“you are such a soft & messy thing”

The back rows housed those students who came purely because missing a lecture meant failing swathes of assignments. Asking for a copy of the re-typed lecture notes proved futile – hardly legible even in print, written in some half-formed shorthand that was almost certainly punishment for a lack of punctuality. For those already struggling to keep up, it was an academic death sentence. 

The middle of the hall was for those who kept up relatively well, by the professors' standards. These oft demonstrated the most promise in assignments, and were poised and ready for his irregular habit of asking questions in a lecture format, as opposed to waiting for the seminar. 

The front row, if not sparsely populated by those who arrived too late for their regular seat, was reserved for those who attended purely to spectate the youngest associate professor on campus. At just 28, Professor Night had beaten the previous record by five years at least, and was, in his younger age, undeniably a sight to behold. 

You found yourself at home on the second row. As if that did anything to mark you as different to the admirers before you.

Summer term made for a particularly fierce struggle for front-row seating. The tailored suit blazer he usually wore was abandoned long before reaching the lecture hall each day, and, if you the spectators, were lucky, so too was the tie. This particular day, being well into the midst of the most oppressive heatwave in the last three years, marked the first occasion on which the first two buttons of his pressed shirt were abandoned, too. It felt Victorian, really, to have had to cross your legs beneath the cramped desks at the suggestion of a clavicle. Thankfully, the steady dishevelment of his hair made it feel marginally less puritanical, only marginally, as lithe, splayed fingers pushed the defiant curls back from his forehead as they sprang forth from their gel in the humidity. 

The old building did nothing to make the heat any better. Cramped as you all were in the hall, the old stone could only do so much to block out the sun, even this early in the day. For a moment, you swore that the hand that rose to brush his neck, dipping beneath the collar just enough to move the fabric further from his skin, was to wipe at a slow bead of sweat. If he hadn’t tossed his papers to the desk in defeat just moments afterwards, you may have disregarded it on the grounds of heat stroke. 

“Do not expect this to become a regular occurrence, but I am ending class there.” The glasses came off next, another piece of his usually staunch uniform discarded – how strange for an otherwise remarkable Thursday morning to quickly become the slow strip tease of your otherwise upright professor. “I urge you all to cool off. We will reconvene next week.” 

The order in which the hall emptied followed much the same regime as the seating arrangements. The back scuttling out first, followed by the far less hurried middle, and finally those too busy fawning to realise the class was over brought up the rear. Where you may have expected a heat-induced lethargy to have slowed the procession out the door, the usual order was disrupted, people springing from seats as if powered by motors. At least that may have explained the disgusting 8:30 temperature.

“Sir?” The honorific left your lips before you could think of a particularly good reason for it. Unlike your peers, you had not leapt at the chance to leave, even as Professor Night moved with significantly more haste than was usual for the end of his classes. He paused, regardless, papers halfway to hand, glasses tucked neatly into the front of the unbuttoned shirt. It was strange how strikingly he resembled a student, suddenly so undone in the way he was, even as his forehead creased in surprise, like a deer in headlights, that anyone could possibly want anything from him in conditions such as these. 

“Sir,” your hand lowered slowly, wetting your lips. “I was hoping that I might ask you some questions on the latest assignment? The one due next week?” 

The papers lowered to the desk, and once again the hand rose to his collar, following the same path as moments before. The hall emptied. 

For a moment, he only looked at you. It was undeniable that his eyes dipped, grazing over the edge of the camisole that had been your only defence against melting before you reached class. It wasn’t something you would typically wear to a lecture, dipping a little too low to be comfortable around some of the boys you shared class with, and barely made more modest by your thin overshirt. Against what you believed possible, your cheeks warmed further as his gaze lingered, longer than necessary to assess if you had violated the common-sense dress code. He relented at last, as the echo of students began to fade. 

“You?” He came to lean against the edge of the desk, arms folding across his chest as he did when he was pondering something. You wondered for a moment if in the quietening hall he could hear the inappropriate reaction your heart was having to being almost alone – the final stragglers easing bags onto their shoulders. “I’d assumed you’d finished it already.” 

“I have.” 

He paused again. “Then what exactly are you asking me for?” 

It was a good question. You hadn’t come to today’s class with the expectation of doing anything but admiring paying attention, and praying you were not picked on to answer on some obscure equation. You had never been picked, and you feared your good luck streak was waning thin. His brow raised at your hesitation. 

“I want to make sure I understood it correctly.” 

“You finished your last exam twenty minutes early.” It was not your imagination that placed the smirk on his face, the edge of his lip shifting. 

“And? That doesn’t mean I understood it all,” you countered.

“You scored 98%” 

You tried not to look too pleased with yourself. “The missing two percent has been bothering me.” 

Your professor rarely laughed. Smiled, yes – when someone got something right. But laughing was reserved for much rarer occasions. You took his snicker as as good as you might get. 

“Most students would frame that grade,” he noted. 

“Most students didn’t lose marks only because they confused parasympathetic inhibition with reduced sinoatrial node automaticity.” 

His brow lifted slightly, “So you do know where you went wrong.” 

“I know where you said I went wrong,” you clarified. This earned you a sharper look, yet the smirk remained. The lecture hall had emptied entirely now, the fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. 

“You sound as if you disagree?” 

It didn’t take a year’s worth of classes with him to know that what you were entering was dangerous territory. 

“I think,” you said carefully as you stood, only now starting to slide your notes back into your bag, “that my answer was physiologically defensible.” 

He shifted more of his weight onto the desk behind him, a leg crossing over the other as his arms unfolded, hands coming to rest against the edge of the wood. Really, they did look far too pretty to belong to a teacher, of all people.

You paused over one textbook before flipping it open, turning to the annotated page. “You said I oversimplified the cardiac regulation under stress conditions.” Your finger traced the margin beside your handwriting. “But transient vagal withdrawal does precede sympathetic activation in acute tachycardic response.”

There was no denying, as you glanced up again, that his eyes followed your own, flicking back up to your face. You were suddenly very aware that standing had exposed your choice of shorts. For a second, there was only the buzz of the lights. 

“You’ve been reading beyond the course material,” he said eventually. You couldn’t decide if that impressed him or bothered him. He had an uncanny ability to make anyone second-guess anything. In fact, you were sure that he could make a person reconsider whether their name was actually what it was at the time of introduction, if in the right mood for it. “You realise,” he said, hand outstretched for what you assumed to be your textbook – you stepped down to hand it to him accordingly, “that most doctoral candidates wouldn’t challenge me this confidently.”

Heat climbed your throat despite yourself. “Maybe they should.” He paused halfway to unfolding his glasses, eyes holding your own. “I mean, in the interest of academic development, of course.” 

He hummed at that, resting the frames against his nose at last and glancing over your pages. It somehow felt all the more exposing when your work was not in essay format, not to mention being stood so close as he dissected it – for you were sure that that was what he was doing. Subjecting your ideas to his scalpel as he did so many others. 

A real smile threatened at the edge of his mouth before he suppressed it again. Nevertheless, the movement pulled your attention for half a second too long. 

“You’re still wrong, by the way,” he said calmly.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “I was wondering how long you’d let me think otherwise.”

“The autonomic response wasn’t the issue.” He closed the notebook, handing it back and letting it drop from his fingers. “Your mistake was assuming the heart behaves predictably under stress. Biology rarely respects clean models.”

The glasses were removed again, fingers folding over the arms as he tucked them away once more. “Come to my office tomorrow, does four pm work? I have a paper that would help with this, but right now I’m afraid I need to—”

“That works just fine.”

It was hardly a faculty secret that Professor Night was far from ordinary. Beyond being the youngest, the rhythmic ticking that followed him belied the truth that he was one of the most brilliant da Vinchis of the generation – those students lucky enough to study under him, to work more closely than the front rows, had all confirmed that the clockwork heart story was, in fact, true. And that the man, as young as he may be, was more prone to fits of irritation than the tenured lecturers he worked beside. Usually, it had been deduced, as a result of odd biological habits. If his several winter layers and now uncharacteristic summer fidgeting were anything to go by, an intolerance for thermoregulation appeared to be a symptom. 

“Tomorrow then?” 

“Tomorrow. Thank you, professor.” 

He only nodded. 

Professor Night’s office was at the farthest end of the corridor, the blind on the door always closed, adorned only with his brass ‘Dr. I Night, PhD’ name plaque and a neatly printed schedule relaying his permitted office hours. 

Friday, four pm, was not an allotted meeting time, you noted as you hovered, gathering the will to knock. Friday four pm was blocked out for independent research. Time that your professor was particularly protective of. 

It was well documented after all, that his second year lectures were part of his contract, and not a passion project. If he had it his way, he wouldn’t bother himself with students at all outside of his select doctoral cohort. 

“Are you going to continue hovering?” 

His voice broke through your thoughts, muffled through the door, but clear enough for you to realise he had likely been aware you had arrived five minutes early, and had stood resolutely since. 

You weren’t sure why you expected the door to creak as you pushed it open, but it didn’t, sliding open almost too quickly for you to assert in your balance again, your foot rushing to catch you before you ended up face down, arse up on his office floor. 

You cleared your throat awkwardly as he glanced up, pen paused over paper. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure I had the right time, your schedule—“ 

“You have the right time.” His smile returned. The one that dimpled his cheeks just enough to lean endearing without being over eager. “Early, but correct.” He stopped you before you could form your question: “I could see your shadow beneath the door. Come, sit.” 

The solitary chair beside his desk cleared itself of its own accord, your eyes widening at the feat. The stacks of books drifted purposefully to join a pile behind him, the tomes having long since overflown the allotted shelves. 

For all his precision inside the classroom, Professor Night’s personal office was in a state of disarray. Not the type that came from a lack of care, but rather a great deal of it, if the self-opening drawer and flicked through files were anything to go by. The stacks of paper and leather-bound books littered every corner, but in a form of organised chaos. Everything, it seemed, had a place. Just one that only he could understand. 

Most importantly, it was cosy. You could almost envision yourself working in here regularly. Perched at the edge of that desk as he mumbled to himself in his thoughts— 

“Are you going to sit?” 

“I— yes. Sorry, sir.”

He flicked through the file deposited on his desk, drawing out a thin wad of paper, and pressing it across to you. The file returned itself, his fingers alone orchestrating the movement, curved at the first knuckles and wafted so carelessly, the digits relaxing as the drawer closed itself again. 

What else could his ability do, you wondered. How much could they lift? Is it like a hand? A pressure? Used on a person, could it be felt beyond the tug in whichever direction he dictated? Could you fight against it? Would you want to?

“You shocked me yesterday.” His voice once again dragged you from your own mind. “You’re an intelligent girl, I struggle to see how you could find this difficult.” 

You shifted in your seat, legs crossing again. His attention faltered briefly, fingertips pausing against the edge of the paper.

“I just want the best grade I can get.” Your offer was thin at best. And he could tell. He hesitated, watching you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, his fingers twitched again, a pen drifting lazily into his grasp. Your already uneasy smile faltered, watching, entranced. 

“You seem distracted today, what’s wrong?” 

“Hm?” Your attention refocused. “Oh, nothing, I’m fine.” He only continued staring, brow poised in an obvious display of disbelief. 

“Do I make you nervous?” 

The question caught you off guard. So too did the soft smile that accompanied it as he sat back in his chair. It was odd, really, how untouchable he seemed at the front of a lecture hall, yet this close, he was far more boyish. Almost 10 years your senior, he was at once too old for your late-night thoughts to be rational, but still young enough for the whole thing to be entirely plausible. You realised you were staring again. 

“How did you become a professor so young?” 

His smile held despite your deflection. “Apparently, designing your own heart at 10 years old constitutes the start of your research. Combine 18 years of ‘experience’ with completing a doctorate in two years, and you’re able to frustrate several greying distinguished professors.” 

“Two years?” 

He hummed affirmatively yet dismissively, as if to wave the feat off. “Not the quickest, one is still the record, I believe, but yes. Two.” 

“Impressive.” You nearly kicked yourself.

“I am glad you think so.” The snicker returned, perhaps a little brighter than yesterday, more at ease under the comfort of a fan to cool him. It rustled his hair a little as it oscillated, catching against the whisps that escaped the gel around his temples, dislodged, you assumed, by his glasses. The same glasses nestled against his head, flicked down now to his nose. This close, the lenses made his eyes just a little bigger, the lines that graced the edges of them more noticeable, the deep brown that much more susceptible to being lost in. 

“Why teach? If you don’t like it, I mean?” 

“Do I not?” 

“I hardly think it’s a secret.” 

“Was it your intention to play 20 questions with me today? I thought I was sacrificing my research time to help you better understand the course content.” 

You were correct. You were here outside of his office hours – and on his invitation, too. 

“I never asked you to,” you mused. “I could consult directly with my academic advisor if I’m disturbing you.” 

He scoffed, leaning forward again to the paper. “And risk the ruination of my greatest student's mind? I don’t think so.” 

His assessment gave you pause. 

“Greatest?” You’d had approximately six one-on-one conversations with Dr. Night since you began his class last autumn. Each in seminars, and bookended by him jumping from one student to the next to place them under his proverbial microscope. While each were catalogued away in your own memory, you had hardly considered him to have held you to much esteem in his own. 

“Do you know how many other students came close to your 98%?” he asked, flicking through the paragraphs in front of him. You shook your head. “Sixteen. Do you know what the next highest percentage was?” 

“No.” 

“84%” 

You suddenly felt incredibly giddy. 

“Ah, here it is,” he glanced back at you at last, turning the paper he had dug out to face you, tapping specifically to a paragraph on the second page. “Does that make it clearer?” 

You nodded slowly, eyes moving over the annotated paragraph while trying not to notice how near his hand rested beside yours. “I think so.” Though in truth, your attention had begun splitting itself rather inconveniently between the paper and the low timbre of his voice.

“You argued from the perspective of mechanism,” he explained, “when the question required you to account for variability.”

For a moment, you only studied the paragraph in silence. “I hate that you’re making sense.”

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement. “I should hope so. It would be concerning otherwise.”

You glanced up to find him watching you over the rim of his glasses again, expression unreadable save for the faintest hint of satisfaction. “So I was close?”

“Oh, dangerously.” His reply came smoothly. “Another paragraph and you might have convinced me.”

Your pulse stuttered unnecessarily. 

He sat back again, sliding the paper closer to your edge of his desk. “Take it, it will be of more use to you at the moment.” 

You accepted the paper carefully, smoothing the edge between your fingers more to steady yourself than anything else, moving to gather it with your notebook. “Thank you.”

He had picked up his pen again, already turned back to whatever it was he was working on before you had interrupted, and you stood. 

Your name came from his lips before you could reach the door again, and you turned far more quickly than necessary. “I could… continue to tutor you, if you wish. Given that you’re going to continue to read beyond the curriculum regardless, I may as well help to focus your efforts more directly, and save you from ending up in some antiquated quagmire.” 

“I– yes, Sir, that would be–” 

“Isaac will do just fine.” 

A strange flutter passed through you at the intimacy of it, your fingers tightening uselessly around your book. “Yes, Isaac. I would enjoy that.”

“Good—” He cleared his throat abruptly, as though the word had escaped him too easily. “Very well.”

He rose then and crossed the small office to instead open the door for you, one arm braced against the frame as you stepped past him. The angle forced you to duck slightly beneath it, close enough to catch the scent of sandalwood and vetiver. You felt positively woozy. 

“Oh, and I think this is best kept between us, for now at least,” he added lightly. “Lest I be accused of favouritism.”

That is exactly what it is, you thought, though you merely nodded, offering what you hoped was a composed smile before turning away.

The extra sway in your step was entirely coincidental. 

Given what you knew of prof Isaac, you had assumed his offer for tutoring would cover the key submission seasons, perhaps a twice-termly interest in your extra-curricular reading and some general pointers in the direction of other journals. What you had not anticipated was that, despite no formal alteration of his schedule, one hour every Friday at four pm would be dedicated almost entirely to you. That you would, over the four meetings thus far, come to know that Dr. Isaac Night only listened to classical music (he favoured Baroque), drank his coffee black and far too late into the day to promise good sleep, and drove a black 1980s Mercedes that had a surprisingly comfortable passenger seat (he was hardly going to let you walk home in the heat, after all). 

What you had dismissed previously as mere admiration was very obviously more. It was hard to deny when your Friday nights were now spent alleviating yourself of the frustration that had built over the hour (often more) spent beside him, a hand pressed to your mouth, imagined to be his, to muffle your sighs for the sake of your housemates. How easy it would be for his hand to reach beyond the desk’s edge, you thought, to dip lower as his eyes so often did, and settle between your thighs, to curl against you as they did when he exercised his ability, to replace your touch with his—

Your name, sharpened with stern repetition, brought you back quickly to the lecture hall. It was already emptying, bags being slung onto shoulders, books gathered, feet slowly shuffling out. You blinked out of your daydream, cheeks warm. 

“Can I speak to you for a moment? It won’t take long.” 

Isaac watched you expectantly with his usually collected smile. It was oddly sterile now, you realised, knowing him as you did – it was almost unsettling. 

“Is everything okay?” your classmates continued to shuffle out around you. Isaac only held your most recent paper aloft. Your stomach dropped. 

“Fine, but I wanted to ask you about something.” A few people murmured to themselves as they passed, a cautious side-eye offered your way as you stood awkwardly and closed the gap to his desk. 

“Could this not have waited until—” 

His sharp warning glance shut you up. “It won’t take long,” he flicked through the pages quickly, settling on one practically stained red, his pen strokes heavily adorning your own. “I knew you wouldn’t mind my work beside yours.” 

Isaac simply turned the page towards you, barely stepping back as you leaned against the desk to study it more closely. Reviewing his notes was not unlike deciphering code, the entire cohort was in agreement on that, and even a month under his tutelage did nothing to familiarise you with his manner of working. 

“They would have been graded sooner had I not been so distracted,” he hummed. You caught him wiping his glasses on his tie from the corner of your eye. “You complicated matters further with this.” 

“What is this, exactly?” you frowned, focusing on the page again. For all his scrawl, none of the instantly recognisable red X’s signified his usual disappointment. “Is it wrong?”

“No, no. The answer is correct,” Isaac bent beside you, one hand braced against the desk. Almost too close. You wondered if he could feel the warmth of your body as you could his, the structure of his shoulder brushing your own. “It is the method that alludes me. Tell me, where did you learn how to do this?” 

Your tongue darted over your lips, glancing to the corner of your vision to where his face practically hovered beside your own, his focus fixed intently on your work, as if blissfully unaffected by the proximity that had you once again at the mercy of his cologne. This close, would it linger against the fabric of your shirt for the rest of the day? You hoped so.

“I didn’t.” Your voice wavered unintentionally. “I mean, it just felt the best way to go about it, no?” 

Isaac paused for a moment longer, but made no effort to move. His eyes flicked over the page again, though you were sure that neither of you were reading it anymore. The muscle in his jaw shifted once. “Hm.” 

“Hm?” Was that all you got?

“Hm.” You risked the turn of your head enough to catch the dart of his eyes over the page once, then twice, fixating at last on the roll of his tongue against his cheek, the protrusion of the dexterous muscle. “I always knew you were impressive, but to surprise me? Very few people can do that.” 

“Is it a nice surprise?” 

Your breath brushed his cheek, and Isaac jolted. Small, imperceptible if you had not been standing so close, and yet he made no effort to move. Rather, his gaze landed on your lips. 

“Very much so.” 

Your breath caught. Isaac’s eyes flicked to yours briefly, as though searching for hesitation, for some indication he should stop. Whatever he found there made something in his expression soften.

Rather, he leaned closer.

You could have stopped it. You knew you should. Instead, your fingers curled against the edge of the desk, his breath feathered warm against your lips.

You felt the hesitation in him then – restraint stretched to its breaking point. His eyes had fallen half-shut now, his composure stripped away piece by piece by fraying discipline.

The slam of the lecture hall door startled Isaac into motion so abruptly it bordered on undignified. He reeled back at once, your own lungs demanding air so viciously it nearly had you staggering. You fixed at once on the back of the hall, two boys lumbering in the back rows as if searching for something, one coming up with a textbook clearly forgotten after class. Neither of them was particularly concerned by what had almost transpired. 

The same could not be said for the man beside you.

Isaac was already gathering his things with urgency, shoving loose papers into his satchel with little regard for their neatness. You did not think you had ever seen him move so quickly; not even the students occupying the back rows escaped his lectures with such efficiency.

“I think it would be best,” he muttered, voice tight as he flipped the leather flap shut, “if we postponed tomorrow’s session. I’ll—” he stopped abruptly. “We’ll revisit this another time. Good work on the paper.”

“Professor, wait—”

Calling after him was useless. Within moments, he was already halfway up the lecture hall steps, taking them two at a time. You cursed his ridiculously long legs. 

The heavy door slammed shut behind him.

When Isaac had walked out that day, he disappeared. You’d tried his office on three separate occasions, including the end of Friday. As usual, the blind remained drawn, but this time the door was locked – and there was no rhythmic ticking beyond it to suggest he was merely bluffing his absence.

That was why seeing him the following Monday, leaning against the back wall of the science offices with a cigarette in hand, caught you so completely off guard. 

“I didn’t know you smoked.” 

He startled, nearly coughing on the lung full of smoke he had just inhaled. He huffed it out awkwardly. 

“I very rarely do.” he flicked the building ash away, intent on watching it as it fell beside his shoes. “I find it helps with stress.” 

“Work?” 

“Something like that.” 

His voice was distracted, his attention fixed firmly on the cigarette between his fingers. He rolled it slowly, the movement pulling taut the tendons along the back of his hand.

“Your research?”

Your attempt to narrow it down earned only a scoff – light enough to almost pass for a laugh. 

“You.”

“Me?” 

He exhaled slowly again. “You’re a smart girl, don’t pretend otherwise.” It was almost condescending, laced with irritation as he brought the cigarette to his lips. 

You fumbled for words. It wasn’t hard to bring the memory of the other day to the front of your mind. You had been replaying it almost every hour for the last five days, trying to shake the ache in the pit of your stomach – to see it in a new light, one that didn’t mourn the fact you were so close to knowing what his lips felt like against your own. 

“Professor, I—“

“Do you think I don’t see it? Hm?” He glanced around then, pausing as a small gaggle of students filed past, his voice lowering. “The way you look at me? All the way through class. It’s enough to drive any man mad, and the other day—” he found himself unable to finish the thought, settling for another harsh drag instead.  

You swallowed hard against the tension in your throat. “Do you think it’s a problem?”

“I know it is a problem. Need I remind you I am your teacher.” 

“You’re the youngest on campus.”

“That does not make it better.” 

“I would argue that it is considerably more tolerable than if it were me and, say, Professor Richardson. Physiologically speaking.” 

Isaac visibly cringed at the thought of his nearing-70-year-old colleague, tossing the butt of his cigarette to the ground and grinding it beneath the toe of his shiny Oxford shoe. “Please do not make me picture that.” 

“It proves my point.” 

“It proves nothing,” he stressed. “I am your tutor, and I shouldn’t have allowed myself to see you so often, not one-on-one.” 

“So, you’re ending the tutoring?” 

“I didn’t say that.” His answer came too quickly, a stern glance offered from beneath his brows at the mere suggestion. It was a strange thing to watch his reason fight his appetite. You didn’t get where he was so quickly without constantly pursuing what you craved, after all, and now he seemed to be at odds with his habits for what might have been the first time.

That almost made you laugh. There was something deeply unfair about the severity with which he approached everything, including this. Especially this.

“You know,” you mused, “most men would simply admit they’re attracted to someone and spare themselves the philosophical crisis.” 

“This is not a game.” His expression darkened at once. “This cannot continue indefinitely.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Then, we seem to be at an impasse.” 

He barely reacted, his eyes not once leaving your own. 

“I can give you one last session,” he offered. You knew that tone. It was the one he used in seminars, relenting to a student begging for an extension on a submission. He was bargaining. But this time, you could hardly tell if it was with you or himself. 

“I want to show you something,” he continued, each word chosen too carefully. “But beyond that, we need to… reassess the arrangement.” 

It was as if he was trying to sound certain, cover himself with his professionalism. It was easy enough to see through the fact his fingers fidgeted in his pocket, twitchy without the comfort of his cigarette.

“In your office?” 

It would have been a disservice to yourself to pretend your stomach didn’t knot at the thought of it. That something inside you hadn’t already gone taut with anticipation. That the same heat didn’t bloom across your chest, multiplied ten fold from your first meeting. 

You knew he felt it too. It only made it worse. 

“I– Are you busy right now?” 

“Not with anything important.” 

His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing, and his keys were fished from his pocket. “They’re at my apartment.” 

You almost laughed. “You think that’s smart?” 

“I know it isn’t.” For a second, he stayed there against the wall like he was still arguing with himself, jaw tight enough to ache. Without much other warning he set off walking with an intention that suggested you should follow. “But I’m sure we can be professional about it.” 

Isaac’s apartment was a little way off campus, away from the more student-esque districts. It was nice, suggestive of the nice wage the university must have offered him to keep him in their employ, and not have him dart off to the competition. 

He had stepped back upon opening the door for you, as silent as he had been on the drive over, letting you step beyond the threshold of what appeared initially to be an extension of his campus office. A similar pattern of chaos permeated each corner, this time, however, mixed with a series of chotskies you were sure were of his own design. You wondered if he at all knew how to switch off. 

“Did you make all of these?” Your bag dropped neatly to the floor beside his sofa, a cosy-looking thing, worn but not to the point of ragged. 

“Yes.” He sat back against the cushions, having locked the front door again and kicked off his shoes. You stood for a moment longer, turning slowly as if in some grand museum, when it caught your eye. A picture frame, a young girl, beaming happily from the mantlepiece beside yet another metal contraption. 

“She’s pretty,” you mused, stepping closer. Isaac knew what you were testing here, smart as he was, glancing up just barely from flicking though some large papers on his coffee table. 

“She’s my sister,” he confirmed. “Françoise.” 

You turned at that, an odd satisfaction settling in the pit of your stomach. He went quickly back to hunting for what he wanted, lips pressed together firmly the longer it took to find.

You paced slowly, attention darting between each of the small contraptions, set up in strange ways that you could hardly understand. 

“What does this one do?”

You stopped beside a particularly intricate mechanism, slightly larger than the others and positioned alone on a side table. Interlocking brass gears turned at uneven intervals beneath a lattice of thin steel rods, each movement feeding into the next with precise, deliberate clicks.

You reached forward innocently enough, a finger aiming to brush along the twisted metal, guided purely by curiosity.

That was when you felt it – the firm wrap of a hand around your wrist, stopping you entirely, holding you still without any obvious physical effort. Your eyes widened, breath catching at the steady pressure around your forearm.

Isaac’s hand was barely outstretched, still sat across the room, his gaze firm and unimpressed.

“Can you behave for a moment, please?”

Your mouth dried, a tragic idea forming. He had, after all, hidden from you for several days, avoided you like some child on a playground. If he wanted to be immature, why couldn’t you be. Your lips curled to disguise your shock.  “And if I don't?” 

Something darkened in his expression, the lines between his brows lingering but shifting, his tongue rolling over his lip slowly, preparing the answer. “Don’t push it.”

The pressure dissipated quickly, the sensation odd – there had been no warmth of skin to retract, simply the presence – some ghostly palm releasing you back to yourself. 

“I intended to bring these on Friday,” he muttered, already having gone back to his search, shuffling over a seat to work through another pile. “But, well…” 

“What are they exactly?” 

His hands stalled for only a fraction of a second before continuing. “The plans for my heart. I thought they might help with your final project.”

Something in your own chest tightened at the casualness of it.

“I’m sure they were here.” He exhaled quietly through his nose, shuffling another pile aside.

“You could just show me,” you said. “Your heart, I mean. If you can’t find the plans…”

That finally drew a reaction. His fingers slowed against the papers, then stopped altogether. The room suddenly felt much smaller. 

Isaac glanced at you, expression unreadable, though the tension in his jaw gave something away. “I don’t think that quite sticks to the promise of professionalism,” he muttered. Even so, he didn’t resume searching.

You only shrugged. “It saves me coming all this way for nothing.” 

His hesitation lasted for all of about two seconds before he reached for his tie, loosening the fabric incrementally until it hung loose from his collar.

“Fine.”

The word came quieter than you expected. He leaned forward to undo the first button of his shirt, then the next. The cushions shifted beneath him as he moved closer to the edge of the sofa.

“Come here, then.”

For a moment, you didn’t move. You could only watch the slow parting of fabric beneath his fingers, the glimpse of pale skin and the faint metallic framework set into the centre of his chest. Brass caught the low light in narrow flashes between the open edges of his shirt, mechanisms moving with soft, precise clicks beneath the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

You hadn’t realised you were staring until he glanced up at you. The look in his eyes snapped you out of it enough to finally cross the room.

Carefully, almost cautiously, you lowered yourself to kneel between his legs. The position alone sent heat rushing to your face, made worse by the way his knees shifted slightly apart to make room for you. Isaac inhaled sharply.

Your fingers hovered uncertainly before finally reaching forward. His actual hand curtailed your reach this time, his fingers wrapped tangibly around your wrist without squeezing. A warning, unlike the last, more to slow you than deter you entirely. He moved with you as you pressed forward, his lax grip steering you to the scarred skin beside the mechanism, free from the cage itself. It trailed from there, guided still by his palm, a tour guide as such, each component's name was announced at each small stop, low and soft beside your ear.

