kar's stuffs

The library door opens. You don’t look up at first. The sound is familiar—the muted scrape of wood against stone, the soft echo of footsteps you’ve learned to recognize. You’re already forming the words you’ll say, some quiet observation half-born between lines of text, expecting Geta to appear beside the table.

Instead, the air shifts. Heavier. Sharper.

You lift your gaze. The man standing in the doorway is unmistakable.

Smaller in the shoulders, posture rigid with barely restrained violence, eyes dark and restless like something caged too long. His presence fills the room not with authority, but with threat—the kind that demands space even when it hasn’t earned it.

Caracalla watches you like you’re an object misplaced among the shelves.

“So,” he says at last, voice low and curling with contempt, “this is the whore my brother’s been seeing.”

The word lands deliberately. A test. A provocation.

You do not flinch. You rise slowly from your seat, smoothing your stola as though he has commented on the weather rather than your worth. When you incline your head, it is flawless—neither submissive nor defiant. Simply correct.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” you say calmly. “I am Marcus Aelius Severianus’ daughter.”

His mouth twitches, unimpressed. “I know who you are.”

“Then allow me to finish,” you reply, tone still even. “Courtesy suggests that if you choose to insult someone, you should at least do them the respect of knowing their name.”

His laugh is short, ugly.

“You speak boldly for a woman who owes everything she has to my brother’s attention,” Caracalla says, circling the table as his eyes rake over you. “I expected more. Something… remarkable.” He gestures vaguely at you. “You don’t look special.”

You clasp your hands behind your back, unbothered. “And yet,” you say lightly, “here you are.”

His eyes narrow. “I’ve seen women like you before,” he continues, warming to his cruelty. “Pretty enough to distract. Clever enough to pretend they matter. You whisper, he listens, and suddenly Rome is expected to bend around your sentiments.”

You say nothing. You let him speak.

“You’re not a general. You’re not a senator. You’re not even useful,” he goes on. “You’re soft. Decorative. Temporary.” His lips curl. “I don’t understand why he’s so… taken.”

Still, you wait. It unsettles him—your silence. The way you do not rush to defend yourself. The way you observe him instead, eyes thoughtful rather than afraid.

When he finally pauses, you speak.

“Is that all?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You came all this way to insult my appearance and question my worth,” you say gently. “I assumed there would be more substance.”

His jaw tightens. “Careful.”

You smile faintly. “I am.”

You step closer—not invading his space, but refusing to yield it. Your voice remains soft, measured, almost kind.

“You accuse me of influencing your brother,” you continue. “And yet you’ve spent several minutes doing exactly the same thing—attempting to intimidate, belittle, and provoke. Tell me, Caesar, is that how you usually persuade people? Or is force the only language you trust?”

His eyes flash.

“I don’t persuade,” he snaps. “I command.”

“Then you must be very disappointed,” you reply smoothly, “to discover that command without respect only breeds compliance. And compliance is brittle.”

He scoffs. “You think you understand power?”

“I think,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “that you mistake fear for loyalty. It’s a common error among men who rely on it.”

The insult lands. Clean. Precise.

Caracalla steps closer, looming now. “You’re bold for someone with no protection.”

You meet his gaze, unblinking. “On the contrary,” you say quietly. “I have my mind. My name. And the inconvenient habit of being correct.”

His nostrils flare. “You think my brother listens to you because you’re intelligent?” he sneers. “He listens because you fuck him.”

Something colder enters your eyes—not anger, but resolve.

“If that were true,” you say, voice steady as stone, “then any woman could have done what I’ve done. And yet here we are—with Rome changing, senators unsettled, and you standing in a library you clearly don’t value, arguing with someone you claim doesn’t matter.”

Silence crashes down between the shelves.

“You underestimate me,” you add softly, “because it comforts you to believe I’m small. But if I were as insignificant as you say, you wouldn’t be here.”

For a moment, you think he might strike you. Instead, he laughs—sharp, unhinged. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” Caracalla says. “Men like my brother always tire of women who forget their place.”

You incline your head once more, graceful as ever. “And men like you,” you reply, “always fear the ones who never had one to begin with.”

He stares at you—furious, unsettled, uncertain.Then he turns and leaves, the door slamming behind him.

You exhale slowly. And return to your book. Because knowledge, you have learned, is far sharper than cruelty—and infinitely harder to silence.

The palace feels different now.

Not quieter—Rome is never quiet—but measured. Deliberate. The corridors hum with purpose instead of tension, and when servants pass, they no longer move as if bracing for impact. You notice these things. You always do.

Geta notices them too.

He walks beside you through the colonnade, his pace slower than it once was, as though he’s learned that urgency does not always equal importance. Sunlight spills through the arches, warming the marble beneath your sandals. Somewhere beyond the walls, Rome breathes—vast, demanding, alive.

“I dismissed the petition from Numidia,” he says, breaking the silence. His tone is thoughtful, not triumphant. “They wanted more grain diverted. Again.”

You hum softly, neither approving nor disapproving.

“And?” you prompt.

“And I asked why,” he continues, glancing at you sidelong. “Not them—my advisors. I wanted to know what conditions led to the request.” A pause. “They were… surprised.”

A faint smile touches your lips. “Were you?”

He exhales, amused. “No. But I was annoyed that no one had thought to ask before.”

You stop walking and turn toward him, expression unreadable. “What did you find?”

“That the shortage wasn’t famine,” he says slowly. “It was hoarding. Local magistrates padding their reserves before winter.” His jaw tightens. “I had them removed.”

You study him for a moment. “And the grain?”

“Redistributed. Directly.”

You nod once. No praise. No correction.

Geta watches you closely. “You think it was the right choice.”

“I think,” you say carefully, “that you arrived at a solution that addressed cause rather than symptom.”

His mouth curves into a smile—small, pleased. “You never just say yes.”

“No,” you reply lightly. “If I did, you’d stop thinking.”

He laughs under his breath, then shakes his head. “You’re infuriating.”

“And yet,” you say, resuming your walk, “you keep asking.”

He follows immediately. That is the difference now.

Later, you sit with him in a smaller audience chamber—no throne, no spectacle. Just cushions, scrolls, and a map spread across the table between you. He leans over it, brow furrowed, tracing borders with his finger.

“The Senate wants increased levies from Hispania,” he says. “They argue it’s prosperous enough to bear it.”

You glance at the map. “Is it?”

He hesitates. “Yes. But—”

“But?”

“But prosperity doesn’t mean excess,” he admits. “And overtaxing breeds resentment.”

You tilt your head. “And resentment leads to…?”

“Resistance,” he finishes.

You offer nothing else. Geta sighs, leaning back. “Gods, you do this on purpose.”

“Do what?”

“Make me finish the thought myself.”

A smile ghosts across your lips. “My father used to say that answers given freely are rarely kept. Conclusions reached alone tend to linger.”

Geta looks at you then—not like an emperor assessing an advisor, but like a man marveling at a mystery he still hasn’t solved.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he murmurs. “You never tell me what to do. You never push.” His gaze softens, intense and unguarded. “And yet everything feels clearer when you’re here.”

You meet his eyes. “Clarity isn’t influence. It’s perspective.”

He shifts closer, close enough that his knee brushes yours. His voice drops. “You’ve changed me.”

You do not deny it. You simply say, “You were capable of change long before I arrived.”

His hand finds yours—warm, possessive, reverent all at once. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, lingering.

“I think about you constantly,” he admits, unapologetic. “When I’m in council. When I sign decrees. When I wake.” A breath. “When I sleep.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Everything worth having is,” he says quietly.

You smile, just a little. “Spoken like an emperor.”

“No,” he corrects. “Spoken like a man who knows what he wants.”

There are still moments—small ones—when the old Geta surfaces. A sharp word to a servant. A snap of impatience when things move too slowly. Each time, you do not scold. You simply ask.

“Was that necessary?”

“Did that achieve what you wanted?”

And each time, he pauses.

Sometimes he grimaces. Sometimes he exhales and corrects himself aloud. Sometimes he catches it before it happens at all. Progress.

You do not tell him about the library. You do not tell him about the venom in Caracalla’s voice, or the way his eyes lingered too long, or the threat coiled beneath every word. You keep it locked away, carefully, deliberately.

Because Geta is finally learning restraint.

Because anger comes easily to him, and unlearning it has taken effort—your effort. His too. Because you will not risk undoing it. Not yet.

Not when he looks at you like this—like you are both anchor and horizon. Not when he reaches for your hand before he reaches for power. Not when he asks questions instead of issuing commands.

For now, you let peace exist. And you sit beside the man who is becoming a better emperor—hoping, quietly, that the world will allow him the time to finish becoming one.

The Curia Julia is full. Senators crowd the marble benches in heavy togas, voices overlapping in practiced indignation. Scrolls are unrolled and rerolled, arguments sharpened like knives meant to draw blood without appearing to do so. This is familiar ground—this is where Rome pretends it is ruled by discussion rather than power.

At the center, upon the raised platform, sit the twin emperors.

Caracalla lounges with open impatience, fingers drumming hard against the arm of his chair, jaw already tight as though the very act of sitting through debate offends him. Beside him, Geta sits upright. Listening.

The proposal is read aloud—again. Increased levies from Hispania. More grain, more coin, more pressure applied to a province already stretched thin. The senators speak as though this is inevitable, as though Rome has always taken and therefore must continue to do so.

When the last voice fades, silence follows.

Geta exhales slowly. “No,” he says.

The word lands softly—but it lands. Murmurs ripple through the Curia. “No?” one senator repeats, incredulous. “Caesar, Hispania is prosperous. The people can endure—”

“They already are enduring,” Geta interrupts, not raising his voice. “That is precisely the problem.”

Caracalla shifts sharply beside him, eyes flashing.

Geta continues, gaze sweeping the chamber. “Increasing levies will not strengthen Rome. It will hollow it out. You will drain loyalty for short-term gain and call it stability.”

A senator ask. “Then what would you propose instead, Caesar?”

Geta pauses. Not because he doesn’t know—but because he chooses his words carefully.

“We restructure the military supply contracts,” he says at last. “Several are bloated, outdated, and riddled with inefficiency. Grain rots in warehouses while provinces starve because middlemen profit from delay.” His eyes narrow slightly. “We cut them out.”

The chamber stills. “That would require oversight,” someone mutters. “Audits. Bureaucracy.”

“Yes,” Geta agrees. “And it would save Rome more than increased levies ever could.”

A beat. Then whispers—sharp, startled. The solution is better. Smarter. Harder—but sustainable.

Caracalla laughs, loud and brittle. “This is absurd.”

All eyes snap to him.

“You would rather coddle provinces than remind them who rules them?” he snaps. “It’s our empire too, brother. Or have you forgotten that?”

Geta turns to him, expression controlled. “I haven’t forgotten anything.”

Caracalla rises abruptly. “Then act like it! Rome was built on conquest, not compromise. Fear works. It always has.”

“And it always collapses,” Geta replies coolly. “Eventually.”

“You don’t get to decide this alone,” Caracalla snarls. “I am emperor as much as you are.”

A dangerous silence follows. Geta stands. The movement is unhurried, but unmistakable.

“I do,” he says. “Because someone has to choose Rome’s future instead of indulging its worst habits.”

Caracalla’s face twists. “You think you’re wiser than me now?”

“I think,” Geta says, jaw tightening, “that I’m willing to think at all.”

The senators hold their breath.

Geta turns back to them. “The levies will not increase. The contracts will be reviewed. Funds will be redirected internally.” A pause. “This is my decision.”

Caracalla slams his hand against the stone. “You don’t get to—”

“Enough!” Geta shouts.

The word echoes—raw, uncontrolled. For a heartbeat, he looks almost startled by himself. A slip.

Caracalla stares at him, fury flaring bright and wild. “You think shouting makes you strong?!”

“I think,” Geta snaps back, voice still raised, “that I’m tired of cleaning up your tantrums!”

That does it. He storms out of the Curia, sandals striking stone like blows. The doors slam.

Silence crashes down in his wake.

Geta remains standing, chest rising and falling, fists clenched at his sides. Then—slowly—he straightens. “We are adjourned,” he says, voice steady once more. “Carry out the orders as stated.”

The senators rise, stunned, already whispering as they file out.

Night settles thick over the palace. In Imperial Palace, torches burn low and steady, shadows stretching long across painted walls. Most of the city sleeps.

Caracalla does not. He sits alone in his chamber, pacing like a caged animal, breath uneven, thoughts spiraling. The echoes of the Curia still ring in his head—Geta standing, speaking, deciding. Senators listening. Obeying.

Not him. Her.

Her calm voice. Her certainty. The way Rome has begun to bend—not to him, but through her.

“She thinks she’s untouchable,” he mutters, fingers twitching. “A woman. A witch.”

His chest tightens, anger curdling into something feverish, paranoid, unhinged. Every rational restraint frays at once. He doesn’t summon guards. He doesn’t announce himself.

He moves.

You are alone in Geta’s private chambers, seated near the low table where scrolls are neatly arranged. The faint scent of oil and steam lingers—Geta is bathing, just beyond the inner doors. You’d intended to wait only a moment.

The door slams open. You look up.

Caracalla stands there, eyes wild, breath ragged, fury radiating off him like heat.

You rise at once. “Caesar—”

He lunges.

His hand closes around your arm, brutal and sudden, hurling you backward. The table overturns with a crash, scrolls scattering across the floor.

“You think you’re clever?” he screams. “You think you’ve won?”

You struggle, striking at his chest, his shoulder—anything you can reach. “Get away from me!”

He backhands you hard enough to send you stumbling, pain flaring across your cheek. “Whore,” he snarls. “Poisoning him. Turning him against his own blood!”

You don’t curl inward. You don’t freeze. You fight.

Your elbow catches his ribs. Your heel slams down on his foot. You shove, claw, strike—desperate, furious, refusing to yield ground even as terror claws at your spine.

“Coward,” you spit, breath shaking. “You attack women because you can’t command respect!”

That only enrages him further. He grabs for your throat, fingers tightening—

The inner doors fly open. “Get away from her!”

Geta bursts into the room, hair damp, robe barely secured, rage blazing in his eyes. He doesn’t hesitate—he throws himself between you and his brother, shoving Caracalla back with all his strength.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Geta roars.

Caracalla lashes out, swinging wildly. “She did this! She’s rotting you—”

Geta grabs him, wrestling him away, voice cracking with fury. “Guards! Praetorians—now!”

He struggles to restrain his brother, shouting over the chaos. “Help! To the chamber!”

Caracalla fights like a man possessed, screaming obscenities, thrashing against Geta’s grip as you scramble back, heart hammering, breath coming in sharp, painful gasps.

Footsteps thunder down the corridor. Steel flashes as the Praetorian Guard floods the room, dragging Caracalla away as he howls and curses, still reaching for you even as they restrain him.

“Touch her again and I’ll—” Geta’s voice breaks into a snarl, raw and unrestrained.

The guards haul Caracalla out, his rage echoing down the hall. Silence crashes down.

Geta turns to you at once, crossing the room in two strides. His hands hover, uncertain—afraid to touch you too hard, afraid not to touch you at all.

“Are you hurt?” he demands, voice shaking. “Gods—tell me he didn’t—”

You steady yourself, spine straight despite the tremor running through you. “I’m alive,” you say, breath unsteady but your gaze clear.

Geta closes his eyes for a moment, horror and fury warring across his face. He pulls you into his embrace, tight, like he's the one who needs the comfort.

And for the first time since Rome began to change—everything feels terrifyingly fragile again.

The change is immediate. And suffocating.

You notice it the first morning after—the way the door opens before you reach it, the way footsteps echo just a little too closely behind your own. Praetorian Guard stand at attention outside every chamber you enter, their presence unyielding, their eyes never quite meeting yours.

Geta is never far. If he cannot be beside you, someone else is there in his place. Always. Watching. Waiting.

“For your safety,” he says the first time you ask, his voice tight with a fear he does not bother disguising. “I won’t let anything happen to you again.”

Again. As though danger were a lesson you failed to learn.

You do not argue then. You are still sore, still shaken, still waking in the night with your heart racing and your body remembering hands that should never have touched you. You understand fear. You even understand his.

But understanding does not make it easier to breathe.

Days pass. Then more.

You cannot walk the gardens alone anymore. The library—once a sanctuary—now feels monitored, the quiet broken by the presence of guards stationed just close enough to remind you that solitude is no longer yours to claim. When you pause at a balcony, a shadow pauses too.

Geta watches you constantly. Not with suspicion—with devotion. With terror. With the kind of attention that mistakes vigilance for care.

He reaches for your hand more often. Stands closer. Interrupts conversations you’re having with others, gently but decisively steering you away. When you try to step out of his line of sight, his jaw tightens.

“You shouldn’t wander,” he says.

You stop and look at him. “I wasn’t wandering. I was walking.”

His response is immediate. “Alone.”

You let it pass. At first.

Caracalla is confined to his chambers.

The news spreads in murmurs through the palace—guards posted, doors sealed, attendants rotated under strict instruction. He is not exiled. Not imprisoned. Contained.

You hear his name spoken in lowered voices, always followed by the same word: unwell. You feel something sharp twist in your chest every time.

You do not excuse what he did. You never will. But you know what untreated sickness looks like when power rots around it. You know the difference between justice and neglect.

“They’re punishing him,” you say quietly one evening as you sit with Geta, the lamplight warm between you. “Not helping him.”

Geta stiffens. “He attacked you,” he replies flatly.

“Yes,” you say. “And he’s ill.”

Silence stretches. “You don’t owe him sympathy,” Geta says.

“I’m not giving it to him,” you answer calmly. “I’m questioning what this solves.”

His jaw tightens. “It solves you being safe.”

You study him for a moment before speaking again. “Does it?” you ask softly.

He looks at you then, brows drawn together. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve locked him away without counsel, without treatment, without intervention,” you say. “You’ve put guards on me as if I were glass. You’re ruling out of fear, not reason.”

His voice sharpens. “I nearly lost you.”

“You didn’t,” you say gently. “And I won’t let that moment decide who we become.”

The words hang between you. He turns away first.

Another time, you try again.

“I don’t feel free,” you tell him quietly as he walks you back to his chambers, guards trailing a careful distance behind. “And I need you to hear that.”

He stops walking. “Freedom is meaningless if you’re dead.”

“And safety,” you reply, “is meaningless if it costs me myself.”

He exhales sharply, frustration flaring. “You don’t understand—”

“No,” you interrupt, still calm, still measured. “You don’t want to.”

That lands. But it does not change anything.

The guards remain. The watching continues. The distance between what you say and what he hears widens into something dangerous and quiet. You stop bringing it up after that.

Not because you’ve changed your mind—but because you recognize the look in his eyes now. The one that means he has already decided. The one that means your words, for once, are no longer shaping his thoughts.

You walk the palace surrounded by protection you did not ask for. You sleep in a room guarded by men who answer to someone else. And for the first time since you met Geta, you feel it—Not fear of Rome. Not fear of power. But fear of what love becomes when it forgets to listen.

You choose the garden because it is quiet. Because it is yours.

The side path is overgrown enough that no one thinks to look there anymore, the hedges curling inward as if conspiring to keep secrets. You time it carefully—when the guards shift, when attention is elsewhere, when Geta is buried in council and certainty.

The pond waits for you like it always has.

Cool. Still. Unwatched.

You strip down without ceremony and slip into the water, the shock of it stealing your breath before relief rushes in. For the first time in days—weeks—there are no eyes on you. No footsteps. No whispered instructions to stand back.

Just water and sky and the sound of your own breathing.

You swim until your muscles ache pleasantly, until the tightness in your chest loosens. You float on your back, staring up at the open air, and let yourself remember what it feels like to exist without permission.

When you finally dress and make your way back toward the palace, the night feels… wrong.

Too loud. Too fast.

Voices echo through the corridors—shouted orders, hurried footsteps, the sharp ring of panic cutting through marble halls. Torches blaze where they shouldn’t. Servants run instead of glide.

Something is spiraling.

You barely take three steps inside before hands grab your arms. “Here!” a voice shouts, breathless with relief and hysteria. “I found her—I found her!”

You wrench back instinctively. “Unhand me!”

But the grip tightens, not cruel but desperate, as if you are something lost and nearly shattered. You catch fragments as you’re pulled along—missing, panic, the emperor—

You don’t struggle again. You already know where they’re taking you.

Geta’s private chambers are in chaos when you’re brought in.

Geta is pacing like a man unmoored, hair disheveled, robe half-forgotten. His hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles have gone white. When he sees you, relief flashes across his face—violent, overwhelming—

—and then it curdles.

“Out,” he snaps at the servants. “All of you.”

The doors shut. The silence is unbearable.

“Where were you?” he demands, spinning toward you. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

You straighten slowly. You are still damp, still smelling faintly of water and night air. “I went swimming.”

His laugh is sharp, incredulous. “You disappeared.”

“I stepped away,” you correct.

“You vanished,” he roars. “The palace was in an uproar. Guards were mobilized. I thought—” His voice breaks, then hardens. “What were you thinking?”

Something in you finally snaps. “I was thinking I couldn’t breathe.”

He freezes.

“I was thinking,” you continue, voice rising despite yourself, “that I am not a prisoner. That I am not fragile glass to be locked away. That your fear has wrapped itself around my throat so tightly I can barely remember who I was before this.”

“That fear is keeping you alive!” he shouts back.

“No,” you fire back. “It’s choking us.”

He steps closer, towering now, anger bleeding through restraint. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your hands curl into fists. “I get to decide myself.”

“You don’t understand the danger—”

“I understand it perfectly,” you interrupt. “I understand Caracalla is ill. I understand Rome is volatile. I understand power attracts violence.” Your voice shakes, but you don’t stop. “What you refuse to understand is that I am not something you can lock away until it’s convenient.”

His eyes burn. “I am your emperor.” The words hit like a slap.

“And you will listen to me,” he continues, voice loud, cracking. “I decide what’s best. I decide how you’re protected. You are mine!”

Silence detonates.

You straighten fully, spine locking into place, every trace of softness draining from your expression.

“No.” The word is quiet. Absolute.

“You are not my owner,” you say, voice steady as stone. “You do not get to claim me because you are afraid. I owe you nothing—not obedience, not silence, not myself.”

His mouth opens. But you don’t let him speak. “I chose you,” you continue. “I stood beside you. I challenged you. I believed in what you could become.” Your eyes shine, but you do not cry. “The moment you decided love meant possession, you lost the right to stand there and tell me who I am.”

“You’re being unreasonable—” he starts.

“No,” you cut in. “You are unreasonable.” You turn toward the door.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he says, voice breaking now.

You pause, just long enough to look back. “I’m not walking away,” you say softly. “I’m leaving.”

Then you open the door and step out, the sound echoing through the chamber like a verdict. Behind you, an emperor stands alone—and for the first time, his authority cannot make you stay.

The bowstring hums as you release it.

The arrow cuts cleanly through the air and strikes the target dead center, the impact sharp enough to make the wooden frame shudder. You reach for another without pause, muscles moving on instinct, breath steady but tight in your chest.

