel anything for.”

His eyes dropped away. “Because if I didn’t pretend,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

You nodded. “I know.”

Silence settled again - quieter now. Expectant.

And then you said it.

“I liked you too, you know.”

Fred’s head lifted. His gaze found yours - sharp. Breathless.

You weren’t smiling. You were just honest.

“I used to sit two rows behind you in Charms and laugh at your jokes - even the terrible ones. I’d take the long way to class if it meant running into you. I noticed when you stopped joking with me after sixth year. I noticed everything. But you never said anything, so I thought…”

“That it wasn’t real,” Fred finished, barely above a whisper.

You nodded.

A beat passed.

And then - Fred said the thing that mattered most:

“I think that’s when it started. The lie. The one I kept telling myself - that I didn’t feel anything. That you were just… someone I missed a chance with.”

Your breath caught.

Fred leaned in, just slightly, voice raw.

“And the more I lied, the worse it got. The more I smiled and flirted and joked like it didn’t mean anything… the louder it got inside my head. Until the curse made it impossible to ignore.”

You didn’t speak.

And, for once, neither did Fred.

He just looked at you - unguarded. Quiet. Like he was finally allowing himself to be seen.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was warmer now.

Not because anything had been fixed.

But because nothing was hiding anymore.

The day after Grimmauld Place, something shifted.

Not in a catastrophic way. No slammed doors. No shouting. No curses gone awry.

Just… distance.

You weren’t cold. You weren’t avoiding him - not outright. But Fred felt it. In the extra beat between your replies. In the way your laughter skimmed the surface but never quite sank. In how your hands were always busy - labeling jars, reorganizing shelves, rereading the same page for the third time.

And Fred - who had spent most of his adult life performing noise in place of honesty - didn’t know how to survive the quiet.

So he filled it.

Poorly.

By midday, he was back to tossing out jokes. Half-hearted ones. Ones with all the punch of a wet sparkler.

“Careful with that,” he said, nodding at a crate of Sneezing Sparkles. “Wouldn’t want you bursting into glitter again. Not without warning me first. I need time to emotionally prepare.”

You didn’t look up. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Fred winced. He couldn’t tell if you were irritated, distracted, or just… elsewhere.

He hated it.

He hated not knowing.

By the time you’d locked up for the night, the air between you was taut - stretched thin by all the things unsaid.

Fred lingered behind the counter, pacing. You were counting inventory. Precisely. Methodically. Like precision could protect you.

“You’re not… avoiding me, are you?”

You glanced up. “No.”

He nodded too fast. “Right. Cool.”

You went back to counting. “I just needed space.”

“From me?”

You hesitated. “From everything.”

Fred leaned against the doorframe, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Is this about what I said?”

You didn’t answer.

Which, of course, made it worse.

Fred smiled - the brittle kind, the kind that hurt to wear. “Because I can take it back, you know. If that’s what you need. The curse is still having a laugh - I’ll probably say something worse tomorrow. Might as well get ahead of it.”

You closed the ledger. “Fred -”

“No, seriously,” he cut in, too fast, too loud. “We’ll pretend none of it happened. I’ll go back to flirting and making things weird in a fun way. We’ll rewind. Reset. Or maybe -” He laughed, sharp and thin. “Maybe I’ll just stop talking altogether. That seems safer.”

You stared at him. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, voice rising. “But neither is falling in love with someone who’s not ready to hear it.”

The words echoed - harsh and hollow.

Fred froze, eyes wide, as if he’d just heard himself speak.

You swallowed. “Fred…”

“I didn’t mean to -” He stopped. Exhaled. Then, quietly, “No. I did. I meant to say it. I’m not sorry.”

You didn’t move.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said again, softer. “And I hate that I didn’t say it years ago. Before the shop. Before the war. Before I was a complete and total jackass to you in school. Before I let a damn curse speak for me.”

The room went still.

And you?

You didn’t say it back.

Not because it wasn’t true. Not because you didn’t want to.

But because you weren’t ready.

The words were there - somewhere beneath your ribs, curled like a secret. But they hadn’t found their shape yet. They hadn’t learned how to stand.

And Fred - as much as it ached - deserved more than almost.

So you looked at him - open, aching, real - and said:

“...I can’t say it right now. Not like this.”

Fred didn’t speak. Just nodded. Once. Slow and sharp, like something cracking.

Then he turned away.

That night, the flat was quiet again.

But this time, it wasn’t full of maybe.

It was full of waiting.

The ancient ritual site felt like it was holding its breath.

A ring of weathered stones stood half-sunken in the frostbitten earth, their surfaces carved with runes long faded by time but not by meaning. The clearing was silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the bare trees - a hush that felt less like absence and more like reverence.

You stood with Fred in the center of the circle, boots crunching softly against brittle grass rimmed with ice. The winter air curled at your sleeves and stung your nose, but the real chill came from the magic itself - thick and waiting, like fog with a heartbeat.

Above, the sky stretched iron-gray, heavy with unshed snow. The clouds did not move. The world did not move. It was as if everything - time, wind, fate - had stilled to bear witness.

You turned to him, wand at your side. He hadn’t spoken since you both Apparated. Just stood beside you, solid and tense, like he was bracing for something he couldn’t name.

“This is the last chance to back out,” you said softly.

Fred shook his head, jaw tight. “I don’t want to be forced anymore. Not even into the truth.”

You searched his face, looking for doubt. All you found was exhaustion - and resolve.

“Even if that means you don’t say it again?” you asked, voice low. “Even if that disappears with the spell?”

A beat passed.

Then: “I’ll say it again,” Fred said, almost in a whisper. “I’ll say it as many times as you can bear. As long as you let me.”

It nearly undid you - the quiet certainty in him. The gentleness. How hard he was trying not to sway you.

You raised your wand.

Your hand trembled as you drew the final rune, its golden light blooming to life beneath your feet. A delicate warmth pulsed outward - soft, not showy. No sparks. No lightning. Just a subtle kind of release, like a breath held for too long finally leaving the body.

Fred gasped - once, sharply - and staggered a step back. Then stilled.

The pressure - that slow, suffocating undertow he’d learned to live with - had vanished.

No more tug beneath his magic.

No more invisible leash between his chest and his tongue.

It was gone.

And what remained was just him.

Unfiltered. Unbound.

Uncertain.

He looked up at you, and something in his face had shifted. Not dramatically - but undeniably. His eyes, usually full of mischief or guarded deflection, were open in a way you hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Luminous.

Like someone standing in the wreckage of something invisible but heavy - and trying to figure out what to do with the air that came rushing in.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Because the spell was broken.

But the moment wasn’t.

You didn’t want to rush it. Didn’t want to shutter the fragile, aching stillness. So you stood there, breathing the same winter air, magic still humming faintly beneath your boots, waiting to see what - if anything - would come next.

Nothing did.

Fred offered a faint, searching smile - one that didn’t ask for anything, only promised.

Then he turned, and you followed him home.

Back at the flat, the silence continued - softer now, but not without weight. You sat on the edge of your bed, coat still buttoned, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.

Fred had gone to his room without a word. Not out of coldness. Just… to give you space. To let the choice be yours now.

And that was what gutted you most.

Because for so long, he had been the one stuck between wanting and not being able to say it. He had been cursed, compelled, uncertain.

Now, he was free.

And you were the one who didn’t know what to say.

You paced the length of your room, again and again, like maybe motion could organize the ache in your chest. Like maybe you’d trip over the answer in your own footsteps.

The curse was gone. You’d done what you came to do. You’d given him back his voice.

So why did it feel like you were the one unraveling?

Because he hadn’t said it again.

Hadn’t kissed you.

Hadn’t needed to.

And still - still - you felt the gravity of him in every breath. Still, your bones ached with the pressure of something half-formed.

The truth?

You wanted to run to his door and say it first.

But you didn’t know how.

The words lived inside you now - no longer curled and waiting like they had been. They were restless. Rising. Trying to find shape in a mouth that wasn’t ready to give them sound.

You pressed a hand to your chest. It felt like mourning something you hadn’t even lost. Like standing at the edge of a choice so big, you couldn’t see where it ended.

Because the spell was broken.

But your heart was still spellbound.

And for the first time in all of this…

The choice - terrifying, impossible, real - was yours.

The snow had stopped sometime after sundown, leaving Diagon Alley blanketed in a hush that felt almost reverent. The night sky stretched out in every direction — wide, open, impossibly clear — the stars above pricking like tiny wounds in navy velvet. Below, the last shops were shuttering, the alley buzzing faintly with the warmth of distant laughter and clinking glass.

But up here, it was quiet. Up here, it was just you and him.

Fred stood near the edge of the rooftop, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his coat, his breath curling into soft clouds that disappeared into the night. He looked different now — not visibly, not in any way you could point to — but something in his posture had changed. It was like he’d dropped something heavy that had been pulling him sideways for months, and now he was learning how to stand up straight again.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to say.

You let the silence stretch.

It was the first time in ages he wasn’t being pulled by magic — wasn’t under its thumb, its push, its pressure. For the first time, everything he felt was real. Every look. Every word. Every breath between us.

And that meant he had to choose now. Really choose.

You stepped closer.

He turned at the sound, his gaze finding yours fast — startled, raw, searching. Like he wasn’t sure what he’d see when he looked at you. Like part of him was still afraid you wouldn’t come.

But you had.

“Hey,” he said, soft.

“Hey.”

You moved to stand beside him, your coat brushing his, your fingers twitching at your sides with nerves you hadn’t expected. The wind had teeth, but you barely felt it.

The weight between you wasn’t a curse anymore. It was something else now. Something human.

