SoftViolence

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

general warnings: Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), eventual smut, sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

FIRST SESSION

SECOND SESSION

THIRD SESSION

WINTER BREAK part1 - part2

FOURTH SESSION

FIFTH SESSION

SIXTH SESSION

SEVENTH SESSION

EIGHT SESSION

EPILOGUE

if you want to be added to the official taglist then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

[clya4]

Strangers on the run

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: Hawkins decided Eddie Munson was a monster. Thalia just happened to stop at the wrong red light. What follows is a future neither of them planned. Somewhere between running and standing still, they stop being alone.

general warnings: Eventual smut, slow-burn, questionable decision-making, forced proximity, chaotic adventures, and occasional nerdy asides.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Chapter One

a/n: Babies I’m baaaaack! New year, new story. The Stranger Things finale did something to my brain and suddenly I woke up possessed by the overwhelming need to rewrite the destiny of our sweet boy. So yes, I’m doing it. I will save him. *slams fist on the table* This is a threat and a promise.

Let me know what you think of this first chapter! I swear it gets more fun later…but you know me. First I hurt them...a little.

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog @clya4 @tigolebittiez @ari-joe @love-anonymous-writer @the-rowanoke @velvetvenusvixen @sammybrrr

[clya4]

Strangers on the run

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: Hawkins decided Eddie Munson was a monster. Thalia just happened to stop at the wrong red light. What follows is a future neither of them planned. Somewhere between running and standing still, they stop being alone.

general warnings: Eventual smut, slow-burn, questionable decision-making, forced proximity, chaotic adventures, and occasional nerdy asides.

Flashforward

The police had been sitting in my living room for three hours when I realized they were not going to let me be quiet my way out of this.

The house felt smaller than it ever had, crowded with uniforms and assumptions.

They asked me the same questions again and again, as if repetition could wear me down.

Where did he go?

What did he say?

What did I see?

I said nothing.

I just sat on the edge of our living room couch, hands folded in my lap so they would not see them shake, spine straight, face carefully empty.

A man in a brown jacket leaned against the fireplace, notebook open, pen tapping in a slow, impatient rhythm. They had moved the furniture without asking. The coffee table was cleared except for a recorder that hummed softly. Wires ran from the hallway phone like veins, disappearing into a gray box one of the officers kept glancing at every few minutes.

I stared at the carpet instead of at them. Anything to avoid their eyes, because if I looked up, I was afraid something ugly would come out of me. Something that would make this worse.

“Thalia,” one of them said again, slower this time. “We just want to understand your relationship with Edward Munson.”

Again, I stayed silent.

Behind me, my mother hovered near the kitchen doorway, hands pressed together at her chest. Her eyes were red; she had cried herself empty for hours, and now she looked hollowed out.

“Please, my daughter is traumatized.”

Her accent was thicker when she was upset, vowels stretched and softened by years she never quite let go of.

“She has been missing for so long,” she continued. “You bring her back like this, and you expect her to talk? Maybe… maybe he did something to her…” Her voice cracked. “You must give her time.”

One of the officers finally looked at her.

“With all due respect, ma’am, your daughter has been traveling with the prime suspect in a homicide.”

My mother flinched like he had struck her.

“He is a murderer.” His eyes slid back to me and dropped to my right eyebrow.

To the shallow cut just above it, crusted dark with drying blood. I could feel it pulling slightly every time I moved my forehead, tight and itchy, a constant reminder of something I had not explained.

Then his gaze lifted, hardening. “And we are trying to determine whether your daughter is a victim…”

He paused. “…or an accomplice.”

I felt my stomach twist.

“But the boy who found her said that Munson kidnapped her,” another officer added. “That he manipulated her.”

I lifted my gaze then, slow and deliberate.

I looked at him with something sharp and unmistakable. Disgust, maybe. Or contempt. I was not sure.

“I am asking you to cooperate,” the man said, irritation creeping into his voice. “Staying silent is not helping your case.”

I said nothing.

Silence had become my only weapon.

The phone rang.

The sound cut through the room like a blade, making my mother gasp softly. Every officer moved at once. One of them lifted a finger, signaling me to stay still, while another reached the hallway phone, checking the wires, the recorder, the blinking red light.

“Answer it,” he said, holding it out to me. “Remember,” he added quietly, “you are alone.”

I stood on my stiff legs, my body felt heavy with exhaustion and rage.

I took the phone from him, the plastic felt warm from his hand, and I suddenly felt vividly aware of every eye on me.

I brought the receiver to my ear slowly.

“Hello?” My voice sounded distant, even to me.

For half a second, there was only static.

Then—

“Hey.”

It was him.

My heart broke so suddenly I almost made a sound.

I knew it was him the way you know when your favorite song starts playing. Familiar, immediate.

