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Hi!! Your geta fic was so beautifully written and I loved it so much đ Itâs inspired me to be more mindful of my writing. I like how poetically you write and would like to do that someday. Have a good week!
gosh, that is such a compliment đ„ș thank you for saying that, i'm glad you enjoyed it! hope you have a good one too!
Summary: Rome does not change without resistance. As Geta grows into a ruler guided by thought instead of cruelty, his twin Caracalla begins to unravelâhis illness ignored, his rage unchecked. When violence erupts, love turns to fear, and fear turns into control.
Part 1
Tags: Establish relationship, Geta is obsessed, Geta is down bad, reader is an intellectual, reader is just as obsessed, fighting, cw: physical attack on reader, political, hurt/comfort, Caracalla is not okay, dialogue heavy. No description of reader. No use of Y/N.
A/N: I had to make Caracalla the villain, sorry to any Caracalla fans đ If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.
Word Count: 7.0K
Masterlist
The library door opens. You donât look up at first. The sound is familiarâthe muted scrape of wood against stone, the soft echo of footsteps youâve learned to recognize. Youâre already forming the words youâll 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 threatâthe kind that demands space even when it hasnât earned it.
Caracalla watches you like youâre an object misplaced among the shelves.
âSo,â he says at last, voice low and curling with contempt, âthis is the whore my brotherâs been seeing.â
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 flawlessâneither submissive nor defiant. Simply correct.
âI donât believe weâve been properly introduced,â you say calmly. âI am Marcus Aelius Severianusâ daughter.â
His mouth twitches, unimpressed. âI know who you are.â
âThen allow me to finish,â you reply, tone still even. âCourtesy suggests that if you choose to insult someone, you should at least do them the respect of knowing their name.â
His laugh is short, ugly.
âYou speak boldly for a woman who owes everything she has to my brotherâs attention,â Caracalla says, circling the table as his eyes rake over you. âI expected more. Something⊠remarkable.â He gestures vaguely at you. âYou donât look special.â
You clasp your hands behind your back, unbothered. âAnd yet,â you say lightly, âhere you are.â
His eyes narrow. âIâve seen women like you before,â he continues, warming to his cruelty. âPretty enough to distract. Clever enough to pretend they matter. You whisper, he listens, and suddenly Rome is expected to bend around your sentiments.â
You say nothing. You let him speak.
âYouâre not a general. Youâre not a senator. Youâre not even useful,â he goes on. âYouâre soft. Decorative. Temporary.â His lips curl. âI donât understand why heâs so⊠taken.â
Still, you wait. It unsettles himâyour 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.
âIs that all?â
He blinks. âWhat?â
âYou came all this way to insult my appearance and question my worth,â you say gently. âI assumed there would be more substance.â
His jaw tightens. âCareful.â
You smile faintly. âI am.â
You step closerânot invading his space, but refusing to yield it. Your voice remains soft, measured, almost kind.
âYou accuse me of influencing your brother,â you continue. âAnd yet youâve spent several minutes doing exactly the same thingâattempting to intimidate, belittle, and provoke. Tell me, Caesar, is that how you usually persuade people? Or is force the only language you trust?â
His eyes flash.
âI donât persuade,â he snaps. âI command.â
âThen you must be very disappointed,â you reply smoothly, âto discover that command without respect only breeds compliance. And compliance is brittle.â
He scoffs. âYou think you understand power?â
âI think,â you say, tilting your head slightly, âthat you mistake fear for loyalty. Itâs a common error among men who rely on it.â
The insult lands. Clean. Precise.
Caracalla steps closer, looming now. âYouâre bold for someone with no protection.â
You meet his gaze, unblinking. âOn the contrary,â you say quietly. âI have my mind. My name. And the inconvenient habit of being correct.â
His nostrils flare. âYou think my brother listens to you because youâre intelligent?â he sneers. âHe listens because you fuck him.â
Something colder enters your eyesânot anger, but resolve.
âIf that were true,â you say, voice steady as stone, âthen any woman could have done what Iâve done. And yet here we areâwith Rome changing, senators unsettled, and you standing in a library you clearly donât value, arguing with someone you claim doesnât matter.â
Silence crashes down between the shelves.
âYou underestimate me,â you add softly, âbecause it comforts you to believe Iâm small. But if I were as insignificant as you say, you wouldnât be here.â
For a moment, you think he might strike you. Instead, he laughsâsharp, unhinged. âEnjoy it while it lasts,â Caracalla says. âMen like my brother always tire of women who forget their place.â
You incline your head once more, graceful as ever. âAnd men like you,â you reply, âalways fear the ones who never had one to begin with.â
He stares at youâfurious, 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 crueltyâand infinitely harder to silence.
The palace feels different now.
Not quieterâRome is never quietâbut 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 heâs learned that urgency does not always equal importance. Sunlight spills through the arches, warming the marble beneath your sandals. Somewhere beyond the walls, Rome breathesâvast, demanding, alive.
âI dismissed the petition from Numidia,â he says, breaking the silence. His tone is thoughtful, not triumphant. âThey wanted more grain diverted. Again.â
You hum softly, neither approving nor disapproving.
âAnd?â you prompt.
âAnd I asked why,â he continues, glancing at you sidelong. âNot themâmy advisors. I wanted to know what conditions led to the request.â A pause. âThey were⊠surprised.â
A faint smile touches your lips. âWere you?â
He exhales, amused. âNo. But I was annoyed that no one had thought to ask before.â
You stop walking and turn toward him, expression unreadable. âWhat did you find?â
âThat the shortage wasnât famine,â he says slowly. âIt was hoarding. Local magistrates padding their reserves before winter.â His jaw tightens. âI had them removed.â
You study him for a moment. âAnd the grain?â
âRedistributed. Directly.â
You nod once. No praise. No correction.
Geta watches you closely. âYou think it was the right choice.â
âI think,â you say carefully, âthat you arrived at a solution that addressed cause rather than symptom.â
His mouth curves into a smileâsmall, pleased. âYou never just say yes.â
âNo,â you reply lightly. âIf I did, youâd stop thinking.â
He laughs under his breath, then shakes his head. âYouâre infuriating.â
âAnd yet,â you say, resuming your walk, âyou keep asking.â
He follows immediately. That is the difference now.
Later, you sit with him in a smaller audience chamberâno 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.
âThe Senate wants increased levies from Hispania,â he says. âThey argue itâs prosperous enough to bear it.â
You glance at the map. âIs it?â
He hesitates. âYes. Butââ
âBut?â
âBut prosperity doesnât mean excess,â he admits. âAnd overtaxing breeds resentment.â
You tilt your head. âAnd resentment leads toâŠ?â
âResistance,â he finishes.
You offer nothing else. Geta sighs, leaning back. âGods, you do this on purpose.â
âDo what?â
âMake me finish the thought myself.â
A smile ghosts across your lips. âMy father used to say that answers given freely are rarely kept. Conclusions reached alone tend to linger.â
Geta looks at you thenânot like an emperor assessing an advisor, but like a man marveling at a mystery he still hasnât solved.
âI donât know how you do it,â he murmurs. âYou never tell me what to do. You never push.â His gaze softens, intense and unguarded. âAnd yet everything feels clearer when youâre here.â
You meet his eyes. âClarity isnât influence. Itâs perspective.â
He shifts closer, close enough that his knee brushes yours. His voice drops. âYouâve changed me.â
You do not deny it. You simply say, âYou were capable of change long before I arrived.â
His hand finds yoursâwarm, possessive, reverent all at once. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, lingering.
âI think about you constantly,â he admits, unapologetic. âWhen Iâm in council. When I sign decrees. When I wake.â A breath. âWhen I sleep.â
Your fingers tighten around his. âThat sounds dangerous.â
âEverything worth having is,â he says quietly.
You smile, just a little. âSpoken like an emperor.â
âNo,â he corrects. âSpoken like a man who knows what he wants.â
There are still momentsâsmall onesâwhen 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.
âWas that necessary?â
âDid that achieve what you wanted?â
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 Caracallaâs 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 effortâyour effort. His too. Because you will not risk undoing it. Not yet.
Not when he looks at you like thisâlike 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 emperorâhoping, 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 groundâthis 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 aloudâagain. 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. âNo,â he says.
The word lands softlyâbut it lands. Murmurs ripple through the Curia. âNo?â one senator repeats, incredulous. âCaesar, Hispania is prosperous. The people can endureââ
âThey already are enduring,â Geta interrupts, not raising his voice. âThat is precisely the problem.â
Geta continues, gaze sweeping the chamber. âIncreasing levies will not strengthen Rome. It will hollow it out. You will drain loyalty for short-term gain and call it stability.â
A senator ask. âThen what would you propose instead, Caesar?â
Geta pauses. Not because he doesnât knowâbut because he chooses his words carefully.
âWe restructure the military supply contracts,â he says at last. âSeveral are bloated, outdated, and riddled with inefficiency. Grain rots in warehouses while provinces starve because middlemen profit from delay.â His eyes narrow slightly. âWe cut them out.â
The chamber stills. âThat would require oversight,â someone mutters. âAudits. Bureaucracy.â
âYes,â Geta agrees. âAnd it would save Rome more than increased levies ever could.â
A beat. Then whispersâsharp, startled. The solution is better. Smarter. Harderâbut sustainable.
Caracalla laughs, loud and brittle. âThis is absurd.â
All eyes snap to him.
âYou would rather coddle provinces than remind them who rules them?â he snaps. âItâs our empire too, brother. Or have you forgotten that?â
Geta turns to him, expression controlled. âI havenât forgotten anything.â
Caracalla rises abruptly. âThen act like it! Rome was built on conquest, not compromise. Fear works. It always has.â
âAnd it always collapses,â Geta replies coolly. âEventually.â
âYou donât get to decide this alone,â Caracalla snarls. âI am emperor as much as you are.â
A dangerous silence follows. Geta stands. The movement is unhurried, but unmistakable.
âI do,â he says. âBecause someone has to choose Romeâs future instead of indulging its worst habits.â
Caracallaâs face twists. âYou think youâre wiser than me now?â
âI think,â Geta says, jaw tightening, âthat Iâm willing to think at all.â
The senators hold their breath.
Geta turns back to them. âThe levies will not increase. The contracts will be reviewed. Funds will be redirected internally.â A pause. âThis is my decision.â
Caracalla slams his hand against the stone. âYou donât get toââ
âEnough!â Geta shouts.
The word echoesâraw, uncontrolled. For a heartbeat, he looks almost startled by himself. A slip.
Caracalla stares at him, fury flaring bright and wild. âYou think shouting makes you strong?!â
âI think,â Geta snaps back, voice still raised, âthat Iâm tired of cleaning up your tantrums!â
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. Thenâslowlyâhe straightens. âWe are adjourned,â he says, voice steady once more. âCarry out the orders as stated.â
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 headâGeta standing, speaking, deciding. Senators listening. Obeying.
Not him. Her.
Her calm voice. Her certainty. The way Rome has begun to bendânot to him, but through her.
âShe thinks sheâs untouchable,â he mutters, fingers twitching. âA woman. A witch.â
His chest tightens, anger curdling into something feverish, paranoid, unhinged. Every rational restraint frays at once. He doesnât summon guards. He doesnât announce himself.
He moves.
You are alone in Getaâs private chambers, seated near the low table where scrolls are neatly arranged. The faint scent of oil and steam lingersâGeta is bathing, just beyond the inner doors. Youâd 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. âCaesarââ
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.
âYou think youâre clever?â he screams. âYou think youâve won?â
You struggle, striking at his chest, his shoulderâanything you can reach. âGet away from me!â
He backhands you hard enough to send you stumbling, pain flaring across your cheek. âWhore,â he snarls. âPoisoning him. Turning him against his own blood!â
You donât curl inward. You donât freeze. You fight.
Your elbow catches his ribs. Your heel slams down on his foot. You shove, claw, strikeâdesperate, furious, refusing to yield ground even as terror claws at your spine.
âCoward,â you spit, breath shaking. âYou attack women because you canât command respect!â
That only enrages him further. He grabs for your throat, fingers tighteningâ
The inner doors fly open. âGet away from her!â
Geta bursts into the room, hair damp, robe barely secured, rage blazing in his eyes. He doesnât hesitateâhe throws himself between you and his brother, shoving Caracalla back with all his strength.
Geta grabs him, wrestling him away, voice cracking with fury. âGuards! Praetoriansânow!â
He struggles to restrain his brother, shouting over the chaos. âHelp! To the chamber!â
Caracalla fights like a man possessed, screaming obscenities, thrashing against Getaâs 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.
âTouch her again and Iâllââ Getaâs 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, uncertainâafraid to touch you too hard, afraid not to touch you at all.
âAre you hurt?â he demands, voice shaking. âGodsâtell me he didnâtââ
You steady yourself, spine straight despite the tremor running through you. âIâm alive,â 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 changeâeverything feels terrifyingly fragile again.
The change is immediate. And suffocating.
You notice it the first morning afterâthe 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.
âFor your safety,â he says the first time you ask, his voice tight with a fear he does not bother disguising. âI wonât let anything happen to you again.â
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 libraryâonce a sanctuaryânow 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 suspicionâwith devotion. With terror. With the kind of attention that mistakes vigilance for care.
He reaches for your hand more often. Stands closer. Interrupts conversations youâre having with others, gently but decisively steering you away. When you try to step out of his line of sight, his jaw tightens.
âYou shouldnât wander,â he says.
You stop and look at him. âI wasnât wandering. I was walking.â
His response is immediate. âAlone.â
You let it pass. At first.
Caracalla is confined to his chambers.
The news spreads in murmurs through the palaceâguards 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.
âTheyâre punishing him,â you say quietly one evening as you sit with Geta, the lamplight warm between you. âNot helping him.â
Geta stiffens. âHe attacked you,â he replies flatly.
âYes,â you say. âAnd heâs ill.â
Silence stretches. âYou donât owe him sympathy,â Geta says.
âIâm not giving it to him,â you answer calmly. âIâm questioning what this solves.â
His jaw tightens. âIt solves you being safe.â
You study him for a moment before speaking again. âDoes it?â you ask softly.
He looks at you then, brows drawn together. âWhat do you mean?â
âYouâve locked him away without counsel, without treatment, without intervention,â you say. âYouâve put guards on me as if I were glass. Youâre ruling out of fear, not reason.â
His voice sharpens. âI nearly lost you.â
âYou didnât,â you say gently. âAnd I wonât let that moment decide who we become.â
The words hang between you. He turns away first.
Another time, you try again.
âI donât feel free,â you tell him quietly as he walks you back to his chambers, guards trailing a careful distance behind. âAnd I need you to hear that.â
He stops walking. âFreedom is meaningless if youâre dead.â
âAnd safety,â you reply, âis meaningless if it costs me myself.â
He exhales sharply, frustration flaring. âYou donât understandââ
âNo,â you interrupt, still calm, still measured. âYou donât want to.â
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 youâve changed your mindâbut 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 itâNot 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 carefullyâwhen 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 daysâweeksâthere 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 corridorsâshouted orders, hurried footsteps, the sharp ring of panic cutting through marble halls. Torches blaze where they shouldnât. Servants run instead of glide.
Something is spiraling.
You barely take three steps inside before hands grab your arms. âHere!â a voice shouts, breathless with relief and hysteria. âI found herâI found her!â
You wrench back instinctively. âUnhand me!â
But the grip tightens, not cruel but desperate, as if you are something lost and nearly shattered. You catch fragments as youâre pulled alongâmissing, panic, the emperorâ
You donât struggle again. You already know where theyâre taking you.
Getaâs private chambers are in chaos when youâre 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 faceâviolent, overwhelmingâ
âand then it curdles.
âOut,â he snaps at the servants. âAll of you.â
The doors shut. The silence is unbearable.
âWhere were you?â he demands, spinning toward you. âDo you have any idea what youâve done?â
You straighten slowly. You are still damp, still smelling faintly of water and night air. âI went swimming.â
His laugh is sharp, incredulous. âYou disappeared.â
âI stepped away,â you correct.
âYou vanished,â he roars. âThe palace was in an uproar. Guards were mobilized. I thoughtââ His voice breaks, then hardens. âWhat were you thinking?â
Something in you finally snaps. âI was thinking I couldnât breathe.â
He freezes.
âI was thinking,â you continue, voice rising despite yourself, âthat 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.â
âThat fear is keeping you alive!â he shouts back.
âNo,â you fire back. âItâs choking us.â
He steps closer, towering now, anger bleeding through restraint. âYou donât get to decide that.â
Your hands curl into fists. âI get to decide myself.â
âYou donât understand the dangerââ
âI understand it perfectly,â you interrupt. âI understand Caracalla is ill. I understand Rome is volatile. I understand power attracts violence.â Your voice shakes, but you donât stop. âWhat you refuse to understand is that I am not something you can lock away until itâs convenient.â
His eyes burn. âI am your emperor.â The words hit like a slap.
âAnd you will listen to me,â he continues, voice loud, cracking. âI decide whatâs best. I decide how youâre protected. You are mine!â
Silence detonates.
You straighten fully, spine locking into place, every trace of softness draining from your expression.
âNo.â The word is quiet. Absolute.
âYou are not my owner,â you say, voice steady as stone. âYou do not get to claim me because you are afraid. I owe you nothingânot obedience, not silence, not myself.â
His mouth opens. But you donât let him speak. âI chose you,â you continue. âI stood beside you. I challenged you. I believed in what you could become.â Your eyes shine, but you do not cry. âThe moment you decided love meant possession, you lost the right to stand there and tell me who I am.â
âYouâre being unreasonableââ he starts.