“Cold up here,” he said, his voice too casual, too quiet.

You smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d mind. You used to say the cold made you feel alive.”

He huffed a laugh, something wistful and a little hollow. “Yeah. That was before I knew what feeling alive actually felt like.”

You turned to look at him — really look. “How does it feel now?”

Fred hesitated. Then, slowly, he met your eyes.

“Loud,” he said. “Like everything’s louder. Brighter. Sharper.”

“And scary?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. That too.”

You could see it — the flicker of uncertainty. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or masks. There was no spell smoothing the way, no magic buffering the vulnerability. It was just Fred. Scared. Honest. Free.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you said. “I just wanted to be here. To see you. You.”

Fred blinked, jaw tightening. “But I want to say it.”

Your heart skipped.

“I’ve wanted to say it for a while,” he continued. “Even when I wasn’t sure if it was me or the curse talking. And when we broke it, I thought… if it was real, it would still be there. And it is. It is.”

He took a shaky breath. “I love you.”

The words fell out in the quiet like they belonged there. Like they’d been waiting for the right moment to land.

You didn’t answer right away.

You stepped forward, slow and steady, until there was barely space between you. Then you slipped your hands into his coat, fingers wrapping around his — solid, grounding.

“I know,” you said gently. “And I believe you now.”

Fred’s eyes filled. He laughed — a watery, disbelieving thing — and then leaned his forehead against yours.

“No magic,” he whispered.

“No magic,” you echoed.

Just breath and cold and stars. Just you and him and the night around you holding its breath.

And then, you kissed him.

Soft, certain. Real.

It wasn’t a rush or a rescue. It wasn’t a promise or an apology. It was a beginning — honest and slow, stitched together with everything you’d fought for.

Fred kissed you back like he finally had permission to feel — really feel. His hands rose to your waist, your cheek, your jaw, not desperate but careful. Like he didn’t want to forget a single detail.

When you finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, your foreheads stayed pressed together. You could feel him smile, wide and shaky and undone.

“Still cursed,” he said, voice barely there.

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled wider. “Hopelessly. By you.”

You laughed against his lips. “You idiot.”

“You love me anyway,” he said.

You kissed him again.

Not because a spell told you to.

But because you’d fought for this.

And it was yours now.

The Gryffindor locker room was buzzing post-practice, steam rising from showers, towels slung over shoulders, and the familiar chatter of a team already strategizing for Saturday's match against Slytherin.

You wiped your sweaty fly-aways from your brow, leaning in close to Wood as he rattled off positions and play adjustments. Harry had made things easier since joining the team, but that didn't mean the rest of you could slack off. Everyone still had to pull their weight - and you, as assistant captain, knew that better than anyone.

"Just let me know if anything changes before Saturday," you told Oliver with a nod. "I'd hate to see this blow up in our faces."

You turned on your heel, ready to head toward the girls' showers, when Fred stepped right into your path.

He looked... irritated. Arms crossed. Jaw tight.

"Planning to run off so soon?" he asked, eyes burning with something sharper than usual.

You gave him a look. "Fred, if you've got something to say, just say it."

His stare didn't answer. "Just didn't know you and Wood were so... close."

You blinked. “That's what this is about?"

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You spent the entire practice talking to him. Meanwhile, I was practically getting Bludgers lobbed at my head trying to get your attention."

You couldn't help the smirk tugging at your lips. "Aw, poor baby. Did you want my attention that badly?"

He sputtered. "That's not - I just - You know what? Never mind."

But you didn't let it go. "Fred, if I wanted Wood, I'd have him wrapped around my finger. You know how I get. I don't back down."

With that, you stepped around him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to take a shower and get back into bed."

The hot water should've relaxed you, but it didn't. Your mind was stuck on Fred. On the way he glared at Oliver like he was going to hex him out of existence. On the way he looked at you - not with anger, but something closer to hurt. Something he didn't know how to name.

You returned to the common room later, hair damp, uniform replaced with cozy lounge clothes, and a million questions still spinning in your head.

Fred sat by the fire, arms folded, jaw still tense. George talked beside him, laughing about something, but Fred wasn't listening.

You approached him, arms crossed. "Alright, Weasley. Out with it. What's your deal?"

He looked up, surprised to see you. "No deal. Just wondering how close you and Wood have gotten lately."

"For Merlin's sake," you groaned. "Fred. It's Quidditch. It's always been Quidditch. You know that."

"Do I?"

"Yes! So what's really going on?"

He stood now, matching your energy, standing toe to toe with you. "I just don't like seeing you with him, alright? The way he looks at you - the way you look at him - I hate it."

"He doesn't even see me like that," you said, quieter now.

"Oh, trust me, he does."

You stared at him, heart hammering. "Why do you even care?"

There was a beat. A pause that hung heavy in the air between you. Then -

"You really don't know, do you?" Fred said softly.

You blinked. "Know what?"

He took a breath, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize it. "That I like you."

You blinked. "You what now?"

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "I like you, alright? Happy now?"

"How long?"

"I don't know - forever? Since first year? Since you beat me at Exploding Snap or pulled a better prank than me? Since always."

Your jaw fell slightly. "Fred, Oliver and I - there's nothing there. Never has been."

Relief softened his features. "So you're saying...?"

You grinned. "I'm saying you're a bloody idiot. You could've just told me."

And then - before he could say anything else - you grabbed his collar and kissed him.

He melted into it instantly, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close like he'd been waiting for that exact moment since the first day he met you.

When you pull back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours.

"Well... that was much better than fighting over Wood."

You raised an eyebrow. "Merlin, Fred... you're so arrogant sometimes."

He gave you a crooked grin. "Oh, love, you wound me. I just confessed my undying feelings for you, and this is the thanks I get?"

"You're arrogant."

"And yet... you still kissed me."

You shoved him lightly. "Don't get used to it."

"I will."

You narrowed your eyes. "Apologize."

He groaned dramatically. "I'm deeply sorry for acting like a ridiculously handsome, charming, irrational git."

"So close."

He leaned in, nose brushing yours. "Fine. I'm sorry. Properly."

Then, with a glint in his eye, he added, "Now... about that kiss -?"

You rolled your eyes and kissed him again.

This time, you didn't pull away quite so fast.

The neon glow from Starcourt Mall flickered behind you like a broken promise, casting long shadows across the parking lot as you leaned against Steve's car. The summer night hung heavy, warm and restless, and you crossed your arms tightly over your chest - trying to will away the sick feeling twisting in your stomach.

Tonight was supposed to be easy. Movies. Fries. Dumb jokes behind the counter at Scoops Ahoy.

But then she showed up.

Nancy Wheeler.

She hadn't been cruel - polite even - but that didn't matter. It was the way she looked at Steve, the way her fingers casually ran up his arm, how her voice dipped into something familiar when she said, "I miss how easy things were with you, Steve." Like she had some unspoken right to him. Like you were just passing through.

And the worst part?

Steve didn't stop her.

Now, he stood a few feet away, fingers buried in his hair, clearly trying to figure out what to say. You weren't going to make it easier.

He took a breath and stepped forward. "Look, I know how that probably seemed, but it's not -" He stopped, sighing. "She doesn't mean anything to me like that anymore, okay?"

He reached for your hand, hesitantly. "Just... talk to me."

You stared at the pavement. "You obviously mean something to her though."

It came out smaller than you intended, bitter and tight. The image of Nancy's perfectly manicured fingers dragging along his arms still burned in your brain.

Steve exhaled sharply. "Jesus, do you think I wanted that?" His voice wasn't angry - just desperate, like he needed you to hear him. "I didn't ask her to say that, and I sure as hell didn't ask her to touch me like that."

He stepped forward, gaze locked on yours. "She doesn't get to do that anymore. And I - I should've shut it down faster. I should've done more." He swallowed hard. "But I don't want her. I want you."

His hand found yours again, wrapping his fingers around them gently. "You're the one I think about all the time. The one I want to spend Friday nights with. The one I want to..." he trailed off, breath catching. "It's you. Only you."

You blinked back the emotion tightening your throat.

"I'm not anything like her, Steve," you murmured. "I'm a band geek who spends Friday nights in my room, not partying. I play D&D with the boys instead of stealing my parents' liquor. I don't... I don't want you expecting her when I'm just... when I'm just me."

Steve's face fell, like your words physically pained him.

"Are you kidding me?" his said, voice cracking. "You think I'm chasing some version of her? That I'd be standing here, saying this, if I didn't want you?"

His grip on your hands tightened slightly - anchoring. "I don't want someone who makes me feel like I have to be better just to deserve them. I want you - the band geek who kicks my ass at D&D and knows more about movie soundtracks than anyone I've ever met."

He stepped closer still, his voice softer. "You think I'd be out here like an idiot, begging you to believe me if you weren't exactly what I wanted?"

You wanted to believe him. God, you did.

"I - I just... why me?"

Steve cupped your face gently, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. His eyes were so soft it made your chest ache.

"Because you see me," he whispered. "Not King Steve. Not Nancy's ex. Not the babysitter. You see me. And you make me want to be better - not because I have to - but because I want to. For you."

His forehead dipped to yours, his voice barely a breath.

"I don't want Nancy. I want you."

You could barely get the words out. "Okay."

Steve laughed softly, the sound almost disbelieving. "Yeah?"

You nodded, still in shock at how soft he was with you - how sincere. His hands slipped away from your face, and for the first time that night, you felt the tension start to fade.

"I promise," he said, his tone more certain now. "I won't make you regret this." He glanced at you with a crooked grin. "But if you ever want revenge... you can steal my hair products. Give me a buzzcut or something."

