#strangerthings fic

Because the first time you crossed paths freshman year, you bumped into him in the hallway, he made a dramatic show of checking if all his rings were still on his fingers, and then grinned and said, “Careful, princess. You might get glitter on my flannel.”

He’d held a grudge ever since, or maybe it was just a game to him. Every time you passed him, he’d whisper “Don’t trip over your perfection,” or tip an imaginary crown on his head and call you “Your Highness.” One time he’d called you a Stepford Wife. Loudly.

You told everyone you hated him.

But tonight… tonight is different.

Tonight you’re stuck in a group project for English with him — and you swear to god, fate is either cruel or bored. Everyone else paired up fast, and by the time you looked around, the only person left standing was Eddie.

You’d groaned. He’d clutched his chest like he’d been shot.

And now here you are. In his trailer. On his couch. Trying not to kill him.

“So,” he says, drumming his fingers against a notebook he hasn't opened. “Do you wanna actually work on this, or should we just stare at each other and try to psychically communicate how much we loathe one another?”

You glare. “Do you always have to talk like that?”

“Do you always have to talk like that?” he says, mimicking your voice with obnoxious precision.

You toss your pencil at him. It bounces off his chest, and he gasps. “Assaulted! In my own home!”

“God,” you mutter. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“You’re such a dictator.” He grins, flipping his notebook open finally. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. You read the book. I’ll pretend to care.”

“I’m not doing the whole thing myself.”

“I never said you had to,” he shrugs. “I just said I’d pretend. That’s called compromise.”

You grit your teeth. You knew this would be a nightmare. You’re not even sure what made you agree to come here — maybe the fact that your house is currently packed with your mom’s book club and their chain-smoking habits. Or maybe it’s because, as much as you hate to admit it, you were… curious. About Eddie.

Not in the way your friends accuse you of, when they say, “You like him, don’t you?” and you scoff and say, “Please.” But maybe in the way you’d wonder what he listened to when no one was around, or what it’d feel like to be the girl he was actually nice to.

He leans forward suddenly, his brown eyes surprisingly sharp. “Why do you hate me?”

You blink. “Why do I—? What kind of question—?”

“It’s just,” he interrupts, “you don’t seem to hate anyone else. Just me. And I’m curious.” His voice isn’t mocking now. Just low. Thoughtful. “Did I do something worse than I remember?”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And for the first time ever, you answer honestly.

“I don’t hate you.”

His brows lift, and something like a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“Then why—?”

“Because if I didn’t,” you say quietly, “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

He doesn’t speak. Not for a full beat. Just looks at you.

Then: “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You laugh under your breath. “That’s sad.”

“I know.” He shifts forward slightly on the couch, the space between you shrinking just a fraction. “So… are we enemies, or what?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Are you gonna help me write this essay?”

“No,” he says immediately.

You groan.

But then he grins. “But I’ll let you do it while I make you tea.”

You’re too startled to argue as he gets up and disappears into the kitchen.

He makes good on his promise, though. Ten minutes later, he’s back with two mugs — his has a chipped skull on it, yours is plain — and he sinks back onto the couch beside you like this is just what you do.

You sip the tea. It’s sweet. Cinnamon and honey. Too nice to admit you like it.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, eyes flickering toward yours. “I have a reputation.”

You smirk. “Of what?”

He leans closer. “Being unlovable.”

It’s a joke. You know it is.

But your heart thuds.

You look at him — really look at him. The long lashes, the curve of his mouth, the tiredness behind the charm. And something about being here, in his space, with nothing to perform for — it makes your chest ache a little.

“I don’t think that’s true,” you say quietly.

He freezes.

You bite your lip. “Maybe you just haven’t been loved right.”

He looks at you like you’ve said something dangerous.

And you suppose, maybe, you have.

The silence is thick.

You shift your legs, trying to get comfortable, and they bump into his. You don’t move them away.

He looks down. Then back at you.

“Are you flirting with me, princess?”

You smirk. “You wish.”

“Oh, I do,” he says easily. “More than I should.”

That throws you.

You stare at him, the blood in your veins humming. He notices.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice rough.

“Like what?”

“Like you might actually kiss me.”

You smile. “Why not?”

“Because I won’t stop you.”

Your heart trips.

You lean in first.

And he meets you halfway.

The kiss is softer than you expected. Less reckless, more real. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck like you might vanish if he’s not careful.

You melt into him. One arm around his shoulder, one hand still holding your tea mug, tilting awkwardly as he pulls you closer.

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s waited a long time to prove he can be gentle.

By the time you pull back, your face is warm and your brain feels fuzzy.

“See?” he says, his voice husky. “You don’t hate me.”

You rest your forehead against his. “Still not helping with the essay?”

“Absolutely not.”

You laugh, and he kisses you again, your smile pressed between both of your mouths.

So maybe he’s not unlovable. Maybe you just had to stop pretending he was.

And maybe you weren’t pretending to hate him, maybe you were just scared of how much you didn’t.

It was a balmy summer day, and El was finally allowed out of the house, so the party was taking advantage on the break from school and spending as much time together as possible. They had spent all day at the lake, and even though it was no beach, it was still pretty fun. After all of the excitement wore off and everyone was ready to go home, Steve dropped them all off at Mikes house. Lucas volunteered to walk Max home, because it was sort of a novelty for them so spend any time alone together.

Lucas had been trying his best to stay clear of Max’s house, and more specifically her step-brother, but they had had such a good day he didn't want it to end. Max assured him that after Billy’s near brush with a crushed pelvis, he had left her alone and that if he tried anything she would pull out the bat that Steve had given her for just such an occasion.

They walked hand in hand down the street. The sun was sitting low in the sky, casting long orange streams of light across the road. Max had shocked everyone today by wearing a floral sundress over her swimsuit. She threatened to punch anyone who mentioned it, but Lucas thought he looked lovely. The little yellow flower patterns complimented her ivory skin, and fiery-hair, and he marveled over the orange freckles that dotted her legs. Her hair was wavy and stiff from the water, and Lucas imagined how pretty she must have looked when she lived near the ocean.

They talked idly about their day while the walked. They recounted the way Dustin had belly flopped while trying to jump from the rope swing, and how Will had won the breath holding contest. Max teased him for screaming like a little girl when he jumped off the tiny cliff, and he teased her being scared of the bass in the water. Eventually their conversation steered towards Mike and El, as it often did, and about how painfully lovesick they both were.

“God I know, Mike spent basically all day making puppy eyes at El. It was ridiculous.” Lucas scoffed, chuckling heartily.

“Ugh I know, El was even worse. Did you notice the way she was like always touching him? Like she couldn't be away from him for even a second.” She giggled. “Kill me if I ever act that way.”