Again. This one lands just beside the first.

You welcome the ache in your arms, the burn in your shoulders. It gives the restlessness somewhere to go. Each pull of the string is controlled, deliberate—far easier than untangling the thoughts that circle endlessly in your mind.

You’ve been home for days now.

Long enough for the palace to feel distant, unreal. Long enough for the quiet to settle in—not peaceful, but honest. You rise early, practice until sweat dampens your hair and your hands are raw, then practice some more. When you aren’t shooting, you think. When you aren’t thinking, you shoot.

It helps. A little.

You’re retrieving arrows when you sense someone watching.

Your mother stands at the edge of the practice ground, hands folded neatly before her, expression soft but searching. She doesn’t interrupt. She waits until you finish your set, until you rest the bow at your side and finally turn toward her.

“How are you doing?” she asks gently.

“I’m fine,” you reply automatically.

She doesn’t smile. Instead, she steps closer, her gaze steady, knowing. “No, you’re not.”

You open your mouth to protest, then close it again. There’s no point. She’s never been fooled by half-truths—not from you.

“Come,” she says quietly, gesturing toward the house. “Sit with me.”

Inside, the air is cool and familiar. She pours water, waits until you’re settled, then takes the seat across from you. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then the words come. You tell her everything.

About Caracalla—his instability, his cruelty, the way violence had been simmering just beneath the surface long before it spilled over. Her hand flies to her mouth at that, shock breaking through her composure.

“You were attacked?” she breathes.

You nod. “I fought him off. Geta intervened.”

Her jaw tightens. “Gods.”

You continue. About the guards. The watching. The way safety had turned into a cage. About trying—again and again—to speak to Geta calmly, carefully, only to be unheard.

And finally, about the fight. About the words he said. About leaving.

When you finish, the room is quiet again, heavier now with everything laid bare. Your mother reaches across the table and takes your hand.

Her grip is warm, steady. “I’m proud of you,” she says.

You blink, surprised. “You are?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “For standing up for yourself. For walking away when someone tried to take something from you that was never theirs to claim.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t trying to be brave.”

“I know,” she replies softly. “That’s why it counts.”

She studies you for a moment. “How do you really feel?”

You consider the question carefully. “I’m not… angry,” you admit. “Not exactly.” Your voice wavers despite yourself. “I’m sad. That it happened at all. That it came to that.”

She nods, as though she expected nothing else.

Then she leans back slightly and exhales, a small, rueful smile touching her lips. “Your father and I fought,” she says.

You look up, startled.

“Oh, not like children,” she adds dryly. “But we disagreed. Sharply. Especially when we were younger.” Her eyes soften with memory. “There were moments when words were said that couldn’t be taken back. Moments when pride got in the way of listening.”

“What did you do?” you ask quietly.

“We cooled,” she says simply. “We walked away when we needed to. And then—when the anger passed—we spoke again. Honestly. Not to win, but to understand.”

She squeezes your hand. “Love isn’t the absence of conflict. It’s the willingness to return to each other after it.”

You stare down at the table, absorbing that.

She sighs softly.

“You know,” she says at last, almost conversationally, “you’ve never been good at hiding heartbreak.”

You look up, startled. “I’m not—”

She lifts a hand gently. “You don’t have to explain.” Her gaze is kind, but unyielding. “If you didn’t still love him, you wouldn’t be this miserable.”

The words land with quiet precision. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s no point denying it—not to her, and not to yourself.

“…You’re right,” you admit. “I do.”

She nods, as if confirming something she already knew. “Then that means you still care,” she says. “And caring makes things complicated—but it also makes them worth examining.”

She leans back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “To love someone,” she continues, “is to forgive them—if they deserve it.” Her emphasis is gentle, but deliberate. “Disagreements, missteps, even painful moments… those are not unusual. Especially in a relationship as young as yours.”

You look down at your hands. “It didn’t feel small.”

“No,” she agrees. “Because it wasn’t.” A pause. “But one moment does not define a person. Repetition does.”

Her eyes meet yours. “Your father and I stumbled when we were young too. We learned where our tempers ended and our values began. The important thing was that we listened after. That we changed.”

She reaches out and squeezes your hand. “You still have time. Both of you do.”

You swallow. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then you leave,” she says simply. “Because you chose him—and that means you can choose not to, if he continues to offend your dignity.”

The words settle into you, firm and grounding.

“Giving someone a second chance,” she adds, “is not weakness. It’s hope. But staying when someone refuses to change—that’s when love becomes a cage.”

You breathe in slowly. “I don’t regret choosing him,” you say quietly.

She smiles, soft and proud. “Then give him the chance to prove you were right.”

The morning feels heavier than the others.

You dress with careful movements, smoothing fabric that doesn’t quite sit right over a heart still unsettled. The maids flutter around you, whispering softly as they help fasten clasps and arrange your hair. You’re almost ready—almost steady enough to face what waits at the palace—when one of them appears near the doorway.

“My Lady,” she says, voice hushed but urgent, “Emperor Geta is here.”

Your breath catches. Here.

Not summoned. Not waiting in marble halls. Here.

You don’t answer. You simply turn and walk, skirts gathered in your hands as you move faster than propriety would advise, straight through the villa and into the atrium.

And there he is.

Geta stands near the center of the room, shoulders slumped as though the weight of Rome has finally decided to rest there instead of behind him. He looks… wrong. No regalia. No ceremony. His eyes are rimmed red, his expression drawn tight with sleeplessness.

He doesn’t look like an emperor. He looks like a man who has lost something essential.

The moment his eyes find you, something breaks in his face. He steps toward you—slow, uncertain, as though afraid you might disappear if he moves too quickly. When he reaches you, he hesitates, arms lifting but not closing, waiting.

When you wrap your arms around him, he exhales shakily and finally holds you—careful at first, reverent—then tighter, like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair, the words rough, unpolished. “Gods, I’m so sorry.”

You don’t speak yet.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands rising to cup your cheeks. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes, gentle, as if memorizing the shape of your face.

“These days without you…” His voice falters. He swallows hard. “They were the most sorrowful I’ve ever known. I’ve failed in battles, failed Rome before—but this…” He shakes his head. “This was worse.”

His forehead rests against yours.

“I disappointed you,” he continues quietly. “And I hate myself for it. I let fear rot my judgment. I thought I was protecting you, but all I did was cage you.” A bitter laugh escapes him. “I was so afraid of losing you that I didn’t realize I was the one pushing you away.”

His eyes search yours, raw and unguarded. He presses his brow to yours again, hands still warm against your skin.

“I won’t pretend I didn’t say what I said,” he murmurs. “Or that I didn’t mean it in my fear. But I see it now. I see how wrong I was.” A breath. “If you can forgive me—if you’re willing—I will do better. Not because I said so. But because I love you.”

The atrium is silent around you. Your vision blurs before you can stop it.

You nod once, a sharp, broken motion, and the tears spill over despite your effort to remain composed. “I forgive you,” you say, voice unsteady but certain. The words feel heavy—and freeing—all at once.

Geta exhales like the breath has been punched from his lungs.

“I was miserable too,” you admit quietly. “I didn’t realize how much space you’d taken up in my life until I left. I got used to you—your presence, your mind, your stubbornness.” A small, sad smile touches your lips. “There was a void. Everywhere.”

His grip tightens, just slightly.

“I understand your fear,” you continue. “I really do. I’m afraid too—of losing you, of what Rome could do to you, to us.” Your voice trembles, but you don’t look away. “But I won’t pretend that what happened didn’t hurt me.”

“I know,” he whispers. “And I’m sorry. Again. I’ll say it as many times as you need.”

You lift a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing gently along his jaw. “I never doubted that you love me,” you say softly. “Not once. I know your concern came from care. I just—” You take a breath. “I need you to handle it better. To trust me. To listen.”

He nods fervently. “I will.”

“There are only so many chances I can give,” you say, honest but not cruel. “And I don’t want to find out where the limit is.” Your eyes shine as you meet his. “Because I love you too. So much.”

Something in his expression breaks completely then. He pulls you into him, forehead against your shoulder, arms wrapped around you as though anchoring himself. You hold him just as tightly, both of you clinging to what nearly slipped away.

Time passes unnoticed. You breathe together. You exist together. The world waits.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are soft—still wounded, but steady. You lean in without thinking, drawn by the familiar pull, and he meets you halfway.

The kiss is slow. Careful. Full of everything you didn’t say. And for now, that is enough.

Morning light slips softly through the curtains, warming the marble floor and the tangled sheets you wake in.

You reach out instinctively. Empty.

You blink, orienting yourself, and then you hear it—the faint rustle of fabric, the quiet murmur of movement beyond the screen. You push yourself up just as Geta steps back into the room, already dressed, hair neatly arranged, the weight of the day settling back onto his shoulders.

Still, he smiles when he sees you awake. “Morning,” he says softly, as if he has nowhere else to be.

He comes to the bedside anyway, bending to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there longer than necessary. He always does. No matter how early. No matter how urgent the Curia waits.

You smile, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “You were trying to leave without saying goodbye.”

He scoffs lightly. “As if I could.” He sits at the edge of the bed, brushing his thumb absentmindedly along your hand. “What are your plans today?”

“I’m meeting my mother,” you say. “We’re going into the city. Father’s dies natalis is in a few days—we thought we’d find something suitable.”

His brow lifts slightly. “Already? Gods, time moves too quickly.”

“You’re the emperor,” you say lightly. “You don’t get to forget dates.”

You fix him with a look. “Which reminds me—you should free up your schedule that night. Family dinner.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. I’ll be there.”

Satisfied, you lean back against the pillows. He lingers, still seated, still not moving.

“You’re stalling,” you note.

“I am not.”

“You are,” you insist. “You’ll be late.”

He sighs theatrically, then leans in to kiss you again—slow, unhurried, entirely unnecessary.

“For luck,” he murmurs.

You laugh softly against his mouth. “You need more than luck. You need to go.”

“Cruel woman, my wife is.” he says, though there’s no heat in it.

He finally stands, then pauses, turning back as if struck by a thought. He kisses you again, gentler this time, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Good luck today,” he says quietly.

“And you,” you reply. “Try not to terrify the Curia.”

He grins. “No promises.” He leaves at last, reluctantly, glancing back once more before disappearing beyond the doors.

You settle back into the quiet, smiling to yourself. For a busy man, he always finds time—especially for you.

Prosperity comes quietly. Not with banners or triumphal arches, but with steadier streets, fuller markets, and fewer whispers of fear. Rome does not feel conquered by its rulers anymore—it feels kept.

Under Geta, cruelty fades from habit into memory. His temper still exists—he is no saint—but it no longer governs him. He listens more than he speaks. He asks more than he commands. And when he errs, he corrects himself without spectacle.

The people notice.

Grain arrives when it should. Housing projects expand instead of stalling. Magistrates are audited instead of indulged. Rome grows stronger from the inside out, not by reaching farther, but by standing firmer.

And for the first time in a long while, happiness becomes something ordinary.

One of Geta’s first truly difficult decisions comes quietly as well.

He orders physicians to attend his brother.

At first, Caracalla refuses violently. He rages. He accuses. He calls it weakness, humiliation, an insult to imperial blood.

Geta does not rise to it. Instead, he sits with him. “I cannot allow what happened before to happen again,” he says evenly. “Not to my wife. Not to Rome. And not to you.”

Caracalla scoffs. “You think this is for her?”

“It’s for all of us,” Geta replies. “And I will not pretend you are well when you are not.” The words are firm—but not cruel.

“I won’t lose my brother,” Geta adds quietly. “Not to pride. Not to illness.”

Something in Caracalla finally cracks—not into rage, but exhaustion. He turns away, jaw clenched, and says nothing. But he does not refuse again.

Doctors come. Slowly. Carefully. Progress is uneven, stubborn, imperfect—but it is real. And for the first time, Caracalla is not punished for being unwell. He is treated.

As for you—you are far from idle.

As empress, you take charge of the Imperial Household itself: the servants, the freedmen, the daily mechanisms that shape the emperor’s environment long before policy ever reaches parchment. You learn names. Patterns. Loyalties. Who is competent. Who is corrupt. Who whispers, and who works.

You become a gatekeeper. Petitions flow through you—requests for audience, favors, appointments, mercy. You recommend some. Delay others. Redirect many. You do not command openly, but nothing moves past you without consideration.

Power suits you—not because you crave it, but because you respect its consequences. Geta never interferes. He trusts you.

And in private, you are still the same two people who once argued in gardens and libraries—still infatuated, still drawn to each other as though time has done nothing to dull the pull.

Now, there is talk of a child. Not pressure. Never pressure. You say one evening, almost absently, that you think you would like one. Someday. Soon, perhaps.

Geta goes very still. Only then does he ask, carefully, “Is that truly what you want?”

You smile at him. “Yes.”

And that is enough.

He never rushes you. Never measures your worth by heirs. He wants a child because you want one—because you imagine a future large enough to include it.

You are content. Rome is content. And the empire, for once, is not held together by fear or force—but by thought, restraint, and two people who chose each other again and again.

Part 1

The palace is already loud when you arrive—music swelling against marble, laughter spilling over itself, the sharp scent of wine and incense hanging thick in the air. The emperors have invited every noble family worth acknowledging, and you attend because attendance is expected, not because you wish to be here.

You move through the banquet with practiced grace, nodding, smiling, exchanging pleasantries with the sons and daughters of senators and generals. You try. You truly do. But every conversation feels the same—boasts of lineage, shallow praise of the conquest, exaggerated delight at the excess laid out before them. Nothing sparks. Nothing holds.

Eventually, you drift back toward your parents, resignation settling quietly in your chest.

That is when your father’s hand rests lightly at your elbow.

“Come,” he murmurs. “You should be introduced.”

You already know to whom.

He guides you forward, your mother at his side, toward the raised seating where the twin emperors recline amid silks and cushions. They are flanked by concubines draped like ornaments—beautiful, bored, watchful. The contrast is striking and deliberate.

You school your expression before stepping closer.

“This is my family,” your father says, bowing with measured respect. “My daughter.”

You lower your head in a flawless, elegant incline, every lesson your mother ever taught you settling into place like armor. When you straighten, you meet their gazes calmly.

Geta looks you over first. His gaze lingers—assessing, unashamed. A faint smile curves his mouth.

“You are very beautiful,” he says plainly, as though commenting on the weather.

Around you, others would have flushed, bowed deeper, rushed to gratitude. You do none of those things.

“You honor me, Caesar,” you reply, voice even, neither coy nor overeager.

Something flickers—brief, unreadable—but his attention does not sharpen yet.

Caracalla looks past you almost immediately, already bored, fingers idly tapping the arm of his seat.

“And how are you enjoying the banquet?” Geta asks, his tone polite, rehearsed.

“It is… impressive,” your father answers smoothly.

“Yes,” your mother adds, serene. “The emperors are generous hosts.”

You nod in agreement, offering nothing more. Politeness, perfectly executed.

Geta’s smile widens a touch. “There will be a fight later,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the far end of the hall. “A fine one. I hope you’ll remain long enough to see it.”

Inside your mind, your eyes roll so hard they nearly ache. Another spectacle. Another distraction dressed as glory.

Outwardly, you incline your head once more. “Of course, Caesar.”

You do not look at the concubines. You do not look impressed.

And though Geta does not yet realize it, that restraint—the absence of performance—is the first thing that sets you apart.

Time slips by unnoticed. The banquet shows no sign of slowing—music still drifting through corridors, laughter swelling and breaking like waves—but you have long since eased yourself away. No one stops you. No one ever does.

You wander until the noise fades into something distant and harmless, your steps carrying you into one of the inner palace gardens. Moonlight spills softly over trimmed hedges and marble paths, silvering the petals of carefully arranged flowers. Roses, jasmine, night-blooming lilies—each placed with intent, yet alive enough to feel almost wild.

You stroll without purpose, hands loosely clasped behind you, breathing more easily than you have all evening.

Behind you, footsteps approach.

Geta had been heading toward his chambers, a concubine trailing obediently at his side, when he caught sight of you among the flowers—alone, unguarded, utterly uninterested in the revelry meant to glorify him. He stops. His gaze lingers.

Without explanation, he dismisses the girl with a brief gesture. She hesitates, confused, then withdraws silently, leaving the garden suddenly very still.

You hear him before you see him. “Shouldn’t you be inside?” he asks, stepping onto the path as though he owns even this quiet space. “Enjoying the banquet laid out in my honor?”

You turn slowly to face him, unstartled, inclining your head in acknowledgment. “It is generous,” you say honestly. Then, after a brief pause, “But gatherings like that have never held much appeal for me.”

His brow lifts. A scoff follows, quick and dismissive. “Nonsense. Everyone enjoys parties.”

A faint smile touches your mouth—not mocking, not deferential. Merely amused.

“With respect, Caesar,” you reply lightly, “I believe many enjoy being seen at parties. The noise, the wine, the performance of delight.” Your gaze flicks briefly toward the palace doors before returning to him. “That is not quite the same thing.”

He studies you now, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “And what is it you enjoy, then?” he asks.

“Quiet,” you answer without hesitation. “Conversation without witnesses. And gardens, apparently—places where nothing is demanded.”

A beat passes. Then you add, your tone still smooth, carefully measured, “Though I imagine for an emperor, silence must feel… unfamiliar.”

It is a jab—wrapped in silk, sharpened just enough to be felt.

For a moment, you wonder if you have overstepped.

Then Geta lets out a short laugh, more surprised than offended. “Careful,” he says. “Most people work very hard not to speak to me that way.”

You meet his gaze evenly. “Most people are trying to gain something.”

The garden seems to hold its breath.

Something shifts—attention. Real, focused attention.

You resume your walk along the garden path, gravel whispering beneath your sandals. You expect him to remain where he is—emperors are not known for following—but footsteps fall into rhythm beside yours.

Geta speaks casually, as though discussing something trivial. “You say you gain nothing from me,” he says. “Yet your father serves at my pleasure. I could dismiss him tomorrow. Ruin him. Make your life… unpleasant.”

You do not stop walking.

“That is true,” you answer calmly. “You could.”

He watches you closely now, waiting for fear. It does not come.

“But,” you continue, turning your head slightly toward him, “you gain something from my father as well.” You slow just enough to make him listen. “My father helps Rome thrive, does he not?”

You gesture faintly with one hand, counting without counting. “He negotiates without inflaming factions. He manages provinces without draining them dry. He satisfies the people without feeding their worst instincts.” Your voice remains even, respectful—but unyielding. “He advises with reason when others clamor for spectacle.” You finally stop and face him.

“Would you truly threaten to destabilize Rome,” you ask softly, “simply to remind a senator’s daughter that you can?”

For a moment, the night stretches between you.

Then Geta smiles. Not the polished, imperial curve meant for crowds—but something sharper, more genuine. Amused.

“No one questions me,” he says, almost thoughtfully.

You tilt your head, considering. “Then your conversations must be dreadfully dull.”

The smile widens.

“Careful,” he warns, though his tone lacks heat.

“Oh, I am,” you reply lightly. “Which is why I avoid them altogether.” You glance back toward the palace, where music and laughter spill endlessly into the night. “Endless praise, endless agreement. I despise conversations where everyone already knows what they’re supposed to say.”

A short laugh escapes him—unexpected, unrestrained. “For someone who claims to enjoy quiet,” he says, “you are remarkably bold.”

“And for someone who claims absolute power,” you answer smoothly, resuming your walk, “you seem relieved to finally be contradicted.”

He falls into step beside you again, eyes bright now—not with anger, but interest. For the first time, Geta does not feel obeyed. He feels challenged.

The roar of the crowd rolls through the Circus like thunder, banners snapping overhead as the chariots tear past in a blur of color and dust. You should be watching the race—and you are—but you feel it before you see it. His gaze.

You glance up toward the imperial seating just as the chariots round the turn, and there he is. Geta is not watching the track. He is watching you. Not openly enough to invite scrutiny, but not subtly either. When your eyes meet, neither of you looks away first.

The race ends in a surge of shouting and triumph. Red banners lift high. The victors are claimed by the crowd.

You make your way out with the others, content, when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“I didn’t expect to find you here.”

You turn, unsurprised to see him standing just behind you, hands clasped loosely behind his back. The meeting feels accidental—unavoidable, even.

“I didn’t expect you to notice,” you reply.

He arches a brow. “I assumed you’d be weaving, or visiting the baths, or reading poetry somewhere quiet. Not spectating chariot races.”

You laugh softly, unable to stop yourself. “Your knowledge of women must be quite limited, Caesar, if you believe that is all we do.”

For a heartbeat, you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

Then he chuckles—low, genuine, clearly entertained. “You are remarkably consistent,” he says.

He gestures toward the track. “So tell me. Which team?”

“Red,” you answer without hesitation.

A smile spreads across his face. “Then congratulations. You seem to be lucky.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t luck.”

He studies you. “No?”

“I chose red deliberately,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Their horses were fresher—stronger hindquarters, longer strides. The lead auriga favors tighter turns, and the track today rewards that. Blue was too aggressive at the start; green’s second horse was limping before the final lap.”

You pause, then add lightly, “It was simply a matter of counting chances.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, amused disbelief flickers across his face.

“You know a great deal about horses,” he says.

You smile, smaller this time, almost fond. “I think they’re magnificent animals.”

Something in your tone—quiet, sincere—makes his amusement soften into something else. Thoughtful. Curious.

The crowd continues to surge around you, chanting and celebrating, but the noise fades again, just as it did in the garden.

Geta looks at you as though he is beginning to realize something unsettling.

You are not unpredictable. You are observant. He wonders what else you see that others miss.

“I prefer riding on their backs,” you add, almost absently, “rather than standing on a chariot.”

That finally does it.

Geta stops walking.

He turns to you fully now, surprise plain on his face. “You ride?” he asks, as if the notion itself is suspect.

“Yes.”

A short laugh leaves him before he can stop it. “You are a strange woman.”

You raise a brow, unfazed.

“It’s unusual,” he continues, recovering quickly, voice slipping into something more certain. “Women are… domestic creatures by nature. Soft. Fragile. You aren’t meant to ride.”

Your eyes roll before you can restrain them—an ungraceful betrayal of your thoughts. You catch yourself a moment too late.

“Tell me, Caesar,” you ask calmly, “does riding make me less of a woman?”

He studies you, clearly not expecting the question.

“I have the anatomy of a woman,” you continue, voice steady, unembarrassed. “I can bear and birth a child. I bleed every month as all women do.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “None of that changes because I sit on a horse.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and dangerous.

“You have dangerous views,” he says at last.

You smile—small, sharp. “No,” you reply. “Yours are.”

His eyes narrow. “Explain.”

“You reduce women to what is convenient,” you say, unhurried. “Soft things are easier to control. Fragile things are easier to dismiss. But declaring what women are meant to be does not make it truth—it only makes it policy.”

You tilt your head slightly. “That is far more dangerous than a woman who knows how to ride.”

For a long moment, Geta says nothing.