“It’s incredible.” Your voice was little more than a whisper as you allowed yourself to lean closer, weight shifting further onto your knees. You were too transfixed to recognise that your hand had found his thigh for balance, nor his shaky intake of breath. “You really designed this when you were just a child?” 

Isaac offered a quiet affirmative. You glanced up, too enraptured to have realised how close you had really become again. Neither of you moved. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Not most of the time.” 

“Does it always tick this quickly?” 

“When you are around, yes.” 

You swallowed hard, heat rising at the overwhelming warmth that spread across your cheeks and prickled down your spine, exacerbated by the warmth of him beside you. Your fingers tightened against his thigh; his breath stuttered. 

“I should stop, shouldn’t I?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“No.” 

The kiss landed wrong at first. Too fast. Your mouths collided clumsily, breath catching, his hand finding your cheeks with enough force to pull a startled sound from you. It was nothing like the composed precision he carried through the rest of his life. You could feel every fractured second of restraint fighting against instinct beneath it. He pulled back first, but only just enough to breathe.

This close, he looked almost angry about it.

“That,” he said quietly, voice roughened beyond recognition, “was a mistake.”

You could still feel his mouth against yours.

“Probably,” you whispered.

Your hand on his thigh drifted upwards as he leaned down to catch your lips again, tongue rolling over your own with an ease that betrayed his experience, finding where he stiffened, palming over the steadily straining fabric. His breath stuttered, rasping as you descended, trailing your mouth down the column of his throat. 

“W-we absolutely shouldn’t do this.” 

The button of his slacks popped open with the slightest effort, the zipper following suit. For all his eagerness to stop you earlier, there was little sign of the hum of his ability now, not as his hips lifted enough for you to pull the fabric free, to loose him, his flushed tip hitting his stomach. 

His weak protests trailed off into something unintelligible, soft whines taking their place at the wrap of your fingers around him, enveloping the base, catching in the mess of curls. His jaw clenched as you glance up, doe-eyed from beneath your lashes with the steady twist of your grip. 

“Fuck—” 

You gave into your own urges before considering his, you were so tired of navigating the whole thing on his terms, you thought, as you brought your mouth to him at last, the soft stroke of your tongue catching the heat of him, lapping sweetly at the mess he was making of himself, saline and sticky.  

The soft mewl was almost unbecoming of the man who usually commanded your classroom, his stomach tightening with each twitch in your palm. His eyes never once left yours, hooded, pupils blown so wide they were nearly entirely black. They followed the path of your tongue as it circled him, lapping softly at his slit, lips barely closing around him, suckling sweetly until he jerked against the roof of your mouth, pressing himself deeper, groaning at your startled hum around him until he met the back of your throat, the heaviness of him against your tongue halting your breath. 

He dragged you off as you hiccuped, nails digging crescents into the skin of his thigh, water brimming on your lashes. For a moment neither of you could properly breathe, your gentle grip still smoothing over the spit-slick skin. 

“Do you want me to stop, Prof—” 

“Don’t say that.” 

You only smiled, your cheek leaning to press against his thigh, a slow smile curling, emboldened by his steady undoing beneath your palm. “Would you rather I moaned it?” 

“Stop it.” 

“Professor—“ 

Something in him broke, his grip on your hair dipping until it grasped the base of your neck, tugging you back into him with little care for the fact the he could taste himself on your tongue. 

He kissed like a man possessed. Something besides his hands demanding you up towards him, settling you in his lap without effort, securing you against his chest with a near bruising grip. It was all too easy to give in, the startled huff of his name forced from your lungs as he pressed you into the couch beside him, barely allowing himself the distance required to tug at your clothes, stripping them unceremoniously.

There was nothing measured left in him now, not as his lips found your throat, teeth nipping at the skin not entirely intentionally. 

“Please tell me you have done this before?” It was rasped, punctuated by the drag of his lips across the juncture of your throat. 

“Yes.” 

“Thank God.” 

He spared no time working his hand between you, lithe fingers brushing the soaking wet folds, fumbling to find the ridges of your clit, savouring the harsh gasps as he dipped lower, pressing and curling against you for nothing besides satisfying his own desperation. 

“I’ve wanted to ruin you from the day you walked into my classroom—” each laboured word of confession came punctuated with the precise scissor of his fingers, “—So smart, so good. Fuck, made such a mess of myself all because of you.” 

You could do little more than whine, the broken syllables of his name barely discernable through the stuttered, hiccuping sighs, dragged from you with each pull against your walls. 

He pulled from you suddenly, hardly giving you enough time to lodge complaint before he pressed forward, filling you slowly – far slower than you imagined he desired to – inch by devastating inch, until his thighs pressed flush against your own. 

He sat back only enough to study you, his hair a mess, hanging limp in gel-cripsed ringlets by his temples as his thumbs spread your cunt for his observation. “That’s it, oh, good girl.” 

There was no control in the way he gave into your warmth, the fluttering squeeze around him driving him to the point of near madness as he pressed deeper still, barely giving himself the chance to withdraw with each roll of his hips. 

“Always knew you’d be so good for me.” His hands found yours, the white-kuckle grip alleviating from your hips in favour of pinning you to his sofa, the throw pillows crushed or tumbled to the floor in his haste, caging your hands in one of his so easily. “The– perfect– student—”

His reminder had you clenching around him, barely registering against the surge of him, the hand not dominating your own slipping between you again to find your clit, unrelenting as he played you so flippantly. 

His lips finding yours quietened you, swallowing the keening moans forced from your chest, drawn out by months of built-up frustration, inhibitions dissolving as he moved with bullying intent. 

“Gonna–” 

It was all you could manage, your fluttering cunt milking him, the gush of your slick making a mess of the fabric below you, body trembling and hips bucking away at the over stimulation as he fucked you through it, half-formed praises dripping from his lips. 

He came undone with a sob, spilling into you recklessly, the grip on your hands loosened, his fingers searching for anything to cling onto as he dropped forward, head pressed into the plush of your chest as he gasped, the keening rasp shaking with the effort as he collapsed, the rigidity of his body softening against yours, save for the cool metal in his chest. 

It somehow felt more strange for your fingers to settle in his hair, brushing the strands from his forehead, combing them back slowly so as not to tug. 

It took him a moment to collect himself before he drew back, hissing at the overstimulation. 

“Oh, shit,” his dispair came halfway between concern and exhilaration, eyes fixing on the slow seep of him from your cunt. “Are you–” 

“I’ll get a pill.” 

You moved to push yourself to sit, only for his hand to land against your shoulder. “Wait here.” 

He disappeared for a moment, reappearing with a washcloth, dampened and warm, pressing it diligently between your thighs. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think—”

“It’s okay, honestly.” The quiet that came between you was neither comfortable or awkward, an odd tension settling.“I don’t regret it,” you offered softly, watching the tension in his expression loosen by degrees.

“That doesn’t mean it should have happened.” 

“Do you regret it?” you pressed. His lips twitched faintly, humourless and tired all at once.

“No,” he admitted. “That’s the problem.”

The honesty of it settled warm beneath your ribs. “So,” you said carefully, unable to suppress the hope creeping into your voice, “you maybe want to see me again?”

“I will see you next Friday for your usual session,” he replied at once, the formality of it almost comical considering the state of both of you. Still, disappointment sat heavily against your diaphragm. You tried to hide it, but his eyes flicking across your face told you that you had failed. 

“Then,” he continued, quieter now as he bent to retrieve his shirt from the floor, shaking it out once before holding it toward you. The fabric still carried his warmth. He let it fall deliberately into your hands, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second. “So long as you graduate top of your class,” he said, gaze steady on yours, “I will see you again.”

You stared at him. It was impossible not to grin.

His expression shifted immediately in response, something dangerously fond threatening the corners of his mouth before he suppressed it again.

“You realise,” you said, pulling his shirt over yourself, “this is a wildly unethical motivational strategy?”

“And yet,” he replied smoothly, eyes dragging over you once before returning to your face, “I suspect it will be extremely effective.”

Eddie Munson didn’t have a crisis on his hands. It wasn't the kind of earth-shattering revelation that brought your entire world crashing down in a heap of metaphorical rubble. It was more of a... pesterization. A low-frequency hum of annoyance that he’d grown just apathetic enough to tolerate, mostly because he didn't see it changing anytime soon.

One week into his third attempt at senior year, and the problem he’d first tripped over at thirteen was becoming glaringly apparent. On the cusp of high school, Eddie had made the error of trying to kiss one of his only friends, only to be gently informed that she didn’t exactly do the “boys” thing. He’d spent years silently hoping it was just an age thing, a phase they’d both outgrow, until she confessed before heading off to New York that she’d definitely had sex with a girl in the marching band. And since then? Nothing. Radio silence. Sure, he found fantasy tucked inside the gloss of magazines and the grainy flickers of cheap pornos from the back of the video store like every other red-blooded guy in Indiana. But when it came to the living, breathing variety of girls? He was inexperienced, terrified, and frankly, bored.

His third lap around senior year had taught him that the scenery never changed, it just swapped out the actors. There was always a fresh crop of jocks convinced that the universe ended at the edge of the football field. There were the nerds acting as if a B-minus on a lab report would derail their entire existence. The names changed, but the archetypes remained. The kid getting shoved into lockers today was named Fred; a year ago it was Todd, and before that, Arthur. Same script, different face. Yawn.

The girls of Hawkins High weren't exempt. According to the general consensus of the locker room, girls occupied three very specific boxes: the Buddy, the Porn Star, and the Sweetheart. Take Chrissy Cunningham with those baby-pink sweaters and wholesome smiles. Adorable? Sure. But she was the type who would likely burst into tears if she found herself alone in a room with him. That put her firmly in the friendly category, even if a friendship between a cheerleader and a freak was about as likely as Eddie passing Calculus.

Then there was Tina, a girl from his original graduating class. He’d heard the rumors from Billy Hargrove and the other cavemen at school about her extracurricular talents. She had the personality of a wet brick and cared more about her perm than her pulse, but that hadn't stopped Eddie from watching her lips move across the hall and wondering if the rumors lived up to the hype.

As for that third category… the ones you actually wanted to hold hands with? The kind of girls who could make your heart stop with just a smile or a quick remark? He hadn't met a soul who fit the bill. Eddie wasn't sure if he was a romantic, but he was a realist. Who wanted the son of the town criminal? A guy on his third try at Grade 12, who dealt weed to keep the van running? He’d perfected the art of being offensive to avoid the need to be defensive. Scare 'em or weird 'em out before they realize how easy it is to shove a scrawny metalhead into a locker.

He flung open the door to his rusted-out GMC, tossing his beat-up Jansport that had managed to survive since Freshman year, onto the passenger seat with a satisfying thum. He peeled out of the parking lot without a second thought, the engine groaning in protest as he left the school behind. Just another year in the Hellhole, all because he couldn't grasp the basic principles of chemistry. At least it was Friday. And Fridays meant freedom. It also meant he had a chance to deal with his other little pesterization. This one wasn't quite as existential as his quest to find a girl who’d laugh at his dorkier jokes before helping him finally retire his nineteen-year-old virginity, but it was an annoyance nonetheless.

Since the age of nine, Eddie had been a regular at the downtown music shop. It started with replacement strings for the battered Alvarez acoustic his Uncle Wayne had rescued from a pawn shop. A guitar that had seen hell and back as Eddie bled over chords until his callouses finally took. As the years passed and he saved every cent, he’d graduated to the electric variety, but the constant need for fresh strings and heavy-duty picks remained. The Starcourt Mall had changed everything. In its short, neon-drenched life, it had swallowed the downtown shop whole, only for the entire place to go up in flames. Now, with the mall a blackened shell and the downtown storefront still empty, Hawkins was a musical desert.

A quick session with the White Pages had revealed the closest oasis. Mainstreet Music in Bedford, about twenty minutes down the road. That was the Friday plan. Drive ten miles out of his way on a half-empty tank, pray that Bedford wasn't as soul-crushing as Hawkins, and see if this new shop could actually provide the gear he needed to keep Corroded Coffin’s output loud enough to piss off the neighbors.

The drive to Bedford was fueled by a warped Iron Maiden cassette and the flickering orange light of his fuel gauge. When he finally pulled up to Mainstreet Music, he found it tucked between a hardware store and a dusty laundromat. It wasn't the gleaming palace of rock he’d hoped for, but the window display featured a cracked Gibson and a stack of Marshall amps that looked like they’d seen a tour or two. Good enough, he thought. The bell above the door gave a weary chime as he stepped inside, but the muffled ring was immediately swallowed by the sheer scale of the place. From the outside, it looked like a cramped hole-in-the-wall, but the interior was a TARDIS-like trick of architecture. It was massive, stretching back into the shadows of the building with rows of instruments that made his breath hitch.

It wasn't just the gear, though that was impressive enough. The walls were a sensory overload, plastered floor-to-ceiling with posters of bands ranging from the household names to obscure acts he couldn’t have identified if his life depended on it. It was a chaotic museum of sound: metal logos sat right next to soft-focus folk singers. Neon-drenched pop stars shared space with gritty, black-and-white country legends. Beneath the posters, the floor space was a maze of wooden crates overflowing with vinyl and precarious stacks of cassettes that looked like they might topple if he breathed too hard.

"Just a second! I'll be right out!" a voice called from somewhere deep in the back, muffled by a heavy curtain. Eddie barely offered a grunt of acknowledgement, as he drifted toward a rack of vintage offsets. He was too busy drinking in the atmosphere to care about service. Then, the silence of the shop was broken by a familiar sound. The distinct sound of a needle dropping onto a record, followed by the soft crackle. A second later, the stinging lick of an electric guitar cut through the air. Albert King’s "Born Under a Bad Sign."

The opening notes hit Eddie, pinning him to the spot. Suddenly, he wasn't in a music shop in Bedford; he was five years old, sitting on a linoleum floor in a sun-drenched kitchen, watching his mother hum along to this exact track while she sewed. She’d been the one with the blues records. The one who taught him that music wasn't just noise, but a feeling you pulled out of your soul. She was the reason he’d ever bothered to pick up a guitar in the first place.

He stood there, paralyzed by a rare moment of vulnerability, his hand hovering over a pack of guitar strings as the horns blared through the shop's speakers.

"Dio. Nice." The voice was right behind him. Cool, steady, not to mention entirely too close. Eddie jumped, nearly knocking over a display as he spun around. His heart hammered against his ribs as his carefully cultivated "Lord of the Freaks" persona momentarily was replaced by the wide-eyed look of a startled cat.

Eddie finally managed to find his footing, his sneakers scuffing against the floor as he fully faced her. He opened his mouth to deliver some biting, eccentric remark but the words died in his throat. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked right out of the room, leaving him lightheaded and strangely hollow. He’d spent years cataloging the girls of Hawkins into his little mental boxes, but as he looked at her, the system crashed. She wasn't a "Sweetheart," a "Buddy," or a "Porn Star." She was something else entirely. A category all of her own.

She looked to be right around his age, though she carried herself with a groundedness that Eddie felt he’d been lacking his entire life. She was pretty but it wasn't the manicured, hairsprayed beauty of the girls in the hallways at school he’d grown used to. There was an edge to her, apparent in the way an unlit cigarette was perched behind her ear and her wrists were covered in a collection of woven bracelets. Smudged smokey looking eyeliner adorning a bottom row of lashes that drew his focus to the beautiful color of her eyes. An authenticity that matched the heavy blues track still vibrating through the speakers overhead.

A searing jolt of attraction hit him, sharp enough to make his pulse thrum in his ears. But beneath that was a second feeling, something he couldn't quite put a name to. It wasn't just that he wanted to look at her. It was a sudden, desperate urge to be known by her. He realized he was staring, his hands still awkwardly raised from his momentary fright. He looked like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck, and for the first time in his life, Eddie Munson was genuinely, painfully speechless.

"Uh," Eddie managed, a masterclass in eloquence. He cleared his throat, desperately trying to summon the Munson charm, but his rings felt heavy on his shaking fingers. "Yeah. Ronnie James. The man, the myth, the... very short legend." He stood there, scrawny and wide-eyed in his battle vest, feeling like for the first time in his life, he was the one who was totally out of his depth. She was pretty with a look in her eyes that suggested she could see right through his "scary freak" mask to the nervous kid underneath who still missed his mom's singing.

“Men," she said, her voice dry and laced with a playful edge as she tilted her head toward his Dio patch. "Always seemingly obsessed with size?"

Eddie froze. He stood there for a beat, his brain short-circuiting as he replayed the comment. He looked at his vest, then back at her, the realization hitting him like a bucket of ice water. She wasn't just talking about Ronnie James Dio’s height, or lack thereof. She was making a joke about... that. The male obsession with measurement. The length of the sword, so to speak.

A heat he couldn't control climbed rapidly up his neck, flooding his cheeks with a vivid, traitorous crimson. Eddie Munson, the man who stood on cafeteria tables and barked at jocks, was officially speechless. He opened his mouth to deliver a witty, rock-and-roll themed comeback, but all that came out was a faint, pathetic squeak.

Then, she laughed.

It wasn't a dainty, princess-like giggle, with a manicured hand covering her mouth. It was a loud, uninhibited, soul-deep sound that echoed off the stacks of vinyl. It was messy and real, and in that instant, Eddie decided it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He watched her, mesmerized, his own embarrassment softening into a dazed, lopsided grin. 

She caught her breath, wiping a stray tear from her eye as her laughter subsided into a lingering, mischievous spark. She leaned against the glass counter, crossing her arms as she looked him up and down. "You know," she said, her voice dropping into a teasing, rhythmic lilt that made his stomach do a backflip. "For a guy dressed so satanic by rural Indiana standards, you sure are adorable when you get flustered."

The word adorable should have been an insult. To a guy like Eddie, it should have been a blow to his carefully cultivated ego. But coming from her, delivered with that specific, flirtatious tilt of the head, it felt like a damn coronation.

Eddie scrambled to find a foothold, his brain a frantic mess of "don't screw this up" and "say something cool." He opened his mouth, his tongue feeling like a heavy piece of lead as he tried to summon a suave, biting quip. Something about how he was actually a creature of the night who just happened to enjoy a good laugh. But as she scrutinized him, her eyes dancing with that playful, observant light, the words just died in his throat. He ended up letting out a half-formed "I,well–" before trailing off, sheepishly adjusting his rings. He was failing. Spectacularly. But for some reason, looking into her face, he didn't even mind.

"I haven't seen you around here before," she noted, her gaze traveling from the chaotic curls of his hair down to the scuffed toes of his sneakers. "And I usually remember the ones who look like they’ve climbed out of a Black Sabbath pit."

Eddie finally managed to get a coherent sentence out. "I'm from Hawkins. Just a quick, twenty-minute trek down the road. Usually, I'm a big fish in a very small, very judgmental pond."

She hummed, a low sound of acknowledgement that seemed to vibrate right through him. "Hawkins, huh? Explains it. I’ve seen more traffic in here lately since that mall of yours turned into a giant charcoal grill."

"Yeah, the Starcourt disaster," Eddie said, leaning against a nearby rack of acoustic guitars, trying to look like a guy who wasn't currently having an internal meltdown. "Ruined the only music shop for miles. Which is exactly why I found myself wandering into your neck of the woods today. Desperate times, desperate measures."

She straightened up from the counter, her playful demeanor shifting, though the spark in her eyes remained. "Well, consider me your savior for the afternoon kind Sir who hails from Hawkins," she said. "What exactly does thou seek on this quest to the far land of Bedford?"

Eddie’s brain hit a screeching halt. Did she just... did she really just "kind sir" me? His heart practically performed a double-bass beat against his ribs. Because now it wasn't just that she was pretty, or that she liked the blues. Or even that she’d successfully made a dick joke at his expense. It was the delivery. That specific, nerdy, high-fantasy cadence. The kind of talk he usually had to reserve for a small circle of social pariahs gathered around a twenty-sided die. The crush he’d felt five minutes ago had just been upgraded to a full-blown obsession. He felt like he was looking at a unicorn in the middle of Indiana. He stared at her, his mouth slightly agape, searching her face for any sign that she was mocking him. But all he found was that same, sharp-eyed amusement.

"Has the traveler been struck by a silence curse?" she asked, leaning over the counter just enough to bring the scent of old paper and vanilla into his personal bubble. "Or hast my presence rendered thee speechless in the same way the sirens lured sailors to their doom?"

Eddie snapped out of it, clearing his throat so hard it actually hurt. He scrambled for a shred of dignity, reaching out to gesture vaguely at the rack of guitar strings he’d been hovering over before the Albert King track had transported him. "I, uh... no. Just...," he stammered, finally finding a smirk to hide behind. "I seek the tools of my trade, oh mysterious guardian of the Bedford realm. My current strings are sounding a bit too much like a dying cat and not enough like the heralds of doom."

She nodded, but instead of staying behind the safety of the glass, she rounded the counter and stepped directly into his space. She looked up at him, her presence strangely grounding despite the way he was vibrating with nerves. "A noble pursuit," she murmured, her eyes scanning the wall of Slinkys and Cobalts before settling back on him. "And what exact gauge of steel does thou require for this 'herald of doom' business? Are we talking light enough for those flashy solos, or heavy enough to shake the foundations of the earth?"

Eddie took a small breath, trying to steady his hands. "Heavy."

She reached out, her fingers brushing past a pack of Ernie Balls near his shoulder, and he felt the contact like a jolt of electricity. She pulled a pack down, but she didn't hand it to him. Instead, she turned the small package over in her hands, a sheepish, genuine smile finally breaking through the fantasy persona. "Sorry," she said, her voice dropping the theatrical lilt for a second. "I was a total drama nerd in high school, and I’ve been stuck in set design for the local community Shakespeare production all week. I keep slipping into the 'thee' and 'thou' without even thinking about it."

"Theater nerd?" Eddie repeated, a laugh bubbling up that was actually genuine this time. "Well, that explains the dramatic entrance. And here I thought I’d finally found someone who spent as much time in a dungeon as I do."

Her eyebrows shot up, and she leaned an elbow against the shelf, eyeing him with a newfound curiosity. "Don’t tell me you’re a traveler of the tiled maps and polyhedral dice variety. Do you play?"

Eddie’s chest puffed out, a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride washing over him. This was his home turf. "Play? Sweetheart, you are looking at the Dungeon Master of the Hellfire Club. I don't just play, I run the whole show at Hawkins High. I’ve spent more time crafting campaigns and painting lead miniatures than I have studying for... well, basically anything."

For a split second, he felt like a king. But then he saw it. The slight twitch of her lips, a tiny deflation in her shoulders as she looked at him over again. "High school?" she repeated, her voice losing a bit of that playful spark. "Oh. So you're... what, sixteen? Seventeen?"

Eddie winced, the mystique he’d hoped he was projecting evaporating instantly. He quickly held up his hands. "Whoa, hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m nineteen. Almost twenty. Technically, I should’ve been Class of ’84. I’m just... on the extended, scenic tour of the twelfth grade. My third attempt, if you’re keeping score. Chemistry and I have a long-standing mutual hatred."

The change in her was immediate. She let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, as she practically sagged against the instrument rack. "Oh, thank god," she laughed, and that beautiful, loud sound was back, making his heart do another clumsy backflip. "Whew! I was starting to sweat for a second. I was really out here thinking I was about to be a cradle robber."

Eddie grinned, the relief infectious. "And you?"

"Nineteen," she confirmed, tossing the pack of strings into the air and catching them with ease. "Class of ’84, actually made it out on the first try, though barely. I’ve been working here and going to the community college for art classes since. So, technically, we’re from the same brand of vintage."

"Vintage," Eddie mused, his confidence finally clicking into place. He leaned one hand against the shelf, closing the gap between them just an inch. "I like that. Makes me sound like a fine wine instead of a guy who just can't remember the periodic table."

She hummed, her eyes flicking down to his lips for a fraction of a second before meeting his gaze again. "I think vintage suits you, Hawkins. It’s got a bit more character than a repeat offender."

"I'm Eddie," he finally offered, realizing he’d been talking to a goddess for ten minutes without a name to call her. "Eddie Munson. Local freak, master of the dungeon, and currently your most intrigued customer."

She told him her name then, and the sound of it seemed to hang in the air between them, vibrating at the exact same frequency as that Albert King record. Eddie repeated it internally, testing the weight of it, the way the syllables felt like a hook to a song he knew was going to be stuck in his head for weeks. It was a name that had grit but a certain kind of melody to it, too. "Well," she said, pulling him out of his internal daze as she tossed the pack of strings from her left hand to her right. "Now that the introductions are out of the way, what exactly are we stringing up? Please tell me you aren't putting these on some cheap, dusty plywood box."

Eddie shook his head, a smirk returning to his face. "Give me some credit. She’s an Iron Maiden-inspired beauty. B.C. Rich Warlock."

She whistled lowly, nodding in approval. "A Warlock. Bold choice. So, are you just a solo act? A lonely bard shredding in his bedroom to a wall of posters?"

"Absolutely not," Eddie corrected, his pride flaring up again. "I’m the front-man, lead guitarist, singer, and because I own a van, transportation for Corroded Coffin. We’re currently the loudest, most offensive thing to happen to the Hawkins music scene. Have a dedicated crowd of about… 5 drunks on your average Tuesday night at the local dive bar."

She hummed, leaning her hip against the counter as she considered him. "Corroded Coffin. It’s got a nice ring to it. And I get it. There’s something about playing with a group that you just can’t replicate on your own. It’s always nicer with a crew." Her expression shifted, a small, weary shadow flickering over her features. "Though, honestly, my situation lately has made getting the band back together feel like a pipe dream."

"You’re in a band?" Eddie asked, his interest peaking.

"A blues-rock outfit," she explained. "Nothing as loud as whatever a Corroded Coffin puts out, I’m sure. We drive up to Bloomington once a week to play this little jazz bar. It’s good for the soul, when we can actually make it happen. One of our guys has been a bit of a wildcard lately. Stuck at home with his kid more often than not. Parenthood and the blues… they go together, but they don't exactly make for a consistent rehearsal schedule."

Eddie leaned in, fascinated. "Bloomington? That’s the big leagues. You’re telling me I’m standing in the presence of a professional?"

She laughed that beautiful, world-ending laugh again. "Let’s call it semi-professional. We get paid in drinks and gas money, but in Indiana, that basically makes us rockstars."

Eddie’s grin widened, his fingers drumming a restless beat against the side of his pant leg. He couldn't help himself. The fantasy metaphors were bubbling up again, fueled by the sheer high of actually talking to someone who didn't look at him like he was a stain on the carpet. "Alright, so we’ve established you’re a high-level bard," he said, keeping the D&D speak lighter this time, more of a shared shorthand than a full-blown roleplay. "But what’s your actual contribution to the party?"

She gave a small, graceful shrug, her eyes following the movement of his hands. "I’m one of the singers. Since our frontman is currently preoccupied with the dad questline, lately I’ve been carrying a lot of the vocal weight. We split the setlist down the middle, which usually works out until he has to bail for a diaper emergency." She stepped closer to the repair bench, picking up a stray pick and flipping it between her fingers. "And when I’m not behind the mic, I’m on guitar. Rhythm mostly, keeping things steady."

Eddie felt a literal physical tug in his chest. A girl who could talk Shakespeare, play the blues, handle a guitar, and didn't flinch at the mention of a d20? He was fairly certain he was dreaming, and if he was, he never wanted to wake up again.

"Singer and a rhythm player," Eddie mused. "The backbone of the operation. That’s a lot of power to hold over a bunch of Bloomington jazz-heads."

"It keeps me busy," she admitted, finally handing him the pack of strings. As she did, her fingers lingered against his for just a second too long to be accidental. "Though I have to say, Hawkins, a Warlock is a lot of guitar for a guy who gets as red as a tomato over a little dick joke."

Eddie took the strings, his skin buzzing where she’d touched him. "The Warlock is for the stage. The blushing? Well, let's just say you caught me with my armor unequipped."

The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged with a tension that was far more electric than any amp in the room. Eddie found himself caught in her gaze, his usual restless energy replaced by a grounded stillness. He didn't look away, and for a long, heart-hammering minute, neither did she. It was a silent standoff. One where Eddie felt like he was being read like a book, and for once, he didn't mind the scrutiny. Finally, she broke the spell, clearing her throat and glancing down at the counter. "So," she started, her voice a little huskier than before. "Did you actually just venture into the wilds of Bedford for one pack of strings, or is there something else on your quest log?"

Eddie exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders dropping as he tried to find his swagger again. "I, uh... I could probably use a few extra picks. I tend to lose them in the abyss of my van or my hair if I’m honest."

"Follow me, Hawkins," she said, gesturing for him to follow her toward the glass display cases at the back of the store.

As they walked, Eddie watched the way she moved. Comfortable, confident, and entirely in her element. He couldn't help himself; He had to know. "So, if you’re holding down the rhythm for a blues band, what’s your weapon of choice? Please don't tell me it's a Squier."

She laughed. A sound that made him grin. "Hardly. I’m a traditionalist at heart. I usually stick to a Gibson ES-335. Ebony finish. It’s got that warm, woody growl that just... well, it does things to a song that a solid body can't touch."