âNo,â you cut in. âYou are unreasonable.â You turn toward the door.
âDonât walk away from me,â he says, voice breaking now.
You pause, just long enough to look back. âIâm not walking away,â you say softly. âIâm leaving.â
Then you open the door and step out, the sound echoing through the chamber like a verdict. Behind you, an emperor stands aloneâand 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, deliberateâfar easier than untangling the thoughts that circle endlessly in your mind.
Youâve been home for days now.
Long enough for the palace to feel distant, unreal. Long enough for the quiet to settle inânot peaceful, but honest. You rise early, practice until sweat dampens your hair and your hands are raw, then practice some more. When you arenât shooting, you think. When you arenât thinking, you shoot.
It helps. A little.
Youâre 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 doesnât interrupt. She waits until you finish your set, until you rest the bow at your side and finally turn toward her.
âHow are you doing?â she asks gently.
âIâm fine,â you reply automatically.
She doesnât smile. Instead, she steps closer, her gaze steady, knowing. âNo, youâre not.â
You open your mouth to protest, then close it again. Thereâs no point. Sheâs never been fooled by half-truthsânot from you.
âCome,â she says quietly, gesturing toward the house. âSit with me.â
Inside, the air is cool and familiar. She pours water, waits until youâre settled, then takes the seat across from you. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then the words come. You tell her everything.
About Caracallaâhis 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.
âYou were attacked?â she breathes.
You nod. âI fought him off. Geta intervened.â
Her jaw tightens. âGods.â
You continue. About the guards. The watching. The way safety had turned into a cage. About tryingâagain and againâto 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. âIâm proud of you,â she says.
You blink, surprised. âYou are?â
âYes,â she says without hesitation. âFor standing up for yourself. For walking away when someone tried to take something from you that was never theirs to claim.â
You swallow. âI wasnât trying to be brave.â
âI know,â she replies softly. âThatâs why it counts.â
She studies you for a moment. âHow do you really feel?â
You consider the question carefully. âIâm not⊠angry,â you admit. âNot exactly.â Your voice wavers despite yourself. âIâm sad. That it happened at all. That it came to that.â
She nods, as though she expected nothing else.
Then she leans back slightly and exhales, a small, rueful smile touching her lips. âYour father and I fought,â she says.
You look up, startled.
âOh, not like children,â she adds dryly. âBut we disagreed. Sharply. Especially when we were younger.â Her eyes soften with memory. âThere were moments when words were said that couldnât be taken back. Moments when pride got in the way of listening.â
âWhat did you do?â you ask quietly.
âWe cooled,â she says simply. âWe walked away when we needed to. And thenâwhen the anger passedâwe spoke again. Honestly. Not to win, but to understand.â
She squeezes your hand. âLove isnât the absence of conflict. Itâs the willingness to return to each other after it.â
You stare down at the table, absorbing that.
She sighs softly.
âYou know,â she says at last, almost conversationally, âyouâve never been good at hiding heartbreak.â
You look up, startled. âIâm notââ
She lifts a hand gently. âYou donât have to explain.â Her gaze is kind, but unyielding. âIf you didnât still love him, you wouldnât be this miserable.â
The words land with quiet precision. You open your mouth, then close it again. Thereâs no point denying itânot to her, and not to yourself.
ââŠYouâre right,â you admit. âI do.â
She nods, as if confirming something she already knew. âThen that means you still care,â she says. âAnd caring makes things complicatedâbut it also makes them worth examining.â
She leans back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. âTo love someone,â she continues, âis to forgive themâif they deserve it.â Her emphasis is gentle, but deliberate. âDisagreements, missteps, even painful moments⊠those are not unusual. Especially in a relationship as young as yours.â
You look down at your hands. âIt didnât feel small.â
âNo,â she agrees. âBecause it wasnât.â A pause. âBut one moment does not define a person. Repetition does.â
Her eyes meet yours. âYour 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.â
She reaches out and squeezes your hand. âYou still have time. Both of you do.â
You swallow. âAnd if he doesnât?â
âThen you leave,â she says simply. âBecause you chose himâand that means you can choose not to, if he continues to offend your dignity.â
The words settle into you, firm and grounding.
âGiving someone a second chance,â she adds, âis not weakness. Itâs hope. But staying when someone refuses to changeâthatâs when love becomes a cage.â
You breathe in slowly. âI donât regret choosing him,â you say quietly.
She smiles, soft and proud. âThen give him the chance to prove you were right.â
The morning feels heavier than the others.
You dress with careful movements, smoothing fabric that doesnât quite sit right over a heart still unsettled. The maids flutter around you, whispering softly as they help fasten clasps and arrange your hair. Youâre almost readyâalmost steady enough to face what waits at the palaceâwhen one of them appears near the doorway.
âMy Lady,â she says, voice hushed but urgent, âEmperor Geta is here.â
Your breath catches. Here.
Not summoned. Not waiting in marble halls. Here.
You donât 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 doesnât 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 youâslow, 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 youâcareful at first, reverentâthen tighter, like heâs afraid you might slip through his fingers if he doesnât.
âIâm sorry,â he says into your hair, the words rough, unpolished. âGods, Iâm so sorry.â
You donât 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.
âThese days without youâŠâ His voice falters. He swallows hard. âThey were the most sorrowful Iâve ever known. Iâve failed in battles, failed Rome beforeâbut thisâŠâ He shakes his head. âThis was worse.â
His forehead rests against yours.
âI disappointed you,â he continues quietly. âAnd I hate myself for it. I let fear rot my judgment. I thought I was protecting you, but all I did was cage you.â A bitter laugh escapes him. âI was so afraid of losing you that I didnât realize I was the one pushing you away.â
His eyes search yours, raw and unguarded. He presses his brow to yours again, hands still warm against your skin.
âI wonât pretend I didnât say what I said,â he murmurs. âOr that I didnât mean it in my fear. But I see it now. I see how wrong I was.â A breath. âIf you can forgive meâif youâre willingâI will do better. Not because I said so. But because I love you.â
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. âI forgive you,â you say, voice unsteady but certain. The words feel heavyâand freeingâall at once.
Geta exhales like the breath has been punched from his lungs.
âI was miserable too,â you admit quietly. âI didnât realize how much space youâd taken up in my life until I left. I got used to youâyour presence, your mind, your stubbornness.â A small, sad smile touches your lips. âThere was a void. Everywhere.â
His grip tightens, just slightly.
âI understand your fear,â you continue. âI really do. Iâm afraid tooâof losing you, of what Rome could do to you, to us.â Your voice trembles, but you donât look away. âBut I wonât pretend that what happened didnât hurt me.â
âI know,â he whispers. âAnd Iâm sorry. Again. Iâll say it as many times as you need.â
You lift a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing gently along his jaw. âI never doubted that you love me,â you say softly. âNot once. I know your concern came from care. I justââ You take a breath. âI need you to handle it better. To trust me. To listen.â
He nods fervently. âI will.â
âThere are only so many chances I can give,â you say, honest but not cruel. âAnd I donât want to find out where the limit is.â Your eyes shine as you meet his. âBecause I love you too. So much.â
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 softâstill 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 didnât 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 itâthe 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. âMorning,â 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. âYou were trying to leave without saying goodbye.â
He scoffs lightly. âAs if I could.â He sits at the edge of the bed, brushing his thumb absentmindedly along your hand. âWhat are your plans today?â
âIâm meeting my mother,â you say. âWeâre going into the city. Fatherâs dies natalis is in a few daysâwe thought weâd find something suitable.â
His brow lifts slightly. âAlready? Gods, time moves too quickly.â
âYouâre the emperor,â you say lightly. âYou donât get to forget dates.â
You fix him with a look. âWhich reminds meâyou should free up your schedule that night. Family dinner.â
He doesnât hesitate. âOf course. Iâll be there.â
Satisfied, you lean back against the pillows. He lingers, still seated, still not moving.
âYouâre stalling,â you note.
âI am not.â
âYou are,â you insist. âYouâll be late.â
He sighs theatrically, then leans in to kiss you againâslow, unhurried, entirely unnecessary.
âFor luck,â he murmurs.
You laugh softly against his mouth. âYou need more than luck. You need to go.â
âCruel woman, my wife is.â he says, though thereâs 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.
âGood luck today,â he says quietly.
âAnd you,â you reply. âTry not to terrify the Curia.â
He grins. âNo promises.â 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 timeâespecially 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 anymoreâit feels kept.
Under Geta, cruelty fades from habit into memory. His temper still existsâhe is no saintâbut 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 Getaâs 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. âI cannot allow what happened before to happen again,â he says evenly. âNot to my wife. Not to Rome. And not to you.â
Caracalla scoffs. âYou think this is for her?â
âItâs for all of us,â Geta replies. âAnd I will not pretend you are well when you are not.â The words are firmâbut not cruel.
âI wonât lose my brother,â Geta adds quietly. âNot to pride. Not to illness.â
Something in Caracalla finally cracksânot 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, imperfectâbut it is real. And for the first time, Caracalla is not punished for being unwell. He is treated.
As for youâyou are far from idle.
As empress, you take charge of the Imperial Household itself: the servants, the freedmen, the daily mechanisms that shape the emperorâs 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 youârequests 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 youânot 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 librariesâstill 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, âIs that truly what you want?â
You smile at him. âYes.â
And that is enough.
He never rushes you. Never measures your worth by heirs. He wants a child because you want oneâbecause 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 forceâbut by thought, restraint, and two people who chose each other again and again.
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Summary: Introduced into the imperial court as a senatorâs daughter, you refuse to flatter, refuse to perform, andâmost dangerouslyârefuse to agree when reason demands otherwise. Emperor Geta notices not your beauty, but your mind.
Part 2
Tags: Fluff, getting together, developing relationship, Geta has a crush on you, a bit obsessed, Geta is down bad, reader is an intellectual, reader is kind of playing hard to get, but mutual pining, political, growth arc, Caracalla barely mentioned (sorry), dialogue heavy. No description of reader. No use of Y/N.
A/N: Here it is! If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.
Word Count: 9.1K
Masterlist
The palace is already loud when you arriveâmusic 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 sameâboasts 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 fatherâs hand rests lightly at your elbow.
âCome,â he murmurs. âYou should be introduced.â
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 ornamentsâbeautiful, bored, watchful. The contrast is striking and deliberate.
You school your expression before stepping closer.
âThis is my family,â your father says, bowing with measured respect. âMy daughter.â
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 lingersâassessing, unashamed. A faint smile curves his mouth.
âYou are very beautiful,â 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.
âYou honor me, Caesar,â you reply, voice even, neither coy nor overeager.
Something flickersâbrief, unreadableâbut his attention does not sharpen yet.
Caracalla looks past you almost immediately, already bored, fingers idly tapping the arm of his seat.
âAnd how are you enjoying the banquet?â Geta asks, his tone polite, rehearsed.
âIt is⊠impressive,â your father answers smoothly.
âYes,â your mother adds, serene. âThe emperors are generous hosts.â
You nod in agreement, offering nothing more. Politeness, perfectly executed.
Getaâs smile widens a touch. âThere will be a fight later,â he says, gesturing vaguely toward the far end of the hall. âA fine one. I hope youâll remain long enough to see it.â
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. âOf course, Caesar.â
You do not look at the concubines. You do not look impressed.
And though Geta does not yet realize it, that restraintâthe absence of performanceâis the first thing that sets you apart.
Time slips by unnoticed. The banquet shows no sign of slowingâmusic still drifting through corridors, laughter swelling and breaking like wavesâbut 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 liliesâeach 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 flowersâalone, 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. âShouldnât you be inside?â he asks, stepping onto the path as though he owns even this quiet space. âEnjoying the banquet laid out in my honor?â
You turn slowly to face him, unstartled, inclining your head in acknowledgment. âIt is generous,â you say honestly. Then, after a brief pause, âBut gatherings like that have never held much appeal for me.â
His brow lifts. A scoff follows, quick and dismissive. âNonsense. Everyone enjoys parties.â
A faint smile touches your mouthânot mocking, not deferential. Merely amused.
âWith respect, Caesar,â you reply lightly, âI believe many enjoy being seen at parties. The noise, the wine, the performance of delight.â Your gaze flicks briefly toward the palace doors before returning to him. âThat is not quite the same thing.â
He studies you now, eyes narrowing just a fraction. âAnd what is it you enjoy, then?â he asks.
âQuiet,â you answer without hesitation. âConversation without witnesses. And gardens, apparentlyâplaces where nothing is demanded.â
A beat passes. Then you add, your tone still smooth, carefully measured, âThough I imagine for an emperor, silence must feel⊠unfamiliar.â
It is a jabâwrapped 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. âCareful,â he says. âMost people work very hard not to speak to me that way.â
You meet his gaze evenly. âMost people are trying to gain something.â
You resume your walk along the garden path, gravel whispering beneath your sandals. You expect him to remain where he isâemperors are not known for followingâbut footsteps fall into rhythm beside yours.
Geta speaks casually, as though discussing something trivial. âYou say you gain nothing from me,â he says. âYet your father serves at my pleasure. I could dismiss him tomorrow. Ruin him. Make your life⊠unpleasant.â
You do not stop walking.
âThat is true,â you answer calmly. âYou could.â
He watches you closely now, waiting for fear. It does not come.
âBut,â you continue, turning your head slightly toward him, âyou gain something from my father as well.â You slow just enough to make him listen. âMy father helps Rome thrive, does he not?â
You gesture faintly with one hand, counting without counting. âHe negotiates without inflaming factions. He manages provinces without draining them dry. He satisfies the people without feeding their worst instincts.â Your voice remains even, respectfulâbut unyielding. âHe advises with reason when others clamor for spectacle.â You finally stop and face him.
âWould you truly threaten to destabilize Rome,â you ask softly, âsimply to remind a senatorâs daughter that you can?â
For a moment, the night stretches between you.
Then Geta smiles. Not the polished, imperial curve meant for crowdsâbut something sharper, more genuine. Amused.
âNo one questions me,â he says, almost thoughtfully.
You tilt your head, considering. âThen your conversations must be dreadfully dull.â
The smile widens.
âCareful,â he warns, though his tone lacks heat.
âOh, I am,â you reply lightly. âWhich is why I avoid them altogether.â You glance back toward the palace, where music and laughter spill endlessly into the night. âEndless praise, endless agreement. I despise conversations where everyone already knows what theyâre supposed to say.â
A short laugh escapes himâunexpected, unrestrained. âFor someone who claims to enjoy quiet,â he says, âyou are remarkably bold.â
âAnd for someone who claims absolute power,â you answer smoothly, resuming your walk, âyou seem relieved to finally be contradicted.â
He falls into step beside you again, eyes bright nowânot 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 raceâand you areâbut 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.
âI didnât expect to find you here.â
You turn, unsurprised to see him standing just behind you, hands clasped loosely behind his back. The meeting feels accidentalâunavoidable, even.
âI didnât expect you to notice,â you reply.
He arches a brow. âI assumed youâd be weaving, or visiting the baths, or reading poetry somewhere quiet. Not spectating chariot races.â
You laugh softly, unable to stop yourself. âYour knowledge of women must be quite limited, Caesar, if you believe that is all we do.â
For a heartbeat, you wonder if youâve gone too far.
Then he chucklesâlow, genuine, clearly entertained. âYou are remarkably consistent,â he says.
He gestures toward the track. âSo tell me. Which team?â
âRed,â you answer without hesitation.
A smile spreads across his face. âThen congratulations. You seem to be lucky.â
You shake your head. âIt wasnât luck.â
He studies you. âNo?â
âI chose red deliberately,â you say, matter-of-fact. âTheir horses were fresherâstronger hindquarters, longer strides. The lead auriga favors tighter turns, and the track today rewards that. Blue was too aggressive at the start; greenâs second horse was limping before the final lap.â
You pause, then add lightly, âIt was simply a matter of counting chances.â
For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, amused disbelief flickers across his face.
âYou know a great deal about horses,â he says.
You smile, smaller this time, almost fond. âI think theyâre magnificent animals.â
Something in your toneâquiet, sincereâmakes 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.
âI prefer riding on their backs,â you add, almost absently, ârather than standing on a chariot.â
That finally does it.
Geta stops walking.
He turns to you fully now, surprise plain on his face. âYou ride?â he asks, as if the notion itself is suspect.
âYes.â
A short laugh leaves him before he can stop it. âYou are a strange woman.â
You raise a brow, unfazed.
âItâs unusual,â he continues, recovering quickly, voice slipping into something more certain. âWomen are⊠domestic creatures by nature. Soft. Fragile. You arenât meant to ride.â
Your eyes roll before you can restrain themâan ungraceful betrayal of your thoughts. You catch yourself a moment too late.
âTell me, Caesar,â you ask calmly, âdoes riding make me less of a woman?â
He studies you, clearly not expecting the question.
âI have the anatomy of a woman,â you continue, voice steady, unembarrassed. âI can bear and birth a child. I bleed every month as all women do.â You hold his gaze without flinching. âNone of that changes because I sit on a horse.â
Silence stretches between you, thick and dangerous.
âYou have dangerous views,â he says at last.