Then—unexpectedly—he laughs. Not mocking. Not cruel. Thoughtful. “You speak as if you’ve never been told to stay quiet,” he says.

“Oh, I have,” you answer lightly. “I simply choose not to listen when it makes no sense.”

His gaze lingers on you now, no longer amused alone—but engaged, sharpened, alive.

You realize something then. You have crossed a line.

And instead of punishing you for it, Geta looks as though he might step closer.

The visit comes without warning. Imperial staff arrive at your family home in the late afternoon, crimson-edged cloaks immaculate, expressions unreadable. Servants fall into stillness as the message is delivered with formal precision:

You and your father are invited to one of Emperor Geta’s private banquets.

Not the grand affairs meant to dazzle Rome.

This one is small. Intimate. Invitation only..

When the doors close behind the messengers, the house feels suddenly quieter.

You stare at your father. “Me?” you ask, unable to keep the confusion from your voice. “Why would I be invited?”

Marcus Aelius Severianus does not answer immediately. He remains standing, thoughtful, his brow furrowed—not pleased, not proud. Concerned.

“Emperors do not invite without reason,” he says at last.

Your mother’s hand tightens slightly around the fold of her stola. “And when an emperor takes interest,” she adds softly, “it is never simple.”

Your father exhales slowly. “It would seem Emperor Geta has noticed you.”

The words settle uneasily in the room.

You open your mouth to respond, then close it again. You have no explanation you can safely offer—not one that would ease them. They do not know about the garden. Or the race. Or the conversations that were never meant to be anything more than chance.

Your mother’s gaze moves to you, searching your face. “You’ve done nothing to draw attention, have you?”

“Nothing improper,” you answer truthfully.

That does little to reassure her.

They exchange a look—your parents, seasoned enough to understand power, old enough to know how dangerous curiosity can be when it belongs to a man who answers to no one.

“Geta is not a man whose interest can be refused lightly,” your father says. “Nor indulged without caution.”

You nod, outwardly composed, even as something tightens in your chest.

They do not know that you have already spoken to him as an equal.

That you have contradicted him. That he laughed instead of punishing you.

All they see is the risk.

And for the first time since the invitation was spoken aloud, you understand something clearly:

Whatever this is becoming, it has already moved beyond your control.

The palace feels different when you enter it this way—quieter, more deliberate. You and your father are guided through marble corridors by silent attendants until you reach the triclinia. Lamps cast warm light across polished stone and low couches arranged in careful symmetry.

The gathering is small, as promised.

A handful of senior senators and close imperial advisors are already present, their conversations faltering briefly when they notice you. Confusion flickers across their faces—quick, controlled. You are clearly not expected. Still, no one remarks on it. Experience has taught them better.

You take your place beside your father, posture impeccable, expression serene.

Then the room stills. Geta enters.

Everyone rises and bows. You do the same, lowering your head with practiced grace, neither lingering nor rushing the gesture. When he signals for the dinner to begin, servants move swiftly, and conversation resumes as though on cue.

You remain silent.

The men speak of progress—of provinces secured, resources extracted, influence expanded. They discuss the future with confidence bordering on carelessness, plans stacking upon plans without pause to examine their foundations.

You listen. You always do.

Then one of the advisors speaks—proposing a course of action so short-sighted, so riddled with potential backlash, that your mouth reacts before your restraint can intervene.

You scoff. Softly—but unmistakably.

The advisor turns toward you, brows knitting. “Is there something you wish to add?” he asks, voice edged with mild irritation.

You meet his gaze calmly. “Forgive me,” you say smoothly. “There was something caught in my throat.”

A pause. You incline your head. “My apologies.”

Your father stiffens beside you. You feel his glance like pressure against your skin—measured, disappointed, warning. Not here. You keep your eyes lowered.

Across the room, however, someone else has noticed. You look up just in time to catch Geta watching you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not disapproval. Not surprise.

A grin—quick, knowing. He says nothing. He does not intervene. But the moment lingers, sharp and private, as the discussion resumes around you. You return to silence, hands folded neatly in your lap.

Yet you can feel it now. You are no longer merely present.

You are being watched.

The guests begin to disperse in low murmurs, cloaks gathered, sandals whispering against marble. Servants move efficiently, clearing dishes, dimming lamps. The triclinia empties with practiced speed, leaving behind only echoes of conversation and the faint scent of wine.

Before your father departs, Geta leans in and murmurs something to him—quiet, deliberate.

Marcus Aelius Severianus stiffens almost imperceptibly.

He turns to you a moment later, expression carefully neutral. “The emperor wishes a private word with you,” he says softly. Not a question. It never is.

You nod, because you must.

Your father leave with the others, your mother’s gaze lingering on you a second longer than usual—measured concern, nothing more she can safely show. Then you are alone in the great room, the space suddenly feeling much larger without witnesses.

Geta approaches without ceremony.

You are the first to speak.

“I thought I was quite clear,” you say calmly, “that I don’t enjoy banquets. Yet here I am.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “This was hardly a banquet by Roman standards,” he counters. “Fewer people. No spectacle.”

“Still a banquet,” you reply lightly.

He exhales, something between amusement and resignation. “I didn’t know how else to summon you,” he admits. “Anything more direct would have been… conspicuous. Or crude.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You achieved the opposite.”

His brow furrows. “Explain.”

“My presence here was noticed,” you say evenly. “Some of those men were already confused by it. They will talk. They will assume.” You gesture vaguely toward the doors the guests exited through. “A senator’s daughter invited to a private imperial dinner is not subtle.”

He considers that. “And is that so terrible?”

“It might be,” you answer honestly. “You are one of the most sought-after men in Rome. Attention follows you whether you invite it or not.” Your gaze meets his. “I would prefer not to inherit it by association.”

A beat passes.

“You fear gossip,” he says.

“I fear unnecessary interest,” you correct. “Rome is rarely kind to women who become topics rather than people.”

He studies you closely now, not offended—thoughtful. “You think several steps ahead.”

“I have to,” you reply simply.

Silence settles—not tense, not awkward. Just aware.

“At least now,” Geta says slowly, “you know this was intentional.”

You give him a faint, wry smile. “I suspected as much.”

“And yet,” he adds, “you stayed.”

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “Curiosity cuts both ways, Caesar.”

This time, his smile is smaller. Sharper. More sincere.

You are standing closer now—close enough to notice the faint scent of wine and incense clinging to him, close enough that your voice does not need to rise.

Geta tilts his head slightly. “You were very quiet at dinner,” he says. “A shame. I was almost looking forward to seeing you argue with my guests.”

You blink, then give him a look that is half disbelief, half amusement. “I know the time and place for such things,” you reply. “Earlier was neither.”

He hums. “Yet you wanted to.”

You do not deny it. “My presence was already questionable. Creating a scene would have only confirmed suspicions.”

His smile widens. “So you restrained yourself.”

“I’m capable of it,” you say dryly.

“And still,” he adds, eyes bright, “you scoffed.”

You sigh softly. “It was an accident.”

“No,” he says, amused. “It was instinct.”

You shake your head, then glance at him sidelong. “You have a curious interest, Caesar—finding enjoyment in being argued with.”

That earns you a laugh. A real one.

“I didn’t expect it myself,” he admits. “Ordinarily, I punish insolence.”

You arch a brow. “Ordinarily.”

“You,” he continues, unbothered, “are different.”

“That sounds dangerous,” you say lightly.

“It is,” he agrees. “You intrigue me too much.”

You study him for a moment, then smile faintly. “Careful. That almost sounds like infatuation.”

He does not hesitate. “It might be.”

The honesty of it gives you pause.

“I couldn’t possibly be worth your time,” you say after a moment. “There are many far more eager for your attention.”

He steps closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough to be deliberate. “Eagerness has never impressed me,” he says. “You think. You resist. You choose your words.” His gaze holds yours. “That is rarer.”

Silence settles again—not heavy, but charged.

You glance toward the corridor. “I should go,” you say. “It’s been some time.”

He nods, accepting it without protest.

You pause, then add, “Next time—do it normally.”

A slow smile curves his mouth. “There will be a next time?”

You meet his gaze once more. “If you wish to speak to me,” you say calmly, “just ask.”

You turn and leave before he can respond.

Your father is waiting just beyond the doors, cloak already gathered. He gives you a look—measured, knowing—and then, quietly, “That took a while.”

You allow yourself the smallest smile.

The next time, he does exactly as you told him to.

Imperial staff arrive quietly, efficiently. You are fetched before your parents even realize you are gone—escorted through familiar streets and into the palace with a swiftness that leaves no room for protest. By the time you might have questioned it, you are already being guided through towering doors and into the throne room.

Geta is already there.

He stands when you enter—not formally, but deliberately. You bow as etiquette demands, smooth and precise, then straighten.

“How often,” you ask at once, “do you intend to see me?” You tilt your head. “It’s barely been days.”

“All the time,” he answers without hesitation. “Preferably.”

Your eyes roll despite yourself. “Of course.”

Amused, he gestures toward the doors. “Walk with me.”

You do, falling into step beside him as he leads you through the palace. Corridors open into rooms of every size and purpose—audience chambers, private halls, galleries filled with statuary. At times, he pauses, frowns slightly, then changes direction.

“You don’t remember?” you ask lightly.

“There are… many rooms,” he says.

You smile. “Perhaps you don’t need this much space if you can’t even recall it all.”

He chuckles, unoffended. “Careful.”

Eventually, you arrive at a set of tall doors, opened by attendants who immediately vanish again. Inside lies the palace library.

You stop short. Your jaw drops.

Shelves rise higher than you’ve ever seen, lined with scrolls and codices, knowledge stacked upon knowledge. The air smells of parchment and ink, quiet and reverent. Your own collection—carefully curated, beloved—suddenly feels laughable in comparison.

“This…” you breathe. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Geta watches your reaction with clear satisfaction. “I rarely visit,” he admits.

You glance at him, unimpressed. “Predictable.”

He lifts a finger in mock warning. “You are testing me today.”

You ignore him entirely, already moving among the shelves. Your hands trail reverently along spines as you scan titles you’ve only heard of, authors you’ve long wanted to read. You pull one free. Then another. Your expression is nothing short of wonder.

Behind you, he laughs softly. “All this time,” he says, “I could have impressed you with books. It seems it would’ve been much easier than I thought.”

You don’t look at him as you answer. “You’re still not finished impressing me.”

But you are smiling.

“Did you always like reading?” Geta asks, watching you move from shelf to shelf as though the rest of the palace has ceased to exist.

“Yes,” you answer easily. “My father taught me to love it.” You draw a scroll free, careful with its age. “He told me nothing is more important—nor more powerful—than knowledge.”

You glance back at him. “With knowledge, you control conversations. You shape outcomes. You can even win wars.” Your fingers rest against the parchment. “No war is ever won by brute force alone. Not without thought.”

He scoffs lightly. “Rome conquered the world with force. And we succeeded.”

You turn fully then, expression sharpening—not confrontational, simply honest. “Rome succeeded because it had numbers,” you say. “Because it used slaves. Because it consumed resources faster than its enemies could adapt.” A pause. “That is not the same as superiority.”

Your distaste is subtle, but unmistakable.

“Our armies could still be outsmarted,” you continue. “The chances are small, yes—but not nonexistent. Smaller forces win when larger ones stop thinking.”

He studies you, arms folding loosely. “Then I have nothing to worry about.”

You smile faintly, but there is no humor in it. “That is exactly when you should worry.”

His brow lifts. “Explain.”

“Arrogance is dangerous,” you say quietly. “It makes people vulnerable. Those who believe they are untouchable stop learning.” You close the scroll gently. “And ignorance can always be exploited.”

Silence settles between the shelves.

Geta does not interrupt you. He does not laugh this time. He simply looks at you—thoughtful, measuring, as if you have shifted something he did not realize was fixed.

“You speak as though Rome could fall,” he says at last.

You meet his gaze calmly. “Anything that stops listening can.”

For the first time since you entered the library, Geta does not look like an emperor surrounded by endless power. He looks like a man who has just been reminded that power must be maintained—not merely assumed.

He steps closer.

Not abruptly—nothing about him is rushed—but near enough that the space between you softens, dissolves. His hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek with a familiarity that should startle you.

It doesn’t.

You don’t withdraw. Instead, you lean into the touch, just slightly, a silent acknowledgment that you are aware of what he’s doing—and that you allow it.

Geta watches your reaction closely. “You continue to fascinate me,” he says quietly.

You smile, the corner of your mouth curving. “I do that with knowledge too.”

A low laugh leaves him. “I’ve noticed.”

His hand lingers a moment longer before falling away. He gestures vaguely around you, at the towering shelves, the endless rows of thought and memory. “This library could be yours,” he says. “I would have it filled further—anything you wish.”

For the first time since you entered the room, your composure falters.

You lower your gaze, just briefly. Not in submission—never that—but in something closer to being caught off guard. Your fingers tighten around the scroll you’re holding.

“That,” you admit softly, “is an attractive offer.”

Then you look back up at him, recovery swift, eyes bright with mischief. “You sound a little desperate, Caesar.”

His smile is slow, unapologetic. “Perhaps I am.” The honesty of it hangs between you, unguarded.

The string hums as you release it, the arrow slicing cleanly through the air before burying itself in the target with a satisfying thud. You reach for another, steady and focused, when you sense movement behind you.

Your mother’s voice comes before her footsteps do.

“So,” she says mildly, “how long were you planning on letting me pretend not to notice?”

You turn, bow lowering slightly. Aelia Domitia Livia stands at the edge of the practice grounds, hands folded neatly before her, expression composed—but sharp. There is no accusation in her gaze. Only awareness.

“You and your father are not the only observant ones in this family,” she continues. “Nor the only intelligent ones.”

You exhale, half a smile tugging at your mouth. “I never thought you were.”

She approaches, eyes flicking briefly to the target you just struck—dead center—before returning to your face. “What is happening between you and the elder emperor?”

You hesitate only a moment. “We talk.”

Her brow lifts. “You do more than talk.”

You don’t deny it.

She sighs softly, not angry—worried. saying your name in the way she only does when she means to be heard. “You know his status. You know the weight of his attention.” A pause. “And you know the man Emperor Geta is believed to be.”

You nod. Of course you do.

“He stands opposed to many of the things your father believes,” she continues. “To many of the things we believe.” Her gaze softens just slightly. “I trust your judgment. But trust does not erase danger.”

You rest the bow against your side. “He hasn’t been unpleasant to me.”

“That does not make him safe.”

“I know.” You meet her eyes. “But I’ve debated him. Challenged him.”

Her composure cracks—for just a heartbeat. “You did what?”

You shrug lightly. “I disagreed with him. More than once.”

“You could have been punished,” she says sharply. “For insolence. For treason.”

“But I wasn’t,” you reply quietly. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

She studies you now, searching for recklessness—and finding conviction instead.

“I think,” you continue carefully, “that he’s sheltered. Raised in power too young. Surrounded by people who never contradict him.” Your fingers tighten around the bow. “That doesn’t make him cruel by nature. It makes him unchallenged.”

Your mother is silent.

“I believe he can be shaped,” you say. “That he can be… better.”

“That is a dangerous belief,” she says at last.

“Only if I’m wrong.”

She steps closer, lifting a hand to your cheek in a gesture so familiar it nearly undoes you. “You sound very certain.”

“I am,” you answer.

She lowers her hand, eyes steady. “Then be careful,” she says softly. “Believing you can change a powerful man has undone far wiser women than you.”

You incline your head. “I know.”

She holds your gaze a moment longer, then turns to leave—pausing just once.

“And Daughter,” she adds, without looking back. “Power does not enjoy being shaped. Remember that.”

Left alone again, you raise your bow.

The target hasn’t moved. But you know the real one has—and it’s far more dangerous.

The Domus Augustana is alive with motion—servants scrubbing marble, hanging banners, adjusting lamps and cushions in preparation for the grand banquet celebrating General Acacius’ return. The air smells of polish and incense, anticipation layered over exhaustion.

You walk beside Geta as he oversees the preparations, his pace unhurried, his presence enough to make servants bow lower and move faster. Orders are given sharply. Corrections are not gentle. You notice how shoulders tense when he passes, how eyes drop too quickly.

On the far side of the palace, Caracalla conducts his own inspection, loud and impatient, but distant enough to feel irrelevant to what is happening beside you.

Geta does not seem to notice—or care—how he has been raised by power itself. Authority is instinctive to him, effortless, unquestioned.

You watch for a while.

Then you speak. “You’re being cruel.”

He stops, turning to you with clear irritation. “They’re low lives,” he replies flatly. “Why should I be kind to them?”

You do not lower your voice. You do not soften the words. “Would you rather they have your back out of subjugation,” you ask, “or out of loyalty?”

His jaw tightens.

“Loyalty endures,” you continue calmly. “Subjugation breeds resentment. Resentment breeds rebellion.” You meet his gaze without flinching. “They’ll flee when they have the chance. Or worse.”

He exhales sharply. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“I’m not lecturing,” you say. “I’m reminding you.”

He scoffs. “And why would you bother?”

“For your greater good,” you answer simply. “It benefits you.” A pause. “If I wanted amusement, I’d flatter you like everyone else.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re exhausting.”

You smile faintly. “You’re the one who keeps asking to see me.”

For a moment, the palace noise seems to dull around you—the scrape of brushes, the murmured apologies of servants fading into the background.

Geta studies you, annoyance still there, but threaded now with something else. Thought. Reluctant consideration.

“You challenge me far too often,” he says.

“Yet,” you reply lightly, “you haven’t told me to stop.”

He turns away, resuming his walk, but his pace is slower now.

And the servants, you notice, are no longer being shouted at—only watched.

You pass the garden without meaning to—until you do.

Your steps slow, then stop altogether. The moonlight pools the same way it did that night, silvering the paths and petals. You turn toward it almost unconsciously, and after a beat, Geta follows.

You walk the path again, retracing it as though memory has weight. He watches you do it, something distant settling in his gaze.

“This brings me back,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Me too.”

Suddenly, he reaches out—firm, decisive—and stops you. His hand closes around your waist, pulling you closer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be drawn in, the distance between you vanishing as though it was never meant to exist.

“I remember what I said,” you murmur. “I was… foolishly daring.” A soft breath leaves you. “But perhaps I had an intuition that night.”

He studies your face, closer than ever. “You challenged me,” he admits. “And it excited me.” His thumb presses lightly at your side. “I’ve only ever known flattery. Blind devotion.” A pause. “I grew bored of it.”

You search his eyes.

“And you,” he continues, voice lower now, “have a voice that makes people listen.” His gaze holds yours. “Even an emperor.”

You smile at that—briefly. Then the smile fades, replaced by something more serious.

“There’s something you must understand,” you say softly. “I won’t stop.” You meet his gaze fully. “The day I do is the day you tell me to leave.”

His grip tightens, just a little.

“Can you endure my honesty?” you ask. “If I stay, I will speak as I always have.” You hesitate, then continue, quieter now. “Everything I’ve said—everything I will say—will be for your benefit. Not because I seek favor.” A breath. “But because I find myself caring for you. Wanting nothing but good for you.”

Silence stretches, fragile and full.

“I understand,” he says.

Then he closes the distance entirely and kisses you.

There is no hesitation—only intent. You kiss him back at once, hands rising to anchor yourself to what is suddenly, unmistakably real. The world narrows to the garden, to the warmth of him, to the knowledge that whatever this becomes will be neither simple nor safe.

But it is chosen. And for now, that is enough.

You do not return home that night.

Morning comes softly instead—filtered light slipping between curtains, warmth pressed against your side. Your body aches when you stir, sore in a way that makes your breath catch, but it is not unwelcome. Heat rises to your cheeks as memory follows sensation, fragmented and vivid.

You turn your head. Geta is still asleep.

In rest, stripped of vigilance and command, he looks younger. Not the emperor, not the ruler shaped by expectation and cruelty—just a man. A handsome one, you think distantly, as you always have. His brow is smooth, lashes dark against his skin, breath slow and even.

You watch him longer than you mean to.

You think of Rome. Of the women who would have killed to be where you are now, who would have strategized, flattered, performed for years to earn this closeness. And you got here by doing the opposite—by arguing, contradicting, refusing to bend. The irony almost makes you smile.

As if sensing your gaze, he stirs. His eyes open, sharpening instantly when they find you.

“Are you alright?” he asks at once, voice still rough with sleep.

You blink, then huff a quiet laugh. “With the way I feel,” you say lightly, “one might think you attempted to murder me last night.”

His expression breaks—amusement replacing concern. He laughs, low and unguarded. “Are you complaining?”

“Not at all,” you reply, shifting just enough to feel the ache again. “I’m fine. Sore.” You consider the word, then add, “But not unpleasant.”

Relief flickers across his face, quickly masked by something warmer.

You lean in and press a kiss to him—unhurried, certain.

For once, there is no argument waiting between you. No challenge, no lecture, no power to test. Just the quiet aftermath of a choice you do not regret.

The maids move quietly around you, efficient and discreet, helping you wash and dress as though this were any other morning. You thank them when they finish—earnestly—and they bow, eyes carefully averted, before slipping out of the chamber.

Alone again, you step toward the mirror. You barely have time to adjust the fall of your garment before you notice them—faint bruises along your neck, unmistakable despite the softness of their color. You stare for a moment, then laugh under your breath.

“You really were trying to kill me,” you say lightly as you turn back toward the bed. “I should report you. You’re like a mosquito.”

Geta laughs openly at that, completely unapologetic. “I wanted people to know you’re mine,” he says. “Anyone who dares try otherwise will suffer the consequences.”

You lift a hand at once. “Careful,” you warn, tone gentle but firm. “That would be unnecessary.”

He quiets—not offended, but listening.

You step closer, closing the space between you again. Your voice softens. “I know I’m yours,” you say simply. “That’s enough. Anyone who tries anything would be met with immediate refusal.”

His gaze holds yours, something fierce easing into something steadier.

Then you sigh. “Now tell me—how exactly am I meant to go home to my parents?” You tilt your head. “This is entirely your fault.”

A smile curves his mouth. “I could come with you,” he suggests easily. “Ask for your hand in marriage. Immediately.”

You choke on a laugh. “My father would collapse.”

“I would catch him.”

“No,” you say quickly, still smiling. “I’ll tell them myself. Give me that choice.” You look at him steadily. “Then you can ask.”

He considers you for a moment, then nods. “Very well.”

A pause. “You realize,” he adds, amusement returning, “you’re the only one who orders me around like this.” You smile, adjusting your cloak. “Someone has to.”

You return home to a silence that immediately tells you everything.

Your parents are waiting. Your father stands near the atrium, arms folded, expression carefully composed. Your mother sits nearby, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. The moment you step inside, their gazes lift to you in unison.

“You didn’t come home last night,” your mother says, not accusing—observing.

You straighten, lifting your chin. “I’m an adult,” you reply evenly. “You don’t need to be concerned over my every movement.”

Your father exhales slowly. He does not raise his voice. He never does when something truly matters. “I trust you,” he says. “You know that.” A pause. “But it is also a matter of your safety. Gods forbid something happened to you—and we would not even know where to look.”