You smirked, nudging him. "I think you owe me fries, Mr. I Peaked in High School."

The motel room was barely bigger than a closet, the overhead light casting a sickly yellow glow over the peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling. The rain outside hadn't let up for hours, drumming against the windows in a steady rhythm that only made the silence between you louder.

You stood near the bed - the one bed - with your arms crossed, soaked to the bone, a fresh ache blooming beneath your shoulder where the bullet had grazed you hours earlier. The adrenaline was long gone, leaving behind a tight, dull throb.

Bucky was near the door, jaw clenched, arms folded across his chest. His soaked Henley clung to him, emphasizing every ridge of muscle, every breath he was trying to control. His hair hung in damp strands over his forehead, and water still clung to his eyelashes.

"I'll take the floor," he said, voice low and rough.

You gave a dry laugh. "Face it, Barnes. We've both been in the military. It won't kill us to share a bed for the night."

He didn't answer right away, his jaw working. Then, with a reluctant nod, he muttered, "You stay on your side."

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, wouldn't want to cross any lines."

The words hung heavy between you, more about everything you hadn't said than the mattress itself.

You toed off your boots and reached for the towel he'd tossed you earlier. The moment you lifted your arm, pain shot through your shoulder, sharp enough to make you hiss and go still.

"You're hurt," Bucky said instantly, stepping forward before you could wave him off.

"It's just a scratch."

He didn't buy it for a second.

"Let me see."

You hesitated.

"If you wanted me to take my shirt off, you could've just asked," you said, trying to make light of it.

That earned a low chuckle from him - barely there, but real. "Yeah, sweetheart, patching you up in a rundown motel is exactly how I imagined tonight going."

You sat down in the only chair in the room, wincing as you peeled your shirt off. He crouched in front of you with the first aid kit, his expression shifting into something softer, something focused. As soon as he saw the wound, the tension returned to his jaw.

"This is gonna sting."

He pressed the antiseptic gently to your skin. You sucked in a sharp breath, your hand flying out to steady yourself - and landing on his thigh.

Neither of you moved.

His vibranium hand settled lightly on your knee, his thumb brushing once, slow and uncertain.

"I got you," he murmured.

You didn't say anything. You couldn't. The air was suddenly too thick to breathe.

When he finished dressing your wound, he looked up - closer than he'd been all night. Close enough to count the golden flecks in his eyes, to feel the warmth radiating off of him.

"Maybe we should both lie down," you said quietly, watching the way he hesitated.

He didn't speak as he stood and walked to the bed. He peeled off his shirt - slowly, as if expecting you to stop him. You didn't.

When he sat, you crawled in beside him, neither of you touching. Not yet.

"This is dangerous," he whispered into the silence.

"Hey. It's alright." You turned toward him propped on one elbow. "It's just us. Nothing's going to happen."

You caught the flicker of something behind his eyes. Guilt. Fear. Regret.

Then it clicked.

"You have nightmares," you said softly. "About being him."

Bucky's throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Yeah," he said eventually. "Sometimes I wake up and I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am."

You reached out, gently. "You trust me, right?"

He looked at you - really looked at you. "I do."

"Then trust me now."

His breath hitched. "It's not that simple."

"Then I'll take care of myself," you said. "Like I always have. How often do we train together and I land you on your ass?"

That earned the ghost of a smile. "More than I'd like to admit."

You grinned. "Exactly. So if you think I can't handle myself, you're wrong."

Bucky's voice was quiet, hoarse. "You should be afraid of me."

"I'm not," you said simply.

For a moment, he was silent. Then -

"You're dangerous, you know that?" he murmured.

You smirked. "Then why aren't you running?"

He rolled onto his side, his hand reaching for yours. "Because I don't want to."

You could feel it - pulsing between your ribs, settling low in your stomach. This pull. This want.

"Do you want a distraction from them?" you asked softly.

His breath faltered. "A distraction?"

You nodded, swallowing the nerves tightening your chest. "No strings attached. Just for us. Just for tonight."

His voice was like gravel. "You sure?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't."

Bucky didn't move for a long time. Then, slowly, his hands slid up your sides, careful to avoid your shoulder. He pulled you into his lap, his eyes searching yours like he was still waiting for the moment you'd change your mind.

"I need you, James," you whispered.

His name broke him.

He surged forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that shattered the barrier between you. It wasn't gentle. It was hungry, starved, months of tension combusting into heat.

You fumbled for his belt as he kissed you deeper, his hands mapping the lines of your body like he couldn't get enough. Every brush of his fingers, every desperate sound that passed between you - it built into something molten.

He murmured your name like it was sacred.

And when the final barrier between you fell away, there was no more hesitation, no fear. Just hands and mouths and breathless gasps as you moved in sync, as though your bodies had known each other in another life.

He held you close - anchored you. Worshipped every inch of you like you were something holy. And when the end came, it wasn't violent or frantic - it was overwhelming and reverent, like coming home.

Afterward, he didn't move. His arms were still wrapped around you, his breath steady but not quiet.

"I'm not going to pretend this didn't happen," he said softly.

You pressed your lips to his chest, right over his heart. "Good. Because neither will I."

Outside, the storm began to ease.

The conference room smells like stale coffee and vinyl. You tug your press badge out from behind your camera strap, fingers twitchy with nerves that make no sense - except they do. He’s here.

You haven’t seen Eddie in two weeks, not since the last night of the tour. The last night of those songs.

You’re pretending to be just the tour photographer again today - neutral, composed, professional - standing off to the side of the makeshift stage while the moderator smooths out her cue cards and clears her throat. Across from her, in a loose sprawl on the couch, is Eddie Munson. Corroded Coffin’s frontman. Your subject. Your friend. Your - well. Almost.

The interviewer speaks into the mic, voice chipper. “Okay, Eddie. Let’s talk about The Blackroom Tour - twelve cities, seven new songs added to the setlist, and from what fans are saying online… maybe even a secret romance?”

The crowd murmurs with laughter. Eddie grins, big and showy, but you can see it - his fingers tightening on his knee, his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

He leans forward and smirks. “You trying to get me in trouble?”

You lift your camera reflexively, capturing the expression before it slips away. Through the lens, he looks right at you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

Your heart thuds like a drumline.

The moderator lifts a sheet of paper. “We actually have a list of lyrics fans think might be about someone in particular. Want to go through them?”

Eddie scratches his jaw. “If I say no, will you stop asking?”

The crowd laughs again. You lower your camera. The moderator grins back. “Let’s start with this one from ‘Midnight Eyes,’ which debuted opening night: ‘There’s a flash behind the flashbulb, and I see her even in the dark.’”

The room shifts. You go very still.

Eddie’s smile fades, not completely - just to something quieter. Something true.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales and says, “Yeah. That one was about someone.”

A few gasps, a few “oohs” from the crowd. The moderator glances at her paper, ready to launch into the next question.

But Eddie keeps going.

“Actually,” he says, sitting back now, voice lower, “all the ones that weren’t on the original set list… they were about her.”

You blink. Your stomach flips.

The room suddenly feels too warm. Your fingers tighten on the lens barrel.

The moderator’s brows lift. “Her? A real her?”

Eddie laughs softly. “Very real. Very impossible. And very much out there listening, probably about to throw her camera at my head.”

A ripple of laughter rolls through the room. But he’s not watching the crowd.

He’s watching you.

The moderator, clearly sensing interview gold, leans in. “Okay, I have to ask - when did it start? I mean… when did she start showing up in the songs?”

Eddie smiles like she’s handed him the perfect opening. He tilts his head back, eyes scanning the ceiling like he’s flipping through memories. “First night of tour. Indianapolis.”

He lowers his gaze, meets yours, and it’s so quiet you can hear the shifting of his rings as he rubs his thumb against his palm.

“There was this moment,” he says slowly, “before the show. We were backstage. She had her camera slung over one shoulder and her hair was a mess from the rain, and she looked up at me and said -”

He laughs, soft and fond.

“Well. It’s probably better if I just tell you the whole story.”

The green room smells like leather and anticipation - Eddie’s pacing, his guitar slung across his back as he mumbles chord progressions under his breath. You’re crouched in a corner, checking the battery on your backup camera, rain still dripping from your jacket sleeves. Your credential badge sticks to your chest, a little damp from the sprint across the parking lot.

“You sure this thing isn’t cursed?” Gareth mutters, flicking the buzzing overhead light.

“No more cursed than Eddie’s stomach,” Jeff shoots back, pointing at the man himself, who’s now standing in place, breathing too fast.

You rise slowly, brushing damp hair out of your eyes. “Hey. Munson.”

His head snaps toward you, wide-eyed.

“You’re not gonna pass out before your first show, are you?”

He forces a grin, but it’s weak around the edges. “That depends. You got any magic spells for stage fright, Flashbang?”

You roll your eyes but step closer. “No spells. Just… breathe, okay? You’ve played the Hideout, you’ve played house shows with busted amps and beer-slick floors. This is the same thing. Just louder. And sweatier.”

He exhales. You hand him a towel, and his fingers brush yours - just barely, but enough to make you forget the cold.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. “Thanks for coming. I know you’re technically working, but…”

“I wanted to be here,” you cut in. “And not just to shoot moody black-and-white candids of you looking tortured in green rooms.”

That gets a laugh - real and full. His shoulders drop half an inch. He takes the towel, dabs his face.

“You’re kind of my good luck charm now,” he says, almost like he’s daring you to believe him.

You shake your head, cheeks warming. “Then you better go out there and kill it, Munson. I don’t want to be associated with any disasters.”

He winks. “Only beautiful ones.”