“Gladly. Same here.” Lucas teased. They continued their strole, shoulders bumping against each other as they walked. “It is nice to see Mike back to his normal self though.” Lucas added after awhile.

“Yeah, he seems pretty happy.” Max sighed. “I'm just glad he isn't a jerk to me anymore.”

“I guess being in love has that effect on you.” Lucas laughed. Max laughed too, but then reeled for a moment. It was painfully obvious that Mike and El were in fact ‘in love’ but she wondered if they had actually said it or not. Max wasn't exactly the best at ‘girl talk’ but her and El told each other most things. It wasn't like it really mattered, if they had said it or not, but she wondered what that must mean for their relationship. She wondered if that really was what made them so sappy all the time.

After a few minutes of walking, the reached the road that Max lived on. They stood just down the hill from her house, out of sight from her family. This had become a bit a routine for them. Standing here in the sunset, holding hands and lingering a few minutes longer each time, not yet wanting to part ways, but not really having anything to say.

“I had a lot of fun with you today, Madmax.” Lucas grinned shyly. Max giggled, he always looked so dopey when he flirted, it was cute.

“I had fun today with you too, stalker. Thanks for inviting me.” She felt her face blush just slightly, and she wondered if this fluttery feeling would ever go away.

“It wouldn't have been the same with you.” Lucas smirked, wanting to make the conversation as long as possible.

“That's, true. I'm pretty great huh?” She teased, punched him lightly in the shoulder.

“Yeah really great!” Lucas said a little to quickly, either missing her sarcasm or failing at his own.

She laughed and shook her head at him. “You are just as bad as Mike.” She teased.

Lucas looked just slightly offended for a moment, but then he looked more embarrassed than anything else. He looked down at his feet and shrugged.

“Can you blame me?” He grinned crookedly, looking up at her while still facing the ground.

Max’s usual response would have been some sort of playful jab, or to poke fun at him for being such a sap, but all she could think about was her heart racing and her face growing warmer. She felt like a giddy school girl, all giggly and dumb, and she figured she would have plenty of time to make fun of him later. So she kissed him.

“Wha... what was that for?” He asked, eyes wide and bewildered.

“Because I have to kill you now.” Her face was serious and unreadable, and for a split second Lucas was worried that she was serious. He opened his mouth to say something but she cut him off with a hearty laugh. “Because you totally love me!”

Lucas blinked at her in surprise. He was speechless, but he tried to argue anyway, mumbling some sort of disagreement but mostly just turning deep red and babbling incoherent nonsense.

“You do! You totally love me!” She giggled, pulling him in closer by wrapping her arms around his neck. “But don't worry, Stalker. You have to kill me now too. Because I love you back.”

She pulled his head forward and kissed him tenderly, for longer than any kiss they had ever shared before. He wrapped his arms around her waist and when they broke apart, they learned their foreheads against one another. Max felt like she was full of swarming butterflies, and like she could just melt into the sunset, like a total waistoid. Lucas, based on the look on his face and the dopey glint in his eyes, was feeling the same. Like he could stand here forever.

“I love you, Max.” He whispered, his tone suddenly serious and intense, and full of emotion. He meant it, he meant every part of it, and for the first time Max understood that this is what love feels like. It's not the way they show it on TV. It can be simple, and easy, and fun, and an adventure, if its with the right person. And based on the way she felt, on the way she wanted to scream from the rooftops and sing and act like an idiot, Lucas was the most right for her a person could be.

“I love you too, Lucas.” She whispered back, her voice full of heartfelt adoration. She kissed him again, and hugged him tightly. And as the sun set around them, making her damp hair feel like ice on her shoulders, she was incredibly warm and content. She never wanted to leave this moment, and she finally understood why El looked like such a moron all the time.

He was leaning against the vending machine like he was born to do it. Like he was the patron saint of detention and late-night drives and not giving a damn. His jacket was too big for this kind of weather — worn denim over that same Hellfire tee he always wore, holes at the collar, fingers covered in silver rings and invisible ink. He was looking down at the row of sodas like they had personally offended him.

You almost kept walking. You should've. There's a kind of rule — people like you don't talk to people like him. But you were tired of following rules that didn't make sense.

“You hate this place that much?” you asked.

Your voice was quiet, unsure.

Eddie didn't look at you right away. His eyes flicked upward, like it took him a second to believe you spoke. Then, slowly, his mouth curled around something crooked and amused.

“Cheerleader speaks,” he said. “Alert the press.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile threatening. “Don't act so shocked.”

He shruged. “Can't help it. Most of you walk past like I'm one of the lockers.”

You glanced around. The hallway was fully empty now, the walls breathing faint echoes of your voice.

“Maybe we're just not used to you being so... stationary,” you said.

He chuckled, soft and genuine, and that throws you a little. You expected sarcasm, not warmth.

“I'm just taking a break from corrupting America's youth,” he says. “Thought I'd give the PTA a day off.”

You leaned against the opposite wall, crossing your arms. “So dramatic.”

Eddie studied you for a second, something shifting behind his eyes. Then he nodded toward the gym doors behind you.

“You like it? All of that?”

You hesitated. “It's not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” he murmured. “But you wear that smile like armor. Makes me wonder what you're really hiding.”

You didn't answer. You weren't sure how to.

“Just don’t get it,” he said after a while, voice low. “Everyone in there’s so busy pretending this is the best time of their life. Like they don’t know the real world’s gonna chew them up and spit them out.”

You looked down the hallway, past the cracked trophy case, the flickering lights overhead. You knew what he meant. Even if it was different for you.

“Maybe that’s why they pretend,” you murmured.

Eddie blinked. Like maybe he hadn’t expected you to say anything true.

You were the girl who smiled too easily. The one people thought had everything — the uniform, the grades, the crowd. But behind your smiles was the loneliness of always being the version of yourself people expected.

That was the first time you and Eddie spoke. You don't talk every day after that.

But he starts appearing more, the back bleachers during your cooldown laps, leaning against his van when you're walking to your car, flipping through records in the dusty back corner of the store you go to when you want to disappear.

It’s quiet in the back corner of the Spinnin’ Vinyl. The kind of quiet that hums, rather than echoes. Fluorescent lights flicker softly overhead, casting a tired, pale glow over the rows of vinyl. Dust lingers in the air, caught in golden shafts of light leaking in through the blinds. You always come here after school when things get too loud — when your brain is tired of smiling and your lungs feel like they’re running out of air.

You trail your fingers over the spines of the albums, letting them whisper past, searching for something you won’t know you need until it’s in your hands.

“I knew I’d find you here,” someone says, low and familiar.

You don’t turn immediately — but your pulse stirs, a subtle skip. You reach for a record — Joan Armatrading — and then you glance sideways.

