#soft!eddie

Eddie lets out a laugh at your eagerness but he wraps his arms around you anyway, pulling you even closer to him as he turns his head towards the screen. You instantly feel better knowing that he'll keep you safe but can't help but think about what Steve told you when he rented the movie out to you.

He told you that it was the scariest movie he'd ever seen and that he couldn't sleep for days afterwards. And you rented it anyway even though he had suggested many more options that weren't nearly as scary and would still help you get into Eddie's arms despite how silly he thought the idea was.

The movie hasn't even started and you're already burying your head into his chest, gripping his shirt in your fists as tight as possible. His hand moves up to stroke the back of your head as he murmurs something to you that you can't quite hear.

"Hey, hey," he says as grabs hold of your face, forcing you to look him in the eye. His are nothing but soft as they look at you, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," you shake your head, suddenly feeling silly for how scared you just were. "It's nothing."

"We don't have to watch the movie," he tells you. "If you were scared, why didn't you say something?" It's a fair question, but you stay silent, not wanting to tell him the truth.

"I-" you start to say but cut yourself off, not wanting to admit the truth nor finding the right words to use.

"You what, honey?" He asks, his hands moving up and down your back exactly the way you wanted him to. Sometimes you're convinced he's a mind reader.

"I just wanted an excuse to cuddle you," you tell him, your voice so soft he almost didn't hear you. And at that, Eddie lets out a laugh before pulling you to his chest, giving you a tight squeeze. You have to remind yourself that he's not laughing at you, but because of you.

"You could have just cuddled me," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and it is. Well, it should be, but you've always found it hard to voice what you want no matter how badly you want it.

"How about we call off the movie for now?" He asks and turns off the TV then pulls you closer to him, his hands still moving up and down your back. You look up at him as he licks his lips, now unable to think about anything but how inviting they look.

The two of you have kissed multiple times, but it's never gone any farther than little pecks here and there because you've been too afraid to do any more than that. But now you feel the need to go all the way, wondering what he tastes like, if his hair is as soft as it looks.

But you've never made out with anyone and that scares you. Even though you know for sure that Eddie would talk you through it, the whole thing still makes you feel nervous. But apparently not nervous to forget it completely because before you can stop yourself, you're looking up at Eddie, gulping before getting his attention.

"Eddie?" You ask and his head turns to you, those honey eyes boring into yours. You melt under his gaze but trying to muster up the confidence again.

"Hm?" He asks, that stupid smirk making its way upon his face, the same one that's always there when he looks at you.

"Can-" you cut yourself off for the second time tonight but Eddie just sits there, patient as ever as he waits for you to speak. He knows how hard it can get sometimes for you to speak your mind so he doesn't mind waiting for you to finish your thoughts. "Can I have a kiss?"

"Of course you can," he responds, taking your face in his hands and pecking your lips once, twice, three times before pulling away only for you to grumble in response.

"No," you shake your head. "I want a real kiss."

"Oh," he replies, wondering what made you decide on that, but wanting to oblige. He's willing to give you whatever you ask.

His hands move down to neck, his thumbs rubbing back and forth across your jaw as he leans in again, his lips slowly capturing yours as they move together slowly. He's nothing but gentle as he kisses you, showing you how it's done.

Your hands press against his chest and all you can think about how you can't believe you've gone so long without his lips attached to yours. They're nothing but soft and gentle and now you're sure that you can do this for hours.

Eddie breaks away before you're ready and you're breathing hard as you try to catch your breath. He stares down, a chuckle falling from his lips as he presses his forehead to yours.

"You're supposed breathe, baby," he tells you softly and you feel your cheeks heat.

"Can we try that again?" You ask as you pick up one of his curls, twirling it around your pointer finger, staring down at it as you speak again. "Do you think we could...make out? I promise to breathe this time."

"Oh, honey," he sighs before pressing a kiss to you lips. "I'd love to make out with you." Another and another until he's capturing your lips again, taking the lead again. You have no idea what you're doing but Eddie is being nothing but a sweetheart as he guides you through it.

He pulls away again and you whine this time at the absence of his lips, chasing him and getting in another quick kiss before you sit back, waiting for him.

"Do you want to sit in my lap?" He suggests. "I think that'll be more comfortable for you."

Eddie sits with his back against the couch and you do as he suggests and straddle his waist which feels foreign to you but he's right. It's much more comfortable. Your arms wrap around his neck as his rest on the small of your back, a good spot between your waist and upper back because this is just kissing and he doesn't want to give you the impression that he's going to go any farther.

"You kiss me now," he says and your heart races in your chest as you think about fucking it all up.

"Are you sure?" You ask, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling on it as you contemplate.

"Positive," he nods. "You've got this. Do whatever you want, baby. This is all about you."

"Okay," you nod, leaning forward and slotting your lips just like he did, Eddie immediately responding to you but he's moving at your pace instead of leading like he previously had.

You remember to breath through your nose as your fingers thread into his hair on each side of his head. His hair is normally off limits because people get too rough with it, but with you, he doesn't care. In fact, he loves when you play with his hair, a little bit of love sprinkles into every touch of it.

"You're doing so good, honey," he murmurs against your lips. "Do you want to try sticking your tongue in my mouth?"

"Please," you whine with a yank of his hair and if you can feel his cock hardening underneath you, you don't say anything. And thank god for that.

"Do you want me to show you first?"

"Yes," you breath against his lips and he's getting even more hard, knowing that he's going to have to get himself off later because there's no way he's going to expect you to go all the way right now.

Eddie captures your lips again as his hands rest against your waist, landing on the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up. His lips are moving against you to warm you up and then he gingerly flicks his tongue against your bottom lip.

"Open up," he commands against your lips and you do as he says, opening up for him as he slides his tongue into your mouth. He swirls his tongue around yours and you mimic his actions, tugging on his hair as a moan falls from your lips at the feeling of his tongue moving with yours.

Your eyes widen and you can't help but pull away as you suddenly feel embarrassed at the sound you've just made. Eddie, though? Eddie's convinced that's the hottest thing he's ever heard and he really wants you to make it again.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," he says quickly, trying his best to assure you. "It was really hot, actually."

"It was?"

"Definitely," he nods. "Would it help if you made me moan too?" All you can do is nod and before he can say anything else, your lips are on his, only a few seconds passing before your tongue is flicking against his bottom lip. He opens up immediately and you mimic what he just showed you, your tongue swirling around his as you pulling on his hair even harder, a loud moan falling from his lips.

You haven't thought about it until now since you were so caught up in his kisses, but you're soaking wet between your legs and if you had more confidence, you'd ask Eddie to take care of you, but you don't so you don't. You don't think you're ready for that right now anyway.

You try to focus on the taste of him to get your mind off of it. He tastes like cigarettes that you know he smoked before you came over and you don't know why but you can't get enough of it. It's intoxicating.

Dark clouds rise and take over different parts of your small town annually. Townsfolk are seen with hoodies covering most of their faces-- obscured, desolate, and empty. That time of year starts now.

Paint peels off the Church and library at the center of town. All the dirt roads lead to them. Doesn’t matter where you start.

Greenery is found in every direction you turn to. Lines the roads like a persistent suitor. Your street, for example, is full of the livery. Lavender, gardenias, and nettles are everywhere if you take the gravel road North towards your home. White and faded from years of dust bowl damage.

It’s quiet out here. You can hear sounds of buckshot from miles away, feels like. The only noise pollution you’re exposed to, save for a few random car motors, is the trains that pass through the train tracks at the very end of your street every so often. S’nothing cross that until you hit a few miles out. That’s where he lives.

You don’t think about him often. Don’t allow yourself to slip into that stupor. Not anymore. Not since then.

The nettles behind your house had begun to grow tall again. You’d been watching them every day since you were twelve-- since the preacher’s voice started turning your stomach sick, and your prayers started sounding more like apologies. Their sting, you learned, is worse when you expect it. Worse when you deserve it.

The very first time you pressed your wrists into them, you didn’t cry. You closed your eyes and pictured the hem of an altar cloth. Blood and wine. Forgiveness, maybe.

The sun was warm on your skin in the field of flowers behind your home. Momma told you that you could stay out until the lights on the street poles start waking up, till then? The field’s yours. You liked going out there and getting soil covered, and unearthing living things from beneath big rocks. You tested your luck a bit that day, walking further along the sun-kissed leaves and past the dirtied train tracks beyond them. Your father, the town preacher, would have had your hide if he knew you’d crossed ‘em. But you were 12. You felt grown.

You kept walking, head held high, and shoes long forgotten on the porch of your house. The cicadas were singing deep in the fields, fueling your need to go further and beyond. Felt like they were cheering you on. Go ahead, you can make it, they were telling you. And you listened. ‘Course you did. Teetered over into the greenery and abandoned the gravel and dirt behind you.

The sound of water and frogs brought a smile to your face some odd time later. You followed the chorus of moving water and ribbits, excitement bubbling as the small creek finally came into view. The water wasn’t the cleanest you’d seen, but you were invincible as you dipped your toes in, giggles bursting through chapped lips as cool water met sun-soaked flesh.

The sun was still directly overhead, probably ‘cookin’ your scalp’ as your momma would say-- but the light had changed from pure blue daylight to a golden simmer-- stretching long shadows across the small crack of water in front of you. The water continued to eat away at the mud caking your feet, not quite reaching your upper ankles. Your legs, bare beneath the hem of your hand-me-down dress, already had a few scratch nicks peppered in the fabric from pushing through brambles and scattered branches. You hadn’t expected it to be that sharp.

Hadn’t meant to walk this far.

Those tracks were a silent boundary. A sentinel at the end of your road. Your pa’s words echoed in the back of your noggin: You don’t cross them tracks, hear? Nothin’ out there for you but boys and bad luck. I mean it, darlin’.

But the cicadas sent a humming through your chest. A pull that you followed barefoot and eager. Clutching your tattered notebook and a pen with chewed plastic. You were seeking something out. Maybe quiet. A quiet that didn’t ache.

And you thought you’d found it there.

Tucked between overgrown pines and white dogwood. Cut like a whisper through the woods. Clear, cool, running over smooth stones. A place that felt like it held secrets-- both yours and its own. You crouched low, slipping your fingers into the water, a soft hiss from your lips passing into the open air around you as the cold greeted you with a fervor.

Then--

“You’re not from over here.”

You jumped.

Standing across you on the other side of the creek, a boy, half-shadowed by a sycamore.

He looked older, but skinnier. Lankier. Wearing a faded tee and jeans torn at both knees. His hair was damp like he’d been sweating or maybe swimming. His hands were shoved into patchy pockets, but he wasn’t trying to be scary. Just… amused. Curious?

“You lost?” He added after a pregnant silence.

You stood slowly, tucking a curl of hair behind your ear. Your voice barely made it across the water.

“No.”

“You look it.”

“I’m not.”

“Alright then. What’re you doin’ on my side of the woods?”

“Didn’t know it was yours.”

“Well, I guess now you do.”

A pause.

Then--without another word-- he hopped into the creek. Barefoot. Careless. Bold.

The current splashed around his ankles as he waded halfway and crouched to pick up a smooth gray stone.

“See this one?” He asks, stone held high enough for you to see. “This one skips perfect. Watch.”

He tossed it and it bounced four times before sinking. You counted.

“Your turn,” he said.

“I don’t know how,” you bristled. You wanted to know how.

He grinned again, crooked and warm. Then he crossed the rest of the creek and held out a flat pebble, offering it palm-up like a peace treaty.

“I’ll show you.”

You hesitated and then stepped forward, careful not to slip on the algae on the stones under you. When your fingers brushed his, something sparked--not fireworks, not lightning. Just something small and sudden. Like: I’ve been looking for you, and here you are.

“I’m Eddie, by the way,” he said, tossing you another wide grin. “Eddie Munson. But don’t tell anybody you met me. I’m real mysterious.”

You giggled, just barely.

“I’m YN.”

“YN,” he repeated, letting it settle on his tongue like a word he’d want to say again. “Alright then, YN. Lesson one: Hold it like this. Real flat. Then flick it from the wrist-- don’t throw it like a baseball.”

You nodded, trying to copy him. Your first attempt plunked into the water with a pathetic splash.

“Tragic,” Eddie laughed. “You’re a menace to stones everywhere.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, which made him grin wider.

And just like that, the evening stretched longer. You skipped more stones. You wrote your names in your notebook. He chased the frogs. You stayed too long, and neither of you minded. The sun began to fall, and the sky turned soft like the inside of a peach.

By the time you parted--Eddie waving a dramatic farewell and calling out, “Same time tomorrow?”-- You knew you’d be back.

Even if you had to cross every track and break every rule to get there, and you did. For a whole year.

It was overcast. The light was soft, almost gray. The air buzzed around you, but no rain had hit yet. Just the feeling of something coming.

You walked through the trees towards the creek with practiced ease-- barefoot, familiar with every twig and stone. You were humming under your breath, notebook in your hands. The day felt like it wanted to be remembered, inked on paper or skin.

But when you reached the edge of the creek, he was already there.

He sat slouched on your usual rock. Shoes kicked off. Elbows on his knees. Head in his hands. He didn’t hear you at first.

You slowed, watching him. He looked… different. Folded in on himself. Not angry. Not loud. Just small in a way you’d never seen him. Reminded you of the hurt baby deer you’d seen months before.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He lifted his head. His eyes were red. Not from crying-- looked like how yours looked when your daddy yelled at you in front of the townsfolk and you looked in the mirror at home hours later. Red from holding the tears in.

“Sorry. I didn’t think you’d be here yet.”

“I always come here. You know that,” you told him gently, lowering yourself onto the stone beside him. Not touching. Just there. “Bad day?”

“My dad threw a beer bottle at me.”

You went still at Eddie’s words. He just shrugged, like it was no big bother.

“Didn’t hit me,” he reasoned. “I moved fast.”

“S’not the point,” you shook your head.

He rubbed his face, jaw tight.

“Everything I do just- just pisses him off. I breathe wrong, and it’s a sin. I stay out late, and he says I’m trying to be like my mother. I run from him, and I’m a coward.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means she ran. He hates that. That she left him,” he snickered. “That she didn’t come back for me.”

You didn’t speak. Instead, you took your notebook carefully out of your bag and tore a blank page from the back. You pulled out a pen.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Makin’ you a permission slip. Like in school. To exist.”

He laughed a little, “You’re weird.”

“So’re you.” You shrugged, pressing the paper into his hand after scribbling on it. “It says: You’re allowed to have bad days. You’re allowed to exist. Signed: someone who exists too.”

He stared at the paper. It wasn’t much. But it was what a 13-year-old with a heavy heart could offer. Ink and quiet and care.

“Thanks,” he whispered against your shoulder as he rested his head against you.

“S’nothing,” you told him, ignoring the kicking of your heart.

Golden shafts of sunlight filtered through the leaves up above you. The smell of summer grass and damp earth wafted in waves around you both. Your shoes had been discarded long ago, tossed to the side while you skimmed your toes across the surface of the water.

Eddie was a few feet away, crouched near the bank, skipping rocks across the water with absent focus. There, but not really there. It’d been that way for a while. Since the bottle incident.

Just under a year had passed since your first meeting, and oftentimes, the meetings were quiet. Casual. Nothing said out loud. Just skipped rocks and shared thoughts.

That day didn’t feel any different.

Until it did.

Eddie tossed another stone, and then sighed when it didn’t pass two skips.

“That one didn’t go that far.”

“Maybe it knew better,” you smiled, looking down at the water again.

You chewed at your cheek when he laughed under his breath, soft and real, like you had said something smarter than he’d expected you to.

And then you looked at him.

And something stirred deep.

Maybe it was the way the light cut across his cheekbones.

Or how the wind played with the ends of his hair.

Or maybe it was the fact that he looked like he belonged there, like he was a part of the wildness and stillness you craved.

And for a second you’d imagined him not just as your friend, not just as the boy from the wrong side of your parents’ doctrine-- or the train tracks--

But as yours.

Truly yours.

A thought entered you like a whisper:

Why can’t he be?

Your heartbeat flew away from you, and you looked away fast.

“I should head back soon.”

“Yeah, me too.” He nodded.

But you didn’t move. Neither of you.

A dragonfly was hovering above the water, and it felt like everything was still.

And that told you all you needed to know at the ripe age of 13.

‘Cause it wasn’t the dragonfly that slowed time, or the creek, or the sunlight dancing across shadows. It was him.

The creek glittered under scattered light. Soft wind danced through the trees and brush around you.

You were standing barefoot in the shallows, jeans rolled up and sleeves pushed back. You had a small wildflower tucked behind your ear and dirt on your palms. Eddie sat nearby on a flat stone, watching you with the kind of focus you hadn’t seen him give anything else. Your chest bubbled and your face warmed, not from the sun.