Eddie stopped dead in his tracks. A low, playful moan escaped his throat in a sound of unadulterated appreciation. In a sudden surge of confidence he leaned in slightly, a wolfish, dazed smile spreading across his face. "God," he breathed, his eyes wide. "Could you say that again? But, like, way slower this time? Because a pretty girl describing her ebony Gibson ES-335 is officially the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire nineteen years of existence."

She paused, her hand hovering over the tray of picks, and turned to look at him. A slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, and for the first time, Eddie felt like he might be the one in trouble. “Careful there, Eddie the Head," she chuckled, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial register that made his skin prickle. "You’re wandering into dangerous territory. You keep inflating my ego like that, and I might just decide to keep you here as a permanent fixture. I’ve been looking for a roadie who’s easy on the eyes and knows his way around a headstock."

Eddie stood there, the nickname hitting him with the force of a freight train. She knew Iron Maiden well enough to pull out the mascot’s moniker, and she was using it to flirt with him. He took a long, exaggerated pause, tilting his head back as if weighing the heavy consequences of his next move. He tapped a ringed finger against his chin, his eyes darting toward the ceiling in faux-contemplation.

"Well," he finally said, a slow, reckless grin splitting his face. "A lifetime of service to a Gibson-wielding siren in the heart of Bedford? Honestly, as far as traps go, it’s a lot more enticing than a weekend at the trailer park with a six-pack of cheap beer and a physics textbook." He leaned an elbow onto the display case, looking her dead in the eye, all the stuttering nervousness from before replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity. "I think I’m willing to take that risk. Lay it on me. I’m a big boy. I can handle a pretty girl with a guitar."

She laughed, the sound lower and more intimate now that they were tucked away in the back of the shop. She reached into the case, pulling out a handful of heavy-gauge Tortex picks and let them rain slowly into his open palm. "I like the confidence, Hawkins," she murmured, watching him as the plastic clicked against his palm. "But let’s see if you can still talk that big when you’re actually holding a guitar instead of just talking about one. Most guys come in here and talk a lot of game, but the second they plug in, they sound like they’re trying to strangle a cat."

Eddie caught the last pick out of the air, clutching it tight. "Is that a challenge? Because if you’re asking me to audition for the role of your most loyal subject, I’ve got a whole repertoire of metal that’ll shake the dust off the rafters."

"Maybe," she countered, her gaze lingering on his hands. "But for now, let's just get you checked out before my boss, who also happens to be my aunt, comes back and wonders why I’ve spent twenty minutes hovering over the picks with a guy who looks like he’s about to start a riot."

“Ah nepotism… snatching up all the good local gigs,” he teased at the mention of her aunt owning the shop. 

She hummed, a soft, wistful sound that didn't quite match the sharp wit she’d been wielding moments before. "Less about nepotism," she said, her fingers tracing the edge of the glass counter. "After my folks passed in a car accident, my aunt, the cool one, thankfully, took me in. It’s been just the two of us since I was in middle school. Working here... it’s how I pay her back for the groceries and the roof over my head. Rent’s cheap when you’re family, but the debt’s still there."

The timing was almost eerie. Just as the weight of her words settled into the air, the record on the speaker system reached the end of the side. The stinging blues guitar faded out, replaced by the empty hiss-thump of the needle spinning in the run-out groove. The silence that followed was heavy. She seemed to realize the gravity of what she’d just dropped on him, and she cleared her throat, shifting her weight as if she were about to bolt back to the safety of the repair bench. The playful spark in her eyes had flickered, replaced by a momentary, awkward vulnerability that made Eddie’s heart ache in a way he wasn't prepared for.

She started to turn away, murmuring something about finding a bag, when Eddie reached out. Not touching her, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her arm. "Hey," he said, his voice dropping the theatrical projection entirely. She paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. Eddie cleared his throat, "I get it. More than you know." He looked down at the counter, a rare flash of somber honesty crossing his face. "I've been living with my Uncle since I was a kid. My mom... she passed a long time ago. And my old man? Well, he traded his parenting duties for a permanent residency with the state after he got busted for five finger discounting some cars. It’s been me and Wayne against the world ever since."

The air in the shop shifted, the shared weight of their histories acting like a bridge between them. She turned back fully now, her shoulder losing its defensive tension as she leaned against a stack of amplifiers. There was a new light in her eyes. Not just the spark of a flirtatious challenge, but the quiet, steady gaze of someone who had seen the same shadows he had. "He sounds like a good man. Your Uncle. It takes a certain kind of soul to take in a kid with baggage like us and not try to sand down all the rough edges."

Eddie let out a short, dry laugh, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his denim vest. "Oh, he’s the best.He’s the only reason I haven't dropped out and headed for the coast already."

She nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She moved toward the record player, the silence of the shop feeling too loud now that they’d traded pieces of their souls. She flipped the vinyl, and a moment later, a new track began to fill the room. Something a bit more upbeat, that cut through the somber mood.

"Well, Eddie Munson," she said, stepping back behind the counter and held out her hand for the strings and picks to ring him up. "I think you’ve officially earned a 'kindred spirit' discount, though don't tell my aunt. I have a feeling if I let you walk out of here without a reason to come back, I’d be failing some kind of cosmic quest."

Eddie handed over his treasures, his heart doing a slow, controlled roll in his chest. "A reason to come back, huh? You think the twenty-minute drive and the threat of my van running out of gas isn't enough of a hurdle for me to leap?"

"I think," she said, her eyes locking onto his as she punched the keys on the old-fashioned register, "that for the right kind of music, and the right kind of company, you’d drive a lot further than ten miles out of your way."

“I’ve got a counter-proposal for you," Eddie said, his voice regaining that theatrical flair, though it was softened by the genuine heat behind his gaze. He gestured toward the counter, his fingers mimicking a scribbling motion. "Dear maiden, might I humbly request a quill and parchment? Or, you know, a ballpoint and a scrap of a receipt will do."

She smirked, sliding a notepad and a pen across the glass. Eddie took it with a flourish, leaning over the counter as he began to write. His handwriting was a chaotic scrawl as he jotted down his number and the address of The Hideout. "Tuesday night," he said, tapping the pen against the paper before sliding it back to her. "Corroded Coffin is taking the stage. It’s loud, it’s unapologetic, and it’s definitely not a jazz bar in Bloomington. But, if you don't mind a little heavy metal, you should come see me actually put this equipment to work." He straightened his vest, hooking his thumbs into his pockets as he looked at her. She only raised an eyebrow, fingers tapping the bar surface as if pondering his request. "I’d love to see you there," he added, his voice dropping into a sincere, quiet register. "I’ve spent three years playing to the same bored faces in that town. It’d be nice to have someone in the crowd who actually appreciates music."

She picked up the paper, her eyes scanning the address before she tore the sheet and tucked it carefully into the pocket of her jeans. A thoughtful smile spread across her face. "Tuesday," she repeated, her gaze meeting his with a weight that made his breath hitch again. "I’ll see what I can do. But you better make sure those strings are tuned perfectly. I’m a very harsh critic."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Eddie grinned, finally backing toward the door. He felt like he was walking on air, the jingle of the bell above the door sounding less like a warning and more like a victory chime.

He paused at the threshold, one hand on the brass handle, and turned back for a final flourish. He swept a low, exaggerated bow. "Until then, my silver-tongued siren," he called out, his voice ringing through the shop with a newfound warmth. "May your chords stay true. This humble bard shall count the hours until Tuesday's moon rises."

He winked, and finally stepped out into the afternoon. He hopped into the GMC, slamming the door and letting out a triumphant shout that was promptly swallowed by the roar of the engine. As he pulled away from the curb, his eyes caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. The blush was still there, staining his cheeks a dusty rose, but his grin was wide enough to hurt. He reached over, patting the bag of new strings on the passenger seat like a prized trophy.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, shifting into gear. "Don't screw this up. You’ve got a Gibson-wielding goddess to impress, and only four days to make sure the Coffin doesn't sound like a literal trash compactor." He cranked the volume on his Maiden tape, the twin-guitar harmonies of The Trooper flooding the cab. For the first time in three years, the drive back to Hawkins didn't feel like a sentence. It felt like a countdown.

🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆

It was Tuesday night, and the air inside The Hideout was a thick, stagnant cocktail of stale cigarette smoke, spilled draft beer, and the electric hum of overworked Marshall stacks. Eddie had arrived two hours early, his nervous energy manifesting as a buzzing restlessness that his bandmates had already grown tired of. He’d recounted the story of the "Bedford Siren" no less than six times since load-in. By the fourth retelling, Jeff had stopped looking up from his drum kit, and by the sixth, Gareth had threatened to shove a drumstick in Eddie's mouth if he mentioned the words "Gibson Goddess" one more time.

"She’s not coming, man," Gareth muttered, "You met her once in a music shop ten miles away. Girls like that don't just show up to dive bars because an awkward guy in a vest asked nicely."

"She’s not just a girl, Gareth, you uncultured swine," Eddie shot back, though his stomach did a nervous flip at the suggestion. He was currently pacing the small expanse of the hallway that led to the stage, his rings clicking against the neck of his Warlock. "She’s a kindred spirit. A fellow music lover. A theater nerd who knows her way around a fretboard. She’ll be here."

He looked at the door every time the heavy oak wood creaked open, his heart jumping into his throat only to sink back down when it was just another local regular looking for a cheap pitcher. The bar was filling up. Well, "filling up" by the Hideout standards. A few fellow metalheads, some curious stragglers, and the usual crowd of misfits who found sanctuary in the dark corners of the bar. Eddie checked his reflection in the grime-streaked mirror in the hall next to the stage. He’d put a little extra effort into his hair tonight. "Five minutes, Munson," the bar manager grunted, signaling toward the clock.

Eddie took a deep breath, the scent of the bar suddenly feeling suffocating. He adjusted his guitar strap. He’d spent hours yesterday stretching the new strings she’d sold him, making sure they were settled and ready to howl.

"Alright, boys," Eddie said, "Tonight, we don't just play. We melt faces. We go out there like the Prince of Darkness himself is in the front row. Clear?" He was met with the excited energy that only can come from teenage boys indulging in their favorite pastime as they finally stumbled out of the hallway. He stepped up to the mic, the feedback whining in anticipation. He took one last, desperate scan of the room. The door swung open again, letting in a swirl of cool night air and the muffled sound of a car engine cutting out. For a second, the silhouettes were just shadows against the neon "Budweiser" sign. But then, he saw the shift of a leather jacket and the unmistakable movement of a confident stride.

She slid through the crowd with a devastating ease, stepping toward the edge of the light. She paused, reaching up to shed her jacket, and Eddie nearly dropped his pick as he took in the change. She looked like she’d been pulled straight from a 1970s rock festival. She was wearing a tight, shortly cropped Wings t-shirt that had seen its fair share of wash cycles, paired with high-waisted black denim bell-bottoms that flared out over the tops of her boots. Topping it all off was the schoolboy cap featuring pins he couldn’t quite make out from a distance, but the overall effect was like an ACDC album cover. It screamed "I know exactly where I am," and it sat on her with a natural, effortless cool that made every other girl in the bar seem to fade into the background. Eddie stood paralyzed, his fingers frozen on the fretboard, his jaw probably hovering somewhere near his knees. He was staring and he knew it, but he couldn't find the mental brakes to stop.

"Eddie!" Gareth’s voice hissed from behind him, sharp and impatient. "Eddie, for the love of God, the intro!" Gareth’s hiss acted like a bucket of cold water. Eddie snapped his head back, blinking rapidly as his brain finally reconnected with his hands. He looked back toward the edge of the stage just in time to see her catch his eye. She didn't look flustered. Instead, she raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her lips quirked into a knowing smile. She gave him a small, two-fingered wave. The kind that said I'm watching, Hawkins, so don't blow it.

Eddie felt the adrenaline hit his system like a live wire. The nervousness was still there, buzzing under his skin, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a fierce, desperate need to show off. He slammed his hand down on the strings, and the first chord of the set ripped through the smoke-filled air with a raw, aggressive power that made the floorboards groan. He threw himself into the music, the world outside the stage lights blurring into a haze of distorted sound and flickering shadows. Between the shredding and the straining growl of his vocals, he lost track of her in the dark. The Hideout was a sea of shifting shapes and nodding heads, and he couldn't afford to scan the crowd while trying to keep Corroded Coffin from derailing. He played with a manic intensity, his hair flying as he thrashed his head. The new strings she’d sold him biting into his fingertips.

Halfway through the set, the energy shifted. Eddie wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a ringed hand and signaled for Gareth and Jeff to hold up. They knew exactly what was coming, and they weren't thrilled about it. Eddie stepped up to the microphone, his chest heaving. He looked out into the gloom, a lopsided, slightly breathless grin on his face. "Alright, folks!" he barked, though his eyes were searching the back of the room. "I have to offer a little disclaimer. I apologize in advance if this next one sounds like absolute dogshit. It’s... well, it’s one we had to pull from the archives."

Gareth let out a long, dramatic sigh behind him. Eddie’s mind flashed back to the previous forty-eight hours. The absolute war he’d waged to get the guys to agree to this. He had practically held them hostage in the garage, forcing them to relearn a song they hadn't touched since their first month of jamming together. There had been shouting, there had been threats of mutiny, but Eddie had been relentless. He needed something with soul. 

He closed his eyes for a second, catching a glimpse of a familiar silhouette leaning against a wooden pillar near the bar. "This one’s for the Gibson wielding Goddess who drove out of her way to hear us butcher Sabbath," he murmured, earning a few chuckles at the self deprecating humor.  He let out a slow, steady breath and began the slow, bluesy opening crawl of Led Zeppelin’s Since I’ve Been Loving You. The transition from thrash metal to agonizingly slow blues-rock was jarring, but as Eddie’s fingers danced over the frets, coaxing a mournful, soaring wail from his Warlock, the room went eerily still. 

Eddie poured himself into the solo, his eyes squeezed shut as he bent the strings until they practically wept. Chasing that feeling his mother had loved. Every slow slide was a message sent directly across the room. A bridge built of high-voltage wire and raw vulnerability. Behind him, the guys held the rhythm with a surprising steadiness despite it being a last minute addition to their set. He was sweating through his shirt, his curls plastered to his forehead, completely lost in the agonizing beauty of the track. 

As the final, haunting chord began to decay, vibrating through the wood of the stage until it was just a ghostly hum, Eddie finally dared to open his eyes. He didn't have to search for her this time. She was right where he’d seen her last, but she wasn't leaning back with that guarded, teasing smirk anymore. She was leaning forward, her arms crossed over the railing, her body language completely open. In the dim, smoky light, he caught her gaze. She was smiling. Not the teasing smile from the shop, but something genuinely impressed. She was nodding her head slowly, a rhythmic, appreciative movement that told him she hadn't just heard the song; she’d felt it. She looked entirely consumed by the performance, her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that made the rest of the room vanish. The rest of the set was a blur of adrenaline and unadulterated showing off. With her eyes locked on him every time he glanced up, Eddie played like a man possessed. Every power chord felt heavier, every solo faster, his fingers flying across the frets with a precision that usually deserted him halfway through a crate of cheap beer. He barely felt the sting of the strings or the sweat stinging his eyes.

When the final crash of cymbals signaled the end of the night, Eddie didn't wait for the scattered applause or the usual post-show banter with the guys. As the house lights flickered to life he practically peeled the Warlock off his body. He set the guitar into its stand and hopped off the edge of the stage before the feedback had even fully died out. He moved through the crowd with a single-minded focus, sidestepping a drunk regular and ignoring Jeff calling his name. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, his chest still heaving. "So," he panted, his hair a chaotic mess around his face as he wiped a streak of sweat from his temple. He tried to summon the smirk, but his heart was beating too hard for his usual theatricality. "How did I do? Am I still a candidate for that roadie position, or should I stick to my day job of failing calculus?" 

She didn't answer immediately. She just looked at him, her gaze traveling from his ripped jeans up to his wide, expectant eyes. The smirk she’d worn in Bedford was back, but there was a new warmth behind it, a softness that made Eddie’s stomach do a slow, dizzying roll. "You're a liar, Munson," she finally said, her voice low and smooth under the humming of the bar’s neon signs.

Eddie blinked, his confidence faltering for a split second. "A liar? I’ve been nothing but an open book!"

"You told me you played aggressively," she countered, stepping into his space, her fingers catching the wallet chain hanging from his jeans, tugging him just a fraction closer. "You didn't mention you could play with that much soul. Zeppelin? That wasn't dogshit, Eddie. That was... something else entirely."

Eddie felt his face heat up, the adrenaline of the performance curdling into a delicious, dizzying sort of bashfulness. He shifted his weight, leaning one hand against the wooden pillar she’d been occupying, effectively caging her into a small, private pocket of the loud bar. As he leaned in, the scent of vanilla he’d noticed in Bedford was now layered with the familiar tang of a recently smoked cigarette and the malty aroma of the longneck beer bottle she held loosely in her other hand. It was the smell of The Hideout, but on her, it was aphrodisia. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and summon the confident persona that usually came so easily. He let a crooked smirk pull at his lips, his eyes dropping to the beer in her hand before flicking back to hers.

"Well, you know," he started, his voice dropping into a drawl that he hoped sounded suave and not just like he’d been screaming for an hour. "I figure if a legendary creature like yourself is going to brave the treacherous journey to Hawkins, the least I can do is provide a soundtrack worthy of the journey. I’d hate for you to think the local talent was... lacking in inspiration."

She let out a soft snort, her eyes tracking the way he was trying to look effortless while his chest was still heaving from the set. She slowly rolled her eyes, the movement playful enough that Eddie didn't feel the sting. "God, you are so corny, Munson," she laughed, taking a slow sip of her beer while she watched him over the bottle. She lowered the amber glass, her thumb tracing the condensation on the label. "Normally, I’d have to penalize you for a line like that." Eddie opened his mouth to defend his honor, but she held up a finger to silence him, her smirk softening into something that made his knees feel like they were made of jelly.

"However," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that cut straight through the house music playing over the speakers. "I think I can find it in my heart to grant you a pardon tonight. Only because you went through the trouble of dedicating a Zeppelin track to me. And because you actually managed to hit those high notes without your voice cracking."

"It was a calculated risk," Eddie admitted, his cocky facade finally cracking into a genuine, beaming grin. "High stakes, high rewards. Does this mean the harsh critic is officially satisfied with the evening's entertainment?"

“Very satisfied," she purred, the words vibrating with a low resonance that seemed to travel straight down Eddie’s spine. She took another slow pull of her beer, her eyes never leaving his, and Eddie felt like he was a second away from short-circuiting. The bravado he’d spent the last hour projecting on stage suddenly felt like a suit of armor that was three sizes too big. He was Eddie Munson. He was supposed to have a witty comeback for everything. But standing this close to her, under the harsh yellow glow of the house lights, he found himself utterly tongue-tied. He looked down at his sneakers for a second, his rings catching the light as he nervously fidgeted with his belt loops.

"I, uh... good. Great. Excellent," he stammered, before mentally kicking himself for sounding like a broken record. He cleared his throat and looked back up, trying to regain his footing. "Can I... can I get you another one? Another beer, I mean. Not that I'm trying to ply the Bedford Siren with spirits, but the service in this establishment is notoriously slow unless you know the guy behind the tap."

She tilted her head, looking at the nearly empty bottle in her hand and then back at him. She seemed to weigh the request for a moment, a thoughtful glint in her eyes. "I think I can manage one more and still be okay to navigate the treacherous roads back to my realm," she decided, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

"Music to my ears," Eddie grinned.

Without thinking and driven by a sudden burst of "now or never" confidence, he reached out and took her hand. Her skin was cool compared to his post-show heat, her fingers slender but strong. He tugged her gently, weaving through the lingering crowd toward the bar. Eddie kept her close, his shoulder brushing against hers as he carved a path through the sweaty bodies and discarded plastic cups. When they reached the sticky wooden edge of the bar, he didn't let go of her hand. Instead, he leaned back against the counter, pulling her into the small space beside him, shielding her from the rowdy regulars with his own body.

"Hey, Rick!" Eddie barked, catching the bartender's eye with a wave. "Two more! And make 'em cold. We’ve got a VIP in the house tonight." Rick only rolled his eyes and grabbed two Coors out of the fridge and popped the bottle caps, setting them down before turning away without a word. 

“He’s chatty,” she remarked, the corner of her mouth quirked in a grin as she claimed one of the sweating bottles. As she tilted it back to drink, Eddie reached out, his hand hovering briefly to arrest the movement. He held the crown of his own bottle out toward her, an unspoken invitation suspended in the space between them. For a fraction of a second, her gaze flickered with a quiet, curious confusion. The look of someone momentarily caught off guard by a sudden shift in the script. Then, the understanding settled in. She met the gesture with a deft movement, clinking her glass against his with a clack that punctuated the low roar of the bar. 

Eddie lowered his bottle, a stray drop of condensation clinging to his thumb, and felt the intense beat of his heart finally begin to settle into something more sustainable. The bar was a riot of sound but tucked into this narrow sliver of space at the counter, the world felt strangely compressed. “So,” he started, leaning his weight onto his elbows. He shifted his weight, trying to find a pose that felt like effortless rockstar and less like a kid vibrating out of his skin. He watched her for a moment, the way she handled the grimy atmosphere of the Hideout as if she’d personally designed the decor. She was so composed, so entirely there, that Eddie felt a pang of certainty that she had lived a dozen lives while he was still stuck repeating his senior year. She likely had a string of Bloomington musicians in her wake. Guys who knew how to talk to a woman. College boys who had an actual future.

He cleared his throat. He wanted to say something smooth, something that suggested he was a man of the world, but his brain could only offer up a clumsy bridge between his two favorite worlds. “Now, I don’t want to presume the nature of your... mission to Hawkins,” Eddie began, his voice laced with a nervous energy he couldn't quite suppress. He toyed with the heavy silver ring on his thumb, his eyes darting to the label of her bottle before snapping back to hers. “But a guy could get the wrong idea. A girl drives all this way, braves the local fauna of the Hideout on a Tuesday? One might think she was looking for more than just a souvenir guitar pick.”

It was clunky. A bit too wordy and transparent. Eddie felt the heat of his own awkwardness prickling at the back of his neck. He watched her carefully, certain that a woman who carried herself with that kind of effortless gravity probably had a trail of much smoother, much more experienced men in her wake. He felt like a level-one bard trying to charm a high-level sorceress with a cantrip he’d only half-learned. 

She didn’t laugh at him, though. Rather than letting him flounder in the awkward silence of his own making, she closed the distance, her boots scuffing as she pushed her way into his space. She didn't stop until her hip pressed into his side. Eddie’s breath hitched, his elbows sliding just a fraction on the bar as he found himself suddenly, wonderfully pinned by her proximity.

“You want to know the truth, Munson?” she murmured. “I haven’t been able to get our little encounter on Friday out of my head. Not once. I stared at the phone for two days, but I didn’t want to be the one to call. I didn't want to seem... overeager.”

Eddie’s brain short-circuited. The girl he’d been dreaming about had been sitting at home, thinking about him? The mental image of her wrestling with the same restless, pacing energy he’d been nursing since Friday felt like a victory more significant than any natural twenty he’d ever rolled.

She reached out then, her hand moving with a focused intent that made his heart threaten to beat out of his chest cavity. She didn’t go for his hand or his shoulder; instead, her fingers trailed upward, ghosting over the wild, untamed tangle of his curls. She caught a stray lock of dark hair between her fingers, testing the texture of it with a soft, appreciative hum. “And for the record,” she added, her eyes tracking the movement of her own hand as she tucked a curl behind his ear. “I love the hair.”

The bashfulness hit him then. Genuine reaction of a guy who had spent most of his life being told his appearance was a problem to be solved. He ducked his head slightly, his shoulders hunching as he offered her a small, lopsided smile that was far more vulnerable than anything he’d shown on stage. But then, a flicker of something else stirred beneath the bashfulness. A spark of the guy who had climbed onto cafeteria tables to face down the world. If she was going to bridge the gap, if she was going to stand there and tell him she’d been thinking of him, he wasn't going to let the moment slip away into a stuttering mess of apologies.

With a steadying breath that he hoped didn't look as shaky as it felt, he reached out. His movements were slow, giving her every second to pull away, but she stayed right where she was. He let his hand settle tentatively against her side, his palm finding the narrow, warm expanse of skin where her cropped shirt rode up above the dark denim of her jeans. The contact was electric. Her skin was soft, radiating a heat that seemed to travel directly up his arm and settle in the center of his chest. His thumb brushed against the curve of her waist, his rings feeling cold for a split second against her warmth before they acclimated to her. He felt the slight hitch of her breath beneath his touch.

Eddie’s pulse was frantic now, but as he looked at her, he didn't pull back. He kept his hand there as some sort of physical claim in the middle of the crowded bar. "I, uh... it's a lot of maintenance," he stammered, his voice sounding lower, roughened by the proximity and the sudden weight of his own hand against her. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of the suave persona he’d been projecting, even as his fingers curled slightly against her skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him further, her body language shifting from a flirtatious challenge to something more intimate. Her hand settled on his shoulder, her fingers finding a different, thick strand of his hair. She began to toy with it, twisting the curl around her index finger as she looked up at him, her eyes soft and shining with a playful sort of surprise.

“Maintenance, huh?” she asked, her voice a low, rhythmic purr that seemed to vibrate right through his denim vest. “Tell me, Munson, does the Dungeon Master have a specific ritual?”

Eddie opened his mouth to answer, a rambling explanation about specific drug-store conditioners and the struggle of humidity already halfway up his throat. “Well, see, the trick is you can’t actually brush it when it’s dry, or you end up looking like a Pomeranian that’s been…”

He trailed off, the words dying as he caught the look in her eyes. She wasn’t actually listening for hair care tips. She was watching his lips move, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw while she continued to weave her fingers through his curls. The question was just a flimsy excuse to keep her hands on him. She let out a soft, throaty chuckle as his voice failed him, her gaze traveling over the vivid, traitorous heat that he could feel creeping up his neck and flooding his face.

“You know, for a guy who has that kind of stage presence, you really are something else when you’re flustered,” she murmured, her thumb ghosting over the apple of his cheek. “It’s incredibly endearing, Eddie.”

Eddie let out a shaky, self-deprecating breath, his hand on her waist tightening just a fraction as he tried to find his footing. “How is it possible?” he managed, his voice sounding raw and far more honest than he’d intended. “How are you so... grounded?I feel like I’m literally about to turn into a puddle right here. And you look like you’re just having a casual stroll through the park.”

A knowing, secret smile pulled at her lips. She leaned in closer, bridging the final inch of space until her lips were hovering just beside his ear, her breath a warm, tickling sensation against his skin. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered, her voice a smooth, conspiratorial velvet. “I was a theatre nerd. Shakespeare, remember?” She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, her expression dancing with a mixture of mischief and warmth. “I’m not actually this cool, Eddie. I’m just very, very good at acting like I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Eddie’s hand stayed anchored at her waist, but his thumb went still against her skin as he processed her confession. The admission that she was "acting" should have made him feel more on her level, but instead, it sent a jolt of caution through his system. His mind flickered back. An unwelcome strobe light of a memory, to a rainy afternoon when he was thirteen. He could almost feel the sting of Ronnie’s gentle rejection, the hollow weight in his gut when he realized he’d completely misread their friendship. He couldn't do that again. Not with her. 

“And what are you doing… exactly?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rough murmur. He tried to keep it light, to lace it with his usual eccentric curiosity, but the vulnerability he was trying to shield was leaking through the cracks. She didn't pull away. She let the strand of his hair go, her palm flattening against the back of his neck, her fingers tangling slightly in the curls at the nape. She looked at him, her eyes searching his with a steady, unblinking focus that made the air in his lungs feel heavy. 

“The real question, Eddie,” she whispered, “is what do you wish I was doing?”

He let his gaze drop to her lips, then slowly back up to her eyes, his thumb tracing a deliberate, trembling arc against her waist. "I think," he began, "that if I actually answered that, the Dungeon Master would have to call for a wisdom saving throw. Because my wishes... aren't exactly PG-rated tonight, Bedford."

He leaned in that final, agonizing inch, until the tip of his nose brushed against hers. The world outside their small circle became a muffled, distant static. “Try me,” she whispered, looking up at him with encouraging wide eyes.

"I wish," he whispered, his breath hitching as he felt her fingers tighten at the nape of his neck, "that you’d stop acting for a second and you’d tell me if this script ends with me finally getting to see if you taste as good as you look, or if I’m destined to spend the rest of the night wondering if I’m just a fading curiosity."

She didn’t answer right away. She just stared at him, her gaze dropping to his lips with a heavy, lingering intent that made the air in Eddie’s lungs turn to lead. The silence stretched, thick and humming with the kind of electricity that usually preceded a lightning strike. Then, slowly, she pulled back just an inch, her eyes flicking toward the heavy oak door at the front of the bar before returning to his. “I’m dying for a smoke,” she said, her voice regaining a bit of that dry, practical edge. She gave his shoulder a playful pat, her hand sliding away from his neck. “And you... you should probably go pack up that Warlock of yours. It’s a lot of guitar to leave sitting on a stage in a place like this.”