Eddie Munson is half a row down, his wild curls tucked behind one ear, a frayed leather cuff at his wrist. He’s flipping lazily through a stack of used cassettes, his mouth curved into that slight, crooked grin he always wears like armor.

“How?” you ask, voice light.

He shrugs. “You’ve got the eyes of someone who listens to heartbreak songs and never tells anyone.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around the record sleeve. Your first instinct is to deflect — to laugh, to scoff, to pretend he’s wrong.

But you don’t.

Instead, you look down at the album in your hands.

“Maybe,” you say quietly.

Eddie glances at you, just once, then back down to the tapes. “I come here for the same reason.”

You hum. “Heartbreak songs?”

He smirks. “Nah. The silence. People think this kind of music’s all noise and chaos — but sometimes it’s the only thing that shuts everything else up.”

You move a little closer to him — not too close, but close enough to feel the shared space. “You talk a lot.”

He chuckles. “I’ve been told.”

“Well…” You tilt your head, watching him. “You’ve got the mouth of someone who never shuts up yet still says more truth than most people I know.”

That makes him stop flipping through tapes.

He looks at you — properly now. Eyes softer than they should be, like you said something he didn’t expect.

“Careful,” he says, voice low. “You keep talking like that, I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”

You smile. “Who says I don’t?”

Eddie blinks once, then covers it with a scoff, turning back to the display like he can’t quite trust himself to keep looking at you.

You don’t say anything else. You just browse in companionable quiet, standing half a step apart.

Later, when the sun starts to dip and you both drift toward the register with a couple of records in hand, he holds the door for you like it’s nothing.

But he holds your gaze like it’s everything.

And that’s how you know.

He sees you.

Even in the quiet.

Even in the corners where no one else looks.

After that, you talk more.

You learn he likes Dio and Black Sabbath and the kind of music that sounds like thunder and heartbreak. You learn he hates math, lives with his uncle, and that sometimes, when he's not joking, his voice gets really soft.

In turn, he learns your favorite kind of silence — the kind where someone just sits with you and doesn't need you to smile.

One day, you're sitting on the hood of his van, the sky that pink-orange color it only turns for a few minutes before dusk. Your knees are tucked up, arms resting loosely over them, and Eddie's fiddling with his lighter again, flick—snap, flick—snap.

You ask him, “Do you ever wish you could leave?”

Eddie glances at you, hair curling wild around his face. “Like run away?”

You nod.

He shrugs. “Sometimes. But then I think... what if nowhere feels like home?”

You look down at your hands. “What if nowhere's worse than here?”

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, “Then maybe you take someone with you.”

Your heart skips.

You say nothing. But the air shifts.

It's raining when you show up at his trailer, soaked to the bone, heart pounding like it wants out of your chest. Your makeup's a mess, your shoes are muddy, and your mom's voice still echoes in your head — sharp words about “reputation” and “wasting your future on a burnout.”

Eddie opens the door in pajama pants and a Metallica tee, holding a half-eaten granola bar.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You'll catch your death.”

You laugh once, sharp and broken. “Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.”

You don't mean to cry. But it happens anyway.

He pulls you in without asking.

Wraps you in one of those flannels that smells like detergent and cigarette smoke and something warm you can't name. You sit on his couch, trying not to shake, while he puts on the kettle and jokes about you looking like a sad raccoon.

He never asks why you're there. Just stays nearby. Quiet.

That night, you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder. His thumb moves in slow, absent circles against your arm until you stop crying.

You don't talk about that night. But something changes.

He starts walking you to your car.

You start saving him a seat at lunch — far from the others, but close enough for him to know you want him there.

People start to notice.

The basketball boys glare at you like you've betrayed the crown. Girls whisper.

You don't care. Not anymore.

“Guess I've got a type,” you say dryly one afternoon as you watch Jason Carver spit venom across the hall.

Eddie grins. “Tall, tattooed, and one foot out the door of juvie?”

You smile and bump his shoulder. “Misunderstood and smarter than they look.”

He looks at you then, long and searching.

“You mean that?”

You nod. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He kisses you that night.

Not at a party, not under the Friday night lights. Just the two of you, in the woods behind the school where the trees swallow the sound of the town. Where the stars look close enough to touch. The air smells like pine and coming rain. His hands are gentle, like he's not sure he deserves this. You press closer, fingers tangling in his hair. His hand splayed against the back of your neck.

And the world narrows down to just breath and heartbeat and the way you didn’t feel so alone anymore.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, “You scare the hell out of me.”

“Why?” you whisper.

“Because you're real.”

You kiss him again so he doesn't have to explain.

And maybe things don't magically get easier. Maybe people still talk. Maybe you still have to go home and lie about where you've been.

But now, when it all feels too heavy, you know where to go.

And sometimes, in the quiet between songs, in the soft breath of the world holding still, Eddie looks at you like you're the only real thing in a world made of cardboard.

And you believe it.

Maybe for the first time ever.

It happens somewhere between Tiffany rolling her eyes and saying, “You've been weird lately,” and another girl whispering something behind her palm about “the freak” and your “late-night van rides.” Your skin burns under the fluorescent lights. You laugh too loudly, too fake, and say you're going to the bathroom when really, your hands are already shaking.

You make it to the back of the school before the tears fall.

It's golden hour — that time when the sun hits the cracked concrete just right and makes even Hawkins look soft, like a memory instead of a town. Your sneakers crunch over gravel as you head to the back parking lot where the record store glows like a secret. It's quiet here. Nobody follows you here.

Except him.

Eddie Munson leans against the wall, arms crossed, black jeans ripped at the knee and guitar pick chain swinging against his chest like a promise. He doesn't say anything when you walk past him, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket like it's nothing.

You don't make it ten steps before his voice breaks the quiet.

“Didn't peg you for a Mazzy Star girl.”

You turn, startled. His hair is a little wild from the wind, shadows tucked under his eyes like secrets he hasn't slept off yet.

He's not smirking. Not this time.

You almost laugh. “You've been watching me?” you ask, trying for playful. It doesn't quite work.

He shrugs, pushes off the wall. “You always come straight to the sad stuff. Not even a pit stop in the pop aisle. It's kind of impressive.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “And let me guess — you're here for the loudest, weirdest vinyl they have.”

He grins, that crooked little thing that makes your ribs tighten. “Guilty. But I like your taste better. It says you've been through something.”

You glance down, suddenly shy. “Maybe I have.”

He steps closer, voice gentler. “Yeah. I know the look. It's the one you get when you've learned to keep quiet.”

You don't say anything. Not right away. Just cross your arms and shift your weight from one foot to the other.

He softens a little. “Rough day?”

You nod. “They think I'm... changing. That I'm not playing the part right anymore.”

“And the part is...?”

“Perfect girl... I guess. Loud laugh. Thin waist. Small brain.”