“You ever heard of nettles?” You asked him, palming the water to scrub the dirt off your hands.

He wrinkled his nose, watching, “The plants that sting?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “people say they’re useless. Just weeds. They’re not.”

You clambered out of the creek, kneeling next to a patch by the creek’s edge-- green and soft-looking, but dangerous if you don’t know better.

“They hurt when they touch you. But they can be healing, too. If you boil ‘em right, they help with your blood. With pain.”

“Sounds like a metaphor,” he smirked. Big word for a big mind.

“Everything’s a metaphor when your daddy’s a preacher,” you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

He watched as your fingers hovered right over the leaves.

“You ever touch ‘em on purpose?”

You didn’t answer right away. “Sometimes I think that hurtin’ is the only thing that makes me feel real.”

Eddie went still, you caught it from the corner of your eye.

“Don’t say that like it’s okay,” he whispered.

You shrugged, eyes on the plant. Then, turning, you pulled a white flower from your bag. A little crushed, but still whole.

“Gardenia. My momma’s favorite. She says it smells like Heaven.” You smiled, offering the flower to him. He took it, analyzing the white petals with exceptional care. “Nettles sting. Gardenias bloom. You need both, I think. One keeps you careful. The other reminds you what soft feels like.”

He raised the flower gently and smelled it.

“What do you need me for, then?”

You looked at him, something trembling behind your ribs.

“To remember that I’m not the only thing in the world that’s scared and still choosing to stay.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You are,” you smiled, “so am I. That’s why we both come here. To pretend like we’re not.”

He leaned closer to you, then, and for a moment, it was just the hush of water and breath between you.

“I think I could be brave, if you asked me to be.”

“Then be brave.”

“I’ll try.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, sitting like that until the sky began to turn, tangled in the ache of wanting something you’re not sure you’re allowed to have. A crush. Love. Whatever it was or begged to be.

The creek was low, trickling lazily around moss-covered stones. You sat on the bank, pulling blades of grass apart one by one. Eddie was lying on his back nearby, hair a mess, one arm over his dark eyes to block out the sun.

It was quiet and comfortable. So serene.

And then he spoke.

“There’s this girl in my class. She’s… funny. Loud. Not in a bad way.”

You stiffened slightly, though you kept your gaze on the grass in your lap.

“Oh?”

He didn’t notice your change in tone. Or if he did, he didn’t mention it.

“Her name’s Paige. She talks too much but… I dunno, it’s kind of nice. She gets me to laugh at stupid stuff.”

Your hands stilled, and you picked at your thumbnail as you felt your heart cooling. Aching.

“You like her?”

“I guess. I mean… not like like, I just-- Maybe a little? She’s different.”

You nodded once. Sharp and quick like the whip your pa had used once on cattle he’d been paid to help herd-- you cried a lot that day.

“Different how?”

“Just… free, I think. Not all wrapped up in other stuff. She says what she wants.”

You swallowed. His words had hit somewhere deeper than they should.

“So, you want loud. Wild.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but y’meant it.”

He sat up a little then, frowning. His button-up crinkled from the movement, and his eyes momentarily blinded by the different angle the sun hit him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’. Just funny, is all.”

You stood before he could ask anything else, brushing the grass from your skirt. Your head was tilted just high enough to keep from cracking under his gaze.

“I should go. Momma’s expectin’ I help with dinner.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. It’s fine. Paige sounds… great.”

You didn’t wait for him to respond.

You walked away with your back too straight and your stomach twisted in something sharp and unfamiliar.

And for the first time in your life, you hated how small the town was. Because you knew exactly who Paige was, and you knew exactly how different you were.

Eddie sat cross-legged on the large flat stone near the bank, tossing pebbles into the water. You stood near the trees, arms folded, tense. The shadows grew longer than they were even a week prior. The leaves were curling and brown at the edges. The creek ran quieter than it used to.

You hadn’t shown up over the few days before. Not since hearing about him and Paige at school. You almost didn’t go that day. You wished you hadn’t by the time you left.

“You’ve been weird lately.”

“I’ve been busy,” you’d answered. Robotic and cold.

“No, that’s not it. You’ve been… not you.”

You shrugged, eyes on the trees, “Maybe I’m just growin’ up.”

“So am I. Doesn’t mean we have to stop being friends.”

You flinched at the word. Friends.

“Is this about Paige?” He asked.

“You’re dating Paige.”

“I mean, we’ve been hanging out, yeah. S’not serious.”

“Still,” you shook your head, walking away from the stone and trees towards the water. He followed.

“What? I can’t see her and still meet you?”

“It’s not about rules, Eddie. It’s… It just doesn’t feel right anymore.”

He stared at you sideways, genuinely confused: “Did something happen? Ever since I mentioned her, you’ve been different.”

You looked at him, and you could tell it was all in your eyes-- the pain, the knowing, the resentment you’d been ashamed of, and the longing you couldn’t name.

You responded dryly, “She’s nice. Pretty. I’m sure she suits you.”

It’d stung in a way you didn’t mean it to. Or maybe you did. But you had delivered it so evenly, so effortlessly, he couldn’t find the wound to apply pressure to.

“You know you don’t have to pull away just because I’m seein’ someone.”

“I’m not pulling away.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Maybe we’re just growing apart,” you told him, jaw tightened.

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” You had asked with eyes clear and unreadable, and you watched him deflate. Watched him look at you like you were a stranger all over again.

“What do you mean by that? Hm?”

“I think we should stop meeting here for a bit.” You told him, voice soft and final.

“YN--” Quiet, almost pleading. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Really.” A pause. And then you’d walked off before he could say more.

Your footsteps had crunched, and you didn’t look back. Not even once.

The creek kept flowing behind you, but something between you had gone deathly still.

The air was thick with humidity and hymns. Ceiling fans spin, but they never help. Everyone was in their Sunday best-- pressed cotton, sweat-slicked skin, hollow devotion.

You sat beside your mother in the second pew, notebook tucked into her purse like contraband. Your dress itched at the collar. Your father’s voice rised from the pulpit like thunder wrapped in honey.

“The wages of sin is death. But the gift of God is eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

You didn’t flinch. You’d gotten good at pretending over the years.

From the fourth pew on the opposite side, Eddie sat beside his grandmother and father, spine straight and eyes down. He was wearing a borrowed button-up and slacks that didn’t quite fit, different from his usual vest with patches and faded jeans. His hair was still damp from an early rinse. He never sang the hymns. Never said amen.

You dared a glance across the aisle.

So did he. The boy you hadn’t seen in a month, but for some reason showed up at Church that day.

Your eyes met-- just for a second. That second said more than a thousand sermons.

I miss you.

I know.

Be still.

You both looked away.

After the service, the congregation spilled out onto the sun-bleached steps. Parents chatted, children played tag near the gravestones.

You stood beside your father as he shook hands with everyone.

Eddie walked past.

You smelled the soap on him as he passed. He didn’t look at you. Not once. But his hand did brush yours--just barely-- like a secret written in braille.

I see you.

I miss you.

Tomorrow.

The creek.

You stepped carefully down the slope towards the familiar clearing and the creek. Felt like you could breathe easier for the first time in a month.

Felt like forever.

You’d told yourself it wouldn’t hurt to come back. But it did a bit.

You paused at the edge of the water. The place was the same-- quiet, still, untouched-- but it felt like a ghost.

And then you heard the stone skipping across the water. You turned. And he was already there. You knew he’d be there, but seeing him took the air from you.

He sat on the flat rock where he usually did. Like he’d never left. Like you’d never fractured.

He watched you. Stood up.

Neither of you spoke at first.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come back.” He smiled awkwardly.

“Didn’t think you’d actually be here.” You countered.

A long pause. You looked down, toeing the dirt.

“I’ve been coming by. Just in case.”

You glanced at him, uncertain and guarded. “Why?”

He shrugged, emotion tight behind doe-eyes.

“Dunno. Habit maybe. Or hope.”

You didn’t reply to that. He picked up a rock and turned it in his hand. “Paige and I broke up.”

“Oh.” You tried to sound unaffected.

Failed.

“Wasn’t crazy or anything. Just stopped makin’ sense. Didn’t fit together… I thought she’d make things easier. You know? Less complicated. Less… well, you know how everything can be.”

“Did she?”

He shook his head, didn’t look at you.

“Nah.”

The creek gurgled softly between you.

“I didn’t come here to talk about her, by the way.”

“Didn’t think you did.”

“I guess I missed this. The quiet,” he breathed. “I should head back soon. Just wanted to see if the place still felt the same, you know, with you here.”

“Does it?” You asked, looking up at him.

“Almost,” he told you.

“Well… maybe it will again.”

He nodded once. Started to turn, then paused. “You coming back tomorrow?”

You didn’t answer right away.

“Maybe.”

He smiled a little but didn’t push. “I’ll be here either way.”

He walked off quietly. You stayed. Listening to the water, not sure what you were feeling. Only that it wasn’t gone. Not yet.

The sky was bruised. The same as his cheek.

Eddie leaned against the base of a tree near the creek. Shoulders slouched, a smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. One knuckle was raw. His hoodie was zipped, but it did nothing to hide the defeat that radiated off of him.

You found him after school-- he didn’t show up again. You walked towards him slowly. No anger, no alarm. Just knowing. You always knew.

He didn’t look at you when you sat beside him. Didn’t flinch when your hand had grazed his.

The silence was tender, but too full.

“Your dad again?”

He nodded, just barely.

“What was it this time…?”

“He said real men don’t run from hard things. I told him I wasn’t running. He didn’t believe me.”

You swallowed, your jaw clenched.

“Maybe he’s afraid you’ll be better than him.”

Eddie let out a bitter breath at that. Not a laugh. Just pressure escaping tight muscles.

“Everyone wants me to fight. Be tough. Go off, serve the country, make something of myself. But what if I want to stay?”

You turned then, really looked at him.

“Then you stay.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why?”

“Can’t explain why I’d stay for nothing.”

“I’m not nothin’.”

That made him look at you. Finally.

Your eyes were glassy, but dry.

“You’re not the only one bleeding in secret. You think I don’t carry shame? Prayers and nettles and ink that begs for some sort of understanding?”

He looked guilty at that. You looked guilty for saying it.

“Listen… I don’t want you to fight. Or leave. Or be a man someone else made you into. Just want you to stay.”

The wind moved through the trees. He didn’t answer.

And you knew he wanted to. He just didn’t know how.

The sky was a pale lavender, storm clouds rolling in like slow waves.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, not close and not far. Just there-- a hum in the background. A warning.

You sat beside Eddie on the porch swing, bare legs tucked beneath you, a blanket over both of you. The porch light was off. Fireflies floated through the air above your yard.

He sipped at a bottle of warm soda, quiet.

You watched the road.

“I used to think thunder meant God was angry,” you tell him.

He glances over as you continue, “but I think maybe it’s just Him sighing. Tired of watching everyone pretend they’re somethin’ they’re not.”

He hummed in agreement. The swing creaked.

“If he’s up there… he’s kind of wicked, huh? Letting us all wander around down here all angry and confused.”

“Wicked?”

“Mmm,” he nodded.

“Would you still love me if I was somethin’ wicked?” You asked him, and he blanched. “Not like that. Just like-- as a friend. And I wouldn’t be bad. Just bent. Marked. Like I came out wrong. Like all this good-girl skin I’ve been wearing is stretched over a fire I can’t put out.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it. Just stared into the rising wind.

He answered slowly: “I don’t think love works if it only applies to the parts you’re proud of.”

“So… yes?”

“Yes.”

You exhaled, heart lighter. “I think I’m scared I’m more wicked than I know. I’m probably already burning.”

He reached over and gently threaded his fingers through yours.

“Then we burn slow. Together.”

The thunder rolled again, and you believed him.

The light was gone, but the air still held the heat of the day. Crickets sang in the grass. Fireflies flashed over the water like tiny prayers. You sat side by side with Eddie on your favorite flat stone. Your shoulders barely touched. You were holding your newest notebook in your lap, but it’d been closed for a while.

The silence between the two of you wasn’t awkward. Hadn’t ever been awkward. It was heavy. Meaningful.

Eddie skipped a stone. It sank after one bounce. He sighed. You were still deep in thought. Thinking about the drive home you had with your momma after your dad’s sermon. You’d just passed the general goods store when you saw it-- a couple, ‘round your age, standing next to the worn buildings in an embrace. Lips resting against each other. Hands raised and clutching hair or clothes.

“I can’t sleep anymore,” Eddie told you, pulling you from sinful thoughts. “Not really.”

“Why?”

“Every time I close my eyes lately, I feel like something’s about to end.”

“Maybe somethin’ already did,” you shrugged.

“What?”

“Childhood. Home. I don’t know. That feeling you have when there’s still time for you to do what you want.”

“I thought we wanted to grow up. Racing for it, even.”

“We do. We were.” You told him honestly. “Just weren’t ever told how hard it is.”

You fell into a long silence at that. Not empty-- just full of everything you didn’t know how to say yet.

“Sometimes I think about running.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just somewhere else. Someplace that doesn’t smell like beer and church pews.”

“You’d hate it,” you told him, hoping to convince him that he would hate it. That he’d hate it the way your stomach and heart hated hearing him say he’d pictured running away. “You’d miss the way the trees bend when the wind picks up. Or the way the frogs sound after it rains. You’d miss me.”

He smiled, but it was sad. Didn’t meet his eyes.

“I’d ask you to come with me, but you wouldn’t.” He told you.

“You’re right.”

“Why?”

“Because staying means something. Means I can be brave, too.”

“You can be.”

You nodded, but your hands tightened in your lap, messed with the edges of your notebook.

“Can I say something that might be stupid?”

“Always,” he answered immediately, big brown eyes landing on yours. “I say stupid things all the time. You’re safe.”

You took a deep breath, looked down at your hands, “I’ve never kissed anyone.”

He was quiet for a beat.

“Okay.”

“I want to. Just once. Before--before everything gets harder. Before I forget how it feels to choose something for myself.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. Your eyes glistened, but you weren’t crying.

“I want it to be you. I trust you.”

He’s breath caught. You remember the sound.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” a whisper.

“You don’t owe me--”

“I’m not doin’ it because I owe you or you owe me. I’m doin’ it because it’s you.”

He nodded slowly. Then he turned to face you.

You were shaking. He noticed-- you saw the way he eyed your hands-- but he didn’t comment. His hand reached out a brushed a leaf from your hair. You let your eyes fall closed.

Then--

He kissed you.

Slow. Gentle. Almost shy. But real. Honest.

A quiet kiss at the edge of a world that doesn’t want you to have one.

When you pulled apart, your eyes were still closed.

“Now I’ve done it,” you groaned in a whisper, “I’m ruined.”

“You’re not ruined. You’re just more real now.”

You laughed at that, soft and sad.

“My momma would say I’ve given a piece of my soul away.”

“Guess I better take good care of it, then.”

You sat for a while longer, holding the moment between the two of you like something fragile. Then you leaned your head against his shoulder.

“I should go.”

“I know.”

You stood, brushing your hands on your jeans. Slung your backpack over a sunburnt shoulder.

“YN?” He called when you were at the clearing’s edge and near the trees.

You turned, eyes lit by moonlight and soul singing, even if part of it lived elsewhere.

“Thanks for choosing me.”

You didn’t answer, just gave him the smallest of smiles before disappearing into the trees.

Smelled so much like Summer you smiled. You sat on the stone, knees pulled to your chest, hair loose around your shoulders. There’s a red mark on your ankle where the nettles brushed you the other day.

Eddie arrived late, breathless from running. Hoodie tied around his waist. His cheeks were flushed, curls messy from the wind.

“Thought you’d have given up on me,” he smiled.

“Almost did,” you smirk back.

He plopped down next to you, smelling like soap and pine and something warm clinging to his skin. You didn’t touch, but you didn’t need to. The silence was sweet between the two of you then.

He watched the water.

“Been thinkin’ about last week.”

You went rod straight. Cheeks flushed.

“Me too.”

“Didn’t regret it. Not for a second.”

Your heart tripped in your chest. “I keep playin’ it in my head. Like if I remember it right, maybe I won’t forget it later.”

He smiled, “You won’t.”

Another pause. He shifted closer, elbows were brushing then. A stillness settled. Thick with unspoken longing.

“Can I…?”

You nodded before he could finish.

He leaned in slowly. That time, there was no hesitation, no breath held. It was deeper than the first kiss. Slower. Sweeter. He kissed you like a promise. Like he was memorizing you.

Your hand found his neck, tentative but certain, and he pulled you closer gently by the waist. It was clumsy in parts, unfamiliar still-- but it felt like everything you’d ever wanted.