Eddie felt the floor drop out from under him. The sudden withdrawal of her touch felt like a cold front moving in to replace the heat of a moment ago. He stood there, his hand still hovering awkwardly near the space where her waist had been, his mind racing to find where he’d tripped the wire. He’d been too bold. He’d overstepped. He’d taken a "try me" as an invitation and turned it into something too real, too fast.

“Right,” he managed, the word sounding hollow and brittle. He forced a stiff smile onto his face, his rings catching the light as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He started to turn away, his shoulders hunching in a defensive crouch, the familiar weight of rejection settling into his bones. He was already rehearsing the self-deprecating joke he’d tell Gareth later to mask the sting.

But before he could take a single step toward the stage, she moved. She bridged the gap again, tugging him back into her orbit. She leaned in, her lips finding the shell of his ear, her voice a low, secret vibration that cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Have a little faith, Sir Munson,” she whispered, her breath warm and smelling of vanilla. “I’m not making an exit. I’m just making sure there won't be any interruptions. I'll be by your van. Don't make me wait.” She pulled back, giving him a wink, before turning and heading toward the door with that same confident stride.

Eddie stood at the bar for a beat longer, his pulse thrumming in his ears, before he let out a breathless laugh. He turned and practically bolted toward the stage. Gareth and Jeff were already there, winding up cables and snapping latches on road cases, but their movements were sluggish. They were both staring at the front door as if expecting it to burst back open.

“So,” Gareth started, his voice a mixture of awe and genuine confusion as he looked at Eddie. “That was her? The actual manifestation of your hyper-fixation?”

“She’s real,” Jeff added, shaking his head. “And she was all over you. I think I saw your soul leave your body for a second there.”

Eddie reached for his Warlock, his fingers trembling with a newfound energy as he slid it into its coffin-shaped case. He tried to puff out his chest, catching his reflection in the stage monitors and attempting to summon a look of cool, calculated triumph. He adjusted his jacket, tossing his hair back with a flourish that was about sixty percent bravado and forty percent sheer panic. “What can I say, boys?” Eddie quipped, though his voice cracked just enough to betray him. “The lady has discerning taste. She knows a legendary bard when she sees one.” But as he snapped the last latch on his guitar case, the facade flickered. He leaned his forehead against the cold Tolex of the case for a fleeting second, letting out a long, shaky exhale. “Fuck,” he muttered, his eyes wide and slightly glazed. “I think I’m actually about to die. My heart is doing things it’s definitely not medically cleared to do.”

Gareth snorted, hoisting a drum throne over his shoulder. “Well, don't die on the stage. Rick’ll charge us a cleaning fee.”

“I can't stay,” Eddie said, suddenly galvanized, grabbing his gear with an urgency. “I shouldn’t keep her waiting. Every second I’m in here talking to you two losers is a second I’m risking her realizing she could do infinitely better.”

Jeff frowned, looking around the emptying bar. “Waiting? Where? She walked out the door, man. She’s probably halfway to the county line by now.”

Eddie offered a manic, lopsided grin as he began to back away toward the hallway, the Warlock case bumping against his leg. “She’s waiting by the van while I pack up to ‘ensure there are no interruptions’, I’ll have you know.”

The two of them stopped dead, exchanging a look. A slow, mischievous grin spread across Jeff’s face, and Gareth let out a low whistle that echoed through the darkening room. “The van?” Gareth repeated, a wicked glint in his eye. “In the parking lot? Damn, Munson.”

“Godspeed, Eddie,” Jeff called out, tossing a balled-up bit of tape from their cables toward him as a parting gift.  Eddie didn't even bother with a retort. He just flipped the bird over his shoulder and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, his mind already miles ahead of his feet, sprinting toward the cool night air and the girl waiting by the rusted-out GMC.

🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆

The drive from Hawkins to Bloomington was usually a mundane stretch of Indiana blacktop, but this Saturday evening, Eddie barely noticed the miles. His mind was a chaotic rewiring of the last four days, a highlight reel that played on a continuous loop behind his eyes.

Tuesday night in the back of the War Wagon was the undisputed headliner. The air in the van had been thick enough to choke on. Heavy with the scent of her vanilla perfume, the lingering metallic tang of the bar, and the humid heat of two people who had run out of words. He could still feel the weight of her. The way she’d climbed into his lap and draped herself over him like she belonged there. She’d been relentless. The agonizing friction as she rutted against his thighs, her hands tangled in his hair while he gripped her waist with a desperation that bordered on feral. He’d come so close to losing it right there in his denim, his breath hitching in a series of broken, pathetic sounds that she’d swallowed with open mouth kisses, before they’d finally forced themselves to call it a night.

She’d promised to call before she even climbed out of the back into the brisk air. And she’d kept that promise. Every single night since, the phone in the trailer had become Eddie’s lifeline. They talked until his ear went numb and Wayne started knocking on the wall, trading stories that went deeper than the "freak" persona he projected for the world.

Then there was Thursday. A mid-week fever dream where he’d pushed the van to its limit just to meet her at the edge of Bedford. They’d found a nondescript, neon-lit burger joint. The kind of place where the grease soaked through the paper bags before you even got to the window. It was perfect. He remembered the way she’d sighed, kicking off her boots and propping her sock-covered feet up on his dashboard, her toes wiggling to the rhythm of something on the radio. They hadn’t talked much then; they didn't need to. They’d just shared a strawberry shake and watched the lightning bugs congregate in the tall grass, the silence between them feeling more comfortable than any conversation he’d ever had with a girl in Hawkins. But now, the neon "OPEN" sign of the Bloomington blues bar was staring him down. Eddie adjusted the collar of his vest. He wasn't the frontman tonight; he was the visitor in her realm, and he was dying to see if the girl under the stage lights was the same one who’d left her footprints on his dashboard.

The heavy door of the Bloomington club swung shut, cutting off the humid Indiana night. The place felt different from the Hideout; the air was thinner, smelling more of expensive bourbon and old wood than stale PBR and regret. Eddie knew he was early, his internal clock having run on overdrive for the entire drive, so he kept his head down, slipping toward the mahogany bar. He ordered a Jack on the rocks and retreated to a shadowed corner table, a tactical position that offered a clear view of the modest stage.

He didn't have to wait long. A side door near the stage creaked open, and the band began to file out. Eddie leaned forward, his drink momentarily forgotten. He was struck first by the company she kept. He’d expected peers but these men were seasoned. They were middle-aged, faces etched with the kind of lines only decades of late nights and low lamplight could carve. One man, cradling a weathered saxophone, looked to be pushing sixty, his hair a shock of silver against a dark vest. And then, there she was.

She looked radiant, a sharp contrast to the lived-in grit of her bandmates. She was wearing a short, dark dress, paired with a vintage fur coat that was already beginning to slip provocatively down her shoulders. She looked like a starlet who had wandered into a noir film, her presence commanding the room before she even touched a microphone. As the house lights began to dim, a single blue spotlight cut through the haze, catching  a flash of silver on her own hand that made Eddie’s heart stop.

They had been sitting in the cramped cabin of the War Wagon, the windows beginning to fog from the heat of their proximity. The radio was a low hum between them, and Eddie’s fingers had been restlessly tapping an uneven beat against the steering wheel. She had reached out, her cool hand catching his, stilling his movements. She didn't say a word as she looked at his hand, her eyes tracing the heavy silver of the ring on his index finger. A piece of gothic hammered metal he’d worn since he was fifteen. She’d slid it off his finger and onto her own. It was too big, hanging loose against her skin, but she didn't seem to mind. She just turned her hand over, admiring the weight of it.

Suddenly, the staticky speakers of the van had flared to life with the opening, upbeat chords of Suzi Quatro’s "Stumblin' In." She’d let out a small, breathless laugh, her shoulders hitching as she looked at the dashboard. "Oh, god," she’d murmured, her voice laced with a sudden, uncharacteristic bashfulness. "I love this song." She glanced at him, her eyes guarded as if she expected him to scoff. "I know, I know. I’m admitting to liking something soft and sugary to a god of metal like yourself. It’s probably a strike against my cool-girl credentials, isn't it?"

Eddie had looked at her, watching the way the neon light of the burger joint turned her features into a palette of pink and orange. Instead of the biting remark she’d clearly expected, he’d leaned his head back against the seat and started to sing. "Our love is alive, and so we begin..."

His voice wasn't the gravelly roar he used on stage; it was softer, a light, melodic baritone that caught the rhythmic swing of the track perfectly. He saw her eyes go wide, her mouth parting in a tiny "o" of genuine surprise. "Foolishly laying our hearts on the table," he continued, a playful, lopsided grin spreading across his face as he nudged her shoulder with his own. "Stumblin' in..."

She’d joined in then, her voice a rich, soulful harmony that bridged the gap between his metal world and her bluesy heart. In that moment, surrounded by the smell of fries and the glow of the radio dial, the genres didn't matter. They were just two kids in a van, finding the same tune.

Back in the present, under the blue light of the Bloomington stage, she gripped the fretboard of her guitar with that same hand. His ring still shining defiantly on her finger. She scanned the dark room, and for a moment, Eddie was certain her gaze locked onto his corner. The smirk she gave the microphone was a silent acknowledgment that she was glad he came.

She didn't introduce the band or offer a rehearsed greeting to the crowd. Instead, she simply nodded to the drummer behind her. The count-in was a sharp, clicking rhythm that was immediately drowned out by the deep, honey-thick growl of her ES-335. Watching her play was a different experience than seeing her lean over a music shop counter. Here, she was the authority. She moved with a controlled, swaying grace, her fingers dancing over the frets with a technical precision that made Eddie’s own style feel like a chaotic brawl.

Midway through the first set, the tempo dropped. The middle-aged bassist fell into a slow, walking groove, and the saxophonist stepped back into the shadows. She stepped up to the mic, the fur coat finally sliding completely off her shoulders to pool around her elbows, revealing the delicate line of her collarbones. She didn't look at the crowd this time. She looked straight toward the back corner, toward the flicker of the candle on Eddie’s table.

She didn't rush the microphone; she drifted toward it, her boots clicking softly against the wood as the band transitioned into a slow, dirty blues shuffle. She gripped the stand with both hands, the fur coat finally surrendering to gravity and slipping to the crook of her elbows.

“We’re gonna slow it down just a hair,” she said into the mic, her voice a low, honeyed rasp that made the ice in Eddie’s drink rattle as his hand shook. She scanned the dark room, her eyes eventually finding his corner and staying there, pinned and unwavering. “This next one goes out to a certain… traveler. A guy who thinks he’s a lot more dangerous than he actually is, but who knows exactly when to lean in.”

A few light chuckles rippled through the sophisticated crowd, but Eddie felt like he was the only person in the building. The band dropped into a heavy beat, the bass player’s thumb thumping out a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat against the floorboards. She leaned into the mic, her eyes hooded and dark, her voice a rich, soulful rasp as she delivered the opening line.

"These men that I've been seeing, baby... got their soul up on the shelf."

He’d spent years watching his peers. The guys who peacocked in the locker rooms or treated girls like trophies to be won and discarded. He thought of his own three boxes theory and realized how shallow he had been. But as she continued, her voice swelling with a gritty, uncompromising power, he realized she was cutting through all of it.

"You know they could never love me, When they can't even love themselves"

She was so casually stripping away the performance. Eddie watched the way she leaned her lips into the microphone, his silver ring catching the blue light as her fingers danced on the frets, and he felt a strange illumination in his chest. He knew what it was like to struggle with that. To hide behind a "freak" mask because the person underneath felt too small, too battered. And yet, all things considered Eddie knew who he was. The parts of himself he could control, he liked. When she reached the chorus, her gaze intensified, locking onto his with a heat that made the back of his neck prickle.

“I want a man to rock me like my backbone was his own. Darlin', I know you can”

The line hit him with the force of a freight train. His mind flashed back to Tuesday night, to the way he’d held her in the van, his hands shaking but steady enough to keep her close. He hadn't wanted to "take her for a ride"; he’d wanted to be exactly what she was asking for. Someone who could hold the weight of her without folding. Someone to be strong enough for the both of them.

She let the guitar do the talking for a moment. A stinging, bent note wailing out from the ES-335 that sounded like a cry for help and a declaration of war all at once. She moved with the music, her body swaying in a slow, hypnotic curve that made Eddie’s pulse hammer.

"I come home sad and lonely... feel like I wanna cry. I want a man to hold me, not some fool to ask me why."

There was a raw vulnerability in her delivery that moved him more than the technical skill of the band ever could. She was telling him what she needed. A man who understood the shadows. Someone who wouldn't put himself above her, or beneath her, but would simply stand beside her when the house lights went down. As she reached the final, lingering notes, her voice dropped to a near-whisper, a conspiratorial secret shared across the crowded room.

"Don't you put yourself above me... you just love me like a man."

The final chord decayed and for a long moment, the bar stayed silent. Eddie sat in the shadows, his drink forgotten, his eyes wide and bright. He felt seen in a way that terrified him, but as she stepped back from the mic and offered him one last, lingering smirk, he knew he wasn't going to run. Eddie lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the last of the blue stage light, and offered a silent, steady toast to the air between them. He capped it with a slow, deliberate wink before taking a long pull of the whiskey. 

As the band transitioned into a more upbeat, rhythmic shuffle, Eddie sank back into the shadows of his booth, letting the music wash over him like a tide. She stayed at the microphone for a few more tracks, her voice weaving through the smoky air with an effortless, practiced soul. She shared a few harmonies with the older saxophonist, her head tilted back, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips that seemed to say she was exactly where she was meant to be. She sang a haunting, low-tempo cover of a Janis Joplin track that made the hair on Eddie's arms stand up, and later, she retreated to the edge of the stage to provide a steady, driving rhythm for a long, improvisational bass solo.

But for Eddie, none of it quite reached the heights of that Bonnie Raitt cover. The lyrics to Love Me Like a Man were etched into his brain, playing on a loop alongside the memory of her fingers tracing his silver ring. It was a heavy thing to ask of someone and Eddie found himself wondering if he was actually up to the task. He was used to being the one who needed an audience, the one who filled the silence with noise to keep the dark at bay. It was a new kind of quest, one where the monsters weren't made of lead and paint, but of shared history and quiet, lonely nights. Eventually, the set wound down. The silver-haired drummer let out a final, resonant crash of the cymbals, and the house lights began their slow, amber climb back toward reality. The applause was warm and lingering, a sophisticated roar that filled the room as the band began to unstrap their instruments.

Eddie watched as she handed her Gibson off to the older man, her movements tired but graceful. She didn't head for the stage room or linger to talk to the regulars who were already drifting toward the stage to offer their compliments. Instead, she grabbed her fur coat from the back of an amp from where she’d tossed it towards the end of the set, slinging it over one shoulder. 

While the band had been taking their final bows, Eddie had made a quick retreat to the bar, navigating the cluster of Bloomington jazz-heads to flag down the bartender. The man had looked Eddie over, eyes lingering just a second on the denim vest and the chaotic hair, before his expression softened into something knowing. "She’s a powerhouse, isn't she?" the bartender had murmured, already reaching for a heavy-bottomed rocks glass. "Her usual is an Old Fashioned. Extra bitters, easy on the sugar. She likes the bite."

Now, as she reached the table, Eddie slid the condensation-beaded glass toward her. The orange peel twist caught the low light, glowing like an ember against the dark wood.

Her eyebrows shot up, a tired but genuine smile breaking across her face. "An Old Fashioned? You’ve been doing your homework."

"I have my sources," Eddie quipped. "I figured a goddess of your stature shouldn't have to fetch her own libations after a performance like that."

She didn't stay on the other side of the table. Instead, she rounded the edge of the booth and curled up onto the vinyl seat right next to him. She didn't leave a polite gap either as she pressed herself directly into his space. Eddie felt the air leave his lungs as she settled in, her thigh flushing against his in a move that was as forward as the lyrics she’d just sung. She took a slow, appreciative sip of the drink, her eyes closing for a brief second as the bite of the bourbon hit her tongue. When she opened them, she was looking up at him from under her lashes, the silver of his ring flashing as she rested her hand on the table, dangerously close to his own.

“So,” she murmured, her voice a low vibration that seemed to pull the shadows of the booth tighter around them. “Did the reality live up to the day dream, Munson? Or do I need to go back up there and do an encore to keep your interest?”

Eddie looked down at her. The proximity was intoxicating. The scent of the stage, the vanilla, and the sharp, citrusy tang of her drink all swirling into a cocktail that made his head spin. He didn't pull back. He leaned his head against the back of the booth, turning his face just enough so that he could catch the heat of her gaze. “Interest was never the problem,” he admitted.  

Slowly, she reached out, her hand disappearing beneath the edge of the table to slide firmly across his denim-covered thigh. Her fingers moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the pressure of her palm sending a jolt of heat straight to his core. She looked up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes, her eyes heavy with a look that made the smoky air in the bar feel ten degrees hotter. "Yeah?" she asked, the word a soft, sultry challenge that hung in the air between them.

Eddie swallowed hard. He looked at her, noticing the way she was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing. "Yeah," he whispered, nodding slowly. "I'm always stuck in this... middle ground with you. Half the time, I’m trying so hard to be the guy who deserves to stand next to you. And the other half? I just want to drop the act. I want to tell you all the dorky, uncool things I love without apologizing for any of it."

He let out a shaky breath, his own hand finding hers beneath the table, his fingers lacing through hers. "I'm stuck between wanting to just hold your hand and walk through a park like we're in some cheesy rom-com... and wanting to get you out of here right now." He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips before flicking back to her eyes, his pupils blown wide. "I want to find out if you're just as pretty underneath me as you are standing under those blue lights."

She didn't flinch at the intensity of his gaze. If anything, she leaned in closer, her thumb tracing the seam of his jeans while she studied the vulnerability etched into his face. The smoke-heavy air of the club seemed to hold its breath as she tilted her head. "Eddie," she murmured, her voice dropping the sultry lilt for something far more direct. "Have you ever had sex?"

Eddie froze, his mind instantly spiraling. He could lie. He could weave some elaborate, rock-star tale of a wild night after a gig. Something involving a groupie and a motel room and she’d probably believe him. He was nineteen, after all. He was supposed to have a few notches on his belt. But as he looked at her, seeing the way his ring caught the amber light on her finger, the lie died in his throat. He realized he didn't want to give her a performance. Not after the song she’d just sung for him.

"No," he admitted, the word sounding small and startlingly honest. He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh, his gaze dropping to the table. "Believe it or not, there isn't exactly a long, winding line of girls in Hawkins eager to jump into bed with the long haired, super-senior freak."

He felt a sharp pang of shame. The weight of his reputation in that small, narrow-minded town suddenly felt like a lead weight. He waited for her to realize she was wasting her time. Instead, she hummed. "Well," she said, her voice reclaiming that teasing, melodic edge as she tightened her grip on his hand beneath the table. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting just beneath the shell of his ear, "I think those girls in Hawkins must be even more boring and stupid than you let on.”

"I don’t know, I think they just have a very healthy survival instinct," Eddie muttered, his eyes darting to his drink. He tried to rely on his usual shield of self-deprecation, a nervous twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I’m an acquired taste, like... black licorice."

She didn't laugh. Instead, she reached out with her free hand, her fingers catching his chin and firmly turning his face back to hers. She shook her head, her expression settling into something intensely serious, stripping away the layers of his defense until he felt completely exposed. "Stop it," she commanded softly. "I’m not being nice. You are, without a doubt, the coolest guy I’ve ever met."

Eddie’s breath hitched, the joke he’d been about to make dying in his throat.

"You’re incredibly talented," she continued, her voice a low, steady anchor. "You get what it’s like to have a home life that isn't exactly a Hallmark card, which is a rare thing in this corner of the world. And you’re the only person I know who doesn't look at me like I’ve grown a second head when I randomly drop into Shakespearean English."

She leaned in, the thumb of her hand on his thigh traced the heavy denim seam again, her voice dropping into a register that made his entire body hum. "I may have only known you a week, Eddie Munson, but I’ve already spent a significant amount of time imagining things." She paused, her smirk returning. "Some of it is wholesome. Like how cute you looked with mustard on your cheek or how adorable it is after it rained and your hair gets all frizzy. But mostly, I’ve been wondering what it would be like if you played me as well as you play that Warlock."

Eddie choked.

A genuine, undignified sputter as he inhaled a bit of his Jack and Coke at the exact moment she finished that sentence. He coughed into his fist, his face turning a shade of red, until he finally managed to clear his throat and blink the stinging tears from his eyes.

"Right," he rasped, his voice an octave higher than usual before he settled it back down. "Okay. Message received. Loud and clear. Critical hit." He leaned in, his fingers twitching against his glass. "Is there... I mean, hypothetically, if I were to act on that very specific and terrifyingly enticing invitation… assuming that was actually an invitation… is there somewhere we can go? Because I don't think my van is quite the private chamber you deserve tonight."

She smiled, a slow, cat-like curve of her lips as she watched him recover. "My aunt is out of town for the weekend," she whispered, her hand finally sliding up from his thigh to lace her fingers with his on the table. "The house is quiet. And very, very empty."

Eddie didn't even hesitate. "Can I follow you back? I’ll stick to your bumper like glue, I swear."

"Actually," she said, tilting her head toward the stage, "I could use a ride. I tagged along with the bassist tonight since my car’s been making a sound like a dying cat."

Eddie didn't answer with words. He grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his drink in one determined swallow, the ice clinking against his teeth. She followed suit, tilting her head back to finish her Old Fashioned. "Wait here," she commanded, sliding out of the booth.

He watched her weave back toward the stage, her fur coat swinging around her hips. She leaned over to the silver-haired drummer and the older bassist, nodding toward Eddie as she made her excuses. The bassist, the one who looked like he’d seen everything twice, looked over at Eddie and barked a laugh, saying something low that made the drummer grin and shake his head. Eddie stood up, his legs feeling a little like jelly, and met her halfway as she grabbed her Gibson case. He reached for it before she could lift the heavy weight, his hand brushing hers.

"Careful with her, kid," the bassist called out, leaning over the edge of the stage with a toothy, mischievous grin. 

"Knock it off, Lou!" she shot back, waving him off with a roll of her eyes. She grabbed Eddie’s free arm, her fingers digging into his leather sleeve, and began pulling him toward the side exit. "Ignore them. They’ve been playing bars since the Mesozoic era. They tend to think they’re hilarious."

They burst out of the side door and into the cool, humid night air of Bloomington. Eddie led the way, his sneakers hitting the pavement in a quick shuffle. He fumbled with his keys as they reached the van, the rusted GMC looking like a majestic carriage in the yellow glow of the streetlights. He threw the side door open and tossed her guitar case onto the bench seat before turning to help her up. "Watch the step," he breathed, his eyes wide and dark as he looked at her in the moonlight. 

Eddie practically hoisted her into the van, his hands lingering on her waist for a split second longer than necessary just to feel the heat of her through the dress. Once she was settled, he slammed the heavy door shut with a triumphant thud and sprinted around the front. He vaulted into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. The engine turned over with a guttural, rattling roar that felt entirely appropriate for the state of his nerves. He didn't waste time. He threw the van into gear and tore away from the curb, the tires chirping as he pointed the War Wagon toward the highway that led back to Bedford.

Beside him, she didn't seem bothered by the sudden G-force. She leaned forward, her fur coat spilling over the center console as she began to dig through the disorganized mountain of cassettes littering the floorboards. She tossed aside a few home-recordings before her eyes lit up. "A call back," she murmured, sliding Holy Diver into the tape deck. 

The opening synthesized growl of "Stand Up and Shout" exploded through the van's mismatched speakers, the riff immediately filling the cramped cabin. Eddie found himself drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat. "Good choice, Bedford!" he shouted over the music, a wild, reckless grin splitting his face as they hit the open road.

They had just cleared the final flickering streetlights of Bloomington’s city limits, the dark, rolling hills of the Indiana countryside swallowing the highway, when the atmosphere inside the van shifted. The neon glow of the dashboard caught the wicked curve of her smile as she turned in her seat. She didn't say a word. She just leaned across the console and reached out. Eddie’s breath hitched as he felt her cool fingers find the metal button of his jeans.

"Eyes on the road, Munson," she purred, her voice nearly lost under Dio's soaring vocals.

Eddie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles went white, his heart performing a frantic, chaotic solo against his ribs. The highway was a blur of gray and black, and for a terrifying, wonderful second, he forgot exactly how to breathe. "I... uh...," he managed to stammer, his head falling back against the headrest as he felt the button pop. "Right. The road. Keeping my eyes... on the road."

The heavy bassline of Dio’s anthem pulsed through the space, but it was quickly eclipsed by the rush of blood in Eddie’s ears. He felt the cool slide of the zipper, a sound he felt more than heard, followed by the sudden, sharp relief of the cool night air against his skin as she cleared the path. She didn't hesitate. With a fluid, cat-like grace, she slid out of the passenger seat and knelt in the narrow, carpeted gap between the two pilot chairs. The van hit a small dip in the highway, but she braced herself against his thigh, her touch grounding him even as his head began to swim. When she leaned forward and took him into her mouth, the world outside the windshield ceased to exist.

Eddie’s head snapped back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut as a groan tore from his throat. It was a raw, unfiltered sound that drowned out Ronnie Dio’s soaring vocals. His hands cramped around the steering wheel, his knuckles white and shaking, as he struggled to remember the basic mechanics of driving.

"Jesus," he gasped.

The sensation was overwhelming. A localized explosion of heat and friction that made every nerve ending in his body scream. He was nineteen, operating on a decade's worth of built-up anticipation and a week's worth of agonizing tension. Having experienced this long awaited act was almost more than his system could handle. He felt the occasional glide of his own silver ring against his skin as she used her hand to guide what she couldn’t take in her mouth, and it sent a fresh wave of electricity straight up his spine. He fought the urge to look down, knowing that if he did, he’d lose whatever precarious grip he had on his remaining sanity, not to mention, the steering wheel.

"You're... you're gonna be the death of me," he managed to choke out, his chest heaving as he stared blindly at the road ahead, his hips jerking involuntarily upward into her warmth. "The absolute... death of me."

The dashboard hummed with the vibrations of the music, but Eddie felt like he was being slowly dissolved from reality. In his head he’d rehearsed this a thousand times. He’d read the descriptions in the back of the dirty paperbacks Wayne kept in the trailer, heard the guys in the locker room talk about it and had certainly spent enough lonely nights in his bedroom imagining the mechanics. He’d assumed it would feel nice. In theory, the idea of a warm, wet environment pulling at him was a solid concept. A gold-tier fantasy. But theory was a pale, flickering candle compared to the bonfire currently happening in his lap.

It wasn't just the warmth, though that was a shock in itself. It was the intensity of the suction. Every time she moved, her tongue swirled or her throat tightened around him, and a new wave of pleasure surged up his spine, short-circuiting his brain until he couldn't remember his own middle name. The actual experience was a sensory overload he hadn't been prepared for. It was a visceral, bone-deep sensation of being wanted, and of being the sole focus of someone who knew exactly how to dismantle him. He’d spent his life playing the role of Hawkin’s “Freak". Al, the dead beat Munson’s boy. The guy everyone looked down on. But right here, in the narrow gap between two pilot seats, he felt like a king. 

As she increased the pace, her hand guiding him with a firm, steady grip, Eddie’s vision blurred. The white lines of the highway ahead became long, glowing streaks of light. The world was narrowing down to a single point of white-hot sensation until an aggressive blare of a horn shattered the spell. The left tires hugging the yellow line as an oncoming sedan flashed its high beams in warning. The sudden jolt of adrenaline was a cold bucket of water. Eddie yanked the wheel back to the right, his heart leaping into his throat for an entirely different reason. She pulled back just an inch as she looked up at him with a look of unbothered mischief.

"I said eyes on the road, Munson," she murmured before she leaned back in with a renewed, predatory vigor.

"I can't–I'm gonna–" Eddie’s words came out jumbled. The combination of near-death on the asphalt and the expert movements happening in his lap was too much. He couldn't keep the van between the lines and keep his soul from leaving his body at the same time. With a shaky hand, he flicked the indicator and guided the GMC onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching loudly as they came to a rolling stop. He threw the van into park, the engine idling. He reached down, his fingers lacing into the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't pull, but he held her there, his knuckles brushing the soft skin behind her ear. "Is this... you're okay? I'm not..." he trailed off, his voice thick and uncertain. He wanted this more than his next breath, but the gentleman buried under the denim and chains needed to hear it. She didn't speak. She just looked up at him, her eyes wide in the dim light of the cabin, and gave a firm, decisive nod.

That was all the permission he needed.

Eddie let out a sound as he finally let go of the restraint. He guided her back down, his hand steadying her as he pushed deeper, the raw reality of her throat closing around him far more intense than any fantasy. He bucked upward, his hips moving. She let out a muffled, involuntary gag as he hit the back of her throat, her eyes watering but never leaving his. The vulnerability of it, the sheer trust of her letting him do this, sent him over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers tightening in her hair as he finally came. His body racked with a series of long, shuddering tremors that felt like they were shaking the very frame of the van.

Eddie sat there for a minute, his head lolling back against the headrest while his chest heaved in uneven bursts. The world was slowly reassembling itself. The smell of the old upholstery, the distant hum of the idling engine, and the fading wail of a guitar solo on the stereo. He felt heavy, light, and completely hollowed out all at once. Eventually, he forced his eyes open, looking down at her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking remarkably composed given she’d just dismantled him.