You smileâsmall, sharp. âNo,â you reply. âYours are.â
His eyes narrow. âExplain.â
âYou reduce women to what is convenient,â you say, unhurried. âSoft things are easier to control. Fragile things are easier to dismiss. But declaring what women are meant to be does not make it truthâit only makes it policy.â
You tilt your head slightly. âThat is far more dangerous than a woman who knows how to ride.â
For a long moment, Geta says nothing.
Thenâunexpectedlyâhe laughs. Not mocking. Not cruel. Thoughtful. âYou speak as if youâve never been told to stay quiet,â he says.
âOh, I have,â you answer lightly. âI simply choose not to listen when it makes no sense.â
His gaze lingers on you now, no longer amused aloneâbut 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 Getaâs 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. âMe?â you ask, unable to keep the confusion from your voice. âWhy would I be invited?â
Marcus Aelius Severianus does not answer immediately. He remains standing, thoughtful, his brow furrowedânot pleased, not proud. Concerned.
âEmperors do not invite without reason,â he says at last.
Your motherâs hand tightens slightly around the fold of her stola. âAnd when an emperor takes interest,â she adds softly, âit is never simple.â
Your father exhales slowly. âIt would seem Emperor Geta has noticed you.â
The words settle uneasily in the room.
You open your mouth to respond, then close it again. You have no explanation you can safely offerânot 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 motherâs gaze moves to you, searching your face. âYouâve done nothing to draw attention, have you?â
âNothing improper,â you answer truthfully.
That does little to reassure her.
They exchange a lookâyour 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.
âGeta is not a man whose interest can be refused lightly,â your father says. âNor indulged without caution.â
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 wayâquieter, 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 facesâquick, 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 progressâof 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 speaksâproposing a course of action so short-sighted, so riddled with potential backlash, that your mouth reacts before your restraint can intervene.
You scoff. Softlyâbut unmistakably.
The advisor turns toward you, brows knitting. âIs there something you wish to add?â he asks, voice edged with mild irritation.
You meet his gaze calmly. âForgive me,â you say smoothly. âThere was something caught in my throat.â
A pause. You incline your head. âMy apologies.â
Your father stiffens beside you. You feel his glance like pressure against your skinâmeasured, 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 grinâquick, 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 himâquiet, deliberate.
Marcus Aelius Severianus stiffens almost imperceptibly.
He turns to you a moment later, expression carefully neutral. âThe emperor wishes a private word with you,â he says softly. Not a question. It never is.
You nod, because you must.
Your father leave with the others, your motherâs gaze lingering on you a second longer than usualâmeasured 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.
âI thought I was quite clear,â you say calmly, âthat I donât enjoy banquets. Yet here I am.â
A corner of his mouth lifts. âThis was hardly a banquet by Roman standards,â he counters. âFewer people. No spectacle.â
âStill a banquet,â you reply lightly.
He exhales, something between amusement and resignation. âI didnât know how else to summon you,â he admits. âAnything more direct would have been⊠conspicuous. Or crude.â
You tilt your head, studying him. âYou achieved the opposite.â
His brow furrows. âExplain.â
âMy presence here was noticed,â you say evenly. âSome of those men were already confused by it. They will talk. They will assume.â You gesture vaguely toward the doors the guests exited through. âA senatorâs daughter invited to a private imperial dinner is not subtle.â
He considers that. âAnd is that so terrible?â
âIt might be,â you answer honestly. âYou are one of the most sought-after men in Rome. Attention follows you whether you invite it or not.â Your gaze meets his. âI would prefer not to inherit it by association.â
A beat passes.
âYou fear gossip,â he says.
âI fear unnecessary interest,â you correct. âRome is rarely kind to women who become topics rather than people.â
He studies you closely now, not offendedâthoughtful. âYou think several steps ahead.â
âI have to,â you reply simply.
Silence settlesânot tense, not awkward. Just aware.
âAt least now,â Geta says slowly, âyou know this was intentional.â
You give him a faint, wry smile. âI suspected as much.â
âAnd yet,â he adds, âyou stayed.â
You hold his gaze, unflinching. âCuriosity cuts both ways, Caesar.â
This time, his smile is smaller. Sharper. More sincere.
You are standing closer nowâclose 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. âYou were very quiet at dinner,â he says. âA shame. I was almost looking forward to seeing you argue with my guests.â
You blink, then give him a look that is half disbelief, half amusement. âI know the time and place for such things,â you reply. âEarlier was neither.â
He hums. âYet you wanted to.â
You do not deny it. âMy presence was already questionable. Creating a scene would have only confirmed suspicions.â
His smile widens. âSo you restrained yourself.â
âIâm capable of it,â you say dryly.
âAnd still,â he adds, eyes bright, âyou scoffed.â
You sigh softly. âIt was an accident.â
âNo,â he says, amused. âIt was instinct.â
You shake your head, then glance at him sidelong. âYou have a curious interest, Caesarâfinding enjoyment in being argued with.â
That earns you a laugh. A real one.
âI didnât expect it myself,â he admits. âOrdinarily, I punish insolence.â
You arch a brow. âOrdinarily.â
âYou,â he continues, unbothered, âare different.â
âThat sounds dangerous,â you say lightly.
âIt is,â he agrees. âYou intrigue me too much.â
You study him for a moment, then smile faintly. âCareful. That almost sounds like infatuation.â
He does not hesitate. âIt might be.â
The honesty of it gives you pause.
âI couldnât possibly be worth your time,â you say after a moment. âThere are many far more eager for your attention.â
He steps closerânot enough to crowd you, just enough to be deliberate. âEagerness has never impressed me,â he says. âYou think. You resist. You choose your words.â His gaze holds yours. âThat is rarer.â
Silence settles againânot heavy, but charged.
You glance toward the corridor. âI should go,â you say. âItâs been some time.â
He nods, accepting it without protest.
You pause, then add, âNext timeâdo it normally.â
A slow smile curves his mouth. âThere will be a next time?â
You meet his gaze once more. âIf you wish to speak to me,â you say calmly, âjust ask.â
You turn and leave before he can respond.
Your father is waiting just beyond the doors, cloak already gathered. He gives you a lookâmeasured, knowingâand then, quietly, âThat took a while.â
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 goneâescorted 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 enterânot formally, but deliberately. You bow as etiquette demands, smooth and precise, then straighten.
âHow often,â you ask at once, âdo you intend to see me?â You tilt your head. âItâs barely been days.â
âAll the time,â he answers without hesitation. âPreferably.â
Your eyes roll despite yourself. âOf course.â
Amused, he gestures toward the doors. âWalk with me.â
You do, falling into step beside him as he leads you through the palace. Corridors open into rooms of every size and purposeâaudience chambers, private halls, galleries filled with statuary. At times, he pauses, frowns slightly, then changes direction.
âYou donât remember?â you ask lightly.
âThere are⊠many rooms,â he says.
You smile. âPerhaps you donât need this much space if you canât even recall it all.â
He chuckles, unoffended. âCareful.â
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 youâve ever seen, lined with scrolls and codices, knowledge stacked upon knowledge. The air smells of parchment and ink, quiet and reverent. Your own collectionâcarefully curated, belovedâsuddenly feels laughable in comparison.
âThisâŠâ you breathe. âIâve never seen anything like it.â
Geta watches your reaction with clear satisfaction. âI rarely visit,â he admits.
You glance at him, unimpressed. âPredictable.â
He lifts a finger in mock warning. âYou are testing me today.â
You ignore him entirely, already moving among the shelves. Your hands trail reverently along spines as you scan titles youâve only heard of, authors youâve long wanted to read. You pull one free. Then another. Your expression is nothing short of wonder.
Behind you, he laughs softly. âAll this time,â he says, âI could have impressed you with books. It seems it wouldâve been much easier than I thought.â
You donât look at him as you answer. âYouâre still not finished impressing me.â
But you are smiling.
âDid you always like reading?â Geta asks, watching you move from shelf to shelf as though the rest of the palace has ceased to exist.
âYes,â you answer easily. âMy father taught me to love it.â You draw a scroll free, careful with its age. âHe told me nothing is more importantânor more powerfulâthan knowledge.â
You glance back at him. âWith knowledge, you control conversations. You shape outcomes. You can even win wars.â Your fingers rest against the parchment. âNo war is ever won by brute force alone. Not without thought.â
He scoffs lightly. âRome conquered the world with force. And we succeeded.â
You turn fully then, expression sharpeningânot confrontational, simply honest. âRome succeeded because it had numbers,â you say. âBecause it used slaves. Because it consumed resources faster than its enemies could adapt.â A pause. âThat is not the same as superiority.â
Your distaste is subtle, but unmistakable.
âOur armies could still be outsmarted,â you continue. âThe chances are small, yesâbut not nonexistent. Smaller forces win when larger ones stop thinking.â
He studies you, arms folding loosely. âThen I have nothing to worry about.â
You smile faintly, but there is no humor in it. âThat is exactly when you should worry.â
His brow lifts. âExplain.â
âArrogance is dangerous,â you say quietly. âIt makes people vulnerable. Those who believe they are untouchable stop learning.â You close the scroll gently. âAnd ignorance can always be exploited.â
Silence settles between the shelves.
Geta does not interrupt you. He does not laugh this time. He simply looks at youâthoughtful, measuring, as if you have shifted something he did not realize was fixed.
âYou speak as though Rome could fall,â he says at last.
You meet his gaze calmly. âAnything that stops listening can.â
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 maintainedânot merely assumed.
He steps closer.
Not abruptlyânothing about him is rushedâbut near enough that the space between you softens, dissolves. His hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek with a familiarity that should startle you.
It doesnât.
You donât withdraw. Instead, you lean into the touch, just slightly, a silent acknowledgment that you are aware of what heâs doingâand that you allow it.
Geta watches your reaction closely. âYou continue to fascinate me,â he says quietly.
You smile, the corner of your mouth curving. âI do that with knowledge too.â
A low laugh leaves him. âIâve noticed.â
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. âThis library could be yours,â he says. âI would have it filled furtherâanything you wish.â
For the first time since you entered the room, your composure falters.
You lower your gaze, just briefly. Not in submissionânever thatâbut in something closer to being caught off guard. Your fingers tighten around the scroll youâre holding.
âThat,â you admit softly, âis an attractive offer.â
Then you look back up at him, recovery swift, eyes bright with mischief. âYou sound a little desperate, Caesar.â
His smile is slow, unapologetic. âPerhaps I am.â 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 motherâs voice comes before her footsteps do.
âSo,â she says mildly, âhow long were you planning on letting me pretend not to notice?â
You turn, bow lowering slightly. Aelia Domitia Livia stands at the edge of the practice grounds, hands folded neatly before her, expression composedâbut sharp. There is no accusation in her gaze. Only awareness.
âYou and your father are not the only observant ones in this family,â she continues. âNor the only intelligent ones.â
You exhale, half a smile tugging at your mouth. âI never thought you were.â
She approaches, eyes flicking briefly to the target you just struckâdead centerâbefore returning to your face. âWhat is happening between you and the elder emperor?â
You hesitate only a moment. âWe talk.â
Her brow lifts. âYou do more than talk.â
You donât deny it.
She sighs softly, not angryâworried. saying your name in the way she only does when she means to be heard. âYou know his status. You know the weight of his attention.â A pause. âAnd you know the man Emperor Geta is believed to be.â
You nod. Of course you do.
âHe stands opposed to many of the things your father believes,â she continues. âTo many of the things we believe.â Her gaze softens just slightly. âI trust your judgment. But trust does not erase danger.â
You rest the bow against your side. âHe hasnât been unpleasant to me.â
âThat does not make him safe.â
âI know.â You meet her eyes. âBut Iâve debated him. Challenged him.â
Her composure cracksâfor just a heartbeat. âYou did what?â
You shrug lightly. âI disagreed with him. More than once.â
âYou could have been punished,â she says sharply. âFor insolence. For treason.â
âBut I wasnât,â you reply quietly. âIâm still here, arenât I?â
She studies you now, searching for recklessnessâand finding conviction instead.
âI think,â you continue carefully, âthat heâs sheltered. Raised in power too young. Surrounded by people who never contradict him.â Your fingers tighten around the bow. âThat doesnât make him cruel by nature. It makes him unchallenged.â
Your mother is silent.
âI believe he can be shaped,â you say. âThat he can be⊠better.â
âThat is a dangerous belief,â she says at last.
âOnly if Iâm wrong.â
She steps closer, lifting a hand to your cheek in a gesture so familiar it nearly undoes you. âYou sound very certain.â
âI am,â you answer.
She lowers her hand, eyes steady. âThen be careful,â she says softly. âBelieving you can change a powerful man has undone far wiser women than you.â
You incline your head. âI know.â
She holds your gaze a moment longer, then turns to leaveâpausing just once.
âAnd Daughter,â she adds, without looking back. âPower does not enjoy being shaped. Remember that.â
Left alone again, you raise your bow.
The target hasnât moved. But you know the real one hasâand itâs far more dangerous.
The Domus Augustana is alive with motionâservants scrubbing marble, hanging banners, adjusting lamps and cushions in preparation for the grand banquet celebrating General Acaciusâ 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 noticeâor careâhow he has been raised by power itself. Authority is instinctive to him, effortless, unquestioned.
You watch for a while.
Then you speak. âYouâre being cruel.â
He stops, turning to you with clear irritation. âTheyâre low lives,â he replies flatly. âWhy should I be kind to them?â
You do not lower your voice. You do not soften the words. âWould you rather they have your back out of subjugation,â you ask, âor out of loyalty?â
His jaw tightens.
âLoyalty endures,â you continue calmly. âSubjugation breeds resentment. Resentment breeds rebellion.â You meet his gaze without flinching. âTheyâll flee when they have the chance. Or worse.â
He exhales sharply. âI donât need a lecture.â
âIâm not lecturing,â you say. âIâm reminding you.â
He scoffs. âAnd why would you bother?â
âFor your greater good,â you answer simply. âIt benefits you.â A pause. âIf I wanted amusement, Iâd flatter you like everyone else.â
His eyes narrow. âYouâre exhausting.â
You smile faintly. âYouâre the one who keeps asking to see me.â
For a moment, the palace noise seems to dull around youâthe 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.
âYou challenge me far too often,â he says.
âYet,â you reply lightly, âyou havenât told me to stop.â
He turns away, resuming his walk, but his pace is slower now.
And the servants, you notice, are no longer being shouted atâonly watched.
You pass the garden without meaning toâuntil 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.
âThis brings me back,â he says quietly.
You nod. âMe too.â
Suddenly, he reaches outâfirm, decisiveâand stops you. His hand closes around your waist, pulling you closer. You donât resist. You let yourself be drawn in, the distance between you vanishing as though it was never meant to exist.
âI remember what I said,â you murmur. âI was⊠foolishly daring.â A soft breath leaves you. âBut perhaps I had an intuition that night.â
He studies your face, closer than ever. âYou challenged me,â he admits. âAnd it excited me.â His thumb presses lightly at your side. âIâve only ever known flattery. Blind devotion.â A pause. âI grew bored of it.â
You search his eyes.
âAnd you,â he continues, voice lower now, âhave a voice that makes people listen.â His gaze holds yours. âEven an emperor.â
You smile at thatâbriefly. Then the smile fades, replaced by something more serious.
âThereâs something you must understand,â you say softly. âI wonât stop.â You meet his gaze fully. âThe day I do is the day you tell me to leave.â
His grip tightens, just a little.
âCan you endure my honesty?â you ask. âIf I stay, I will speak as I always have.â You hesitate, then continue, quieter now. âEverything Iâve saidâeverything I will sayâwill be for your benefit. Not because I seek favor.â A breath. âBut because I find myself caring for you. Wanting nothing but good for you.â
Silence stretches, fragile and full.
âI understand,â he says.
Then he closes the distance entirely and kisses you.
There is no hesitationâonly 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 insteadâfiltered 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 crueltyâjust 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 oppositeâby 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.
âAre you alright?â he asks at once, voice still rough with sleep.
You blink, then huff a quiet laugh. âWith the way I feel,â you say lightly, âone might think you attempted to murder me last night.â
His expression breaksâamusement replacing concern. He laughs, low and unguarded. âAre you complaining?â
âNot at all,â you reply, shifting just enough to feel the ache again. âIâm fine. Sore.â You consider the word, then add, âBut not unpleasant.â
Relief flickers across his face, quickly masked by something warmer.
You lean in and press a kiss to himâunhurried, 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 finishâearnestlyâand 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 themâfaint bruises along your neck, unmistakable despite the softness of their color. You stare for a moment, then laugh under your breath.
âYou really were trying to kill me,â you say lightly as you turn back toward the bed. âI should report you. Youâre like a mosquito.â
Geta laughs openly at that, completely unapologetic. âI wanted people to know youâre mine,â he says. âAnyone who dares try otherwise will suffer the consequences.â
You lift a hand at once. âCareful,â you warn, tone gentle but firm. âThat would be unnecessary.â
He quietsânot offended, but listening.
You step closer, closing the space between you again. Your voice softens. âI know Iâm yours,â you say simply. âThatâs enough. Anyone who tries anything would be met with immediate refusal.â
His gaze holds yours, something fierce easing into something steadier.
Then you sigh. âNow tell meâhow exactly am I meant to go home to my parents?â You tilt your head. âThis is entirely your fault.â
A smile curves his mouth. âI could come with you,â he suggests easily. âAsk for your hand in marriage. Immediately.â
You choke on a laugh. âMy father would collapse.â
âI would catch him.â
âNo,â you say quickly, still smiling. âIâll tell them myself. Give me that choice.â You look at him steadily. âThen you can ask.â
He considers you for a moment, then nods. âVery well.â
A pause. âYou realize,â he adds, amusement returning, âyouâre the only one who orders me around like this.â You smile, adjusting your cloak. âSomeone has to.â
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.