You barely have time to respond before a stagehand appears in the doorway with a headset and a clipboard. “Corroded Coffin, five minutes.”

Eddie slings his guitar over his chest. But right before he leaves the room, he pauses, leans close.

“I added something to the set,” he says, voice low. “A cover.”

“Oh yeah?”

He smiles like he’s got secrets tucked beneath his teeth. “You’ll know it when you hear it.”

On stage, thirty minutes later:

The band’s energy is frenetic, messy, and electric. You’re in the pit, camera pressed to your face, heart pounding to the tempo of the bass drum.

Then - three songs before the end - Eddie adjusts the mic. His fingers fidgets on the frets.

“This next one,” he says, “isn’t on the set list. It’s not ours. But I heard it and thought of someone who reminds me that there’s beauty in everything. Even this whole sweaty, screechy mess.”

It’s a stripped-down, growling version of “Heroes” by David Bowie. You freeze, camera still lifted, chest tight.

He doesn’t look at the crowd when he sings it. He looks straight at you.

And somehow, you know: this is the first of many.

The interviewer leans in, clearly fascinated by the layers Eddie’s revealing. “So Indianapolis, huh? The moment it all started,” she says, her voice laced with curiosity. “And from there, the songs and covers just kept appearing. But I have to ask - how did you keep that energy going throughout the whole tour? I mean, that’s a lot of pressure to carry, finding covers and writing songs like that every night, knowing they were meant for her.”

Eddie lets out a soft chuckle, glancing down at his hands as he rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit he’s always had. His smile lingers, but there’s something deeper in his eyes now, something that’s hard to mask.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, looking up again, catching your eye. “It wasn’t easy. But the funny thing was… once I’d added that first one, the rest just started to flow. Each city, each show, felt like I was adding a little piece of something, you know? It was like the music was for her, even though she had no idea. The whole setlist started changing for her.”

His voice softens, and there’s an almost imperceptible pause before he continues, “I mean, sometimes it felt like I was writing letters I couldn’t send, but… it helped me keep going. I wanted to show her, somehow, that all these things I couldn’t say, all this tension, was… I don’t know… real.”

You feel a tightness in your chest at his words, remembering those nights - his voice in the quiet of the green rooms, the way he’d smile at you before stepping on stage, like he had a secret he was dying to share.

The interviewer nods, her voice gentle. “Sounds like you were living the songs as much as you were playing them.”

Eddie lets out a breath, his smile wavering just a little. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. But, I think it was the last city - the last show - that really solidified it for me.”

You blink, heart skipping a beat. The last show? The one that almost changed everything?

You’re suddenly back in the green room, the night before the final show of the tour, the band winding down after a chaotic day of press and interviews. The air is thick with anticipation, the usual pre-show energy tangibly different this time. You’d thought the end of the tour would come with a sense of relief - but instead, there’s this undercurrent of something… more.

The interviewer catches you off guard as she turns to Eddie, expecting him to elaborate. “So, what happened the night before the last show? Was that when you decided to really go for it?”

Eddie’s gaze softens, like he’s still remembering the weight of that night, before he gives a slow nod, eyes flicking to you again. “Yeah. That night… I think I finally realized what I was trying to say with all of it.”

You swallow, your breath catching as the memory floods back. The green room. The soft hum of the guitar. The fleeting moment before everything changed.

Eddie shifts slightly, and the next words come out in a whisper, like a confession he’s just now ready to share. “That night, I added something else to the set. Something just for her.”

The green room buzzed with low voices and quiet laughter, the kind that only comes after months on the road together. You sat cross-legged on the worn leather couch, half-listening to the guys debating over late-night food while you tried to read a dog-eared novel you’d been carrying since Minneapolis. But your eyes kept drifting - again and again - to Eddie.

He sat in the far corner with his guitar, head tilted down, brows drawn together in concentration. He wasn’t noodling or showing up like usual. This was different. Focused. Intimate.

You’d gotten used to watching him like this, pretending not to notice when his gaze lingered a little too long, or when a lyric felt a little too personal. But tonight, there was something even more unspoken crackling in the air - something that made it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Eddie strummed a soft progression. You couldn’t hear the words at first, just the melody - gentle, haunting, familiar in a way that made your chest ache. You were about to stand, to ask him what he was working on, when he glanced up and met your eyes.

And for a second, it felt like he knew.

“Hey,” he called softly. The others were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice. “Can I steal you for a sec?”

You blinked. “Me?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Just wanna run something by you.”

You followed him out of the green room and into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you. The hum of the venue faded, replaced by the quiet thrum of vending machines and distant echoes of stagehands moving gear.

Eddie stopped under a flickering light and turned to face you, guitar still in hand. He looked nervous - really nervous. You’d seen him face down thousands of screaming fans with nothing but a smirk, but this… this was something else.

“I, uh… wrote something,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “It’s new. Like, brand new. And I’m thinking of adding it to tomorrow’s set.”

You smiled, heart pounding. “You’re asking me?”

“Yeah.” He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s not totally finished or anything. But I… I just want to know what you think.”

He strummed the opening chords again, then took a breath.

The words were simple. Honest. No metaphor to hide behind this time. Just raw, vulnerable truth. A song about someone who never saw herself the way he did. Someone who made the chaos feel calm. Someone he wanted to tell - but didn’t know how.

By the time he finished, you couldn’t speak.

He looked up, and for a second, there was nothing in his expression except hope.

“Well?” he asked.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. You felt everything all at once - stunned, seen, scared. There was no doubt the song was about you. Every word felt like a thread pulled straight from your own thoughts, every line unraveling something you’d tried so hard to ignore.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “It’s beautiful, Eddie.”

He smiled, slow and wide, relief flooding his face.

You didn’t say what you wanted to. Didn’t say how your hands were shaking or how your heart had been quietly waiting for this song all tour long. You just gave him a hug - too long, too tight - and said, “You should definitely play it.”

And he did.

The next night, it closed the show.

And every word still echoes in your mind.

Eddie leans back on the couch, arms crossed, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The crew member holding the boom mic glances nervously at the silence stretching out, but Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are far away - somewhere backstage, months ago.

You’re standing just off to the side with the rest of the team, camera in hand, capturing the moment. You’ve taken hundreds of photos of him before - laughing with fans, screaming into the mic, half-asleep in van seats - but something about this expression is different. Private. Unguarded.

“He wrote that song the night before the last show,” you murmur, mostly to yourself, but one of the producers catches it and arches a brow. You wave it off. “Just… remembering.”

Eddie finally blinks, like he’s coming back to earth.

“That song,” he says, voice quieter now, “meant more to me than I think anyone ever realized. It wasn’t just a closer. It was… the closest I ever got to saying how I really felt.”

The interviewer, caught off guard, hesitates for a beat. “Do you regret not telling her directly?”

Eddie glances toward the camera - toward you. There’s a flicker in his eyes. Recognition. Maybe even an apology.

“Every day,” he says.

And just like that, the crew is silent. Even the hum of the lights feels muffled.

Then he clears his throat, shakes off the moment with a practiced laugh. “Anyway - sorry. Got all soft on you for a second.”

The interviewer smiles politely, scribbling a note.

You lower your camera.

Because you remember what came next, too.

Eddie’s song still lingers in the air, the final notes dissolving into the low thrum of roadies shouting from the back lot. You’re both quiet, the kind of quiet that feels full.

“I started it after Indy,” he’d said.

You can still hear it - the way his voice cracked just slightly on the second verse. Like he wasn’t singing it for anyone else. Just you.

He’s standing close now. Close enough that you can count the curls stuck to his forehead. His hand brushes yours, knuckles grazing.

“Why’d you play it for me now?” you ask, voice barely above the hum of the air conditioner.

Eddie tilts his head, eyes locked on yours like they’re tethered. “Because tomorrow’s the last show. And after that… I didn’t want to leave without saying - without showing you.”

You swallow hard. “Showing me what?”

“That I meant every word.”

The space between you shrinks. His hand finds your cheek. And for a breathless, unguarded moment, it’s there - the lean-in, the promise, the near-certainty that this is it. Finally.

But then -

“Eddie! Soundcheck!”

The shout fractures the moment. You both freeze. His forehead drops lightly against yours as he exhales, frustrated and smiling all at once.

“Of course,” he mutters.

You laugh softly, because what else can you do?

He lingers for one second longer, thumb brushing your jaw. “Later,” he promises.

But later never came.

The crowd is thinning, the moderator chatting with a PR rep while the production crew unhooks cables. You’re packing up your gear, trying to ignore the pounding in your chest.

“Flashbang.”

You look up.

Eddie’s making his way toward you, one hand jammed into his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’s bracing for impact. He stops a few feet away, eyes soft.

“Hey,” he says.

You nod, wordless.

He glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “Can we talk? Like - really talk. Not through lyrics. Not with a thousand people watching.”

You hesitate for only a second. Then you set the camera down.

He takes a deep breath. “I should’ve kissed you in Detroit.”

You blink.

He keeps going. “I was going to. I was so damn sure I had more time. One more night. One more moment. And then it was over and I - I didn’t want it to be over without -”

You step forward.

“Do it now.”

His breath catches.

“You’re already late,” you say, voice steadier than you feel. “Might as well catch up.”

That smile - the one you thought you’d only ever see in memories - breaks across his face, slow and sure. Then he steps forward, closing the space between you in one beat of silence before his hands find your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and he kisses you.

It’s not a soft, hesitant maybe.

It’s everything he meant to say two weeks ago and couldn’t.

It’s the backstage song, the missed chances, the look he gave you from the stage - all of it poured into a kiss that leaves no questions.