“Are you alone?”

The question was too casual. Like he was calling to ask if I had made it home safe. Like he didn't already know.

I looked at the men standing just feet away from me. At the recorder. At my mother’s pale face reflected in the hallway mirror.

My mind raced, frantic and useless all at once.

I searched for something—anything—that could warn him. A word said wrong, a sound.

But every breath was being measured, every second watched.

There was no safe way to tell him.

So I did the only thing I could.

I waited.

I let the silence stretch, one heartbeat longer than necessary. Then another. I held my breath, my fingers tightening around the receiver, willing him to hear it. To understand that the space between the question and the answer meant something was wrong.

Please, I thought. Please be listening for it.

“Yes,” I said finally.

“Good,” Eddie exhaled shakily. “Good. I just… I needed to check.”

His voice wavered, just slightly. I imagined him gripping a payphone somewhere, knuckles white, jaw clenched hard.

“I am sorry,” he said quickly. “I am so fucking sorry for dragging you into this.”

Tears burned behind my eyes while one of the officers leaned closer.

“I should have never let you come with me,” Eddie went on. “You didn't know what I was capable of and what I had done.”

My fingers tightened around the cord as I realized what he was doing. The careful distance in his voice, the way he was choosing his words.

“I threatened you. I made you drive. You were terrified and tried to get away.” The words sounded rehearsed now, almost forced.

I closed my eyes and swallowed, my throat burning.

He knew.

He knew they were listening.

“No,” I whispered, but it didn't matter. This was not a conversation anymore. It was a performance—for them.

“I want you to listen to me,” he said, more firmly now. “You do not tell them anything. Not about Chrissy. Not about what you saw. That is on me, all of it.”

A tear slipped free and traced a hot line down my cheek.

“You were scared,” he said. “…and just trying to get away from me. I forced you to stay.”

I could hear his ragged breathing now, like he was running even while standing still.

The room was silent except for his voice and the soft scratch of a pen moving very fast.

My lips parted, but no sound came out. There was nothing I could say that would not ruin what he was doing.

I held the phone tighter, like it was his hand and if I squeezed hard enough he would know I was there—that I understood what he was doing, what he was giving up.

“I am sorry,” he repeated. “I never meant to make you part of this.”

Another tear followed the first, then another.

I didn't wipe them away.

I drew in a shaky breath, a small, broken sound I couldn't stop, a quiet sniff that betrayed me.

He heard it, and his voice changed immediately.

“I know you are scared,” he said softly. “But you are safe now. Okay?”

Safe.

The word landed wrong, no one in Hawkins was safe.

Not in their houses. Not behind locked doors. Not surrounded by familiar streets and smiling neighbors.

My home was not safe.

Hawkins was not safe.

But he was.

There was a pause, long enough that I thought he might hang up without saying anything else.

Then, softer: “Goodbye, Miller. Play it slow.”

The line went dead.

I stood there, the receiver still pressed to my ear, staring at nothing.

My face twisted, just for a second enough to hold myself together, enough to keep the sound locked inside my chest instead of breaking free into something ugly and loud and impossible to take back.

Slowly, I lowered the phone.

The men were watching me differently now.

Not like a suspect, but like a broken girl who had been spared by a freak.

And somewhere far away, Eddie Munson had just burned the last bridge back to his own innocence,

so that I could keep mine.

Chapter One

The roads of Hawkins were empty in the way that made the town look like a movie set before the actors arrived. Dawn had not fully committed yet; the sky hung low and pale as I drove slowly through it, one hand on the wheel and the other resting uselessly in my lap.

I yawned, my eyes watering as I blinked at the road ahead.

It was far too early for school, but that was the point.

I had learned, through painful repetition, that arriving before everyone else was the safest way to exist in that building. Empty parking lot. Empty hallways. No eyes lingering too long—measuring, judging, waiting for me to slip so they could laugh at the way my words sounded when I spoke.

If I came early enough, I could pretend, just for a few minutes, that I belonged there.

It was easier to exist that way.

The radio murmured quietly as a New Wave song drifted through the speakers.

At a long stretch of road with no traffic in either direction, a familiar thought crept in.

I could keep driving.

The idea settled into my chest like something dangerously warm. I imagined ignoring the turn for Hawkins High, the road stretching forward instead of bending toward that brick building.

I could drive until the gas ran low, find a bus station or an airport or anywhere with departures on a board and finally go back home.

It was a stupid fantasy. I had it every morning, It never came true.

The stoplight ahead flicked from green to yellow. I sighed and slowed, the car idling beneath me. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes for just a second.

Just a second.

Long enough to feel the weight of another day settle on my chest.

The passenger door flew open with a violent, sudden sound, followed by a body slamming into the seat beside me. The car rocked on its tired suspension.