Eddie snorts. “God forbid you have thoughts of your own.”

You're too tired to laugh. Instead, your voice is small when you say, “They're not wrong. I have changed.”

He doesn't ask how. Just walks up to you, close enough that you can smell the faint cigarette smoke on his jacket, the leather, the mint gum he's probably been chewing since third period.

“I think,” he says, “you're just starting to like who you are.”

And maybe, you think, I'm starting to like who I am when I'm around you.

His fingers brush your wrist — barely there. You don't pull away.

You end up in the van that night.

Not for anything wild — not yet — just to sit. Just to breathe. Eddie pulls a blanket from the back and throws it over your legs. He offers you a mixtape he swears was made for someone else but you know was for you. A voice you don't recognize sings low about love and bruises and forgiveness.

He doesn't look at you when he says, “I know they talk. I know what they say about me.”

You whisper, “They talk about me too now.”

“I'd take it all if it meant you didn't have to hear it.”

That's when you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you — it's hard to tell, the moment catches like a match and burns before you can stop it. His lips are rough, a little chapped, but the way he touches you is gentle. Like he's scared you'll run.

You don't.

Your hands end up tangled in the front of his shirt. He groans softly against your mouth, thumb tracing the line of your jaw like he's memorizing it.

And when you climb onto his lap, straddling him in the dark, neither of you says a word.

Your thighs bracket his hips. His hands slip under your cheer skirt, just barely — resting, not rushing. The air is heavy with heat, the smell of dust and rain and pine-scented air freshener.

You can feel him, hard beneath you, and he looks at you like he wants to give you the world and ruin you in the same breath.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice ragged.

You don't.

But you lean forward until your forehead touches his, and whisper, “Not yet.”

You stay like that for a while — tangled, burning, not ready to go all the way but too far to pretend it's nothing.

It's everything.

And it's terrifying.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

You don't remember walking to his trailer, only deciding to. The party was too loud, too polished, too much. Glossy girls with brighter smiles than hearts. Boys with beer and boredom in their eyes. The kind of party that tastes like cherry lip gloss and leaves you lonelier than when you arrived.

So you walked.

Now, you're standing outside his door with your pulse in your throat. You don't knock. You just open it.

Eddie's on the couch, legs kicked up, half asleep in his faded Metallica tee. His hair's loose around his shoulders, and the room smells like incense and motor oil. A movie hums quietly on the TV — something old, black and white, warbling in and out of focus.

He sits up when he sees you, a little too fast. “Hey.”

You shut the door behind you, leaning against it like you're not sure how to stand anymore. “Your uncle's out, right?”

He blinks. “Yeah.”

“Good.” You step forward, just a little, the quiet click of your shoes sounding loud on the floor.

He notices. He's looking at you like he's trying to figure out how much of you is here and how much of you is still wherever you came from. “You okay?”

You don't answer. Not at first.

You sit beside him, slower than you walked in. “I'm tired of pretending,” you say, so softly it sounds like a secret.

Eddie tilts his head. “Pretending what?”

You look at him, eyes a little hazy, voice steady. “That I don't miss you when I'm not here. That I don't think about this — whatever this is — when I'm stuck with people who only like the version of me they understand.”

Eddie's quiet for a moment. Too quiet. Then he says, “That's a dangerous thing to say. Especially when you smell like cheap vodka and cherries.”

You laugh, and it breaks the tension like glass.

He's watching you, but not like the others do. Not like you're a prize to be won or a name to be whispered behind backs. Like you're a riddle he wants to take his time solving.

You lean in, close enough to feel his breath. “I'm not sober enough to lie.”

There's a silence.

Then his hand is on your thigh — not rushed, not demanding. Just there. Steady. Warm.

“You've been gone,” he says, voice low. “I figured you were over it. Over me.”

“I was scared,” you admit. “Of what they'd say. What I'd become.”

Eddie shifts closer. “You mean what you already are?”

You nod, throat thick. “Yeah.”

His touch trails up, over denim, to your hip. “You're here now.”

“I am.”

The air is thick between you. Not heavy — just full. Like something about to happen. Like thunder waiting to break.

He leans in, his nose brushing yours. “Say it again. That you missed me.”

You don't hesitate. “I missed you.”

Then his mouth is on yours.

It's not soft. It's not rushed either. It's just real. His hands slide up your back, grounding you. Your fingers find his shirt, curl into it like you've been needing to hold something solid all night.

He pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, and you let him. You're straddling him now, your knees digging into the cushions, your hands buried in his hair. He tastes like cinnamon gum and the end of a long night — sweet and a little wild.

The kiss deepens. His hands press into your waist, fingertips memorizing every inch like he's trying to carve it into his skin. You feel weightless. Reckless. Free.

Your lips part for air, and he's looking at you like you hung the stars. “God,” he breathes. “You drive me insane.”

“You like it,” you whisper.

His hand tightens just slightly at your waist. “Too much,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours, his nose brushing yours again like he can't help it. “Too fucking much.”

You stay like that, suspended in the hush between heartbeats. Kissing in the dark. The TV behind you flickers in a wash of silver and shadow, forgotten. The only thing you hear is your breath, tangled with his, and the thrum of your pulse like war drums in your throat.

Then he moves. Slowly. Deliberately.

His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, callused fingertips brushing the bare skin of your lower back. You gasp, barely audible, the contact sending sparks skimming down your spine. He moves upward, inch by inch, like every patch of skin is sacred.

And you let him.

His other hand finds your thigh, grips it just above the knee, then slides upward with the same unhurried patience, anchoring you tighter to him. Your body curves instinctively into his, hips pressed together, and you swear he curses softly against your mouth.

Your lips find the curve of his jaw, warm and sharp beneath the stubble. You kiss him there, once, then again, then again — slower. Lazier. Like you're staking a claim.

He lets out a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a whisper, low and broken. His hands are moving now, one mapping the small of your back, the other ghosting beneath your skirt, bold but reverent. Like he's worshipping, not wanting.

Your breath catches. Heat coils low in your stomach.

“Say something,” you whisper against his throat.

“What do you want me to say?” he murmurs, his voice gravel and silk.

“That this means something,” you admit, because the words are already there, too big to swallow.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look at you. His eyes are wild and open, like he's showing you every part of himself he's never let anyone see. “It means everything.”

Then his mouth is on yours again, hotter this time — messier. Less careful. Like he's unraveling right beneath your hands. You kiss him like you're starved for it. Like his mouth might be the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

Your hips shift. He grips tighter.

His thumb brushes just beneath the band of your panties — nothing more — and yet it's enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your whole body goes taut, electricity singing in every nerve.

But he doesn't push.

Instead, he stills, forehead resting against yours again, both of you trembling under the weight of everything you're feeling but haven't said.