And that scared you. Because it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a beginning. And beginnings always led to something breaking.

When you parted, your lips were swollen and your eyes were glassy. You couldn’t catch your breath, but it wasn’t from the kiss. It was from knowing.

He leaned his forehead against yours, smiling softly.

“You ok?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” you whispered. So quiet then and now.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Your eyes had widened big as saucers. But he didn’t laugh at you. He didn’t look away.

He’d only smiled, quiet and sure, and then whispered back: “good.”

And you cried before you could stop yourself. Because that made it real.

And real was always the most terrifying thing of all.

The house was dead quiet when you returned. The porch light was off. Those were the first signs.

The third was the way the screen door creaked just a little too loud as you pushed it open, cringing at the noise. Your heart pounded as you slid your shoes off next to the door and tiptoed over the creaky floorboards. Mud stained the knees of your jeans, your socks were balled somewhere in your backpack, and your notebook was tucked beneath your arm like a secret.

You were almost to the stairs when--

A click.

The lamp in the living room switched on, and your father sat rigid in his armchair. You’d seen him like that during sermons before. Repent repent repent. He’d had his bible in one hand, glasses on the bridge of his nose, fury beneath the calm. Your momma stood by the window, arms crossed tight over her chest, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack.

“Where have you been?” She asked you, her concerned gaze betraying a rigid posture.

You froze.

“I was-- I headed down to the library. Studying.”

“Library closes at 8,” your dad snapped.

You looked down.

“You smell like dirt. You think we’re stupid? You missed dinner. Missed curfew. Missed Wednesday service.”

The last one hit the hardest.

You flinched, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, eyes on anything but your pa.

“Been sneaking around for weeks, haven’t you?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“What is it? Hm? Drugs? A boy?”

You looked up, eyes meeting your pa’s burning gaze. “No,” you said, too quietly.

“Don’t lie in this house. Not under this roof.”

He stood. Not yelling, not even raising his voice-- but he didn’t have to. His height alone felt like judgment. Like God’s shadow.

“Who is he?”

You didn’t answer.

“Is he from the Church?”

You didn’t answer again. Eddie had missed a few sermons lately. They hadn’t gone since they lost his grandma, but he told you they’d be back next week.

Your mother took a sharp breath at your silence. Like confirmation of the worst.

“What did we say about keeping yourself pure? What did we say about temptation?”

Your throat closed up. Your nails dug into your palms. You wanted to scream--but screaming would have proven them right. So you stayed still.

“You think this world out there has anything for you, girl?” Your pa had asked. “You think some boy who doesn’t even sit in pews will give you what we give you here?”

“He doesn’t want anything from me.”

“That’s what they always say! Till you come back crying with nothing left to give.” Your mom spat.

Silence. You stared at the floor, voice smaller than it’d ever been: “He listens to me.”

Your father slammed his Bible shut.

“Pack up that notebook. You won’t need it anymore. And you are not to leave this house unless it’s for school or service.”

“And you’ll pray tonight. Until you remember who you are. Until you’re saved.” Your mother had added.

“Go on now.”

You stood frozen for a second longer, tears burned behind your eyes-- but you didn’t cry. You just nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

You turned and walked up the stairs, every step echoed like a funeral bell. Your notebook pressed against your chest like a heartbeat. Like proof.

Moments later you’d been locked in your room, knelt beside your bed like they’d taught you. And you cried-- not for forgiveness. Not even from shame.

You cried because you didn’t want to be saved.

Hours later and the house was silent, lights all off. Your parents had gone to bed.

You slipped out the back door barefoot, the screen door eased shut behind you with the softest of creaks as if apologizing for its earlier noise.

The moon was high. The yard dew-slick. The nettles grew behind the toolshed, tall and overgrown, clustered like they’d been waiting for you. You walked towards them like you’d done it before. And truth be told, you had. In tinier doses. But that time? It was different.

Memories flooded your system.

Lips brushing against yours.

Your father’s voice: “Your body is a temple.”

Your mother's warning: “One moment of sin, and you can’t take it back.”

The way you’d whispered “yes” anyway.

You knelt beside the nettles, hands hovered over them, fingers trembled.

You told yourself you were sorry and then pressed sin-covered wrists into the nettles.

You hissed through your teeth as the sting spread up your arm.

And then you did it again. And again. Until your skin was red and raw, a map of guilt bloomed beneath moonlight.

You didn’t cry.

You just felt-- finally. Fully. And you told yourself: this is what forgiveness costs.

Right before dawn broke, you were curled at your desk. Your wrist had been bandaged in gauze you found in the bathroom. Your window was cracked open, the wind smelled like honeysuckle and dust.

You opened a notebook. Not the one with poems you’d drafted next to Eddie on random rocks near the creek-- this had been a new one. Plain. Blank. A secret.

You turned to the first page. Picked up your pen.

And you wrote.

Eddie,

I know I’m not supposed to talk to you anymore. I know I’m supposed to hate what we did. But I don’t. Not really.

I keep hearing my momma’s voice saying kisses ruin you. But the only thing that felt ruined was the part of me that had to pretend I didn’t like it.

You were soft and you were safe.

And I said yes.

I think I’ll go to Hell for it.

But I’d do it again.

Love,

YN

You closed the notebook after that and tucked it under the floorboard beneath your bed, along with the poetry notebook. No one could know. Not about the kiss. Not about the nettles. Not about the way his name made you feel both like a sin and song.

And still, you pressed your palm to the rawness beneath your sleeve and whispered a final word before sleep: please.

It was overcast again-- not storming, just heavy. The air was full of damp leaves and silence. The kind that settled over everything like a warning or omen.

Eddie waited by the creek, kicking rocks into the water. His hair had been growing out, so it blows in the wind more. His shirt was wrinkled. He looked tired, like the nights had been colder for him.

His eyes glanced up as you skirted into the clearing of the creek.

You approached slowly at first. Smiling, soft-- but it faded when you stopped a few feet away instead of settling beside him like you usually had.

“Hey,” a beat. “You okay?”

You nodded once, then shook your head.

“No, not really.”

He tilted his head in return, “Talk to me.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Felt the nerves bubble up and your heart wither.

“We can’t keep doin’ this.”

“Doing what?”

“This. Meeting. Talking. Kissing. Pretending like it doesn’t cost somethin’.”

“It doesn’t have to. No one has to know. We can keep it--”

“But I know.”

He walked towards you then, confused and clearly shaken, and your heart shattered. His voice was low, like he was trying not to spook you and it reminded you so much of the first day he found you in the creek that your chest nearly caved in.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No. That’s the problem. You didn’t.”

“Then what is this?”

You looked down, clutching your sleeves tighter. He stepped closer, reaching at your wrist, and shit, that hurt. And he saw it.

“Sweetheart…”

The flinch-- too late. Your sleeve rode up just enough for him to see the angry, red welted rash along your inner arm, faint now but unmistakable. His eyes drifted towards the patch of nettles you’d shown him so long ago.

He stilled.

“What is that?”

“Nothin’. It’s fine.”

“That’s not nothing.”

He stared at you-- shocked, scared, heartbroken.

“Did someone hurt you?”

“I did.” So quiet he almost didn’t catch it.

“Why?”

You blinked back tears. Your voice broke.

“Because I was supposed to say no. Because I’m supposed to be better than what I feel. Because I liked kissing you and I wasn’t supposed to.”

“You hurt yourself because of me?”

“No. Because of me.”

It all hit you then. The years of servitude and solitude. The years of having to be perfect. The years before Eddie.

“This isn’t me. I’m not this.” You hissed. “So we have to stop.”

“That’s it?”

“Has to be,” you answered.

He swallowed hard. Looked like he might have cried-- but he didn’t. You’d have folded were it otherwise.

“You said you trusted me,” he breathed.

“I do. That’s why I’m walkin’ away now.”

“If this is about your parents, I can--”

“You can’t.” You spat.

“You were the only part of this place that felt right,” he told you softly. So softly.

“I’ll still write to you… and, well, you’ll see me in school.”

A hopeful glance, and then: “You’ll write me? Letters?”

“In my notebooks,” you told him quietly. “You won’t see them.”

He closed his eyes at that, nodding robotically.

You stepped away from him, retreating into the trees like a ghost before he could ask you to stay.

You wrote him that night:

Eddie,

I wish you had gotten mad at me. I wish you had yelled. It would’ve been easier than that look you gave me.

I said goodbye today, but my body didn’t believe me. My heart didn’t either.

I hope you don’t hate me. I hope you don’t wait for me. But I kind of hope you do, too.

I’m trying to be good. I don’t know if I’m meant for good.

I miss you.

God, I miss you.

Love,

YN

Hymns rose like smoke. Soft voices. Wooden pews. Dust swam in the light from the tall stained-glass windows. The air smelled like wax and old wood and faded perfume.

You sat in your usual spot with your mother. Second row of pews. Your dress was pale yellow. Nails bitten short. A small bruise bloomed beneath the sleeve of your blouse-- faint, from a nettle stem you pressed too hard against your skin three nights before.

Your father’s voice was muffled under the swell of the guilt in your ears. You glanced across the sanctuary again.

He still wasn’t there.

Second pew from the back. Right side. Where he always sat with his head bowed and hands folded after that first time he’d shown up, even when he hated every second of it.

But he wasn’t there.

Hadn’t been since you told him goodbye.

You thought it was a coincidence at first. Thought maybe he was sick. Or visiting family. Overslept.

But after that…

You knew. He wasn’t coming back.

Because you told him goodbye. Because you made it look like none of it meant anything.

You shifted in the pew, palms sweaty. The words from the pulpit a blur in your ears.

“...and we must cast out temptation, for the wages of sin is death…”

Your chest tightened. Fingernails dug into your thighs beneath the Bible on your lap.

The choir rose. You didn’t.

You stared at the back of the church and saw the echo of him sitting there.

Head bowed. Shoulders tense.

A boy who once kissed you like you were the only thing that made him believe in anything holy.

And you told him you couldn’t do anything anymore.

And then… he didn’t even come back to a fading church to pretend.

Eddie,

My mother made me wear pink today.

She said it makes me look soft. Said it’s a color men like. That I should smile more. That I should try.

He was nice. That’s the worst part.

Polite, clean-cut, asked if I like poetry-- though I don’t think he’s ever read a line of it in his life. He bought me a rose. Not wildflowers. Not weeds pressed between pages. Just a grocery store rose with a barcode still on the plastic.

He sat across from me like he was already halfway gone. Already thinking about whether I could cook or pray loud enough. He asked me what my father preaches about on Sundays and didn’t blink when I said “submission.”

You never asked me to fold.

He walked me home. My mother watched from the window. When he left, she said I did well. That he might be “a real option.” I nodded.

Then I locked my door and sat on the floor and cried until my ribs ached.

Because the whole time I was thinking about the first time you looked at me like I was made of something worth burning for.

You didn’t wear nice clothes.

You didn’t bring flowers.

You just showed up, barefoot, hands in your pockets, and gave me a place to be quiet without being invisible.

And I ruined it.

I walked away, and I haven’t stopped feeling the hole it left.

I hate how easily people forget. I hate how the world keeps turning like we were never carved into it. But most of all, I hate that you might be forgetting me too.

Do you still go to the creek?

Do you still look for me in the trees?

Do you ever wish I stayed?

I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

But I was so afraid of becoming everything they warned me about that I became something worse.

Absent.

I don’t want him.

I want you.

But wanting you still feels like a sin, and I still don’t know how to carry both at once.

Wherever you are, I hope your heart is quieter than mine.

I love you.

I never stopped.

Love,

YN

Blue sky filtered through the trees.

That strange color between day and night, when everything softens but nothing feels safe.

Eddie walked through the brush alone.

No stone in his hand. No smile on his face.

Just that same worn-out hoodie, hands shoved into the pockets like he’d been holding himself together.

The creek murmured ahead-- still flowing, still indifferent to the storm that’d been inside of him and the differences surrounding his revisiting.

He reached the flat stone where you’d always sat with him. Dropped down to it without grace. Just folded.

And then he stared at the water.

You laughing as you skipped a stone.

Your head resting on his shoulder.

Your voice whispering, “I trust you.”

The way you flinched when he touched your wrist.

Years later and it had still hurt the same, if not more.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Rubbed his palms over his face. He didn’t cry. Not quite. But his throat was thick with everything he couldn’t say.

He plucked a stone from the ground and tossed it. It skipped once. Sank.

“Would’ve waited. Still might.” He whispered.

Silence. The trees rustled. The wind picked up.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Then the trees silenced. Stilled. The kind of still that doesn’t come from peace-- but from something being gone.

The silence isn’t quiet. It’s empty.

The water kept moving. Everything did, except for him.

He ran his thumb along the edge of the stone, smooth from all of your sitting. Or maybe it was always that way. Maybe he only noticed when it wasn’t pressing into your thigh beside his.

His hoodie smelled like smoke and pine and time. The cuffs were frayed where you once fidgeted with them while talking about books and pain and gardenias. Your voice wasn’t there anymore. Not even the echo of it. Made Eddie feel sick.

His gaze drifted to the far bank. The spot where you showed him the nettles. The ones that made you bleed in the name of forgiveness. The word forgiveness had twisted in his gut like something sour.

He remembered your wrist.

The way you flinched when he noticed.

The way you looked when you told him you trusted him-- then left anyway.

His heart felt bruised. Not broken.

Breaking meant something shatters and is done. Kaput.

This was slower. Sicker. Like a fever that hadn’t broken.

His chest was full of words he never got to say. Letters he’ll never read. Futures he only got to imagine for a time.

He picked up another stone. Smooth. Flat. Cold.

He held it.

Wondered how long a person can sit in a place full of memories before the memories stop recognizing them. Or they stop recognizing the memories.

He flicked the stone across the water and it didn’t skip. Just sank. Like everything else. He leaned back, pressed his palms to the cold stone. Closed his eyes.

And for the first time since you said goodbye two years prior--

He let the ache stretch wide enough to fill him.

No fight. No resistance. Just grief, the knowledge that he stayed and you didn’t. That maybe you couldn’t. That maybe he shouldn’t either. And somewhere beneath the steady pulse of the water and the weight of the air, the idea surfaced…

Leave.

Not because he didn’t love you.

Because staying had hurt more than the unknown.

Enlist.

Let them cut his hair. Strip him down. Turn him into something harder than this soft, raw thing he’d been left with.

Maybe pain and purpose would feel better than this one.

Maybe if he disappears, the ache will too.

So he will.

Daylight filtered through gauzy curtains in the kitchen. The table was set. Smell of burnt toast and lemon cleaner wafted through the room. It was a Sunday-- church shoes still rested by the door.

You sat on the counter, buttering a piece of toast with mechanical precision. Your hair was pulled back, face clean, dress simple. You were quiet. Not sulking, not present. Just there.

Your mother stood by the sink, drying dishes. Your father flipped through the town bulletin, coffee steamed in the mug next to him.

“Did you hear? That Munson boy-- what was his name? Eddie?” Your mom began.

Your heart stopped. Lurched over a cliff. Breathing was automatically labored. Your hand had frozen mid-spread.

“Mmm,” your father had nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Eddie Munson. Yeah, he went and enlisted. Army, I heard.”

You didn’t breathe.

“Hmph. Can’t say I’m surprised. That boy was always wandering. One foot out the door since they moved here.”

“Maybe it’ll straighten him out,” your dad reasoned. “Boys like that need structure. Discipline. Might be the best thing for him.”

Your stomach turned.

“That family’s always been… off. Drunk father, no real direction. His uncle Wayne’s been trying but… That kind of upbringing breeds trouble. You can’t plant in bad soil and expect roses.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, you set the knife down on your plate. Your toast went uneaten.

“You ever talk to him at school?” Your father asked you.

“Makes no difference now. He’s gone.” Your mother answered.

You pushed your plate away, chair making a soft screech as you stood.

“Where are you going?”

“Just… out.” You hiss.

You walked quickly. No shoes. No coat. Stepped out onto the porch like you were sleepwalking.

The air was hot. Too hot. Your breath felt wrong in your chest.

He was gone.

He really did it.

And you weren’t there to tell him not to.

You thought of the creek. Of the rocks. The place you used to pretend was untouched by time.

You imagined him walking away from it, without a goodbye, carrying nothing but what you left behind in him.

You ran.

Barefoot. Heart beating too hard. Like it wanted to chase the road, like maybe if you had moved fast enough, you’d find him still there, waiting at the edge of leaving.

But the trees didn’t whisper his name anymore.

Only yours.

And you didn’t answer.

The woods hadn’t changed. Everything else, though…

You stepped through the trees like you were afraid they wouldn’t let you in anymore. Like the air would still remember how it smelled when he was there. You hadn’t been back since saying goodbye years prior.