His fingers tangle gently in your hair. You grip the front of his shirt like you’re anchoring yourself in something finally, finally real. When he pulls back, just a breath apart, you both laugh - quiet, breathless, a little stunned.

Neither of you notices the teen in the vintage Corroded Coffin tee across the lobby, phone held high.

But by morning, it’s everywhere.

EDDIE MUNSON KISSES TOUR PHOTOGRAPHER AFTER PRESS INTERVIEW

Your inbox? Flooded. Your phone? Blowing up.

And Eddie? He texts you just two words before your next shoot:

Lunch at Hawkins High is a sociological experiment.

That’s what Mr. Clarke called it once, anyway. Social hierarchies, patterns of movement, predictable behavioral norms. Eddie thinks it’s more like a zoo.

The jocks claim the middle tables, naturally. Center stage. Theatre in the round. Their laughter echoes like a laugh track from some cheap sitcom Eddie refuses to watch on principle. They wear varsity jackets even in the September heat, as if the rest of the world might forget they play football unless it’s sewn onto their chests.

And you - you - you sit right there with them.

Not a cheerleader. Not a loudmouth. Not cruel, at least not in the obvious ways. Just… there. Always there. Smiling at the right time. Quiet when you’re supposed to be. You bring lunch from home, always in a neat little bag, no cafeteria tray. Sometimes you read between bites, like you’re above it all. Like you don’t need them. Like you could be somewhere else.

And yet, you’re still there.

Eddie watches from his spot on the edge. One leg up on the bench, biting the tip of his straw like it’s a cigarette, pretending to listen while Jeff and Gareth argue over whether Black Sabbath or Metallica has the better sophomore album. He pretends not to notice how often his eyes drift your way. Pretends not to care that your boyfriend - Chad or Brad or Tad or something equally cursed - is laughing too hard at something someone said, a smug arm thrown over the back of your chair like you’re furniture.

You’re laughing too, but softer. A little delayed. It doesn’t reach your eyes.

He sees that.

Eddie rips the straw wrapper into tiny pieces under the table.

When did this start, anyway? This stupid fixation? Maybe it was last year, when you dropped your book bag and he helped you pick everything up. You said thank you. You looked him in the eye. You didn’t flinch.

Or maybe it was two weeks ago, when he heard you humming Iron Maiden - actual Iron Maiden - in the hallway before English class. Just a few notes, barely audible over the slamming of lockers and the shrill bell, but he knew it. Recognized it like a secret handshake.

And then, like a coward, he ducked into the bathroom before he could say anything.

You probably don’t even remember it. But he does.

He remembers everything.

You shift in your seat now, crossing one leg over the other, leaning away from Tad-Chad and staring out the window. Sunlight catches in your hair and for one second, Eddie lets himself imagine something insane.

You at his table. Sitting here, next to him. Eating cafeteria pizza and trading band recs. Laughing for real. Maybe even leaning into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He snorts out loud.

Gareth stops mid-rant. “Something funny, Munson?”

“Yeah,” Eddie mutters, popping a fry into his mouth. “Just thinking about the cruel irony of the high school caste system.”

Gareth blinks.

Jeff says, “Dude, what?”

“Nothing. Just -” Eddie gestures vaguely toward the jock table, where Tad-Chad has moved on to pantomiming a wrestling move with one of the other gorillas. “One day, we’re gonna be rich and famous, and they’ll all be working in tire shops or selling insurance.”

“Or dead,” Gareth adds cheerfully.

Eddie grins, but it’s thin. Forced.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t care what Tad-Chad does with his life.

He just cares that you’re sitting next to him.

And not even seeing him.

Eddie stares at the clock on the wall of the detention room like it personally offended him.

It’s ticking too slow, which is a metaphor for his whole damn life.

Mr. Callahan, nose buried in The Old Man and the Sea like it’s the world’s most riveting thriller, hasn’t looked up in twenty minutes. A dead fly spins lazily on the floor near the heater vent. Someone in the back row is breathing too loud. The overhead light flickers like a dying star.

It’s hell.

And then the door opens.

His pen drops.

You walk in, solo, a little breathless like you ran down the hallway. Hair a little out of place. Pink in the cheeks. You’re holding a pink slip like it’s dipped in acid. Disbelief is written all over your face.

You scan the room - and see him.

Your brows lift slightly.

Eddie blinks. He looks behind him, like maybe there’s another freak you were looking at. But it’s just him. Alone in the front row. He offers a two-fingered salute.

You roll your eyes - but you also smile.

The chair next to him is the only one open. Naturally.

He swears the universe is mocking him.

You walk over, your shoes squeaking on the tile. Sit down with a soft sigh and lean your cheek into your hand. He watches you out of the corner of his eye for a full minute before he can’t help himself.

“So,” he says, voice low, “what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

You snort. An actual, real-life snort.

He files it away in his mental scrapbook.

“Coach caught me skipping gym,” you mutter. “I was in the library.”

“Rebel,” Eddie teases.

You glance at him. “What about you?”

“Littering,” he says, proud. “Threw a Hot Cheetos bag at Jason Carver’s head.”

That gets a full-on laugh. It’s soft and surprised, and you catch yourself halfway through like you weren’t expecting to enjoy his company.

He wasn’t expecting it either.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s… charged. Buzzing. Eddie fiddles with his rings and tries to keep his leg from bouncing off its hinge.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say eventually.

He tilts his head. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

You smile again, this time with teeth. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He swears, he actually swears, he feels it in his chest when you say that. Something curls and claws and wants.

“Can I help you decide?” he asks, half-joking.

You rest your chin on your hand and stare at him like he’s a puzzle you didn’t mean to start but now have to finish. “You know Iron Maiden?”

Eddie blinks. “Do I know Iron Maiden?”

You smirk. “I figured that’d get a reaction.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, leaning closer, “that’s like asking Dracula if he’s into blood.”

Your smirk grows. You reach into your bag and pull out your spiral notebook - lined paper, doodles in the margins, and the unmistakable edges of song lyrics scratched into the bottom of the page.

You tear off a piece. Slide it across the desk.

“I have two tickets,” you say. “Homecoming’s next Friday, and I’m not going.”

Eddie’s heart skips like a scratched record.

“Iron Maiden’s in Indy the same night,” you continue. “I was going to go with Brad, but he’s a douche and I finally broke up with him. Thought I’d ask someone else.”

He blinks. The world feels like it just tilted sideways.

You.

Just asked him.

To Iron Maiden.

Instead of Homecoming.

He tries to play it cool. Really, he does.

But his voice cracks when he says, “Are you serious?”

You shrug, like it’s not a big deal. Like you didn’t just reach into his chest and squeeze his teenage dirtbag heart until it lit up like Christmas.

“Think about it,” you say, turning your back to your notebook like you didn’t just rearrange his entire week.

He doesn’t think about it. He knows.

He knows he’s saying yes before you even finish the sentence.

Your bedroom is a war zone.

Sweaters hang from the headboard. Black tights dangle from a drawer. There’s a suspiciously sparkly scarf on the lampshade, and your bed looks like Hot Topic threw up on it. At the center of it all is you, standing in front of the mirror, one boot on, one boot off, eyeliner half-done, and a growing sense of doom simmering in your chest.

“I look like a poser,” you say flatly.

“No, you don’t,” says your cousin Marley from the floor, where she’s cross-legged in your discarded jeans. “You look like a hot poser. There’s a difference.”

You groan and flop back onto the bed. “That doesn’t help.”

Marley rolls her eyes and chucks a studded belt at your stomach. “You’re going to a metal concert, not your wedding. It’s Eddie Munson, not Robert Smith. Just pick something black and tight and maybe rip it a little.”

You sit up and glare. “It’s not just Eddie Munson,” you mutter, tugging at the hem of your vintage Iron Maiden tee. “It’s Eddie Munson after I dumped Brad the Jerkface in front of his entire football team and then asked Eddie to a concert instead of Homecoming.”

Marley shrugs. “Sounds iconic.”

You sigh. She’s not wrong.

You study your reflection again: black ripped jeans, your combat boots (finally both on), and the Maiden shirt you’d half-forgotten you owned. You tied it at the waist just to make it look cuter. Added a cropped black denim jacket and just enough eyeliner to make your eyes look deadly.

You look…

Cool.

Not cheerleader-cute. Not prom-date ready.

Just you. And maybe a little bit of Eddie’s version of you, too.

Marley grins at your expression. “There she is.”

Your stomach flips. “Do you think he’s nervous too?”

“Oh, definitely,” she says, hopping up. “He’s probably pacing around his van blasting Dio and rewriting his pickup lines.”

You laugh - and then freeze when you hear the beep-beep of a horn in the driveway.

Oh God.

He’s here.

You bolt for the window and peek out through the blinds.

Sure enough, Eddie’s beat-up van is parked in front of your house, the side still bearing a faded “Hellfire Club” decal and a bumper sticker that says My Other Ride is a Demogorgon. You can just make out his silhouette in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

“I’m gonna throw up,” you whisper.

“No, you’re not,” Marley says, handing you your bag and shoving you toward the door. “You’re gonna go outside, get in that van, and have the time of your life with a guy who looks at you like you’re his favorite guitar.”

You pause at the top of the stairs, heart thundering.

“Do I really look okay?”

Marley gives you one last once-over, then grins. “You look like someone who’s about to ruin a metalhead’s whole life.”

You snort, roll your eyes, and head down the stairs.

—

Eddie wipes his palms on his jeans again.