My heart stopped.

No—it did not stop. It detonated.

I gasped sharply, my eyes flying open, every nerve in my body screaming fight or flight with no instructions on which to choose. The door slammed shut with a force that made the window rattle.

My foot jerked toward the brake even though I was already stopped.

It took me a few seconds to recognize him fully. Not just the hair or the jacket I had seen a hundred times from across parking lots and hallways, but the posture—the unmistakable presence of someone who took up too much space simply by existing.

Eddie Munson.

The realization made my stomach drop.

I sat frozen, fingers locked around the steering wheel while my heart slammed so violently against my ribs that I was sure he could hear it. For one absurd second, I thought maybe this was it—maybe this was how it ended. Just some unhinged boy climbing into my car before sunrise.

He stayed pressed back against the seat, like he had crossed some invisible line and was terrified of moving any further. His chest rose and fell too fast. Sweat shone on his forehead despite the cold morning air seeping through the car.

He glanced at me sideways, then squinted, like my face was slightly out of focus.

Slowly, he lifted his hands. Palms up, fingers shaking.

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse and cracking. “Hey, hey—okay. Okay. Don’t freak out.”

That felt… ironic.

My eyes flicked to his hands, then to his face. He looked nothing like the loud, grinning menace people whispered about. He looked wrecked. Haunted. Like he had not slept at all and something had followed him into my car and was crouching just out of sight.

He swallowed hard and glanced at the dashboard, then at me again.

“Miller,” he said suddenly. “Right?”

I did not answer.

He dragged a trembling hand through his curls. Up close, I could see how pale he was, how his lips were almost bluish, like all the warmth had been leeched out of him during the night.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all—just frantic. “I know this looks bad. Like, objectively terrible. But I’m kind of—” He laughed suddenly, sharp and hysterical. “—in a situation.”

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then back to me, then to the empty road ahead.

I stared at him, my thoughts colliding into each other.

Eddie Munson. Freak. Dealer. Repeat senior.

The boy people avoided or stared at. The one I had once considered approaching for weed, then immediately decided against it—because it was better to save money and mostly because it was safer not to talk to him. Because he was intimidating in that loud, careless way that felt dangerous if you got too close.

Now he was in my passenger seat, shaking.

He squinted at me, studying my face like it wasn't cooperating with him.

“Sorry,” he said again. “I don’t… remember your first name.”

Of course he didn’t.

“It’s—” He snapped his fingers weakly. “It’s a T, right? T something.”

I didn’t answer.

“Taylor?” he guessed. “No. No, that’s not right. Tess? Tessa?”

My pulse was still racing, but something else cut through the fear—disbelief, maybe. The absurdity of it. The fact that this stranger had hijacked my car and was now playing a guessing game with my name.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“You entered my car,” I said flatly, finally finding my voice. It came out controlled, clipped, my accent thickening despite my effort.

His mouth opened, then closed.

“Yeah,” he said. “That part I am aware of.”

His wild, glassy eyes locked onto mine, like an animal caught in headlights.

“I need you to drive,” he said. “Just—just listen, okay? I wouldn’t do this if I had another choice. I swear.”

“This is not my problem,” I said, though my chest felt tight, my breath still uneven. “You scared me. You need to get out.”

The light turned green, but I didn’t move.

Eddie noticed. His knee was already bouncing violently, the heel of his boot tapping against the floor in a frantic rhythm.

The engine idled, low and impatient, while the world waited for me to make a decision.

He licked his cracked lips and dragged a hand through his hair again, curls snagging between his fingers. He glanced out one window, then the other, then over his shoulder, like he expected someone to materialize out of thin air and drag him back out onto the road.

“Okay,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

He leaned forward, peering out the windshield, then twisted to glance out my side window.

“Okay, listen,” he said, louder this time. “You were… you were already heading to school, right?”

I said nothing, just stared at him, eyes wide, trying to understand how this had become my morning.

“I just—” He inhaled sharply, steadying himself. “I just need you to take me somewhere. Real quick. You have time, I swear. You can still make first period.”

Looking at him up close, the rumors fell apart. He was not dangerous in the way people liked to whisper about. He was shaking. His eyes were darting too fast, like his brain was several steps ahead of his body and dragging it along by force.

“Why?” I finally asked.

His mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile if it didn't look so strained.

“I just… need to get somewhere,” he said vaguely. “As soon as possible.”

That was not an answer.

I didn't like the way he kept looking around or the way his shoulders stayed tense, like he was ready to bolt at any moment, It made my skin prickle.

I knew things about Eddie Munson. Not from him—from the way people talked. From the way teachers sighed when his name came up. Dungeons & Dragons. The Hellfire Club. People whispered about cults and Satan and blood rituals, which I had never believed. That part was stupid.