The weight of that lands.

Your resolve softens. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly. Then, after a moment, “I was at the palace.” You offer nothing more. It is enough.

Your father nods once, acceptance clear even if unease remains. He turns and walks away, giving you the dignity of no further interrogation.

The palace is overflowing tonight.

Light spills from every archway, music layering itself over conversation until the air feels thick with celebration. General Acacius’ return has drawn all of Rome’s elite, and the emperors sit as hosts upon the central couches—imperial, untouchable.

You notice it immediately. Geta sits without concubines at his side.

It is unusual enough that others notice too—whispers curling like smoke through the hall. Beside him, Caracalla lounges in excess as always, surrounded, loud, indulgent. The contrast is stark.

You do not approach Geta.

Not yet. It would be conspicuous. Instead, you let your gaze meet his once—just long enough for recognition—before you turn away and do what is expected of you. You mingle. You speak with senators’ sons and daughters, with minor officials and distant relatives of generals. Each conversation dulls within moments. When you offer a counterpoint—measured, reasonable—you are met with narrowed eyes and polite disdain. A woman arguing is tolerable only when she is amusing.

You excuse yourself more than once.

Eventually, a new figure approaches—taller, broader, carrying himself with the unmistakable weight of command worn too long. General Acacius.

You incline your head respectfully, saying your name. “Daughter of Senator Marcus Aelius Severianus.” You offer a small, genuine smile. “Congratulations on your success—and on your return in good health.”

His expression softens slightly. “Thank you.”

“I’ve heard you returned from Asia,” you continue. “I hope it treated you well.”

He exhales, something tired slipping through his composure. “It was beautiful when I arrived,” he says. Then, after a pause, “Less so when I left.”

The words are careful. Too careful.

You catch the hesitation, the faint shadow of shame beneath the triumph. You sense fatigue—bone-deep, moral, the kind that victory does not erase.

“I imagine it takes much to keep conquering,” you say quietly. “Especially when the necessity becomes… unclear.”

He studies you for a moment, surprised—not offended. “That is not a common sentiment tonight.”

“No,” you agree. “But it is not an uncommon truth.” For the first time since he entered the hall, Acacius looks relieved—if only briefly.

You speak with General Acacius only a moment longer. You ask after his wife, Lucilla, noting her absence with quiet tact, and wish them both good health. He thanks you, sincerely, and you take your leave before the weight of the hall settles back onto him.

You drift away from the crowds, through a side passage, until cool night air brushes your skin.

The balcony overlooks the city. Rome stretches endlessly below—torchlight flickering through streets packed with common people celebrating in the open air. Their voices rise in raw joy, unrestrained, so different from the polished revelry behind you. Two worlds, divided by height and marble.

You rest your hands on the stone railing and simply watch.

Someone calls your name.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

Geta steps beside you, his presence as inevitable as the city itself. He leans against the balustrade. “You should join the festivities for once,” he says. “It celebrates Rome’s victory.”

You glance at the streets below before answering. “It isn’t something I feel proud of.”

He looks at you now. “No?”

“Our victories mean stepping on others,” you say quietly. “Slaughtering them. Taking what was theirs.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “I don’t find joy in that.”

He exhales sharply. “That is how empires are built.”

You turn to him then. “Rome already has many mouths to feed. How much wider do you want it to be?”

His eyes gleam with something fierce, unashamed. “Until we conquer the world.”

The words settle between you, heavy and absolute.

“That ambition,” you say softly, “scares me.”

He scoffs, dismissive. “You always criticize me.”

“I don’t criticize,” you reply. “I question.”

“And why must you always do that?”

“Because no one else will,” you say, meeting his gaze without flinching. “And because I care what kind of world your ambition leaves behind.”

For a moment, the noise of Rome swells below you—cheers, songs, drunken laughter—celebrating triumph without counting cost.

Geta looks at the city, then back at you, jaw tight.

“You make everything complicated,” he says.

You smile faintly. “Only the things that matter.”

“Fear works,” Geta says firmly. “It keeps people in line.”

You turn toward him fully. “Fear works temporarily,” you reply. “Then it turns inward. It rots.” Your voice stays calm, but intent sharpens it. “Diplomacy creates allies. Allies endure.”

He scoffs. “You speak as though conquest is the problem.”

“It’s not the only problem,” you say. “It’s the one you’re focused on.” You gesture vaguely toward the city below. “You chase quantity, not quality. What use is expansion if what you rule is hollow?”

He studies you. “Explain.”

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “Gods,” you mutter. Then, louder, “You never really look out, have you, Caesar?”

His jaw tightens, but you continue before he can interrupt.

“Rome’s quality of life is deteriorating. The common people suffer more than they eat.” You nod toward the streets where torches still burn. “You think their celebration proves otherwise.”

“It does,” he argues. “Look at them.”

“They celebrate because we tell them to,” you counter. “Because it’s the only thing they’re allowed to celebrate.” Your voice softens, but only slightly. “If they had full plates, or secure roofs over their heads, they would celebrate that too. Harder. Longer.”

Silence stretches.

“We pour everything into the military,” you go on. “Into conquest. And we ignore the very center of Rome.” You place a hand against the stone railing. “Its people. That is what makes Rome—Rome.”

You turn back to him.

“I want Rome to survive,” you say quietly. “To prosper. As much as you do.”

Your hand lifts, hesitating only a fraction before you caress his cheek. The touch is gentle, grounding.

“And I want you to survive too,” you add. “Imagine their gratitude—not fear, not obedience, but loyalty. Imagine what kind of emperor they would remember.”

He does not pull away. He looks at the city again, then back at you—conflicted, thoughtful, unsettled.

Morning light filters softly through the curtains, warm against your skin. You stir—and find him already awake. Geta sits at the edge of the bed, robe drawn loosely around him, watching you with an intensity that fades the moment your eyes open.

“You’re awake,” he says quietly.

You smile, still half-lost to sleep. “I could say the same.”

“I have to prepare for a Senate meeting,” he continues, not hiding his reluctance. “I’ll return as fast as I can.”

You push yourself up slightly, resting on one elbow. “Don’t let me distract you from your imperial duties,” you say lightly—but sincerely. “Rome wouldn’t forgive me. And neither would I.”

He studies your face, then asks, more seriously than you expect, “Give me your word you’ll still be here when I return.”

You don’t hesitate. “I will.”

He exhales, tension easing just a little. “I dread those meetings,” he mutters. Then, with a crooked smile, “And I have no idea how I’m meant to face your father now, knowing he knows I woke beside his daughter.”

You laugh outright. “Try not to look guilty,” you suggest. “That might help.”

He snorts. “Impossible.”

Rising, he gestures toward the door. “Eat,” he says. “I’ll have the maids see to you—help you get ready.” He leans down and kisses you—unhurried, grounding—before pulling back. “Have a good morning,” he adds softly.

“And you,” you reply. “Try not to terrify the Senate too much.”

His smile lingers as he turns and leaves, duty calling him away.

You remain there a moment longer, listening to his footsteps fade—aware that for once, power and tenderness have shared the same room.

You make your intentions known early.

You tell the palace staff you’ll be spending the day in the library—and that they should spread the word. “So an emperor doesn’t spiral when he can’t find me,” you add lightly. They blink, then smile despite themselves. You thank them, sincerely, and disappear among the shelves.

Time becomes irrelevant.

You read—scroll after scroll, codex after codex—losing yourself in histories, philosophy, accounts of distant provinces you’ve never seen. The library is quiet in the way only knowledge can be, and for once, nothing intrudes.

Until footsteps echo at the threshold.

Geta enters without hesitation, as though there was never any doubt where you’d be. You close the book you’re holding and turn just as he reaches you.

“Caesar,” you greet warmly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he pulls you close—arms firm around you, holding you as if you’ve been gone for months rather than hours. You laugh softly but don’t resist, resting your hands against him, allowing it.

“You’re dramatic,” you murmur.

“I had to endure the Senate,” he replies dryly. “That alone warrants compensation.”

You smile. “How did it go?”

“Well enough,” he says. “Caracalla threw a fit. I’m used to it. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“I’m glad,” you say honestly.

His gaze drifts past you to the table—now stacked with open scrolls and books, carefully arranged. “It seems,” he says, amused, “you’ve already made this library yours.”

You follow his gaze, unrepentant. “I didn’t want the knowledge to go to waste.”

He chuckles, softer this time. “I’m glad you found your place here.”

You look around the room—the towering shelves, the quiet reverence, the sense that this space, at least, welcomes you without question.

And when you look back at him, you realize something has shifted. Belonging.

You return home the next day to warmth instead of worry. Your father greets you first, pride plain on his face, joy unguarded. Your mother follows close behind, eyes bright with relief. For a moment, you feel almost absurdly normal—just a daughter coming home.

“What did I miss?” you ask lightly, setting aside your cloak.

Your father lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yesterday,” he says, “the emperors agreed to halt further conquest efforts—at least for now—to focus on housing.”

You stop. “What?” The word slips out before you can contain it.

Delight blooms almost instantly, sharp and unexpected. “They did?”

“They did,” he confirms. “Redirecting resources inward. Repairs. Construction. Relief.”

You shake your head, stunned. “That’s—” You smile, unable to help it. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

Your mother studies you carefully. “Did Emperor Geta say nothing to you?”

“No,” you reply honestly. “He only said the meeting went well.”

Your father frowns slightly. “That’s unusual,” he admits. “He was the one who pushed hardest for it. Caracalla refused at first.”

Your mother’s lips curve into a teasing smile. “So,” she says, “what spell did you use?”

You roll your eyes. “None. I didn’t tell him to do anything.” You pause. “I only reminded him. I offered an argument.”

Your mother’s expression shifts—subtle, thoughtful.

“If that’s true,” she says slowly, “and he didn’t boast about it to you… didn’t even tell you…” She trails off, then nods to herself. “Then it wasn’t done to impress you.”

Your father looks at you now, seeing something new. “He must have genuinely thought it through.” The realization settles quietly in your chest. You didn’t persuade him with charm. You didn’t demand or manipulate. You spoke. He listened.

You feel something like hope—not just for Rome, but for the man who rules it, the man who you loved.

The warmth of the moment settles—and then something sharp follows it. You straighten slightly. “You should know,” you say carefully, “this doesn’t mean Father can use me as leverage.” You look between them. “I won’t betray Geta’s trust like that.”

Your father does not look offended. He looks thoughtful.

“I would never ask it of you,” he says at once. “It was never my intention.”

Relief loosens something in your chest. “I know,” you say quietly. “But I needed to say it.”

You hesitate, searching for the right words. “I’ll always be loyal to you,” you tell them both. “To this family.” Then you pause, breath steadying. “But Geta is…” You trail off, then try again. “He’s different. It’s a different kind of loyalty.”

Your father nods slowly, understanding settling in his expression. “There are many forms of loyalty,” he says. “The dangerous ones are the ones we refuse to name.”

Your mother watches you with gentle intensity, then smiles. “You’re choosing,” she says simply. “That matters.”

You draw in a breath. This is the moment you hadn’t realized you were bracing for.

“Then,” you ask, voice steady despite the weight of it, “do you both accept… the relationship I have with Emperor Geta?” You don’t dress it up. You don’t deflect. This is you confirming it—by your own words, at last.

They exchange a brief glance.

“Of course,” your father says without hesitation. “We trust your judgment.”

Your mother nods. “We always have.”

The simplicity of it nearly undoes you. You let out a slow breath, something close to a laugh. Whatever path you’re walking—dangerous, uncertain, tangled with power—you are not walking it alone. And that, you realize, is its own kind of strength.

You arrive at the palace a few days later while Geta is still occupied with his duties. The staff recognize you at once; no explanation is required. “Tell him I’ll be waiting in his chambers,” you say calmly. They bow and scatter, the message carried swiftly.

You step out onto the balcony, resting your hands on the stone railing as the city stretches below you. Rome feels different now—no less vast, but somehow quieter in its hunger.

Footsteps approach behind you.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Geta says, entering the chamber. “But I’m not complaining.”

You chuckle, turning to face him. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

He joins you at the balcony.

“My father told me some wonderful news,” you say, watching his expression carefully. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He knows exactly what you mean. “The halting of the conquest,” he says. “It wasn’t important.”

You arch a brow. “It was.”

He exhales, gaze drifting outward. “I didn’t do it for you,” he says firmly. “I didn’t want it to seem that way.” A pause. “You only offered an argument. A good one.” His jaw tightens slightly. “One that finally made me think—for once.”

You nod, understanding settling easily. “I never ordered you to do anything,” you say. “I know that.” You step closer, voice softening. “But I’m really glad you made that choice.” Your eyes meet his. “And I’m certain Rome—your people—are glad too.”

He studies you for a moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze. “You look pleased,” he says.

“I am,” you reply simply.

He looks quietly proud—not of conquest, not of power, but of restraint. He lets out a quiet laugh, leaning beside you against the balcony. “I’ve realized something,” Geta says. “Hearing my woman happy because of me might be a greater feeling than hearing of a successful conquest.”

You laugh, genuinely this time. “And knowing my man actually listened to me,” you add, “is a great feeling as well.”

He turns his head toward you, expression warm, almost boyish in its satisfaction.

“I’m free for the rest of the day,” he says. “We could spend it together.”

You tilt your head. “Haven’t we already spent quite a lot of time together?”

“Not enough,” he replies immediately.

You roll your eyes, fond despite yourself. “Of course.”

He watches you for a moment, then says, far too casually, “I should just make you my wife soon. Then you could be by my side all the time.”

You blink. Then scoff. “That sounds awful.”

He straightens slightly. “Careful,” he warns playfully.

You smile. “You’d have to face my father first.”

He waves a hand dismissively, clearly joking. “I’m the emperor. He couldn’t say no to me.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “Try that approach and you’ll find yourself in a debate you won’t win.”

He grins at that—wide, unguarded. “You enjoy threatening me with your family far too much.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” you reply lightly.

The city stretches endlessly below you, Rome breathing in stone and fire and people. For once, ambition does not weigh heavily between you—only time, shared and wanted. And neither of you seems eager to let it end.

Part 2

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos—plastic trays clattering, laughter bouncing off the walls, and that faint smell of grease that clung to Hawkins High like a bad perfume. You sat with Olivia at your usual table, half-picking at the fries on your tray while the two of you argued over setlists.

“‘Cherry Bomb’ works as an opener,” Olivia insisted, nudging your arm. “It grabs attention. It’s loud, it’s fast—”

“It’s predictable,” you cut in, rolling your eyes as you leaned back in your seat. The leather of your jacket creaked against the plastic chair. “Everybody expects The Yellowjackets to play it. I want something they don’t see coming.”

Before Olivia could counter, Jess appeared at the end of the table, hair windblown, cheeks flushed like she’d sprinted across campus. She slapped a brightly colored flyer down between your trays, nearly knocking your soda over.

You arched a brow. “Well, good morning to you too.”

Jess ignored the jab, grinning as she tapped the paper with chipped black nail polish. “Forget about Cherry Bomb. This is what we’re doing.”

You and Olivia leaned in. The block letters across the top screamed:

BATTLE OF THE BANDS – Indianapolis Community Center – One Night Only.

“Winner gets studio time in Indy,” Jess read dramatically, like she was announcing the second coming. “Actual recording time. This is it. This is our shot.”

Your pulse kicked a little faster. You’d played gigs before—bars that looked the other way about your ages, school dances when faculty were desperate for something cheap—but nothing like this.

“Studio time,” Olivia repeated, slow and reverent. Then her eyes flicked to you. “That’s huge.”

You smirked, but inside, your stomach was already twisting with excitement. “Yeah,” you said, trying to sound cooler than you felt. “Huge.”

Jess dropped into the seat across from you, already buzzing with ideas. “Imagine it—The Yellowjackets on vinyl. Our own record. Our songs, not just covers. We’d wipe the floor with—”

She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes cutting across the cafeteria. You didn’t have to look to know why.

You knew that laugh anywhere—loud, cocky, a little too proud. Eddie Munson, table in the corner, surrounded by Corroded Coffin. He was waving the same flyer around, his curls wild as ever, already bragging about the competition.

Your stomach sank and tightened all at once. Of course. If there was blood in the water, Eddie Munson was always the first shark circling.

“—with them,” Jess finished, glaring in his direction.

You leaned back in your chair, a smirk tugging at your lips as Eddie’s eyes met yours across the room. He raised his flyer like a challenge.

Oh yeah. This was going to get interesting.

That afternoon, they felt electric. Maybe it was the caffeine from the vending machine soda, or maybe it was the way your mind kept drifting back to that stupid flyer. Battle of the Bands. Studio time. A real shot.

You shoved your books into your locker, the metal door squealing on its hinges. Olivia and Jess had practice on their minds already, but you needed a minute to breathe. To focus.

Of course, that was when Eddie Munson rounded the corner.

He didn’t walk so much as swagger, denim vest covered in patches, chains clinking faintly as he moved. His grin was already wide, like he’d been waiting to run into you.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, leaning against the row of lockers beside yours. “If it isn’t Dollar Store Joan Jett herself.”

You slammed your locker shut and crossed your arms. “Wow, how original.”

Eddie’s grin only widened. He tapped the folded flyer sticking out of his back pocket. “You saw it, right? Battle of the Bands. Finally, a chance for Corroded Coffin to bury The Yellowjackets once and for all.”

You snorted. “Please. We’re the ones with actual rhythm. All you do is turn your amps up to eleven and hope nobody notices.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his chest like you’d shot him, stumbling back a step with mock injury. “She wounds me.”

But when his eyes caught yours again, there was something underneath the act—a flicker of real heat, the kind that had nothing to do with rivalry.

You shoved past him, though your shoulder brushed his on purpose. “Try not to trip over your own ego before the show, Munson.”

He turned as you walked away, his laugh chasing you down the hall. “Oh, sweetheart, I don’t trip—I headline.”

You didn’t look back, but damn it, you were smiling.

It started at The Hideout, of course.

Everything loud and stupid and memorable in Hawkins seemed to start there.

Corroded Coffin had been Thursday night regulars for months — if you could call a handful of rowdy drunks and a jukebox that only half-worked an audience. Still, it was their night. Their stage. Their sticky floors and burnt-out fairy lights.

So when Eddie Munson rolled into the parking lot that Thursday, guitar slung across his back and a bag of cables in one hand, only to see a strange van parked in their spot—bright yellow paint, a wasp decal on the side, and the words The Yellowjackets scrawled across the door in punky letters—he stopped dead in his tracks.

“What the hell is this?” he muttered.

Inside, The Hideout’s owner, Frank, was behind the bar, polishing glasses with his usual disinterest. On stage, three girls were tuning instruments, laughing too loud, rearranging amps that clearly weren’t theirs.

Eddie stomped up to the bar, voice already climbing.

“Frank. Buddy. Tell me this is a sound check and not what it looks like.”

Frank didn’t even look up. “You’re off tonight, Munson. Double booking mix-up. These girls are playing instead.”

Eddie blinked. “Instead? Instead of us?”

Frank shrugged. “They showed up early. Paid for the slot. What do you want me to do?”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open like he couldn’t decide whether to argue or combust. “We’ve been doing Thursdays for months! We have regulars! Well—sort of regulars. A couple guys—”

Frank cut him off with a look that said I stopped listening five seconds ago.

So Eddie turned to the stage, jaw tight.

“Hey!”

You looked up from your guitar, one brow raised. You hadn’t even started your first set yet and some guy in a denim vest was already shouting at you.

“Uh, hi?” you said, the word laced with mild annoyance.

“Yeah, hi,” Eddie shot back, stalking closer. “Just wondering what the hell you’re doing on our stage.”

Olivia glanced at you from behind her drum kit. “Our stage? Pretty sure Frank said we were booked.”

“Yeah, accidentally booked!” Eddie snapped. “We’ve got Thursdays! It’s like—tradition!”

Jess snorted from the bass. “Oh, right. The world-famous Hideout Thursday night tradition. How could we ever break that?”

A few people at the bar chuckled, and Eddie’s face flushed scarlet.

You set your guitar down, stepping to the mic.

“Look,” you said evenly, “we don’t want any trouble. We’ll play our set, you can have next week, no harm done.”

It was calm, fair, reasonable — exactly the kind of thing that might’ve defused the situation.

If Eddie Munson had an off switch.

“Next week?” he said, laughing under his breath. “Sweetheart, if we let you play tonight, you’ll clear the room before the second verse.”

That was it.

You crossed your arms. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Something flickered in his eyes then — a spark of interest, even through the irritation. He opened his mouth for another comeback, but Frank cut him off with a sharp, “Either play nice or play somewhere else, Munson.”

Eddie backed off, muttering curses under his breath, but not before giving you a look that burned — not hatred, exactly, but something competitive, sharp, electric.

By the time The Yellowjackets launched into your set, Corroded Coffin had taken over a corner booth, arms crossed, glaring like a pack of wolves.

You played harder because of it — louder, faster, grittier.

And somewhere between your first verse and last chorus, Eddie stopped glaring and started watching.

He’d never admit it, not then, but you’d earned his attention.

And from that night on, the rivalry was sealed — all over a Thursday at The Hideout and one very bruised ego.

Your garage smelled like motor oil, dust, and cheap incense Jess swore helped “set the vibe.”

It didn’t. It just made your throat burn.

Still, the space had become home — cinderblock walls plastered with band posters, strings of Christmas lights tacked haphazardly around the ceiling, amps stacked on milk crates, and a hand-painted sign reading The Yellowjackets HQ: No Parents, No Covers, No Apologies.

“Okay,” Olivia said, tapping her sticks together. “From the top. And this time, Jess, please don’t come in two beats early.”

Jess rolled her eyes. “That was one time.”

“Three,” you corrected, slinging your guitar over your shoulder.

Jess flipped you off playfully, and Olivia snorted. The moment cracked some of the tension that had been hanging in the air all week.

You adjusted your mic stand and glanced down at the setlist scribbled on a pizza box.

Every song title looked like a dare.

“All right,” you said, exhaling. “Let’s make it hurt a little.”

The first chords of your new original — “Static Hearts” — ripped through the garage, raw and loud enough to make the windows tremble.

It wasn’t perfect. Olivia’s timing slipped once, Jess’s amp crackled, and your voice cracked on the bridge — but it was alive.

By the time you hit the final chorus, sweat stuck your hair to your temples and your chest buzzed with adrenaline.

Olivia hit the last cymbal crash like it owed her money.

Jess grinned. “That felt good.”

“Not good enough,” you said automatically, still catching your breath. “If we’re going up against Munson, it has to be flawless.”

At his name, Olivia groaned. “You’re seriously still thinking about him?”

“I’m thinking about winning,” you said. “But yeah — maybe a little about wiping that smug grin off his face while we’re at it.”

Jess smirked. “You sure that’s all you wanna wipe?”

You threw a pick at her. “Shut up and tune.”

But you couldn’t quite shake the way your stomach twisted — half nerves, half something else entirely.

Across town, in Gareth’s garage, Corroded Coffin was in full swing.