“You wanna stop?” he asks, voice barely there, like he's scared even the question might push you away.

You shake your head, slow but certain. “No.”

His eyes search yours a moment longer, making sure. Always making sure. But then he exhales like he's been holding his breath for days.

You're both breathing hard, the air between you gone heavy and warm, saturated with tension and everything you haven't dared to say. The room suddenly feels too small for all this want — too full of heat and moonlight and everything he makes you feel.

So you reach for him.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt and lift, and he lets you, arms raised as you pull it over his head. The fabric falls somewhere to the side, forgotten. His skin is warm beneath your touch, dusted with freckles and old bruises, the kind of soft that hides strength.

Then your shirt is gone too, slipped away like a secret in the dark, and suddenly there's nothing between you but breath and skin and the electric pull that's always been there.

His hand comes to the back of your head, gently, like you're something precious — and he guides you down, slow and careful, until you're lying on your back, looking up at him.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and when he settles there, chest against chest, mouth just hovering above yours, it's like everything clicks into place.

It feels right. Not rushed. Not reckless. Just right.

Moonlight spills through the window, casting the room in silver shadows. It touches everything — the curve of your cheek, the slope of his shoulders, the way his eyes drink you in like you're something holy.

He undresses you like that, moving your legs for just long enough to get his pants off, in the quiet glow of night. Patient. His fingers careful, never greedy, brushing your skin like he's learning it —memorizing the shape of your ribs, the dip of your waist the places where you shiver under him.

Your hand finds his chest, palm spread flat, feeling the thud of his heartbeat under your skin. It's fast. Just like yours.

And then his lips are on yours again.

Slower this time. Deeper. He kisses you like he's got all the time in the world, like this is the only moment that's ever mattered. Every move is unhurried — the soft grinding of his hips, the gentle drag of knuckles across your jaw, the sigh he lets you when you pull him closer.

His mouth trails lower — jaw, throat, shoulder — and every press of his lips leaves a mark, not on your skin, but in your chest.

And not once does he let go.

His hands stay on you, steady and warm. Guiding. Anchoring. Holding you like he's afraid you might disappear if he stops.

And you don't move away either.

You don't want to.

Because for the first time, you don't feel like you're pretending. You're not the girl everyone thinks they know. You're just you, and he's just him, and there's nothing else here but the quiet promise of something real.

The kind of real that lingers.

The kind of real you don't forget.

He kept talking, oblivious. “So I told Coach, right? Like, I was the one who called the play, not Drew. That’s why it worked.”

Someone tossed a chip across the table. Jake caught it in his mouth. The guys howled, and someone clapped him on the back like he’d just performed a miracle.

You looked down at your tray. You hadn’t touched your food.

“Hey,” Jake said, nudging you with his shoulder. “You okay, babe? You’re all quiet.”

You blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He grinned, kissed your cheek, and went back to talking to Drew about something to do with basketball.

Just tired.

It was easier than saying you were bored. Or confused. Or starting to feel like maybe you didn’t fit here as well as you used to.

The cafeteria buzzed around you — voices echoing, sneakers squeaking on tile, lunch trays clattering — and that’s when the air shifted. Just slightly. Like something tugged at the edge of your attention.

You didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

Eddie Munson strolled past your table, same as he did every day. Worn leather jacket, denim vest, combat boots thudding against the tile like a rhythm only he could hear. His walk was unbothered. Confident in a way that wasn’t about who liked him or who didn’t — it was the kind of confidence that said, I already know who I am. You figure the rest out.

You noticed the same things you always did. The way his curls spilled into his eyes. The scattered rings on his fingers. The binder under his arm covered in Sharpie scribbles — band logos, D&D symbols, little doodles of dragons and skulls. He was chaos in a school full of rules. And you… well, you were a rule-follower. At least, you always had been.

“Jesus,” Jake muttered under his breath. “Does that guy ever wash his hair?”

A few people at the table laughed.

“Bet he sleeps in that same damn jacket,” Drew added.

You didn’t laugh. You were too busy watching Eddie out of the corner of your eye.

He didn’t flinch at the comments. Didn’t pause. Just gave a half-glance back, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching like he could say something, but didn’t care enough to waste the breath. His gaze skimmed over the table.

Then landed on you.

Just for a second.

It wasn’t a long look. It didn’t linger. But it held. Long enough for your stomach to twist in a way that felt inconvenient. Long enough for your heart to thump louder than the cafeteria noise. Long enough that you looked away too fast, hoping no one noticed the heat rising in your cheeks.

But Eddie kept walking. Smooth, unrushed, like he had somewhere better to be — and probably did.

“You hear me?” Jake asked suddenly, pulling your attention back.

You blinked. “What?”

He frowned a little. “I said you should stop by before the party. Derek’s bringing tequila.”

“Right. Cool.”

Jake smiled again like nothing was weird, like you hadn’t just been caught staring at another guy mid-conversation.

And maybe nothing was weird. You were still here. Sitting beside your golden-boy boyfriend, surrounded by friends, wearing the same uniform you’d always worn.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like a costume.

Like maybe it never really fit the way you thought it did.

Your fingers picked at the edge of your lunch tray. Across the room, you could just make out Eddie at his usual table — feet propped up on a chair, deep in some conversation with the younger kids from his club. His hands moved when he talked, expressive and wild. The others laughed, clearly entertained. And even from this far away, you could see it — that look in his eyes.

Like he wasn’t pretending to be anyone.

Like he didn’t have to.

“Babe?” Jake said again, touching your leg under the table.

You smiled too quickly, swallowing the rest of your thoughts. “Sorry. Just zoned out.”

“Better not be thinking about anyone else,” he said, joking, but not really. His hand slid up a little higher.

You pushed it gently back down, still smiling. “Just tired.”

And again, he let it go.

You took another peek across the cafeteria.

Eddie wasn’t looking at you anymore.

But somehow, it didn’t matter.

Because you were still thinking about the way he did.

Jake leaned against your locker like he always did — casual, cocky, with that half-smirk he wore like a varsity jacket. The hallway buzzed around you, students flooding out from seventh period, chatter bouncing off the tile like static. You tucked your books into your arms, fingers tight on the spine of your notebook.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out, “party tonight. You’re still coming, right?”

You nodded automatically, out of habit more than desire. “Yeah, I guess.”

He leaned in a little closer, his cologne too strong, too sharp for the stuffy hallway air. “Not just any party, though. Derek’s parents are out of town. All night. No rules.”

His voice dropped low like it was supposed to mean something. Your stomach twisted.

“Right,” you said, and your tone was probably too flat, too careful.

Jake didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care.

“I mean, c’mon, babe,” he added, flashing you a smile like he was handing you something special. “We’ve been together a while now. Everyone’s gonna be there. And I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s time we—”

You shifted your books in your arms. “I don’t know, Jake.”