But I also knew he dealt and that was not a rumor, but a fact. I had seen him behind the bleachers once, passing something discreetly to a guy.

Drugs meant trouble.

Trouble meant people.

People who chased you.

If someone was looking for him, I did not want to be in the driver’s seat of his mistake.

Silence stretched between us as we stared at each other—him searching my face for something, anything, and me trying to decide whether fear or pity was going to win.

“Please,” he said, lower now. “I am not asking for much. Just… ten minutes. Then I am gone. I promise.”

I swallowed.

“No,” I said finally. The word landed heavier than I expected.

“If you do not get out,” I continued, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands, “I will call the police.”

His face fell before groaning, loud and dramatic.

He leaned back, then abruptly brought both palms up to his face, pressing them hard over his eyes. “Oh my god, this is a fucking nightmare” he muttered. His elbows rested on his knees as he folded in on himself, shoulders collapsing forward.

“Shit,” he whispered into his hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He stayed like that, breathing unevenly, fingers digging into his own skin like he was holding himself together by force alone.

For one humiliating second, I thought he might cry. That made something uncomfortable twist in my chest.

I watched him through my peripheral vision, still frozen in place, waiting for him to leave.

I had the terrible, sinking feeling that whatever he was running from was already closer than he thought.

He stayed hunched over, palms still pressed to his face for a few moments, then I saw him become still—really still.

Like a decision had settled somewhere heavy inside him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, muffled, like the words hurt on the way out. “I swear to you, I am. I would never—” His breath hitched. “I wouldn’t do this. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

Something in my chest tightened.

“I just… I have to go,” he continued, his voice fraying at the edges. “I need to get as far away as possible now, while it’s early.”

Slowly, he straightened.

One of his hands dropped from his face, dragging down his cheek, leaving his skin flushed. The other stayed hidden for a second longer, resting somewhere near his side. I watched it without blinking, my whole body rigid.

Then I saw the movement—hesitant, like he was arguing with himself even as he did it.

The subtle shift of his shoulder, the way his elbow angled inward.

Then he pulled it out.

It was small and folded.

Not some cinematic weapon, just a pocketknife—the kind that looked more useful than threatening.

The blade caught the weak morning light as it opened with a soft click that sounded impossibly loud inside the car.

My breath caught.

In that second, every whispered rumor about Eddie Munson crashed down on me at once.

Freak. Dangerous.

This was the moment I was supposed to believe all of it.

And yet—

My eyes refused to reconcile the image in front of me.

He didn't look like someone capable of hurting anyone. He just looked like someone holding a knife because he was terrified of what would happen if he didn’t.

He held it low, angled awkwardly in my direction, his grip loose, almost ashamed. His hand was shaking worse than before, like the blade weighed more than he could bear.

And he didn’t even look at me.

“I'm sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking now. “I swear I am, I hate this.”

He exhaled sharply, like he was trying not to fall apart.

“I just need ten minutes. That's all, ten minutes and I'm gone. You will never see me again.”

My heart was pounding so hard it made my ears ring.

One of my hands lifted slowly from the steering wheel, fingers trembling, palm open, every movement careful.

“Okay,” I said, the word barely making it past my lips. “Okay. Please.”

He finally looked at me then.

And whatever expression he saw on my face seemed to wreck him.

His eyes were wide and shining, rimmed red, like he was the one standing on the edge of something irreversible. His grip on the knife loosened immediately, his hand dropping slightly, guilt etched into every line of his posture.

“I swear,” he said urgently. “Ten minutes, I swear to you.”

I nodded fast.

My raised hand hovered for a second longer before dropping back down, shaking as it wrapped around the gear shift. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

I changed gears.

The car lurched forward, tires rolling over the empty asphalt.

And just like that, I understood something with sobering clarity:

Whatever Eddie Munson was running from,

I was running with him now.

a/n: Babies I’m baaaaack! New year, new story. The Stranger Things finale did something to my brain and suddenly I woke up possessed by the overwhelming need to rewrite the destiny of our sweet boy. So yes, I’m doing it. I will save him. *slams fist on the table* This is a threat and a promise.

Let me know what you think of this first chapter! I swear it gets more fun later…but you know me. First I hurt them...a little.

Thanks for reading 🖤

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

[clya4]

QUEEN WE MISS YOU💔💔💔

Omg anon 🖤 thank you!! Freak Therapy was so much fun to write but it ate up sooo much of my time 😅 I don’t really have new ideas rn (tried some one-shots but abandoned them because...I can’t do it 😅 everything I write ends up being a long, slow burn, and I don’t have time for another full fic right now). I’m just enjoying other people’s amazing work and catching up on fics. Still… I really miss seeing your comments under my posts, they always made my day 🖤

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

-> FREAK THERAPY MASTERLIST HERE

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

general warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

EPILOGUE

Chicago - 1991

Eddie’s POV

The bar smelled like old wood and too much beer. My band was somewhere in the mess, laughing too loud, chasing shots, trying to out-drink the crew guys. Typical post-show chaos.