âYou didnât come home last night,â your mother says, not accusingâobserving.
You straighten, lifting your chin. âIâm an adult,â you reply evenly. âYou donât need to be concerned over my every movement.â
Your father exhales slowly. He does not raise his voice. He never does when something truly matters. âI trust you,â he says. âYou know that.â A pause. âBut it is also a matter of your safety. Gods forbid something happened to youâand we would not even know where to look.â
The weight of that lands.
Your resolve softens. âIâm sorry,â you say quietly. Then, after a moment, âI was at the palace.â 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 Acaciusâ return has drawn all of Romeâs elite, and the emperors sit as hosts upon the central couchesâimperial, untouchable.
You notice it immediately. Geta sits without concubines at his side.
It is unusual enough that others notice tooâwhispers 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 onceâjust long enough for recognitionâbefore you turn away and do what is expected of you. You mingle. You speak with senatorsâ sons and daughters, with minor officials and distant relatives of generals. Each conversation dulls within moments. When you offer a counterpointâmeasured, reasonableâyou 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 approachesâtaller, broader, carrying himself with the unmistakable weight of command worn too long. General Acacius.
You incline your head respectfully, saying your name. âDaughter of Senator Marcus Aelius Severianus.â You offer a small, genuine smile. âCongratulations on your successâand on your return in good health.â
His expression softens slightly. âThank you.â
âIâve heard you returned from Asia,â you continue. âI hope it treated you well.â
He exhales, something tired slipping through his composure. âIt was beautiful when I arrived,â he says. Then, after a pause, âLess so when I left.â
The words are careful. Too careful.
You catch the hesitation, the faint shadow of shame beneath the triumph. You sense fatigueâbone-deep, moral, the kind that victory does not erase.
âI imagine it takes much to keep conquering,â you say quietly. âEspecially when the necessity becomes⊠unclear.â
He studies you for a moment, surprisedânot offended. âThat is not a common sentiment tonight.â
âNo,â you agree. âBut it is not an uncommon truth.â For the first time since he entered the hall, Acacius looks relievedâif 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 belowâtorchlight 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 donât turn. You donât need to.
Geta steps beside you, his presence as inevitable as the city itself. He leans against the balustrade. âYou should join the festivities for once,â he says. âIt celebrates Romeâs victory.â
You glance at the streets below before answering. âIt isnât something I feel proud of.â
He looks at you now. âNo?â
âOur victories mean stepping on others,â you say quietly. âSlaughtering them. Taking what was theirs.â Your voice doesnât waver. âI donât find joy in that.â
He exhales sharply. âThat is how empires are built.â
You turn to him then. âRome already has many mouths to feed. How much wider do you want it to be?â
His eyes gleam with something fierce, unashamed. âUntil we conquer the world.â
The words settle between you, heavy and absolute.
âThat ambition,â you say softly, âscares me.â
He scoffs, dismissive. âYou always criticize me.â
âI donât criticize,â you reply. âI question.â
âAnd why must you always do that?â
âBecause no one else will,â you say, meeting his gaze without flinching. âAnd because I care what kind of world your ambition leaves behind.â
For a moment, the noise of Rome swells below youâcheers, songs, drunken laughterâcelebrating triumph without counting cost.
Geta looks at the city, then back at you, jaw tight.
âYou make everything complicated,â he says.
You smile faintly. âOnly the things that matter.â
âFear works,â Geta says firmly. âIt keeps people in line.â
You turn toward him fully. âFear works temporarily,â you reply. âThen it turns inward. It rots.â Your voice stays calm, but intent sharpens it. âDiplomacy creates allies. Allies endure.â
He scoffs. âYou speak as though conquest is the problem.â
âItâs not the only problem,â you say. âItâs the one youâre focused on.â You gesture vaguely toward the city below. âYou chase quantity, not quality. What use is expansion if what you rule is hollow?â
He studies you. âExplain.â
You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. âGods,â you mutter. Then, louder, âYou never really look out, have you, Caesar?â
His jaw tightens, but you continue before he can interrupt.
âRomeâs quality of life is deteriorating. The common people suffer more than they eat.â You nod toward the streets where torches still burn. âYou think their celebration proves otherwise.â
âIt does,â he argues. âLook at them.â
âThey celebrate because we tell them to,â you counter. âBecause itâs the only thing theyâre allowed to celebrate.â Your voice softens, but only slightly. âIf they had full plates, or secure roofs over their heads, they would celebrate that too. Harder. Longer.â
Silence stretches.
âWe pour everything into the military,â you go on. âInto conquest. And we ignore the very center of Rome.â You place a hand against the stone railing. âIts people. That is what makes RomeâRome.â
You turn back to him.
âI want Rome to survive,â you say quietly. âTo prosper. As much as you do.â
Your hand lifts, hesitating only a fraction before you caress his cheek. The touch is gentle, grounding.
âAnd I want you to survive too,â you add. âImagine their gratitudeânot fear, not obedience, but loyalty. Imagine what kind of emperor they would remember.â
He does not pull away. He looks at the city again, then back at youâconflicted, thoughtful, unsettled.
Morning light filters softly through the curtains, warm against your skin. You stirâand 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.
âYouâre awake,â he says quietly.
You smile, still half-lost to sleep. âI could say the same.â
âI have to prepare for a Senate meeting,â he continues, not hiding his reluctance. âIâll return as fast as I can.â
You push yourself up slightly, resting on one elbow. âDonât let me distract you from your imperial duties,â you say lightlyâbut sincerely. âRome wouldnât forgive me. And neither would I.â
He studies your face, then asks, more seriously than you expect, âGive me your word youâll still be here when I return.â
You donât hesitate. âI will.â
He exhales, tension easing just a little. âI dread those meetings,â he mutters. Then, with a crooked smile, âAnd I have no idea how Iâm meant to face your father now, knowing he knows I woke beside his daughter.â
You laugh outright. âTry not to look guilty,â you suggest. âThat might help.â
He snorts. âImpossible.â
Rising, he gestures toward the door. âEat,â he says. âIâll have the maids see to youâhelp you get ready.â He leans down and kisses youâunhurried, groundingâbefore pulling back. âHave a good morning,â he adds softly.
âAnd you,â you reply. âTry not to terrify the Senate too much.â
His smile lingers as he turns and leaves, duty calling him away.
You remain there a moment longer, listening to his footsteps fadeâaware that for once, power and tenderness have shared the same room.
You make your intentions known early.
You tell the palace staff youâll be spending the day in the libraryâand that they should spread the word. âSo an emperor doesnât spiral when he canât find me,â you add lightly. They blink, then smile despite themselves. You thank them, sincerely, and disappear among the shelves.
Time becomes irrelevant.
You readâscroll after scroll, codex after codexâlosing yourself in histories, philosophy, accounts of distant provinces youâve 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 youâd be. You close the book youâre holding and turn just as he reaches you.
âCaesar,â you greet warmly.
He doesnât answer right away.
Instead, he pulls you closeâarms firm around you, holding you as if youâve been gone for months rather than hours. You laugh softly but donât resist, resting your hands against him, allowing it.
âYouâre dramatic,â you murmur.
âI had to endure the Senate,â he replies dryly. âThat alone warrants compensation.â
You smile. âHow did it go?â
âWell enough,â he says. âCaracalla threw a fit. Iâm used to it. Nothing I couldnât handle.â
âIâm glad,â you say honestly.
His gaze drifts past you to the tableânow stacked with open scrolls and books, carefully arranged. âIt seems,â he says, amused, âyouâve already made this library yours.â
You follow his gaze, unrepentant. âI didnât want the knowledge to go to waste.â
He chuckles, softer this time. âIâm glad you found your place here.â
You look around the roomâthe 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 normalâjust a daughter coming home.
âWhat did I miss?â you ask lightly, setting aside your cloak.
Your father lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. âYesterday,â he says, âthe emperors agreed to halt further conquest effortsâat least for nowâto focus on housing.â
You stop. âWhat?â The word slips out before you can contain it.
Delight blooms almost instantly, sharp and unexpected. âThey did?â
âThey did,â he confirms. âRedirecting resources inward. Repairs. Construction. Relief.â
You shake your head, stunned. âThatâsââ You smile, unable to help it. âThatâs good. Thatâs very good.â
Your mother studies you carefully. âDid Emperor Geta say nothing to you?â
âNo,â you reply honestly. âHe only said the meeting went well.â
Your father frowns slightly. âThatâs unusual,â he admits. âHe was the one who pushed hardest for it. Caracalla refused at first.â
Your motherâs lips curve into a teasing smile. âSo,â she says, âwhat spell did you use?â
You roll your eyes. âNone. I didnât tell him to do anything.â You pause. âI only reminded him. I offered an argument.â
Your motherâs expression shiftsâsubtle, thoughtful.
âIf thatâs true,â she says slowly, âand he didnât boast about it to you⊠didnât even tell youâŠâ She trails off, then nods to herself. âThen it wasnât done to impress you.â
Your father looks at you now, seeing something new. âHe must have genuinely thought it through.â The realization settles quietly in your chest. You didnât persuade him with charm. You didnât demand or manipulate. You spoke. He listened.
You feel something like hopeânot just for Rome, but for the man who rules it, the man who you loved.
The warmth of the moment settlesâand then something sharp follows it. You straighten slightly. âYou should know,â you say carefully, âthis doesnât mean Father can use me as leverage.â You look between them. âI wonât betray Getaâs trust like that.â
Your father does not look offended. He looks thoughtful.
âI would never ask it of you,â he says at once. âIt was never my intention.â
Relief loosens something in your chest. âI know,â you say quietly. âBut I needed to say it.â
You hesitate, searching for the right words. âIâll always be loyal to you,â you tell them both. âTo this family.â Then you pause, breath steadying. âBut Geta isâŠâ You trail off, then try again. âHeâs different. Itâs a different kind of loyalty.â
Your father nods slowly, understanding settling in his expression. âThere are many forms of loyalty,â he says. âThe dangerous ones are the ones we refuse to name.â
Your mother watches you with gentle intensity, then smiles. âYouâre choosing,â she says simply. âThat matters.â
You draw in a breath. This is the moment you hadnât realized you were bracing for.
âThen,â you ask, voice steady despite the weight of it, âdo you both accept⊠the relationship I have with Emperor Geta?â You donât dress it up. You donât deflect. This is you confirming itâby your own words, at last.
They exchange a brief glance.
âOf course,â your father says without hesitation. âWe trust your judgment.â
Your mother nods. âWe always have.â
The simplicity of it nearly undoes you. You let out a slow breath, something close to a laugh. Whatever path youâre walkingâdangerous, uncertain, tangled with powerâyou 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. âTell him Iâll be waiting in his chambers,â 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 nowâno less vast, but somehow quieter in its hunger.
Footsteps approach behind you.
âI wasnât expecting you,â Geta says, entering the chamber. âBut Iâm not complaining.â
You chuckle, turning to face him. âI thought Iâd surprise you.â
He joins you at the balcony.
âMy father told me some wonderful news,â you say, watching his expression carefully. âWhy didnât you tell me?â
He knows exactly what you mean. âThe halting of the conquest,â he says. âIt wasnât important.â
You arch a brow. âIt was.â
He exhales, gaze drifting outward. âI didnât do it for you,â he says firmly. âI didnât want it to seem that way.â A pause. âYou only offered an argument. A good one.â His jaw tightens slightly. âOne that finally made me thinkâfor once.â
You nod, understanding settling easily. âI never ordered you to do anything,â you say. âI know that.â You step closer, voice softening. âBut Iâm really glad you made that choice.â Your eyes meet his. âAnd Iâm certain Romeâyour peopleâare glad too.â
He studies you for a moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze. âYou look pleased,â he says.
âI am,â you reply simply.
He looks quietly proudânot of conquest, not of power, but of restraint. He lets out a quiet laugh, leaning beside you against the balcony. âIâve realized something,â Geta says. âHearing my woman happy because of me might be a greater feeling than hearing of a successful conquest.â
You laugh, genuinely this time. âAnd knowing my man actually listened to me,â you add, âis a great feeling as well.â
He turns his head toward you, expression warm, almost boyish in its satisfaction.
âIâm free for the rest of the day,â he says. âWe could spend it together.â
You tilt your head. âHavenât we already spent quite a lot of time together?â
âNot enough,â he replies immediately.
You roll your eyes, fond despite yourself. âOf course.â
He watches you for a moment, then says, far too casually, âI should just make you my wife soon. Then you could be by my side all the time.â
You blink. Then scoff. âThat sounds awful.â
He straightens slightly. âCareful,â he warns playfully.
You smile. âYouâd have to face my father first.â
He waves a hand dismissively, clearly joking. âIâm the emperor. He couldnât say no to me.â
You laugh again, shaking your head. âTry that approach and youâll find yourself in a debate you wonât win.â
He grins at thatâwide, unguarded. âYou enjoy threatening me with your family far too much.â
âSomeone has to keep you humble,â 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 youâonly time, shared and wanted. And neither of you seems eager to let it end.
âShouldnât you be inside?â he asks, stepping onto the path as though he owns even this quiet space. âEnjoying the banquet laid out in my honor?â
You turn slowly to face him, unstartled, inclining your head in acknowledgment. âIt is generous,â you say honestly. Then, after a brief pause, âBut gatherings like that have never held much appeal for me.â
His brow lifts. A scoff follows, quick and dismissive. âNonsense. Everyone enjoys parties.â
A faint smile touches your mouthânot mocking, not deferential. Merely amused. âWith respect, Caesar,â you reply lightly, âI believe many enjoy being seen at parties. The noise, the wine, the performance of delight.â Your gaze flicks briefly toward the palace doors before returning to him. âThat is not quite the same thing.â
He studies you now, eyes narrowing just a fraction. âAnd what is it you enjoy, then?â he asks.
âQuiet,â you answer without hesitation. âConversation without witnesses. And gardens, apparentlyâplaces where nothing is demanded.â
A beat passes. Then you add, your tone still smooth, carefully measured, âThough I imagine for an emperor, silence must feel⊠unfamiliar.â
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âShouldnât you be inside?â he asks, stepping onto the path as though he owns even this quiet space. âEnjoying the banquet laid out in my honor?â
You turn slowly to face him, unstartled, inclining your head in acknowledgment. âIt is generous,â you say honestly. Then, after a brief pause, âBut gatherings like that have never held much appeal for me.â
His brow lifts. A scoff follows, quick and dismissive. âNonsense. Everyone enjoys parties.â
A faint smile touches your mouthânot mocking, not deferential. Merely amused. âWith respect, Caesar,â you reply lightly, âI believe many enjoy being seen at parties. The noise, the wine, the performance of delight.â Your gaze flicks briefly toward the palace doors before returning to him. âThat is not quite the same thing.â
He studies you now, eyes narrowing just a fraction. âAnd what is it you enjoy, then?â he asks.
âQuiet,â you answer without hesitation. âConversation without witnesses. And gardens, apparentlyâplaces where nothing is demanded.â
A beat passes. Then you add, your tone still smooth, carefully measured, âThough I imagine for an emperor, silence must feel⊠unfamiliar.â
comment if you want to be added to this fic taglist !!
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Summary: Battle of the Bands was meant to settle thingsâwho was better, who deserved the stage. You didnât expect it to blur the lines instead, or for Eddie Munson.
requested by @retirement-home
Tags: Rivals to Lovers, Band AU, rivals bands, fluff, petty banter, getting together, Eddie was a dumbass, flirting through insults, "i never really hated you actually...", "same...", high school band shenanigans, no upside-down. No description of reader. No use of Y/N.
A/N: I'm sorry it took this long!! đ« Been dealing with something called procrastination, but ST5 is fully out, might as well celebrate it with an Eddie fic, because he's still alive, right? đ. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.
Word Count: 10.5k
masterlist
The cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaosâplastic 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.
ââCherry Bombâ works as an opener,â Olivia insisted, nudging your arm. âIt grabs attention. Itâs loud, itâs fastââ
âItâs predictable,â you cut in, rolling your eyes as you leaned back in your seat. The leather of your jacket creaked against the plastic chair. âEverybody expects The Yellowjackets to play it. I want something they donât see coming.â
Before Olivia could counter, Jess appeared at the end of the table, hair windblown, cheeks flushed like sheâd sprinted across campus. She slapped a brightly colored flyer down between your trays, nearly knocking your soda over.
You arched a brow. âWell, good morning to you too.â
Jess ignored the jab, grinning as she tapped the paper with chipped black nail polish. âForget about Cherry Bomb. This is what weâre doing.â
You and Olivia leaned in. The block letters across the top screamed:
BATTLE OF THE BANDS â Indianapolis Community Center â One Night Only.
âWinner gets studio time in Indy,â Jess read dramatically, like she was announcing the second coming. âActual recording time. This is it. This is our shot.â
Your pulse kicked a little faster. Youâd played gigs beforeâbars that looked the other way about your ages, school dances when faculty were desperate for something cheapâbut nothing like this.