Sweat dripped from Eddie’s curls as he slammed into a solo that made the walls rattle and the garage door buzz like a wasp nest.

Jeff was headbanging beside him, Gareth pounding the drums so hard his sticks splintered.

When they finished, the last note hung in the air like smoke.

“Too slow on the bridge,” Eddie said, pacing with his guitar still strapped on. “It’s gotta punch. Think... think like you’re kicking in a door.”

Gareth threw his broken sticks at him. “You wanna play drums then, Munson?”

Eddie grinned. “I would, but I look too good with a guitar.”

Jeff laughed, plucking a few lazy notes. “Man, you’ve been wired all week. Chill out.”

Eddie ran a hand through his hair. “Can’t. We’re not just up against some random garage band this time.”

“Ah,” Gareth said knowingly. “You mean her.”

Eddie froze. “What? No. I mean— no, not her. Them. Their band. The Yellowjackets.”

Jeff smirked. “Sure, Eddie.”

“Shut up.”

But his face betrayed him — that flicker of something between irritation and intrigue. He could still picture you under those stage lights at The Hideout, eyes sharp, voice cutting clean through the noise.

He slung his guitar higher and grinned to himself.

“Again from the top,” he said. “If we’re gonna crush The Yellowjackets, we’re doing it loud enough they hear it from their garage.”

Gareth rolled his eyes, but counted them in anyway.

The drums kicked. The amps screamed.

And somewhere across town, your band launched into another chorus — the same heartbeat of rebellion pulsing through both garages.

Neither of you could hear the other.

But somehow, the energy was exactly the same.

You hadn’t even wanted to be there.

The bass thumped through the walls of the house like a second heartbeat, shaking empty beer cans on the counter and making the air thick with sweat, smoke, and bad decisions. Olivia had promised it would be “down low.” Jess had said “just for an hour.” Both were liars.

You stood in the kitchen, clutching a red cup of something you weren’t drinking, already planning your escape route.

That was when you saw him.

Eddie Munson, half-shadowed in the corner of the living room, denim vest over a threadbare Black Sabbath tee, hands moving quick as he traded something folded for a few crumpled bills. His laugh carried over the music — low, familiar, and annoyingly magnetic.

Your stomach tightened. Of course he was here. If there was loud music, trouble, or free beer, Eddie Munson was practically furniture.

You thought about saying something — a jab, maybe, about how he should save his energy for the Battle of the Bands — but you stopped yourself.

No point in starting a fight. Not tonight.

So you stayed where you were, pretending to scroll through your phone while keeping him in your peripheral vision.

Eddie looked up once, mid-laugh, and spotted you.

The smirk that crossed his face was slow, knowing. He gave a mock salute with the hand still holding a cigarette.

You rolled your eyes and turned away.

But then—

“COPS!”

The word sliced through the music like a gunshot.

Panic hit the crowd in an instant — bodies surging toward doors, voices overlapping, someone yelling about the back window, another tripping over the stereo cord and killing the music.

You froze, scanning for an exit. The front door was jammed with people, the kitchen led to nowhere, and every instinct screamed move.

You’d just started for the back hallway when a hand closed around yours.

“C’mon!”

Eddie’s voice — urgent, close. You barely had time to process before he was dragging you through the chaos, weaving through bodies, knocking over a chair, your cup spilling down your wrist.

“Munson—what—”

“Later!” he barked, yanking you through a side door that slammed behind you. Cold air hit your face, a sharp contrast to the humid noise inside.

He didn’t stop. You stumbled after him down a narrow path behind the house, branches catching in your jacket as you crashed through the tree line. The sound of shouting and tires on gravel faded until it was just your footsteps and your heartbeat.

When he finally slowed, you nearly collided with him.

The woods were dark, the party now just a distant pulse of light through the trees. Both of you were breathing hard — him bent over, hands on his knees, curls falling in his face; you leaning against a tree, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins.

After a long minute, you found your voice.

“You didn’t have to—” you started, then stopped, still trying to catch your breath. “You could’ve just left me.”

Eddie looked up at you, eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight. “Yeah, well. Didn’t feel like explaining to the cops why Knockoff Nancy Wilson got trampled at a house party.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He grinned, still winded. “It’s a gift.”

Silence fell again, the good kind — thick with exhaustion, the kind that fills the air after chaos. You could hear the crickets, the rustle of wind through the leaves, and the faint hum of the town far away.

You sat down in the grass, still trying to process the last five minutes. Eddie dropped beside you, pulling a crushed cigarette from behind his ear but not lighting it.

After a moment, he said quietly, “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time I had to bolt when someone yelled ‘cops.’”

You shot him a look, half amused, half exasperated. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“Nah,” he said, grin widening. “Just means I’m good at running.”

You shook your head, unable to hide your smile. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Eddie said, leaning back on his hands, gaze lifting toward the stars peeking through the branches. “But admit it — a little part of you had fun.”

You wanted to deny it, but your pulse hadn’t aquite slowed. The night air was cool, the woods smelled like rain and pine, and for once, the world was quiet except for the sound of him laughing softly beside you.

“Maybe,” you murmured.

And when you finally looked over at him — cheeks flushed, curls damp, eyes still burning with adrenaline — you weren’t sure if it was the run, or the way he was looking back, that made your heart kick a little harder.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, catching your breath. The chaos from the party had died into distant sirens and scattered shouts, the kind that faded quickly into Hawkins’ usual stillness.

Eddie stretched his legs out in front of him, head tilted back like he could actually see stars through the thick tree canopy. You’d just started to stand when he spoke.

“Where’re you going?”

“Home,” you said, brushing grass off your jeans. “You know, since the cops kind of crashed the party.”

Eddie stood too, brushing off his vest. “Cool. I’ll walk you.”

You turned, incredulous. “You’ll what?”

“I said I’ll walk you home.”

You frowned. “Eddie, I can handle walking. I’m not exactly made of glass.”

He grinned. “Didn’t say you were. But it’s dark, and last I checked, Hawkins isn’t exactly brimming with streetlights out here. Humor me.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted, stepping ahead of you and gesturing toward the path like he owned it, “you do. C’mon, Yellowjacket.”

You glared, but something about the stubborn set of his shoulders told you it wasn’t worth arguing. So you followed, muttering, “You’re impossible.”

He shot you a smirk over his shoulder. “Been called worse.”

The walk started in silence, the sound of leaves crunching under your boots and the distant buzz of power lines filling the space between you. The night air had that early-fall bite, crisp enough to make your breath visible.

After a few minutes, Eddie broke the quiet.

“So,” he said, kicking at a rock. “Battle prep going good?”

You side-eyed him. “Fishing for intel?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just making conversation with a fellow musician-slash-fugitive from a house party gone to hell.”

You huffed a laugh. “We’re doing fine. Working on a new opener.”

“Ah, yeah? What’s the vibe?”

“Not telling you,” you said flatly.

“Coward,” he teased.

You glanced at him. “You first, then.”

He shrugged, hands stuffed in his pockets. “We’re tightening the setlist. Little Dio, some Sabbath, one original. Gareth’s been losing his mind over the tempo changes, but we’ll get there.”

You nodded slowly. “You writing the new song?”

Eddie gave a half-smile, eyes on the ground. “Yeah. Been messing with some stuff. It’s not… y’know. Done yet.”

The way he said it — quiet, almost sheepish — surprised you. You were used to loud, cocky Eddie Munson, the one who strutted through hallways like the world was his stage. This one was different.

“I get that,” you said finally. “Writing’s harder than people think. Everyone wants the big moment, but no one talks about the ten shitty drafts before you find it.”

He shot you a look — curious, a little impressed. “You write too?”

“Yeah,” you said, kicking at a pinecone. “Been trying to move away from covers. Feels more real when it’s yours, you know?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

For a minute, the conversation felt… easy. Familiar. Two musicians who got it — the grind, the need to make something that actually meant something.

Then you glanced over and caught him watching you, that crooked grin sneaking back in.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said, eyes glinting. “Just didn’t think you’d be the type to talk shop with me instead of calling me an egomaniac.”

You smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. I still think that.”

“Good. I’d hate to lose my edge.”

You shook your head, hiding your smile as the road came into view through the trees.

By the time you reached your street, the night had gone still again. Porch lights glowed faintly down the block. You stopped at the edge of your driveway, hands shoved in your jacket pockets.

“Well,” you said, “guess this is me.”

Eddie rocked back on his heels. “Guess so.”

You hesitated, then added, “Thanks. For… you know. Not letting me get trampled back there. I owe you.”

He smirked, but it was softer this time. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

You sighed, turning to head up the path — but his voice stopped you.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter now. “You’re gonna kill it at the Battle, you know that?”

You turned halfway, eyebrows raised. “That your way of psyching me out?”

He grinned. “Nah. Just the truth.”

For once, there wasn’t sarcasm behind it — just sincerity, unexpected and disarming. You held his gaze for a moment longer than you meant to.

Then you smiled. “We’ll see who kills who, Munson.”

And with that, you left him standing under the streetlight, still grinning to himself like he’d just heard the first few notes of a song he couldn’t get out of his head.

It was another cool night, your jacket zipped up to your chin as you left the diner parking lot.

Practice had gone late, and afterward you and the girls went to eat — cheap fries, laughter, the usual trash talk about setlists and outfits for the Battle.

By the time you split up, the streets were mostly empty. You cut through the side lot toward the corner convenience store, the kind that stayed open too late and smelled faintly of burnt coffee and mop water. You just needed a soda for the road and maybe some gum.

The bell over the door jingled when you stepped inside. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making everything look too sharp, too pale. You grabbed a drink, paid, and pushed back outside — and that’s when you saw him.

Eddie Munson, sitting on the curb beside the ice machine.

At first, you didn’t even recognize him. His hair was a mess, curls half-stuck to the side of his face, one corner of his lip split open, knuckles raw. The sleeve of his denim vest was torn near the shoulder.

He looked… rough.

“Eddie?” you said softly, stepping closer.

He glanced up, and for a second, his eyes went wide — like he wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all you. Then he huffed a laugh, half-bitter.

“Oh, great. My guardian angel.”

You frowned, crouching in front of him. “What the hell happened?”

He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and winced. “Just a friendly disagreement.”

“Eddie.”

He sighed, leaning his head back against the ice machine. “Some college kid. Big guy. Came down from Indy for the weekend. Thought I was overcharging him for a deal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Were you?”

Eddie’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, even through the pain. “Kinda...’”

You groaned. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged one shoulder, then winced again. “You’re not wrong.”

You stood up, shaking your head. “Stay here.”

“What—where are you—”

“Just stay, Munson.”

He blinked, confused, as you turned and disappeared back inside the store.

A few minutes later, you came out with a small plastic bag and dropped down beside him again. Inside were paper towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a sports drink, and a small tube of antibiotic ointment.

Eddie stared at the bag, then at you. “What is this, Nurse Nightingale?”

“Shut up and hold still.”

He chuckled — and immediately regretted it, wincing as you dabbed at his split lip with a damp paper towel.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You trying to kill me?”

“Trust me,” you said, concentrating on his cheek, “if I wanted to, I’d do a cleaner job.”

That made him grin, even through the sting. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

You worked in silence for a while, wiping away the dried blood and carefully pressing a cold bottle against the swelling at his jaw. He watched you the whole time — not the sarcastic, loud Eddie you were used to, but quieter, almost uncertain.

When you finally leaned back, you sighed. “There. It’s not that bad.”

He snorted. “Right. I’m gonna show up to the Battle looking like I picked a fight with a lawnmower.”

You tilted your head, studying him. The bruise blooming under his eye didn’t make him look weak — just raw, human. Maybe even tougher.

“Honestly,” you said, a smirk tugging at your lips, “it kind of works.”

He blinked. “What?”

“The look,” you said. “Bruised, disheveled, slightly feral. You could sell it, for Battle of the Bands.”

Eddie laughed, the sound low and genuine this time. “Yeah? You think so?”

“Sure,” you said, standing and offering him a hand. “Girls love a guy who looks like he’s one bar fight away from writing a breakup anthem.”

He took your hand, letting you pull him up, his grip warm even through the chill. “You’re either messing with me,” he said, brushing off his vest, “or trying to build my confidence before you destroy me on stage.”

You grinned. “Maybe both.”

He looked at you for a long second, like he was about to say something else — something real — but instead, he just nodded toward your drink. “You gonna finish that soda?”

You rolled your eyes and handed it over. “Don’t get used to it.”

Eddie raised the bottle in mock salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Try not to piss off any more college kids before the show, yeah?”

He looked through warm eyes even under the bruises. “No promises, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite fight your grin.

“See you at the Battle, Munson,” you said, before slowly walking away.

Eddie called after you, voice low and amused, “Looking forward to it, Yellowjacket.”

You didn’t look back, but your heart was still racing long after you walked away.

The sun was barely up when you and the girls rolled out of Hawkins.

The Yellowjackets’ rented VW Transporter hummed down the backroads, paint a faded seafoam green that made it look like it belonged in a surf movie instead of rural Indiana. The back was crammed with amps, guitars, drum cases, and enough snacks to last a week — or maybe two, depending on how many arguments broke out about who finished the Twizzlers.

Jess was behind the wheel, sunglasses already on even though the sun was barely out. “This thing’s a beast,” she said, patting the dash. “Think she’ll make it to Indy?”

“She better,” Olivia said, flipping through her lyric notebook. “We could’ve just used my dad’s van, you know.”

You smirked. “Yeah, and show up to a Battle of the Bands in a plumber’s van with Dave’s Septic Solutions’ on the side? Hard pass.”

Jess laughed. “Good point.”

You leaned your head against the window, watching Hawkins fade into the rearview mirror. The excitement in your stomach buzzed like static — equal parts nerves and anticipation. This was it. Studio time. A real shot.

Then Jess slowed down. “Uh… is that—?”

Up ahead, parked crooked on the shoulder, was a familiar old van.

Corroded Coffin.

And there, standing by the open hood, cursing at the engine, was Eddie Munson.

Jess snorted. “Oh, this is too good.”

Olivia grinned wickedly. “Karma’s got taste.”

You tried not to laugh — you really did — but the image of Eddie, hair wild in the breeze, arguing with his drummer while smoke drifted out of the van, was too much.

Jess slowed to a stop beside them, leaning out the window.

“Hey, Munson!” she called. “Need a mechanic, or a miracle?”

Eddie glanced over, squinting against the sun. When he saw the Transporter and all of you packed inside, his expression went from annoyance to suspicion.

“Oh, perfect,” he said, throwing up his hands. “The rescue squad from hell.”

You leaned forward between the seats, grinning. “Trouble in paradise?”

He huffed. “Just a little… mechanical rebellion. She’s sensitive.”

“Yeah, looks like it.” Jess’s tone was pure smugness.

Jeff, from the passenger side of the van, crossed his arms. “We’re fine. We’ll fix it.”

Gareth muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, ‘We are absolutely not fine.’

You sighed, popping open your door and stepping out. The morning air was cool, the smell of oil and damp pavement hanging around the roadside.

“You guys heading to Indy?” you asked.

Eddie wiped his hands on a rag, smearing more grease than he removed. “Eventually. Assuming our noble steed decides to cooperate.”

Olivia leaned out the window. “We could always tell the judges you died tragically in a vehicular accident. Might boost your band’s mystique.”

Eddie shot her a look. “Ha-ha.”

You crossed your arms, eyeing the smoking van, then the road stretching empty ahead. You could hear Olivia and Jess muttering behind you — both knowing exactly what you were about to suggest.

“Okay,” you said finally, “how about this: you guys hitch a ride with us.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. We’ve got room.”

Olivia immediately groaned. “Oh, come on, no.”

Jess threw her hands up. “Absolutely not. Do you want to spend three hours trapped with them?”

You shot them both a look. “They’ll drive and buy gas. That’s the deal. Otherwise, we’ll be late too if we hang around watching them fail engine surgery.”

Eddie straightened, eyes narrowing like he wasn’t sure if you were mocking him.

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” you said.

Jeff started to protest, but Gareth spoke first. “Dude, no way. We can’t ride with them. That’s humiliating.”

Eddie’s jaw worked for a moment, glancing between his dead van and the Transporter idling nearby — Olivia glaring from the passenger seat, Jess already shaking her head.

Then he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. Okay.”

Jeff gaped. “You’re kidding.”

Eddie turned to him. “You wanna push the van to Indianapolis, man? Be my guest.”

Gareth grumbled something but started grabbing his gear.

Eddie looked back at you, smirk creeping back into place. “Fine. We’ll drive. We’ll pay for gas. But I’m picking the music.”

Jess groaned. “God help us.”

You shrugged, trying to suppress the grin that tugged at your mouth. “Deal. But if you play anything over ten minutes long, I’m ejecting the tape myself.”

Eddie’s grin widened. “Guess we’ll see how brave you really are, Yellowjacket.”

As Corroded Coffin started loading their gear into the Transporter — Jess muttering curses the entire time — you climbed back into the passenger seat, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all.

The Yellowjackets and Corroded Coffin.

One van.

Three hours to Indy.

And somehow, you had the distinct feeling that surviving the drive was going to be harder than winning the Battle itself.

The first ten minutes were quiet. Too quiet.

The VW Transporter hummed down the empty highway, the morning light slanting through the windows. Eddie was behind the wheel, fingers drumming on the steering wheel to some rhythm only he knew. You sat in the passenger seat, watching the trees blur by and trying very hard not to think about how weird this was.

Behind you, the others had divided the back like it was a Cold War zone — The Yellowjackets on one side, Corroded Coffin on the other. Olivia was squeezed against the window, Jess had claimed the seat closest to the snacks, Gareth sat cross-legged with his drumsticks tapping against his knees, Jeff slouched with his headphones in, and Doug looked like he wanted to vanish into the upholstery.

The silence was thick enough to choke on.

You glanced at Eddie. “So… this is fun.”

He shot you a sideways grin. “Living the dream.”

You smirked. “You always dream about carpooling with your rivals?”

“Only when the universe is feeling particularly sadistic.”

It was the closest either of you had come to a truce so far — the kind born of mutual disbelief that this was actually happening.

For a while, it was bearable. The radio played softly — The Clash giving way to Bowie — and the road stretched long and quiet. You even started to relax a little.

Then it started.

“Could you not chew like that?” Olivia snapped suddenly.

Jeff blinked, mid-bite of his granola bar. “Like what?”

“Like a cow with sinus problems!”

“I’m literally just chewing!”

Jess snorted. “No, she’s right. It’s disgusting.”

“Hey, I’m not the one with glitter all over my side of the seat,” Jeff shot back. “It’s like Tinker Bell exploded back here.”

“That’s from my stage makeup bag!” Jess protested. “Some of us care about presentation!”

“Yeah, maybe focus on your bassline presentation,” Gareth muttered.

“Excuse me?”

And that was it.

Chaos.

The back of the van erupted — voices overlapping, snacks flying, drumsticks tapping against seats in protest. Doug tried to mediate and got shouted down instantly. Olivia threatened to walk. Jess threw an empty chip bag that missed Jeff and hit Gareth instead.

You turned to Eddie, deadpan. “You’re gonna wanna pull over before someone dies.”

He kept his eyes on the road, lips twitching. “Oh no. I wanna see how this plays out.”

“Eddie.”

He grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, sweetheart. Let ‘em burn off some steam. It’s team bonding.”

“Team homicide, maybe.”

When a particularly loud thunk came from the back — followed by Gareth yelling, “You did that on purpose!” — you sighed and twisted around in your seat.

“Hey!” you snapped. “Everybody shut up for, like, ten seconds before I start throwing instruments out the window!”

Instant silence.

Six sets of eyes blinked back at you.

Eddie let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t know you had that voice.”

You crossed your arms. “You drive. I’ll manage.”

He laughed. “Deal.”

For a blessed few minutes, the van was quiet again — the sound of the tires on the road and the low hum of the engine filling the space. You caught Eddie glancing at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What.”

He smirked. “Just—never thought I’d see the day you’d have to play mom to your band and mine.”

You huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep you idiots alive.”

“Harsh but fair.”

Behind you, Jess whispered something to Olivia that made them both snicker, and Gareth groaned loudly about “the world’s longest car ride.”

Eddie groaned in mock despair. “We’re not even an hour in.”

You glanced over at him. “We could turn around, you know.”

“And let others win the Battle? Nah.”

“Didn’t think so.”

You both fell quiet again, and for a moment, the absurdity of it all hit you — rival bands crammed into one old van, everyone pretending they didn’t kind of like being there.

By the time the van rolled into a rest stop diner off Highway 31, everyone’s nerves were frayed.

It had been two hours of noise, teasing, and territorial snack wars. Even Eddie looked done — his curls a little more chaotic than usual, his hand gripping the wheel like he was one drumstick tap away from pulling over and screaming into the cornfields.

The neon sign for Dot’s Diner flickered like salvation.

The second the van parked, Olivia groaned, “If I don’t get caffeine in the next five minutes, someone’s dying.”

“Make it ten,” Jess muttered, stretching her legs as she stepped out. “Because I’m getting pancakes too.”

The group shuffled inside, a half-feral mix of denim, leather, and exhaustion. The hostess — a woman in her fifties with a perm and zero patience — gave you all a once-over before pointing to a corner booth big enough to fit the chaos.

Eddie slid into one side first, and before you could choose another seat, he patted the spot next to him. “C’mon, sweetheart. Team leaders up front.”

You rolled your eyes but sat beside him anyway, tossing your jacket onto the seat. Across from you, Jess was already debating the menu with Gareth. Olivia and Jeff sat near the end, both pretending not to make eye contact but stealing glances every other second. Doug just looked relieved to be somewhere with chairs that didn’t vibrate.

When the waitress came, the order was chaos.

Three milkshakes. Two coffees. A pile of pancakes. One BLT. Two burgers. A single slice of cherry pie “for morale.”

Then the food arrived — and somehow, the weirdest thing happened.

Olivia reached for the ketchup at the same time as Jeff. Their fingers brushed, both froze, and she muttered, “Take it,” while staring very hard at her fries. Jeff smiled faintly and passed her a napkin.

Jess wrinkled her nose at the pickle on her plate. “Ugh. Hate these things.”

Before she could shove it aside, Gareth reached over with his fork and snagged it. “I’ll take it.”

She blinked at him. “You eat pickles?”

He shrugged. “Crunchy, salty, free. What’s not to like?”

Jess smirked. “Guess we found something you’re good at besides off-beat drumming.”

Gareth’s eyes narrowed, but his mouth twitched. “Oh, we’re doing this again, huh?”

“Always.”

Doug chuckled softly. “This is the weirdest peace treaty I’ve ever seen.”

You glanced up from your burger, noticing how the sharp edges of everyone’s voices had started to soften.

Even Olivia was laughing — actually laughing — as Jeff tried to dip his fries into her ketchup and narrowly avoided getting smacked.

Eddie caught your eye, amusement crinkling the corners of his.

“Well, look at that,” he said quietly. “The kids are getting along.”