I’d had two beers already, which meant I was at that sweet spot between relaxed and dangerously sentimental, and still it wasn’t enough to wrap my head around the fact that she was sitting next to me. Breathing the same smoke-choked Chicago bar air.

Marissa.

Five years since I’d last seen her, and she was somehow… more. Thirty looked like it had been invented for her. Darker hair pulled back, those glasses perched on her nose (glasses! Like she needed another weapon), a black suit sharper than my guitar strings, hugging her like it had been designed by someone who worshiped her legs, and this profume...vanilla, warm. The kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat and whispered, you can’t afford me.

Untouchable. That’s what she looked like, somehow even more out of my league.

But I’d seen her without the armor, without the suits, without anything at all. Messy, soft and small in my arms. Mine, once. That memory burned hotter than the whiskey she was tipping back now, neat, not even flinching as if it were water. She sipped it elegant as hell. Meanwhile, I was gripping my beer like a middle-schooler sneaking his first drink.

She set the glass down with the faint clink of ice against crystal, and I realized I’d been staring because she caught me, of course she did, and gave me the smallest smile.

“Strange, huh?”

Lady, excuse me? Strange? STRANGE?

I scoffed, leaning on the bar. “I’m about three seconds away from a goddamn heart attack. You better know CPR, because this might be it for me.”

Her smile curved wider, and she leaned in, elbow propped on the bar, chin resting in her hand, eyes fixed on me. And that’s when I noticed it, her gaze lingered. Not on my curls, not on my eyes. Lower, the scruff. The pathetic excuse for a beard I’d been too lazy to shave.

She liked it, I could see it, the tiniest spark of approval in her eyes. Mental note: do not shave. Ever. This was officially part of my arsenal now.

She opened her mouth to say something, but then, of course, he showed up.

“Munson!”

A heavy arm slammed around my neck like a goddamn anaconda, nearly knocking me off the stool. It was Vince, our lead singer, grinning like the devil himself. Blonde, pretty in that trashy, rock-god way, already half gone on whatever he’d been pouring down his throat all night.

He leaned into me, peering past my curls to get a better look at her.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, loud enough to make the bartender flinch. “So Eddie, my man, did you just land us a new manager? Because if that’s the case, she can manage me anytime.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw my own brain. Perfect. Just perfect. The one time in my life I had a cinematic, soul-crushing reunion with the only woman who’d ever actually mattered, Vince had to crash it smelling like a distillery dumpster.

I was already winding up a snarky comeback, but she beat me to it.

Her voice was smooth, clinical almost. Not a flinch, nothing.

“You must be the frontman.” She extended her hand like she was greeting royalty at a gala, not a man who just implied she should ‘manage’ him. “Congratulations on the show. Your tone in the last song, it carried better than on the record. That’s rare live.”

…Oh no. Vince froze.

His eyes went wide, almost reverent, like she’d just complimented the shape of his… ego.

He looked at her hand like it had been handed down by God himself, then scrambled to grab it. 

Meanwhile, I was still trapped in his chokehold, trying not to laugh at the sight of Mr. “I’ve Slept With Every Groupie in the Midwest,” suddenly reduced to a choir boy in front of her.

Finally, I cleared my throat and said, “Vince, uh… this is Marissa. My therapist. From high school. You know...the one I told you about.”

Silence. Vince blinked once. Twice. Then his jaw dropped so fast I thought it might hit the bar. “No. Fucking. Way.” He yanked his hand back, slapped the bar top so hard the glasses rattled “YOU’RE HER?!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, half mortified and half entirely ready to strangle him. 

Her eyes flicked between us, bright with amusement, a little glossy from the whiskey, like she was enjoying the spectacle of two idiots performing for her attention. Which, to be fair, was exactly what was happening. Vince loosened his grip on me at last, slumping forward onto the bar, elbow propped, forehead in his hand like some tragic poet. Then, with a grin spreading across his pretty-boy face, he lifted his head.

“You know,” he slurred, pointing a lazy finger at her, “that ballad Munson wrote about you? Not even half as beautiful as the real thing.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

If my eyes rolled any harder again, they’d leave orbit. Because damn it, it was my song. My words, my bleeding chest cracked open on paper, and now this idiot was using it like a pickup line. 

That was peak Vince. The kind of greasy line that would’ve gotten him laid in record time with any other woman in the room.