The path was still worn from where their feet used to press it down-- barefoot, laughing, hiding.

But it was overgrown now. And your heart sputtered to a messy stop.

The green was thicker, like it was trying to forget you were ever there.

You reached the clearing.

The stone was still there. The one you always sat on. Flat. Cool. Waiting.

You didn’t sit right away. Just looked.

The creek hummed softly-- the same, but crueler. Because it was still moving. And he wasn’t in it.

You walked to the edge of the water.

Knelt.

Touched the surface. It was cold.

Then you lowered yourself onto the stone. Folded your knees up to your chest.

Everything was quiet. Even the birds didn’t sing.

You pulled something from your pocket-- a crumpled piece of notebook paper, torn from the back of a letter you never finished.

There was no salutation. No “Eddie.” Just a single sentence, scrawled in ink stained with fingerprints.

You could’ve convinced me to go with you if I’d only been brave.

You pressed the note beneath a flat rock beside the tree where he once carved your initials with a pocket knife. The mark was faded then. Worn down by time. Still there.

Like you.

You rested back in the grass.

Let the weight of everything fall on top of you.

Let the sky see you.

Let the wind move through your hair like maybe it was him, come back one last time to say goodbye.

A breeze stirred the leaves. A crow cried far off. The sun began to dip below the branches.

You closed your eyes and whispered into nothing.

Come back.

And you knew he wouldn’t.

Your room was bathed in pale gold. It slipped and spilled through the cracks in the curtains and kissed your bare arms where they lay atop the covers. The house was still quiet- your parents were still gone.

You stared at the ceiling. Blank-eyed. Awake too early.

You didn’t move, instead, you drifted--

The room was painted in soft morning glow.

White curtains were swaying gently from an open window. A gardenia plant on the sill-- its petals just beginning to open.

There was a cup of coffee on the table. A half-read book. The smell of something warm in the kitchen… cinnamon or honey, maybe.

And him.

Eddie, barefoot, hair damp, wearing an old linen shirt you swore you’d never seen before, but felt like home. He hummed something under his breath. Not a song--just comfort. It was instinct.

You walked past him, shoulders brushing. He kissed your temple without thinking. No rush. No hiding. Just quiet and allowed.

There was no shame there. No sin. Just a life you built from bones and sunlight.

You spoke, he laughed.

Not bitter. Not weary. Just full.

You could almost feel it.

You blinked once.

Twice.

You were still in your childhood bed.

Still in a dress your mom picked for a date your mom arranged.

Still aching.

The room smelled like dust and church and every version of yourself you tried to bury.

There were no white curtains.

No gardenias.

Just the ghost of a boy who’s not dead, but already started fading.

You turned on your side. Buried your face in your pillow.

And for the first time--

You let yourself grieve him.

Like a funeral with no name. No shame.

The stars were high and hard. The kind of sky that didn’t blink. The house was dark.

You were barefoot again.

Your nightgown clung to your legs in the warm wind. Your hands were dirty, nails cracked and bloodied.

You were behind the toolshed, where the nettles used to grow.

Because you dug ‘em up.

Fists clawed at the earth when the shovel didn’t feel visceral enough. You tore at roots, ripped up stalks long since withered, the ghosts of stings still lingered on your skin.

You dug until the patch was bare and wide and dark with disturbed soil.

Then you rested down in it.

A grave for the pain you chose.

The dirt was cool. Damp. You pressed your palms flat against it. Closed your eyes and listened to the earth breathe around you.

It didn’t comfort you.

But it also didn’t lie.

Some time later, and your fingers were still smudged with soil.

You opened your notebook. One of the secret ones.

The first one you filled with letters to Eddie. The boy who once waited for you at the creek. The one you kissed beneath the trees. The one you let leave. You wrote like you were writing a dead man.

Eddie,

Today I buried the nettles. I thought maybe if I put the pain in the ground, I could leave it there, too.

But I laid down in it, and all I felt was the weight of everything I never gave you.

You’re not dead.

But the version of you that was mine is.

So I’ll mourn you like I would a boy in a box, white shirt and folded hands, too quiet to say goodbye.

You didn’t sign that one, just closed the notebook. But the dream hadn’t left you yet.

White ribbons fluttered from branches. A veil caught in the breeze. Eddie waited at the alter-- soft-eyed, the sun on his cheeks.

You walked through the petals.

You kissed.

The world held its breath and then exhaled…

White curtains. A garden heavy with bees.

Children’s laughter in the distance. 

A baby’s cry. 

His laugh. 

Sunday dinners where no one prays to ease their desire. 

A life without shame.

A love without hiding.

Your hands reached toward nothing. 

And in your mind…

It all catches fire. The veil melted to ash. The house cracked. The children vanish. Eddie turned to smoke. Gardenia petals burned black. You watched it all go up in flames. And you didn’t scream. Just pressed your hand to your chest and breathed deeply. 

Amen. 

The summer Eddie almost died, the gardenias along the fields bloomed too early. Like some sort of omen.

They fell in heavy white clumps along the fence lines, petals browning before the heat had time to settle. You noticed them one morning after church, arms wrapped in a white cardigan despite the sweat. You bent to pick one up and pricked your thumb on a wasp that had died there. 

The sting stayed with you all week. 

So did the image of Eddie in a hospital bed halfway across the world. Pale as linen sheets, a tube down his throat and gauze around his chest. They said he had been grazed by a sniper rifle. His dad’d heard the news first and in a small town like Hawkins, news traveled fast. You’d been beyond yourself when it greeted you at the kitchen table. Your mom’s tone was hushed, and prayers were recited with inflated emotion that night. 

It was the kind of injury only God could cure, your dad had said. 

You hadn’t seen him in so long. Your letters still sat unsent in the floorboard beneath your bed. In notebooks that were only growing companions. You could still hear his voice sometimes-- deep, low, slightly slurred when he was too comfortable or sleep-addled. 

You were angry. With the world. Yourself. Him. But especially yourself. 

You’d been raised in the same church, had sat under the same stained glass since you could walk, had listened to the same hymns-- yet you only noticed him after that day in the creek. And when your body had started aching for something no sermon could explain, you told no one. Not even him. 

You nodded when your dad asked again if you were alright, conversation with your mom paused. You excused yourself from dinner early and snuck to the creek again. The second time since your goodbye. 

You took the long way that night, a patch of nettles behind the parsonage-- jagged, wild, almost humming with a kind of judgment. The first time you’d brushed your legs against them, it’d been an accident-- you were 7 and simply didn’t look at where your feet were going. This time, it was not. 

Every time you thought of Eddie’s lips, you went back. 

Every time you woke from dreams of white picket fences and sweat-slicked skin in his old Chevy he’d been fixing up for the last months you’d talked, you went back.

And he was dying. Or maybe he was already gone. You had no way of knowing. 

You pressed a gardenia against your chest and thought of all the things you never got to say. 

You’re alone for the night. Your pa is at the hospital visiting your mother. Borrowed time, they told you. No amount of prayer. 

You’d tried to find solace in the stars, but everything feels like it’s laughing at you lately. Mockery. Deception. Betrayal. It all hurts too deep and laughs too loud. 

The porch light is out and the house settles. Crickets buzz somewhere far off. 

You stand in the hallway, hair tied back and sleeves rolled to the elbows, a half-empty mug of coffee in your hand. You’d been sitting with the quiet all evening. Your boyfriend, a sweet and noble man from town, was understanding of your leaving. You needed to be with family, he understood that. So he left you with a kiss on the cheek and a promise of seeing you in a few days after a work trip. You’d moved in with him not too long back, now. Much to the dismay of your parents. But time had wisened you up; you didn’t owe them your life or your happiness. So you moved out, and gave them a choice. Stay in your life and accept your decisions, or spurn your life and be ejected from it. They decided after a week of deliberation. 

Matthew’s a good guy. Doesn’t push too hard, doesn’t argue… Just supports you. Helps you. 

It’s not love, but it’s not deceptive either. 

There’s compassion. There’s attraction. There’s… something. 

And the sex isn’t abysmal, though you're limited in experience. 

You shake your head as if to clear it, trying to sit in the quiet of the evening. You’d listened to your mother breathe through machines all day. 

Then… a knock. 

Three soft taps. No urgency. No warning. 

You open the door, wincing at the creak it emits. 

And there he is. 

Eddie. 

Older now. More shadow than boy. His face is leaner, jaw stronger. Eyes the same, but quieter. Worn. His hands hang stiff at his sides. He doesn’t speak right away. 

Neither do you. 

You just look. 

And it feels like someone cleaved the world in two. 

You take a deep breath and crack the door open more, leading him to the living room. 

He sits. You sit. You breathe.

“I heard about your dad.” 

He nods, doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t mention the funeral. 

“I’m sorry,” you add.

“I heard about your mom.” 

You look down at your mug. It’s gone cold. 

“Thought I’d stop by. I don’t know. Thought maybe it’d matter.” 

“It does,” you exhale through lips that remember the feeling of his. 

Silence follows. Not comfortable. Not cruel. Heavy. 

“I’m engaged.” 

You don’t flinch. Just press your thumb against the handle of your mug. 

“She good to you?” 

“Yeah,” a beat, “it’s different.” 

You nod once, curt. 

“You’re the only person who ever saw me.” 

Your breath catches. Not dramatically. Just slightly-- like something inside her remembered how to ache. 

You stand, cross the room, and pull an old Bible from the shelf. You open it to the middle-- pressed between the pages, delicate and browned with age: 

A dried gardenia. 

You hold it out to him. Don’t say a word. 

He looks at it for a long time. 

And he doesn’t grab it. 

Not because he doesn’t want to. Because he knows: somethings are meant to stay buried in books and years of silence. 

He stands. “I should go home.” 

“Yeah,” you whisper. 

He moves to the door and stops once, hand hovering over the knob. You don’t say anything else. He nods to himself, and then he’s gone. 

The door clicks shut. 

The air still holds him. His scent. His weight. The echo of the words both spoken and unspoken left behind. 

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, the Bible still heavy in your hands. The dried gardenia rests between your fingers-- fragile, papery. You stare at it like it might whisper what to do. 

Your throat tightens. Your chest swells. 

You move--slowly-- back to the couch. 

Sit. 

The silence returns. 

The familiar, suffocating silence that used to follow your secrets. You blink hard, like you’re trying to stay put, to stay still, to be good.

But you just can’t do it. 

Like those many years ago when you raced across the tracks and into the unknown, you’re up and the Bible thuds to the floor. 

You rush for the door, barefoot, night air rushing in. 

And he’s halfway down the driveway, headed for a sleek car that sits at the end of it. His shoulders are stiff, like he’s walking away from something heavy and final. And you want anything but that. 

“Eddie,” you gasp out. 

He stops. Turns. Your eyes lock across the dark lawn. 

For one second-- nothing moves. 

Then you run. 

Across the grass, through the humid night, wind tangling in your hair and nightgown. He doesn’t move first, just watches. Breath shallow. 

But when you reach him-- 

You collide. 

Hands in hair, lips crashing, years unraveling all at once. 

The kiss is frantic, deep, trembling. Not clean. Not poetic. 

It’s everything unsaid over the past years. 

All the letters. All of the almosts. All of the aching. 

He kisses you like he’s remembering what it meant to belong. To be allowed to exist. 

You kiss him like he never left. 

Your fingers curled in his hoodie at the creek. 

Your first kiss under the trees at the creek. 

Would you still love me if I was something wicked?

Then we burn slow. Together. 

The taste of longing. Of never. Of now. 

You part just enough to breathe. Your foreheads touch. Neither of you speaks a single word. There’s nothing left to say. 

This isn’t a beginning. 

S’just the flood. 

And come morning-- 

It’ll all recede…

And you didn’t mean for it to happen like this. 

Not after all the years of unsent letters, of promises you’d made to other people. 

But after meeting at the edge of the driveway-- after the kiss under the moonlight-- after everything tells you to run-- 

You don’t. 

With his hand in yours, you walk back up to the porch. 

Open the door. 

Step inside. 

He follows. 

And the house is so quiet. 

The space between you hums. Tired and holy. 

And you move like you’ve dreamed of this a thousand times-- and maybe you have. 

No rush. No words, at first. Just touches that ask permission and eyes that say yes. 

In your childhood bedroom, surrounded by who you used to be, you make love. 

It’s slow. Careful. Like you’re stitching old wounds shut. Like you’re remembering who you were, and choosing, just for tonight, to believe in that version again. 

He traces the scar on your wrist without asking. You kiss the bruise near his collarbone without needing an explanation. 

And after-- bare skin beneath flannel sheets and stormlight leaking in through the blinds-- you whisper what you never said back then: 

I never stopped waiting. 

If the world were different… 

If I asked you to stay… would you? 

Yes. Yes, I would.

But it doesn’t last. 

The front door slams. Heavy boots. Your father’s voice-- coarse, commanding. 

He wasn’t s’posed to be back till Sunday. 

The door bursts open. There’s shouting. 

Your father’s face is red with rage, betrayal, and shame. 

And Eddie… 

He doesn’t run. 

Doesn’t hide. 

He stands in front of you, trying to shield you even as the first blow comes. First of a few.

You scream and try to stop it. But your father has already decided what kind of girl you are and what kind of boy Eddie is. 

You finally pull Eddie with you out the front door, sounds of your father’s anger leak through the wooden door. 

Whore. 

Trash. 

Get out before I kill you. 

Sinners. 

Unclean. 

Eddie is silent for a long time, blood dripping from his bottom lip, and right eye already swelling.

“Come with me.” 

You turn to him. Blink hard. You don’t understand at first. 

“I mean it. We’ll leave tonight. Right now. I’ve got gas. Just say the word.” 

Your lips part, and no sound comes out. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he says quieter, “I’ll get another job. You can finish school somewhere else. We don’t need anyone. We never did.” 

You stare at him. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears. Your mom in her hospital bed flashes in your mind. 

“Eddie…” 

He steps closer, one foot between you now. “Please. Before you change your mind. Before you go back in there and pretend what happened didn’t just happen. Just-- please.” 

You open your mouth again. Close it. 

And the moment hangs. Heavy and bare. Like something divine is being choked out. You look towards the door and back toward him. You don’t move. Why can’t you move? 

“That’s your answer, huh?” 

You don’t cry, but your throat moves like you’re swallowing glass. 

“I’m-- I’m sorry.” You whisper, barely audible. 

“Don’t be.” 

His voice is empty. Detached now. 

He steps back, wipes his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand again. 

“Guess I was the fool for thinking we could ever get out of this place.” 

“I wanted to,” you whisper, choked. 

“You wanted to want to. That’s not the same thing.” 

And he steps off the porch. Walks into the night. 

You stay frozen. Cotton nightgown catching in the wind. Standing in the threshold of the only life you’ve ever known and watching the one you wanted disappear again.

And you let him go.

Again.

The night doesn’t end in tenderness, but in bruises and sirens of the soul.

The sky is still dark. A deep slate blue bleeding slowly into the morning. There’s no music. No headlights from behind.

Eddie drives in complete silence. 

Hands clenched tight around the wheel, knuckles white, a pulse hammering in his jaw. The windows are down. The wind rushes in like it’s trying to hold him back, or keep him going. 

His mouth is still swollen from the kiss. From what came after.

He tastes you--

On his lips, 

On the air, 

In every breath he takes that feels like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going. 

He just knows he has to go. 

Tears spill, silent. He doesn’t make a sound. Because he knows if he opens his mouth, he’ll break apart completely. 

You chasing after him. Barefoot. Reckless. 

The kiss-- like worship, like drowning. 

After-- your skin so soft and warm under him. The gasps and moans. The taste of your tongue. Of you.

Then… your fingers tangled in his shirt like you were trying to keep him from disappearing. His dried blood was dirtying your sweater. And you couldn’t keep him with you. Not with your father’s shouts coming from up the stairs.

He asked you to go with him. You hesitated. Still. Even after all these years.

His grip on the wheel tightens. He presses his foot down harder, not out of anger--

But because if he slows down, he’ll turn around. He wants to turn around. 

Don’t turn around.

The road stretches ahead, empty. No signs. No lights. Just distance. 

His tears fall steadily now. Not loud. Not dramatic. 

Like rain hitting a tin roof. 

Like the kind that comes when the storm’s passed, and everything is too quiet. 

Behind him: your porch, your quiet, your gardenias, your ghost, your nettles. You. 

Ahead of him: everything, nothing certain, nothing safe. 

But he drives anyway. 

And somewhere down the road, with the last of your salt on his tongue, he finally lets himself fall apart. He lets himself cry for the life he’ll never have and lets you fade.      