“Holy… sweet mother of Mary,” he managed to croak out. Panic suddenly flared in his brain. He began to dig frantically through the center console, his rings clattering against loose change and old guitar picks. “Gum. I have gum. Somewhere. I know I have a pack in here for emergencies.” He finally unearthed a crumpled yellow pack and held it out to her with a hand that was still visibly trembling. “In case you, uh… want to get the taste of the Hawkins freak out of your mouth.”

She let out a soft, throaty laugh that made his stomach flip, taking a piece and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks, Munson. You’re a real peach.”

She moved, sliding back into the passenger seat and pulling her fur coat back up over her shoulders. Eddie stayed where he was, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, trying to convince his legs that they still knew how to operate pedals. After a few steadying breaths, he reached across the console. He simply took her hand, his thumb tracing the silver ring of his she was still wearing. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “That was amazing,” he whispered, his eyes dark and sincere as he looked at her. “Truly. But you’ve officially ruined this van for me, Bedford.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Ruined it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie grinned. “Because now, every single time I’m behind this wheel, even if I’m just driving Gareth to practice or going to get cigarettes, I am going to be vividly imagining road head.”

She watched him, her head tilted against the headrest, with a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She looked utterly unbothered, almost serene in the dim amber glow of the dashboard. But as the silence stretched, the manic grin on Eddie’s face began to falter. A flicker of something else crossed his features. He looked down at his lap, then back at her, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically quiet and heavy.

"What?" she asked, her voice dropping the sultry edge for something more curious. She reached out, her finger tracing the line of his jaw. "What’s that look for?

Eddie let out a long, slow breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "I just..." He paused, "I feel like a bit of a prick, honestly. I’m sitting here making jokes about road head and my van being ruined, and you just... you did that. For me." He looked at her then, his big, dark eyes wide. "And as much as I loved every agonizing second of it, it feels a little one-sided for my taste. I don’t want to be the guy who just... takes."

He shifted the van back into drive, but he didn't let up on the break yet. He leaned over the console. "I’d really like to get back to your place, Bedford," he whispered. "Because I’d very much like the chance to show you exactly how thankful I am.”

She didn't say a word, but the way her breath hitched and her pupils dilated told him all he needed to know. "Well then, Munson," she murmured, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. "I suggest you stop talking and start driving.

The twenty-minute crawl toward Bedford was the most exquisite form of torture Eddie had ever endured. The adrenaline from the roadside stop was still humming in his veins, but it had shifted. He couldn't just sit there with his hands at ten and two. Not after that. Tentatively, his hand migrated across the console, his palm finding the smooth, exposed skin of her thigh where the dress had ridden up. The warmth of her was startling. He let his fingers trail upward, tracing the soft curve of her leg with a slow deliberation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he kept a constant, flickering watch on her. He was terrified of overplaying his hand, and assuming that he had a permanent green light. But every time he looked over, she was leaning back against the seat, her head tilted toward him with an expression that was nothing short of encouraging. “Left at the next light, Munson,” she murmured, her voice like velvet.

As he turned the wheel, his hand moved a fraction higher, his thumb grazing the very edge of her hem. The absolute frustration of being strapped into a vibrating metal box while the person he wanted to dismantle was sitting inches away becoming almost unbearable. Yet, the frustration of the drive was being rapidly eclipsed by a spike of anxiety that began to twist in his gut. It was one thing to act the part of the confident lead guitarist, but the reality of a stationary bed and four quiet walls was starting to loom like a boss battle he hadn't leveled up for. Eddie’s mind was suddenly sprinting through every worst-case scenario. He was acutely aware of every flaw. The way his ribs poked out a bit too much, the spastic energy he couldn't always turn off, the fact that his experience was limited to grainy magazines and his own vivid imagination.

"You're awfully quiet over there, Munson," she said, her voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts.

Eddie swallowed hard, his throat feeling tight. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to admit that his heart was currently trying to exit his ribcage. But he also didn't want to break the spell. He wanted to be the man she asked for in that song. He squeezed her thigh, and forced a breath out through his nose. "Just concentrating on the road," he lied. “Gotta make sure the Princess gets back to her tower in one piece.” 

Sensing the sudden, tight tension in his frame, she reached down and laced her fingers through his, her palm pressing firmly against the back of his hand. Eddie almost groaned aloud when the contact made it undeniable. His fingers were shaking. She didn't pull away or laugh. Instead, she leaned over the center console, her shoulder pressing into his arm. "There is absolutely nothing to be nervous about, Eddie," she murmured.

"I beg to differ," he countered, his voice cracking just enough to make him wince. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of the highway, but his grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. "You’ve already proven, quite wonderfully, I might add, that you’re a goddamn expert in this arena. Meanwhile, I’m feeling like I’m flying a plane in the middle of a storm with no radar and a manual written in a language I don't speak. I don't want to be a disappointment, Bedford."

She squeezed his hand, her thumb tracing the silver rings on his fingers. "Look at me," she commanded softly. He flicked his gaze toward her for a split second before returning it to the road, but the heat in her eyes was enough to make his head swim. "Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered instantly, and he realized with a start that he meant it. It wasn't just about the prospect of sex. It was about the way she looked at him. The way she heard the music in his head, and the way she didn't flinch at him the way everyone else did. "And are you willing to listen to me?"

"Of course," he rasped. "I'm a very attentive student. Well, if you don't count the super-senior thing."

A small, genuine smile touched her lips, and she leaned in closer until her breath was hot against his ear. "Then you have nothing to worry about." The knots in his stomach didn't disappear, but they loosened just enough for him to breathe again. He squeezed her hand back. “Right here,” she whispered, pointing toward a narrow lane lined with overgrown maples.

Eddie turned the wheel, the tires crunching onto a gravel driveway that tucked back away from the street. He put the van in park, the engine giving one final, shuddering rattle before falling silent. He took a moment to just look at the place. It wasn't the sprawling, pristine estate he might have expected for a girl who looked like she belonged on a velvet-lined stage. It was a simple, small historic house. The kind with deep eaves and white siding that had grayed over decades of Indiana winters. A bit decrepit around the edges. A loose shingle here, a slightly sagging porch step there, but it had a soul. A single lamp cast a warm, buttery glow through the living room curtains, and the porch light flickered behind a frosted glass shade, welcoming them into the quiet. It felt lived-in. It felt safe. It felt like the kind of place where the rest of the world couldn't find them.

"Home sweet home," she said softly.

Eddie hopped out of the driver's side, moving with a quietness that was unusual for him. He met her at the side of the van, his sneakers barely making a sound on the gravel as he swung the heavy sliding door open. He reached in and grabbed the Gibson case, handling the instrument with care. She led the way up the front steps, her fur coat swaying under the porch light. Eddie followed a step behind, his eyes fixed on the way she moved.

She fished her keys out of her coat pocket. She turned the lock and pushed the door open, and Eddie stepped over the threshold. He didn't say a word, he just followed her into the warmth of the house, the scent of old wood and dried lavender wrapping around him as the door clicked shut behind them. She lingered by the door for a moment, the heavy fur of her coat slipping slightly as she turned to face him. "Can I... get you anything?" she asked, her voice sounding different now. "I’ve got tea, or I think there’s some wine left in the kitchen."

Eddie paused, his throat still feeling like he’d swallowed a handful of dry Indiana dust. "Water would be a godsend, actually," he rasped, offering a small, tired smile.

She nodded toward the back of the house. "Kitchen’s through here."

Eddie moved into the living room, moving gingerly as if he might break the stillness. He found a spot for the guitar case near an old, velvet-backed armchair. When he straightened up, he noticed her still standing near the entryway. She was shifting her weight, her fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on her dress’s hemline. "I... sorry," she said, her eyes scanning the room as if seeing it through a stranger’s eyes for the first time. "I realized as we were walking up that I don't really bring people around here. Like, ever. And it’s... it’s a bit of a mess. My aunt isn't exactly a decorator, and the floorboards creak if you breathe on them too hard."

Eddie let out a short, genuine scoff, his head shaking as he looked around the cozy, slightly cluttered space. He took in the stacks of books, the mismatched rugs, and the faint scent of old paper. "Bedford, look at me," he said, stepping back into her space. He gestured vaguely toward the worn denim, the rings, the messy hair that had been through the wringer tonight. "I live in a double-wide trailer with my Uncle. The decor consists of empty beer cans, an aggressive amount of mugs and trucker hats and my half-finished D&D maps. There are layers of dust that are probably older than I am. Clean is a concept I only understand in theory." He took another step closer, his voice dropping. "This place? It’s got a soul. It’s nice. Really."

She looked up at him, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to dissolve. "Okay," she breathed, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Water. Right. I'll be back in a second."

Eddie watched her disappear into the kitchen, the floorboards indeed giving a friendly, familiar groan under her boots. He stood in the center of the living room, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and realized that there was a possibility that she was just as nervous as he was. Only that she’d been better at hiding it up till this point. 

He had spent the entire week viewing her as this untouchable, mythic entity. A siren who had stepped out of a folk song and landed in his passenger seat. He’d been so preoccupied with his own shaking hands and the fear of being "just a freak" that he hadn’t considered the quiet weight she was carrying. Seeing her stand there, apologizing for the creak of a floorboard or a stack of unread mail, humanized her in a way that made his chest ache.

He scanned the room again, really looking this time. There were stacks of film theory books on the coffee table next to a bowl filled with take out menus. A stray guitar pick sat on the mantel next to a framed, grainy photo of an older woman laughing in a garden. This was the place where she didn't have to be the girl with the Gibson. She was just a girl living in a town that probably didn't understand her any more than Hawkins understood him.

He heard the tap run in the kitchen, the plumbing letting out a distant rattle. He pulled his hands from his pockets and started to pace the small area of the rug. When she stepped back into the living room, she was holding two mismatched glasses of water. She’d shed the fur coat and in the soft light of the single lamp, she looked smaller. She walked over and handed him a glass, her fingers brushing his, and Eddie noticed that her own hand wasn't as steady as it had been on the highway. "Here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie took a long sip, the water soothing his parched throat, but his eyes never left hers. He set the glass down on a ceramic coaster and reached out, gently catching her wrist. "Hey," he said, "You don't have to put on a show for me here. The Blues Siren routine is great, don't get me wrong but I’m pretty fond of the girl who lives in the creaky house, too."

She didn’t look away this time, but her eyes seemed to fix on a point just past his shoulder. "I'm just..." she started, her voice sounding raw. "I'm not used to people actually seeing me. Not the performance, not the girl on stage with the Gibson. Just... this. And liking it."

She leaned her hip against the back of the armchair, her fingers tracing the worn velvet. "I was a total pariah in high school, Eddie. I wasn't the cool, mysterious girl back then. I was the girl people avoided because I was 'weird' or 'too much.' I never really had friends growing up. The two or three people who tolerated me packed up and left the second they got their diplomas, and I can't say I blame them."

She let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "When I got to college, I realized I could just... reinvent. I could fake the confidence. I could be this person because nobody there knew every cringey, desperate thing I did as a teenager just to keep people from messing with me. I built a character so I wouldn't have to be the girl who ate lunch in the library anymore."

"Hey," he said, his voice soft but firm as he reached out, taking both of her hands in his. He squeezed them, forcing her to feel the callouses of his palms. "Look at me. " He waited until her eyes locked onto his. "You think I don't get that? I’m the guy who stood on a cafeteria table and made a speech about being non conformists just last week. I’m a guy who wears all this like it's a suit of armor because if I don't look like I’m dangerous, they’ll realize I’m just a guy who likes to play pretend in a dusty room with my dorky friends. Everything I do is all just a way to survive high school without losing my goddamn mind."

He took a step closer, closing the gap until the warmth of her breath was ghosting over his lips.

"I would never judge you for that. Not in a million years. Especially not for the stuff you do to get by, because I’m doing the exact same dance. If you want to be the confident chick out there, that’s fine. I’ll be your biggest fan. But in here?" He leaned down, his forehead resting gently against hers. "You don't have to fake a single thing."

The tension in her hands finally snapped, and she leaned into him, her face hiding in the crook of his neck. Eddie wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of her heart finally start to sync up with his.  Eddie pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands resting on her shoulders. He felt a protectiveness that overrode his own hormones. He might have been dying for the chance to finally cross that finish line, but the guy who looked out for the lost sheep of the Hellfire Club wasn't about to let her feel like she had to perform for him just to keep him interested.

"Hey," he whispered, his thumbs tracing the line of her collarbone. "You know we don't have to do... anything, right? The highway stuff was incredible, and I am definitely a fan of your work, but we can just hang out. We can put on a movie, or just sit here and talk. I’ve actually got some pretty decent weed back in the van if you’d rather just get high and forget the world exists for a few hours."

She pulled back, her eyes searching his face with a flicker of skepticism. Her brow arched as she studied his sincerity. "Are you telling me, Eddie Munson, that after everything I just did in that van, you’re offering to go back out into the cold for a bag of weed and a movie?"

Eddie let out a self-deprecating laugh, his ears turning a faint pink. "I’m saying I like you. And I don't want you to feel like you’re on a stage in your own living room. If you’re tired, or if you’re just in your head too much right now, I’m good. I’m content just being in the same zip code as you."

She looked at him for a long beat. Then, the skepticism melted. She leaned closer, closing the small gap, and the vulnerability in her gaze shifted into heat that made his breath catch. "I appreciate the offer, Eddie," she said, her voice dropping back into that bluesy rasp that always made his knees feel like they were made of water. She reached out, her fingers hooking into the collar of his leather jacket and pulling him down until their noses brushed. "I really do. But..." She gained confidence with every syllable, her smirk returning. "I don't want to get high and I definitely don't want to watch a movie," she murmured, her eyes dropping to his mouth before locking back onto his. "I want to get you into my bedroom, where I want to take those ridiculous chains off you.”

He managed to find his smirk again, though it was a little lopsided and breathless. He stepped back, giving her a theatrical, sweeping bow that sent his hair cascading over his shoulders and his silver chains rattling as if to punctuate her sentiment at how ridiculous they were. "Well, in that case," he said, his voice dropping into a playful, faux-chivalrous rumble, "lead the way, milady."

She let out a genuine laugh that echoed through the quiet house. The sound finally chasing away the last of the awkwardness. She reached out, swiping a lock of hair from his face as she stepped past him, her hand trailing along the wall as she headed toward the narrow hallway. "Follow the creaking floorboards, Munson," she tossed back over her shoulder, her hips swaying under the silk of her dress.

Eddie straightened up, and as he started to follow her, he caught the faint, amused whisper she breathed into the dark hallway. "Dork." A ridiculous grin broke across Eddie’s face. He didn't even mind. In fact, coming from her, it sounded like the highest compliment he’d ever received. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them before he truly had time to process it. Eddie stood for a moment, his back against the wood, just taking it in. If the living room was a sanctuary, this was the inner sanctum. It was a chaotic, beautiful explosion of everything she was when the world wasn't looking.

High on the walls, old black-and-white movie posters were tacked up next to charcoal sketches that looked fresh, the edges of the paper still smudged. An easel stood in the corner, a half-finished canvas draped in a thin cloth, surrounded by a minefield of paint tubes and jars of murky water. One entire wall was dominated by a music system that looked like it cost more than his van, flanked by a library of vinyl and cassettes that made his own collection look like a starter kit. And there, glowing under the soft light of a beaded lamp, was a rack holding three guitars. A Fender, a battered acoustic, and a sleek black Gretsch that looked like it could kill a man.

"Damn, Bedford," he whispered, his eyes wide. "You’ve got a whole ecosystem in here."  Eddie didn't wait for an invitation this time. He stepped into her space and slid his hands around her waist. He pulled her flush against him looking down at her. "You're incredible," he murmured. He leaned down, and when their lips met, the kiss was different. It wasn't the desperate clash they’d shared in the van. 

As the kiss deepened, Eddie’s mind started to betray him.

He was a guitarist. His hands were his livelihood. He knew how to bend a string until it wailed. But as he held her, a sudden, paralyzing wave of uncertainty washed over him. He realized with a jolt that his hands were currently the most important tools in the room, and he had absolutely no blueprint for how to use them. Sure, they’d made out. He knew the basic geometry of a girl’s waist and the way the back of her neck felt. But this was different. This was the moment where "making out" turned into "making love," and the technicality of it all started to feel like an exam he hadn't studied for.

Where was he supposed to start? Should he reach for the zipper of her dress, or would that be too aggressive? Was he supposed to keep his hands on her waist, or would it be better to cup the side of her cheek? He was acutely aware of his rings and he worried about them being too cold against her skin or catching on the delicate silk of her dress. He felt like his hands were suddenly twice their normal size, clumsy and uncoordinated.

He wanted to touch her everywhere. To trace the line of her spine. To feel the heat of her shoulders. To learn the geography of her body with the same precision he used on a fretboard. But he was terrified of the silence that would follow a wrong move. His thoughts all swimming. Don't squeeze too hard. Don't be too light; she’ll think you’re scared. Wait, are you supposed to move your thumbs like that? Should you be taking your own shirt off first?

She felt the way his hands went rigid, she broke the kiss, pulling back just a few inches to look him in the eye. "You’re still in your head, Munson," she whispered. "You’re nervous."

Eddie let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. "No shit," he rasped.

She laughed and gave his chest a playful shove. "Go to the turntable. Pick an album. Any album. Put it on and let it do the work for a minute."

Eddie sighed, but he didn't argue. He welcomed the task. He needed a moment to ground himself, in something he understood. He walked over to the stack of vinyl, his fingers skimming the spines until he found a worn, yellowing cover. Ray Charles. Hallelujah I Love Her So. It felt right: soulful, steady, and a little bit gritty. He slid the record out, placed it on the platter, and carefully lowered the needle. The crackle of the static was a comfort before the upbeat, soulful piano of "Ain't That Love" began to bounce through the speakers.

When he turned back, the room felt different. She was already on the bed, her back propped against a headboard that, upon closer inspection, was just a series of old wooden crates turned on their sides and bolted together. The bed itself was barely a foot off the floor. Just a mattress thrown over a makeshift platform of old shipping pallets. It was DIY, a little rough around the edges, and perfect.

She had already lit a cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling in the lamplight. Eddie walked over and lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, the pallet frame creaking. Without a word, he reached out, and she handed him the cigarette. He took a long, slow drag, letting the nicotine steady his nerves. He noticed her boots were already discarded on the rug. Feeling the need to catch up, Eddie leaned over and began to unlace his own sneakers. He kicked them off with a thud, but as he pulled his feet up onto the mattress, he felt a sudden flush of heat creep up his neck. Right there was a decent-sized hole in his black sock, his big toe peeking through like a stray stowaway. "God," he muttered, staring at the hole. "The King of the Freaks, ladies and gentlemen. I'm taking you to bed with a hole in my sock. Truly, I am the height of sophistication."

She let out an unladylike snort. "Oh, knock it off with the self-deprecation routine, Munson," she said, rolling her eyes as she leaned forward. The movement brought her dangerously close, the scent of her perfume overwhelming his senses. She reached out, her fingers ghosting over the frayed edge of the hole in his sock before she leaned in to whisper against the shell of his ear, her voice a seductive purr. "The socks stay on. It’s a very specific kink of mine."

Eddie barked out a laugh, the sound genuine and loud enough to startle himself. The sheer absurdity of it broke the last of the glass walls in his mind. He looked at her and the nervousness that had been a tight, cold knot in his gut began to unfurl. He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight on the low mattress, moving closer until their knees were locked together. He didn't hand the cigarette back. He held it up, his hand steadying as he brought the filter to her lips. He kept his eyes locked onto hers, an intense, unwavering stare that challenged her to look away first. The room felt like it was shrinking, the upbeat rhythm of Ray Charles’s piano fading into the background as the space between them became charged. His thumb brushed the corner of her lower lip as he held the cigarette steady. There was a gravity in his gaze now, a silent communication that the dork was stepping aside for a moment to let the man who had been wanting this all week take the lead.

She didn't blink. She met his stare with an intensity of her own, her eyes tracking the slight movement of his hand before she leaned in. She took a slow, deep drag of the cigarette while his fingers remained touching her mouth, the cherry of the tobacco glowing bright between them. As she exhaled, the cloud ghosting over his lips, Eddie didn't move an inch. He just waited, his heart hammering a heavy beat against his ribs, finally ready to see exactly where this was going to lead him.

She reached out and took the cigarette from his fingers, her eyes never breaking the connection as she leaned over to crush it out in an ashtray resting precariously atop a stack of heavy hardbacks. When she turned back, she didn't settle back against the crates. Instead, she rose onto her knees, the mattress dipping and the wooden pallets beneath giving a groan under her weight.

She reached for the lapels of his leather vest. "Can I take this off?" she whispered, her voice soft. Eddie nodded, his throat too tight to offer a witty retort. He worked his arms out of the heavy leather, helping her slide it off his shoulders until it slumped onto the floorboards. Without the vest, he felt suddenly exposed, his white t-shirt clinging to him in a way that felt like it was broadcasting every boney shape of his torso.

She didn't move toward his shirt yet. Instead, her hands found his forearms. Her touch was light, almost feather-like, as her fingertips traced the ink of the puppet master leading toward his elbows, until he turned his arm around and her callouses landed on his bats. She followed the lines of the wings with a slow reverence that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. "Do you have any others?" she murmured, her thumb pressing into the soft skin of his inner wrist.

"Yeah," Eddie rasped. "A few."

"Can I see them?" 

He nodded again. His hands reached for the hem of his shirt, and for a second, they stalled. He didn't say he was nervous, but the fabric of his shirt bunched and trembled in his grip. He pulled the shirt up and over his head, the cotton catching briefly on his messy curls before he tossed it aside. The air in the room hit his bare skin, and he felt an involuntary shiver ripple across his shoulders. He didn't look at her immediately. Instead, he looked down at his own lap, his chest rising and falling in shallow, visible hitches. He stayed very still, his elbows tucked slightly inward as if trying to take up less space, his fingers curling and uncurling against his denim-clad thighs. He felt every inch of himself on display. The pale stretch of his torso, the dark ink of the demon on his chest, the way his ribs flared with every breath. He was waiting for the verdict, his entire frame humming with a tension so tight it felt like a guitar string tuned three steps too high, vibrating on the verge of snapping.

She didn't move away. If anything, she drifted closer, the mattress dipping further as she moved her weight to accommodate the new, bare reality of him. Her hands remained steady as they migrated from his wrists up the lean, pale expanse of his arms. When her fingertips finally reached the ink, she traced. Her touch was agonizingly slow. A gentle exploration that turned his skin into a sensory minefield. She lingered especially long on the spider perched near his collarbone, her index finger following the spindly, arched legs of the arachnid where they led into the hollow of his throat. Eddie felt his swallow catch halfway down, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath her touch. He was acutely aware of how small her hand looked against his chest, and how loudly his heart was thumping against his ribs.

She let out a low hum that seemed to resonate in the small space between them. "Very metal, Munson," she murmured, a trace of a smile ghosting her lips as she admired the dark artwork. Her hand slid around to the side of his bicep, her eyes scanning the collection of symbols and creatures he’d gathered like a visual diary of his own rebellion. "So, tell me," she whispered, her breath warm against the skin of his shoulder. "Which one is your favorite?"

Eddie took a shaky breath, the air whistling through his teeth as he tried to regain his composure. He shifted his weight, rotating his right arm slightly so the back of it faced her. "This one," he said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin toward his triceps. Under the amber lamplight, the ink was visible. A sharp-winged, serpentine dragon coiling around the faint, almost non-existent muscle of his arm. Its jaw frozen in a silent, defiant roar. It was older than the others, the lines a bit softer but the detail still fierce.

"The wyvern," he explained, his voice gaining a sliver of that old storytelling gravity. "Most people think it’s just a dragon, but it’s different. Two legs instead of four. It’s a bit of an underdog in the monster manual. It’s got to be faster, meaner, and more resourceful just to survive." He paused, his eyes flickering up to hers for a brief second. "I always felt a bit of a kinship with the lesser monsters. They usually have better stories."

She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her nose almost brushing the ink of the wyvern’s wing as she studied it with a focus that made Eddie’s entire arm feel like it was on fire. "The underdog monster," she repeated softly.  Eddie’s gaze flickered away, his neck flushing a deeper shade of red. He couldn’t maintain that level of eye contact. Not while he was sitting shirtless on a pallet bed, feeling like she was reading the fine print of his soul via the ink on his skin. It was exposure of the highest order. The good kind that made your skin tingle and your stomach drop.

His eyes landed on the charcoal sketches tacked to the wall near the easel. Her talent was undeniable. The lines were aggressive but precise, capturing shadows with accuracy. "I didn't realize you were... god, I didn't realize you were this incredible at art," he said, his voice regaining some of its volume as he focused on a sketch of a detailed spindly tree. He let out a breathless chuckle. "I mean, I probably should've guessed, right? You're literally in school to be an artist. It’s kind of in the job description."

She shrugged, her hand dropping from his arm as she leaned back slightly, her expression shifting into something uncharacteristically modest. "I’m decent. It’s mostly just a way to get the noise out of my head."

Eddie shook his head emphatically, his wild curls bouncing. "No, Bedford. You're better than decent. You’re 'enlist-you-to-design-my-next-campaign-map' good. Or better yet..." He looked back at her, a spark of genuine excitement momentarily overriding his nerves. "I’d kill to have you design my next tattoo."

She scoffed, a quick sound of dismissal as she shook her head. "No way. I am not letting you put my doodles on your body permanently, Munson."

Eddie blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Why not? I like them."

"Because they aren’t good enough," she said, her voice dropping. "It’s just sketches, Eddie. Tattoos are... they're forever. You deserve better than some amateur student's charcoal practice."

Eddie didn't even hesitate. He gestured down to the large, snarling demon head sitting right in the center of his sternum, the lines a bit shaky and the shading somewhat muddy. "Bedford, look at this guy," he said with a lopsided grin, tapping the ink over his heart. "The art here isn't exactly immaculate. The guy who did it was working out of a kitchen in a trailer park and he might have been seeing double by the time he got to the smile. It's there permanently. And I love it anyway, you know? But what you do? That’s a hell of a lot better than half the shit already on this pasty white ass of mine."

Her eyes searched his face as if she were trying to see the version of her art that he saw. "I’ll think about it," she murmured, though the stubborn set of her jaw had softened. "But if I draw it, it’s going to be something that actually lives up to the rest of this canvas."

The conversation about ink and art had acted like a brief bridge over a chasm, but now the bridge was falling away, leaving them right back on the edge of the mattress. The weight of the room shifted. The playful debate ended, and in its place, a thick, pressurized tension settled over them. She didn't move her hand away this time. Instead, she let her fingers wander back to his chest, tracing the outline of the demon on his skin before drifting lower, mapping the lean ridges of his stomach. Her touch was slower now, more deliberate, and her gaze followed the path of her hand with a focus that made Eddie feel like he was being memorized.

"You know," she whispered. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting against the shell of his ear, her breath hitching just slightly. "Under all that leather and the hair... you sure are pretty, Eddie."

Eddie felt his stomach do a slow, dizzying roll as her fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans. He was still vibrating, and feeling like he was one wrong move away from short-circuiting, but when he looked at her, he saw a girl who was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. He reached up, his hand trembling only slightly now as he cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't say anything, and honestly he couldn't have found the words if he'd tried, but the way he pulled her back into a kiss was his answer. It was desperate, heavy, and carried the weight of a week's worth of wanting, finally boiling over in the quiet of the room.

The heavy, electric air of the room seemed to thicken as she pulled back just enough to create a sliver of space between them. The Ray Charles track had transitioned into a slower, more rhythmic groove, the brass section humming steady in the background. She reached behind her back, her shoulder blades moving beneath the fabric as she fumbled with the small zipper at the top of her dress.

Eddie watched her, his hands still hovering in the air where her neck had been just seconds before. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown out until the dark irises were almost indistinguishable. He didn't move until he saw her fingers slip against the metal, a frustrated little huff escaping her lips. He simply tilted his head, a silent, wide-eyed question written across his face: Do you want me to do it?

She met his gaze and gave a single nod. She turned her back to him, the movement shifting the mattress. Eddie took a breath that felt like it had to travel through a mile of lead to reach his lungs. He reached out, his fingers feeling immense and clumsy as he approached the delicate task. As his knuckles grazed her, he felt the heat radiating off her. He found the tiny metal tab and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He was so agonizingly slow. As the fabric began to part, revealing the graceful line of her spine, Eddie’s pulse spiked so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He followed the path of the zipper all the way down to the small of her back, his hand shaking with a tremor he could no longer suppress.

He didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his hand hovering just an inch from where the dress had loosened. As she reached up, she hooked her thumbs under the delicate silk straps and eased them over the curve of her shoulders. The dress surrendered, sliding down her frame in a rustle until it pooled around her hips on the low mattress.

Eddie’s brain, usually hyperactive, stalled into a total whiteout. He had spent years imagining moments like this. Moments fueled by late-night magazines but none of it had prepared him for the quiet reality of a woman in front of him. He realized then, that there was no lace or wire to be found. She had been wearing nothing but the dress and a thin-strapped pair of panties, leaving her almost entirely bare to the soft light of the room. When she turned back around to face him, the shift in her weight caused the pallet bed to groan softly.