âStudio time,â Olivia repeated, slow and reverent. Then her eyes flicked to you. âThatâs huge.â
You smirked, but inside, your stomach was already twisting with excitement. âYeah,â you said, trying to sound cooler than you felt. âHuge.â
Jess dropped into the seat across from you, already buzzing with ideas. âImagine itâThe Yellowjackets on vinyl. Our own record. Our songs, not just covers. Weâd wipe the floor withââ
She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes cutting across the cafeteria. You didnât have to look to know why.
You knew that laugh anywhereâloud, 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.
ââwith them,â Jess finished, glaring in his direction.
You leaned back in your chair, a smirk tugging at your lips as Eddieâs 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 didnât walk so much as swagger, denim vest covered in patches, chains clinking faintly as he moved. His grin was already wide, like heâd been waiting to run into you.
âWell, well, well,â he drawled, leaning against the row of lockers beside yours. âIf it isnât Dollar Store Joan Jett herself.â
You slammed your locker shut and crossed your arms. âWow, how original.â
Eddieâs grin only widened. He tapped the folded flyer sticking out of his back pocket. âYou saw it, right? Battle of the Bands. Finally, a chance for Corroded Coffin to bury The Yellowjackets once and for all.â
You snorted. âPlease. Weâre the ones with actual rhythm. All you do is turn your amps up to eleven and hope nobody notices.â
âOuch.â He clutched his chest like youâd shot him, stumbling back a step with mock injury. âShe wounds me.â
But when his eyes caught yours again, there was something underneath the actâa flicker of real heat, the kind that had nothing to do with rivalry.
You shoved past him, though your shoulder brushed his on purpose. âTry not to trip over your own ego before the show, Munson.â
He turned as you walked away, his laugh chasing you down the hall. âOh, sweetheart, I donât tripâI headline.â
You didnât 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 â 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 spotâbright yellow paint, a wasp decal on the side, and the words The Yellowjackets scrawled across the door in punky lettersâhe stopped dead in his tracks.
âWhat the hell is this?â he muttered.
Inside, The Hideoutâs 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 werenât theirs.
Eddie stomped up to the bar, voice already climbing.
âFrank. Buddy. Tell me this is a sound check and not what it looks like.â
Frank didnât even look up. âYouâre off tonight, Munson. Double booking mix-up. These girls are playing instead.â
Eddie blinked. âInstead? Instead of us?â
Frank shrugged. âThey showed up early. Paid for the slot. What do you want me to do?â
Eddieâs mouth dropped open like he couldnât decide whether to argue or combust. âWeâve been doing Thursdays for months! We have regulars! Wellâsort of regulars. A couple guysââ
Frank cut him off with a look that said I stopped listening five seconds ago.
So Eddie turned to the stage, jaw tight.
âHey!â
You looked up from your guitar, one brow raised. You hadnât even started your first set yet and some guy in a denim vest was already shouting at you.
âUh, hi?â you said, the word laced with mild annoyance.
âYeah, hi,â Eddie shot back, stalking closer. âJust wondering what the hell youâre doing on our stage.â
Olivia glanced at you from behind her drum kit. âOur stage? Pretty sure Frank said we were booked.â
âYeah, accidentally booked!â Eddie snapped. âWeâve got Thursdays! Itâs likeâtradition!â
Jess snorted from the bass. âOh, right. The world-famous Hideout Thursday night tradition. How could we ever break that?â
A few people at the bar chuckled, and Eddieâs face flushed scarlet.
You set your guitar down, stepping to the mic.
âLook,â you said evenly, âwe donât want any trouble. Weâll play our set, you can have next week, no harm done.â
It was calm, fair, reasonable â exactly the kind of thing that mightâve defused the situation.
If Eddie Munson had an off switch.
âNext week?â he said, laughing under his breath. âSweetheart, if we let you play tonight, youâll clear the room before the second verse.â
That was it.
You crossed your arms. âFunny, I was thinking the same thing about you.â
Something flickered in his eyes then â a spark of interest, even through the irritation. He opened his mouth for another comeback, but Frank cut him off with a sharp, âEither play nice or play somewhere else, Munson.â
Eddie backed off, muttering curses under his breath, but not before giving you a look that burned â 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 â louder, faster, grittier.
And somewhere between your first verse and last chorus, Eddie stopped glaring and started watching.
Heâd never admit it, not then, but youâd earned his attention.
And from that night on, the rivalry was sealed â 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 âset the vibe.â
It didnât. It just made your throat burn.
Still, the space had become home â 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.
âOkay,â Olivia said, tapping her sticks together. âFrom the top. And this time, Jess, please donât come in two beats early.â
Jess rolled her eyes. âThat was one time.â
âThree,â 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.
âAll right,â you said, exhaling. âLetâs make it hurt a little.â
The first chords of your new original â âStatic Heartsâ â ripped through the garage, raw and loud enough to make the windows tremble.
It wasnât perfect. Oliviaâs timing slipped once, Jessâs amp crackled, and your voice cracked on the bridge â 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. âThat felt good.â
âNot good enough,â you said automatically, still catching your breath. âIf weâre going up against Munson, it has to be flawless.â
At his name, Olivia groaned. âYouâre seriously still thinking about him?â
âIâm thinking about winning,â you said. âBut yeah â maybe a little about wiping that smug grin off his face while weâre at it.â
Jess smirked. âYou sure thatâs all you wanna wipe?â
You threw a pick at her. âShut up and tune.â
But you couldnât quite shake the way your stomach twisted â half nerves, half something else entirely.
Across town, in Garethâs garage, Corroded Coffin was in full swing.
Sweat dripped from Eddieâs 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.
âToo slow on the bridge,â Eddie said, pacing with his guitar still strapped on. âItâs gotta punch. Think... think like youâre kicking in a door.â
Gareth threw his broken sticks at him. âYou wanna play drums then, Munson?â
Eddie grinned. âI would, but I look too good with a guitar.â
Jeff laughed, plucking a few lazy notes. âMan, youâve been wired all week. Chill out.â
Eddie ran a hand through his hair. âCanât. Weâre not just up against some random garage band this time.â
âAh,â Gareth said knowingly. âYou mean her.â
Eddie froze. âWhat? No. I meanâ no, not her. Them. Their band. The Yellowjackets.â
Jeff smirked. âSure, Eddie.â
âShut up.â
But his face betrayed him â 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.
âAgain from the top,â he said. âIf weâre gonna crush The Yellowjackets, weâre doing it loud enough they hear it from their garage.â
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 â 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 hadnât 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 âdown low.â Jess had said âjust for an hour.â Both were liars.
You stood in the kitchen, clutching a red cup of something you werenât 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 â 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 â a jab, maybe, about how he should save his energy for the Battle of the Bands â 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 thenâ
âCOPS!â
The word sliced through the music like a gunshot.
Panic hit the crowd in an instant â 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.
Youâd just started for the back hallway when a hand closed around yours.
âCâmon!â
Eddieâs voice â 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.
âMunsonâwhatââ
âLater!â 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 didnât 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 â 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.
âYou didnât have toââ you started, then stopped, still trying to catch your breath. âYou couldâve just left me.â
Eddie looked up at you, eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight. âYeah, well. Didnât feel like explaining to the cops why Knockoff Nancy Wilson got trampled at a house party.â
You snorted despite yourself. âWow. You really know how to make a girl feel special.â
He grinned, still winded. âItâs a gift.â
Silence fell again, the good kind â 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, âYou okay?â
You nodded. âYeah. You?â
He shrugged. âWouldnât be the first time I had to bolt when someone yelled âcops.ââ
You shot him a look, half amused, half exasperated. âThat supposed to make me feel better?â
âNah,â he said, grin widening. âJust means Iâm good at running.â
You shook your head, unable to hide your smile. âYouâre insane.â
âMaybe,â Eddie said, leaning back on his hands, gaze lifting toward the stars peeking through the branches. âBut admit it â a little part of you had fun.â
You wanted to deny it, but your pulse hadnât 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.
âMaybe,â you murmured.
And when you finally looked over at him â cheeks flushed, curls damp, eyes still burning with adrenaline â you werenât sure if it was the run, or the way he was looking back, that made your heart kick a little harder.
You werenât 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 Hawkinsâ 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. Youâd just started to stand when he spoke.
âWhereâre you going?â
âHome,â you said, brushing grass off your jeans. âYou know, since the cops kind of crashed the party.â
Eddie stood too, brushing off his vest. âCool. Iâll walk you.â
You turned, incredulous. âYouâll what?â
âI said Iâll walk you home.â
You frowned. âEddie, I can handle walking. Iâm not exactly made of glass.â
He grinned. âDidnât say you were. But itâs dark, and last I checked, Hawkins isnât exactly brimming with streetlights out here. Humor me.â
âI donât needââ
âYeah,â he interrupted, stepping ahead of you and gesturing toward the path like he owned it, âyou do. Câmon, Yellowjacket.â
You glared, but something about the stubborn set of his shoulders told you it wasnât worth arguing. So you followed, muttering, âYouâre impossible.â
He shot you a smirk over his shoulder. âBeen called worse.â
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.
âSo,â he said, kicking at a rock. âBattle prep going good?â
You side-eyed him. âFishing for intel?â
He grinned. âMaybe. Or maybe Iâm just making conversation with a fellow musician-slash-fugitive from a house party gone to hell.â
You huffed a laugh. âWeâre doing fine. Working on a new opener.â
âAh, yeah? Whatâs the vibe?â
âNot telling you,â you said flatly.
âCoward,â he teased.
You glanced at him. âYou first, then.â
He shrugged, hands stuffed in his pockets. âWeâre tightening the setlist. Little Dio, some Sabbath, one original. Garethâs been losing his mind over the tempo changes, but weâll get there.â
You nodded slowly. âYou writing the new song?â
Eddie gave a half-smile, eyes on the ground. âYeah. Been messing with some stuff. Itâs not⊠yâknow. Done yet.â
The way he said it â quiet, almost sheepish â 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.
âI get that,â you said finally. âWritingâs harder than people think. Everyone wants the big moment, but no one talks about the ten shitty drafts before you find it.â
He shot you a look â curious, a little impressed. âYou write too?â
âYeah,â you said, kicking at a pinecone. âBeen trying to move away from covers. Feels more real when itâs yours, you know?â
Eddie nodded. âYeah. Exactly that.â
For a minute, the conversation felt⊠easy. Familiar. Two musicians who got it â 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.
âWhat?â you asked.
âNothing,â he said, eyes glinting. âJust didnât think youâd be the type to talk shop with me instead of calling me an egomaniac.â
You smirked. âOh, donât worry. I still think that.â
âGood. Iâd hate to lose my edge.â
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.
âWell,â you said, âguess this is me.â
Eddie rocked back on his heels. âGuess so.â
You hesitated, then added, âThanks. For⊠you know. Not letting me get trampled back there. I owe you.â
He smirked, but it was softer this time. âAnytime, sweetheart.â
You rolled your eyes. âDonât call me that.â
âSure thing, sweetheart.â
You sighed, turning to head up the path â but his voice stopped you.
âHey,â he said, a little quieter now. âYouâre gonna kill it at the Battle, you know that?â
You turned halfway, eyebrows raised. âThat your way of psyching me out?â
He grinned. âNah. Just the truth.â
For once, there wasnât sarcasm behind it â just sincerity, unexpected and disarming. You held his gaze for a moment longer than you meant to.
Then you smiled. âWeâll see who kills who, Munson.â
And with that, you left him standing under the streetlight, still grinning to himself like heâd just heard the first few notes of a song he couldnât 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 â 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 â and thatâs when you saw him.
Eddie Munson, sitting on the curb beside the ice machine.
At first, you didnât 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.
âEddie?â you said softly, stepping closer.
He glanced up, and for a second, his eyes went wide â like he wasnât expecting anyone, least of all you. Then he huffed a laugh, half-bitter.
âOh, great. My guardian angel.â
You frowned, crouching in front of him. âWhat the hell happened?â
He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and winced. âJust a friendly disagreement.â
âEddie.â
He sighed, leaning his head back against the ice machine. âSome college kid. Big guy. Came down from Indy for the weekend. Thought I was overcharging him for a deal.â
You raised an eyebrow. âWere you?â
Eddieâs mouth quirked into a half-smile, even through the pain. âKinda...ââ
You groaned. âYouâre an idiot.â
âYeah, well.â He shrugged one shoulder, then winced again. âYouâre not wrong.â
You stood up, shaking your head. âStay here.â
âWhatâwhere are youââ
âJust stay, Munson.â
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. âWhat is this, Nurse Nightingale?â
âShut up and hold still.â
He chuckled â and immediately regretted it, wincing as you dabbed at his split lip with a damp paper towel.
âJesus,â he hissed. âYou trying to kill me?â
âTrust me,â you said, concentrating on his cheek, âif I wanted to, Iâd do a cleaner job.â
That made him grin, even through the sting. âYouâre terrifying, you know that?â
âIâve been told.â
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 â not the sarcastic, loud Eddie you were used to, but quieter, almost uncertain.
When you finally leaned back, you sighed. âThere. Itâs not that bad.â
He snorted. âRight. Iâm gonna show up to the Battle looking like I picked a fight with a lawnmower.â
You tilted your head, studying him. The bruise blooming under his eye didnât make him look weak â just raw, human. Maybe even tougher.
âHonestly,â you said, a smirk tugging at your lips, âit kind of works.â
He blinked. âWhat?â
âThe look,â you said. âBruised, disheveled, slightly feral. You could sell it, for Battle of the Bands.â
Eddie laughed, the sound low and genuine this time. âYeah? You think so?â
âSure,â you said, standing and offering him a hand. âGirls love a guy who looks like heâs one bar fight away from writing a breakup anthem.â
He took your hand, letting you pull him up, his grip warm even through the chill. âYouâre either messing with me,â he said, brushing off his vest, âor trying to build my confidence before you destroy me on stage.â
You grinned. âMaybe both.â
He looked at you for a long second, like he was about to say something else â something real â but instead, he just nodded toward your drink. âYou gonna finish that soda?â
You rolled your eyes and handed it over. âDonât get used to it.â
Eddie raised the bottle in mock salute. âWouldnât dream of it.â
âTry not to piss off any more college kids before the show, yeah?â
He looked through warm eyes even under the bruises. âNo promises, sweetheart.â
You rolled your eyes but couldnât quite fight your grin.
âSee you at the Battle, Munson,â you said, before slowly walking away.
Eddie called after you, voice low and amused, âLooking forward to it, Yellowjacket.â
You didnât 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 Yellowjacketsâ 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 â 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. âThis thingâs a beast,â she said, patting the dash. âThink sheâll make it to Indy?â
âShe better,â Olivia said, flipping through her lyric notebook. âWe couldâve just used my dadâs van, you know.â
You smirked. âYeah, and show up to a Battle of the Bands in a plumberâs van with Daveâs Septic Solutionsâ on the side? Hard pass.â
Jess laughed. âGood point.â
You leaned your head against the window, watching Hawkins fade into the rearview mirror. The excitement in your stomach buzzed like static â equal parts nerves and anticipation. This was it. Studio time. A real shot.
Then Jess slowed down. âUh⊠is thatâ?â
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.
You tried not to laugh â you really did â 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.
âHey, Munson!â she called. âNeed a mechanic, or a miracle?â
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.
âOh, perfect,â he said, throwing up his hands. âThe rescue squad from hell.â
You leaned forward between the seats, grinning. âTrouble in paradise?â
He huffed. âJust a little⊠mechanical rebellion. Sheâs sensitive.â
âYeah, looks like it.â Jessâs tone was pure smugness.
Jeff, from the passenger side of the van, crossed his arms. âWeâre fine. Weâll fix it.â
Gareth muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, âWe are absolutely not fine.â
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.
âYou guys heading to Indy?â you asked.
Eddie wiped his hands on a rag, smearing more grease than he removed. âEventually. Assuming our noble steed decides to cooperate.â
Olivia leaned out the window. âWe could always tell the judges you died tragically in a vehicular accident. Might boost your bandâs mystique.â
Eddie shot her a look. âHa-ha.â
You crossed your arms, eyeing the smoking van, then the road stretching empty ahead. You could hear Olivia and Jess muttering behind you â both knowing exactly what you were about to suggest.
âOkay,â you said finally, âhow about this: you guys hitch a ride with us.â
Eddie blinked. âWhat?â
âYou heard me. Weâve got room.â
Olivia immediately groaned. âOh, come on, no.â
Jess threw her hands up. âAbsolutely not. Do you want to spend three hours trapped with them?â
You shot them both a look. âTheyâll drive and buy gas. Thatâs the deal. Otherwise, weâll be late too if we hang around watching them fail engine surgery.â
Eddie straightened, eyes narrowing like he wasnât sure if you were mocking him.
âYouâre serious.â
âDeadly,â you said.
Jeff started to protest, but Gareth spoke first. âDude, no way. We canât ride with them. Thatâs humiliating.â
Eddieâs jaw worked for a moment, glancing between his dead van and the Transporter idling nearby â Olivia glaring from the passenger seat, Jess already shaking her head.
Then he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. âYeah. Okay.â
Jeff gaped. âYouâre kidding.â
Eddie turned to him. âYou wanna push the van to Indianapolis, man? Be my guest.â
Gareth grumbled something but started grabbing his gear.