Marissa, of course, didn’t flinch. Didn’t even roll her eyes. She just smiled politely and said, “I never imagined anyone would ever write a song for me. Thank you for the way you sing it, really. It was… moving. I got emotional hearing it tonight.”

And just like that, Vince was gone. A pile of blonde hair and worshipping eyes puddled at her feet. For once, the man was speechless. (And trust me, that was a historic moment.)

It should’ve been funny. Hell, it was funny. But instead of laughing, I felt this nasty little twist in my gut. Because those goddamn beautiful words, should’ve been aimed at me.

Not him.

Me.

I shifted on my stool, tightening my grip on the beer, trying not to imagine smashing the empty bottle over Vince’s smug skull just to clear some space at the bar.

Vince blinked, snapped out of his trance, then smirked in that greasy, Don Juan way he thought was irresistible. “So…” He dragged the word out, leaning closer. “You ever do private sessions?”

I nearly choked. Oh, Christ. To me, that was clearly a dick joke. To her poor, innocent, doesn’t-know-the-devil-she’s-talking-to, it was an actual question.

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “I’m not sure you could afford my private rates.” Then she took another sip of whiskey, elegant as ever.

I swear I heard something crack. Not her voice, Vince’s ego.

His face darkened, the alcohol flipping his mood like a switch. I knew that look. I’d seen it too many nights on tour: drunk Vince going from class clown to loaded gun in about two seconds flat.

And then he went and proved me right.

“Well...” he fired off without thinking, “Why don't you try to break my buddy’s heart again tonight, huh? So maybe he’ll write another hit and I’ll have enough cash to pay for your fancy therapy.”

The words hit like a cymbal crash. Too loud. Too cruel.

The air between us dropped ten degrees. She set her glass down slowly, eyes fixed on the ice clinking inside. Her shoulders dipped just enough for me to see it...hurt. Real hurt.

And me? I turned and glared at Vince, every ounce of beer-fueled patience gone.

I leaned in, jaw tight, my voice low enough only for him.

“Hey, man—why don’t you go… I don’t know, find a bathroom and snort something off the sink like you usually do? Leave us mortals to our drinks.”

I gave him a shove with my shoulder, not enough to start a fight, just enough to knock him off balance.

He blinked at me, confused, like I’d just spoken another language. “What? What’d I say?”

I stared at him, every ounce of humor gone. “Go. Away. Man.”

Something in my tone must’ve clicked through the Jack Daniels fog, because he raised his hands like I’d pulled a gun on him. “Alright, alright. Jesus.” He staggered back, muttering under his breath about people being too sensitive, before disappearing into the chaos of the room.

When I turned back, she still hadn’t looked up. Still there, spinning her glass slowly, watching the ice swirl. All I could think, like every goddamn time she looked anything close to sad, was how badly I wanted to pull her into me, bury her against my chest until she remembered she was untouchable.

“He drinks too much,” I muttered, softer now, leaning closer. “Makes him stupid. Don’t take it personal.”

Finally, she shook her head, a small, almost bitter smile ghosting across her lips. “No. That was my fault. I shouldn’t have said he couldn’t afford my sessions,” she sighed, eyes still on the melting ice. “I work with artists. I should know better than anyone how fragile their egos can be.”

Christ. Of course. She was blaming herself for Vince being Vince.

I dragged a hand through my hair, needing to shake off the heaviness. No way in hell I was letting Vince’s drunken grenade be the last word.

“Oh so…” I tilted my head at her, letting my eyes run over the suit, the glasses, the whole expensive-package vibe. “You went back to it, huh? Therapy...and you’ve got artists on your couch now.” I raised my brows, smirking. “That’s gotta be a special kind of hell.”

Her lips curved the tiniest bit as she lifted her glass again. “It is.” She sipped. “But… I can’t complain.”

“I’ll bet,” I muttered, tipping back my beer and squinting at her over the rim. “You look exactly like one of those smug, annoying rich women who has a housekeeper and a husband that plays golf on weekends.”

Her head snapped toward me, eyes wide, mouth open like I’d just slapped her with a glove in some Victorian duel. But the corners of her lips betrayed her, tugging upward even as she tried to glare.

I grinned, triumphant. “What? Did I nail it?”

She shook her head slowly, mock disbelief in her eyes. “I’ll try to ignore the blatant insult.” Then, softer, with a spark of mischief: “But you almost got it right. I was engaged until not too long ago.”

Ouch... 

That landed straight in my ribcage. My smile twitched, but I forced it to stay, hiding the sting the way I always had. “Engaged, huh?” I leaned back, feigning nonchalance. “What happened? Lemme guess—was he a client?”

Her gasp was immediate, followed by a sharp smack to my shoulder. “Fuck you!” she laughed, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

I barked out a laugh, rubbing the spot dramatically. “Ow! Assault! Right here in front of witnesses.”