You smiled. “Guess all it took was a road trip.”

He leaned back, grinning. “That or the sheer exhaustion of hating each other for two hours straight.”

You took a sip of your milkshake. “Could be both.”

For a while, you both ate in companionable silence. The diner hummed with soft classic rock from a jukebox in the corner, the smell of syrup and coffee lingering in the air.

After a minute, Eddie set down his burger and said, “You know, I didn’t think you’d actually offer us a ride.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, you thought I’d just leave you on the side of the road?”

He smirked. “Would’ve been a power move.”

“Tempting,” you admitted. “But I figured karma’s a thing. Didn’t want her catching up with me before the Battle.”

Eddie chuckled, swirling his straw in his Coke. “Still. Wasn’t exactly what I expected from the girl who called me a walking ego with a guitar.”

“You are a walking ego with a guitar,” you said, grinning. “But… I guess you’re not completely unbearable.”

He put a hand over his heart. “Wow. Be still, my beating heart.”

You laughed — couldn’t help it — and he smiled wider, the kind of smile that softened his whole face, even under the fading bruise on his cheek.

“You really think you’ve got us beat tomorrow?” he asked suddenly.

You tilted your head. “You worried?”

“Nah,” he said, but his tone was lighter now, teasing. “Just curious how bad the loss’ll sting.”

You smirked. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The way he looked at you then — head tilted, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes — made your pulse skip. It wasn’t cocky this time. It wasn’t a challenge. It felt… real.

Jess’s laughter from across the booth broke the spell.

Gareth was trying to steal her fries now, and she was whacking him with a napkin. Olivia rolled her eyes, but even she was smiling.

Eddie looked back at them, shaking his head with a grin. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

“Apparently,” you said. “One van, two bands, zero chance of survival.”

He laughed softly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The diner glow faded in the rearview mirror as the Transporter rumbled back onto the highway.

Something had shifted — subtle but real. The arguing had died down, replaced by half-hearted jokes and shared playlists. Even Olivia and Jeff had stopped pretending to hate each other; they were shoulder-to-shoulder now, arguing over cassette choices instead of breathing space.

Jess had fallen asleep against the window, Gareth dozing beside her with his head tilted back, mouth open. Doug hummed softly along to the radio.

Up front, Eddie drove one-handed, window cracked, hair whipping in the wind. You sat beside him, legs pulled up, the quiet between you surprisingly comfortable.

Every so often, he’d glance over with that small, knowing grin.

Every so often, you’d catch yourself smiling back.

By the time the sun dipped low and the Indianapolis skyline blinked faintly in the distance, the van had gone quiet — tired, peaceful, almost content.

The motel came into view: a squat, neon-signed building promising “Clean Rooms! Color TV!”

Eddie parked, cutting the engine. Everyone stirred awake, stretching, groaning.

“Well,” Jess muttered, yawning, “we made it.”

Eddie smirked. “Barely.”

You stepped out, stretching your arms, the air cooler now, city lights flickering on the horizon.

Rivals, sure. But for the first time, it didn’t feel like that word fit anymore.

The motel was quiet by the time you slipped outside.

Somewhere, a vending machine hummed. The others had long since crashed — Jess and Olivia in the room next door, Gareth snoring loud enough to shake the wall.

You stood at the railing, a paper cup of hot tea warming your hands, a blanket draped loosely over your shoulders. The parking lot stretched out below — cracked asphalt, the Transporter parked crooked.

You took a sip, exhaling steam, letting the quiet settle.

A door clicked open beside you.

You glanced over — Eddie. Shirt rumpled, hair a mess, cigarette tucked behind his ear as he fished for a lighter.

He stopped when he saw you, an eyebrow lifting. “You planning to pull an all-nighter, sweetheart?”

You smirked. “Could ask you the same thing.”

He flicked his lighter, the tiny flame catching. “Nervous energy,” he said around the cigarette. “Can’t sleep before a gig. Never could.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, leaning on the railing. “I get that.”

For a while, you stood in silence — your tea steaming, his cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. The hum of the highway sounded distant, like static.

“You ready for tomorrow?” he asked finally.

You smiled wryly. “As I’ll ever be.”

He blew out a slow breath of smoke. “We’ll probably end up next to each other on the lineup. You realize that, right?”

“Oh, great,” you said dryly. “Front row seats to each other’s disasters.”

He grinned. “Can’t wait.”

The banter hung between you, easy now — not barbed, not sharp. Just two musicians under the same flickering light, sharing the same nerves.

After a pause, you said quietly, “You know… we could’ve just been like this the whole time.”

Eddie turned to look at you. “Like what?”

“Cordial. Tolerant. Not trying to kill each other with guitar riffs.”

He snorted. “You think a little forced proximity fixed years of healthy rivalry?”

You smiled into your cup. “Maybe. Guess we just needed a van, a diner, and mutual suffering.”

He laughed — a low, rough sound that made something in your chest tighten. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

A comfortable quiet settled again. Then, almost without meaning to, you said, “You know… it didn’t have to start like it did.”

Eddie frowned slightly. “The Hideout thing?”

You nodded. “That was our first gig outside my garage. We’d been practicing for months, trying to make it real, and we were so excited. Then we show up, and your band looked at us like we were dirt. Like we’d stolen something from you.”

Eddie’s jaw tensed. “You kinda did.”

You shot him a look. “Not on purpose. Frank double-booked. We offered to share, but you came in swinging. Literally — with words.”

He blinked, looking away. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Guess we did.”

“It was embarrassing,” you admitted, voice softening. “We just wanted a shot. And I looked up to you guys, you know? Corroded Coffin. You were the only band around here doing what we wanted to do — loud, weird, real. I thought maybe we’d get along.”

Eddie was quiet for a long time. The only sound was the hiss of his cigarette as he took another drag.

Finally, he said, “I was an asshole.”

You looked at him, surprised by the bluntness.

He flicked the ash over the railing. “We’d been playing that dump for months. Thought we owned it. Then you guys show up — confident, better than we expected — and I… I didn’t take it well. Guess I didn’t like realizing we weren’t the only ones who gave a damn about the music.”

You smiled faintly. “So, you admit this whole feud started because your ego got bruised?”

He smirked, just a little. “Something like that.”

You shook your head, sipping your tea. “You’re lucky you’re good at what you do, Munson.”

“Yeah?” he said, tilting his head. “Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise I’d still hate your guts.”

He grinned, slow and genuine. “You sure you don’t?”

You met his eyes — steady, playful, something unspoken flickering in the space between you.

“I’ll let you know after tomorrow,” you said softly.

He smiled around the cigarette, then flicked it out into the dark. “Fair enough.”

For a long moment, you both stood there — side by side, quiet, the motel lights humming above, the air heavy with nerves and something almost tender.

Finally, he said, “Night, sweetheart.”

“Good night, Munson.”

And when you turned to go back inside, you caught him watching you — the kind of look that wasn’t about rivalry at all.

The Indianapolis Community Center didn’t look like much from the outside — just a squat brick building with faded lettering and a parking lot full of rusted cars and band vans — but to you, it might as well have been Madison Square Garden.

The moment you stepped out of the Transporter, the muffled hum of soundchecks hit you. Bass lines. Drum tests. Somebody yelling about cable feedback. The air buzzed with energy — raw, electric, contagious.

Eddie was already out of the van before anyone else, slinging his guitar case over one shoulder and grinning like he owned the place.

“Would you look at that?” he said, nodding toward the sign-up board taped to the front doors. “Corroded Coffin, fifth slot. The Yellowjackets… sixth. Guess we beat you here after all.”

You rolled your eyes. “By like, what, fifteen seconds?”

“Still counts,” he said, smug.

Olivia snorted as she hauled out a drum bag. “God, you’re unbearable.”

Jess called from the back of the van, “He’s right, though — technically they go before us. Which means we get to upstage them.”

“Upstage us?” Eddie spun, grinning wide. “Sweetheart, our amps are going to blow your wigs off before you even plug in.”

You arched a brow. “You sure you wanna talk big right before I have the chance to prove you wrong in front of an audience?”

He leaned in slightly, grin softening at the edges. “Wouldn’t be any fun if I didn’t.”

Behind you, Gareth and Jess were arguing over who was supposed to carry which amp, Doug was already wandering toward the snack table, and Olivia was muttering about cymbal screws.

You took in the chaos, the other bands milling around, the faint echo of a microphone test inside. This was it — the Battle.

“Try not to break a string this time,” you said, bumping Eddie’s shoulder as you passed.

“Try not to lose your voice trying to out-sing me,” he shot back easily.

You looked over your shoulder at him, smiling. “Oh, I won’t have to. The crowd’s gonna do it for me.”

He laughed, low and genuine, shaking his head. “God, you’re cocky.”

“Learned from the best,” you said, and it made him grin wider — like maybe he was proud of that.

By the time both bands were unloading into the backstage area, the tension that used to hang between you had shifted completely.

Now, when he looked your way, it wasn’t rivalry in his eyes — it was recognition.

Two people about to do what they loved.

Two performers ready to share the same stage, even if only one of you would walk away with the win.

Eddie nudged your arm as he passed, voice low. “Don’t choke, Yellowjacket.”

You smirked. “Don’t trip, Munson.”

And with that, you both disappeared backstage — grinning like two halves of the same storm, ready to blow the roof off the place.

Backstage was chaos — bands talking over each other, sweaty high-fives, the faint crackle of feedback from the speakers still echoing through the hall.

You found Eddie near the side door, leaning against the wall, still holding his guitar.

“Well,” you said, wiping sweat from your forehead, “try and tell me we didn’t just smoke you guys.”

He looked up, one eyebrow raised.

“I mean, come on, Munson. Did you hear that last chorus? We had the crowd in the palm of our hands.” You grinned, adrenaline still buzzing through every word. “You might as well hand over the imaginary trophy now.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched you — quiet, that same small smile tugging at his mouth.

You kept going, because you couldn’t help yourself. “Don’t tell me you’re speechless. That’d be a first. Or maybe you’re just too proud to admit—”

And then he kissed you.

Right there, mid-sentence.

No hesitation, no warning — just his hand on your jaw, his mouth on yours, hot and sure and impossible.

Your brain short-circuited.

Then you kissed him back.

Somewhere in the background, Olivia let out a loud “Finally!”

Jess whooped. Gareth groaned, “Pay up, Jeff — I told you it’d happen!”

When Eddie finally pulled back, he was grinning, breathless.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes. “You were talking too much.”

You blinked, stunned for half a second — then laughed. “You’re such an asshole.”

He smiled wider. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole now, right?”

You rolled your eyes, still smiling. “We’ll see, Munson. Depends who wins.”

He leaned in, forehead brushing yours. “Does it, though?”

You didn’t answer — not with words.

The MC’s voice echoed faintly over the PA, calling the judges to the stage, but for a moment, all you could hear was your pulse and the sound of Eddie Munson laughing softly against your mouth.

And when you finally pulled away, the crowd roaring just outside, you realized something —

You didn’t care who won anymore.

You’d already found exactly what you’d been chasing.

The MC’s voice cut back through the noise, crackling slightly over the PA.

“Alright, everyone—judges have reached a decision.”

The room quieted, not completely, but enough. The air felt tight again, like the moment before a storm breaks. You felt Eddie’s hand brush against yours, accidental at first, then staying there. Neither of you pulled away.

“This was not an easy call,” the MC continued. “Every band up here tonight brought something real to the stage.”

Jess leaned close to you, muttering, “That’s never a good sign.”

Eddie huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Brace yourself.”

“And the winner of tonight’s Battle of the Bands—studio time included—goes to…”

There was a beat. One stretched second that felt like a held breath.

“—The Phantoms!”

The room erupted.

Cheers, whistles, a few surprised shouts. Somewhere up front, the members of The Phantoms were losing their minds—hugging, jumping, knocking into each other like they couldn’t quite believe it was real.

For half a heartbeat, everything inside you went still.

Then Eddie squeezed your hand.

You looked at him instinctively, expecting disappointment—expecting that flash of wounded pride, the tight jaw, the muttered curse. Instead, he was smiling. Not forced. Not fake. Just… soft.

“Well,” he said quietly, leaning closer so only you could hear, “guess neither of us gets to be insufferable tonight.”

You laughed, surprised by how easy it felt. “Kinda takes the fun out of it, huh?”

“Nah,” he said, eyes still on the celebrating band. “Honestly? That was the best possible outcome.”

You nodded slowly. It was true. No awkward victory. No bitter loss. No ego getting fed or shredded beyond repair.

Jess clapped first—loud, unapologetic. Olivia followed, whistling through her fingers. You joined in, clapping until your palms stung, cheering for The Phantoms like you meant it.

Because you did.

The MC kept talking—thank-yous, closing remarks—but it all blurred together. What stuck was the feeling in your chest: light, steady, unbruised.

Eddie let go of your hand just long enough to throw two fingers in his mouth and let out a sharp, ear-splitting whistle toward the stage. “KILL IT IN THE STUDIO!” he yelled.

You stared at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “What? They earned it.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Didn’t think you had that kind of grace.”

He shrugged. “Turns out my ego’s more fragile than I let on. This way, it survives.”

“Same,” you admitted.

The crowd started to thin, bands packing up, the sharp edge of competition dissolving into shared exhaustion and buzzing adrenaline. Someone passed around a cheap bottle of soda like it was champagne. Laughter bounced off the walls.

Eddie leaned in again, voice low. “So. We didn’t win.”

“Nope.”

“And you’re not mad.”

“Not even a little.”

He smiled, slower this time. “Good. Because I was thinking… maybe we celebrate anyway.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “No trophies. No bragging rights. Just… music doing what it’s supposed to do.”

You looked around—at your band, his band, at The Phantoms still glowing with disbelief—and felt it settle deep in your bones.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “That sounds perfect.”

And for the first time all night, it really did.

The cafeteria still buzzed the same way it always had—plastic trays, bad acoustics, worse food—but something fundamental had shifted.

Corroded Coffin and The Yellowjackets were sharing a table now.

Not merged, exactly. No one was pretending they were one big happy band family. Gareth still took up too much space. Jess still kicked his foot whenever he tapped too loudly. Olivia and Jeff argued about tempo like it was a moral issue. Doug quietly did homework while everyone else yelled over him.

But it worked.

The banter was sharp without being cruel now—barbs traded like guitar picks instead of knives.

“I’m just saying,” Gareth said around a mouthful of fries, “if you didn’t rush the chorus—”

Jess immediately leaned across the table. “If you didn’t drag like you were playing at a funeral—”

Eddie slapped the table once. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Save it for rehearsal, children.”

Olivia smirked. “Since when are you the mediator?”

“Since I became emotionally mature,” Eddie said solemnly.

Jeff snorted soda out his nose.

You arrived a minute later, tray balanced on one hip, scanning the room out of habit before your eyes landed on the table—the table—and Eddie’s stupid, familiar grin lighting up when he saw you.

“Hey,” he said.

You leaned down without breaking stride, kissed him—quick, warm, practiced—and slid into the seat beside him.

The table immediately erupted.

“Oh my god,” Jess groaned dramatically, gagging. “Not in front of my fries.”

Gareth made exaggerated retching noises. “This is a public place.”

Olivia covered her eyes. “I’m begging you. Think of the children.”

Doug deadpanned, “I regret eating.”

Eddie, of course, looked smug as hell. “Jealousy is ugly, guys.”

You rested your elbow on the table, chin in your hand. “You’re all just mad you don’t have this.”

Jeff pointed at you both. “You kissed for longer than socially acceptable.”

“Barely three seconds,” you said. “We’ve done worse.”

The table dissolved into chaos again—catcalls, fake puking, Jess threatening to flip the tray if you didn’t stop smiling like that.

Once it settled, Eddie draped an arm casually around the back of your chair, thumb tapping lightly against your shoulder like it had always belonged there.

“So,” Olivia said, eyes sharp with interest, “are we actually doing this, or is Eddie just talking big again?”

Eddie scoffed. “Hey. This is a vision.”

“A joint performance,” Jess said, already grinning. “One stage. Two bands. One very confused audience.”

“Opening with Yellowjackets,” Gareth added. “Transition into Coffin. Then the shared set.”

Jeff nodded. “The mashup works. Your rhythm section into our solo break? It’s sick.”

You leaned forward, energized. “We’ve got the closer figured out too. One song. Everyone. No egos.”

Eddie glanced at you sideways, smiling. “Okay, maybe slight egos.”

“Minimal,” you corrected.

From across the room, a group of jocks passed by, laughter loud and pointed. One of them muttered something about sellouts and freak shows, loud enough to hear, dumb enough to think it mattered.

Without even looking at each other, you and Eddie lifted your hands in perfect sync and flipped them off.

The table followed suit.

Seven middle fingers. Zero shame.

The jocks kept walking.

Eddie leaned in, voice low, amused. “God, I love this band.”

You bumped his knee with yours. “Which one?”

He kissed your temple this time, softer. “Yeah.”

Laughter picked back up. Plans got louder. Fries disappeared. Someone started tapping out a beat on the table, and nobody even told them to stop.

Outside, the world kept spinning—classes, rehearsals, stupid rules, bigger dreams.

But right there, at that table, everything felt exactly right.

The lunch rush was already in full swing, the kind of chaos that made the air feel heavy with steam and the scent of frying onions. You balanced a notepad in one hand, pen in the other, as you crouched slightly beside a booth of regulars—two truckers who smelled like diesel and black coffee.

“Two Big Belly Burgers, one extra pickles, one no onions. Fries with both. And two cherry Cokes,” you repeated, flashing them your waitress smile before heading toward the kitchen pass-through.

Eddie was there, leaning against the stainless-steel counter like the picture of laziness, a spatula twirling in his fingers. His hair was tucked under a red Big Belly’s cap in the loosest possible interpretation of the dress code, a few curls already escaping.

You slapped the ticket down in front of him. “Table three,” you said. “Don’t burn them this time.”

He gave you that grin—the one that was half challenge, half trouble. “Please. My burgers are the only reason people come here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sure. It’s definitely not because they’re desperate and this is the only place open after eleven.”

“Jealous,” he shot back, flipping a patty onto the grill with more flair than strictly necessary. “Admit it—you’d kill to be back here in my kitchen kingdom.”

You leaned an elbow on the counter. “Right. Because smelling like fryer grease all day is my dream.”

From the other side of the kitchen, one of the dishwashers called out, “Just kiss already!”

Without missing a beat, you and Eddie both shot back in perfect unison—

“She wishes!”

“He wishes!”

You caught each other’s eyes then, both of you trying not to smile too wide, and it was ridiculous how much heat could pass over a counter full of burger buns.

The diner was humming with clinking cutlery, chatter, and the tinny hum of a Foreigner song crackling through the overhead speakers. You moved from table to table, the coffee pot in your hand your trusted sidekick.

“Top you off?” you asked one of the truckers, steam curling from the pot as you poured. A couple of high school kids in the corner booth waved you over next, their notebooks and milkshake glasses sharing precious table space. You kept that practiced smile on, the one you could wear through a ten-hour shift without cracking—though it always turned real when someone tipped decently.

From behind the pass-through, Eddie’s eyes tracked you. He tried to make it look casual, like he was just glancing up to check if an order was ready to be run out, but the curve tugging at his mouth gave him away. It wasn’t his usual smirk either—more like something softer. So soft, in fact, that he nearly missed the angry hiss from the grill.

“Shit—” He lunged for the spatula, flipping the burger just in time to save it from turning into charcoal. Well, mostly save it.

When you finally swung back around to the kitchen, you picked up the plate he’d slid under the heat lamps. “Uh-huh.” You tilted your head at the patty. “Looks a little… dark, Munson.”

Eddie braced his arms on the counter, leaning toward you with exaggerated offense. “That’s called caramelization, sweetheart. Adds flavor. You’re welcome.”

You smirked, shaking your head as you grabbed the plate. “If the customer sends it back, I’m telling them you tried to assassinate them via overcooked beef.”

“Tell them it’s gourmet,” he called after you as you wove back into the dining room, and you didn’t have to see him to know he was still watching.

By the time the last table was wiped down and the coffee pots were dumped, the air in Big Belly’s felt calmer—just the hum of the refrigeration units and the scrape of chairs being set back in place. In the kitchen, Biggie was barking goodnights as the staff worked through their closing checklist, mopping floors and stacking clean pans.

You pulled on your coat over your uniform, the fabric still carrying the faint smell of grease and fryer oil. Through the front windows, you spotted Eddie outside, leaning against the brick wall by the dumpster, a cigarette hanging from his fingers. The tip glowed orange in the dim light, his hair catching bits of neon from the diner’s flickering sign.

When you stepped out, the night air felt sharp after the heat of the kitchen. Eddie glanced over, a little smile tugging at his lips, not the cocky grin he wore during shifts—just something easy.

“Thought you clocked out already,” he said, voice low.

“Was just finishing up.” You tucked your hands in your coat pockets, standing beside him. For a few seconds, it was quiet except for the faint hiss of his exhale.

“All the food looked good today,” you said finally, tilting your head toward him. “Well… besides that one dark one.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Still on about that?”

“I’m just saying, you’re lucky I didn’t have to deal with an angry customer.”

“You wound me,” he said, but there was no real defense in his tone—just the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, like he liked that you’d noticed at all.

For once, neither of you rushed to fill the silence that followed.

Headlights swept across the parking lot, and you spotted Karen’s beat-up Buick pulling up near the curb. She leaned over from the driver’s seat to wave, the muffler rattling like it might give out any second.

You glanced back at Eddie. The smoke from his cigarette curled into the cool night air, his eyes still on you like he wasn’t quite ready for you to leave. You shifted your weight, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture more nervous than you meant it to be.

“Well… guess that’s my ride,” you said, your voice softer now, without the sharp edges of your shift banter.

He gave a small nod, the kind that felt like it meant more than it seemed. “See you tomorrow, waitress.”

“See you, cook,” you replied, letting the words linger between you before turning toward the car.

As you slid into the passenger seat and Karen pulled away, you caught one last glimpse of him in the side mirror—still leaning against the wall, cigarette burning low, watching until you were gone.

The morning rush hadn’t started yet, but you could already hear Biggie clattering around in the back kitchen, muttering about invoices and delivery schedules. You were wiping down the counter when the front door chimed, and in strolled Eddie—hair a mess under his cap, leather jacket over his white shirt like he hadn’t bothered to change until the last possible second.

You smirked. “Well, well, look who decided to show up.”

He only raised his brows, unfazed, as he sauntered past you toward the kitchen.

“Oh, Biggie!” you called out loud enough to carry to the back. “Guess who’s late again—”

Before you could get another word out, Eddie’s arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. His hand came up over your mouth in a lazy, practiced motion, like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Don’t listen to her, Boss,” he said, strolling through the swinging doors with you half-dragged along, his voice smooth as ever. “She’s delirious from too much caffeine. Happens every shift.”

You mumbled against his palm, swatting at his arm as he grinned down at you, walking at the same casual pace as though he hadn’t just been caught sneaking in late.