Eddie looked back at you, smirk creeping back into place. âFine. Weâll drive. Weâll pay for gas. But Iâm picking the music.â
Jess groaned. âGod help us.â
You shrugged, trying to suppress the grin that tugged at your mouth. âDeal. But if you play anything over ten minutes long, Iâm ejecting the tape myself.â
Eddieâs grin widened. âGuess weâll see how brave you really are, Yellowjacket.â
As Corroded Coffin started loading their gear into the Transporter â Jess muttering curses the entire time â 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 â 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. âSo⊠this is fun.â
He shot you a sideways grin. âLiving the dream.â
You smirked. âYou always dream about carpooling with your rivals?â
âOnly when the universe is feeling particularly sadistic.â
It was the closest either of you had come to a truce so far â the kind born of mutual disbelief that this was actually happening.
For a while, it was bearable. The radio played softly â The Clash giving way to Bowie â and the road stretched long and quiet. You even started to relax a little.
Then it started.
âCould you not chew like that?â Olivia snapped suddenly.
Jeff blinked, mid-bite of his granola bar. âLike what?â
âHey, Iâm not the one with glitter all over my side of the seat,â Jeff shot back. âItâs like Tinker Bell exploded back here.â
âThatâs from my stage makeup bag!â Jess protested. âSome of us care about presentation!â
âYeah, maybe focus on your bassline presentation,â Gareth muttered.
âExcuse me?â
And that was it.
Chaos.
The back of the van erupted â 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. âYouâre gonna wanna pull over before someone dies.â
He kept his eyes on the road, lips twitching. âOh no. I wanna see how this plays out.â
âEddie.â
He grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. âCome on, sweetheart. Let âem burn off some steam. Itâs team bonding.â
âTeam homicide, maybe.â
When a particularly loud thunk came from the back â followed by Gareth yelling, âYou did that on purpose!â â you sighed and twisted around in your seat.
âHey!â you snapped. âEverybody shut up for, like, ten seconds before I start throwing instruments out the window!â
Instant silence.
Six sets of eyes blinked back at you.
Eddie let out a low whistle. âDamn. Didnât know you had that voice.â
You crossed your arms. âYou drive. Iâll manage.â
He laughed. âDeal.â
For a blessed few minutes, the van was quiet again â 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.
âWhat?â you asked.
âNothing.â
You raised an eyebrow. âWhat.â
He smirked. âJustânever thought Iâd see the day youâd have to play mom to your band and mine.â
You huffed a laugh. âYeah, well, someoneâs gotta keep you idiots alive.â
âHarsh but fair.â
Behind you, Jess whispered something to Olivia that made them both snicker, and Gareth groaned loudly about âthe worldâs longest car ride.â
Eddie groaned in mock despair. âWeâre not even an hour in.â
You glanced over at him. âWe could turn around, you know.â
âAnd let others win the Battle? Nah.â
âDidnât think so.â
You both fell quiet again, and for a moment, the absurdity of it all hit you â rival bands crammed into one old van, everyone pretending they didnât kind of like being there.
By the time the van rolled into a rest stop diner off Highway 31, everyoneâs nerves were frayed.
It had been two hours of noise, teasing, and territorial snack wars. Even Eddie looked done â 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 Dotâs Diner flickered like salvation.
The second the van parked, Olivia groaned, âIf I donât get caffeine in the next five minutes, someoneâs dying.â
âMake it ten,â Jess muttered, stretching her legs as she stepped out. âBecause Iâm getting pancakes too.â
The group shuffled inside, a half-feral mix of denim, leather, and exhaustion. The hostess â a woman in her fifties with a perm and zero patience â 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. âCâmon, sweetheart. Team leaders up front.â
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 didnât 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 âfor morale.â
Then the food arrived â 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, âTake it,â 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. âUgh. Hate these things.â
Before she could shove it aside, Gareth reached over with his fork and snagged it. âIâll take it.â
She blinked at him. âYou eat pickles?â
He shrugged. âCrunchy, salty, free. Whatâs not to like?â
Jess smirked. âGuess we found something youâre good at besides off-beat drumming.â
Garethâs eyes narrowed, but his mouth twitched. âOh, weâre doing this again, huh?â
âAlways.â
Doug chuckled softly. âThis is the weirdest peace treaty Iâve ever seen.â
You glanced up from your burger, noticing how the sharp edges of everyoneâs voices had started to soften.
Even Olivia was laughing â actually laughing â 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.
âWell, look at that,â he said quietly. âThe kids are getting along.â
You smiled. âGuess all it took was a road trip.â
He leaned back, grinning. âThat or the sheer exhaustion of hating each other for two hours straight.â
You took a sip of your milkshake. âCould be both.â
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, âYou know, I didnât think youâd actually offer us a ride.â
You raised an eyebrow. âWhat, you thought Iâd just leave you on the side of the road?â
He smirked. âWouldâve been a power move.â
âTempting,â you admitted. âBut I figured karmaâs a thing. Didnât want her catching up with me before the Battle.â
Eddie chuckled, swirling his straw in his Coke. âStill. Wasnât exactly what I expected from the girl who called me a walking ego with a guitar.â
âYou are a walking ego with a guitar,â you said, grinning. âBut⊠I guess youâre not completely unbearable.â
He put a hand over his heart. âWow. Be still, my beating heart.â
You laughed â couldnât help it â and he smiled wider, the kind of smile that softened his whole face, even under the fading bruise on his cheek.
âYou really think youâve got us beat tomorrow?â he asked suddenly.
You tilted your head. âYou worried?â
âNah,â he said, but his tone was lighter now, teasing. âJust curious how bad the lossâll sting.â
You smirked. âGuess weâll find out.â
The way he looked at you then â head tilted, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes â made your pulse skip. It wasnât cocky this time. It wasnât a challenge. It felt⊠real.
Jessâs 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. âWeâre really doing this, huh?â
âApparently,â you said. âOne van, two bands, zero chance of survival.â
He laughed softly. âWouldnât have it any other way.â
The diner glow faded in the rearview mirror as the Transporter rumbled back onto the highway.
Something had shifted â 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, heâd glance over with that small, knowing grin.
Every so often, youâd 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 â tired, peaceful, almost content.
The motel came into view: a squat, neon-signed building promising âClean Rooms! Color TV!â
Eddie parked, cutting the engine. Everyone stirred awake, stretching, groaning.
âWell,â Jess muttered, yawning, âwe made it.â
Eddie smirked. âBarely.â
You stepped out, stretching your arms, the air cooler now, city lights flickering on the horizon.
Rivals, sure. But for the first time, it didnât 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 â 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 â 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 â 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. âYou planning to pull an all-nighter, sweetheart?â
You smirked. âCould ask you the same thing.â
He flicked his lighter, the tiny flame catching. âNervous energy,â he said around the cigarette. âCanât sleep before a gig. Never could.â
âYeah,â you said softly, leaning on the railing. âI get that.â
For a while, you stood in silence â your tea steaming, his cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. The hum of the highway sounded distant, like static.
âYou ready for tomorrow?â he asked finally.
You smiled wryly. âAs Iâll ever be.â
He blew out a slow breath of smoke. âWeâll probably end up next to each other on the lineup. You realize that, right?â
âOh, great,â you said dryly. âFront row seats to each otherâs disasters.â
He grinned. âCanât wait.â
The banter hung between you, easy now â not barbed, not sharp. Just two musicians under the same flickering light, sharing the same nerves.
After a pause, you said quietly, âYou know⊠we couldâve just been like this the whole time.â
Eddie turned to look at you. âLike what?â
âCordial. Tolerant. Not trying to kill each other with guitar riffs.â
He snorted. âYou think a little forced proximity fixed years of healthy rivalry?â
You smiled into your cup. âMaybe. Guess we just needed a van, a diner, and mutual suffering.â
He laughed â a low, rough sound that made something in your chest tighten. âYeah, that sounds about right.â
A comfortable quiet settled again. Then, almost without meaning to, you said, âYou know⊠it didnât have to start like it did.â
Eddie frowned slightly. âThe Hideout thing?â
You nodded. âThat was our first gig outside my garage. Weâd 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 weâd stolen something from you.â
Eddieâs jaw tensed. âYou kinda did.â
You shot him a look. âNot on purpose. Frank double-booked. We offered to share, but you came in swinging. Literally â with words.â
He blinked, looking away. âYeah,â he said after a beat. âGuess we did.â
âIt was embarrassing,â you admitted, voice softening. âWe 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 â loud, weird, real. I thought maybe weâd get along.â
Eddie was quiet for a long time. The only sound was the hiss of his cigarette as he took another drag.
Finally, he said, âI was an asshole.â
You looked at him, surprised by the bluntness.
He flicked the ash over the railing. âWeâd been playing that dump for months. Thought we owned it. Then you guys show up â confident, better than we expected â and I⊠I didnât take it well. Guess I didnât like realizing we werenât the only ones who gave a damn about the music.â
You smiled faintly. âSo, you admit this whole feud started because your ego got bruised?â
He smirked, just a little. âSomething like that.â
You shook your head, sipping your tea. âYouâre lucky youâre good at what you do, Munson.â
âYeah?â he said, tilting his head. âOtherwise what?â
âOtherwise Iâd still hate your guts.â
He grinned, slow and genuine. âYou sure you donât?â
You met his eyes â steady, playful, something unspoken flickering in the space between you.
âIâll let you know after tomorrow,â you said softly.
He smiled around the cigarette, then flicked it out into the dark. âFair enough.â
For a long moment, you both stood there â side by side, quiet, the motel lights humming above, the air heavy with nerves and something almost tender.
Finally, he said, âNight, sweetheart.â
âGood night, Munson.â
And when you turned to go back inside, you caught him watching you â the kind of look that wasnât about rivalry at all.
The Indianapolis Community Center didnât look like much from the outside â just a squat brick building with faded lettering and a parking lot full of rusted cars and band vans â 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 â 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.
âWould you look at that?â he said, nodding toward the sign-up board taped to the front doors. âCorroded Coffin, fifth slot. The Yellowjackets⊠sixth. Guess we beat you here after all.â
You rolled your eyes. âBy like, what, fifteen seconds?â
âStill counts,â he said, smug.
Olivia snorted as she hauled out a drum bag. âGod, youâre unbearable.â
Jess called from the back of the van, âHeâs right, though â technically they go before us. Which means we get to upstage them.â
âUpstage us?â Eddie spun, grinning wide. âSweetheart, our amps are going to blow your wigs off before you even plug in.â
You arched a brow. âYou sure you wanna talk big right before I have the chance to prove you wrong in front of an audience?â
He leaned in slightly, grin softening at the edges. âWouldnât be any fun if I didnât.â
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 â the Battle.
âTry not to break a string this time,â you said, bumping Eddieâs shoulder as you passed.
âTry not to lose your voice trying to out-sing me,â he shot back easily.
You looked over your shoulder at him, smiling. âOh, I wonât have to. The crowdâs gonna do it for me.â
He laughed, low and genuine, shaking his head. âGod, youâre cocky.â
âLearned from the best,â you said, and it made him grin wider â 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 wasnât rivalry in his eyes â 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. âDonât choke, Yellowjacket.â
You smirked. âDonât trip, Munson.â
And with that, you both disappeared backstage â grinning like two halves of the same storm, ready to blow the roof off the place.
Backstage was chaos â 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.
âWell,â you said, wiping sweat from your forehead, âtry and tell me we didnât just smoke you guys.â
He looked up, one eyebrow raised.
âI mean, come on, Munson. Did you hear that last chorus? We had the crowd in the palm of our hands.â You grinned, adrenaline still buzzing through every word. âYou might as well hand over the imaginary trophy now.â
He didnât answer. Just watched you â quiet, that same small smile tugging at his mouth.
You kept going, because you couldnât help yourself. âDonât tell me youâre speechless. Thatâd be a first. Or maybe youâre just too proud to admitââ
And then he kissed you.
Right there, mid-sentence.
No hesitation, no warning â 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 âFinally!â
Jess whooped. Gareth groaned, âPay up, Jeff â I told you itâd happen!â
When Eddie finally pulled back, he was grinning, breathless.
âSorry,â he said, voice low, eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes. âYou were talking too much.â
You blinked, stunned for half a second â then laughed. âYouâre such an asshole.â
He smiled wider. âYeah, but Iâm your asshole now, right?â
You rolled your eyes, still smiling. âWeâll see, Munson. Depends who wins.â
He leaned in, forehead brushing yours. âDoes it, though?â
You didnât answer â not with words.
The MCâs 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 â
You didnât care who won anymore.
Youâd already found exactly what youâd been chasing.
The MCâs voice cut back through the noise, crackling slightly over the PA.
âAlright, everyoneâjudges have reached a decision.â
The room quieted, not completely, but enough. The air felt tight again, like the moment before a storm breaks. You felt Eddieâs hand brush against yours, accidental at first, then staying there. Neither of you pulled away.
âThis was not an easy call,â the MC continued. âEvery band up here tonight brought something real to the stage.â
Jess leaned close to you, muttering, âThatâs never a good sign.â
Eddie huffed out a quiet laugh. âYeah. Brace yourself.â
âAnd the winner of tonightâs Battle of the Bandsâstudio time includedâgoes toâŠâ
There was a beat. One stretched second that felt like a held breath.
ââThe Phantoms!â
The room erupted.
Cheers, whistles, a few surprised shouts. Somewhere up front, the members of The Phantoms were losing their mindsâhugging, jumping, knocking into each other like they couldnât 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 disappointmentâexpecting that flash of wounded pride, the tight jaw, the muttered curse. Instead, he was smiling. Not forced. Not fake. Just⊠soft.
âWell,â he said quietly, leaning closer so only you could hear, âguess neither of us gets to be insufferable tonight.â
You laughed, surprised by how easy it felt. âKinda takes the fun out of it, huh?â
âNah,â he said, eyes still on the celebrating band. âHonestly? That was the best possible outcome.â
You nodded slowly. It was true. No awkward victory. No bitter loss. No ego getting fed or shredded beyond repair.
Jess clapped firstâloud, 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 talkingâthank-yous, closing remarksâbut 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. âKILL IT IN THE STUDIO!â he yelled.
You stared at him. âYouâre ridiculous.â
He grinned. âWhat? They earned it.â
You bumped his shoulder with yours. âDidnât think you had that kind of grace.â
He shrugged. âTurns out my egoâs more fragile than I let on. This way, it survives.â
âSame,â 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. âSo. We didnât win.â
âNope.â
âAnd youâre not mad.â
âNot even a little.â
He smiled, slower this time. âGood. Because I was thinking⊠maybe we celebrate anyway.â
You raised an eyebrow. âOh?â
âYeah,â he said. âNo trophies. No bragging rights. Just⊠music doing what itâs supposed to do.â
You looked aroundâat your band, his band, at The Phantoms still glowing with disbeliefâand felt it settle deep in your bones.
âYeah,â you said softly. âThat sounds perfect.â
And for the first time all night, it really did.
The cafeteria still buzzed the same way it always hadâplastic trays, bad acoustics, worse foodâbut 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 nowâbarbs traded like guitar picks instead of knives.
âIâm just saying,â Gareth said around a mouthful of fries, âif you didnât rush the chorusââ
Jess immediately leaned across the table. âIf you didnât drag like you were playing at a funeralââ
Eddie slapped the table once. âWhoa, whoa, whoa. Save it for rehearsal, children.â
Olivia smirked. âSince when are you the mediator?â
âSince I became emotionally mature,â 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 tableâthe tableâand Eddieâs stupid, familiar grin lighting up when he saw you.
âHey,â he said.
You leaned down without breaking stride, kissed himâquick, warm, practicedâand slid into the seat beside him.
The table immediately erupted.
âOh my god,â Jess groaned dramatically, gagging. âNot in front of my fries.â
Gareth made exaggerated retching noises. âThis is a public place.â
Olivia covered her eyes. âIâm begging you. Think of the children.â
Doug deadpanned, âI regret eating.â
Eddie, of course, looked smug as hell. âJealousy is ugly, guys.â
You rested your elbow on the table, chin in your hand. âYouâre all just mad you donât have this.â
Jeff pointed at you both. âYou kissed for longer than socially acceptable.â
âBarely three seconds,â you said. âWeâve done worse.â
The table dissolved into chaos againâcatcalls, fake puking, Jess threatening to flip the tray if you didnât 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.
âSo,â Olivia said, eyes sharp with interest, âare we actually doing this, or is Eddie just talking big again?â
Eddie scoffed. âHey. This is a vision.â
âA joint performance,â Jess said, already grinning. âOne stage. Two bands. One very confused audience.â
âOpening with Yellowjackets,â Gareth added. âTransition into Coffin. Then the shared set.â
Jeff nodded. âThe mashup works. Your rhythm section into our solo break? Itâs sick.â
You leaned forward, energized. âWeâve got the closer figured out too. One song. Everyone. No egos.â
Eddie glanced at you sideways, smiling. âOkay, maybe slight egos.â
âMinimal,â 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. âGod, I love this band.â
You bumped his knee with yours. âWhich one?â
He kissed your temple this time, softer. âYeah.â
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 spinningâclasses, rehearsals, stupid rules, bigger dreams.
But right there, at that table, everything felt exactly right.
Hey, guys just wanted to tell you that I'm starting to write again !! I'm writing an Eddie fic rn, a request. Thank you guys for waiting for me đ«¶đ«¶ Hope you guys are as excited as I am.
so... I'm finally posting this. I know it was long overdue, but I'm back !!! (really back this time), and I'd like to apologize for my not-so-short disappearance, it was a lot of procrastinating and writers block... Sorry.
Hey, guys just wanted to tell you that I'm starting to write again !! I'm writing an Eddie fic rn, a request. Thank you guys for waiting for me đ«¶đ«¶ Hope you guys are as excited as I am.