He paused, annoyed. “Don’t know what?”

“I just—don’t feel like doing anything big tonight. I thought it was just a party.”

“It is a party,” he said quickly, eyes narrowing a little. “Don’t make it weird. We’re just having fun.”

You tried to step back, but your shoulder hit the locker. His hand brushed your arm. It wasn’t harsh, but it was heavy enough to make your spine stiffen.

“Look,” he added, “we don’t have to make it a whole thing. Just… don’t overthink it.”

You didn’t reply. Your throat was tight.

The bell rang for the final period, and Jake rolled his eyes.

“I’ll see you after,” he said, and in the same motion, turned and walked away. His shoulder bumped yours as he passed, just hard enough to knock your notebook from your arms.

You bent down quickly, cursing under your breath, heart still pounding. But before you could grab it—

A pair of worn boots stopped beside you. Then a hand.

Long fingers, silver rings. Careful.

You looked up into Eddie Munson’s face, his expression soft — not smug, not laughing. Just steady.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, already stacking your notebook with your other books, handing them back like you mattered.

You nodded, your throat suddenly too dry. “Yeah. Thanks. I… thank you.”

He glanced down the hallway where Jake had vanished, then back at you. “He always that much of a dick, or just when there’s an audience?”

You blinked. A breath hitched in your chest. “I don’t know.”

Eddie shrugged lightly. Not dismissive, not cruel — more like he didn’t want to push. “Guess I’ll see you around, cheerleader.”

He didn’t smirk when he said it. Just gave you the tiniest hint of a smile, like he was letting you decide what the name meant.

Then he turned and walked off, boots scuffing gently along the tile.

You stood there a second longer than you should have, your pulse roaring in your ears. Then you turned, barely remembering to breathe, and ducked into the girls’ bathroom as fast as your feet would carry you.

The bathroom smelled like strawberry lip gloss and drugstore perfume — cloying, too sweet, the way it always did after last period. You were fixing your hair in the mirror when the door creaked open behind you, and in came Camille — Drew’s girlfriend. Blonde, tall, too pretty for her own good, with a laugh that could either pull you in or tear you apart depending on her mood.

She spotted you and smiled, the kind that didn’t always reach her eyes. “Oh my god,” she said, sliding up beside you. “Was that Eddie Munson I saw helping you earlier? Jesus.”

You flushed instantly. “I dropped my notebook. He was just being nice.”

Camille popped a piece of gum in her mouth and blew a tiny bubble. “Nice?” she repeated, grinning like it was hilarious. “God, he’s such a weirdo. Like — metalhead dungeontroll nice? C’mon.”

You looked back at your reflection, pretending to fix a loose strand of hair. “He’s not that bad.”

“He’s literally the definition of that bad,” she said, then leaned in like she was sharing something sacred. “Don’t tell Drew I said this, but he gives me the creeps.”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because your stomach was still twisted from earlier — from Jake’s hand on your back a little too low, the way he leaned in and whispered about the party tonight like it meant something else. Like you already owed him something.

Camille, oblivious or just uncaring, leaned against the sink. “Anyway,” she said, popping her gum again. “I finally did it.”

You blinked. “What?”

“With Drew.” She grinned. “Last weekend. His parents were gone, and, y’know…” She trailed off, making a face that said duh. “It was really good, actually. Better than I thought.”

“Oh,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Cool.”

Camille looked at you out of the corner of her eye. “You and Jake haven’t yet?”

You froze.

Her tone wasn’t cruel. Just curious. Like she was asking if you’d tried a new lip balm. But still — the question hit too close, too sharp.

“I mean…” you started, fumbling for words. “Not… like that.”

Camille raised her eyebrows, chewing slowly. “Seriously?”

You laughed awkwardly. “It’s not a big deal.”

She shrugged, sliding her lip gloss back into her bag. “I mean — you’ve been dating for what, like four months? That’s forever in high school.”

You stared down at the sink. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know. I want to wait, I think.”

Camille rolled her eyes, but not in a mean way. “You’re overthinking it. We’re literally teenagers. It’s supposed to be fun. And Jake’s hot — if you don’t do it soon, some other girl probably will.”

You looked up at her, that familiar weight pressing against your ribs. The one that always came when people said this is what being a girl means. When they said this is what’s normal. What’s expected.

She didn’t notice your silence — or didn’t care. She just fluffed her hair and threw you a wink. “See you at the party tonight, okay? Maybe we’ll both get lucky again.”

And just like that, she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her.

You stood there, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your lip gloss was perfect. Your hair was curled just the right way. But none of it felt like you.

You weren’t sure who you were supposed to be anymore.

By the time you arrived at the party, the bass was already thudding through the walls of Derek’s too-big house, the kind with marble counters and no parents for miles. Camille clung to Drew’s arm, laughing too loud, and Jake kept his hand glued to the small of your back like it was some kind of claim. You let him guide you through the front door, blinking against the flashing lights, the scent of beer and cheap weed clinging to the air like fog.

Someone shoved a Solo cup into your hand almost immediately — tequila, warm and sour — and Camille raised hers like it was a toast.

“To Friday nights and bad decisions,” she giggled, and threw her head back to take a long sip.

You smiled weakly and took a small sip, just enough to wet your lips. Jake was already on his second, talking with Drew near the kitchen. Camille stayed close.

“You need to loosen up,” she said, bumping her shoulder into yours. “Seriously, one drink won’t kill you.”

You glanced around at the crowd — bodies pressed close, music shaking the floor, laughter and smoke curling in the corners of the room. You felt dizzy already.

“I just don’t really like tequila,” you said, trying to keep it casual.

Camille rolled her eyes. “God, it’s not like you’re gonna die. Just drink it.”

You took another sip, deeper this time. The burn hit the back of your throat, and you winced, eyes watering slightly. Camille giggled and topped off your cup before you could protest, the tequila sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“Jake’ll like it if you’re a little tipsy anyway,” she added, like it was some kind of helpful advice. “Boys like that.”

Your stomach twisted, but you said nothing. You just nodded, half-listening, and took another sip — smaller this time. You didn't even like the taste, Camille had mixed it with cranberry juice which somehow made it taste worse, but it was easier than saying no.

Camille clinked her cup against yours and downed half of hers in one go. “You’ve gotta keep up, girl.”

You laughed weakly and took another sip, then another. It burned less now. Or maybe you were just getting used to it.

Someone passed by and bumped your shoulder. The music was pounding harder, and the lights from the living room strobed in and out of the hallway. You hadn’t even realized you were sweating until you touched your upper lip.

Camille wandered off after that, laughing at something Drew whispered in her ear, and you were left standing there — sticky cup in hand, head starting to float just slightly. Not dizzy. Not wasted. Just loose. Like someone had untied the tension from behind your ribs and let it spill out.