His eyes tracked upward. He viewed the front of her, his gaze lingering on the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He felt the ache of inadequacy. He was so aware of his own frame. The lanky, pale limbs, the dark ink, the tremors he couldn't hide, meanwhile he looked like something carved from marble and moonlight.  His hands, still resting near his knees, twitched. He felt a bead of sweat trek down the back of his neck, the air in the room suddenly feeling five degrees hotter. He wanted to say something but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth.

She didn't look away, and she didn't try to cover herself. She sat there on her knees, her shoulders back, watching the way his eyes moved over her with a quiet, patient confidence. Sensing his paralysis, she reached out and took his hands and guided them back to her waist. Even as his fingers made contact with the soft curve of her hips, Eddie couldn’t keep his gaze steady. His eyes began to dart, frantic and wide, scanning the room as if looking for an exit. He looked at the Ray Charles record spinning on the turntable, at the charcoal sketches on the wall, at the hole in his left sock. Anywhere but the overwhelming reality of the bare woman sitting inches from him. 

"Eddie," she murmured in the storm of his panic.

Before he could find his voice to offer a shaky apology she rose onto her feet for a fleeting second, just enough to step over his legs. In that brief transition, the silk dress, no longer held up by the curve of her waist from where she sat, surrendered completely. It slid down her frame as it hit the floorboards.

Then, she climbed onto his lap. The mattress dipped sharply under the added weight. She straddled him, her knees tucking into the space beside his hips, her weight settling firmly against his thighs. He froze, his head snapping up as he was forced to look at her. She was right there, her breath ghosting over his lips, her heat radiating into his chest. He could see the slight tremor in her own shoulders now, a mirror of his own nerves that she had finally stopped trying to hide. He felt small and large all at once, a chaotic mess of ink and nerves held together by the sheer gravity of her presence.

She reached up, her fingers sliding into the wild, tangled mess of his hair, cupping the back of his head to steady him. She didn't push, just held him there, in the center of the world they had built on a shitty pallet bed in a creaky house. "Breath, Munson," she whispered, her forehead leaning against his.

He reached up, his hands still trembling slightly, and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in a way that grainy magazines and his own imagination had never quite managed to convey. A soft, breathless "oh" escaped him, his eyes widening as the reality of her superseded every fantasy he’d ever had.

She looked down at him, a flicker of concern softening her gaze. "Is something wrong? Do you not...?"

"No," Eddie rasped. "No, nothing is wrong. It's just... I’ve never actually felt bare tits before. I didn't realize they’d be this soft. Or this nice. It’s like... god, it's incredible."

The honesty of it seemed to ground them both. Emboldened by her proximity, his thumbs began to move of their own accord, tracing the peaked circles of her nipples. He wasn't even thinking about it. It was an instinctual, tactile curiosity, like a musician finding the right tension on a string.

Her eyes fluttered shut instantly, her head falling back as a long, shaky sigh escaped her lips. Eddie froze, his thumbs going still. "Are you okay? Did I... was that too much?"

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, her eyes remaining closed as she leaned into his touch. "No, Eddie. It’s fine. It just... it felt really good."

Eddie stayed very still. He looked down at his hands, watching the way his calloused, ring-adorned thumbs were pressed against her. Tits had always been a visual concept to him. He hadn't considered the intricacies of the anatomy or the fact that something so small could be so easily stimulated. He hadn't realized that the texture could change under his touch, or that a simple, unconscious movement of his thumb could elicit a sound like that from her. He moved his thumbs again, more deliberately this time, watching the way her breath hitched in response.

He remembered Tuesday. He remembered the cramped interior of the War Wagon, the smell of gasoline and rain, and the way she had come alive when he’d buried his face in the crook of her neck. He remembered how her hands had gripped his hair, and how her hips had found a frantic, punishing rhythm against his denim-clad thigh the moment his lips hit that one sensitive spot.

With a spike of confidence, Eddie leaned forward, letting his head drop. He pressed his mouth into the hollow of her throat, his lips finding the jump of her pulse point. He tasted the faint salt of her skin and the lingering vanilla of her perfume, and he felt a low, vibrating growl start in the back of his own chest. The reaction was instantaneous and even more violent than it had been in the van. A ragged, choked-off sound escaped her as she arched her back, her fingers clenching into the tangled curls at the nape of his neck with enough force to make him wince even if he didn’t mind the pain. The shift in her body was tectonic as she began to grind against his lap. The contact was devastating. Every time his lips moved against her skin, every time his teeth grazed the column of her throat, she responded with a renewed, desperate pressure, her breath coming in short, staccato gasps that synced perfectly with the beat of the Ray Charles record.

She reached down between them, her fingers fumbling with the heavy silver buckle of his belt. Her knuckles grazed the skin just above his waistband, and the contact made Eddie’s vision swim for a second. She wasn't being delicate anymore. There was a hungry energy in the way she worked the leather through the loops, her breath coming in hot, uneven puffs against his shoulder.

Eddie didn’t need a second invitation. "I've got it," his voice a distorted rumble.

He shifted his weight, bracing one hand against the rough wood of the pallet frame to steady them both as he helped her. He made quick work of the button and then he was reaching down to shove the denim toward his knees. He kicked his legs out, the heavy fabric and his leather belt pooling on the floorboards. Eddie sat there, stripped down to the absolute bare essentials, feeling the cool draft of the room against his legs.

His mind flashed back to the van ride earlier with the ego-shattering sensation of her mouth on him. It had been amazing, a core memory in the making, but there was a world of difference between a dark backseat and this room. Being exposed like this, with the light catching every awkward angle of his lanky frame and the nervous tremors he still couldn't quite kill, felt like being on stage without a guitar to hide behind. As she moved to climb back onto his lap, her weight shifting the mattress again, his hand drifted to the thin, delicate strap of her underwear. He gave it a playful, nervous snap against her hip.

"Hey," his voice cracked just a hair before he steadied it. He looked up at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "How exactly does a guy go about... returning the favor?"

A flicker of genuine confusion crossed her face. "Returning the favor?"

"Yeah," Eddie said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "You know. Going down. On you. How does a guy do that properly?"

She shrugged, her gaze dropping for a second as she shifted her weight. "I... I'm not really sure, actually."

The admission caught Eddie off guard. The insecure part that lived in the back of his brain, had been trying very hard not to think about her with other guys. He’d assumed, given the sheer confidence she’d shown thus far, that she’d done this a thousand times with guys far more polished than a trailer park metalhead. He figured if she knew how to handle him like that, she must have had plenty of people eager to return the gesture. But looking at her now, seeing that small, uncertain shrug, he realized he might have been wrong. Maybe the Siren didn’t get as much back as she gave. Maybe nobody had ever bothered to take the time to learn the map of her.

The thought made a desperate desire to be the one who got it right. He didn't care if he was a novice. "Can I..." he started, his voice barely a whisper, a quiet question lost in the soul music humming from the speakers. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the fabric he’d just snapped. "Can I try? To figure it out?"

She sputtered, a startled, breathless sound that was a far cry from her usual composure. "Eddie, I’ve heard... I’ve heard it’s really not that great. Most guys say it’s a chore, or they don’t do it for a reason. You really don't have to."

Eddie just shrugged, a slow, lopsided tilt of his shoulders that conveyed a stubborn lack of concern for what most guys thought. "I don’t really care what the consensus is. I want to try. I want to know everything about you, remember? That includes the parts people are too lazy to appreciate."

She bit her lip, looking at him with a mix of disbelief and a growing heat. Finally, she gave a small, reluctant nod. "Okay. Fine. Lay back."

Eddie didn't need to be told twice. He eased himself down onto the mattress, his head resting against her mismatched pillows. As he settled, she reached down and slid the final barrier down her legs, discarding it somewhere in the shadows near his clothes. Then, she leaned over him, her hand finding the switch on the beaded lamp. The warm glow vanished, replaced instantly by the cinematic palette of the night. The room now washed in the pale, silver-blue light of the moon and the distant, flickering orange of a streetlamp filtering through the window. It cast long, dramatic shadows across the art supplies and the guitar rack, making the space feel even more like a private world.

Eddie reached up, his large hands finding the backs of her thighs. He felt the soft curve of her as he gently but firmly tugged her forward, guiding her weight until she was hovering directly over his face. As his eyes slowly adapted to the shadows of the room, Eddie felt like he was peering through a lens into a world he had only ever heard described in hushed, exaggerated tones. Up close, the perspective changed everything. 

The reality was far more detailed than any magazine centerfold. Everything was soft and curved, anchored by the patch of groomed hair that felt like just another texture to memorize. The gravity of the moment was too heavy for a punchline. He let out a shaky exhale and gave a slow, experimental swipe of his tongue across her folds. It was a tentative move, a basic chord struck on an unfamiliar instrument just to see how it sounded.

She buckled, her weight dropping slightly as her knees trembled. One of her hands, which had been resting tentatively on his shoulder for balance, suddenly lunged forward. Her fingers tangled deep into the wild, messy curls of his hair, her knuckles pressing hard against his scalp as she gripped a fistful of him. Eddie’s eyes went wide in the dark. He felt her fingers tighten in his hair, a silent, desperate command to keep going. He didn’t pull away. Emboldened by the way she gripped his hair, Eddie leaned back in, his movements losing their tentative edge and gaining a focused intent. He let his tongue linger this time, a long, slow stroke that started low and followed the center line upward.

He experimented with the pressure, moving from a broad, flat sweep to the sharper, more targeted tip of his tongue. He found that if he swirled it in small, concentrated circles against the sensitive peak hidden in the shadows, her breath shattered. Every time she let out an airy gasp, Eddie cataloged it. He noticed that a soft, suctioning pull of his lips combined with a steady, flicking motion was what made her hips start that searching roll again. He was fascinated by the mechanics of it. The way the textures shifted from soft and velvet-like to something slick and responsive under his touch.

His nose brushed against her, and he breathed in the scent of her deeply feeling it settle into his lungs like a heavy fog. He began to use his lips more, grazing the tender skin of her inner thighs before returning to the center, his tongue now moving with a more confident, metronome-like rhythm. Eddie felt her fingers tighten even further in his hair, pulling him closer as if she were afraid he’d disappear if she let go. The sound of his own heavy breathing and the wet slide of his tongue became the only soundtrack in the room, drowning out the faint crackle of the record player. 

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, and her hips began to shake with a fine, uncontrollable tremor that vibrated right through his jaw. She let out a sound that wasn't a gasp or a moan, but something raw and grounded. Her strength simply vanished. Her knees, which had been bracketed so firmly around his face, gave out as she collapsed forward, her weight landing fully across his chest and face. Eddie didn't mind. He melted back into the pillows, his head sinking into the soft fabric as he took the full weight of her. He let his arms wrap around her back, his hands splaying wide against her skin to steady her as she shook against him. The room was silent except for the heavy, desperate sound of her trying to find her air and the low, skipping hiss of the record player needle reaching the end of the groove. He lay there in the moonlight. He was exhausted, his jaw ached, and his hair was a total disaster, but as he felt her thighs twitching against the side of his cheek , her skin damp and warm, a triumphant grin spread across his face. 

She finally stirred, her limbs moving with a slow, clumsiness as she slid off his face. She retreated only a few inches, kneeling beside him on the tangled sheets, her chest still heaving in uneven swells. The moonlight caught the stunned widening of her eyes as she looked down at him, her lips parted but silent, as if the connection between her brain and her voice had been temporarily severed by the sheer force of what had just happened.

Eddie didn’t move for a long moment, content to let the room spin around him while he stared up at the ceiling. Slowly, he turned his head to meet her gaze, his messy curls splayed out against the pillow like a dark halo. "So," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been scraped over gravel. "I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say the general population of men are wrong."

She tried to speak, her throat clicking as she swallowed, but only a faint, airy sound escaped. She looked genuinely shaken, a far cry from the composed girl who had been teasing him about his socks only an hour ago.

Eddie let out a chuckle, his aching jaw stretching into that triumphant, lopsided grin. "Seriously, Bedford. I don’t get it. I don't understand why guys wouldn't want to do that. People talk about it like it’s some kind of chore you have to get through, but that?" He shook his head, his dark eyes glowing in the silver light. "That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of."

She shook her head weakly, her voice finally returning in a hushed, disbelieving whisper. "It’s... it’s messy, Eddie. And it’s not… I don’t know. It feels a bit one sided…"

"One-sided?" Eddie repeated, a spark of genuine amusement dancing in his gaze. He didn't bother with words to argue. Instead, he simply gestured down toward his lap, where the thin fabric of his boxers was stretched taut, the unmistakable, rigid tenting leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Does that look one-sided to you?" he asked, his brow arching in a playful, defiant challenge. "Because from where I’m lying, I’m pretty sure I was getting just as much out of that as you were. Seeing you like that? Hearing those sounds?" He let out a long, shaky exhale, his hand reaching out to trace the line of her knee. "I’d spend every night in this room right between your thighs just to get that reaction out of you again. No contest."

She let out a soft, mortified groan and immediately covered her face with her hands, her fingers splaying wide as if she could physically shield herself from the unvarnished honesty of his gaze. "Hey, none of that," Eddie said. He reached up, his large hands gently encircling her wrists. He didn't use force, just a persuasive tug, prying her hands away from her face until he could see her eyes again. "Don't you dare go covering your pretty face now. Not when I’m trying to tell you how fucking sexy you are."

He leaned up on one elbow, his face inches from hers. "Seriously. Riding my face like you were trying to find a way to take flight? That’s going to be burned into my retinas until the day I die."

She let out a strangled yelp, his name escaping her in a shocked, high-pitched rush of air and immediately surrendered the fight, diving forward to bury her face into the crook of his shoulder. She was warm, her damp skin pressing against his bare chest, and Eddie couldn't help the triumphant rumble of laughter that vibrated through his ribs. He didn't push her for more words. He knew the feeling of being overstimulated and too nervous to speak. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close into the mismatched pillows. He began to draw aimless, drifting patterns on the skin of her back. His fingers traced the line of her spine, circling the small of her back before wandering up to the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades.

He watched the way her breathing gradually slowed. She began to melt into his frame, her limbs losing their defensive tension and draping over him with a comfortable familiarity. The room was quiet, save for the insistent, click-hiss of the turntable needle. Eddie shifted slightly, his lips grazing the shell of her ear as he leaned in. "As much as I love this, and believe me, I could stay right here until the sun comes up," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, "I should probably flip the record over. Side B has all the good songs,” 

She looked up from his shoulder, her eyes heavy-lidded and gave a slow nod. Eddie felt the sudden absence of her heat as he slid off the edge of the mattress. His bare feet met the cold floorboards with a soft creak. He reached the turntable and carefully lifted the needle, the rhythmic scratching finally cutting to a blissful silence. He flipped the record to Side B and lowered the needle, and a few seconds later, the first notes of a low, soul-drenched ballad began to bleed into the room, the bass line thick.

While the music swelled, he heard the sound of movement behind him. He turned back to see her reaching into one of the cubby-style compartments built into the headboard. When he reached the edge of the bed, she was sitting up slightly, her hand extended. Between her fingers, catching a glint of the streetlamp's orange glow, was a small, square foil packet. Eddie froze, his hand hovering over hers as the reality of the situation finally caught up with his adrenaline. He took the packet, the plastic crinkling under his thumb, and let out a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, sobering sincerity. He sat on the edge of the mattress, looking down at the condom in his palm. In his rush to get her clothes off and prove he wasn't just a dork with a hole in his sock, the actual logistics of protection had completely slipped his mind. He’d been flying by the seat of his pants, literally and figuratively. He looked back at her. "I’m an idiot. It just dawned on me that I don't have one in the van, let alone in my pocket. And trust me, Uncle Wayne would personally castrate me if I managed to knock someone up before I got my hands on that diploma.”

Eddie took a deep breath as he reached for the elastic waistband of his boxers and tugged them off, the fabric falling to join the graveyard of denim and silk on the floorboards. Standing there completely bare in the moonlight, he felt a momentary return of that vulnerability, but it was quickly overshadowed by the task at hand. He tore the foil packet open with a shaky thumb and forefinger, pulling out the small latex ring. He squinted at it, his brain working overtime to pull a hazy, half-remembered demonstration from a health class filmstrip out of the depths of his memory. He set it against his tip and tried to roll it down, but the rubber snagged, stubborn and unyielding.

"Dammit," he hissed under his breath, a flush creeping up his neck. He didn't let the frustration take hold, though. He flipped the ring over, centered it, and tried again. This time, it glided down his length with a smooth ease. He let out a silent sigh of relief.

He turned back toward the bed, intending to climb back into the spot they’d carved out on top of the sheets, but he paused. In the time he’d been occupied, she had reached back and pulled the covers open. She was lying back against the pillows now, the pale light tracing the curves of her body as she waited for him. Eddie didn't hesitate. He slid into the bed, the cool cotton of the sheets a stark contrast to the heat radiating off her. He moved, bracing his weight on his forearms as he dragged himself over her frame.

The full length of him settling against her, skin to skin, heart to heart. He could feel every breath she took, and the way her thighs parted naturally to welcome his weight made his head light. He hovered there for a second, his nose brushing against hers, his eyes searching her face in the shadows. In the cool, blue-shadowed light, she looked up at him, her hand reaching up to brush a stray, wild curl away from his forehead.

"Eddie?" she asked, her voice a soft, barely-there thread of sound. "Are you okay?"

He took a breath, his chest expanding against hers. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against her own, his eyes closing. "I'm just nervous," he whispered back. "I've been thinking about this for a long time. I don't want to mess up."

She shifted beneath him, her hands sliding down to rest on his shoulder blades. "We don't have to rush it," she murmured. "We have all night. We can just... be here."

Eddie opened his eyes, his dark gaze locking onto hers. "It's okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, certain rumble. "I want to."

He tilted his head and closed the small gap between them, his lips meeting hers in a kiss. This was slow. It was a lingering exploration, his mouth soft and patient. Her tongue began to move against his, a lazy dance. It was a deep, sensory conversation without words, each movement a question and each response a quiet, certain answer. Eddie felt his entire body relax into the mattress, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolving into the warmth of the bed. She let the kiss linger until his heart was thudding a heavy beat against her ribs, and then she slowly pulled away. She didn't go far. Just enough to look at him, her lips damp and parted in the moonlight, her hands tightening their grip on his shoulders as the music outside the covers seemed to fade into the background.

Eddie shifted his weight, bracing himself on one shaky forearm. He reached down between them, his fingers searching for the right alignment, but the angles felt all wrong. He let out a soft, frustrated huff, his brow furrowing as he fumbled. "Dammit," he hissed, his voice a strained, breathy rasp against her collarbone. "I swear... the movies and the magazines always make this part look like a seamless transition. I feel like I'm trying to tune a guitar with boxing gloves on."

She let out a tiny, truncated laugh and reached down to meet him. Her fingers were steady where his were trembling. She guided him. The moment they finally aligned, Eddie let out a long, shaky exhale. He felt the initial, velvet-soft resistance and then the slow, incredible glide as he found exactly what he’d been searching for. He didn't move any further. He just stayed there, poised at the threshold, his eyes fixed on hers. He looked down at her, his pupils so blown out they swallowed the dark irises entirely, leaving only a reflection of the moonlight. He wanted to see her expression.

Slowly, with an agonizingly careful pressure, he pushed in just a tad. Eddie’s breath caught in his throat, his jaw tightening as he felt the sheer, overwhelming heat of the connection. He stayed perfectly still, waiting for her to tell him that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Eddie’s eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, his head dropping back as he choked out "God... it’s so hot," the words sounding like they were being squeezed from his lungs by a heavy weight. "It’s really, really hot."

She looked up at him, her hands moving from his shoulders to cup the sides of his face, her palms cool against his feverish skin. "Do you want to stop?" she whispered, her voice laced with a genuine, quiet concern that nearly broke his focus.

He shook his head immediately. He forced his eyes open, pinning her with a look that was raw and desperately sincere. "No," he rasped, his chest heaving against hers. "No, don't–don't stop. Am I... am I okay to keep going. Are you okay?"

She didn't hesitate, giving him a firm, encouraging nod as she pulled his head down to press a quick, salt-sweet kiss to his forehead. "I'm okay. Go ahead, Eddie." He took a breath that felt like it was made of liquid gold and pushed forward, the movement slow and deliberate as he settled deeper into the heat.

He had spent years hearing guys talk about this. Exaggerated stories told over cheap beer and cigarettes, but none of them had ever mentioned the weight of it. Being inside her for the first time felt like finally stepping inside the music instead of just listening to it from across the room. It was an overwhelming, pressurized warmth that seemed to wrap around not just his body, but his very pulse. He was fascinated by the way his own rhythm was being dictated by the velvet-tight squeeze of her, the way every small shift in his hips sent a corresponding ripple through his entire frame.

It wasn't just "sex". That word felt too small and simple for the reality of the silver light, the soul music, and the way her body was stretching and yielding to accommodate his lanky, awkward self. He felt grounded and untethered all at once. A chaotic mix of ink and bone finally finding its center in the quiet, humid dark of the bed. He watched her face as he realized that no magazine or porno could have ever prepared him for the sheer, staggering intimacy of being this close to another human being.

Eddie had always been a creature of high-energy distractions. Loud music, chaotic campaigns, the constant hum of being the "freak" everyone expected him to be. He had assumed that this would follow that same trajectory. He’d expected a surge of pleasure, a release, and maybe a bit of a boost to the ego he spent so much time pretending was bulletproof.

But this wasn't simple. It wasn't just a physical thing.

It was a total, terrifying dissolution of the boundaries he’d built around himself. Being inside her felt less like a conquest and more like a surrender in some odd way. He felt every hitched breath she took as if it were his own. He felt the way her fingers traced the lines of his shoulders and realized she wasn't just touching his skin. She was touching the parts of him he usually kept hidden behind a denim vest and a wall of jokes.

The intimacy of it was overwhelming. Eddie didn’t feel like he was just "getting laid" in the way the guys in the locker room used to brag about. He was being seen, completely and utterly, in a way that made his messy life feel... enough. The pleasure was there, but it was anchored by something much heavier: the weight of being the person she chose to appreciate unfiltered. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers in the pale light, and for the first time, he didn't feel like he had to perform. He didn't have to be the Dungeon Master or the lead guitarist or the charismatic outcast. He was just Eddie, and she was just her, and they were building something in the silence of this room that didn't need a dramatic flair for the sake of survival.

He shifted his weight forward, his brow furrowing as he tried to translate theory into motion. It wasn’t like the movies. There was no automatic rhythm. He started with small, tentative movements, pulling back just an inch and then sliding back in, his body feeling heavy and uncoordinated. He experimented with the angle of his hips, a bit frustrated by the clumsy friction of the sheets against his knees, until he adjusted his tilt and felt the resistance give way to a smoother, deeper glide.He started to move more deliberately, letting the slow, honeyed tempo of the Side B ballad dictate his pace. He went deeper this time, in a long, steady slide that made him let out a low sound against the hollow of her neck. He felt her respond with a gasp, her body unfolding and relaxing around him as if she were finally letting him into the deepest part of her.

He watched her face in the silver moonlight, fascinated by the change. The tension in her jaw was gone, replaced by a soft, dazed expression, her lips parted as her breath began to sync with his. She started to meet him, her hips rising slightly to greet each stroke, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his hair, pulling him down until their chests were fused.

Her fingers dug into his scalp with a new, hungry urgency, and the small moans she let out told him he was finally getting it right. Seeing her enjoy it in the way her eyes clouded over with pleasure, made Eddie feel ten feet tall. 

Eddie felt the heat in his core intensifying in a thrumming that started at the base of his spine and radiated outward until his fingertips felt numb. He leaned down, his voice against her ear. "I’m close... God, I’m really close," he managed to choke out, his muscles locking with the effort of trying to maintain his pace without shattering.

She responded by shifting beneath him, her thighs opening wider to bracket his hips, her heels digging into the mattress to pull him even deeper. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice thick and dazed. "Just let go, Eddie. Don't stop."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face pained. He shook his head, a wild curl falling over his damp forehead. "No, wait," he breathed, his chest heaving. "What about you? I want... how do I get you there?"

The sheer, unselfish desperation in his voice must have made her soften. She didn't say a word; instead, she reached down between their fused bodies, catching his hand. She guided his fingers, placing them firmly against the sensitive peak of her clit that was already slick and swollen. Eddie watched, his breath hitching, as she kept her hand over his, demonstrating a steady pressure. She moved his fingers in small circles, with a friction that made her head fall back against the pillows with a sharp inhale.

"Like that?" he whispered, his eyes wide as he cataloged the way her body arched under the touch.

"Yes," she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just like that. Don't stop moving, Eddie. Do both."

For a few seconds, Eddie’s brain short-circuited. He’d find the right pressure with his fingers only to have his hips falter, or he’d get the glide back only to lose the circular motion she’d taught him. "I’m trying," he grunted, his brow furrowed. But then, he stopped thinking. He found a sweet spot where the slide of his hips provided the base and the friction of his thumb provided the high notes. As he locked into it, she let out a gasp that echoed off the walls, her back arching off the mattress until only her heels and shoulders were touching the bed.

The sensation of her clenching around him was a velvet-tight seizure that sent a white-hot spark straight to his brain. Eddie’s eyes went wide and he let out a startled, unceremonious swear. "Holy—!"

He felt the control snap. It wasn't a choice . He came with a force that made his vision blur into a haze of moonlight, his head falling forward into the crook of her neck. He wanted to stop, to just sink into the sheets and breathe, but she wasn't done. Her hand shot down, her fingers locking around his wrist like a vice, pinning his hand in place against her. "Don't," she choked out, a desperate, commanding edge to her voice. "Don't stop, Eddie. Please."

He forced himself to move, his muscles screaming and his heart doing an uneven gallop. He pushed through the overstimulated haze, maintaining the pressure with his hand even as his body felt like it was turning to mush. He kept the rhythm, stumbling but persistent, until she finally hit the edge. She let out a high, broken cry that was muffled against his shoulder, her fingers digging into his wrist so hard he’d probably have nail bites tomorrow.

Eddie lay there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against her damp shoulder, before the reality of his own lanky frame hit him. "Sorry, shit, I'm probably crushing you," he panted, his voice a ghost of its usual self.

He moved, rolling off her and onto the cool side of the mattress. The sudden shift in temperature made him shiver, but he focused on the task at hand. He reached down, his fingers still a bit shaky, to carefully remove the condom and tie it off. He set it aside on the floor, feeling a strange, quiet sense of pride in the plastic proof of his deflowering. Once he was clear, he didn't stay on his side of the bed for more than a second. He rolled back toward her, his arm sliding out to hook around her waist and pull her flush against his chest. He tucked his chin over her shoulder, his wild, sweat-damp curls touching her cheek as he settled into the crook of her neck.

"You okay?" he whispered, his hand splaying against her stomach, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over her skin. "I didn't... I didn't break you, did I?"

She let out a soft, tired giggle that vibrated through him, her hand coming up to rest over his. "No, Eddie. I'm definitely not broken."

"Good," he murmured, his eyes drifting shut as the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving a deep exhaustion in its wake.  Eddie’s eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by a satisfaction so deep it felt structural. He shifted his head slightly, his nose brushing against the soft skin of her nape, and let out a long, contented sigh. 

"Hey," he murmured, the word slurring just a bit as sleep began to pull at him. "Your aunt... is she gonna, like, bust in here at dawn and flip her lid? Because I’m pretty sure I don’t have the energy to jump out a window right now. My legs are officially made of lead."

He felt her chest move with a quiet, tired huff of amusement. She turned her head just enough to catch his gaze in the dim moonlight, her eyes soft and glazed with the same lingering haze that was clouding his own mind. "She’s in Chicago until Monday," she whispered. 

Eddie’s brain processed it slowly. The implications of a whole weekend of this. Of her, of this room, of the lack of a ticking clock. He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer until there wasn't a single gap of air between them.  "So," he started, his voice barely audible over the hum of the house. "You want me to... you want me to stick around? Or do you want your bed back?”

She didn't even hesitate, the answer leaving her lips with a soft, certain breath. "Stay," she whispered, her fingers interlacing with his where they rested on her stomach. "I just want you to turn that record player off before the needle wears a hole straight through the vinyl."

Eddie let out a huffed laugh, "Copy that, Bedford."

He started to shift, bracing himself, but he stopped mid-motion. He hovered over her, his arms framing her head against the mismatched pillows. In the silver-blue wash of the moonlight, she looked softer than he’d ever seen her. "You know," he murmured, "you look so beautiful right now it’s actually kind of terrifying. Like, 'legendary siren pulling a sailor to his doom' terrifying."

He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss right between her brows, his lips soft against her skin. When he pulled back, he didn't move away immediately. He worried his bottom lip for a second, the bravado finally failing him as he asked the question that had been thrumming in the back of his mind since the van. "So... just for the record," he started, trying and failing to sound off-hand, "does this, uh... does this officially make us a couple? Or is there a specific ritual or a signed contract I’m missing? Because I’m pretty new to the 'not-a-loner' scene."

She reached up, her palm cupping his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with tenderness. "Eddie Munson," she said, a playful but firm glint in her eyes, "you are not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me now."