It’s pale and grey outside when you finally rise off the porch and go back inside. You’ve cried all you can cry. Your heart aches something deadly and you’re so numb. 

The living room is dim. A lamp glows near the Bible on the coffee table. Your father stands in the kitchen, arms crossed and knuckles still red. He doesn’t look at you when you enter. 

“You could have killed him,” you spit. 

“He had no right being here. Defiling this house.” 

“This house was defiled long before he touched me.” 

He turned then, furious, “Watch your mouth.”

“No.” 

“That boy ruined you.” 

“Like momma's nurses ruin you?" 

Silence. The kind that cuts deep. 

He steps towards you, but you don’t flinch this time. 

“He doesn't ruin, you do. I loved someone, and you treated that like a sin. All you do is control and punish.” 

He says nothing. 

“I’m not your child anymore.” 

You turn and walk away. 

Your room is stripped of him now-- but not of what you shared. Not of what you’ve become. 

You change into jeans, shove your arms into your jacket, grab your keys, and race for the nearby city. 

The room smells like bleach and fading flowers. 

A rosary dangles from an IV pole. 

One hand is wrapped around your mother’s frail fingers, the other gripping the edge of a half-read devotional you can’t bring yourself to finish. Monitors beep softly. Steady but slow.

Your mom-- her skin is pale, papery. Lips dry and chapped. Her breath rattles faintly in her chest. 

Age and sickness overwhelm you. 

She’s awake. Just enough. Her voice is thin but lucid. 

“Your father isn’t with you?” 

“He won’t. Not today.” 

It’s quiet for a second, and your mother blinks slowly, watching you. “Good.” 

You look up, surprised. She exhales, painfully, like letting that word out took something with it. 

“You’ve hardly said ten words,” she adds. 

“You weren’t there last night.” 

“Where?” 

“The house.” You wince. “He hit him. He hit Eddie.” 

She works the words over for a few moments. “That Munson boy?” 

“He came to see me,” you nod. “We hadn’t seen each other in years.” 

She says nothing. You continue. 

“I let him in. Into the house. Into my room.” Her breathing stutters but she doesn’t interrupt you. “We didn’t plan it. We didn’t mean for it to happen like that. But we loved each other, momma. Maybe we always did. And he beat him. In my room… in the hallway. Like a dog.” 

Your mother turns her face slightly. She opens her mouth, but she doesn’t defend him. She doesn’t say “You shouldn’t have let him in.” 

She just waits. 

“I didn’t even cry. Not ‘til he left. Because part of me thought I deserved it.” 

She flinches. Small, but real. 

“You didn’t.” 

“Didn’t I?” You look at her, “I broke the rules. I disobeyed. I let a boy in my bed and I felt loved. I felt safe. And then I watched it fall apart like it was supposed to.” 

“He hurt you too?” 

“No. He protected me.” 

That hands in the air like a sweet, tragic incense. 

“And I let him walk away. Because I was too scared to follow him. To go with him.” 

Your mother closes her eyes. A few seconds pass before she speaks. 

“I never knew it was him. The way you reacted when he enlisted…I should have known.” 

“Why didn’t you ask?” 

“Because it’s easier to pretend you don’t know when it comes to your kids. And I was already drownin’.” 

Silence. The monitor beeps. A horn honks somewhere in the distance. 

“I think I ruined something good.” You whisper. 

“Or maybe… You were never given the tools to keep it.” 

Your eyes fill with her words. 

“I didn’t want to be like you,” you tell her, voice broken. 

She doesn’t flinch. 

“Then don’t be.”

“It still hurts.” 

“Then it mattered, darlin’. I hope if you find him again, you tell him the truth.” 

“What if it’s too late?” 

“It’s not. It’s never too late.” 

“He’s engaged.” 

“Do you still love him?” She blinks. 

“Momma, I never stopped.” 

“Mm.” 

“And I’m still seein’ Matthew. He’s good. Kind. He takes faith seriously. Prays before meals. Volunteers at the church. You’d like him.” 

“I’m sure I would.” 

“He reminds me of dad.” The silence chills. She turns her head slowly.

“Is that supposed to be a comfort?” 

“I don’t know…” You whisper, “he never raises his voice. Never touches me in anger. But… sometimes I feel like I’m back in that house. Tiptoeing. Shrinking. Trying to be small enough to be loved.” 

She exhales slowly and shakily, then looks away, ashamed. 

“I used to think that kind of man was safe. Quiet. Controlled. But control is just fear wearing its Sunday best.” 

You close your eyes, and a tear slips. 

“He never asks about my past. Doesn’t want to know. Says it’s ‘between me and God.’ But sometimes I wish he’d ask. Just once.” 

“Someone who won’t hold your story can’t carry your heart.” 

You look at her, startled, “where was this version of you when I was sixteen?” 

“Buried. Like a seed that never got the sun. Don’t settle.” She reaches out, fingers shaking, and takes your hand in her own. “Don’t marry someone because they’re good on paper. Or because they won’t hurt you. That’s the bare minimum. Don’t stay in wreckage because it’s familiar. Don’t love quietly to keep the peace. You deserve to love loud. To be seen. Even the ugly parts. Especially there.” 

“I thought bein’ loved would fix those.” 

“No, baby. Being loved right just gives you the strength to fix it yourself… Don’t live a life that feels like waiting. You’ve waited long enough.” 

You lean your head against the edge of the bed, sobbing silently. 

“If he’s the wound, let him go. But if he’s the balm-- you better run before someone else marries him. And for what it’s worth? Honey, I think he was the balm.”

"Poopiter." He leaned back and laughed at his own joke. You following suit and got your own ass handed to you for it.

You felt stupid, but it was so embarrassing. More so because it was in front of Eddie, who you were totally crushing on. He was always so sweet to you. The entire class looked at you, scowling and rolling their eyes. You don't know how you'd be able to set foot in that classroom again. You have never gotten yelled at by a teacher.

Your vision blurred as tears poured down your face, ears hot and ringing, body shivering. Your heart was hammering in your chest as you hyperventilated. It hurt.

Your nimble fingers picked at the frayed thread of your ripped jeans, tears rolling down the bridge of your nose and landing on your thigh as your head bowed down. Your lips quivered before you sobbed again, your hands covering your red face as your throat gurgled from the saliva building in your mouth.

Your head snapped up, the hard push on the auditorium door handle echoing loudly throughout the room.

"Doopy doo dee daaaa.." Eddie quickly passed you as he galloped down the long slope walkway toward the stage. His torn backpack hung loosly on one shoulder and flopped roughly against his back.

You shrunk into yourself, your whole body going hot in embarrassment as you quickly wiped the tears from your face and covered your eyes with your still shaky hands, the knot in your throat growing bigger. You swallowed and took the deepest breath you could before slowly letting it out. And then again. And again.

A sudden smack made you perk your head up, the back of your hand wiping under your nose.

"Shit.." Eddie abruptly stopped and turned around to pick up the pencil case that fell out of his backpack. "Need a new backpack."

You involuntarily sniffled, your eyes going wide as his head shot up in your direction.

"Hey!" He grinned, eyes cheerful as he reached one arm up high and waved his arm as if he were flagging down a ship.

You meekly raised your hand, still paralyzed from your panic attack.

He stared at you for a moment, hand frozen in mid-air before he let it fall to his side, tilting his head quizzically.

"Hey, you okay?" He called across the room.

Your stomach twisted again and your eyes started to burn again. I hate when people ask if you're okay when you are NOT okay.

You chomped down on your lip as it began to quiver, a single tear escaping down your cheek.

"No no no no, don't.. shit shit why did I ask that.. uh-" Eddie cursed as he spun in a circle, frantically looking around and panicking.

He held his breath for a moment as he paused, standing still before shrugging his backpack off his shoulder and letting it fall to the floor.

Eddie slowly walked back up the aisle, hands clasped behind him as he leaned forward to get a better look at you- like he was observing a scared cat.

He stood upright as he saw what a mess you were. Your hair stuck to your wet, red, and puffy face, your sad eyes meeting his soft brown ones.

His ringed hand came up to scratch at his chin, his lips sticking at as he looked around awkwardly. You put your head back down to rest on your knees that you'd been hugging and sniffled again as a tear fell onto your sleeve.

He carefully walked in front of you, his dirty white reeboks almost touching your just as dirty converse. You opened your eyes when you heard him groan as he sat down in front of you, his back leaning against one of the many chairs that covered the room.

Your eyes stayed on his sneakers. You wanted to speak, but you couldn't. The only sounds coming out were sniffles.

Eddie skidded his foot forward, the top of his shoe knocking on the side of yours. You didn't move.

He did it again, but with his other foot. And then started to tap them back and forth to whatever song he was playing in his head.

You momentarily furrowed your eyebrows as you watched his feet and shifted your focus to his arms when he started to fiddle with an imaginary guitar.

You wiped your cheek on your shoulder and huffed out a laugh as he began to rock his head back and forth, eyes closed.

"Wish you could hear this. I'm totally shredding it." He peeked one eye open as he began to hum.

You covered your mouth to cover your giggle, his movements pausing at your reaction and feet remaining on either side of your own.

"Maybe someday?" He placed his hands on the floor and leaned forward in question.

You licked your tear stained lips and used the sleeve of your sweater to wipe both of your eyes, your tears finally stopping.

"At the Hideout?" You croaked, cringing at how hoarse your voice was.

He smiled at you, his eyes big and the corners of his mouth turning downwards in the way that they do.

"Every Tuesday, hun." He winked at you, eyes dazzling.

Your breath caught in your throat and you broke eye contact. Eddie internally panicked for a second until you looked back up and nodded with a weak smile.

His eyes left yours and danced across your face until they trailed down to your hair. He reached forward and ran his fingers along the small braid you had behind your ear.

"Cool." He muttered. "Wanna do mine?" He quirked one eyebrow and grinned as he grabbed a lock of his curls and wiggled it back and forth.

Your throat went dry as you wordlessly nodded.

Fuck.

Eddie excitedly did a little dance and slid his body so your thighs were touching. He held his arm out toward you, a black hair tie snug on his wrist.

Your fingers brushed his skin as you pulled it over his hand and placed it on your lap.

His fingers nervously drummed against his thighs as you raked your hand through his hair, which was surprisingly not as knotted as you thought.

Keyword, as. It was still pretty knotted.

The back of your hand brushed his neck as you began to separate three sections of his hair behind his ear, the same area where yours was. He shivered before coughing and sitting up straighter.

He hummed a bit, and soon his head started to lightly bob back and forth as he did before.

"Eddie! You made me mess up." You pouted as his soft curls slipped from your fingers and the braid quickly unraveled.

He laughed, shoulders shaking as he held his hands up and apologized.

You scoffed and shook your head before starting over again, still struggling to keep a grip on his impossibly soft hair.

"Can you talk to me about it?" He whispered after a long moment of silence.

You paused just for a second. You didn't feel that anxiety creep back up, but you didn't want to cry again.

"Want you to tell me what's wrong, sweetheart."

You sighed. So you told him why you were upset.

"Jesus.. I totally forgot about that." He looked down at the floor in deep thought before placing his hand on your ankle.

"You know that the whole class probably forgot, too. Ya know? Tomorrow it will be just like any other day. Mrs. O'Donnell won't even remember either, probably. She yells at me all the time. Would probably confuse that whole situation with me, honestly." His big stupidly pretty eyes bored into yours, sincerity written all over his face.

"If she ever brings it up - which she won't by the way, I'll tell her that it was me. She won't think twice about it." He shrugged.

You released his hair and put your hands on your lap, wringing your fingers together before you began to pick at your nails. You felt that sting in your eyes again, but you held it this time. You were still embarrassed because it was in front of him. His eyes flicked down before he pursed his lips and shook his head, bangs swiping his forehand.

"Don't do that.." He muttered as he moved his hand from your ankle to your wrist, thumb rubbing circles into the soft skin there.

He trailed his index finger up your palm slowly, way too slowly, before intertwining his fingers with yours. A small blush creeped across his cheeks when your fingers tightened around his.

"For the record," He paused for a moment when your eyes met his through your eyelashes. He bit onto his top lip, bottom lip sticking out as he bashfully placed his face against his shoulder to itch his jaw. "You're still pretty even when you cry."

"Oh my god.." You laughed as you covered your face when the hand he wasn't holding.

His timid smile quickly disappeared into a dopey grin.

"I got another joke, sweetheart." He pulled your hand onto his lap as he sat up straighter and shook the stray curls from his face.

You nodded for him to continue, your hand now covering your mouth as you chewed your lip shyly.

"Do you want to hear a joke about pizza?" His face went serious.

You both were quiet for a few heartbeats before a laugh bubbled in his throat. He strained his mouth, jaw tensing as he tried to conceal his laugh.

"What is it?" You smiled as you nudged him with your shoe.

"Never mind, it's too cheesy." He burst out laughing, letting all the laughter he held for the last minute into the auditorium as he threw his head back.

It was the stupidest joke, and that's why you laughed, your hand shoving his shoulder as he hunched forward and knocked into you.

"That is so stupid." You sputtered, mainly giggling at his overreaction.

He nodded his head, wiping a non existent tear dramatically from under his eye.

"Wheeeew. That was a knee slapper." He chuckled again, shaking his head at the absurdity.

His stray laughs came to a steady stop as he looked at your hand still clasped around his, your thumb playing with one of his rings.

"Seeing how you like my jokes, I was thinking.. maybe we could uh-.. I mean, if you are on the same page as me- like we could -" He stumbled with his words before the door swung open and a group of boys and one girl slid into the room.

The both of you scrambled away from eachother before they could see the close proximity you'd been in.

Eddie clumsily made his way to his feet as you did and rubbed his sweaty hands on the rough denim covering his thighs.

"Go out with me. Pizza. Tonight." Eddie blurted out, his voice cracking.

You blinked a few times and shifted on your feet.

"U-uh.. yeah, sure!" You mentally slapped yourself.

He slowly nodded and jumped on the balls of his feet as his eyes flicked between you and the boys that made their way to the stage.

He stepped forward, his hands frantically moving around in his pockets before he pulled out a piece of candy. He wrinkled his nose at the flavor before placing it in your hand and closing your fingers tightly around it.

"So you don't forget. You'll see it and be like 'Oh! Eddie! Sweet, sweet Eddie!' and then you'll remember our date. Tonight." He placed one hand on the wall and coolly leaned against it. "You got a number, sweets?"

You sheepishly nodded before pulling a pen out of your jacket pocket, rolling his sleeve up to write your phone number across his wrist.

His wild curls covered his eyes, but you can see his shit eating grin as he, what you assumed, watched as you wrote on his skin.

You clicked the pen closed before he quickly grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips, placing a good smacker on the back of your hand.

You giggled as he stepped away from you, still holding your hand as your arms stretched out.

"See you later, darlin'." He winked at you as he made a clicking sound with his mouth before he trotted back down the aisle toward his friends, swooping his backpack up in the process.

You sighed dreamily as you watched him climb the stairs and flop down on the chair that looked like a throne.

-

“Did you tell him?” you asked Steve, moving the spaghetti around your plate, not making eye contact with the floppy haired boy.

He held back a smirk, noticing the quiver in your voice. He loved how small you would get around them/ so unlike your daily self. “No baby, I didn’t, I figured I’d leave that to you when he gets home.” He says, eyes on you. You just nodded and ate the rest of your plate, your stomach and mind thanking you for finally giving it nourishment . You were glad he hadn’t told Eddie because maybe, just maybe, you could get Steve to forget the whole thing.

You got up to clear yours and Steve’s plates, kissing him on the cheek before heading to do the dishes . “Thank you sweetheart,” he smiled at you, leaning back in his chair and enjoying the fullness of his belly.

“Of course. Thank you for dinner…daddy,” you let the word ring in the air. Your tone of voice going up like it does when you’re subby. You walk to the sink, but peek over your shoulder at Steve, his eyes fully trained on you, his figure more tense since you used his title in such a casual way.

You can feel his energy as he directs it toward you and can’t help but smile at yourself as you face the sink and slowly turn on the water. You hear the slight creak of the wooden chair Steve was sitting on, and feel his presence growing closer- like predator and prey.

It takes everything in you not to drop the plate you’re feigning to wash when you hear his voice creep up behind you. “Oh really?” he says, his voice low. You don’t respond, acting as if nothing had happened.

“baby…” he warned from behind you, a signal for you to turn and give him your attention. You turn to face him, standing at his full height above you, closer than you expected, practically pinning you between him and the counter behind you.

You look up at him through heavy lashes and your best doe eyes. “Yes?” you ask sweetly.