You stood alone for a minute, letting the noise blur around you. You didn’t even want to be here. The music was too loud. The air too warm. The tequila too strong. You weren’t that kind of girl. The one who knew how to flirt and sway and drink like it didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

You drained the last inch of your cup anyway and set it on the nearest table, wiping your hands on your jeans.

You wandered toward the living room, hoping for a breeze near the sliding door, or maybe a quieter corner where the lights weren’t so harsh — when Jake found you again.

His grin was wide. His pupils blown. His arm slid around your waist with the kind of practiced ease that made you wonder how many girls he’d held like this.

“There’s my girl,” he said, pulling you against his chest. “You having fun?”

You nodded, though your head felt light, your knees a little unsteady.

He kissed you, warm and sloppy. It wasn’t bad — not at first. Just familiar. His hands slid down your back and you let him, tried to ignore the spinning feeling building in your chest.

But then his fingers curled under the hem of your shirt. Then up. Too fast. Too much.

“Jake,” you said, pulling back slightly, “I don’t… I think I’m too drunk.”

He just smiled, like that was the point. “That’s perfect.”

Your skin went cold. You stepped back, but he held your wrist.

“I said no,” you repeated, firmer this time, trying to twist free. “I don’t want to.”

“Oh come on, don’t be like that,” he said, tugging you toward the stairs. “You’re fine.”

“I’m not,” you said, panic rising in your throat. “Jake, let go of me.”

He sighed, annoyed now. “Why are you acting like this? You were fine a minute ago.”

“Because I said no.”

You yanked your arm harder, stumbling slightly, the world tilting too fast — and then, all at once, a voice cut through the haze.

“She said let go.”

Jake turned just as Eddie Munson stepped forward from the crowd, eyes dark, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t look scared. He looked ready.

The contrast couldn’t have been sharper — Jake in his designer polo, hair gelled to perfection, and Eddie in his black band tee and ripped jeans, his fingers already curling like he’d been waiting for a reason.

Jake scoffed. “Oh look, the freak’s here. What, you stalking her now?”

Eddie’s voice didn’t waver. “No. Just not a fan of guys who don’t take no for an answer.”

Jake’s grip tightened. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, stepping closer, “it does.”

“She’s my girlfriend, Munson.”

Eddie’s eyes flicked to you — just a split-second, but enough to check. Enough to ask if that was still true.

“She said she didn’t want to go with you.”

Jake shoved him.

It was fast. A blur. But you saw it.

Eddie’s fist connected with Jake’s jaw, sharp and clean.

The crack of it rang out over the music — loud, raw, ugly. Like the moment ripped straight through the party.

Jake staggered back, one hand flying to his face, eyes wide in disbelief. He hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, sliding slightly before catching himself.

“What the fuck?” he roared, blood blooming bright against his lip. “Are you serious, Munson?!”

Eddie didn’t flinch. His shoulders were squared, fists still clenched, breath hard and fast like he hadn’t even realized he was holding it. His curls fell loose in his face, wild and damp from the heat of the room.

“She said no,” Eddie growled. “You think that means keep going?”

Jake sneered, spit pink with blood. “You don’t know shit, freak. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“You laid hands on her when she told you to stop,” Eddie snapped. “That makes it my business.”

Jake lunged, his fists tightening, but Drew jumped between them — arms out, palms up, the nervous kind of energy that said he was used to fights but not ones like this.

“Jake, man, no — not worth it,” Drew said, shoving him back. “You’re bleeding. You’re drunk. Just chill.”

Jake jerked his arm out of Drew’s grip. “Don’t touch me.”

“Then stop acting like a goddamn asshole,” Drew snapped back. “Jesus.”

“God,” Jake laughed bitterly, wiping at his mouth, “Look at this shit. Are you serious right now?” Jake suddenly turned his attention toward you, it took you a second to realize he was addressing you. “Running off with him?”

Your name came out like a curse.

You were still frozen. Still clutching the hem of your shirt like it might hold you upright.

“Don’t,” Eddie said sharply, stepping between you. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Jake tilted his head, smiling without humor. “What, you gonna hit me again, freak? Gonna take her back to your little dungeon trailer and play D&D while she cries about how mean I was?”

Eddie’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t move.

“Bet she’s just another little tease anyway,” Jake added, voice louder now, like he wanted the whole room to hear. “Playing shy till someone actually tries to give her what she wants.”

You flinched. Heat flushed your cheeks, your ears, your neck.

“Fuck you, Jake,” you said, your voice shaking but loud enough to carry.

He stared at you. Like he couldn’t believe you’d actually spoken.

“I didn’t want that. You didn’t listen. That’s not my fault.”

Jake scoffed. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep tonight, princess.”

“Let’s go,” Eddie said gently. His voice dropped low as he turned to you. “C’mon, I’ll walk you home. You don’t have to stay here.”

You hesitated. People were still watching. The bass still pulsed through the floor. You could feel the weight of every stare, every whisper already forming.

“I—I don’t want to cause a scene,” you said softly, embarrassed.

Eddie gave a humorless smile. “Bit late for that, sweetheart.”

You cracked a tiny laugh — the kind that tasted like shame and relief at the same time. Then you nodded.

“I just wanna go home.”

“You sure?” he asked, searching your face. “We can find your friend—”

“I’m sure,” you cut in, voice firmer now. “Please.”

Behind you, Jake muttered something under his breath — slut, maybe, it might have been bitch — but Drew stepped in again, pushing him back with a rough shoulder and a hard glare.

“Get a grip,” Drew muttered to Jake.

Eddie wrapped his hand around your wrist — not tight, just enough to ground you — and guided you through the crowd. The whispers followed, but you didn’t look back.

Not at Jake.

Not at the house.

Not at what you were leaving behind.

You only looked at Eddie.

And for the first time all night, you felt safe.

The front door slammed behind you as Eddie led you down the porch steps, his hand still lightly wrapped around your wrist like he wasn't sure you'd keep walking if he let go. The street was darker out here, quieter. The distant thump of music faded into nothing behind you, replaced by the rustle of wind in the trees and the gravel crunching under your shoes.

You walked in silence for a few minutes, your heart still thudding too hard, your hands too cold. Eddie kept glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, like he wasn’t sure if you were going to break or bolt. He was quiet too, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. It was… thoughtful. Like he was giving you space to breathe.

After a few blocks, he veered slightly off the sidewalk, nudging your shoulder. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the woods. “Shortcut through the trees.”

You hesitated, glancing at the line of tall dark pines rising behind the houses. “Seriously?”

“It’s not haunted,” he promised, grinning. “Well. Maybe just a little. Depends on how cool you are with raccoons.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Raccoons?”