A slow, genuine grin spread across his face. "Stuck, huh? Yeah, I think I can live with that."

He slid out of bed just long enough to cross the room, as he finally clicked the turntable off. The silence that followed was profound, filled only by the soft creak of the floorboards as he practically dove back under the covers. He pulled her close, her back against his chest and his chin tucked into the crook of her neck, his long limbs tangling with hers until they were a single, messy knot of warmth. As the edges of sleep began to blur his thoughts, he thought of the charred, skeletal remains of the Starcourt Mall. A place that had felt like the center of his frustration only a week ago. He thought of the long, aimless drive across the county line, his fingers drumming irritably on the steering wheel of the van, cursing the luck that had forced him to travel a town over just to find a shop with a decent set of guitar strings. He had been so angry at the inconvenience. He had spent the whole drive thinking about how much gas he was losing.

Now, with the scent of her skin filling his senses and the steady, solid reality of her heart beating against his arm, the memory of that frustration felt like a different lifetime. It was a strange realization. That a fire in a town he hated had been the exact pieces of luck required to lead him to this room. If the world hadn't inconvenienced him just a little bit, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't know the sound she made when she lost her breath, or the way the moonlight made her look like something he didn't deserve but was allowed to hold anyway.

He tightened his grip on her, a small, sleepy smile touching his lips as the darkness finally pulled him under. He decided right then that he’d never complain about a detour again.

Tag List? Just ask babes

(Tagging those who used to be on my Eddie story tag list)

The room is too warm.

Sheets tangled low around your legs, twisted into something that feels more like restraint than comfort. The air smells faintly of him—soap and something sharper beneath it, something you’ve never quite been able to name but have always associated with this: these visits, these nights, this version of yourself.

He’s beside you, chest rising and falling, breath still uneven. Spent. Satisfied.

And you—

You’re not.

The difference sits heavy in the space between you, unspoken but obvious. Your body still caught somewhere in the middle of something that never quite reached its end. A tension with nowhere to go. A quiet, unfinished feeling you’ve learned not to look at too closely.

James shifts beside you with a quiet exhale, like the moment has already left him.

There’s no lingering touch, no absentminded brush of his hand against your skin—nothing that suggests he’s still here with you in any way that matters.

He stretches. It’s casual. Unbothered. Like this is routine. Like you are routine.

The mattress dips as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The air moves with him, cool against your skin where the sheets have slipped too low.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he says, voice rough but detached, already halfway somewhere else.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Because then he glances toward the door. Just for a second. And that’s all it takes.

The rest of it settles into place like it always does—quiet, practiced, familiar in the worst way. He doesn’t tell you to leave. He never has. He doesn’t have to.

You know the pattern. You know your place in it.

You sit up slowly, the sheets dragging against your legs as if reluctant to let you go—or maybe that’s just you projecting something human onto something that isn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time tonight.

James stands, already reaching for his clothes. There’s no urgency in it, no embarrassment. Just efficiency. Like he’s completing a task.

Like you were one.

Your chest tightens—not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to remind you it’s there. That something is.

You gather your things from where they’ve been discarded, movements quieter than they need to be. Careful. Always careful. Like if you take up too much space, the illusion might break completely.

Like if you don’t, maybe it won’t.

A soft buzz breaks the silence. Not loud. Not intrusive. Just enough to fracture what little stillness is left.

James’s phone lights up on the nightstand.

You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.

But your eyes are already there, dragged by something instinctive, something tired and aching and quietly bracing for impact.

The screen glows in the dim light.

You don’t read the message. It's the wallpaper that gets your attention.

The girl in the picture is pretty. Effortlessly so. Long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, bright blue eyes caught mid-laugh. There’s a softness to her expression, something open and certain. Happy.

James' arm is wrapped around her waist, pulled in close—familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.

He’s kissing her cheek. And she’s smiling. Holding up her hand. A ring catching the light.

Your eyes close.

Fuck.

It’s quiet in your head for a second. Completely, unnaturally quiet. Like everything just… stops. No thoughts. No rationalizing. No soft excuses you’ve been feeding yourself for months—years, maybe. 

Just that image. Burned in.

You inhale slowly, but it catches halfway in your chest. Stutters. Doesn’t quite settle.

Of course.

Of course there’s someone else.

Of course there’s always been someone else.

Behind you, James exhales like nothing’s changed. Like the room hasn’t just tilted on its axis. Like you aren’t standing there, half-dressed and suddenly very aware of how little space you actually take up in his world.

He reaches for the phone. The screen goes dark. Just like that. Gone.

“You good?” he asks, glancing at you briefly as he pulls his shirt over his head.

Casual. Offhand. Like he’s asking if you remembered your keys.

Your throat tightens. You nod anyway. Because of course you do. Because that’s the part you know how to play.

“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out softer than you mean it to. Thinner.

He hums, distracted already, fingers moving over his phone now that it’s in his hand. Typing something out. Quick. Easy. Unbothered.

You wonder if it’s her.

You don’t ask. You won’t ask.

That would imply something you’ve never been allowed to be.

You finish gathering your things, movements slower now—not hesitant, just… heavier. Like each small action carries more weight than it should.

Like something has shifted, even if nothing outwardly has.

Your shoes. Your bag. Your jacket. You pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the fabric before you pull it on.

Waiting.

For what, you’re not entirely sure.

For him to say something, maybe. To stop you. To explain. To choose.

But nothing comes. It never does.

James doesn’t look up right away.

His attention stays on his phone, thumb moving in short, practiced motions. Whatever conversation he’s stepped back into seems to take priority over the one he hasn’t even bothered to finish with you.

Then, like he remembers you’re still there—

“I’m slammed this week,” he says, almost as an afterthought. His tone is easy, unaffected. “Meetings. Late nights. The usual.”

You nod once. Of course.

He glances up briefly, just enough to check that you’re listening. Not long enough to actually see you.

“I head out Saturday,” he adds, tugging his watch onto his wrist. Adjusting it with a small, precise movement. “But Friday’s open.”

There’s a beat.

Then, like it’s already decided—like it always is—

“Eight work for you? Just come here.”

Not do you want to. Not are you free. Not even your name.

Just an expectation. A slot in his schedule. A space you’re meant to fill.

You nod again. Because that’s what you do.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter this time. It barely lands in the room.

He hums in acknowledgment, already moving on. Conversation over. Box checked.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, like your body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that there’s nothing left to wait for.

There never is.

So you leave.

The hallway outside is cooler.

It hits your skin in a way that feels sharper than it should, like you’ve stepped out of something thicker than air. Something that clung.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound.

And that’s it.

No footsteps following. No voice calling you back.

Just quiet.

Friday comes anyway.

It always does.

But it feels different this time—not in any loud, dramatic way. Nothing that announces itself. Just a subtle misalignment. Like something inside you shifted a fraction to the left and never quite settled back.

You go through the motions of your day. Work. Conversations. Background noise. The steady rhythm of everything that’s supposed to feel normal.

The cursor blinks.

Steady. Patient. Indifferent.

You haven’t typed in—what, minutes? Longer than that. The document on your screen sits untouched, words from earlier staring back at you like they belong to someone else. Like they were written by a version of you that knew what it was doing. A version that wasn’t… this.

Whatever this is.

The office has shifted around you without you noticing. The low hum of conversation has thinned out, chairs scraping less frequently, the rhythm of people packing up settling into something quieter. End of day.

Your fingers rest lightly against the keyboard, unmoving. Your eyes fixed somewhere just past the screen, unfocused. The kind of staring that isn’t really seeing anything at all.

Eight o’clock.

The thought drifts through, uninvited. Lands heavier than it should.

Just come here.

Your jaw tightens—barely, but enough that you feel it. A slot in his schedule. A space. Something to fill.

“Are you coming?”

The voice cuts clean through the fog. You jolt.

It’s small, but sharp—your shoulders tensing, breath catching just enough to betray how far gone you’d been. Your head turns too quickly, like your body is scrambling to catch up.

Reid is standing a few feet away from your desk.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression—not quite concern, not quite surprise. More like confirmation. Like he’d suspected you weren’t really there long before he said anything.

His bag hangs loosely from one shoulder, one hand hooked around the strap. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way he does—too observant, too precise. It’s never invasive, exactly.

Just… thorough.

“The team’s going out,” he says after a moment, voice gentle but clear enough to anchor you back into the room. “Luke found a place a few blocks over. Apparently they have—” he hesitates, searching for the phrasing, “—statistically above-average reviews for their bourbon selection.”

A beat. His gaze doesn’t leave your face.

“We’re heading there now.”

There’s a pause—not empty, not accidental. Intentional. He gives you space to respond, but not enough to disappear into.

“Are you coming?”

The question lands softer than it should. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it.

You open your mouth—“Um”—but it doesn’t go anywhere. Your eyes drop instead, almost instinctively, to your phone where it sits on your desk.

Dark screen. Still.

He doesn’t comment on it, but something shifts behind his eyes—some quiet recalibration, pieces sliding into place. He’s good at patterns. Better at people than he likes to admit.

He’s seen this before. Not the specifics. Not the details. But the shape of it. Waiting. Hesitation. Obligation dressed up as choice.

You look back up.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t filled the silence. Just stands there, steady, patient in a way that doesn’t feel like pressure—but doesn’t let you hide either.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Sure.”

The bar is louder than the office.

Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that it fills the empty spaces in your head with something external—music threading through conversation, glasses clinking, laughter rising and falling in uneven bursts. Warm light spills across polished wood and crowded tables, the air carrying the sharp, sweet burn of alcohol.

Your phone glows dimly in your hand.

Thread open. Messages stacked one on top of the other, a timeline of something that always felt like more when you were in it than it ever looks like now.

Short texts. Late-night logistics. Half-finished conversations that never needed finishing because they always ended the same way.

You scroll.

Your thumb hesitates over one from a few weeks ago—You up?—and something in your chest tightens, small and familiar. Predictable.

It’s just after eight.

You glance at the time again like it might change if you look at it differently.

No new message.

No are you on the way, no where are you, no irritation at your absence. Nothing to acknowledge that you didn’t show. Nothing to suggest he cares that you didn't.

Your teeth catch the edge of your thumb before you realize you’re doing it.

Across the table, laughter breaks—Luke saying something you don’t quite catch, JJ swatting his arm, Rossi shaking his head with that low, amused huff. It’s easy, natural. Effortless in a way that feels… distant.

A glass taps down in front of you.

You blink, pulled back just enough to look up as Emily slides a shot onto the table with a small, decisive nod.

The glass catches the light—amber, sharp. You stare at it for a second like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to have it.

Then you pick it up.

Everyone cheers.

It’s loud, overlapping—Luke’s easy grin, JJ’s bright laugh, Garcia already halfway to a dramatic “bottoms up!” before the rest of the table catches up. Even Rossi lifts his glass with a quiet sort of approval, something softer tucked beneath it.

Spencer raises his glass of water too.

His fingers curl loosely around it, the motion a fraction delayed—like he’s watching first, cataloging, before participating.

His gaze flicks briefly toward you, quick enough that no one else would notice. Long enough that he registers the way your grip on the shot glass is just a little too tight.

Then you drink.

It burns. Sharp and immediate, a clean line of heat down your throat that should anchor you, should pull you fully into the moment. For a second, it almost does—your eyes squeezing shut, your breath catching on the exhale.

But it doesn’t last.

It never does.

Soon, the group begins to scatter.

JJ and Garcia vanish first, drawn toward the dance floor like it’s a magnet, laughter trailing behind them—bright, unrestrained, a kind of joy that feels almost dissonant after the quiet heaviness of the week.

Emily and Tara drift toward the bar, conversation already picking up mid-thought, something low and conspiratorial threading between them.

Luke and Rossi stay, leaning in over the table—voices dropping into that familiar rhythm of debate, something about whiskey aging processes and whether it actually makes a measurable difference.

And just like that, the space shifts.

Your shoulders drop before you even realize you’ve been holding them tense.

The noise of the bar swells and dips around you, laughter rising somewhere to your left, the low hum of conversation weaving in and out beneath it—but it all feels… distant. Like you’re listening through a wall. Like you’re not entirely in the room so much as adjacent to it.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s subtle, barely noticeable over the music—but you feel it. Your gaze drops immediately, like it’s been waiting for the excuse.

James.

Your thumb hovers for half a second before you tap the screen. The message is a picture. You don’t open it. You don’t need to.

You already know what it is—his version of an invitation. A summons, really. A wordless where are you? wrapped in something that’s never actually been about you.

You turn the phone face down against the table, like that somehow dulls the weight of it. Like it isn’t still sitting there, waiting. Expecting.

Your fingers curl loosely around the edge of the table instead.

You could leave.

The thought slips in quietly, familiar as a well-worn path.

You could make an excuse—say you’re tired, say you forgot something, say anything at all. No one here would question it. They’d nod, tell you to text when you get home, maybe tease you lightly about being the first to bail. And then you’d go.

Back to the hotel. Back to him. Back to something predictable. Easy.

Your teeth catch your thumb again before you can stop yourself.

You don’t belong here.

The thought settles in, heavy and certain.

You grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and for the first time tonight you notice how small the space feels around you. Everyone else is laughing, moving, drifting through their easy rhythms like they belong here. And you… you’re just a shadow at the edge of it, fresh out of the academy, six months in, surrounded by people who’ve been this team for a decade. You’ve been trying to fit. Trying to catch up. Trying not to be noticeable.

You’re just a shadow at the edge, watching everyone else move like they belong here.

“Hey… you okay?”

Your chest tightens, breath stuttering. You snap your head up, startled, and your eyes catch Reid’s. He’s standing there, calm, patient, his gaze scanning you like he always does.

“I’m fine,” you say, softer than you mean to.

He tilts his head, suspicion flickering in his eyes. You know he sees through you, and the thought makes your stomach twist. You need movement, something to anchor yourself. “I’m getting another drink,” you tell him. “Anyone want anything?”

Rossi shakes his head without looking. “No thanks, kid.”

You nod, forcing yourself to push away from the table. The chair scrapes the floor, the sound louder than it should feel, echoing in the hollow space of your chest. Step by step, you move toward the bar, each one deliberate, grounding yourself in the smallest act of choice you’ve taken all night.

The hum of conversation and clinking glasses feels distant, muffled by the tension crawling up your spine. You take a breath, shallow, careful, like the air itself might betray you.

A quiet shift to your left makes you glance over. Reid’s there. Close enough that the warmth of his presence nudges your awareness, but not so close that it feels like intrusion. His hands rest lightly on the bar, posture relaxed, shoulders squared. Calm. Steady. The way he always is.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” you say, voice half curiosity, half challenge, like it matters.

He shrugs. “I don’t.”

You just nod, not because it surprises you—because it doesn’t—but because you need the distraction. Something to ground yourself in the ordinary. You catch the bartender’s eye, raising a hand.

“Vodka cranberry,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “Double.”

The words feel heavier than usual, like the alcohol isn’t just going into the glass—it’s for you, to hold on to, to push the buzzing of your chest down just a little. You watch the bartender pour, the ruby-red liquid spilling over ice, the glass catching the warm bar lights.

Reid doesn’t comment. Doesn’t question. Just leans there beside you, quiet, presence solid and patient. You can feel him cataloging, observing, and it’s both comforting and infuriating. His gaze isn’t demanding, not interrogating—it’s just… aware.

You shift slightly, curling your fingers around the glass when it lands in front of you. Cold against your palms, weight real and grounding. You lift it to your lips, sip carefully, and let the burn of it anchor you to the moment.

You glance at Reid over the rim of your glass, letting the drink settle on your tongue for a beat before you speak. The words are sharp with a thread of sarcasm, more shield than truth.

“Did you… just follow me here to watch me drink?”

Reid blinks, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s subtle, quiet, like he’s trying not to let the joke slip fully free, but it lands anyway. The kind of smile that reaches only his eyes and leaves the rest of him calm, unreadable.

“No,” he says, voice low, even, measured. But the smile lingers, a small curve of humor in the steady precision of him. “I—I thought you looked like something was bothering you.”

You don’t know why his words sting a little. It’s not exactly the concern you wanted, but it’s the first thread of recognition you’ve had all evening that someone—someone who actually sees—might notice you.

You set the glass down, careful, deliberate. Eyes meeting his, something in your expression half-asked, half-daring.

“You… you didn’t have to,” you mutter, voice low, and maybe it’s a statement. Maybe it’s a question. Maybe it’s both.

He tilts his head, that same patient tilt, as if weighing what to say, how much to share.

“I know,” he admits softly. “But I—” He pauses, eyes scanning you again, lingering on the tension you’ve carried in your posture, the way you brace yourself in space. “I just wanted to make sure you were… okay.”

You stare at him for a second. Normally, you’d nod, mumble, “Yeah, fine,” and push him away with a wall built out of routine, out of habit, out of every self-preserving instinct you’ve honed. But now… now something else is threading through you, quiet but insistent.

You let your mouth open before your brain can catch up. “My boyf—This guy I was seeing… It turns out he's engaged.”

“And of course he—he doesn’t care,” you blurt, voice catching on the last word. “I mean, not like it’s supposed to matter to me, right? We had this sort of unspoken agreement that this thing wasn't serious. But I was thinking about how if it was unspoken, was it really an agreement?”

Your hands gesture helplessly, tapping, twisting, grasping for purchase in the air. You hate how much of this is spilling out. You hate how much of this is just you, raw and unfiltered.

“And the worst part is that I couldn’t even… I couldn’t even hate him properly “ you continue. “James has always been like this, I've always known what this was. It's my own fault, really. I started thinking it was something more than what I deserve.”

Reid frowns. Opens his mouth, something on the tip of his tongue, but the words never leave his mouth.

They don't get the chance.

“What the hell?”

Your head snaps around. Heart stutters. There he is. Standing too close to the bar, shirt untucked, hair combed back, angry eyes locked on you.

“James?”

“You—” he starts, then cuts himself, eyes narrowing, voice low but tight. “You blew me off… for him?” His gaze flicks toward Reid, and you feel your chest tighten at the way he says it, the edge in his tone: him—like the word itself is a judgment.

You open your mouth, but your voice barely rises above a whisper. “I—James, it’s not—”

“Not what?” he yells, teeth clenched. “Not what? You’re supposed to care about me! I waited. I actually waited for you tonight!” His chest heaves.

You feel heat rush to your face, your chest tightening. Words stick in your throat. You try again, voice weak, small. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he spits, waving a hand at you, eyes blazing. “You never do. You just… just take. Always taking. And now you’re here, with some… some old nerd?”

You can’t stop it. The word nerd bouncing off James’ teeth makes you snort before you even realize it. Small, sharp, ridiculous.

His eyes flick toward you, narrowing. “What—what’s so funny?”

You tilt your head, letting the corner of your mouth twitch. “You. You actually said that. Nerd. That’s… kind of sad, actually.”

The laugh dies quickly in your throat when you notice how fast his expression hardens. His jaw clenches. Fingers curl, like he’s balancing between self-control and something darker.

His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You—you think this is funny?”

You glare, something snapping in your chest that’s been coiled too long. The last weeks, the tension, the weight of always being small in his world, the image of her burning itself into your mind.

“No, actually, it's not funny,” you spit, voice sharper than you intend. “Because unlike you, some of us actually care about other people. You know, like, your fiancée. Or does that not matter in your little world?”

James’ nostrils flare, the heat in his face rising. “That’s none of your business!” he hisses, stepping forward, closing the distance, chest nearly brushing yours. His hand lifts, threatening—like he thinks he can push you back with sheer weight.

You don’t even flinch. Not because you’re brave—there’s no room for fear, no time for hesitation—but because Reid is already there.

In one fluid motion, Spencer’s hand clamps around James’ wrist, yanking it behind his back. His other hand presses firmly to James’ shoulder, and suddenly the ex is face-down against the bar, pinned with a precision that leaves no room for argument.

“Don’t touch her,” he says, voice low, each word clipped and deliberate—the same tone he’d use when taking a violent suspect into custody.

James struggles, shoving lightly at first, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Hey—what the hell, man?—”

Then a flicker of rage crosses his face. His eyes narrow, jaw tightening, as he shoves and strains against Spencer with increasing force.

“Do you know who you’re dealing with? You have no idea—no—” James’s face reddens, frustration mounting. “Get—off—me! You little—!”

“Let him go, Reid,” you say. “It's not worth it.”

Reid’s grip doesn’t vanish all at once. It loosens in increments, controlled and deliberate. Like he doesn’t trust the space yet. Like he doesn’t trust him.

You can see it—tension coiled in Reid’s arm, the restraint it takes to let go at all. And then James wrenches himself free.

It’s messy and abrupt, a sharp pull that breaks whatever control Reid had just barely eased into. James stumbles a half-step forward before he catches himself, chest heaving, shoulders tight with anger that has nowhere left to go but outward.

He turns to you. And for a second, you see it. Not affection, nor regret. It’s not even the hallow imitation of either he’s always fed you

It’s pride, bruised and ugly.

“You know what?” he snaps, “I’m done.”

The words land harder than they should. They’re expected, sure, but they’re still his. They’re supposed to mean something, they’re supposed to matter. You’d feared hearing those words from him for months.

“I’m done waiting around for you,” he continues, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Done dealing with your bullshit, your—your games.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to throw yourself at—what, coworkers now? Fine. Have fun with that.”

Your throat tightens. You should feel something. You do feel something. Just not what you expected. You feel the sting you’d expect—the tinge of hurt. But beneath that, beneath the instinctive urge to apologize, smooth it over, shrink yourself into something easier to handle—

You feel relief.

James exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Whatever,” he mutters. “You’re not even worth it. This is pathetic.”

He turns sharply, shoulder clipping someone as he shoves his way through the crowd, muttering under his breath, anger radiating off him in waves that part people before he makes it to them.

It’s only then, in the space he leaves behind, that you realize just how many people were watching. 

The noise of the bar doesn’t stop, but it shifts. Warps around you. Conversations falter at the edges, eyes linger a second to long before pretending they weren’t looking at all.

There’s a circle. Not a full one, not obvious, but enough. Enough to make your stomach drop. Enough to draw your eye to the woman standing just a few feet away, brows drawn slightly together and a frown on her lips. 

Prentiss shifts forward when you make eye contact, and suddenly your chest caves in on itself.

She saw.

Every word, every crack in your voice. Your fingers curl in on themselves, nails biting into your palms. 

You want to disappear.

The thought hits hard and immediate. If you could just step back, just slip out, just vanish into the crowd and out the door—

You wouldn't have to see the way they’re looking at you. You wouldn’t have to feel it. The shame curling low in your stomach and sharp in your chest, worse than anything James said.

Your throat tightens, breath catching too high in your chest. You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.

You take a small step back, then another. Your vision tunnels slightly, the edges of the room blurring as your focus narrows to one thing: out. You just need to get out.

“Hey, what ha—”

“I, uh—I just need some air,” you blurt, the words tripping over each other. You don’t wait for a response. 

You turn too quickly, nearly bumping into someone as you push past, murmuring a half-formed apology. The door is right there. You don’t think, you just move. Push.

The cool air hits you all at once. It cuts through the heat clinging to your skin. You inhale hard, too fast, like your lungs forgot how to do it properly and are scrambling to catch up. Cold air floods in. Again. And again.

Your hands come up instinctively, bracing against your ribs like you can physically hold yourself together.

It’s quieter out here—the traffic is slow, the music is muffled. Less noise, less pressure. 

You bend slightly at the waist, dragging in another breath, slower this time. Trying to make it stick. Trying to make it work.

Your breathing evens out first, but your heart doesn’t get the memo as quickly. 

It keeps racing, thudding hard and uneven. You take another deep breath and lean back against the brick wall, the rough texture pressing through your clothes. Solid. Grounding, in a way.

Your knees give out before you really decide to sit.

You slide down slowly, controlled at first and then not, until you’re on the sidewalk, the cold seeping through the fabric of your pants. It bites, but you don’t move. Your head tips back against the wall. Eyes close.

For a second, you wish you were a smoker.

The thought is absurd. But right now… right now feels like it would make sense. Something to do with your hands. Something to focus on.

The door creaks open behind you. Footsteps follow, measured and unrushed.

There’s a small, stubborn part of you that hopes that if you stay still enough, whoever it is might just leave. Give you a second longer to exist in the quiet, nothing expected of you.

The footsteps stop anyway, just to your left.

You crack one eye open, lashes sticking slightly where they’d pressed too tight together. Your vision takes a second to focus, the streetlight catching on something glassy, red—your drink.

You open your other eye, gaze tracking up to the person holding it out to you. Reid. 

He’s standing in front of you, one hand holding out your vodka cran, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. His poster is relaxed, but there’s something careful to it—like he’s making a conscious effort not to crowd you, not to overwhelm you.

His eyes flick over your face quickly, taking in more than you’d like him to. The slight flush still lingering on your cheeks, the uneven way your breath settles, the way your fingers curl loosely against your knees like you’re not entirely sure what to do with them.

Your gaze drops back to the glass in his hand.

“You—” your voice comes out a little rough, like you haven’t used it in a while. You clear your throat. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to leave the building with alcohol.”

“What are they going to do, arrest me?” he winces slightly, like he regrets his own joke before he’s even fully said the words.

“Well, then I guess you’re a repeat offender now, huh?” The words leave your mouth before your brain can veto them. You wince, exactly the way Reid just did.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

But Reid just lets out a quiet, low laugh. Sudden and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to say something like that. “Don’t be sorry. I joked first.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and reach for the glass. Your fingers brush his as you take it, the warmth seeping through your skin. “Thanks,” you murmur.

He doesn’t speak, just tilts his head and slides down onto the curb beside you. You stiffen immediately. “Don’t,” you whisper, a little sharp. “You’re… you’re wearing a suit.”

He glances down at the neatly pressed fabric, then back at you, corners of his mouth twitching in that faint, crooked smile that somehow disarms all argument. “I can,” he says simply. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he does.

Reid shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands. “Are you… okay?” His voice is careful, gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.

You glance down at your knees, still gripping the glass a little too tightly. “I’m… embarrassed,” you mutter. Your throat tightens. “My boss… just saw me get berated by some guy in a bar.” The words taste bitter on your tongue. You imagine her eyes on you, all judgment and concern, and you want to crawl into yourself, disappear.

Reid lets out a quiet laugh, soft but impossible to ignore. “She actually saw me pin him to the table,” he says, voice teasing, but still calm, controlled. “Arguably, that’s a worse situation.”

A laugh escapes you, small, shaky, but genuine. You shake your head, a little of the tension leaving your shoulders. “Yeah… okay. I’ll give you that. Definitely worse.”

He tilts his head, gaze curious, unreadable. “Prentiss doesn’t care that it happened. She just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

You swallow, letting the words settle. Somehow, knowing that she’s not judging, not holding it over your head, makes the heat of humiliation fade a little. “I… I think I am,” you admit softly, letting your fingers relax around the glass. “Thanks… for defending me.”

“Any time,” he says. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way. Not by him. Not by anyone.”

Your breath hitches a little. The words settle in your chest, heavy and warm, threading through the lingering embarrassment. You glance up at him, half-expecting teasing, half-expecting judgment—but there’s none. Just… that steady presence that makes it feel like the world outside this curb has stopped.

“You deserve better,” he adds, more softly this time. “Not just protection from him, but someone who actually respects your time, your space, your… everything.”

"You really think that?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The skepticism is instinctive, a reflex you've built up over years of being told you're too much, or not enough.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. "I know it.”

You take a sip of your drink to hide the way your mouth wants to twist, letting the vodka burn sharp and distracting on the way down. You stare out at the streetlights, watching the traffic pass, needing to look at anything but him.

"Well," you say, letting your head loll back against the brick to look at him, your voice dipping into that familiar, jagged sarcasm you wear like armor. "Let me know when you find someone who does that, will you?”

Reid doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He just looks at you, eyes soft but intent, reading past the deflection like it’s written in a language he’s fluent in. The traffic rushes by, filling the silence between you, but he doesn’t look away.

"I know someone who’s willing to try," he says.

The air between you seems to still, the rush of traffic fading into a dull, distant roar. Your grip on the glass tightens automatically, a knee-jerk defense against something that feels dangerously like hope. You search his face for the punchline, the awkward hesitation that tells you he’s just being nice, but there isn’t any. Just that steady, calm regard, like he’s stating a fact as simple as gravity.

It’s terrifying. It’s the most genuine offer you’ve had in years, and it comes from the person you least expected to dissect the messy, jagged parts of you and still want to stick around. You force a short, skeptical breath of a laugh, trying to shove the moment back into the box labeled ' impossible' before it can crack you open. "You," you start, your voice rougher than you intended, "you realize I'm a disaster, right? That's—that’s what tonight was. That’s what I am."

Reid just shifts slightly, turning his body toward you so his knees bump yours, a deliberate, grounding point of contact. "I don't think you're a disaster," he says softly. "I think you’re a person who’s been treated like an option for too long by someone who didn't know what he had." He glances down at the drink in your hand, then back up, eyes catching the streetlight with a quiet intensity. "I know the statistics on recovery. I know it takes time to unlearn that kind of treatment. But I'm good at waiting. And I'm very patient.”

You nearly choke on your next swallow, the burn of the vodka suddenly nothing compared to the heat rushing up your neck. You pull away, shifting so you’re not pressed quite so close to his side, putting a fraction of distance between you on the concrete.