The van smells like cheap air freshener and nerves. He double-checked the tire pressure this morning, vacuumed the front seats (twice), and even took down the plastic skeleton that usually hangs from the mirror. He’s chewing his lip and trying not to rehearse what he’s going to say when you come out the front door.

You look amazing.

That shirt is criminal.

I would commit crimes for you.

All too much.

The porch light flicks on. The front door swings open.

And then you step out.

Eddie forgets how to breathe.

You look like every teenage fantasy he’s ever had - confident, dangerous, and completely real. That shirt, those boots, the way your eyes meet his and crinkle just a little like you’re happy to see him…

He might die before this night even starts.

You slide into the passenger seat with a grin. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he echoes, stunned stupid.

You pull your seatbelt across your chest. “Ready to blow out my eardrums?”

Eddie grins, fingers already drumming against the wheel. “Only if you promise to scream-sing every lyric.”

“Ironclad deal,” you say.

As he pulls away from the curb, Eddie lets himself glance over at you again, just for a second.

You’re taping your fingers on your knee. Your hair’s catching the last of the sun. Your knee bumps his as the van hits a pothole, and you don’t pull away.

Oh yeah, he thinks.

Tonight’s gonna be legendary.

The road stretches out ahead of you, all cracked pavement and the golden blur of an Indiana sunset. Eddie’s van rattles a little when he shifts into fourth, but it’s a comforting sound - something you’ve come to associate with him. With this.

He’s got an Iron Maiden cassette in the deck. The Number of the Beast. It roars through the speakers, a little scratchy, a little warped from love and overuse.

You tap your fingers against the passenger window in time with the drums. He taps the steering wheel.

It’s easy. Strangely easy.

Until you glance over and realize he’s way too quiet.

He’s usually buzzing by now - running his mouth about Maiden’s setlist or how much he hates stadium merch prices. But instead, he’s chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes on the road like it might do something interesting if he stares hard enough.

You nudge his leg with your boot.

“Earth to Munson.”

He blinks and glances over. “What?”

“You good?”

Eddie hesitates. Then, with a sigh, he kills the volume. Bruce Dickinson fades into the background, replaced by the hum of the tire and the sound of your breath catching.

“I just…” He shrugs, drumming lightly on the wheel. “It’s dumb.”

“It’s you, so it’s not dumb,” you say gently. “Spill.”

Eddie exhales. “You ever feel like someone let you into a place you’re not supposed to be? Like… like you’re just playing dress-up, and sooner or later, everyone’s gonna figure it out and kick you out?”

Your eyebrows knit. “Like imposter syndrome?”

“More like…” He smiles without humor. “Teenage dirtbag syndrome.”

You pause. “You think you’re a dirtbag?”

“I know I am,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I mean, c’mon. You just dumped a perfectly normal jock boyfriend, and now you’re in a deathtrap of a van with a guy who sells bootleg tapes in the school parking lot. I get it if it starts to feel like a downgrade.”

You stare at him.

Then, without a word, you reach over and flick him hard on the arm.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“You moron,” you say, grinning despite yourself. “Brad was the downgrade. You’re the upgrade.”

He blinks.

You keep going, quieter now. “He never listened when I talked. He never asked about the music I liked. Never made me laugh so hard I cried. You did all of that before I even thought about kissing you.”

Eddie’s grip tightens on the wheel. “You thought about kissing me?”

You raise a brow. “Eddie.”

He smiles, slow and stunned.

And you let the silence sit, humming between you like the soft, secret start of a song.

—

The venue isn’t huge - some outdoor pavilion on the edge of Indianapolis, tucked behind a strip mall and a gas station. The smell of fried food and spilled beer hits you before you even hand over your ticket. The air’s already pulsing with the first opening band, and people are yelling, laughing, jostling for a better view.

You’ve never felt more alive.

Eddie’s hand brushes yours as you make your way toward the middle of the pit, and you don’t even flinch anymore. It happens again. And again.

By the fourth time, you hook your pinky through his.

He looks down, and his face softens.

Neither of you say anything about it.

It’s loud - too loud, really - but in a way that wraps around your ribs and shakes loose everything you didn’t know you were holding. People are already jumping. Screaming lyrics. Throwing devil horns. You do the same, and Eddie throws his arms around your shoulders, drawing you into him like it’s instinct.

It doesn’t feel like acting.

It feels like arriving.

By the time Iron Maiden takes the stage - guitars screaming, lights blinding - Eddie’s hand has moved to your waist, your fingers are tangled in the fabric of his jacket, and you’re so close you can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his collar.

“Best seat in the house,” he yells in your ear.

You tilt your head to look at him.

“I’m not even looking at the band,” you shout back.

Eddie goes still.

And then - then - his grin cracks open, big and unfiltered, and his forehead bumps yours like it’s the only way he can stand not kissing you.

You dance. You scream. You forget about the dirtbag voices in your head and the douchey ex-boyfriends and the fact that this moment might end. You don’t think about any of it.

You just think about him.

And how you’re standing in the middle of a sweaty, swaying, ear-splitting crowd with a boy who once called himself a dirtbag -

- but who, right now, feels like the main event.

The night gets louder, hotter, faster.

Iron Maiden storms the stage like they own it - because they do - and the crowd answers back with that kind of wild, desperate joy that only comes when your favorite band plays your favorite song live and loud and real.

You and Eddie are right in the middle of it, a tangle of limbs and laughter and leather. His arm wraps tight around your waist when the crowd shoes forward, and you grab the front of his jacket to stay upright.

You don’t let go.

He doesn’t either.

Bruce Dickinson screams something into the mic and the first notes of Run to the Hills hits the speakers like a thunderclap. The crowd erupts. You shriek with them and Eddie throws his head back and howls, so alive it makes your chest ache.

Then - boom. Fireworks. Real ones, from the stage.

Your heart jumps, and you flinch, just a little - and Eddie leans down, mouth near your ear, voice low.

“You okay?”

You nod, breathless. “Perfect.”

His eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second too long.

And still - he waits.

The kiss doesn’t come. Not yet.

But the night is full of almosts.

You dance like no one’s watching. He watches like you’re the whole damn show. You scream until your throat’s sore. He throws a devil horn in the air and grins at you like you’re already his.

By the end of the last song, your head is spinning and your body is sore and sweaty and so full - of adrenaline, of heat, of the very specific kind of happiness that only ever happens by accident.

You don’t even mind when he threads his fingers through yours on the way back to the van.

You squeeze back.

—

The highway is quieter now, stars blinking over dark cornfields. Your ears are still ringing. Your heart’s still beating double time.

Eddie’s got a half-crushed bottle of water between his knees and both hands on the wheel. He’s humming something under his breath - maybe one of the songs, maybe just the sound of contentment. It’s too dark to see much of him, but his expression is soft in the passing streetlight glow.

You tilt your head against the window, watching him.

“You know,” you say, “this was the best night I’ve had in, like… ever.”

He glances at you, smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Didn’t think I’d be here a week ago.”

Eddie chuckles, dry. “Me either.”

There’s a pause.

Then:

“You remember when I said I felt like a teenage dirtbag?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He drums his thumbs on the wheel. “I always figured people like me - we’re the guys girls only notice when they need something. A ride, a party, a good story. Not a… not a real date.”

You sit up straighter. “Eddie -”

“I know, I know,” he rushes. “You said I’m not. But tonight? That’s the first time I actually believed it.”

You reach over and place your hand on his thigh - just a grounding touch.

“You’re not a dirtbag, Eddie.”

He looks over at you, a flicker of something real in his eyes.

“You’re the guy I chose.”

That shuts him up.

He stares ahead again, biting his lip.

And then, in a voice so low it almost disappears under the hum of the road, he says, “I wanted to kiss you all night.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He breathes out a laugh. “Because it felt too good to be true. Like if I did, you’d vanish or wake up or tell me I was dreaming again.”

You smile softly.

“Guess you’ll have to kiss me now,” you say.

—

He pulls into your driveway, the porch light throwing gold shadows across your front lawn. The engine dies with a shudder, and the van goes still.

You’re both quiet, looking at each other.

Eddie leans forward, slow and uncertain and reverent, like this moment is sacred. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheekbone.

And then -

Finally -

He kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Testing. Like he still doesn’t believe you’ll let him.

But you do more than that.

You kiss him back, firm and sure and full of everything you didn’t say at the concert, everything he felt when your pinky hooked through his in the crowd. He tastes like sugar and smoke and sweat and him.

It’s not a firework.

It’s a slow burn - the kind that starts in your bones and spreads like heat under your skin.

When he finally pulls back, breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmurs.

You smile.

The library smelt like old paper and lemony cleaning spray, and you were seriously questioning your life choices. 

You could have been anywhere else on a Friday afternoon - at the diner, driving around with friends, even stuck at home doing laundry - but no.

Here you were.

Volunteering.

When Mrs. Collins had mentioned Eddie Munson was hanging by a thread in English Lit, something in you had tightened. He was funny, he was smart when he actually tried, and even if he liked to pretend otherwise, you knew he cared.

He just… needed someone in his corner.

And okay, maybe you had been carrying a low-key, slow-burning crush on him since forever, but that wasn’t the point. 

(Not the main point.)

You were here to help.

Totally professional. Totally academic. Totally not because you wanted an excuse to stare at him for an hour and a half without getting caught.

You checked your watch again, nerves tangling up in your stomach.

And then the library door slammed open so hard the librarian hissed at someone - and there he was.

Eddie Munson, in all his chaotic glory.

Leather jacket, ripped jeans, hair a glorious wild mess, and a grin that could bring the apocalypse.

You waved him over before he could make a scene.

He spotted you immediately and sauntered across the library, heavy boots thudding way too loudly on the linoleum.