“Yeah, y’know. The masked bandits of the forest. Local gang. Might try to mug us for snacks.” He shrugged like this was a completely normal concern. “We’ll have to establish dominance.”

That made you laugh — small and real — and he grinned like he was proud of himself for getting it out of you.

It was ridiculous, honestly, how quickly the weight in your chest had started to lift. How just a few words from him made everything feel better. Like everything that had happened at the party wasn't so important anymore.

“It’s just trees,” he said, nodding toward the narrow dirt path between them. “You’re safe with me.”

The words hit deeper than they should’ve. Maybe it was the way he said them — not dramatic or flashy, not performative — just steady. Sure.

You followed him in.

The trail was overgrown in places, but the moonlight peeked through the gaps in the trees, casting everything in soft silver. It was cooler here, the air sharp against your skin. You crossed your arms, mostly for warmth, and Eddie noticed. Without saying anything, he shrugged off his worn denim vest and handed it to you.

“You’ll freeze,” you said.

“I’ve got layers,” he replied. “You’ve got goosebumps.”

You took it, letting the worn fabric settle over your shoulders. It smelled like him — faint smoke, motor oil, some kind of cologne — and it was oddly comforting. Familiar in a way Jake never managed to be.

After a minute, you spoke quietly. “Thanks. For… back there.”

Eddie looked down at you, brow furrowed just a little. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” you said. “No one’s ever really… stood up for me like that.”

He exhaled, slow. “You shouldn’t need someone to. That guy was a dick.”

You gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. He was.”

Eddie kicked a branch out of the way and slowed his pace so you could keep up. “Y’know, I’ve seen you with him before. And I always wondered if he actually saw you.”

You glanced over. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged again, but it wasn’t careless. “You’re not just some pretty girl in a cheer skirt. You’re funny. Way smarter than any of those guys realize. You have this little nervous habit where you twist your ring when you’re overwhelmed. You do that when you answer questions in class, too — not that you need to, you’re always right — but I don’t think you even notice.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Your fingers brushed the ring on your middle finger, and you looked down in surprise. He was right.

Eddie noticed. Jake never had.

“You always sit with your back to the windows, like you don’t like people watching you,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck like he hadn’t meant to say so much. “And when you smile, like really smile, it kinda ruins me a little.”

You stopped walking.

Eddie did too — only a few steps ahead now, the leaves crunching under his boots, hair silver in the moonlight.

You swallowed. “Why do you pay so much attention to me?”

He turned back to face you, and his voice was quieter now. Less teasing. “Because I see you.”

The breeze rustled through the trees, and for a second, all you could hear was the sound of your heart thudding in your chest.

“I saw you even when you didn’t see yourself,” he added. “That first week of school when you sat behind me in English, I thought you were gonna laugh at me. But you just asked to borrow a pen. And then you said thank you. That was it. That was the moment.”

You stepped forward, the words catching behind your ribs. “The moment for what?”

He gave you a crooked smile. “The moment I realized you weren’t like the rest of them.”

You looked at him then — really looked. At the way his lashes curled long and dark over his cheekbones, the scar on his eyebrow, the softness in his eyes that didn’t match the way people talked about him in the halls.

You had no idea what to say.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You reached for his hand.

And he took it like he’d been waiting forever.

The world paused for a heartbeat — your hand in his, your pulse like a drum — and then the first drop landed. Soft. Cool. Right on your cheek.

You blinked up at the sky.

Another. And then another.

A few seconds later, it was pouring.

“Shit!” you gasped, a surprised laugh bubbling up in your throat as the rain turned fast and sudden, soaking through your hair and clothes like the sky couldn’t wait another second.

Eddie laughed too — a startled, real, chest-deep sound — and tugged your hand tighter. “Come on!”

You ran.

Your sneakers slipped slightly in the grass as you both sprinted toward the road, water smacking against the pavement and splashing up from puddles you couldn’t dodge in time. You were soaked within seconds — hair plastered to your cheeks, makeup probably running, your shirt sticking to your skin — but you were laughing, and so was he.

It wasn’t a perfect run. You tripped once and nearly lost your balance, and he caught you by the elbow, steadying you with a grin that made your stomach flip. You clutched his arm, breathless, dripping.

“This is so gross,” you said through a laugh, rain catching in your lashes.

“Gross?” he echoed, squinting at you, curls dark and flat now against his face. “This is peak cinematic romance, sweetheart. I think this is where I’m supposed to say something poetic and then kiss you like we’re in a John Hughes movie.”

You raised a brow. “You mean, like... Pretty in Pink?”

“More like Sixteen Candles. Rain, angst, unrequited love… Except I’ve got way better hair than Jake Ryan.”

You let out a laugh, half-shocked, half-swooning. “You wish.”

And then you were both laughing again, so breathless you had to stop just before the sidewalk that led to your house. The porch light glowed a few yards away, blurred behind the curtain of falling rain.

You turned to run again — but Eddie didn’t move.

You felt the tug first — his hand pulling you back — and then his arms sliding around your waist, warm even through the damp fabric of your clothes. Your breath caught as you turned to face him.

His eyes searched yours — wild, soft, all at once — water trickling down the curve of his jaw, over the tip of his nose, his lips pink and parted.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he murmured.

You didn’t even have time to answer.

His mouth met yours in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was full of everything unsaid — every second he’d watched you from afar, every time he bit back a thought because he didn’t think he deserved to say it out loud. It was hungry. Careful. Real.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping his soaked shirt as you kissed him back. He tasted like rain and mint and something a little bit like courage. He tilted his head slightly, deepening it, one hand cradling the back of your neck like he was afraid to let go.

The world around you disappeared. No rain. No trees. No porch light. Just him.

The kiss broke for half a second — barely — and you gasped for air, your forehead pressed to his, both of you laughing breathlessly, dripping with rain and something that felt dangerously like love.

“You realize this is insane, right?” you whispered, your voice shaking with adrenaline.

“Yeah,” he breathed, brushing his thumb across your jaw, his smile lopsided and beautiful. “Completely. But you kissed me back.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

And then you kissed him again.

Softer this time — less like lightning, more like a promise — and his fingers curled into your waist, pulling you closer.

Rain soaked you both down to your skin, but neither of you cared. Not even a little.

When you finally pulled apart, still grinning, still dizzy, he nudged your nose with his. “Let’s get you home before you melt.”

“Too late,” you said, laughing as he laced his fingers with yours again.

And this time, you didn’t let go.

did you guys miss me??<33 i know it's been ages and im sorryyy, but im back ! w a long one too, excuse the mistakes it was written at 3am

will i ever stop writing about eddie x popular girl? probably not. maybe it's cause i was a cheerleader in high school and fell in love w the guy who introduced me to metallica and black sabbath