"Wow," you breathe out, shaking your head as you stare at the traffic passing on the street. "You really... you actually just cited statistics at me to try and get me to sleep with you." You turn back to him, arching a brow, letting your lip curl just enough to be sharp. "That is—that is impressively unsexy, Reid. I mean, truly.”

The words barely have time to hang in the cool night air before the regret hits you. It’s instant and sickening, washing away the cheap defense of sarcasm and leaving behind the raw ache underneath. You watch his face, expecting him to bristle, to get up, to mutter some logical comeback and leave you there on the curb to finish your drink in solitary humiliation.

But he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. He just looks at you.

He holds your gaze with that same steady, infuriating patience. He saw the twitch in your hand, the way you spiraled, and instead of calling you out on the cruelty, he just waited. Like he knows you're already punishing yourself enough for the both of you.

"I didn't mean that," you blurt out, the words rushing together in a desperate attempt to take it back. You set the glass down on the pavement beside you, your hands suddenly feeling useless and trembling. "I'm sorry. That was—that was mean. I was just... deflecting."

"I know," Reid says softly. The forgiveness is immediate, absolute, and devoid of the hesitation you’re used to receiving. “But I mean it. I know it’ll take time. I know it won’t be easy to believe. But I want to be the one who proves that you deserve more. Who actually gives it to you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, words catching in your throat. Your voice is quieter now, softer. “And if I… if I push back? Or yell? Or—”

“You will,” he says, eyes locking on yours. “I know you will. And that’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ll listen. I’ll… handle it.” His gaze doesn’t falter, doesn’t waver. It’s steady. Enough to make the rest of the night, the bar, James, and everything else fade just a little.

Your laugh is small, shaky, like a bird testing the air for flight. “You’re… insane.”

“Maybe,” he admits, corners of his mouth twitching in that crooked, infuriating smile. “Or maybe I just think you’re worth it.”

You lift your gaze, meeting his steady eyes again. There’s a pull there—something magnetic, something dangerous in the way he looks at you—but it’s not reckless. Not threatening. Safe. The kind of safety that makes your chest ache with longing you’ve barely let yourself feel.

You shift slightly, closer, more instinct than conscious thought, just enough to brush against the warmth of him. Your hand hovers near his arm, and before you know it, it’s resting lightly against his sleeve. You almost pull it away, reminding yourself of restraint, of boundaries—but the warmth of him there, steady, grounding, feels… essential.

Reid’s gaze follows your movement, patient but intent. He tilts his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to be careful with me,” he murmurs, voice low, a rasp that makes the air shiver around it.

His hand shifts subtly, brushing against yours, fingers threading just slightly, testing.

“Do you…?” Your voice trembles, small and unsure, carrying the question you can’t quite form. “Do you… want this?”

“I want whatever you want,” he says simply. “I want you. But only if you want me too.”

That’s enough to tip the fragile line you’ve been teetering on. Impulsively, hesitantly, you reach up, tracing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips, memorizing the planes of his face, the way his skin is warm beneath your touch. He leans slightly into the gesture, breath hitching just enough to tell you he notices, that he feels it.

The world narrows. Just you. Just him. The faint buzz of the city, the distant headlights, the cold concrete pressing against your legs—they all fall away until there’s nothing but the hum of possibility between you.

Your lips hover near his, and you freeze, heart hammering. You’re not sure if you want this—if you want him, or just the safety, the closeness, the heat of someone who sees you and still wants you. But the thought of pulling back, of losing this chance, makes your chest ache.

He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering against your cheek. “You can stop,” he murmurs. “Or you can try.”

Something in you unravels—the careful walls, the sarcasm, the self-protective reflexes. You close the last fraction of distance, lips brushing his. Soft. Gentle. A spark, a question, a yes whispered in the language of a kiss.

Reid doesn’t hesitate. He meets it, tilting his head to deepen the contact, hand moving to cradle your face, the other brushing along your arm. Safe. Warm. Patient, but insistent enough to let you know he wants this too.

His hand is warm where it cups your face. Steady. Intentional. Not demanding—never that—but there, present, like he’s giving you something solid to hold onto while everything else inside you threatens to tilt.

You expect it to feel overwhelming. It doesn’t. It feels… quiet.

Your lips move against his again, a little more certain this time, testing the shape of it, the reality of it. And he follows—carefully, like he’s reading you even now, adjusting in real time to every shift in your breath, every slight change in pressure. There’s no rush. No taking. Just… meeting you there.

Your fingers curl slightly where they rest against his jaw, and you feel the way his breath catches—not dramatically, not exaggerated, just enough to tell you it matters. That you matter.

It does something dangerous to your chest.

You lean in a fraction more, and this time the kiss deepens—still soft, still controlled, but warmer now. Real. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek, a slow, grounding motion, like he’s reminding you that you’re here. That this is happening. That you can stop at any point and he’ll let you.

And somehow, that makes you not want to stop at all.

Your other hand shifts, sliding from his sleeve to his wrist, then up—hesitant at first, then more certain—until your fingers rest against the side of his neck. His skin is warm. Steady. You can feel his pulse there, quickening just slightly under your touch.

You like that.

The realization hits you quietly, but it lingers.

Reid exhales softly against your lips, and there’s something different in it now—something a little less restrained, a little more felt. 

“Hey…” you murmur, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Your voice is soft, a little breathless. “Walk me home?”

He blinks, just the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his features before it smooths into that steady, calm look you know so well. “Of course,” he says, the words low, sure, certain.

You stand, brushing the chill off your pants, and he falls into step beside you without hesitation. The city night feels quieter now, the hum of traffic and distant sirens softened by the rhythm of your walking. Your hand brushes his at first accidentally, then deliberately, and he doesn’t pull away—doesn’t need to. The warmth seeps through your nerves, that quiet shock that says you’re alive, that you’re wanted.

There's that look in his eyes again: steady, observant, but carrying a promise that he’ll meet you where you are. That he’ll wait, if necessary, but that he wants this, too.

Your chest tightens. The city lights stretch shadows across the sidewalk, painting him in sharp angles and soft curves. You wonder how it’s possible for someone to feel so steady and so incendiary at once.

When you reach your building, the air seems thicker, heavier with unsaid words and barely restrained energy. The lobby is empty, quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled behind the glass doors. You pause, hand brushing against the wall for something to hold on to, grounding yourself.

“You can… come up,” you murmur before your brain has time to talk you out of it. The words are uneven, hesitant, carrying all your insecurities. “If you want.”

He tilts his head, watching you carefully, reading every microexpression like he always does. “I do,” he says softly. And he follows you inside without hesitation.

You’ve done this before. Let someone follow you upstairs. Let it mean something it wasn’t supposed to.

This feels different.

The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, your footsteps echoing softly against the floor. You don’t look back, but you can feel him there. Half a step behind you. Like he’s giving you the space to stop. To turn around. To change your mind.

The key slips once in your grip before you manage to steady it, the metal clicking against the lock louder than it should be. Your pulse jumps with it. You push the door open and step inside, the familiar quiet of your apartment settling around you like something held too tightly.

For a second, you just stand there. Then, he steps in after you. The door closes with a soft click.

“You can still—” he starts, voice low, careful.

But you close the distance before he can finish.

Your hands find him first—fisting lightly in the front of his shirt, pulling him in like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. His breath catches, just barely, and then your lips are on his again. It’s different this time. Less careful. Less questioning.

There’s urgency in it now—something that’s been building, coiling tight all night finally snapping loose. You press closer, rising onto your toes, and he meets you immediately, hands coming up to steady your waist, your back—everywhere all at once, like he’s trying to keep up without overwhelming you.

You tug at him, guiding, half-walking, half-pulling him down the short hallway toward your room. He follows without resistance, but there’s a shift in him—something grounding, something deliberate beneath the heat.

The bedroom door bumps open. You barely register it before you’re turning back to him, hands already moving again, lips finding his jaw, his neck—anything you can reach. It’s a little messy, a little rushed, your breath uneven as it tangles with his.

And then—His hands catch yours.

“Hey—” he murmurs, voice low, breath warm where it brushes your cheek. “Hey… it’s okay.”

You blink, the moment stuttering. Your chest rises and falls too fast, your pulse still racing ahead of you, like you haven’t quite caught up to your own body yet.

“I just—” you start, but the words don’t land. You’re not even sure what you were going to say.

He doesn’t make you finish. “I know,” he says softly.

His thumbs brush lightly over your wrists where he’s still holding them, grounding, steady. Not restraining—just there.

“We can slow down,” he adds. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

The certainty in his voice disarms you in a way you’re not prepared for.

Your shoulders drop a fraction. Your breath stutters, then steadies, just a little.

“…okay,” you whisper.

The word feels fragile. New. But he treats it like something solid.

Reid’s hands loosen, giving you the space to pull away if you want—but when you don’t, when you stay right there in front of him, he lets his fingers slide more gently along your arms instead. Up. Slow. Intentional.

Like he’s learning you. Like he wants to.

His hands find the edge of your shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric where it clings to your skin. He pauses, lifting his gaze to yours, as if asking permission without a word. You nod, breath trembling.

His lips brush along your collarbone, soft and feather-light, following a trail only he seems to know exists. One hand slides up your side, fingertips pressing gently against your ribs, mapping the curve beneath the thin fabric. The warmth of him, the deliberate patience, makes your knees weaken.

“Do you… want me to?” His voice is low, rougher than usual, carrying that quiet certainty you’ve come to rely on.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, please.”

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and then it’s gone—lifted slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to change your mind even as it slides over your head.

He leans back in immediately, lips brushing yours, but your hands are fidgety, unsure, tangling in his shirt, pulling too hard, then too soft. Your fingers move to your pants, fumbling the button, and a tiny groan escapes you—half frustration, half embarrassment.

Reid chuckles against your lips, warm and low, the sound vibrating through you. It’s soft, not mocking, just amused, and somehow it makes you grin despite yourself. You can’t help it—a little laugh escapes between kisses, breathless and uneven.

You take a shaky breath and try again, dragging the fabric down with more determination, though you’re still clumsy, tugging at them too fast before pausing, then yanking them the rest of the way. They pool around your ankles, and you step free, kicking them aside—slightly off balance, but he catches you with a hand on your hip.

You tug him closer, heat building between you, and your hands find his, pressing them to the small of your back for a moment before slipping, guiding his fingers along the slope of your sides.

Your pulse hammers in your ears, and you can feel him stiffen slightly under your touch, a shiver running through him as you lead his hands upward to the clasp of your bra. The soft click of the hooks under your fingertips sends a jolt straight through your chest.

He pushes the straps off your shoulders, the soft fabric falling to the floor. 

The air feels cooler against your skin immediately. Sharper. You’re suddenly, acutely aware of it—of yourself.

Of him. 

You don’t give yourself time to think about it. Don’t let the hesitation creep in. Your hands are already reaching for him again, pulling him forward, chasing the warmth you just had—

“Wait,” Reid murmurs, voice low, threaded with something softer now. Something steadier.

Your breath catches, confusion flickering across your face as you look up at him.

“I—” you start, but the words falter when you see the way he’s looking at you.

Not rushed. Not hungry in that careless, consuming way you’re used to. Focused. Intent.

“I want to look at you,” he says quietly.

It lands heavier than anything else he’s said tonight.

Heat rushes up your neck instantly, blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening as your instinct is to turn away, to fold in on yourself, to hide. You almost laugh it off—almost deflect, make a joke, cover the sudden vulnerability clawing up your throat.

But his hands are still there, resting lightly at your waist.

His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t flick away to give you an out. But it’s not trapping, either. It’s patient. Open.

Like he’s asking. Like it matters.

Your fingers twitch at your sides before you force them to still. You draw in a slow breath that doesn’t quite steady you but helps enough. And then you nod.

Reid’s eyes move over you then—not in a way that feels like he’s taking something, not like he’s cataloging flaws or comparing or measuring. It’s slow. Careful. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s been given permission to see.

His thumb brushes lightly along your side, a small, absent motion that somehow keeps you grounded while his gaze lingers.

“You’re—” he starts, then stops, like he’s recalibrating, searching for the right word and discarding the wrong ones before they ever reach you.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“—you’re incredible,” he settles on, voice quieter now, like it’s something meant just for you.

Your heart skips a beat.

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. It’s a simple word. Easy. Overused.

But not like this. Not from him.

You swallow, gaze dropping for a second before you force yourself to look back at him, even as the heat in your cheeks refuses to fade.

Something shifts in your chest, a sudden, impatient flare that has nothing to do with words and everything to do with heat, want, the ache of waiting too long. You pull him toward you. Harder than planned. A startled breath escapes him, warm against your neck, and the sound alone makes your pulse spike again.

He stumbles slightly—both of you caught in the sudden motion—but instinctively, he catches himself. His hands land on either side of you, bracing against the bed, his chest hovering just above yours. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle tension in his arms, the deliberate strength that’s always been there but now feels dangerously immediate.

Your hands roam down his chest, fingers catching on each button as you work them open. The fabric parts beneath your touch, revealing warm skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing just a little less even than before.

Your hands drag down his chest, fingertips tracing the subtle lines of muscle beneath warm skin, feeling the way his breath shifts under your touch—just a little deeper now, just a little less controlled.

Then back up.

Over his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms, your palms following the movement like you don’t want to lose contact for even a second. The shirt catches at his elbows before he shrugs it off completely, letting it fall somewhere behind him without looking.

Your palms trace the warmth of his chest one last time before they drift lower, brushing the waistband of his pants. A rush of heat floods your chest, anticipation curling in your stomach. You inch your hands forward, imagining the weight and warmth beneath the fabric.

He stops you with a gentle but firm grip on your wrists.

“This… isn’t about me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something deeper. “It’s about you. I want to make you feel good first.”

You swallow, heat pooling between your thighs at the deliberate weight of his words. Your hands drop, and for a moment, you let yourself just be held, just feel him.

Then his hands are moving—sliding along your ribs, over your hips, brushing over the swell of your breasts, ghosting over your nipples.

Your chest lifts instinctively under the pressure, the featherlight friction making your pulse stutter.

He leans back just slightly, eyes locking onto yours, searching, reading every flicker of reaction. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, but the way he holds your gaze is unwavering—commanding but gentle. “Or not enough. I want to know.”

You arch, pressing into him without thinking, letting the heat of anticipation spill into something more tangible. “Not… not enough,” you whisper, voice low, trembling with want.

A small, satisfied sound escapes him—almost a growl, almost a purr—and his hands move with careful precision, cupping you fully now, thumbs brushing circles over your nipples, slow, deliberate, eliciting shivers that roll down your spine. You bite back a moan, but it escapes anyway, breathless, catching in the quiet of your bedroom.

His hands slide lower along your hips again, brushing teasingly over the swell of your thighs. 

“May I?” he murmurs, voice low, husky, as his fingers brush the waistband of your underwear. You nod, barely able to speak, breath hitching in uneven gasps.

He hooks his thumbs under the edges, letting his gaze lift to yours. No hurry, or shame. Just that commanding, attentive certainty that makes your knees weak.

He slides them down your legs, inch by careful inch, letting the fabric brush your skin, teasing, slow, patient, until he can discard them with the rest of your clothes. His hands drift back up your legs, tracing the curve of your inner thighs, stopping just shy of the place that’s already slick with need. You gasp, hips tilting instinctively toward him, heart hammering.

Finally, he lowers himself, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, feather-light at first, tracing circles that leave sparks behind.

The sensation travels inward, unhurried and deliberate, nothing like the frantic, selfish encounters you’re used to. When his mouth finally reaches where you need him most, the shock of it steals the breath from your lungs. It isn't rushed or performative; it’s attentive, his tongue moving with a focused precision that feels almost academic. One hand rests firmly on your hip, anchoring you to the mattress, a grounding tether as he begins to unravel you, lick by slow, devastating lick.

Your free hand finds its way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft waves to hold him close, your hips lifting off the bed in a silent, desperate plea. He hums against you, a low, vibrating sound of approval that only sends fresh waves of pleasure rolling through your nerves, encouraging you to let go. Every flick of his tongue is a question he already knows the answer to, reading the tremor in your thighs and the broken cadence of your breath like data points on a graph, adjusting the pressure and speed until the only thing you know is the heat of his mouth and the rapidly tightening coil in your belly.

The pressure builds to a breaking point, overwhelming and sharp, and when you fall over the edge, you do so with a cry that you try to stifle against your own arm, a lifetime of conditioning making you shy away from being too loud, too much. But Spencer doesn't let you hide; he carries you through it, slowing his movements to draw out every last aftershock until you’re a trembling, boneless mess against the sheets.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his lips start a slow, deliberate ascent from your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin. It’s a reverence in motion, a silent worship that has your eyes fluttering closed.

The scrape of his teeth against the curve of your hip draws a sharp, hitching gasp from you, your hips bucking involuntarily. He just smiles against your skin—a dark, knowing thing—and soothes the sting with his tongue, his hands continuing their slow, grounding glide up your sides. He’s taking his time, mapping the topography of your body like he has all night, like he has a lifetime.

His mouth finds the dip of your navel, lingering there, his breath hot against your stomach. Your muscles jump and flutter under his attention, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the heat coils tighter, low and demanding. The sensations are overwhelming—every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, and terrifyingly alive.

He moves higher, tracing the line of your ribs with a devotion that feels almost holy. Your breath stutters, catching in your throat as the ghost of his breath feathers over your racing heart, the steady thump-thump-thump betraying just how undone you are. He presses a lingering kiss right over that frantic beat, as if trying to soothe the ache there with his own rhythm, his hands sliding up to bracket your waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your sides in a slow, hypnotic pattern.

He nips gently at the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and your head falls back against the pillow, exposing more of yourself to him in a gesture of surrender that feels foreign yet terrifyingly right. You can feel the tension in his arms where they cage you in, the tremor of restraint running through him as he takes his time, leaving a trail of fire in his wake that burns away the lingering memory of every cold, careless touch before him.

Finally, his face hovers above yours, blocking out the dim light of the room until he’s the only thing you can see. His lips are red and swollen, his breathing ragged as it mingles with yours in the scant space between you. He doesn’t kiss you immediately; he pauses, searching your eyes with that piercing, analytical gaze that sees too much, stripping away every last defense. Then he lowers his mouth to yours, slow and deliberate, and the taste on his tongue is you—salt and musk and a sharp, intoxicating proof of exactly how much he wants you.

He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still coming in ragged, syncopated bursts. The air between your bodies feels charged, electric with the lingering static of what just happened and the mounting pressure of what’s coming next. His eyes search yours, dark and intent, stripping away any last defenses you might have thought you had.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, the words low and rough, vibrating against your lips. His hand drifts down, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you can't look away, can't hide from the weight of the question. "I need to hear you say it."

Your pulse hammers against your ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm that matches the ache settling deep in your bones. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the deflective sarcasm or the practiced diffidence you usually hide behind. Not with him. Not like this. You force yourself to meet his gaze, to let the want show plainly on your face, raw and unvarnished.

"I want you to fuck me, Spencer. Please."

The words leave your lips in a rush, jagged and desperate, stripping away the last of your composure. You expect him to hesitate, to offer you another slow, sweet reassurance, but instead, his control snaps. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat—half-groan, half-growl—and his mouth crashes into yours, searing and demanding, swallowing the gasp that rises in your throat. There’s no patience left in him now, only a starving intensity that matches your own, his hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

He shifts above you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels grounding rather than trapping. You can feel the hard, deliberate line of him against your thigh, the heat radiating through his clothes, a stark reminder of how much he’s been holding back. He makes quick work of his belt, the metal buckle clinking softly in the quiet room, followed by the hurried slide of fabric. Every movement is precise, efficient, but his hands are trembling just slightly, betraying the depth of his own need. When he finally settles back between your legs, skin against skin, the sensation is overwhelming—a perfect, frictional fit that makes your hips lift instinctively, seeking more.

He pauses for a second, tilting his head slightly as his hand drifts from your hips to brush along your lower stomach. “Do you… want me to use a condom?” His voice is low, careful, giving you the space to answer.

You let out a sharp curse, half-laugh, half-frustration. “I… I don’t have any. James always—I don’t have any.” The words stumble out, messy, just like your racing heart.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but you cut him off with a hurried shake of your head. “Just… pull out,” you murmur, voice a little breathless.

He blinks. “What?”

“Please,” you say quickly, looking up at him, heat in your cheeks, pulse hammering. “I‐if you’re okay with it.”

There’s a brief pause—a beat of hesitation—but you can feel it more than see it, that careful weighing of trust, of boundaries, of desire. Then his hands settle on your hips again, steady, grounding, as his lips brush yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and certain.

He pushes forward with a torturous slowness, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you, filling you so completely it steals the air from your lungs. It’s intense—a heavy, burning pressure that borders on too much—but it’s anchored by the way he’s watching you, his jaw tight with restraint, his focus entirely on the micro-expressions crossing your face. He’s waiting for you to adjust, treating your body with the same reverence he treats your mind, giving you time to catch up to the reality of him.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, uneven sound, and instinct overrides everything else. You surge up, crashing your lips against his, needing the distraction, needing the connection. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you pull him closer, deeper, and your legs wrap around his waist, locking him in.

The movement changes everything. It breaks the careful control he was holding onto by a thread. He groans low into your mouth, a sound you feel vibrate through your chest, and his hips snap forward the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden depth drags a cry from your throat, which he swallows instantly, his kiss turning hungrier, more demanding. He doesn't withdraw; he stays there, deep and pulsing inside you, letting you feel the weight of him, the sheer reality of being this close, before he finally begins to move—no longer slow, but deep and rolling, matching the desperate rhythm of your heart.

A sharp cry tears from your throat as he sets a rhythm that obliterates your ability to think, each stroke hitting deep and precise, dragging a desperate sound from your lungs that you can’t hold back. Your body reacts instinctively, legs tightening around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders to anchor yourself as the intensity builds, threatening to pull you under. It’s overwhelming in the best way, a tide rising higher and higher with every thrust.

"I've got you," he breathes, the words ragged against your mouth, punctuated by the sharp, uneven cadence of his breath. "You're incredible—god, look at you."

He doesn't stop moving, doesn't let up, his hips snapping into yours with a focused, driving rhythm that feels relentless and careful all at once. But even in the middle of it, he finds the air to speak, his voice a low, rough hum that vibrates against your lips.

"So good," he murmurs, his forehead pressing tight against yours, the words ghosting over your mouth in between the relentless, deep thrusts that make your vision blur. "You feel so good, taking me like this. You have no idea." His voice cracks on a groan, the restraint finally splintering as he buries himself impossibly deeper, grounding you with the weight of his body and the raw honesty in his tone. "You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect."

Your fingernails dig into the sweat-slicked planes of his shoulders, holding on for dear life as the coil in your belly winds tighter, threatening to snap. Every praise feels like a brand, searing away the old, jagged memories of being too much or not enough, replacing them with the undeniable reality of how much he wants you right now. "Spencer," you gasp, his name sounding broken on your tongue, and he captures the sound with a searing kiss, swallowing your cries like they're something precious.

"I know, I know," he soothes, though his hips are losing their rhythm, becoming erratic, urgent. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you see stars, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady for the force of his thrusts. "Let go for me. I've got you, always." He presses his lips to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, worshiping every inch of skin he can reach. "Come on, baby. I want to feel you."

Your body arches off the mattress, seeking more of him, more of this grounding, overwhelming connection, and when the release crashes over you, it blinds out everything else. It’s a blinding whiteout of sensation, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of him inside you, the weight of his body pressing yours into the mattress, and the sound of your own cry echoing in the quiet room. You clamp around him, your inner muscles fluttering and gripping as the pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and gasping in his arms, your fingers still digging desperately into his shoulders.

The way you tighten around him tears a ragged groan from his throat, his control finally shattering completely. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing turning harsh and uneven against your sweat-dampened skin. "That's it," he chokes out, the words strained and low, vibrating against your collarbone. "You're beautiful—so beautiful like this." He chases his own high then, his movements becoming jagged and desperate, thrusting deeper, harder, his grip on your hip almost bruising as he lets himself go.

You can feel the tension in every muscle of his back, the way his movements are becoming less calculated, more desperate, driven by pure instinct. He’s right there with you, hovering on that precipice, and for a second, you think he’s going to let go completely.

But then his rhythm stutters. He gasps sharply against your skin, and with a herculean effort that seems to cost him everything, he tears himself away.

The sudden loss of contact leaves you feeling empty, cold for a fleeting second, but he doesn't go far.

He moves his hand, but before his fingers can close around himself, your hand is there, brushing his aside.

He lets out a shattered gasp, his eyes flying open to find yours, dark and wide with surprise. The heat of him is heavy in your palm, slick and desperate, and you don't hesitate. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking firmly from base to tip, taking over the rhythm he had denied himself.

"God—" The word breaks apart on a groan, his head falling back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. His jaw goes slack, his lips parting on a silent exhale that turns into a low, guttural sound of pure surrender. He’s powerless to stop it, the tension in his body snapping like a wire drawn too tight.

The pleasure overtakes him in a rush, and with a guttural moan that sounds almost like relief, he spills hot and wet across your stomach. You don't stop; your grip stays firm and sure, thumb brushing over the sensitive head as you stroke him through every pulse, intent on wringing every last bit of pleasure from him. He shudders violently above you, his whole body bowing under the intensity, his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of your head to keep from crushing you as he rides out the aftershocks.

As the tremors finally begin to subside, the frantic energy leaves him, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. His arms give out, and he lowers himself carefully, mostly collapsing onto you but catching his weight on his elbows to keep from smearing the mess between you any further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, cooling gusts against your overheated skin, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs that gradually begins to slow.

You let your hand release him, fingers drifting instead to the hair at the nape of his neck, combing through the damp strands in a slow, soothing cadence. The room is quiet now, save for the shared sound of your breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

He presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your jaw, seemingly unwilling to break the connection just yet, content to simply exist in the warm, heavy aftermath of it all.

But eventually, he shifts, pressing one last lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, and pushes himself up. The mattress dips and lifts as he climbs out, the cool air of the room rushing in to fill the space he left behind.

You watch him, your body still thrumming, muscles heavy and liquid, but your mind instinctively bracing for the shift.

This is the part where the silence gets awkward. This is the part where he finds his shirt on the floor, pulls it on, and mutters something about an early morning or a meeting.

But he doesn’t even glance at his clothes. He turns, padding silently toward the bathroom in his bare feet, disappearing into the slice of light spilling from the open door.

The water runs for a moment—the sound jarringly domestic in the quiet apartment—before cutting off.

You blink, staring up at the ceiling, your heart rate settling into something resembling normalcy even as your brain struggles to catalog this deviation from the script. You’re still bracing for the sound of a zipper, for the click of a belt buckle, but instead, you hear the soft tread of his return.

Spencer comes back into the dim light of the bedroom, a damp washcloth in his hand. He isn’t dressing. He isn’t rushing. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the dip in the springs shifting you slightly toward him, and reaches out with a gentle hesitance, waiting for a flinch that doesn’t come.

When he touches the warm cloth to your stomach, the heat is shocking—not painful, but incredibly grounding, chasing away the chill of the drying air and the sudden, hollow fear that you were just a convenience.

He wipes the skin with meticulous care, his eyes focused on the task as if it’s a delicate procedure requiring his full attention. There’s nothing perfunctory about it; he cleans you up with the same steady reverence he explored you with, drying your skin with the corner of the cloth before tossing it onto the nightstand.

He leans in then, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips—soft, unhurried things—and then he simply pulls the quilt up over you, his hand lingering on the sheet as he looks down at you, making it clear that for tonight, at least, he isn't going anywhere.

The silence stretches, comfortable but fragile, and suddenly the vulnerability of the moment feels heavier than the pleasure did. You feel a ridiculous lump forming in your throat, a shy, terrifying question sitting on the tip of your tongue. It’s just asking him to stay, but it feels like asking for everything.

"Will you..." You start, then stop to clear your throat, your voice barely above a whisper. "Will you lay with me?"

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t look for an excuse or a clock. He just turns those soft, serious eyes on you, his expression softening into something so open it makes your chest ache.

"Of course," he answers immediately, as if it were the only logical conclusion, the only option worth considering. He shifts, sliding under the quilt with an easy grace, and the mattress dips under his weight as he settles in behind you. There’s no fumbling for space, no awkward negotiation of limbs; he fits against you like he was always meant to be there, his chest pressing flush against your back. The heat of him is immediate and grounding, seeping through your skin and chasing away the last of the lingering chill.

He reaches out, gathering you up with a gentle, insistent tug, pulling you back until you are completely cocooned in his embrace. One arm slides beneath your pillow, cradling your head, while the other drapes over your waist, his hand splaying wide across your stomach to hold you close. You can feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against your spine, a slow, hypnotic cadence that anchors you in the present moment and makes it impossible to spiral into your usual doubts. 

You let your body relax into his, melting against the solid length of him, and for the first time in a long time, your mind goes quiet. The insecurities, the voice that whispers that you’re too much or not enough, the habitual shrinking you do to make room for others—it all fades into the background, silenced by the undeniable reality of him holding you.

Spencer presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there with a reverence that feels like a seal, a promise that you don't have to be anything but exactly who you are right here. Safe, wanted, and held.