When he flopped into the chair across from you, he leaned his elbows on the table and smiled slow, mischievous.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, eyes sparkling. “If it isn’t my very own personal Professor.”

You tried to look disapproving. Failed miserably.

“Eddie,” you said, setting your notebooks between you like a tiny, doomed peace offering. “We’re supposed to be studying.”

He smirked, tapping the table in front of you.

“Sure, sure,” he said. “I’m a model student. Ready to be molded, Professor.”

You rolled your eyes, heat rising to your cheeks.

This was going to be… a problem.

A very handsome, very distracting problem.

You flipped open the notebook, pretending you didn’t feel your heart hammering against your ribs.

“Okay,” you said, voice only slightly shaky. “Let’s start with Shakespeare.”

Eddie leaned back in his chair, kicked his boots up onto the empty seat next to you, and grinned like he was already plotting your academic downfall.

“Lead the way, teach,” he said.

And you - absolute fool that you were - smiled right back.

You lasted exactly ten minutes.

Ten minutes of explaining Shakespeare’s metaphors while Eddie nodded solemnly, pretending to take it all in.

Until you leaned over to check his notes - and realized he wasn’t writing anything remotely related to Macbeth.

Instead, the margins of his notebook were filled with messy, looping sketches: a dragon breathing fire on a castle, a skeleton shredding an electric guitar, a cartoonish stick figure version of you holding a giant book labeled English Nerd Supreme.

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

“Eddie,” you said, laughing. “What is this?”

He tilted his head, totally unrepentant.

“Visual aids, Professor. Helps me learn.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder lightly, pretending not to notice how warm he felt even through the leather jacket.

“Focus,” you said, tapping the book between you.

He leaned in closer, like he was about to share some deep, sacred secret.

“Okay, but hear me out,” he whispered conspiratorially. “What if Shakespeare wrote about stuff that actually mattered? Like… battling dragons. Or evil sorcerers. Or - I dunno - epic metal ballads of revenge and glory?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “that actually sounds a lot like Beowulf.”

Eddie blinked.

You could practically see the lightbulb go off behind those brown eyes.

“Beowulf,” he repeated. “Sounds badass. Tell me more, O Wise One.”

You fought the stupid smile stretching your face as you launched into a quick explanation, watching as Eddie actually - actually - started jotting things down for real this time. Between doodles of flaming swords and screaming skulls, of course.

But still.

It was progress.

Maybe - just maybe - you were getting through that thick skull after all.

Maybe tutoring Eddie Munson wasn’t going to be such a lost cause.

Maybe it was going to be something else entirely.

“Okay, Professor,” Eddie said, leaning back in his chair with a dramatic groan, arms flopping uselessly at his sides. “My brain is officially fried. Crispy. Burnt to a metalhead crisp.”

You laughed, shutting the warm copy of Beowulf with a soft thump. “We’ve barely been at it for an hour.”

“And yet,” he said, placing a hand over his heart like he was delivering a eulogy, “I fear the end is near.”

You rolled your eyes, gathering your pens and notebooks into a neat pile. “Fine. What’s your plan, Munson? You’ve got me for thirty more minutes.”

He grinned - a big, wild grin that made your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

“Burger run,” he declared. “On me. My treat. As thanks for putting up with my dazzling intellect.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around your notebook.

Was this… a date?

It wasn’t tutoring anymore, not really. But you couldn’t exactly say no - not when you wanted so badly to say yes.

“Only if we swing by the arcade afterward,” you teased, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

Eddie practically bounded to his feet, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair.

“Deal, Professor,” he said, holding the door open for you with a theatrical bow. “You drive a hard bargain.”

The two of you walked toward the parking lot, your footsteps echoing together in the quiet halls of the school.

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple.

“You know,” Eddie said, tossing you a sideways glance as you reached his van, “I’m starting to think you might actually be a good influence on me.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Starting to?”

“Hey, slow progress is still progress,” he said, giving you a crooked, dazzling grin as he pulled open his passenger door for you. “Hop in, Professor. Let’s get you some fries before you grade me on English alone.”

You laughed, climbing in.

And as the van rumbled to life and Eddie pulled out onto the road, you let yourself believe  - just for tonight - that maybe this wasn’t tutoring anymore.

Maybe it was the start of something else.

Something a little terrifying.

Something a little wonderful.

Something you really, really didn’t want to end.

“Okay, explain to me again,” Eddie said, kicking his battered boots up onto the ledge of the library table, “how a poem about a guy watching a bird counts as, like, art.”

You bit back a laugh, twirling your pen between your fingers. “Because it’s not just about the bird,” you said patiently. “It’s about how the guy feels watching the bird. It’s a metaphor.”

“A metaphor for… what? Birdwatching is depressing?”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “No, it’s about loneliness. About wondering if you’re really free or if you’re trapped without realizing it.”

Eddie was quiet for a second, fingers drumming lightly against his notebook. Then - in a rare, serious voice - he said, “That’s… kinda metal, actually.”

You smiled, catching the spark in his eyes.

“Exactly,” you said, scooting your chair a little closer. “You already write stuff like this in your music, Eddie. You just don’t call it poetry.”

He snorted. “Please. Corroded Coffin lyrics are just angry noise about death and taxes.”

“They’re angry noise about being misunderstood,” you corrected, nudging his notebook toward him. “About fighting back when the world treats you like you don’t matter. That’s poetry.”

Eddie looked at you, really looked at you, like you had just handed him some secret nobody else had ever thought to share.

It made your skin warm under his gaze.

Slowly, he picked up his pen, tapping the end against his lip.

“So you’re saying,” he said, voice light but his eyes soft, “that I could turn in a song for my English paper and not get laughed out of Hawkins High?”

“I’m saying,” you replied, grinning, “if you put even half as much heart into it as you do into yelling about dragons and sorcery, you’ll crush it.”

Eddie grinned back - the dangerous, heart-stopping kind of grin - and scribbled something messily at the top of his page.

You leaned over to peek.

Professor (Y/N)’s Guide to Kicking English Lit’s Ass

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop laughing.

“Focus, Munson,” you said, trying and failing to sound stern.

“Focusing, Professor,” he said, tossing you a wink.

Outside, the late autumn wind rattled the windows.

Inside, under the flickering library lights, Eddie Munson - chaotic, brilliant, impossible Eddie Munson - started to write.

And you sat beside him, your heart thudding, already in way deeper than you meant to be.

You were supposed to be studying.

At least, that’s what you told yourself when you agreed to meet Eddie at the Hideout on a Saturday night, armed your worn-out English Lit textbook and a stack of practice essay prompts.

But now, two hours and one terrible pot of coffee later, the paper you were supposed to be outlining sat forgotten between you. Eddie was hunched over a crumpled napkin, black ink smudging his fingers as he scribbled frantically.

His rings clacked against the battered tabletop every time he moved his hand. His mouth was twisted in concentration, eyebrows knitted together like he was solving some ancient mystery instead of, you know, studying for English.

“You know,” you said, voice light, “this doesn’t exactly look like MLA format.”

Eddie looked up, eyes sparkling. “That’s ’cause it’s way more important than MLA, Professor.”

He held the napkin up triumphantly, a glint of excitement in his dark eyes. “This,” he announced, “is the setup for my new D&D campaign.”

You leaned in, fighting a smile. “Oh yeah? Let’s hear it.”

He sat back in the rickety chair, swinging one boot up onto the table without a care in the world. “So there’s this sorcerer, right? Real shady bastard. He convinces the party’s barbarian that this ancient crown is cursed. Says it’ll rot his mind, turn him into a monster. But -” Eddie jabbed the napkin toward you - “the curse is fake. It’s actually a test of loyalty. The crown only grants power to someone who trusts the sorcerer.”

You blinked at him. “That’s… actually really good.”

Eddie paused mid-gesture, blinking owlishly like he hadn’t expected you to say that. He twirled the pen between his fingers, suddenly fidgety. “Yeah, well, just makin’ stuff up. Like always.”

You shook your head, resting your chin on your hand. “No, seriously. You’re telling a story. You’re making people feel something. You do it with D&D, you do it with your music… you’re doing it right now.”

He stared at you, caught off guard. For once, Eddie Munson - the loudest, boldest guy you knew - had no quick comeback.

Instead, color crept up the tops of his ears, and he ducked his head to hide a shy smile.

“Guess I had a good professor,” he said after a beat, his boot knocking lightly against your knee under the table.

Your heart stuttered.

Before you could respond - before you could do something reckless like grab his hand - the Hideout’s ancient jukebox whirred to life in the corner. Some grungy metal song with a slow, heavy beat crackled through the speakers, warping at the edges.

Eddie’s grin sharpened the second he heard it.

“Dance with me,” he said, already halfway out of his seat.

You laughed, incredulous. “Dance? Here?”

He swept into a dramatic, exaggerated bow, almost tipping over a chair. “Come on, Professor. Consider it… an extracurricular activity.”

The way he said it - low and teasing, with that crooked half-smile - made your stomach twist in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the caffeine you downed thirty minutes ago.

He held out his hand.

You hesitated for a single, electric heartbeat.

Then you slipped his fingers into his - warm and calloused and steady - and let him pull you up.

The two of you stumbled into the open space between tables, laughing as Eddie tried to twirl you and nearly sent both of you crashing into a jukebox.

He caught you by the waist, steadying you with both hands, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

The song thudded around you, distorted and distant, but all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.

“You’re terrible at dancing,” you whispered, breathless.

“Yeah,” Eddie grinned, voice rough and a little reckless. “But I’m real good at distracting you.”