Hey guys, I've got some news to tell you. I will be taking a rest for some time, hopefully it won't be long.
As you guys know, I just finished my studies at uni now, that was the most busy I've been and it took a lot of my brainpower. And for me, writing also takes a lot, as it requires some thinking to do so.
My point is, I wanted to rest my brain for some time, free my head space, and restore my brainpower. With my head in its optimal condition, I can give you guys quality fics that I write with enthusiasm, not some half-assed crap I write out of obligations.
But don't worry !! I'll try to return as soon as possible. Writing makes me happy and I won't abandon it just like that. I hope you guys can understand, thank you for everything !!
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Summary: Working at Big Bellyâs Diner in Hawkins wasnât glamorousâlate-night truckers, spilled coffee, and grease that clung to everything. You never thought a metalhead line cook could upend your life. But then again, Eddie Munson was never just a cook.
Tags: Fluff, tooth rotting fluff, you'll need a dentist again, diner au, line cook!Eddie, waitress!Reader, friendly and flirty banter, getting together, no upside-down, mutual pining, even their coworkers ship them. no description of reader. No use of Y/N.
A/N: I'm the most free I've been, I feel like to celebrate, I'll give you another Eddie fanfic. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.
Word Count: 10.9k
masterlist
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 regularsâtwo truckers who smelled like diesel and black coffee.
âTwo Big Belly Burgers, one extra pickles, one no onions. Fries with both. And two cherry Cokes,â 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 Bellyâs cap in the loosest possible interpretation of the dress code, a few curls already escaping.
You slapped the ticket down in front of him. âTable three,â you said. âDonât burn them this time.â
He gave you that grinâthe one that was half challenge, half trouble. âPlease. My burgers are the only reason people come here.â
You raised an eyebrow. âSure. Itâs definitely not because theyâre desperate and this is the only place open after eleven.â
âJealous,â he shot back, flipping a patty onto the grill with more flair than strictly necessary. âAdmit itâyouâd kill to be back here in my kitchen kingdom.â
You leaned an elbow on the counter. âRight. Because smelling like fryer grease all day is my dream.â
From the other side of the kitchen, one of the dishwashers called out, âJust kiss already!â
Without missing a beat, you and Eddie both shot back in perfect unisonâ
âShe wishes!â
âHe wishes!â
You caught each otherâs 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.
âTop you off?â 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 crackingâthough it always turned real when someone tipped decently.
From behind the pass-through, Eddieâs 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 wasnât his usual smirk eitherâmore like something softer. So soft, in fact, that he nearly missed the angry hiss from the grill.
âShitââ 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 heâd slid under the heat lamps. âUh-huh.â You tilted your head at the patty. âLooks a little⊠dark, Munson.â
Eddie braced his arms on the counter, leaning toward you with exaggerated offense. âThatâs called caramelization, sweetheart. Adds flavor. Youâre welcome.â
You smirked, shaking your head as you grabbed the plate. âIf the customer sends it back, Iâm telling them you tried to assassinate them via overcooked beef.â
âTell them itâs gourmet,â he called after you as you wove back into the dining room, and you didnât 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 Bellyâs felt calmerâjust 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 dinerâs 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 shiftsâjust something easy.
âThought you clocked out already,â he said, voice low.
âWas just finishing up.â 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.
âAll the food looked good today,â you said finally, tilting your head toward him. âWell⊠besides that one dark one.â
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. âStill on about that?â
âIâm just saying, youâre lucky I didnât have to deal with an angry customer.â
âYou wound me,â he said, but there was no real defense in his toneâjust the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, like he liked that youâd noticed at all.
For once, neither of you rushed to fill the silence that followed.
Headlights swept across the parking lot, and you spotted Karenâs beat-up Buick pulling up near the curb. She leaned over from the driverâs 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 wasnât 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.
âWell⊠guess thatâs my ride,â 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. âSee you tomorrow, waitress.â
âSee you, cook,â 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 mirrorâstill leaning against the wall, cigarette burning low, watching until you were gone.
The morning rush hadnât 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 Eddieâhair a mess under his cap, leather jacket over his white shirt like he hadnât bothered to change until the last possible second.
You smirked. âWell, well, look who decided to show up.â
He only raised his brows, unfazed, as he sauntered past you toward the kitchen.
âOh, Biggie!â you called out loud enough to carry to the back. âGuess whoâs late againââ
Before you could get another word out, Eddieâs arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. His hand came up over your mouth in a lazy, practiced motion, like heâd done it a thousand times before.
âDonât listen to her, Boss,â he said, strolling through the swinging doors with you half-dragged along, his voice smooth as ever. âSheâs delirious from too much caffeine. Happens every shift.â
You mumbled against his palm, swatting at his arm as he grinned down at you, walking at the same casual pace as though he hadnât just been caught sneaking in late.
Biggie poked his head out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. âMunson. Clock in. Now.â
âYes, sir,â 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 incidentâno 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.
âPsst.â
You looked up, and there was Eddieâhead 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.
âWhat?â you asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.
He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. âJust wondering⊠hypothetically⊠would it kill you to go see a movie with me sometime?â
Your hand froze halfway to the dispenser, a straw dangling loosely between your fingers. You blinked at him. âA movie?â
âYeah, you know,â he said, voice casual but the faintest thread of nervousness sneaking through. âDark room, big screen, overpriced popcorn. Whole civilized experience.â
You set the straw down carefully, schooling your face into its usual smirk. âHmm. I donât know. Sounds risky.â
Eddie leaned further out the window, his grin widening. âRisky how?â
âSpending two whole hours with you? What if you talk through the whole thing?â
He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. âI would never. I am a gentleman of the cinema.â
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. âWeâll see, Munson. Maybe.â
As you turned back to the straws, your eyes flicked upâand immediately caught Karenâs 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 immediatelyâof course he didâand that small, crooked smile curved onto his face like it belonged there.
âWell, if it isnât my favorite waitress,â he said lightly.
You stopped a few feet away, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. âSoâŠâ
âSo?â he echoed, blowing a lazy plume of smoke to the side.
âYou canât justââ You waved a hand vaguely, searching for the words. âDrop something like âgo to a movie with meâ in the middle of a shift and then not elaborate.â
His grin tugged wider. âCouldnât wait, could you?â
You gave him a flat look, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you. âDonât push it, Munson.â
He flicked ash onto the cracked pavement, then gestured with the cigarette like it was a pointer. âAlright, picture this: The Hawk, Saturday night. I pay for the tickets, I donât talk during the showâunless itâs to make fun of the trailersâand I even spring for popcorn. Big spender, right?â
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, lips twitching despite yourself. âThatâs your big pitch?â
âWhat, not impressed?â he asked, feigning outrage. âIâll even let you pick the movie. Total gentleman move.â
You laughed softly, shaking your head. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âRidiculously charming,â he countered, smoke curling past his grin.
You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. âMaybe.â
And the way his gaze softened at that single word made your chest feel strangely light, like maybe youâd 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 wasnât 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 youâd pointed to the poster on the wall. Labyrinth. David Bowieâs painted face stared down with a piercing gaze, all mystery and glitter. Eddie blinked at the poster, then at you, one brow arching high.
âLabyrinth?â he asked, half incredulous, half amused. âHuh.â
You turned to him, clutching your ticket, tilting your chin in challenge. âWhat?â
âNothing,â he said quickly, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away. âJust⊠didnât have you pegged as the fantasy type.â
You shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world. âI like fantasy. Big worlds, magic. Makes real life seem a little less boring, you know?â
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. âYeah, uh⊠fantasyâs cool. Definitely. Totally respectable choice.â
You squinted at him. âRespectable?â
âYeah.â He cleared his throat, the picture of nonchalance. âI mean, whatâs not to love?â His tone was light, but underneath the sarcasm, something else flickeredârelief, 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. âMâlady,â he said dramatically, bowing again.
Rolling your eyes, you tugged the bucket from his hands, though your smile lingered. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd yet youâre here with me,â he shot back, following you toward the dark theater doors.
The movie hadnât 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 dimmedâlike he couldnât quite believe youâd chosen this movie, like he couldnât 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.
âDonât hog it,â you whispered, nudging the bucket toward him.
âWouldnât dream of it,â 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 watchingâsometimes the screen, sometimes you. He looked a little too invested for someone whoâd pretended this wasnât 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.
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 thenâoh so casuallyâit 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 didnât say anything.
Instead, Eddie leaned just a fraction closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear: âSmooth, right?â
You gave a quiet huff through your nose, still keeping your eyes ahead. âRidiculously obvious.â
âReally?â he murmured, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You didnât 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 shoulderâlike he couldnât decide if heâd gone too far, or if maybe, just maybe, heâd 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.
âSoâŠâ he drawled, voice casual but with that undercurrent of nerves he tried to hide. âHowâd I do?â
You arched a brow. âDo?â
âYâknow.â He gestured vaguely between the two of you. âFirst outing. Movie. Popcorn. Stellar company.â He gave a lopsided grin. âIâm fishing for a review here.â
You tilted your head, pretending to consider. âHmm. Not terrible.â
He gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. âNot terrible? Thatâs all I get? I executed the classic arm move and everything.â
You snorted. âExecuted is the right word for it. Subtlety? Zero.â
But your smile gave you away, and Eddieâs grin softened, pride flickering in his eyes like heâd won something anyway. He leaned back, tapping the wheel once more before clearing his throat.
âOkay, butâhypotheticallyâŠâ His voice dipped a little lower, suddenly less teasing. âIf I were to ask you to hang out again⊠would you?â
You let the silence stretch, turning slowly to meet his gaze. His usual bravado faltered just a little under your pause, like maybe youâd actually make him sweat. Then you let the corner of your mouth lift.
âYes.â
For a split second, he looked caught off guard, and then that grin broke across his face againâbright, 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. âGoodnight, Eddie.â
ââNight,â he said, his voice quieter now, almost like he didnât 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 heâd 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 didnât 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 didnât stop jingling. The air grew thick with fryer heat and chatter, and you could practically feel Biggieâs stress radiating from the kitchen.
Youâd 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.
âDonât even start,â he said, spatula clattering as he tried to keep up with three different pans at once.
âI wasnât gonna,â you said sweetly, though the edge of impatience slipped through. âBut my tableâs starting to wonder if theyâre eating lunch or waiting for dinner.â
âTell them the chef is a perfectionist,â he grumbled, flipping a patty with more force than necessary.
Biggie barked from the fryer station: âTell them the chefâs drowning!â
Eddie shot him a glare. âThanks for the vote of confidence, Boss.â
You could already feel the tension buildingâcustomers 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.
âCompliments of the kitchen,â you announced, voice carrying just enough to hit the back booths. âOur fry guyâs in a generous mood.â
Eddieâs head whipped toward you from the pass-through, spatula frozen midair. âWhat the hell are you doing?â he mouthed.
You ignored him, dropping another basket on a table of high schoolers who instantly lit up. âDonât worry, folksâburgers are worth the wait,â 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.
âYou just gave away half my hard-earned fries,â he said.
âYouâre welcome,â you replied, propping a hand on your hip. âCrisis averted.â
âOr crisis caused, depending on how Biggie tallies the inventory.â
âPlease,â you said, rolling your eyes. âYouâll thank me when no one storms out.â
Biggieâs voice bellowed from behind Eddie: âSheâs right, Munson!â
Eddie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Then, quieter, just for you: âYou know youâre way too good at this, right?â
The heat in the kitchen wasnât 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 dinerâs mood shifted right along with it. Customers leaned back into their seats, laughing again, munching fries between bites of their meals like theyâd never been impatient in the first place. Even the truckers at table threeâyour usual grumblersâwere 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 heâd just won a battle.
âWell,â you said, balancing an empty tray against your hip. âLook at that. Everyoneâs fed, no riots, no casualties.â
Eddie pointed his spatula at you. âBecause of me.â
You scoffed. âBecause of me and my genius complimentary fries idea.â
âThat was reckless,â he argued, though there wasnât much fire behind it. âYou couldâve doomed us all.â
âOr,â you said, leaning just close enough to drop your voice, âI saved your ass.â
His smirk falteredâjust for a secondâbefore it came back sharper, softer somehow. He twirled the spatula like a drumstick, shrugging. âGuess Iâll allow it this time.â
Biggie clattered a pan onto the drying rack behind him. âYou two done flirting or should I get a mop for the counter?â
Your head snapped toward the kitchen boss, cheeks heating, but Eddie only laughedâloud, 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 didnât look like he was about to crack a joke.
âHey,â 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. âYou, uh⊠did good today. With the fries thing. Really took the pressure off.â
You blinked, thrown by the sudden sincerity. âWell, someone had to save your kitchen kingdom.â
That got you a crooked grin. âYeah, yeah. But seriouslyâgood job. Thanks.â
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 againâthe softer one, not the troublemakerâs smirkâbefore climbing in.
The engine roared to life, and you were left standing under the hum of the dinerâs sign, hair mussed, heart hammering way harder than a simple âgood jobâ shouldâve 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 heâd just run a marathon, and Doug called out, âHey, superstar waitress, whatâs good tonight?â
You didnât 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.
âSame as always,â you said, grabbing your notepad out of habit even though you could recite their order in your sleep. âThree burgers, three fries, three Cokes.â
âMake mine a shake,â Gareth cut in, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. âVanilla. Band practice was brutal.â
âPractice,â Jeff muttered, smirking. âYou mean you couldnât keep time if someone stapled the beat to your forehead.â
âYou wanna fight, man?â 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. Heâd shed his apron, cap stuffed in his back pocket, and the second he spotted his bandmates, his whole face lit up.
âLook at this sorry bunch,â he said, striding over like he wasnât still technically on the clock. âWhat, garage run outta chips again?â
Jeff snorted. âNah, figured weâd mooch off your employee discount instead.â
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. âYouâre actually gonna make me write this down when I already know it?â
âHey, donât ruin the illusion,â Eddie shot back, grin tugging at his mouth. âMakes it seem official.â
You rolled your eyes but scribbled anyway, mostly for show. âFine.â
âYou have bad customer service,â Eddie said instantly, and his friends laughed like theyâd 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 bandâs chatter turned seriousâor as serious as Corroded Coffin ever got. Gareth leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, drumming absentmindedly on the salt shaker.
âSo,â he said, glancing at Eddie. âWeâre still good for Friday, right? The Hideoutâs expecting us.â
Jeff smirked. âExpecting us to bring five friends and drink just enough to cover the power bill.â
Doug shrugged, already halfway through his second Coke. âHey, a gigâs a gig.â
You had just approached with the water pitcher, ready to top them off, when Eddie spread his hands dramatically. âGentlemen, this is not just a gig. This is the night Corroded Coffin shreds Hawkins to its very core.â
âYeah, until the amps short out again,â Gareth muttered.
âOperator error,â Eddie shot back, jabbing a finger at him. âDonât slander the gear.â
You poured water into Jeffâs 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.
âYouâve got a show?â you asked, glancing between them as you filled Garethâs cup.
All four of them looked up at once, like they hadnât realized you were actually listening. Eddieâs grin widened instantly. âWhy, sweetheart, you interested?â
You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. âI was just asking.â
âItâs at The Hideout,â Doug jumped in, eager. âFriday night. We start at, like, ten. You should come.â
Jeff smirked into his glass. âYeah, we could use an unbiased critic who doesnât have a guitar in his hands.â
Eddie leaned an elbow on the back of the booth, eyes fixed on you. âYouâd like it. Loud, chaotic⊠kinda like a diner during rush.â
You lifted a brow, meeting his look head-on. âGuess Iâll just have to see if Iâm free.â
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 expressionâlike maybe the idea of you being there mattered more than heâd admit.
The Hideout was exactly the kind of place youâd expect a band like Eddieâs to playâdim 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 werenât too young to be there.
You slipped through the door just as the noise in the room swelledâEddie 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 Eddieâhair loose around his shoulders, guitar strap slung across him, confidence radiating like heâd been waiting his whole life for this exact spotlight.
He leaned toward the mic, flashing a grin at the crowdâor maybe just to himselfâand tapped it with two rings. âAlright, Hawkins,â he drawled, voice rough but electric. âLetâs make some noise.â
The first chord ripped through the room, gritty and loud enough to vibrate in your chest. Heads turned, conversations stalled. It wasnât polishedâraw edges everywhereâbut it was alive. Eddie was alive.
You hadnât expected much when you walked in, but seeing him thereâgrinning wide, lost in the music, every bit the showmanâit 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 heâd been waiting to see if youâd 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 EddieâEddie 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 wasnât just playing; he was performing.
And then his eyes found you again.
It wasnât longâjust a flick, a half-beat too long on your face before he turned back to the micâbut you felt it all the same. That grin of his shifted, sharper, like heâd 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 eruptedâsmall 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 heâd 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 gentlyâsurprisingly gently for the way heâd manhandled it on stageâand 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 hadnât gone anywhere.
âWell?â he asked, spreading his arms wide like he needed you to hand down a verdict. âDid we rock your world or what?â
You smiled, shaking your head. âNot terrible.â
He pressed a hand over his heart, staggering back a step like youâd mortally wounded him. âNot terrible? Again? After I nearly set the strings on fire for you?â
âYou looked like you were having fun,â you said, tone lighter than the words.
âFun,â he repeated, grinning crookedly. âYeah. Guess I was.â
For a moment, neither of you filled the silenceâhis 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.