She was biting back the smile that couldn’t quite hide. And for a second, it was like we were back in those old days, like nothing had changed at all.

She must’ve seen the question forming again in my eyes because she rushed on, her tone brisk, like she was giving me a case study, not her life.

“No, he was an attorney. Older...a good man, really. I just… pulled back at the last minute. I wasn’t ready.”

That was it. No drama, just the clean slice of words. She shut the door on the subject, like she didn’t want me peeking through the cracks.

And before I could even breathe a follow-up, she tilted her head, eyes glossy from the whiskey, a sly little smile tugging at her lips. “And you? Where are your groupies, Munson?”

Oh. Oh-ho-ho. Jackpot.

That right there? The golden ticket served up on a silver platter. 

I leaned back against the bar stool like I was on the cover of Rolling Stone, chest puffed out, dragging in the deepest breath of my life. Real dramatic.

“Well,” I said, letting it hang in the air “I don’t think I’m quite famous enough yet for the full groupie experience.” I paused, because timing was everything. Then I let the grin creep across my face, slow and cocky. “But… let’s just say being the guitarist in a rock band does give me a little more…” I twirled my hand in the air, searching for the word, “…visibility. You know. It’s the whole rockstar aura thing. Girls kinda… love it.” I added the tiniest shoulder shrug for effect. Casual. (Inside, I was basically high-fiving myself for pulling off such a flawless performance.)

She didn’t even blink. Just sipped her whiskey with the poise of a queen humoring a court jester, then set the glass down and said: “Sure.”

Well, excuse me, Your Majesty. Not exactly the thunderous applause I was expecting for my little one-man show. But fine. You don’t wanna play impressed? I’ve got ammo.

“Even the ones you’d never expect,” I said, leaning in like I was about to spill state secrets.

Her brow arched over the rim of those glasses, amused but skeptical. 

“You remember Jason Carver?”

“Yeah,” she said, dry. “Think I’ll remember him forever.”

“Good,” I grinned, teeth and all. “Because you’re gonna love this. His girl—well, ex-girl now—Chrissy Cunningham, queen of the cheer squad, Hawkins’ very own golden Barbie? Turns out she had this deep, dark weakness for musicians.”

I let the words hang in the smoky air for maximum effect. “I swear to God, I didn’t have to lift a finger. I came back from our first baby tour, still smelling like cheap motels, and she just—bam.” I clapped my hands together. “Threw herself right at me. While she was still with Carver, too.”

She tried. God, she tried to keep her face neutral, sipping her drink, eyes steady. But I saw it, that tiny flicker. That micro-expression she tried to smother behind her glass. She hated it. Hated the thought of some blonde beauty wrapped around me, and if I hadn’t been half-drunk and fully pathetic, I would’ve been nicer about it.

But god, it was delicious.

She masked it quick because she was a pro, after all, and set the glass down with deliberate care and said evenly, “Oh well. You got your revenge on Jason in the end.”

I leaned back on my stool, smirk curling across my mouth, heat buzzing in my chest because I’d caught her. “Oh, yeah,” I drawled, tapping the bar with two fingers. 

After a few moment, she tossed back the last of her whiskey, glanced at the slim watch on her wrist, and sighed. “I should go,” she said, voice almost apologetic.

What? No, no, no. That was it? That was how the night ended? In the little movie I’d been running in my head, we weren’t even halfway through. There was supposed to be another round, another laugh, maybe even one of those bad decisions that kept you alive for years after. Not this.

“Already?” I blurted, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “It’s not even that late.”

She didn’t even look at me, eyes still on her watch like it was a lifeline, and asked, “How long are you staying in Chicago?”

I blinked. “Uh… flight’s tomorrow night. Off to the next city.”

She was working out some kind of equation in her head, weighing variables only she could see. She wanted to stay, I could feel it in my bones, but something chained her in place. Something I couldn’t see, couldn’t name.

Finally, she nodded, decisive. “Alright. I just need to make a phone call.”

And just like that, she slid off the stool, bag slung over her shoulder, walking toward the door with her hand digging inside for her phone.

I watched her go, frowning like a fool. My eyes dropped—yeah, sue me—because the skirt hugged her ass in a way that should’ve been illegal, and I was still just a man. I dragged my eyes up to the clock. Midnight on the dot.

My gaze dropped back down and landed on the table below, where Vince sat slouched in his chair. He caught my eye, lifted his hand, and flipped me the bird with the gravitas of a priest delivering a benediction.

I returned it with equal solemnity, like two knights saluting across a battlefield, then turned back to my beer. Drained it in three gulps, the taste bitter, the burn not nearly enough to dull the gnawing in my chest.