You were still pressed close when you realized something - something dangerous, something thrilling:

This didn’t feel like studying.

This didn’t feel like friendship.

This felt like something you might not be able to take back.

Maybe, just maybe, Eddie Munson wasn’t the only one being distracted tonight.

Maybe you were both already a little bit in love.

A week later, you were back to studying at Eddie’s trailer - or pretending to.

Stacks of battered textbooks and D&D modules littered the tiny kitchen table, and Eddie was once again spectacularly off-topic.

He leaned back in his chair, legs kicked out, strumming an imaginary guitar against his chest while humming under his breath.

You tapped your pen against your notebook, trying to be patient.

“Eddie,” you said, drawing his name out like a warning, “we have to at least finish this outline. Your paper’s due Monday.”

He grinned lazily, tilting his head toward you. “You worry too much, Professor. You know I’m a ‘wing it and pray’ kinda guy.”

You sighed, though you couldn’t fight your smile.

Then, just as you flipped back to your notes, something fell out from under Eddie’s elbow - a crumpled piece of paper, covered in messy handwriting.

You bent to grab it automatically.

Eddie lunged at the same moment, nearly head-butting you.

“No, wait -!”

Too late.

You smoothed the page against your notebook, reading the words aloud before you could stop yourself:

Sometimes it feels like I’m built out of songs and sharp things,

Stuffed with chords and bad habits and the hope that someone might hear me.

Your voice caught.

It wasn’t D&D lore.

It wasn’t a dumb lyric or a doodle.

It was real.

“You wrote this,” you said, voice soft.

Eddie scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning.

“Yeah, well, don’t get all misty-eyed on me. It’s just dumb crap. Stuff I think about when I can’t sleep.”

You folded the paper carefully, like it was something fragile.

“It’s good, Eddie. You - you should do something with this.”

He scoffed. “Like what? Hallmark cards for angsty metalheads?”

“I’m serious!” You shifted in your seat, heart pounding. “There’s this poetry contest Mrs. Collins posted about in the English hall. You should submit it.”

Eddie stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

“Me? In a poetry contest? Wearing a tie and reciting stuff to a bunch of nerds?”

You grinned. “You wouldn’t even have to wear a tie. But maybe… maybe you should let people hear you. Really hear you.”

He looked away, tapping his fingers anxiously against the table.

“I dunno, Professor,” he said, voice lower, more guarded. “Might be easier to just flunk English and live in my uncle’s trailer forever.”

Your chest ached at the uncertainty in his voice - the part of Eddie Munson no one else got to see.

“You won’t flunk,” you said, reaching out before you could second-guess yourself. Your hand brushed his.

He froze.

You forced yourself to keep talking, steady and sure.

“Submit the poem. Write the essay. You’re better than you think.”

The air between you shifted - heavy, electric.

Eddie swallowed hard.

“Only if you promise,” he said, voice rough, “to come with me if they make me read that crap out loud.”

Your heart skipped.

You squeezed his hand.

“Deal,” you whispered.

And just like that, Eddie Munson - the reckless, fearless Dungeon Master - looked at you like you were the only saving throw he’d ever needed.

“ - I’m just saying,” Dustin said, trying and failing to keep a straight face, “if you show up in a leather jacket and eyeliner to a poetry reading, you’re legally obligated to start a punk band.”

The whole Hellfire Club burst into laughter around the cafeteria table.

Eddie threw a grape at him.

“Shut up, Henderson,” he grumbled, slouching even deeper into his seat.

Across the table, Mike grinned like a shark. “Are you gonna sing your poem, Eddie? Maybe bring in a smoke machine?”

“I hope they have a spotlight,” Lucas chimed in, “so you can dramatically toss your hair back when you recite.”

More laughter.

You sat beside Eddie, hiding your smile behind your hand.

He caught the look at groaned dramatically, flopping his head against your shoulder.

“Et tu, Professor?”

You nudged him gently. “You’re the one who agreed to submit your poem, rockstar. This is the price of fame.”

He muttered something about mutiny and bad karma, but you caught the way his fingers fidgeted with the leather cord around his wrist - nervous.

Under the table, you bumped your knee against his. Small. Steady.

“You’re gonna kill it,” you whispered.

Eddie lifted his head, looking at you like you’d hung the damn moon. For a second, everything else-  the noise, the jokes, the nerves - just fell away.

Then Dustin elbowed Mike.

“Bet he’s only doing this because he’s in love with -”

“Hey!” Eddie barked, throwing another grape that went wildly off-course and nailed a random freshman. “Don’t finish that sentence if you like having kneecaps, Henderson!”

More howling laughter.

You felt your face go hot, but you didn’t move away when Eddie stayed close.

Not this time.

You stood in front of your closet, chewing your lip, second-guessing everything.

It wasn’t a date.

Not officially.

But Eddie had asked you to come. Said it all-casual-like - “You know, if you’re not busy saving nerds from bad grades or anything.”

Then he’d grinned that crooked grin that still made your heart trip over itself.

You tugged a black denim jacket off its hanger and threw it over your bed. Then grabbed a pair of chunky boots. Maybe if you leaned a little into his aesthetic - leather, dark colors, a little edge - he wouldn’t feel so out of place tonight.

And selfishly?

You wanted him to look at you like he did when you corrected his grammar with a smirk.

Like you were the coolest thing in the room.

After a few more minutes of chaos, you ended up in ripped black jeans, a faded band tee you borrowed from your brother’s room (you’d return it… probably) and your jacket.

Not a full Munson look - you could never pull that off - but it felt close enough.

It felt… brave.

Just like Eddie deserved to feel tonight.

The tiny community center buzzed with low conversation and the smell of bad coffee.

Fold-out chairs lined the floor in front of a sad little stage with a single microphone. A paper sign taped to the wall read: “OPEN MIC NIGHT - Young Voices of Hawkins.”

You spotted Eddie pacing near the door, fiddling with his rings.

When he saw you, he stopped.

Full body, mid-fidget, mouth-parted stopped.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then he laughed under his breath - a soft, disbelieving sound - and jogged over, boots thudding against the linoleum.

“Professor,” he said, voice low and awed.

“You look -”

He broke off, shaking his head with a helpless grin.

“- you’re gonna make it real hard for me to pretend I’m cool up there.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours.

“Good thing you don’t have to pretend,” you said, and you meant it.

He swallowed, throat bobbing, and for a second you thought he might say something reckless - something that would change everything.

But a staff volunteer called his name over the mic, and Eddie grimaced.

“That’s me,” he muttered. “Pray for me, (Y/N).”

“Kill it, Munson,” you whispered back.

And when he turned toward the stage, you caught the faint tremble in his hands - but you also saw the way he straightened his shoulders.

Like he was ready.

You sat near the front, knees bouncing, fingers twisted in your jacket sleeve as you watched him step up to the mic.

Eddie cleared his throat.

Tapped the stand twice.

“I uh -” He coughed. “I usually perform with a guitar, so bear with me. I’m a little… exposed.”

A few chuckles from the audience.

You smiled. He had them already.

He pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. Smoothed it open with careful fingers.

Looked up once - right at you - and started to read.

And it wasn’t perfect - his voice cracked once, and he kept fiddling with his rings - but it was Eddie.

Loud, raw, stubbornly hopeful.

Lines about fighting for the things that made you different.

About music, and monsters, and dreaming so hard it felt like bleeding.

You were pretty sure your heart cracked clean in two.

When he finished, the applause was louder than you expected. Real. Warm.

Eddie shoved his hair behind his ears and ducked his head like he couldn’t quite believe it.

But you believed it.

You were already on your feet, clapping hard enough to sting your palms.

He found you in the crowd again.

And this time - grinning wide, wild, and so stupidly proud - he winked.

And you were a goner.

The moment the event ended, Eddie beelined for you, weaving through chairs like he was on some desperate quest. His hair bounced with every step. His boots scuffed noisily across the floor.

“(Y/N),” he said, a little breathless, “did you see that? I didn’t even puke!”

You laughed and shoved his shoulder lightly. “You crushed it, Munson. I’m so proud of you.”

Something shifted behind his grin - something soft and vulnerable. And suddenly he was reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled paper.

“I, uh… I wanted to show you this,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “Before I chickened out.”

He handed it to you.

It was his latest English Lit paper - the one you two had agonized over last week, rewriting it late into the night between D&D campaigns and caffeine-fueled rants about “academic oppression.”

And there, circled in red ink at the top corner:

B+

You gasped.

“Eddie!”

“I know!” he burst out, laughing. “Can you believe it? Me!”

You looked up at him, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “You earned it. Every word was yours.”

He rocked back on his heels, looking pleased with himself in a way that made your chest squeeze painfully. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Professor,” he said, voice dropping into that low, teasing register he always used when he was flirting.

Before you could respond, before you could think, Eddie leaned forward - fast, like he couldn’t risk giving himself time to doubt - and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t careful.

It was all messy urgency and smiling into each other’s lips, like you both couldn’t quite believe it was finally happening.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against your mouth, “Been dying to do that for weeks.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, heart hammering somewhere near your ears.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Me too.”

He laughed - that bright, reckless Eddie laugh - and kissed you again. Longer this time.

Somewhere across the room, the Hellfire boys whooped and hollered.

Eddie broke away long enough to flip them off over his shoulder without even looking.

Then he turned back to you with a wicked grin.

“By the way,” he said, eyes glinting, “you’re legally required to help me write a metal ballad about this night.”

You grinned.

“Only if you call it ‘Extra Credit.’”

Eddie looked like he might combust from sheer joy.

“I am so in love with you,” he blurted out.

The world tilted.