âChrist, I probably look like hell,â he admitted. âAnd smell worse.â
You couldnât help but laugh. âEddie, I see you in the kitchen every day. This isnât that different.â
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 youâd said something far kinder than you meant to. âGuess youâve got a point. Fry grease, sweat⊠stage sweat. Same thing.â
âAlmost the same,â you teased.
âAlmost,â he echoed, meeting your eyes again with a look softer than the grin he wore on stageâlike maybe the chaos of the performance hadnât 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.
âYou still look good, though.â
His head snapped up, eyes wide for half a beat like he wasnât sure heâd heard you right. Then that grin started creeping back in, slow and smug, but with just enough warmth under it to give him away.
âOh yeah?â he drawled, leaning a little closer. âSweaty, half-dead Munson still does it for you?â
You rolled your eyes, heat rising in your cheeks. âDonât push it.â
âToo late,â he shot back instantly, smirk widening.
You shook your head, biting back your own smile. âHonestly, though⊠you surprised me.â
He arched a brow. âSurprised? Thought Iâd trip over the amp and take Gareth down with me?â
âI mean,â you said, drawing it out like you were weighing every word, âI was expecting, you know⊠a shitty garage band.â
Eddie gasped, hand flying to his chest like youâd stabbed him. âWas expecting?!â
âKeyword: was,â you teased, holding his gaze. âTurns out youâre⊠not half bad.â
âNot half bad?â he echoed, staggering back a step like heâd been shot. âSweetheart, thatâs practically a rave review from you.â
You laughed, unable to help it, and Eddieâs grin softened just a fraction at the sound. For all the dramatics, for all the swagger heâd carried on stage, here with you he seemed almost lighterâlike 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.
âCâmon. Iâll give you a ride. Perks of knowing the talent.â
You arched a brow. âOh, talent, is it?â
âDamn right,â 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 wasnât filling the silence with his usual wisecracks. Every so often, youâd 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.
âWell,â you said, shifting your weight. âThanks for the ride.â
He nodded, rocking back on his heels. âThanks for, uh⊠yâknow. Showing up. Didnât think youâd actuallyâŠâ He trailed off, shrugging like the rest didnât matter.
âYeah, well,â you said softly, âI was curious about your rockstar persona.â
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 inâclose enough that you felt the warmth of him, close enough you thought maybeâ
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.
âGoodnight, waitress,â he said, voice a little softer than usual.
You huffed, fixing your hair, though you couldnât stop the smile tugging at your lips. âGoodnight, cook.â
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 youâd just been cheated out of somethingâthough somehow, the ruffle still felt like a promise.
The lunch rush was already pushing everyone to their limitsâcoffee 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 âwaitress smileâ when the front door chimed and a newcomer slid into a booth by the window.
She looked harmless enoughâjust passing through, maybeâbut the second she opened her mouth, you knew it was trouble.
âIâll take a Big Belly Burger,â She said, tapping the menu thoughtfully, âbut 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?â
By the time she finished, you were gripping your pen like it might snap. â...Right. Got it,â 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.
âWhat the fuck is this?â he demanded, waving the ticket like it was written in code.
âDonât look at me,â you shot back, leaning an elbow on the ledge. âI just take the notes. Thatââ you pointed at the paperââis all them.â
Eddie jabbed the ticket toward the grill like it had personally offended him. âNo bun? No cheese? Fries swapped for a salad? Who even is this person?â
âNew in town,â you said flatly. âApparently from the planet âMake Eddieâs Life Difficult.ââ
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. âThis is sacrilege. A burger without a bun is justâmeat. Thatâs not a burger. Thatâs sadness on a plate.â
âWelcome to customer service,â 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. âAnyway, good luck with that. Iâll be drowning in refills if you need me.â
Eddie threw his arms wide. âOh, sure, abandon me in my darkest hour.â
Meanwhile, the grill hissed angrily behind him, and the ticket still fluttered in his fingers like a curse.
SomehowâmiraculouslyâEddie 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 cheeseânothing that made it look like it belonged in Big Bellyâs at all. Eddie shoved it into the pass-through with a scowl like he was personally offended.
âThere,â he said, spatula clattering against the counter. âA crime against burgers. Delivered without love.â
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 sheâd been timing you. You set the plate down gently in front of her.
âBig Belly Burger, no bun, no cheese, mushrooms added, salad instead of fries,â 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.
âWhat is this?â she snapped.
You blinked. âUhâyour order.â
Her expression twisted into something sharp. âAre you stupid? This isnât what I asked for.â
Heat crawled up your neck. âIâthis is exactly what you said. Burger, no bun, no cheeseââ
âDonât you dare talk back to me,â she cut in, voice loud enough that a couple of truckers at the counter glanced over. âThis is pathetic. You canât even get a simple order right? God, no wonder youâre stuck in this dump.â
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. âUnbelievable. Absolutely incompetent.â
And suddenly the noise of the dinerâthe hiss of the grill, the chatter of the booths, the clatter of cutleryâfelt 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 wasnât letting up.
âYou must be new,â she sneered, eyes flicking over your uniform. âNo 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.â
Your grip on the tray tightened, knuckles white. A dozen comebacks sat on your tongue, but you bit down hard on every one of themâbecause what was the point?
Then the kitchen doors banged open.
âAlright, whatâs the problem now?â Eddieâs voice cut through, dry and sharp as a blade. He still had his apron on, spatula in hand like heâd stormed out mid-flip. His gaze snapped from you to the customer, and his grin was nowhere in sight. ââCause if youâre complaining about the food, lady, I cooked it exactly the way you ordered it.â
The customer turned her sharpness on him in an instant. âOh, wonderful. The cook. Figures.â She gave him a once-over, curling her lip. âWhat kind of kitchen lets someone like you handle food? You look filthy. Disgusting, really.â
Eddieâs jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the spatula like he was fighting not to let loose everything in his head. âListen here Wicked Witch of the West, say what you want about me,â he said, voice low, âbut you donât get to talk to her like that.â
Before the woman could bite back, another voice rumbled from behind himâdeep, booming, and far less patient.
âExcuse me?â
The customerâs head snapped up just as Biggie stepped out of the kitchen, towel still slung over one massive shoulder. The man lived up to his nicknameâbroad, tall, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. His usually warm face was set in stone.
âWho,â he asked slowly, voice carrying across the diner, âare you to talk to my employees like that?â
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.
âIâI was just sayingââ
âNo.â Biggieâs voice was final, heavy as a gavel. âYou were insulting my cook. My waitress. My diner. If you donât like it here, you can leave. Now.â
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 dinerâs eyes following her as she stalked toward the door.
The bell chimed as it swung shut behind her. Silence held for a beatâthen 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. âWell. That was fun.â
Biggie only grunted, heading back to the kitchen with a mutter of âDonât let her waste my plates.â
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 âtop you off?â and âanything else tonight?â running on autopilot. The regulars still laughed, still tipped, but the spark you usually carriedâthe one Eddie never stopped noticingâjust wasnât 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 couldnât 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 âsee you tomorrow.â
But he caught your arm.
âHey.â
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, thenâwithout warningâhe reached out and framed your face in his palms, squishing your cheeks together.
âLook at this face,â he said, exaggeratedly mournful. âAll sad and pouty. Canât have that. Itâs a diner crime.â
You let out a muffled chuckle, your words garbled against his hands. âEhd-deeââ
He wiggled your cheeks between his palms, eyes wide with mock-seriousness. âNope. Not allowed. Smile regulation: strictly enforced.â
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 youâd meant to.
âThere she is,â Eddie said, his grin settling into something softer, more genuine. âKnew you were still in there.â
You rolled your eyes, but the heaviness in your chest had lifted just a little. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYeah, but it worked.â He slung his jacket fully on and gave you a small, crooked smile. âDonât let some jerk knock the shine off you, alright? Youâre too good at this job to let her win.â
For a moment, the quiet hum of the empty diner was the only thing between you. Then you nodded, tugging your coat tighter. âThanks, Munson.â
He only ruffled your hairâgentler this timeâbefore pushing the door open for you. âAnytime, waitress.â
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 hadnât had to smell fryer grease or hear the hiss of a flat-top grill, and the stillness almost felt strange.
Thenâthree 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.
âPizza delivery,â he said, grinning wide, tapping the box for emphasis.
You slid the window open an inch, leaning against the frame. âPretty sure I didnât order anything.â
âLucky for you, I donât check receipts,â he quipped. âHouse special: one large pepperoni, no bun, no cheese, mushrooms added.â
You snorted, unable to stop yourself. âThatâs not funny.â
âItâs hilarious,â he countered, eyes glinting. âCâmon, you laughed.â
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.
âSeriously, Munson,â you said, voice softening, âwhat are you doing here?â
âI was bored. Thought Iâd drop by. Share some fine Italian cuisine.â He lifted the box again with a flourish. âFigured you could use a break from diner food.â
You leaned your chin against the sill, smiling despite yourself. âYou know you look ridiculous right now, right?â
âOh, absolutely,â he said. âBut I also look heroic, standing out here in the cold with piping hot pizza. Which brings me to my next pointâŠâ He gestured dramatically toward the night sky, then fixed you with an exaggerated pout. âAre you really gonna let meâand this innocent, defenseless pizzaâfreeze to death out here?â
You sighed, shaking your head, but your hand was already on the latch. âAlright, fine. Get in before the neighbors call the cops on you.â
Eddieâs grin widened as you shoved the window open, and with all the grace of someone whoâd 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.
âTa-da,â he announced, straightening up like he hadnât just made a complete mess of climbing through.
You arched a brow. âVery smooth.â
âI meant to do that,â 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. âBehold. Dinner of champions.â
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.
âDonât say I never bring you anything,â Eddie said, offering you the first slice with a dramatic bow of his head.
You took it, biting back a smile. âVery generous. Totally worth climbing through a window for.â
âExactly. This is romance, sweetheart. Shakespeare had nothing on me.â
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 middleâthe one youâd been saving.
Eddieâs eyes zeroed in on it instantly.
âYou finished with that?â he asked, already reaching.
You narrowed your eyes. âNo.â
âCool,â he said, snatching it up anyway. He took a huge bite, grinning through the mouthful. âNow you are.â
âUnbelievable,â 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 didnât last. You leaned forward suddenly, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth where a smear of pizza sauce and crumbs clung.
âThere,â you said simply, wiping your hand on your own napkin. âYouâre a mess.â
Eddie didnât freeze or flinchâhe 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. âWhat can I say? High-class dining brings out the animal in me.â
You snorted. âYouâre lucky I donât work room service, or youâd have been blacklisted already.â
âPlease. Youâd miss me.â
The words were easy, teasingâbut 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 heâd ever admit out loud.
âMaybe I would,â you said quietly, surprising yourself as much as him.
For a moment, Eddie didnât joke back. His grin faltered into something smaller, gentler. He tilted his head, studying you like he wasnât sure if you were teasing or telling the truth.
âYeah?â he asked, voice lower now, stripped of its usual bravado.
You shrugged, trying to play it off, though your chest felt tight. âI mean⊠you make shifts less miserable. And nights like thisââ You gestured vaguely at the empty pizza box between you. âI donât hate it.â
Eddie laughed softly, but it wasnât his usual sharp bark. It was warm, almost nervous, like he couldnât believe youâd said it out loud. He leaned back on his palms, hair falling loose around his shoulders, and for once there was no smirkâjust a boy sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, looking at you like youâd cracked him open.
âYou know,â he said, voice thoughtful now, âI wasnât sure youâd let me in tonight. Figured youâd call me an idiot and shut the window.â
âMaybe I shouldâve,â you teased, but it came out softer than you meant.
âBut you didnât.â 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 thenâlike it was the simplest thing in the worldâEddie leaned in.
Slow enough that you couldâve stopped him. Slow enough that you didnât want to.
His lips brushed yours, tentative at first, tasting faintly of pepperoni and soda, and the world seemed to narrow to just thatâhis breath, his warmth, the way his hand hovered uncertainly before resting against the side of your face like he needed the anchor.
It wasnât 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. âThat okay?â he murmured.
You smiled, heart hammering. âYeah. Thatâs okay.â
Relief broke across his face in a grin that was equal parts joy and disbelief, and he ducked his head like he couldnât quite handle it.
You stayed there on the floor together, the empty pizza box forgotten as the minutes stretched. The conversation drifted in circlesâmusic, movies, the dinerânothing 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. âI should probably head home before the van decides to die in your driveway.â
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.
âSoâŠâ he drawled, rocking back on his heels. âGirlfriend?â
You rolled your eyes immediately. âReally, Munson? Thatâs the best youâve got? You can do better than that.â
He let out a mock groan. âEveryoneâs a critic these days.â Then, tilting his head up at you with a lopsided grin: âFine. Will you give me the honor and be my girlfriend?â
This time you let the smile show, leaning just a little further out the window. âYes.â
Eddieâs grin exploded into something bright and wild, and before you could second-guess it, he leaned up and caught your mouth in one last kissâwarm and quick, but it left your pulse racing anyway.
When he finally stepped back, he was still grinning, eyes shining like heâd 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 didnât 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 couldnât stop smiling.
The morning rush hadnât hit yet, but the diner was already hummingâcoffee 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 Eddieâlate as usual, curls barely contained under his Big Bellyâs cap, leather jacket slung over one arm. âGood morning, lovely people!â
âMorning, sunshine,â Karen called, rolling her eyes.
âMunson,â Biggie barked from the kitchen, not even looking up.
âBoss,â 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.
âMorning,â you said lightly, slipping by with a pot of coffee in hand.
Eddie paused mid-step, glanced at you, then stopped entirely. âOhâwait.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âForgot something,â 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 wasnât longâquick, softâbut it was unmistakable.
The room froze for half a heartbeat. Thenâ
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, âFinally!â
Your face burned as Eddie pulled back, that cocky grin plastered across his mouth like heâd 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 hadnât just caused a scene.
âLet's do a good job, sweetheart,â 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 wasâof course heâd 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 Eddieâs 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 heâd been waiting all night for this exact moment.
âMorning, sweetheart,â he rasped, voice rough with sleep. âSleep okay? Or did I wear you out too much?â
You smirked, tilting your head toward him. âCocky.â
âConfident,â he corrected, nosing at your neck, pressing a kiss just under your jaw. âThereâs a difference.â
You laughed softly, but it broke into a gasp when his hand slid across your hip, tugging you closer. âEddieâŠâ
âMhm?â he hummed, mouth trailing down your collarbone. âDonât mind me. Just appreciating my girl.â
âPretty sure you did plenty of that last night.â
âNot enough,â he shot back without missing a beat, his lips brushing your skin with every word.
You shoved lightly at his shoulder, grinning despite yourself. âGod, youâre insatiable.â
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, hair falling into his face, grin absolutely wicked. âSay the word, and Iâll make you a very happy woman all over again.â
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.
âYou know what else would make me happy?â you murmured.
Eddie froze for half a second, then smirked. âDo tell.â
You grinned. âIf you made me breakfast. Preferably pancakes.â
He stared at you, utterly betrayed. âPancakes?â
âYes, pancakes,â you said sweetly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. âWith syrup. And maybe bacon if youâre feeling generous.â
Eddie groaned, flopping back against the pillow like youâd just asked him to scale a mountain. âTen months together, and this is what itâs come to. I bare my soulâand my bodyâand you want pancakes?â
You leaned over him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth before pulling away with a smirk. âYup. Pancakes.â
His grin returned in full force, mischievous and warm all at once. âFine. But only because youâre cute when you beg.â
âBeg?â you scoffed.
âYou just did,â he teased, sliding out of bed with a stretch. âAnd for pancakes, no less. Donât say I never spoil you, sweetheart.â
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.
âVoilĂ ,â he declared, turning with a flourish as he set the plate down on the table between you. The pancakes werenât perfectâedges a little uneven, one definitely darker than the othersâbut 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. âOh my god. Heaven.â
Eddieâs grin spread wide, smug and boyish all at once. âYeah?â
You licked a bit of syrup from your lip, giving him a pointed look. âSee, I knew I was smart dating a cook.â
He laughed, sliding into the chair across from you, his knee brushing against yours under the table. âSo thatâs all I am to you, huh? Free food and pancakes on demand?â
You tilted your head, smiling softly. âAmong other things.â
Something shifted in his grin thenâstill 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. âYouâre trouble, you know that?â
âGood trouble,â you corrected, nudging his foot with yours.
âThe best kind,â 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 thatâthe smell of syrup, the sunlight spilling across the table, and Eddie looking at you like he couldnât believe his luck.
âYou really like âem?â he asked softly.
âI love them,â you said, giving his hand a squeeze. âAnd you.â
His grin turned shy then, but he didnât look away. Instead, he leaned across the table and kissed youâslow, sweet, tasting faintly of syrup and butterâbefore pulling back just enough to whisper, âBest damn review Iâve ever gotten.â
You slapped the ticket down in front of him. âTable three,â you said. âDonât burn them this time.â
He gave you that grinâthe one that was half challenge, half trouble. âPlease. My burgers are the only reason people come here.â
You raised an eyebrow. âSure. Itâs definitely not because theyâre desperate and this is the only place open after eleven.â
âJealous,â he shot back, flipping a patty onto the grill with more flair than strictly necessary. âAdmit itâyouâd kill to be back here in my kitchen kingdom.â
You leaned an elbow on the counter. âRight. Because smelling like fryer grease all day is my dream.â
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