Biggie poked his head out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Munson. Clock in. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” Eddie said brightly, finally letting you go with a dramatic flourish like he was saving you from yourself. He tossed you a wink before ducking fully into the kitchen, leaving you standing there with your arms crossed and an involuntary smile tugging at your lips.

The shift passed without incident—no spilled milkshakes, no burned patties, no customers yelling about wrong orders. By the time the dinner crowd started thinning out, you found yourself at the counter, refilling the straw dispenser. The neat little red-and-white paper tubes clinked softly as you stacked them in place.

“Psst.”

You looked up, and there was Eddie—head poking out of the pass-through window like some kind of overgrown raccoon, curls slipping out from under his cap. His elbows rested on the ledge, chin propped in his hand, watching you with that crooked grin that usually meant trouble.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Just wondering… hypothetically… would it kill you to go see a movie with me sometime?”

Your hand froze halfway to the dispenser, a straw dangling loosely between your fingers. You blinked at him. “A movie?”

“Yeah, you know,” he said, voice casual but the faintest thread of nervousness sneaking through. “Dark room, big screen, overpriced popcorn. Whole civilized experience.”

You set the straw down carefully, schooling your face into its usual smirk. “Hmm. I don’t know. Sounds risky.”

Eddie leaned further out the window, his grin widening. “Risky how?”

“Spending two whole hours with you? What if you talk through the whole thing?”

He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “I would never. I am a gentleman of the cinema.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “We’ll see, Munson. Maybe.”

As you turned back to the straws, your eyes flicked up—and immediately caught Karen’s from across the counter. She was wiping down a booth, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in barely contained laughter. And as if you both had the same mind, giving each other a wide-eyed oh my god look.

The night air outside was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain on pavement and the greasy tang of the fryer vents. Eddie was in his usual spot by the wall, one boot pressed against the brick, cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers. The glow at the end flared when he took a drag, his head tilted back like he was soaking up the quiet.

You tugged your coat tighter around yourself as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud. He noticed you immediately—of course he did—and that small, crooked smile curved onto his face like it belonged there.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite waitress,” he said lightly.

You stopped a few feet away, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “So…”

“So?” he echoed, blowing a lazy plume of smoke to the side.

“You can’t just—” You waved a hand vaguely, searching for the words. “Drop something like ‘go to a movie with me’ in the middle of a shift and then not elaborate.”

His grin tugged wider. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

You gave him a flat look, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you. “Don’t push it, Munson.”

He flicked ash onto the cracked pavement, then gestured with the cigarette like it was a pointer. “Alright, picture this: The Hawk, Saturday night. I pay for the tickets, I don’t talk during the show—unless it’s to make fun of the trailers—and I even spring for popcorn. Big spender, right?”

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, lips twitching despite yourself. “That’s your big pitch?”

“What, not impressed?” he asked, feigning outrage. “I’ll even let you pick the movie. Total gentleman move.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he countered, smoke curling past his grin.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. “Maybe.”

And the way his gaze softened at that single word made your chest feel strangely light, like maybe you’d just agreed to more than popcorn and a dark theater.

The theater lobby smelled like butter and sugar, a mix of popcorn and candy that clung to the carpet and the air itself. The neon lights buzzed faintly overhead, flickering just enough to remind you this wasn’t exactly a glamorous movie palace, but for Hawkins, it was as good as it got. Eddie held the door open with an exaggerated bow, and you gave him a look as you stepped inside, brushing past him.

At the ticket counter, the bored teenager behind the glass slid two tickets under the slot after you’d pointed to the poster on the wall. Labyrinth. David Bowie’s painted face stared down with a piercing gaze, all mystery and glitter. Eddie blinked at the poster, then at you, one brow arching high.

“Labyrinth?” he asked, half incredulous, half amused. “Huh.”

You turned to him, clutching your ticket, tilting your chin in challenge. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away. “Just… didn’t have you pegged as the fantasy type.”

You shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I like fantasy. Big worlds, magic. Makes real life seem a little less boring, you know?”

Eddie tried to play it cool, tried to make it seem like he was only half-listening as he shifted his weight and adjusted his jacket, but there was no mistaking the way his grin softened into something warmer. He coughed into his fist, looking away like the popcorn machine had suddenly become fascinating. “Yeah, uh… fantasy’s cool. Definitely. Totally respectable choice.”

You squinted at him. “Respectable?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, the picture of nonchalance. “I mean, what’s not to love?” His tone was light, but underneath the sarcasm, something else flickered—relief, maybe. Relief that you, of all people, shared the same thing he secretly adored.

He bought the popcorn before you could reach for your wallet, handing it over with a flourish as if he were presenting you with some rare treasure. “M’lady,” he said dramatically, bowing again.

Rolling your eyes, you tugged the bucket from his hands, though your smile lingered. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re here with me,” he shot back, following you toward the dark theater doors.

The movie hadn’t even started yet, and already you could feel the edges of your usual banter softening into something else, something less guarded. And though Eddie pretended to be casual, slouching in his seat with his boots propped on the sticky floor, he kept sneaking sidelong glances at you as the lights dimmed—like he couldn’t quite believe you’d chosen this movie, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

The theater lights dimmed, the chatter of the crowd dissolving into the swelling orchestral opening of Labyrinth. The screen bathed the room in pale light, flickering across rows of heads. You shifted the bucket of popcorn onto your lap, stretching your legs into carpet space ahead of you. Eddie slouched low in his seat beside you, a picture of exaggerated casualness, arms folded for all of two minutes before his hand crept toward the popcorn.

“Don’t hog it,” you whispered, nudging the bucket toward him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispered back, already fishing out a handful.

For the first twenty minutes, you were absorbed, eyes fixed on Sarah navigating glittering forests and bizarre creatures. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Eddie watching—sometimes the screen, sometimes you. He looked a little too invested for someone who’d pretended this wasn’t his thing. Every time a puppet cracked a joke, he hid his laugh behind the back of his hand, like letting it out would ruin his tough act.

Then came the cliché.

A low, clearly staged yawn stretched from him, his arm lifting in an arc of theatrics so overdone it could have been in the movie itself. And then—oh so casually—it dropped behind you, on your shoulders, fingers grazing the fabric of your coat.

You turned your head just slightly, meeting his profile lit by the flickering screen. His eyes stayed stubbornly forward, jaw tight with fake innocence.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, focusing hard on the screen. If he noticed the way your shoulders shook with the effort of holding back a laugh, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, Eddie leaned just a fraction closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear: “Smooth, right?”

You gave a quiet huff through your nose, still keeping your eyes ahead. “Ridiculously obvious.”

“Really?” he murmured, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You didn’t answer, only popped another piece of popcorn into your mouth, fighting to hide your grin in the shadows of the theater. Eddie, for his part, looked smug as hell, even as his fingers drummed nervously against your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide if he’d gone too far, or if maybe, just maybe, he’d done exactly enough.

The van rattled to a stop outside your place, headlights washing over the quiet street. The engine gave a final grumble before Eddie killed it, the sudden silence leaving only the ticking of cooling metal and the faint echo of music still humming in your ears from the theater lobby.

You hugged your coat tighter as you shifted in your seat, the faint smell of popcorn still clinging to your fingers. Eddie drummed his rings against the steering wheel for a beat, then finally turned his head toward you, hair falling into his eyes in the low glow of the dashboard.

“So…” he drawled, voice casual but with that undercurrent of nerves he tried to hide. “How’d I do?”

You arched a brow. “Do?”

“Y’know.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “First outing. Movie. Popcorn. Stellar company.” He gave a lopsided grin. “I’m fishing for a review here.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “Hmm. Not terrible.”

He gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Not terrible? That’s all I get? I executed the classic arm move and everything.”

You snorted. “Executed is the right word for it. Subtlety? Zero.”

But your smile gave you away, and Eddie’s grin softened, pride flickering in his eyes like he’d won something anyway. He leaned back, tapping the wheel once more before clearing his throat.

“Okay, but—hypothetically…” His voice dipped a little lower, suddenly less teasing. “If I were to ask you to hang out again… would you?”

You let the silence stretch, turning slowly to meet his gaze. His usual bravado faltered just a little under your pause, like maybe you’d actually make him sweat. Then you let the corner of your mouth lift.

“Yes.”

For a split second, he looked caught off guard, and then that grin broke across his face again—bright, a little wild, the kind that made it hard not to smile back.

You reached for the door handle, but not before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and glancing at him one last time. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

“’Night,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost like he didn’t trust it not to give too much away.

And as you slipped out into the cool night air, Eddie stayed leaning over the steering wheel, watching until you disappeared inside, grinning like he’d just pulled off the heist of the century.

And whether or not you called Karen immediately to tell her all about that night, giggling and swooning, he didn’t have to know.

The rush hit earlier than anyone expected. By noon, every booth was full, counter stools packed tight, and the bell over the door didn’t stop jingling. The air grew thick with fryer heat and chatter, and you could practically feel Biggie’s stress radiating from the kitchen.

You’d just dropped off an order of pancakes when the pass-through window stayed suspiciously empty for too long. Usually Eddie would be there, flipping you a cocky grin along with the plates, but now all you could see was the flare of flames off the grill and Biggie barking something about timing.

When you finally leaned on the counter, tapping your order ticket meaningfully against the metal ledge, Eddie shot you a look fro. His curls were sticking to his forehead, and for once, his smirk was gone.

“Don’t even start,” he said, spatula clattering as he tried to keep up with three different pans at once.

“I wasn’t gonna,” you said sweetly, though the edge of impatience slipped through. “But my table’s starting to wonder if they’re eating lunch or waiting for dinner.”

“Tell them the chef is a perfectionist,” he grumbled, flipping a patty with more force than necessary.

Biggie barked from the fryer station: “Tell them the chef’s drowning!”

Eddie shot him a glare. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Boss.”

You could already feel the tension building—customers starting to shift in their booths, forks tapping on tabletops. If you let it boil too long, the whole shift would tip into disaster territory.

So you improvised.

You grabbed a tray, snagged a basket of fries fresh from the fryer (the one thing they were ahead on), and portioned them into little red plastic bowls. With your brightest waitress smile, you swooped through the dining room, setting them down one by one.

“Compliments of the kitchen,” you announced, voice carrying just enough to hit the back booths. “Our fry guy’s in a generous mood.”

Eddie’s head whipped toward you from the pass-through, spatula frozen midair. “What the hell are you doing?” he mouthed.

You ignored him, dropping another basket on a table of high schoolers who instantly lit up. “Don’t worry, folks—burgers are worth the wait,” you added cheerfully, as though the whole thing was part of a plan.

Within minutes, the restless shifting turned into casual snacking, the edge of irritation smoothed out with salt and grease. By the time you circled back to the counter, Eddie was leaning on the ledge, spatula tapping against the metal rhythmically. His smirk had returned, though it looked a little tighter around the edges.

“You just gave away half my hard-earned fries,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, propping a hand on your hip. “Crisis averted.”

“Or crisis caused, depending on how Biggie tallies the inventory.”

“Please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You’ll thank me when no one storms out.”

Biggie’s voice bellowed from behind Eddie: “She’s right, Munson!”

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Then, quieter, just for you: “You know you’re way too good at this, right?”

The heat in the kitchen wasn’t just from the grill anymore, and you had to busy yourself with refilling coffee mugs to keep from smiling too wide.

Sure enough, once the fry distraction bought the kitchen a little breathing room, plates started sliding onto the pass-through one after another. Eddie worked like a man possessed, sleeves pushed up, curls sticking damply to his temple as he barked times back and forth with Biggie. Within fifteen minutes, the backlog had cleared, trays of burgers and shakes weaving their way out to every booth.

The diner’s mood shifted right along with it. Customers leaned back into their seats, laughing again, munching fries between bites of their meals like they’d never been impatient in the first place. Even the truckers at table three—your usual grumblers—were cracking jokes as you topped off their cherry Cokes.

When you swung back to the counter, Eddie was there waiting, one arm braced against the ledge. His cheeks were flushed from the heat, hair escaping everywhere from under his cap, but he was grinning like he’d just won a battle.

“Well,” you said, balancing an empty tray against your hip. “Look at that. Everyone’s fed, no riots, no casualties.”

Eddie pointed his spatula at you. “Because of me.”

You scoffed. “Because of me and my genius complimentary fries idea.”

“That was reckless,” he argued, though there wasn’t much fire behind it. “You could’ve doomed us all.”

“Or,” you said, leaning just close enough to drop your voice, “I saved your ass.”

His smirk faltered—just for a second—before it came back sharper, softer somehow. He twirled the spatula like a drumstick, shrugging. “Guess I’ll allow it this time.”

Biggie clattered a pan onto the drying rack behind him. “You two done flirting or should I get a mop for the counter?”

Your head snapped toward the kitchen boss, cheeks heating, but Eddie only laughed—loud, unbothered.

By the time the chairs were flipped onto tables and the last of the coffee pots were scrubbed out, the diner had settled into its usual late-night quiet. You tugged off your apron and slung it over the counter, rubbing at the faint smell of fryer grease that clung to your uniform.

Eddie was waiting by the door, jacket half-zipped, hair still a little wild from the kitchen heat. For once, he didn’t look like he was about to crack a joke.

“Hey,” he said, catching your attention before you could step past him. He shifted his weight, scratching at the back of his neck, then let out a short laugh like he hated that he was being earnest. “You, uh… did good today. With the fries thing. Really took the pressure off.”

You blinked, thrown by the sudden sincerity. “Well, someone had to save your kitchen kingdom.”

That got you a crooked grin. “Yeah, yeah. But seriously—good job. Thanks.”

And before you could get a word in edgewise, his hand came up, ruffling your hair in a quick, boyish motion. The gesture was so casual, so utterly Eddie, that you just stood there with your mouth open as he strolled out the door.

By the time you caught up, he was already crossing the lot toward his beat-up van, keys jingling in his hand. He glanced back once, just long enough to flash you that grin again—the softer one, not the troublemaker’s smirk—before climbing in.

The engine roared to life, and you were left standing under the hum of the diner’s sign, hair mussed, heart hammering way harder than a simple “good job” should’ve allowed.

Another dinner rush had faded, leaving only the low hum of the refrigeration units and the occasional clink of silverware from the stragglers. You were wiping down the counter when the front door chimed, letting in a burst of cool air and three familiar figures.

Gareth, Jeff, and Doug shuffled in like they owned the place, each of them grinning as they headed straight for their usual booth in the back. Jeff tossed you a lazy salute, Gareth immediately sprawling across the bench like he’d just run a marathon, and Doug called out, “Hey, superstar waitress, what’s good tonight?”

You didn’t need to look at the clock to know why they were here. Corroded Coffin always rolled in late, just late enough that Eddie could slip away from the grill without Biggie barking at him.

“Same as always,” you said, grabbing your notepad out of habit even though you could recite their order in your sleep. “Three burgers, three fries, three Cokes.”

“Make mine a shake,” Gareth cut in, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. “Vanilla. Band practice was brutal.”

“Practice,” Jeff muttered, smirking. “You mean you couldn’t keep time if someone stapled the beat to your forehead.”

“You wanna fight, man?” Gareth shot back, but the half-asleep look on his face gave him away.

You shook your head, scribbling the order anyway, when Eddie appeared through the swinging doors. He’d shed his apron, cap stuffed in his back pocket, and the second he spotted his bandmates, his whole face lit up.

“Look at this sorry bunch,” he said, striding over like he wasn’t still technically on the clock. “What, garage run outta chips again?”

Jeff snorted. “Nah, figured we’d mooch off your employee discount instead.”

Eddie slid into the booth beside Gareth without hesitation, draping an arm across the back of the seat. He looked lighter here, out from behind the grill, like slipping into his other world was as easy as changing shirts.

You stood there with your pad, arching a brow. “You’re actually gonna make me write this down when I already know it?”

“Hey, don’t ruin the illusion,” Eddie shot back, grin tugging at his mouth. “Makes it seem official.”

You rolled your eyes but scribbled anyway, mostly for show. “Fine.”

“You have bad customer service,” Eddie said instantly, and his friends laughed like they’d heard this kind of exchange a hundred times before.

The booth was a mess of fry baskets and empty ketchup packets by the time the band’s chatter turned serious—or as serious as Corroded Coffin ever got. Gareth leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, drumming absentmindedly on the salt shaker.

“So,” he said, glancing at Eddie. “We’re still good for Friday, right? The Hideout’s expecting us.”

Jeff smirked. “Expecting us to bring five friends and drink just enough to cover the power bill.”

Doug shrugged, already halfway through his second Coke. “Hey, a gig’s a gig.”

You had just approached with the water pitcher, ready to top them off, when Eddie spread his hands dramatically. “Gentlemen, this is not just a gig. This is the night Corroded Coffin shreds Hawkins to its very core.”

“Yeah, until the amps short out again,” Gareth muttered.

“Operator error,” Eddie shot back, jabbing a finger at him. “Don’t slander the gear.”

You poured water into Jeff’s glass, trying not to smile as the conversation washed over you. But when Eddie leaned back with that lopsided grin, bragging about their setlist, curiosity got the better of you.

“You’ve got a show?” you asked, glancing between them as you filled Gareth’s cup.

All four of them looked up at once, like they hadn’t realized you were actually listening. Eddie’s grin widened instantly. “Why, sweetheart, you interested?”

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “I was just asking.”

“It’s at The Hideout,” Doug jumped in, eager. “Friday night. We start at, like, ten. You should come.”

Jeff smirked into his glass. “Yeah, we could use an unbiased critic who doesn’t have a guitar in his hands.”

Eddie leaned an elbow on the back of the booth, eyes fixed on you. “You’d like it. Loud, chaotic… kinda like a diner during rush.”

You lifted a brow, meeting his look head-on. “Guess I’ll just have to see if I’m free.”

Gareth let out a low whistle, elbowing Eddie not-so-subtly. Eddie only shoved him back, still grinning, but when you turned to walk away with your water pitcher, you caught the flicker of something softer in his expression—like maybe the idea of you being there mattered more than he’d admit.

The Hideout was exactly the kind of place you’d expect a band like Eddie’s to play—dim neon lights buzzing over a haze of cigarette smoke, sticky floors, and a stage barely raised above the crowd. A handful of regulars nursed beers at the bar, while a couple of high school kids loitered by the corner, pretending they weren’t too young to be there.

You slipped through the door just as the noise in the room swelled—Eddie and his band climbing onto the stage. Gareth twirled his sticks, Jeff fiddled with the amp cords, Doug tuned the bass with a practiced scowl. And then there was Eddie—hair loose around his shoulders, guitar strap slung across him, confidence radiating like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact spotlight.

He leaned toward the mic, flashing a grin at the crowd—or maybe just to himself—and tapped it with two rings. “Alright, Hawkins,” he drawled, voice rough but electric. “Let’s make some noise.”

The first chord ripped through the room, gritty and loud enough to vibrate in your chest. Heads turned, conversations stalled. It wasn’t polished—raw edges everywhere—but it was alive. Eddie was alive.

You hadn’t expected much when you walked in, but seeing him there—grinning wide, lost in the music, every bit the showman—it was impossible not to be caught up in it.

And when his gaze swept across the room mid-song, snagging on you for just a second, his grin stretched wider. Like he’d been waiting to see if you’d show.

The music hit fast and heavy, no warm-up, no easing in. Just Gareth pounding the drums like he was trying to break them, Jeff grinding out power chords that rattled the amp, Doug keeping the bass steady underneath it all. It was loud, unpolished, and unapologetic.

And Eddie—Eddie owned it.

He prowled the tiny stage, hair whipping with every sharp tilt of his head, rings catching the stage lights as his fingers tore across the fretboard. He wasn’t just playing; he was performing.

And then his eyes found you again.

It wasn’t long—just a flick, a half-beat too long on your face before he turned back to the mic—but you felt it all the same. That grin of his shifted, sharper, like he’d just been given the best kind of secret.

By the time their final song crashed to an end, Eddie ripped one last scream from his guitar, holding it high like a victory banner. The room erupted—small as the audience was, it was enough to shake the walls.

And over the noise, Eddie looked for you again. Not the crowd, not the bar. You.

You clapped until your palms stung, and when his grin split wide and wild in return, it felt like maybe he’d just played the whole set for you alone.

The amps buzzed as the last note faded, Gareth throwing his sticks onto the snare with a flourish while Jeff muttered something about needing new cables. The crowd scattered quickly, most heading back to the bar, leaving only a few lingering claps and whistles in the air.

Eddie set his guitar down gently—surprisingly gently for the way he’d manhandled it on stage—and jumped down, weaving through the tables until he found you against the wall. His face was flushed, sweat glinting at his temples, curls sticking to his neck. Still, that grin hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Well?” he asked, spreading his arms wide like he needed you to hand down a verdict. “Did we rock your world or what?”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Not terrible.”

He pressed a hand over his heart, staggering back a step like you’d mortally wounded him. “Not terrible? Again? After I nearly set the strings on fire for you?”

“You looked like you were having fun,” you said, tone lighter than the words.

“Fun,” he repeated, grinning crookedly. “Yeah. Guess I was.”

For a moment, neither of you filled the silence—his breathing still heavy from the set, your pulse still humming with the noise of it all. Then, almost abruptly, Eddie glanced down at himself, tugging at his sweat-soaked shirt with a grimace.

“Christ, I probably look like hell,” he admitted. “And smell worse.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Eddie, I see you in the kitchen every day. This isn’t that different.”

That startled him into a chuckle, a real one, low and a little disbelieving. He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck as if you’d said something far kinder than you meant to. “Guess you’ve got a point. Fry grease, sweat… stage sweat. Same thing.”

“Almost the same,” you teased.

“Almost,” he echoed, meeting your eyes again with a look softer than the grin he wore on stage—like maybe the chaos of the performance hadn’t burned all the way out of him yet.

Eddie was still rubbing the back of his neck, half-embarrassed, when the words slipped out of you before you could think twice.

“You still look good, though.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide for half a beat like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then that grin started creeping back in, slow and smug, but with just enough warmth under it to give him away.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled, leaning a little closer. “Sweaty, half-dead Munson still does it for you?”

You rolled your eyes, heat rising in your cheeks. “Don’t push it.”

“Too late,” he shot back instantly, smirk widening.

You shook your head, biting back your own smile. “Honestly, though… you surprised me.”

He arched a brow. “Surprised? Thought I’d trip over the amp and take Gareth down with me?”

“I mean,” you said, drawing it out like you were weighing every word, “I was expecting, you know… a shitty garage band.”

Eddie gasped, hand flying to his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Was expecting?!”

“Keyword: was,” you teased, holding his gaze. “Turns out you’re… not half bad.”

“Not half bad?” he echoed, staggering back a step like he’d been shot. “Sweetheart, that’s practically a rave review from you.”

You laughed, unable to help it, and Eddie’s grin softened just a fraction at the sound. For all the dramatics, for all the swagger he’d carried on stage, here with you he seemed almost lighter—like your words mattered more than the applause had.

By the time the gear was packed away and the crowd had thinned, Eddie jingled his keys in his hand, leaning toward you with that familiar lopsided grin.