He put his hands on either side of your waist, making sure not to give you the touch you desperately crave. Your breath starts to hitch in your throat as he leans closer to you, almost closing the gap. “Don’t play this game with me. I know what you’re up to,” Steve says, his voice deep and dark. He tips your chin up so you can’t avoid his eye contact. “Understand?” he asks, his voice unwavering.

You swallow heavily. “Yes daddy,” you say, practically turning into a puddle under his touch .

Your attempt at distracting Steve was futile, to say the least.

-

On days like this, where you have to wait and anticipate punishment, you can’t help the nerves that bubble inside of you. Both from loving the feeling of being dominated, but also from fear of disappointing your loving partners.

You’re lost in thought when you hear the front door click and open, revealing Eddie in his black jeans and a ripped up Nirvana shirt, guitar in hand, putting his cigarette out before he walks through the door.

Your heart leaps at the sight of him, so distressingly beautiful. You jump up to greet him, your ritual whenever either of your boys come home. His face lights up when he sees you, and you nuzzle your way into his chest, giving him a tight hug. “Hi Eds,” you smile up at him, and he leans down, giving your lips a quick but sweet kiss.

“Hi cutie,” he greets you, squeezing you tight and walking you both into the living room. He puts his things down and walks over to an awaiting Steve who gives him a charming smile. “Hi you,” Eddie says to the other boy, kissing the top of his head. “It smells good in here.”

“The mix of a yummy dinner and one of Stevie’s candles,” You say, patting the couch next to you for Eddie to come sit.

He does so, kicking off his boots and plopping down heavily next to you, with Steve on his other side. You could tell just by his body language that he’s had a long day-his hair more disheveled than usual, his head leaning back on the couch, eyes closed and chest rising as he breathes deeply, happy to finally be home. You can’t help the slight guilt that rises in you, knowing you’re about to make his supposed to be peaceful evening a little more difficult.

He looks at your guilty face curled into his arm. “So cuddly sweetheart. Always my favorite cuddle bug,” Eddie says as you nuzzle into him, hiding your face.

“Hey now,” Steve quips, sending Eddie a quick glare as he removes his gaze from his game.

Eddie just rolls his eyes and focuses his attention back on you. You whine a little at his gentle touches, caressing your head, stroking your back - you feel like you don’t deserve it. Don’t deserve him.

Eddie shifts in his seat, moving so it’s harder to lean on him, making you look up. “Hey,” he starts, his big brown eyes boring into your own, searching your face. “Is something wrong? You seem quiet,” he asks. He’s so genuine and kind, it makes your heart ache.

You nod your head but stay silent, scared of telling him you broke a rule. Steve, on the other hand feels fine blurting out his thoughts… “I think you should tell Eddie why you’re feeling a little guilty,” he says, eyes still on the screen in front of him.

Eddie taps your cheek, a sign to make eye contact with him. “What happened?” he asks, but you know he isn’t really asking, he’s making you tell him. The change in his voice tells you everything, the dom immediately kicking in as he takes in your guilty features.

You sigh, knowing you can’t hold your silence forever. “I broke a rule today,” you mutter.

He huffs slightly at your admission, shifting so he’s facing you square on the couch, making it impossible to escape his gaze. “Oh…And What rule did you break?” He asks.

Steve puts his controller down and looks at you now as well, awaiting your full admission. You can’t help the heat that coats your cheeks under their stares. Your two gorgeous, kind, and mean men looking only at you, seeing right through you.

“Tell him,” Steve urges you. You lock eye contact with him and he nods in reassurance, as if saying it’ll be okay. You find yourself searching for a way to say it without it sounding bad…

“Baby…” Eddie warns. “You could either tell me now and get it over with, or Daddy could tell me after you go to bed and then we both can punish you for a week,” he threatens, his voice still soft, but you know he’s not bluffing.

“I forgot to eat today,” you blurt out, unable to hold it in any longer. It feels so silly when you say it out loud, and it makes you start to feel really, really small. Eddie looks at Steve for confirmation, who nods in response.

Eddie sighs. When you break a rule like this it’s different than talking back or acting out of line. This is about your mental and physical health, rules that the three of you have agreed on not just for you but for the better of your relationship. It’s hard for them to punish you when it’s almost like you’re punishing yourself.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie coos. “Are you anxious or did something happen to make you not eat? You know it’s important you take care of yourself.” The softness in his tone and his warm eyes are worse than any punishment he could give you. How could you disappoint them like this?

“I just-“ tears start to well in your eyes, feeling embarrassed by your inability to take care of yourself. “I just got distracted being so busy all day and - and didn’t want to spend money and I just, I-“ you start to ramble.

Steve stands up and comes to your side, holding your hand. “You know we only ask because we care about you right?” He asks.

“Yes,” you reply softly.

“Hey- manners,” Eddie corrects you, his tone slightly harsher than before, making your insides flutter.

“Yes daddy,” you quickly correct yourself.

“Good girl,” Eddie says, and nods his head at Steve, signaling him to help you stand.

Steve takes your hand and helps you stand up, wiping a few of your tears as he does. “Let’s go to the room,” Steve says, guiding you into your shared bedroom.

You walk in with Steve, leaving the door open slightly. You can only imagine what Eddie is conjuring up in his brain while he waits alone in the other room, and your heart starts to pound at the thought. Steve dims the lights.

“Kneel,” he says, pointing to the edge of the bed, his voice nearly a whisper in the dimly lit room. You immediately do as you’re told and walk to the bed before kneeling in front of it, your bum resting on your heels and hands in your lap. The position automatically makes you feel fuzzy and small, and a wetness starts to grow between your legs. Steve saunters over, hands in his pockets, and scratches his nose before he chuckles slightly.

He approaches you and bends over to talk down to you. His cockiness is nearly palpable.

“Are you going to be good for us baby?” He asks.

You try to control your breathing. “Yes daddy, so good,” you reply, your tear stained cheeks reddening.

“You’re going to be good and take the punishment that you deserve,” he states.

You nod your head quickly, your thighs pressing together tightly.

Steve puts a finger under your chin, keeping your head up toward him, and leans closer. “Repeat it.”

“I-“ your voice is shaky. “I am going to be g-good and take the punishment I deserve,” you say back, your voice nearly a whisper as your brain and body floods with chemicals that distract you from thought.

Steve just smirks at you, his handsome face dripping with dominance, and pats your cheek lightly. “Good. Wait here,” he says before leaving the room to see Eddie.

You kneel and wait patiently, your heart thumping in your chest so loud you swear that they could hear it from the living room. A part of you wants to get up and go run to them, to hug them and cry and apologize and tell them you love them, but your body knows not to move when it was given an order. Your body knows to submit.

The door creaks back open, with Eddie leading the way, and Steve closing it shut behind him. You let your eyes trail over Eddie. Taking in the sight of him in the dim light, the way he pulls on his rings, his devilish smirk, and the tattoos that peak out under his shirt.

Eddie moves to stand directly in front of you, walking around you as if you’re a piece of art to be observed. He says nothing for a moment, just looking at what he knows is his. After a moment he stops and turns to Steve, “She’s so pretty, huh Stevie?”

Steve smiles in the dark. “She sure is.”

Eddie moves closer, moving your hair behind your ear, his face inches from yours as you look up at him with big eyes, entranced by his demeanor. He smiles at you, looking into your eyes, “She’s going to look even prettier when she cries for us. Aren’t you sweetheart?” He asks, but you know he doesn’t mean for you to answer. You just look up at him in awe, letting your mind slip and slip and slip into exactly where he wants you.

Steve moves closer from behind Eddie, crossing his arms on his chest, making his biceps pop under the black of his shirt. When your gaze is shifted, Eddie grabs your chin, forcing eye contact. “Do you remember your safe word?” he asks.

You try to nod, receiving a light slap on your cheek. “Words,” Eddie commands. “Red for stop, Yellow for slow, Green for good,” you reply, your voice starting to raise in pitch like it always does when you start to slip into sub-space.

“So good baby,” Steve praises you.

Eddie moves to the bed, sitting on the edge so his feet are on the floor. “Come,” he commands, patting his lap, and you already know what you’re about to be in for.

You stand and Steve is automatically in front of you, stopping your path to grab your hips. You stop immediately at the touch, your skin burning where his hands rest. But it doesn’t last long, as he’s simply touching you to rid you of your clothes.

“These are all coming off,” he says, pulling down your little shorts and panties, dropping them to your ankles for you to kick out of them. Then pulling the shirt over your head, leaving you fully exposed to the two clothed men. “There she is,” Eddie smiles from the bed. Steve gives you a gentle kiss on the neck, making you whine and practically melt. You can feel the wetness between your legs starting to grow. But it’s over too quickly, as Steve removes his lips and nudges you to an awaiting Eddie.

You stand in front of the curly haired boy, and he looks your body up and down before roughly grabbing your wrist and forcing you over his lap. You yelp in response, earning a “Quiet,” from Eddie as he situates your body on his lap.

Your head hangs over his leg as he uses his other leg to trap your legs down, making it so you can’t lift them, and your bare ass is fully exposed. You shudder at the first feeling of his ringed hands tracing your bare skin.

“You’re going to count, and say ‘Thank you’ after every spank, do you understand?” Eddie asks, one hand finding its way to your hair and gripping it.

“I understand Sir,” you say weakly, the anticipation of the first smack making you wiggly in his hold.

The first smack comes fast and hard, harder than you thought, and you lurch forward. The cold metal of Eddie’s rings adding to the stinging left on your ass, making you whine some before muttering your first. “One. Thank you.”

“See? She knows how to follow some rules,” Steve quips from behind you, watching your ass change colors as Eddie brings his hand down in another smack.

“Well Stevie we know she likes things that hurt her, that’s what got her into this mess in the first place,”Eddie says, landing another hard smack to your ass. Only three in and you can feel the tears starting to prick your eyes again.

Two more and your breathing is more labored, making Steve come around to your front, holding your face up to him by your chin.

“Poor baby already about to start crying from a few spankings Eddie,” Steve taunts, his voice oozing with fake pity.

“Aw, someone’s not so tough, is she? Suddenly she’s all small and fucking innocent,” Eddie says, his spanks getting harder, the adrenaline making his dick get harder too. You can feel the bulge growing in his pants under your belly, and it adds to the already pooling wetness between your thighs.

Steve adds a quick slap to your face, leaving your slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “I bet her little pussy isn’t so innocent, is it Eds?” He asks, a devilish smirk on his handsome face.

Suddenly you feel a calloused hand reaching between your thighs, and slowly dipping into your dripping heat. You whine at the contact and inch your hips upwards, desperate for more. “Look at that, she wants more,” Eddie chuckles, landing you with three hard smacks straight to your pussy, making you cry out.

“Please,” you choke out through tears, not even sure what you’re asking for at this point.

“What baby? Please what? Please hit you harder?” Eddie taunts, landing another smack to your ass, then one to your thigh.

You groan at the sting, the way it turns from pain to pleasure making all the wires in your brain cross. Your mind feels completely fuzzy and at a loss for words.

“You Take the punishment you deserve,” Steve says to you, his grip on your chin strong.

“I take the punishment I deserve,” you repeat, your brain mush. Eddie lands another smack to your thigh but you don’t jump this time, signaling how far gone you are. “Thatta girl, let that silly brain turn off. All it does is get you in trouble. Let your Daddies take care of you,” Eddie says, his fingers tracing along your ass and thighs, soothing the already bruising areas.

“I take the punishment I deserve,” you repeat, looking at Steve with wide eyes. He licks his lips and smiles at you. “Good girl,” he says, wiping the sweat from your head and pushing the hair from your face. You can see the way he bites his lip and looks at you, his face inching closer to yours.

“Eds, can I kiss her?” Steve asks, his eyes never leaving your mouth.

“Sure pretty boy, but not too long,” Eddie says, his fingers inching toward your core. Steve connects his lips with yours right as Eddie slips a finger inside of you, causing you to groan loudly into Steve’s mouth, his grip on your hair tight.

Eddie slowly pumps his finger in and out of you with such ease because of how wet you are. You can’t help the breathy moans leaving your mouth at the sensation, mixed with the taste of Steve on your tongue.

It stops all too soon, before you know it Eddie pulls out his finger and is hauling you upwards, throwing you onto the bed on your back. All while Steve starts taking off his shirt and pants, leaving him in his boxers, his hard dick prominent under the clothing.

Eddie forces your legs open, bare to him as he creeps between them, leaving bites all along your thighs. Steve joins you on the bed on his knees, dropping his boxers so his cock bounces free, thick and full and already oozing with precum. You moan at the sight.

“Yeah baby, you want a taste?” Eddie teases you, seeing your eyes wide at the sight of Steve’s cock inches from your face.

You nod vigorously, hands reaching for it before Steve slaps them away, his own hand wrapping around his cock and tugging slowly.

“Ask him nicely,” Eddie says, his voice low and controlled.

“Please,” you huff. “P-please let me taste it Daddy,” you practically beg, leaving your mouth open for him. Steve shakes his head at you, then looks toward Eddie.

“I don’t think she wants it bad enough,” he says. You whine and try to sit up in protest, only for Steve to push you back on the bed by your chest.

“You heard him baby. You’re going to have to beg better than that,” Eddie says, his mouth now nearly touching your cunt. You can feel his hot breath on it, making you raise your hips in an attempt to meet him, only to be held down by his big palm.

You groan at the lack of contact from both men. “Pleeeeease,” you whine. Your eyes are locked on Steve as his hand starts to grip harder and harder around what you want most. “Please Daddy I want your cock so so bad. I want it in my mouth so bad Daddy please fuck my throat. I need it. I need it,” you beg, not caring anymore how desperate you sound.

Steve chuckles and moves forward, connecting his cock with your lips. He holds your head up slightly as he starts to slowly thrust in and out of your mouth, groaning at the sensation.

“That’s it baby, just let Daddy fuck your little mouth,” he says, entering his own bliss.

Eddie smiles at the sight in front of him. Your dripping pussy in front of his face, and your mouth full of Steve’s throbbing cock.

He grinds himself on the side of the bed, getting some much needed pressure as he slowly connect his lips with your pussy.

You moan what little sounds you can as Steve starts to thrust harder into your throat. You feel Eddie work his skilled tongue, running slow stripes from your hole to your clit and back, over and over, in time with Steve’s thrusts. The sensations all bringing you closer and closer to an edge that you didn’t think you would reach tonight.

Your throat closes around Steve’s cock, slightly gagging at the back. “Fuck. Such a good little fuck doll,” Steve groans.

Eddie starts flicking his tongue faster and faster at your clit, the sensation building and building. He moans into your pussy, sending vibrations all the way up your spine and moaning around Steve’s cock.

“Just like that. I’m gonna cum down your throat baby fuck,” Steve says, his thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier. You taste his load hitting the back of your throat as you feel your own orgasm continuing to build at the expertise of Eddie’s mouth.

The sounds you’re making are unholy. Swallowing Steve’s cum as he pulls out, only to have his hand grip your throat as you start to shake under the skill of Eddie’s mouth. Steve releases your throat briefly as you feel the sensation in your core about to burst. “Sir I’m gonna- You’re gonna make me cum- Can I - Can I please-“ you say, your voice staggered and wavering, a mess of words strung together.

You’re at the edge, your orgasm about to explode through you when Eddie suddenly stops completely, removing himself from where you need him most, and pinning your thighs open.

You cry out. “No! No No No no no no please,” you beg, tears streaming down your face at the lack of release and loss of your bliss. You sit upwards, looking at the sadistic man between your legs.

“Little girls who break rules don’t get to cum, sweetheart,” Eddie says, backing away from your core.

You can’t help the tears that are freely flowing down your cheeks at this point. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Sir. I’m sorry Daddy it won’t happen again. I know I Know I’m-“ you blubber, your body shaking with stimulation and adrenaline at the situation. Steve cradles your head while Eddie kisses your thighs.

“You know it’s because we care about you right baby? We just want you to be safe and happy and healthy,” Eddie says, his voice tender between your legs.

You nod sweetly into Steve’s arms and he kisses your head.

“I sorry,” you say, and you really mean it.

Eddie nods, and Steve rubs your head. You feel Eddie’s weight disappear from the bed as Steve cups your face and kisses you again. He pulls away from your lips, ghosting them with his own sweet taste.

“You’re going to be good and let Eddie fuck your sweet little pussy, okay sweet girl?” Steve says, his voice barely more than a dark whisper.

You core tightens at the thought. “Yes daddy,” you say, looking into Steve’s eyes as you feel Eddie’s weight back on the bed. You look to see the tattooed man now fully naked between your legs, his hand wrapped around his hard cock, already seeming to be extremely worked up from the lack of attention.

Steve continues to cradle your face as Eddie begins pushing his tip inside of you, making your eyes roll back at the sensation of being split open. Eddie never fails to make you cock drunk with the way he teases you, slowly going in and out, not fully giving you all of him until he decides he’s ready to fuck you.

You groan, your body full of bliss as Eddie works himself slowly in and out of you, his hands holding your legs open and his teeth clenched. “God I love this tight fucking cunt,” Eddie groans, his thrusts starting to pick up.

You feel your orgasm coming back to build again as he continues to hit the spot inside of you that only he and Steve can pleasure. “That’s it baby, take his cock,” Steve praises you, holding you so your body fully relaxes into his hairy arms as Eddie mercilessly uses you for his own pleasure.

Eddie’s thrusts quicken as Steve begins to toy with your erect nipples, the sensations becoming all-consuming. All you can see, hear, think, smell, is Eddie and Steve - Steve and Eddie. “Let go. Let your brain go,” Steve coos into your ear. And you do, you let yourself go completely to them .

“Please Daddy,” you beg, talking to both of them. “Please Daddy I’m gonna cum. Can I please - pl-please cum Daddy?” You beg, tears pricking your eyes, the explosion holding off as much as you can.

Eddie grunts into you, his thrusts getting sloppy, he’s close too. “Cum with me baby, cum on my cock,” Eddie says. And you do. And he does. And it’s white light and pleasure coursing through your veins. You can feel Eddie stutter inside of you as you pulse around him, and feel Steve’s gentle hands holding you as you release in his arms.

You don’t know how long you’re in your state of bliss before coming down, breathing heavy and eyes blurry, Feeling Eddie’s weight on top of you and Steve holding you against his chest. The room is filled with the sweet scents of you all and the sound of your breathing.

“Thank you,” you whisper into Steve’s chest an he just shushes you and continues to pet your head.

“We love you baby,” Eddie says, looking up at you  from your chest, his brown eyes big and soft and kind and tired.

You can’t help the smile that grows on your warm face. “I love you both so much. Thank you for taking care of me even if I can’t sometimes,” you say, grateful rather than guilty. One of the best parts of your dynamic is the grace with which emotions ebb and flow - how the honesty allows for grace on all sides.

“Thank you for letting us,” Steve says, resting his head on top of yours. You all lay together, Eddie humming a tune you’re not sure of, while you comb your fingers through his hair, and Steve does the same to you. It’s your happy place.

Before you know it, you’re waking up to Steve gently shaking you. You didn’t even realize you had fallen asleep with the naked boys, but all you knew was how relaxed you felt. “Shower time,” Steve says, reaching his hand out for yours.

You yawn and move slowly. “You better hurry before Eddie takes up all the hot water,” he mutters to you, standing you up and tapping your sore butt. You giggle and walk to the shower, happy, healthy, and grateful.

“Eddie…why is there a plate of spaghetti with you in the bathroom?” You ask, seeing the plate by the sink.

“Fucking you makes me very hungry sweetheart,” he laughs, before pulling you into the hot water with him and covering you with bubbly soap, making you laugh and cuddle into him as Steve gets you a fresh towel for after.

Their aftercare always warms your heart, and reminds you that even when you’re in trouble, you’re in good, safe hands with the two boys by your side.

-

The bell over the door chimed, tinny, as it swung open, but you kept your back to the door and whoever walked in. The watery morning sunlight coming in through the glass windows of the diner this morning had the same impact on your eyes as if you were severely hung over, and you were avoiding it at all costs. Jenny watched the new customer walk in, her eyes tracking them with a slight grimace turning the corner of her mouth down. “Yeah,” she said, cutting herself off. “You’re taking this one.” She shoved a notepad into your hands and then turned away, picking up a coffee pot with an orange handle to refill the mugs lined down the counter. The sigh that broke out of your mouth was only a little louder than socially acceptable as you turned around, looking for the outline of a new person against the harsh gleam of sunlight bouncing off of the chrome napkin dispensers and tops of sugar shakers. In the far corner, where the light was weakest, sat Eddie Munson. Your heart thumped, slightly, against your ribs as he looked up at you from across the room. He smiled, his lips pressed together, and you ran a quick hand over your shirt, attempting to smooth out any wrinkles before you walked over to his booth. “Hey Eddie,” you said, voice light. 

You had met Eddie Munson in high school years ago. You were warned against him almost immediately–he was a freak, everyone said, and he smoked weed and probably had other stuff, hard stuff like what people get arrested for and your mom would cry about. You had heard your friends bring his name up too many times, always punctuating it with shrill laughs, but you could never convince yourself to laugh at their jokes: you didn’t know Eddie that well, but he had always been almost overly polite in the few conversations the two of you had had, and you saw the way he was with his Hellfire kids: how he teased them and then made them smile like he was their big brother. Sure, he wore a lot of black and chains, and you had only heard of most of the band names on his denim vest when your mom was watching a TV special about the rise of Satanic cults in America, but you just couldn’t wrap your mind around the idea of Eddie Munson being anything less than…well, than a nice guy. 

You were thinking about this as you walked up to Eddie’s booth of choice. He came into the diner every now and then–usually early in the morning or late at night, and he always tipped well and made polite conversation with you. The other girls avoided his table, as if bringing him a plate of pancakes with a side of fries would infect them. As a result, you had become very familiar with his routines: early mornings (like this one) were usually accompanied by coffee, no cream, and a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Then, he would sit on the hood of his van in the parking lot, smoking, before getting in and driving away. “Usual this morning?” You asked as you approached him, pen already on your notepad. “Good morning,” Eddie said, smiling at you with a soft head shake, like he was clearing his brain. “You look particularly chipper this morning.” You laughed, though you weren’t sure if the joke was Eddie’s sarcasm or how awful you knew you looked. “I know what I look like right now, Eddie,  and it’s not chipper.” “Well,” Eddie said, jerking his head slightly to the side, “It’s not like I can say ‘Hey, you look like shit today.’” You laughed again, a slight blush stealing up your cheeks. “Don’t worry,” you say, a slight smile on your lips still. “I’ll look better the next time you come in.” “Well, if that’s a promise, I’ll go ahead and take my usual for today and make plans to come back tomorrow.” He winked at you, handing you the laminated, oversized menu as he did. You would have blushed, but, frankly, this was just how Eddie talked to girls—even the ones who barely looked at him. 

You came back with a mug and a pot of coffee after putting in his order at the window, and you set the mug at the end of the table, sliding it across the smooth tabletop to him. His hands reach out, wrapping silver-clad, guitar-string-calloused fingers around the cup as you fill it, and you can’t help but think about how this image almost looks like a still life painting–Coffee With Freaks, you think to yourself, emphasizing the s as you count yourself. You turn on your heel, intending to walk back to the counter where Jenny is glaring at the two of you, but Eddie stops you. “So,” he says, eyes on his coffee as he pours an absurd amount of sugar into the cup, “Doing anything fun tonight?” You look back at Jenny over your shoulder, and her eyebrows are raised at you in horror. “Not really,” you say, turning back to where Eddie has shifted his face to look up at you. “Jenny invited me to a party, but I think I’m going to take a night off.” “Oh,” Eddie says, more a grunt than a word. “And what does a girl like you do on a night off?” You smile slightly, unsure how close exactly the conversation is coming to flirting. “Rent a movie, paint my nails, wash my hair. You know,” you say, shrugging. “Girl stuff.” “Girl stuff,” Eddie says, nodding. His order is called, and you go back behind the counter, avoiding Jenny’s wide eyes as you grab the warm plate and bring it back to Eddie’s table. 

“So is ‘girl stuff’ the reason your hair usually looks so good?” Eddie says when you set his plate down in front of him. You feel a slight flush run up your neck at the implication that he notices your hair (as well as the subtle mention of how you look right now). “I guess,” you say, noncommittally. Eddie gestures to the empty seat across from him with his fork. “Sit,” he grunts, “Tell me about this girl stuff.” You look around the diner. Jenny is distracted, cashing out one of the men who has finally finished his cup of coffee, and there are barely enough people in the building to necessitate you and Jenny both being there. You slide into the seat quickly, watching Eddie reach for tabasco to sprinkle over his eggs. Your heart is squeezing, turning in on itself inside your chest as you watch him replace the bottle at the end of the table and look up at you, grinning. This feels…taboo. Sitting with Eddie Munson, talking to him about what, exactly? Your hair care routine? If any of the girls you and Jenny go to parties with walked in right now, you’re pretty sure you would never live this down–but something in you refuses to let your common sense move your legs to standing and walk away. Mouth full, Eddie gestures to you and then to his plate, sliding the edge with bacon closer to you. Oh, what the hell, you think. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

You reach out, snagging the toast off the corner of the plate instead and take a small bite, chewing it slowly. Eddie grins at you, his cheeks bulging around his tightly closed mouth. He swallows, your eyes following the movement of his throat, and speaks: “Honestly, I want your advice on my hair,” he says, his face totally serious. “I’m pretty sure those commercials about ‘dry hair’ were just talking about me.” You laugh at this, a small giggle that makes the corners of your mouth turn up, and he tilts his chin back slightly as he smiles back at you. “How do you get those luscious locks of yours?” He says, gesturing his empty fork towards you before stabbing up another clump of red-splattered eggs. You shrug again, noticing that you seem to shrug a lot around Eddie, and say, “For you, Munson, I would start with a full conditioner treatment.” You lean forward, crossing your arms on the table. “I’m talking the works–conditioner, shower cap, and rinse before we even get into the shampoo stage, and then a shorter round of conditioner.” “Mm-hm,” he murmurs behind his full mouth before swallowing. “And where does someone get this kind of shit? Is there some sort of brightly lit store where Hawkins mommies will turn their kiddies eyes away from me as I pick up these lovely products?” Eddie always does that–makes jokes about the way people think about him, about how they treat him. Either he really, genuinely doesn’t care, or he’s better at pretending than you are. You bite your lip, barely, but his eyes flick down to your mouth at the slight movement before coming back up to yours. What the hell, you think again. “I have all the stuff, actually,” you say, “So I could just bring it over to your place.” 

Eddie sits back against the booth seat, beaming softly, his mouth puckered into a smile. “Really? On your night off?” “I was going to do my hair tonight anyway,” you say, “It wouldn’t be too hard to help you with…all of that, too.” You gesture vaguely to his head of wild, dark curls, and Eddie blushes this time (and, you can’t help but notice, the slight pink stain dancing over his cheekbones only makes him look gentle, softer). “Alright,” he says, bobbing his head, “You can come to my trailer when you get off tonight.” 

*****

Your fist comes up to rap against the metal door and lowers before making contact–again. You had finished your shift thirty minutes earlier, driving home at speeds that would have Hawkins PD concerned if they were ever actually patrolling, and changed out of your uniform before tossing all of your hair products into a bag. Peeling out of your driveway, you had punched the gas pedal nearly to the floor–but as you got closer to the trailer park, your car slowed, your foot easing off the gas of it’s own will. Parking in front of the trailer Eddie had described to you, you had chewed on your bottom lip aggressively. How stupid did it make you if you went through with this? Jenny had already been scandalized when Eddie left, nodding his head to you and quietly saying that he would see you tonight. You knew that, right now, Jenny and all of your other friends were probably shrieking with laughter, making up obscene rumors about what you and “the freak” were doing–or, equally likely, they were already too drunk to remember you weren’t at the party with them. You had screwed up your courage and gotten out of the car, barely remembering your bag of hair products in the passenger seat, and marched right up to Eddie’s door…where you had stood for the last five minutes. Every time you picked up your hand to knock, this overwhelming wave of fear would wash over you–you couldn’t go through with it. Maybe you should just go back to the car; Munson had probably already forgotten his invitation to you, and you could go home and do your beauty routine as planned: alone. Just as you had finally decided to leave, the door opened with a low screech of hinges to reveal a warm, softly glowing interior partially blocked by a silhouette. “Hey!” Eddie crowed. “I thought I heard a car but then no one knocked–you get lost?” He looked at you, eyes slightly crinkling at the edges, and you knew he was giving you an excuse for why he had caught you with your back turned to his front door. 

“Actually,” you said, tensing your jaw. “I was about to go home.” Eddie’s face falls slightly before a careful guard comes over it. “Ah.” “See,” you say, breath a little shaky as the words rush out, “I’m just not sure we can save your hair. I mean, it’s really a desperate case, Munson–but I do think it’s my responsibility to give it a try.” You smile slightly, trying to show him that you’re teasing, and he smiles back. Suddenly, he steps back, throwing an arm out to the side as he bends slightly at the waist to indicate that you should come in. You do, brushing his torso with the side of your arm as you cross the threshold. Hopefully he didn’t notice the goosebumps that immediately raced over your skin at the contact. You set your bag down, turning in a slow circle as you examine the room. The soft light is coming from multiple lamps around the space, and the room appears to be decorated in shades of brown. The living room is lined with a collection of men’s caps, and a shelf over the drawn curtains has a variety of mugs. You walk over to them, peering closely. “Garfield?” You say, pointing to one near the end. “My uncle’s,” Eddie says, coloring slightly as one of his hands reaches up behind him to fidget with his hair. When you smile, Eddie continues, explaining, “It’s a one bedroom. He sleeps out here and I have the bedroom.” “That’s nice,” you say, nodding your head a little as you turn to look at him. You really examine Eddie: in this soft, warm light he glows slightly, and his features look more gentle than usual, almost like how he looks when he claps one of his Hellfire kids on the back. He’s wearing a long sleeved t-shirt, the sleeves pushed up over his forearms, and your eyes linger on the edges of his tattoos before sliding down, noting the chain on his jeans and his bare feet. You continue to turn around the room, taking in every inch of the interior. For the town freak’s house, it all seems overwhelmingly…normal. 

“So,” Eddie says, clearing his throat to dispel the silence. “How do we do this hair stuff? What do you need from me?” He’s got his hands in his pockets, and something about the way he’s standing makes him look almost embarrassed. “Not much,” you say. “I brought pretty much everything we need with me, so we really just need a place to hang out for a while–oh! Where’s your kitchen?” Eddie looks at you, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkling as he points behind you. You turn, walking towards the darker room. Inside, flicking the light switch to turn on the soft, yellow glow, you look around. The kitchen is small but there’s a countertop going from one wall to the other, the sink set in the far right corner. The cabinets over the counter don’t leave much space, but that won’t be much of a problem. You turn back to the living room, surprised to find Eddie standing directly behind you. His hands come up instantly, resting directly over your shoulders and keeping you from bumping into him. “Oh!” You exhale. “Sorry. Um, this is fine. So where should we go to hang out?” 

Eddie leads you down the only hallway to his bedroom, your bag in his hand. “My uncle won’t be home until morning,” he says over his shoulder, “but I try to make his space his own, you know?” “Yeah,” you say, although you don’t, not really. Still, it’s nice that Eddie does that–actually, the way he looks every time he talks about his uncle is nice. It’s clear that Eddie loves his uncle, and you can’t help but think how surprisingly sweet he actually is under the tough persona he puts on for the people of Hawkins. You walk into his room and your feet immediately come to a stop as you take in the room around you. “Wow, Munson,” you say. Eddie stands to the side, running his free hand up the side of his neck to fist at his pulse, letting you look your fill. The walls are covered: posters, mostly from his metal bands as best as you can tell; art, some of which looks like hand drawn illustrations of, what you assume are, dungeons and dragons characters; even a pair of handcuffs hanging on the wall, like some trophy for his supposed run-ins with the police department (or, you think, blushing slightly, maybe he keeps them there for easy access). The window has a sheet stapled over it for a curtain, and it falls lightly over a large amp that you assume is used for the red guitar hanging over the mirror. Every surface in the room is cramped, on the verge of overflowing and spilling out oversized books, loose guitar picks, change, and little balls that, when you pick one up to examine, you realize are dice with too many sides. You set the die down, noticing a large box of cassettes on the floor next to a boombox with a tape deck. Actually–you look around the room again–there are cassettes on almost every surface. His nightstand, his dresser, his amp all have at least one cassette box on them, and the box on the floor is filled to the brim as well. 