“C’mon. I’ll give you a ride. Perks of knowing the talent.”

You arched a brow. “Oh, talent, is it?”

“Damn right,” he said, holding the door open with a mock bow before leading you out to the van.

The drive back was quieter than you expected. The van rattled like it always did, an old cassette of Dio humming low in the deck, but Eddie wasn’t filling the silence with his usual wisecracks. Every so often, you’d catch him drumming his rings against the steering wheel, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye before looking quickly back at the road.

When he finally pulled up to your place, the engine gave its usual protesting cough as he shut it off. The world outside was hushed, porch lights glowing faint in the dark. Eddie climbed out without hesitation and rounded the van to walk you up the path, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

At your door, you turned to face him, the night air cool against your skin after the stuffy warmth of the Hideout.

“Well,” you said, shifting your weight. “Thanks for the ride.”

He nodded, rocking back on his heels. “Thanks for, uh… y’know. Showing up. Didn’t think you’d actually…” He trailed off, shrugging like the rest didn’t matter.

“Yeah, well,” you said softly, “I was curious about your rockstar persona.”

That grin tugged at his mouth again, a little crooked, a little shy around the edges. For a beat too long, he just stood there, looking at you like he was deciding something. His hand twitched at his side, then he leaned in—close enough that you felt the warmth of him, close enough you thought maybe—

But at the last second, he chickened out.

Instead, his hand shot up to ruffle your hair in that boyish, maddening way, leaving it mussed as he stepped back with a grin that was far too casual to be believable.

“Goodnight, waitress,” he said, voice a little softer than usual.

You huffed, fixing your hair, though you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Goodnight, cook.”

He lingered a second longer before backing away, heading for the van. You stood at the door until the headlights faded down the street, your hair still in disarray and your heart thumping like maybe you’d just been cheated out of something—though somehow, the ruffle still felt like a promise.

The lunch rush was already pushing everyone to their limits—coffee cups draining faster than you could refill them, plates of burgers flying out in every direction, Biggie barking for someone to mop up a spill near the counter. You were three steps from losing your “waitress smile” when the front door chimed and a newcomer slid into a booth by the window.

She looked harmless enough—just passing through, maybe—but the second she opened her mouth, you knew it was trouble.

“I’ll take a Big Belly Burger,” She said, tapping the menu thoughtfully, “but no bun. And can you sub the fries for a salad? Oh, and no onions. Actually… make it no cheese, too. But can you add mushrooms? And… can the patty be well-done, but not too well-done?”

By the time she finished, you were gripping your pen like it might snap. “...Right. Got it,” you said, because arguing was pointless.

The kitchen was its usual storm of sizzling grease and shouted timings when you slipped through the swinging doors and slapped the ticket onto the counter. Eddie snagged it without looking, spatula spinning in his fingers. But as his eyes scanned the order, his brow furrowed, then furrowed deeper, until he looked up at you with utter betrayal.

“What the fuck is this?” he demanded, waving the ticket like it was written in code.

“Don’t look at me,” you shot back, leaning an elbow on the ledge. “I just take the notes. That—” you pointed at the paper—“is all them.”

Eddie jabbed the ticket toward the grill like it had personally offended him. “No bun? No cheese? Fries swapped for a salad? Who even is this person?”

“New in town,” you said flatly. “Apparently from the planet ‘Make Eddie’s Life Difficult.’”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is sacrilege. A burger without a bun is just—meat. That’s not a burger. That’s sadness on a plate.”

“Welcome to customer service,” you said sweetly, though the edge of your voice betrayed your own fraying patience.

The diner bell chimed again out front, and you glanced back to see another group sliding into a booth. You sighed. “Anyway, good luck with that. I’ll be drowning in refills if you need me.”

Eddie threw his arms wide. “Oh, sure, abandon me in my darkest hour.”

Meanwhile, the grill hissed angrily behind him, and the ticket still fluttered in his fingers like a curse.

Somehow—miraculously—Eddie actually pulled it off. The patty came out dark but not burnt, topped with mushrooms, perched miserably on a plate beside a sad little house salad Biggie had thrown together. No bun, no fries, no cheese—nothing that made it look like it belonged in Big Belly’s at all. Eddie shoved it into the pass-through with a scowl like he was personally offended.

“There,” he said, spatula clattering against the counter. “A crime against burgers. Delivered without love.”

You shot him a look but took the plate anyway, balancing it on your tray as you wove back into the dining room.

The newcomer was waiting, arms crossed, a tight little smile on her face like she’d been timing you. You set the plate down gently in front of her.

“Big Belly Burger, no bun, no cheese, mushrooms added, salad instead of fries,” you said, professional as you could manage despite the chaos buzzing behind you.

She looked at the plate. Then at you. Then back at the plate.

“What is this?” she snapped.

You blinked. “Uh—your order.”

Her expression twisted into something sharp. “Are you stupid? This isn’t what I asked for.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “I—this is exactly what you said. Burger, no bun, no cheese—”

“Don’t you dare talk back to me,” she cut in, voice loud enough that a couple of truckers at the counter glanced over. “This is pathetic. You can’t even get a simple order right? God, no wonder you’re stuck in this dump.”

The words landed like slaps, sharper for how easily she threw them. Your practiced waitress smile faltered for the first time all shift, your throat tightening as you clutched your tray to your side.

The customer gave a scoff, pushing the plate away like it was contaminated. “Unbelievable. Absolutely incompetent.”

And suddenly the noise of the diner—the hiss of the grill, the chatter of the booths, the clatter of cutlery—felt miles away, all of it drowned out by her voice, by the sting of it.

You tried to swallow the heat burning in your chest, tried to paste that waitress smile back on, but the woman wasn’t letting up.

“You must be new,” she sneered, eyes flicking over your uniform. “No one with half a brain could last long in a place like this. Honestly, how do you people even stay open? The food looks like garbage, and the service is even worse.”

Your grip on the tray tightened, knuckles white. A dozen comebacks sat on your tongue, but you bit down hard on every one of them—because what was the point?

Then the kitchen doors banged open.

“Alright, what’s the problem now?” Eddie’s voice cut through, dry and sharp as a blade. He still had his apron on, spatula in hand like he’d stormed out mid-flip. His gaze snapped from you to the customer, and his grin was nowhere in sight. “’Cause if you’re complaining about the food, lady, I cooked it exactly the way you ordered it.”

The customer turned her sharpness on him in an instant. “Oh, wonderful. The cook. Figures.” She gave him a once-over, curling her lip. “What kind of kitchen lets someone like you handle food? You look filthy. Disgusting, really.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the spatula like he was fighting not to let loose everything in his head. “Listen here Wicked Witch of the West, say what you want about me,” he said, voice low, “but you don’t get to talk to her like that.”

Before the woman could bite back, another voice rumbled from behind him—deep, booming, and far less patient.

“Excuse me?”

The customer’s head snapped up just as Biggie stepped out of the kitchen, towel still slung over one massive shoulder. The man lived up to his nickname—broad, tall, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. His usually warm face was set in stone.

“Who,” he asked slowly, voice carrying across the diner, “are you to talk to my employees like that?”

The woman froze, all her sharp edges crumbling under the weight of his stare. Around the diner, regulars had gone quiet, watching with open curiosity. The customer shifted in her seat, suddenly small against the booth.

“I—I was just saying—”

“No.” Biggie’s voice was final, heavy as a gavel. “You were insulting my cook. My waitress. My diner. If you don’t like it here, you can leave. Now.”

Color drained from her face. She sputtered, muttered something under her breath, and finally grabbed her purse with a huff. The legs of the booth squeaked as she scrambled out, the whole diner’s eyes following her as she stalked toward the door.

The bell chimed as it swung shut behind her. Silence held for a beat—then a couple of the truckers clapped, and laughter rippled through the room, easy and relieving.

Eddie finally let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Well. That was fun.”

Biggie only grunted, heading back to the kitchen with a mutter of “Don’t let her waste my plates.”

The rest of the shift blurred by in a haze of clinking glasses and the hiss of the fryer. You kept your head down, smile fixed but dimmer than usual, every “top you off?” and “anything else tonight?” running on autopilot. The regulars still laughed, still tipped, but the spark you usually carried—the one Eddie never stopped noticing—just wasn’t there.

From behind the pass-through, he watched you. Saw how your shoulders drooped just a little more with every table, how your smile never quite reached your eyes. And it made his chest twist in a way he couldn’t shake.

By the time the last table cleared and the chairs were flipped onto the booths, Eddie was waiting by the door, leaning against the frame with his jacket slung over one shoulder. You tugged your apron off, folding it neatly, ready to slip past him with a tired “see you tomorrow.”

But he caught your arm.

“Hey.”

You blinked up at him. His grin was there, but softer, not the cocky one he wore behind the grill. He studied you for a second, then—without warning—he reached out and framed your face in his palms, squishing your cheeks together.

“Look at this face,” he said, exaggeratedly mournful. “All sad and pouty. Can’t have that. It’s a diner crime.”

You let out a muffled chuckle, your words garbled against his hands. “Ehd-dee—”

He wiggled your cheeks between his palms, eyes wide with mock-seriousness. “Nope. Not allowed. Smile regulation: strictly enforced.”

Despite yourself, a real laugh bubbled out, and you swatted at his wrists until he finally let go. Your cheeks were warm, partly from his hands, partly from laughing harder than you’d meant to.

“There she is,” Eddie said, his grin settling into something softer, more genuine. “Knew you were still in there.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heaviness in your chest had lifted just a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but it worked.” He slung his jacket fully on and gave you a small, crooked smile. “Don’t let some jerk knock the shine off you, alright? You’re too good at this job to let her win.”

For a moment, the quiet hum of the empty diner was the only thing between you. Then you nodded, tugging your coat tighter. “Thanks, Munson.”

He only ruffled your hair—gentler this time—before pushing the door open for you. “Anytime, waitress.”

Your room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp on your nightstand. A record hummed faintly in the background, needle crackling as you flipped through a book halfheartedly. It was the first night in weeks you hadn’t had to smell fryer grease or hear the hiss of a flat-top grill, and the stillness almost felt strange.

Then—three sharp knocks rattled your window.

You froze, heart jumping before you crept toward the glass. When you tugged the curtain aside, you nearly laughed out loud.

There was Eddie, standing on the patch of lawn outside, curls spilling wild under the streetlight, leather jacket zipped up against the chill. In his hands he held a grease-stained cardboard box like it was a treasure chest.

“Pizza delivery,” he said, grinning wide, tapping the box for emphasis.

You slid the window open an inch, leaning against the frame. “Pretty sure I didn’t order anything.”

“Lucky for you, I don’t check receipts,” he quipped. “House special: one large pepperoni, no bun, no cheese, mushrooms added.”

You snorted, unable to stop yourself. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s hilarious,” he countered, eyes glinting. “C’mon, you laughed.”

The night air slipped in, cool against your skin, while he shifted his weight, tilting his head up at you like some backwards Romeo. For a moment you both just stood there, divided by the glass, the strangeness of it making you grin.

“Seriously, Munson,” you said, voice softening, “what are you doing here?”

“I was bored. Thought I’d drop by. Share some fine Italian cuisine.” He lifted the box again with a flourish. “Figured you could use a break from diner food.”

You leaned your chin against the sill, smiling despite yourself. “You know you look ridiculous right now, right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “But I also look heroic, standing out here in the cold with piping hot pizza. Which brings me to my next point…” He gestured dramatically toward the night sky, then fixed you with an exaggerated pout. “Are you really gonna let me—and this innocent, defenseless pizza—freeze to death out here?”

You sighed, shaking your head, but your hand was already on the latch. “Alright, fine. Get in before the neighbors call the cops on you.”

Eddie’s grin widened as you shoved the window open, and with all the grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times in his head but never once in real life, he swung a leg over the sill and half-tumbled inside. The pizza box tilted dangerously in his hands, but somehow, miraculously, it survived.

“Ta-da,” he announced, straightening up like he hadn’t just made a complete mess of climbing through.

You arched a brow. “Very smooth.”

“I meant to do that,” he said breezily, plopping himself cross-legged onto the floor and setting the box down in front of him. He popped the lid open with a flourish, steam curling into the room. “Behold. Dinner of champions.”

You hesitated a moment, arms crossed, but the smell was too good to resist. With a small shake of your head, you lowered yourself onto the carpet beside him, tucking your legs under you.

“Don’t say I never bring you anything,” Eddie said, offering you the first slice with a dramatic bow of his head.

You took it, biting back a smile. “Very generous. Totally worth climbing through a window for.”

“Exactly. This is romance, sweetheart. Shakespeare had nothing on me.”

You laughed around your first bite, leaning back against the side of your bed as you chewed. The two of you sat there in the soft glow of your lamp, sharing pizza on the floor, trading pieces back and forth until greasy napkins littered the box lid.

For once, there was no diner rush, no angry customers, no stress. Just the warmth of Eddie beside you, licking pizza grease off his thumb and talking with his mouth full, and the quiet realization that nights like this felt… easy.

The pizza box was nothing but grease stains and empty space by the time you leaned back with a satisfied sigh. Only one lonely crust sat abandoned in the middle—the one you’d been saving.

Eddie’s eyes zeroed in on it instantly.

“You finished with that?” he asked, already reaching.

You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

“Cool,” he said, snatching it up anyway. He took a huge bite, grinning through the mouthful. “Now you are.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head as you balled up a napkin and tossed it at him.

He caught it one-handed, looking far too pleased with himself, but the smugness didn’t last. You leaned forward suddenly, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth where a smear of pizza sauce and crumbs clung.

“There,” you said simply, wiping your hand on your own napkin. “You’re a mess.”

Eddie didn’t freeze or flinch—he just went a little sheepish, laughing under his breath as he rubbed at the same spot like he could erase the evidence of your touch. “What can I say? High-class dining brings out the animal in me.”

You snorted. “You’re lucky I don’t work room service, or you’d have been blacklisted already.”

“Please. You’d miss me.”

The words were easy, teasing—but the way he looked at you then, soft in the glow of your bedside lamp, made it feel like there was more weight under them than he’d ever admit out loud.

“Maybe I would,” you said quietly, surprising yourself as much as him.

For a moment, Eddie didn’t joke back. His grin faltered into something smaller, gentler. He tilted his head, studying you like he wasn’t sure if you were teasing or telling the truth.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice lower now, stripped of its usual bravado.

You shrugged, trying to play it off, though your chest felt tight. “I mean… you make shifts less miserable. And nights like this—” You gestured vaguely at the empty pizza box between you. “I don’t hate it.”

Eddie laughed softly, but it wasn’t his usual sharp bark. It was warm, almost nervous, like he couldn’t believe you’d said it out loud. He leaned back on his palms, hair falling loose around his shoulders, and for once there was no smirk—just a boy sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, looking at you like you’d cracked him open.

“You know,” he said, voice thoughtful now, “I wasn’t sure you’d let me in tonight. Figured you’d call me an idiot and shut the window.”

“Maybe I should’ve,” you teased, but it came out softer than you meant.

“But you didn’t.” He gave a little shrug, like it mattered more than he wanted to admit.

Silence stretched between you, not heavy, just… charged. You realized you were still sitting close, knees brushing lightly, his rings glinting in the lamplight as his fingers drummed nervously against the carpet.

And then—like it was the simplest thing in the world—Eddie leaned in.

Slow enough that you could’ve stopped him. Slow enough that you didn’t want to.

His lips brushed yours, tentative at first, tasting faintly of pepperoni and soda, and the world seemed to narrow to just that—his breath, his warmth, the way his hand hovered uncertainly before resting against the side of your face like he needed the anchor.

It wasn’t dramatic or perfect. It was a little clumsy, a little nervous. But it was real.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, he searched your face with wide, uncertain eyes. “That okay?” he murmured.

You smiled, heart hammering. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

Relief broke across his face in a grin that was equal parts joy and disbelief, and he ducked his head like he couldn’t quite handle it.

You stayed there on the floor together, the empty pizza box forgotten as the minutes stretched. The conversation drifted in circles—music, movies, the diner—nothing world-changing, just the kind of easy talk that felt like you could get lost in forever. Every so often Eddie leaned over again, stealing another kiss, a little bolder each time, and every time you kissed him back, you felt the nerves in him melt just a little more.

Eventually, though, he sighed, glancing at the clock on your nightstand. “I should probably head home before the van decides to die in your driveway.”

You walked him back to the window, the cool night air spilling in as he swung a leg over the sill with considerably more grace this time. He landed lightly on the grass, then turned back to you, hands in his jacket pockets, grin tugging at his lips.

“So…” he drawled, rocking back on his heels. “Girlfriend?”

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Really, Munson? That’s the best you’ve got? You can do better than that.”

He let out a mock groan. “Everyone’s a critic these days.” Then, tilting his head up at you with a lopsided grin: “Fine. Will you give me the honor and be my girlfriend?”

This time you let the smile show, leaning just a little further out the window. “Yes.”

Eddie’s grin exploded into something bright and wild, and before you could second-guess it, he leaned up and caught your mouth in one last kiss—warm and quick, but it left your pulse racing anyway.

When he finally stepped back, he was still grinning, eyes shining like he’d just pulled off the impossible. He gave you a little salute, turned, and practically skipped toward his van, boots scuffing against the pavement in a celebratory bounce he didn’t bother to hide.

You stayed at the window, chin resting on your arms as you laughed watching him go, his figure lit by the streetlights until he climbed into the van. The engine sputtered to life, and even as he drove off, you couldn’t stop smiling.

The morning rush hadn’t hit yet, but the diner was already humming—coffee brewing, booths filling one by one, the hiss of bacon from the back kitchen. Everyone was in place: Karen wiping down the counter, Biggie barking about a missing order of hash browns, you moving between tables with your notepad at the ready.

The bell over the door jingled, and in strolled Eddie—late as usual, curls barely contained under his Big Belly’s cap, leather jacket slung over one arm. “Good morning, lovely people!”

“Morning, sunshine,” Karen called, rolling her eyes.

“Munson,” Biggie barked from the kitchen, not even looking up.

“Boss,” Eddie replied cheerfully, giving him a two-fingered salute. He made his way down the diner, exchanging nods and lazy greetings like nothing in the world was out of the ordinary.

And then he passed you.

“Morning,” you said lightly, slipping by with a pot of coffee in hand.

Eddie paused mid-step, glanced at you, then stopped entirely. “Oh—wait.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Forgot something,” he said casually.

Before you could ask what, he turned back, caught you gently by the wrist, and pulled you into a kiss. Right there in the middle of the diner.

It wasn’t long—quick, soft—but it was unmistakable.

The room froze for half a heartbeat. Then—

Gasps. Laughter. A cheer from one of the truckers at the counter. Karen clapped her hands together with a squeal, while someone from the back shouted, “Finally!”

Your face burned as Eddie pulled back, that cocky grin plastered across his mouth like he’d just won the lottery. He gave an exaggerated bow to the peanut gallery, then winked at you before sauntering toward the kitchen as though he hadn’t just caused a scene.

“Let's do a good job, sweetheart,” he tossed over his shoulder, absolutely smug.

You stood frozen with the coffee pot in hand, your coworkers still buzzing with laughter and commentary, and all you could think was—of course he’d make it public like that.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The first thing you noticed was the warmth. The second was the ache in your legs that reminded you exactly why you were waking up tangled in Eddie’s sheets, his arm slung heavy across your waist. Sunlight slanted in through the blinds of his trailer window, catching the dust motes in the air and the soft mess of curls tickling your shoulder.

You shifted slightly, and Eddie groaned low in his throat, pulling you closer before blinking his eyes open. His grin spread slow and lazy across his face, like he’d been waiting all night for this exact moment.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice rough with sleep. “Sleep okay? Or did I wear you out too much?”

You smirked, tilting your head toward him. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected, nosing at your neck, pressing a kiss just under your jaw. “There’s a difference.”

You laughed softly, but it broke into a gasp when his hand slid across your hip, tugging you closer. “Eddie…”

“Mhm?” he hummed, mouth trailing down your collarbone. “Don’t mind me. Just appreciating my girl.”

“Pretty sure you did plenty of that last night.”

“Not enough,” he shot back without missing a beat, his lips brushing your skin with every word.

You shoved lightly at his shoulder, grinning despite yourself. “God, you’re insatiable.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, hair falling into his face, grin absolutely wicked. “Say the word, and I’ll make you a very happy woman all over again.”

For a moment, you considered it. His eyes glinted, his hand already tugging at the sheet, but then you arched a brow and leaned close enough that he thought you might actually take him up on it.

“You know what else would make me happy?” you murmured.

Eddie froze for half a second, then smirked. “Do tell.”

You grinned. “If you made me breakfast. Preferably pancakes.”

He stared at you, utterly betrayed. “Pancakes?”

“Yes, pancakes,” you said sweetly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “With syrup. And maybe bacon if you’re feeling generous.”

Eddie groaned, flopping back against the pillow like you’d just asked him to scale a mountain. “Ten months together, and this is what it’s come to. I bare my soul—and my body—and you want pancakes?”

You leaned over him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth before pulling away with a smirk. “Yup. Pancakes.”

His grin returned in full force, mischievous and warm all at once. “Fine. But only because you’re cute when you beg.”

“Beg?” you scoffed.

“You just did,” he teased, sliding out of bed with a stretch. “And for pancakes, no less. Don’t say I never spoil you, sweetheart.”

The trailer smelled like butter and sugar, the kind of sweetness that stuck to the air. Eddie stood at the stove in nothing but sweatpants, hair pulled back haphazardly, spatula in hand. He hummed something familiar as he flipped the last pancake onto the growing stack, tongue peeking out in concentration like it was the most important performance of his life.

“Voilà,” he declared, turning with a flourish as he set the plate down on the table between you. The pancakes weren’t perfect—edges a little uneven, one definitely darker than the others—but they were stacked high, steam curling up like a promise.

You cut into the first bite, fork sliding through the fluffy center, syrup dripping down the sides. The second it hit your tongue, your eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my god. Heaven.”

Eddie’s grin spread wide, smug and boyish all at once. “Yeah?”

You licked a bit of syrup from your lip, giving him a pointed look. “See, I knew I was smart dating a cook.”

He laughed, sliding into the chair across from you, his knee brushing against yours under the table. “So that’s all I am to you, huh? Free food and pancakes on demand?”

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Among other things.”

Something shifted in his grin then—still playful, but gentler around the edges. He leaned forward, chin propped on his hand as he watched you eat like you were the whole show. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Good trouble,” you corrected, nudging his foot with yours.

“The best kind,” he agreed, reaching across the table to brush his thumb over your knuckles. His rings were cool, but his touch was warm, grounding.

For a moment, the world was just that—the smell of syrup, the sunlight spilling across the table, and Eddie looking at you like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“You really like ’em?” he asked softly.

“I love them,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze. “And you.”

His grin turned shy then, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned across the table and kissed you—slow, sweet, tasting faintly of syrup and butter—before pulling back just enough to whisper, “Best damn review I’ve ever gotten.”