You turn to him. “You really like music, huh?” You ask, eyebrows high and a slight smile playing on your lips as you pick up the cassette box closest to you. Eddie’s cheeks turn slightly pink as his hand slips down his neck to hide back in his pocket. “Yeah,” he says, looking around the room at the many cassettes he has scattered around. “I get a lot of them at garage sales. I buy some of them–I, uh,” he says, blushing again as he pointedly looks away from you, “I definitely stole a few here and there. And I made my own mixtapes, obviously.” Your eyebrows lift again as he looks at you. “So the rumors are true,” you say. Eddie’s face falls immediately, and his mouth hardens into a thin line. “What rumors?” “Relax, Munson,” you say, bringing your hands up. “I just meant that you’re a bad boy.” At this, Eddie laughs, harsh and loud. “A bad boy,” he says nodding, “I like that.” You cross the narrow space between the two of you, taking your bag out of his hand. “How about you pick an album to play for me while I do your hair?” You ask, and Eddie’s face is radiant. Somehow, you’ve managed to say the exact thing that could mean the most to him, and he genuinely seems to almost glow with excitement. “What kind of music do you like?” He asks. “I don’t really listen to a lot of music,” you say, lifting your shoulders noncommittally. “Just whatever comes on the radio at work.” “Ugh,” Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes. “The stuff you guys play in the diner is terrible. I mean, Jesus H. Christ, we get it, Madonna exists. That doesn’t mean I want to listen to her all the time!” You laugh, slightly shocked at hearing Eddie Munson even say the name Madonna. “I’ve got the perfect album for you,” Eddie says, holding up a cassette with dark blue streaks of what you think are lightning over the cover. “Metallica. Now, this is music,” he says, popping the cassette into the tape deck. 

He presses play, turning the volume down considerably. The gentle strains of guitar are joined by drums and quickly turn to a much more aggressive sound as you set your bag down on Eddie’s bed and begin to rifle through it, looking through the products you brought. You notice that Eddie’s bed is well made and suspiciously clean compared to the rest of the room, but you push the idea of him changing his sheets before you came over out of your head. “Come sit down,” you say, pulling out a bottle of conditioner, a comb, and a scrunchie. Eddie does as he’s ordered, sitting next to where you’re standing. He picks up the bottle you’re about to open and examines it. “Is this that shit Brooke Shields uses?” He asks, obviously skeptical. You can’t stop yourself from laughing, shaking your head with a smile, and he angles his head slightly towards you, watching you. “How often do you wash your hair?” You ask him. Looking scandalized, Eddie replies “Every day. I’m not gross.” You shake your head again, rolling your eyes slightly this time. “That’s half of your problem at least,” you say. “But at least it’s clean to start with right now.” You move, coming to stand in between Eddie’s legs, and reach your hand out towards Eddie’s hair, stopping before you touch him. Your hand hovers over his mass of black waves and you look down at his face. “Is it…okay?” You ask. “For me to touch you?” You think you see a slight flush steal up his neck, but he nods all the same. You allow your fingers to rest gently on his head before digging them in, quickly combing your hands through his hair. It is dry, but it’s also long, and brushing your fingers through it has worked up a scent of soap and a little bit of tobacco smoke. “Well?” He asks from below you. “Is it salvageable?” You laugh, looking down at him. Suddenly, you realize his face is almost completely level with your chest and the slight shock makes your ribs expand with a stifled gasp. Seeing this movement, Eddie looks up at you suddenly–the two of you make eye contact and flush at the exact same time, bright red staining both of your cheeks as you quickly look away. 

“I think we can save your hair,” you say, clearing your throat slightly. You start applying conditioner to his dark locks, working it well and truly into the roots before combing it all the way down to the ends. The feel of the smooth cream slides between your fingers, and you think you hear him hum slightly more than once, though you’re unsure whether it’s along to the music or in happiness. It’s nice, surprisingly, to work your fingers through his hair. When you’ve applied it thoroughly, making his dark locks hang in clumps, you slide his hair back up until you’ve brought it all together at the back of his skull. Leaning across Eddie’s torso, you grab your scrunchie off the bed and use it to tie his hair up in place. “There,” you say. “Now what?” He asks, tilting his head up to look at you. He looks cute like this, you think, the thought unbidden. “Um, now I’m going to wash my hands,” you say, holding up your conditioner-covered hands. “And then we’ll let it sit for a while.” Eddie points you to the bathroom, and you take a moment in the cramped space to stare at your reflection in the mirror. It’s okay to be friends with the freak, you think, but you’re not going to have a crush on him. It’s Eddie fucking Munson! 

You come back from the bathroom right as the tape player clicks over to a new song. “Oh, you’ve got to listen to this one,” Eddie says. He grabs your hand as you approach the bed, tugging you down to sit next to him as the music plays. Even with the volume turned down, it seems to fill the small space, pushing the two of you closer. A bell chimes out, quickly accompanied by a guitar and drums. The beat is immediately addictive and you can’t stop your head from nodding ever so slightly in time to it. When the guitar changes, Eddie turns to look at you. He’s smiling, his eyes hopeful, and when you smile back at him his grin grows wider. By the time the singer joins in, you’ve already decided to like the song if only because of how happy it makes Eddie. “Hold on,” Eddie says. “Just–trust me on this.” You look at him, your eyebrows sliding together in confusion just before he places his hands on your shoulders–and shoves you backwards onto the bed. Your body hits the mattress, and you stare at the ceiling in shock. A thumping sound and a soft bounce next to you tells you that Eddie has laid down too, dangling his head over the other side of the mattress. “Some music is just meant to be listened to while you’re laying down,” he says softly. The rest of the song plays, and you have to agree with him–some songs are meant to be listened to laying down. 

You spend the next thirty minutes staring at Munson’s ceiling, listening to Metallica. He sits up after a minute and asks if it’s okay with you if he smokes. “It’s your room, Munson,” you say, still on your back. “Yeah, princess, but what I’m going to light might make you feel a little lightheaded.” “Really?” You ask, sitting up. “Are you smoking pot?” Munson nods, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah,” you say, laying back down. “Go ahead and light up.” The smell was actually familiar to you–you had smelled it in the high school parking lot more than enough times, and it almost smelled good to you here, in the tight confines of Eddie’s bedroom. You found your eyes drifting softly closed after a few minutes, either a result of the exhaustion from your long week or the weed. “Hey,” Eddie said, quietly. “You okay?” “Just enjoying your music, Munson,” you muttered back, keeping your eyes just barely open. The tape clicked and you heard Eddie stand up, pop the tape deck open, flip the tape, and replace it before the music started again. When you felt the mattress bounce under your body, you knew Eddie had come to sit beside you again. Somehow it didn’t surprise you when you felt his fingers, calloused and cool to the touch, slide over the palm of your hand closest to him and wrap around your own. The two of you sat there like that–you on your back, eyelids heavy, Eddie sitting next to you, stroking long circles over the back of your hand with his thumb–until the tape came to it’s final conclusion. 

“Well,” Eddie said as you sat up, looking at you expectantly. “What did you think?” “It was…kind of incredible, Eddie.” He grinned at you, tucking his chin slightly as he angled his head. “Kind of incredible? Kind of? It’s fucking Metallica,” he laughed softly, rolling his eyes. “Okay, fine,” you say, “Really incredible. Now, can we go rinse your hair in the kitchen?” “Oh,” Eddie says, hand reaching up to the slick bun on the back of his head. The tattoos on his forearm flicker with the movement of muscle, and you can’t stop yourself from reaching out a hand to place over the art. Eddie freezes at your touch, his entire body stiffening until you pull all but your index finger back, tracing the black lines of the artwork on his arm. You bite your lip, just barely, and turn your eyes up to look at him. He’s staring at your fingers, watching your hand move over his skin and summon goosebumps to the surface of his delicate skin. When he looks at you, you drop your hand back to your side and stare at him for one, two seconds longer than you should. He stands up suddenly, almost startling you with how quick his movements are. “Rinse,” he says, and he extends a hand to you that you grip tightly as you regain your feet. You expect him to let go of your hand as soon as you’re standing, but instead he begins to walk down the hallway, pulling your wrist slightly as you trail behind him. He looks…beautiful, you think as you follow him down the hallway. The knot of hair on the back of his head, the chain glinting in the yellow lamp light across his hips, the rumpled shirt, even the casualness of his bare feet, all come together to paint a version of this man you had never considered before. A version that’s more than Eddie Munson, town freak, weed dealer, D&D player; a version that’s Eddie Munson, who loves his uncle, is always listening to music, and, maybe, can be gentler than you had ever dreamed. 

In the kitchen, Eddie turns to you expectantly. “Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together. The noise startles you out of your reverie, breaking your eyes away from his body for the first time in a while. “Now what?” “On the cabinet, Munson,” you say, pointing to the long shelf formed by the countertop against the wall. His brows draw down in confusion as a half grimace twists his lips. “Excuse me, princess?” You walk over to the sink, patting the countertop next to it with two heavy slaps. “Up. Sit here.” Eddie comes over and turns around, putting his hands behind him on the counter as he jumps slightly, shifting his hips back in the same moment to perch on the surprisingly clean cabinets. “Lay down,” you say, “And put your head over the sink.” Eddie looks at you for a moment as he pulls your scrunchie out of his hair and slides it over his wrist, the hint of a smile playing at his mouth when he does as you command. Once he’s laying on his back, his round, wide eyes looking up at you, you turn on the water, slowly warming it up away from his face. You reach over Eddie, unfortunately aware of how close your torso is to his face in this position, and grab the small hose connected to the faucet. Testing the water temperature on your wrist, you find it satisfactory and start to gently rinse out his hair. The thick locks grow heavy with the weight of the water, and they feel smooth and slick under your fingers. One hand maneuvers the spray over his hair while the other supports his neck, occasionally scratching your fingertips into the base of his scalp. “Where did you learn to do this kind of stuff?” Eddie asks. You look at his face, and he’s watching you carefully, a sort of reverence on his face. “My mom used to do this for me,” you say, softly. “When I was a kid.” “Oh,” Eddie says, turning his eyes to the ceiling. “That explains why I’ve never done it, I guess.” 

You don’t say anything. You don’t know much about Eddie’s parents, except that they’re not around. You turn the heat up slightly on the water, focusing on rinsing the conditioner down into the sink. “She died,” Eddie says, casually, and you feel your hands still for a moment. In the silence, you look at his face. He’s still looking straight up, eyes on the ceiling, but he looks serious now. “It wouldn’t have made a lot of difference,” he says, “if she had lived. Munson’s have never been the good guys in this town. But I do kind of wish she had been around. To take care of me instead of my uncle.” He sighs, his breath coming out in a heavy stream. “It would have been nice, I think, to have someone teach me this kind of stuff.” His eyes come back to yours, a slight smile on his mouth. “This girl stuff.” You smile back at him, and your fingers scratch in the base of his scalp as you resume the water flow. He closes his eyes and lets out a sound that’s almost like purring. “God,” he hums, “that feels incredible.” You chuckle slightly, and he opens his eyes to look at you.“So this is something moms do?” he asks. You laugh, tilting your head back. “Are you implying that you see me as a mother figure, Munson?” “No! God no! Well, I mean, you could be a mom if you wanted–” You laugh, loudly, temporarily relieving the pressure on the handle of the hose so you don’t spray water directly into his face as he awkwardly dances around his own word choice. 

“I- I’m not coldhearted or soulless,” (y/n) starts, “I know I act like it, but I’m not. It’s self preservation and… I guess people expect me to live up to these rumours and tall tales. To live up to the emotionally detached coldhearted whore.” A dry laugh escaped their mouth as they spilled their emotional turmoils to Eddie. “Guys here… They want a quick and dirty fuck and act as if I don’t have the right to refuse all because of that one stupid…” Hot tears begind to drip down (y/n)’s face.

“Shh,” Eddie interrupts, rubbing circles into (y/n)’s back before tugging them into his body., “Rumours spread like wildfire here in Hawkins,” he chides, “but that never makes it your fault. The jocks have nothing better to do than sit on their asses, throw a ball around, and try to get laid. If a rumor as such spread about them, well, they wouldn’t be taking it too lightly.” (Y/n) hums in agreement. 

“I just wanted a fresh start, to forget the past. Come to this new town on better terms.” Eddie nodded gently at what (y/n) was saying, not quite understanding what they were referring to but understanding the sentiment of wanting a clean slate. 

“I know, sweetheart.” (Y/n)’s heart fluttered at the nickname despite the desire to distance themselves from the metalhead. “I’ve got you. We’re neighbours so all you have to do is knock when and if you need me.” A small nod came from (y/n) and they slowly peeled their body from Eddie’s. It was with great reluctance that they did so, but they’d never let him know such a thing. A single tear fell from their right eye before they quickly wiped it away. 

“Sorry, I just- I just don’t remember the last time someone treated me like a human. I remember my parents would try to keep me under guard and I couldn’t do anything without their approval. I started rebelling really early on, but,” (y/n) looks down at their hands while Eddie’s eyes are fixed on nobody and nothing but them, “I did anything I could that would wind them up, anything that would get me attention. They were… are… diplomats. That’s not a life you can bring a child into, not really anyway. Negative attention was attention until they got a maid to watch over me. I called her l’œil omniscient, the all seeing eye. She never let me slip.” A sigh left their lips and Eddie’s hand came up to their chin, tilting it upwards. It was as if  he wanted to say something but he didn’t know what and so he moved his hand to cup (y/n)’s cheek and brushed his thumb across their cheekbone.  “Eventually I turned eighteen, and they didn’t want me to move out because they wouldn’t be able to control their public image and so I just had to cope in whatever way I could. Any money I made was forfeit to them save for a small allowance for going out. That’s when.. I started coping.” 

“I’m sorry…” Eddie mumbled, pressing his forehead to (y/n)’s. There were only nods that came from (y/n), choked sobs threatening to erupt from their throat if they so much as attempted to speak. 

--

(Y/N) packed their school bag the next morning with pencils, papers, and a few extra items for their late night shift, Eddie a few feet away from them. There was a shame that flooded them, knowing that Eddie probably wouldn’t be as open to being around them after he discovers their secret. Nobody really wanted to associate with it, with the stigma that came along. It was as if their job somehow tainted them, coating them in the stench of shame, humiliation, and something that no amount of showers could wash away. 

Eddie grumbled gently before letting out a snore and waking himself up. His doe eyes cracked open and while he first knit his eyebrows in confusion over the strange scene, the dark sheets, the paintings and artwork strewn across the walls, the faint smell of oud and smoke – this wasn’t his trailer, he soon adjusted and it dawned on him that he fell asleep at (y/n)’s place. 

“Good morning.” He croaked out, deep velvety voice called to you, a few crackles across the tenderness that enveloped the simple statement. It caused (y/n) to look up, heart racing a million miles a minute, words that hadn’t been spoken with such gentleness in a hefty number of years, not even by false lovers that occupied their bed. 

“Oh, uh.. Morning.” (Y/N) mumbled out before turning their head away, shame suddenly flooding them. He wouldn’t be sticking around much longer, not after he found out what they do for a living, what they do to sustain themselves in this shithole and all others. 

There was a certain stigma surrounding the work that they did. It wasn’t exactly the most traditional job, nor the safest, one wrong client coming in and it might as well be a death sentence but at the end of the day, it was also a highly requested job for those melancholic and alcoholic folks who couldn’t very well deal with their own emotions. From time to time (y/n) would even get a client who spilled their life story, their sorrows and their hopes, the dreams that wound up crushed. 

“What’s got those gears turning, sweetheart?” Eddie ponders out loud, letting the question slip past his lips with ease, unknowingly asking one of the heaviest questions he could have. 

“Nothing, everything. Last night.” (Y/n) sighed out before rubbing their face and sitting back on their knees. “Eddie, I just… I need some space. I need to process everything that happened…” They choked out. In reality they didn’t want Eddie gone, but it was better to rip themselves away now than to let Eddie know what was really going on, than to come forth and tell Eddie what “coping” actually meant. It was better to have a distance than to have Eddie’s kind heart filled with the black venomous hatred that everyone else’s seems to be upon discovery of this particular coping mechanism. 

“Oh, uh… I can, I can go.” He says regrettably before crawling slowly out of the bed and putting on his shoes. He made an effort to be quick as a fox to get out of (y/n)’s hair, not overstaying his welcome for a single second longer – last night was quite enough of a breach of boundaries by his standards, especially given the air was tense now. He didn’t know what to make of this however. The comfort from last night in contrast to the coldness this morning… It pained him. It stung more than getting sucker punched by any jock, and maybe that’s because the coldness of the rejection went to his heart too. 

–

The sensual music boomed loudly, reverberating against the walls, the blinding lights overwhelming (y/n), but it was something to get used to. These jobs were always like that - overwhelming with crap music, blinding spotlights, but like other jobs, it was get in, get paid, get out just with a few more complications. For one, not every afterschool job meant dancing in lingerie at some seedy bar at the edge of town, and not every afterschool job would allow people to make enough to cover rent and a good stipend for college or whatever else was to be chosen. 

It wasn’t a desired job but it was a job that made (y/n) feel desired even if it was by Hawkin’s worst beer bellied scum. With a deep sigh they pushed out of the changing rooms and plastered a smile across their face, makeup done bright, toned body snaking around the bar before making a show of climbing up to the stage. Some hoots and hollers were heard from the crowd.