A phone call. At midnight. Couldn’t be work. Not unless her clients were actual vampires. Which left… what? A boyfriend? Some poor bastard waiting somewhere, clueless that tonight should’ve been mine. Just the thought of it made my stomach twist and heat crawl up my throat.

Because if she walked out of here and I lost my chance to taste those five-years-ago nights again, the kind that left you sweating, wrecked, barely breathing, I didn’t think I’d survive it.

Curiosity was clawing me open from the inside.

So I grabbed my cigarettes, shoved off the stool, and pushed through the bar’s heavy door.

The night air slapped me in the face, cool and sharp. She was there, back to me, phone pressed to her ear. Her other hand rummaged absently through her bag, shoulders tense. 

I lit a cigarette, leaned against the doorway like I had all the time in the world, and watched her.

Whoever was on the other end, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I couldn’t stop myself either.

“…yeah, I know it’s late,” she was saying, her voice low but clipped, professional almost. “...I’ll pay extra, of course. Just, don’t leave until morning...in the room, yeah”

I narrowed my eyes, smoke curling from my lips. Not exactly sweet nothings. And the way she said it? More like she was hiring a hitman than talking to a boyfriend.

But before I could string together the possibilities, her tone shifted like, drastically. From brisk and businesslike to soft, almost melting. “That's so nice of you...” she whispered, lips curving in a smile I could see even from where I stood. “I’ll see you in the morning, alright?...yes...thank you so much...love you, bye” 

My stomach knotted. Jesus Christ. That wasn’t just a boyfriend. Nobody talked like that unless they were in deep.

The hard plastic clack of the phone snapping shut cut me out of the thought spiral. She shoved the brick back into her purse and turned only to nearly jump when she saw me in the doorway, smoke curling lazily around my face.

For a split second, she looked guilty. Caught. Like I’d overheard something I wasn’t supposed to. Which… I had.

I tilted my head, kept my tone even. “All good?”

“Ehm—yeah,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her hand fluttered in the air like she was shooing away something invisible. “You know… responsibilities.”

Responsibilities. Right. Real specific. That explained absolutely nothing. I just gave one short nod, the kind that said fine, I won’t push, even as my brain clawed itself raw with questions.

I held out the cigarette between two fingers. 

She hesitated a beat, then stepped closer, plucking it from my hand. She dragged in, exhaled, the glow lighting her face for half a second before fading back into shadow.

Her other arm wrapped tight around her waist against the chill, and I bit down the urge to throw my jacket over her shoulders like some idiot knight.

We passed the cigarette back and forth in silence, the smoke curling between us. Every time her lips brushed the filter, I had to look away, because Christ, I was one wrong move away from combusting.

When it was nearly done, I held it out for her. She reached with elegant fingers, rings catching the streetlight and I just curled my fingers back with a grin.

Her brows lifted. The corners of her mouth twitched like she knew exactly what game I was playing. She leaned closer, trying again. I pulled back further.

“Stop,” she said, soft but firm while grinning , like she was scolding a kid stealing cookies.

Yeah, not a chance.

I drew my arm back further, until she had no choice but to lean in after it. When her fingers stretched again, I went full bastard and lifted my arm higher.

Her eyes narrowed, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “Really?”

“Really,” I said, smirk plastered on my face.

She had to rise onto her toes, close enough now that the heat of her body grazed mine, enough that I knew she could smell the beer on my breath. That’s when I finally let her take it, brushing her fingertips with mine like it was some kind of accident.

And god, the look she gave me then? The kind that said I see you, Munson. I see every stupid trick you think you’re pulling.

She brought the cigarette to her lips, eyes locked on mine as she inhaled. Pure theater. She didn’t even break eye contact when she exhaled. I didn’t move either, just stood there with that cocky stillness I’d spent the last years practicing. 

She finally broke it, her voice low, warm, close enough that it tickled against my collar. “I didn't say thank you directly, for the song”

Oh, now she wanted to go sentimental? Cute. “Well, you seemed pretty busy showering Vince with compliments instead.”

Her lips curved sly. “Mhm. Maybe I was just trying to get a reaction out of you.” A beat. “The same way you were, with Chrissy.”

…Busted.

My grin spread, sharp and stupid. She was the only person alive who could out-psychoanalyze me mid-seduction. 

“Well?” I asked, leaning closer, voice low, teasing. “Did it work?”

She tilted her head, smile dancing in her eyes. “A little,” she said, rolling the words like a coin between her teeth. Then she shrugged, putting on this mock-humble tone.

“But then I thought… you know… I’d bet you didn’t write her a song.”

Checkmate.

My grin spread slow and feral, because damn if she didn’t know how to lob a grenade right into my chest

She flicked the cigarette down, the ember dying with a hiss as she ground it under her heel. When she lifted her head again, she was still so close I could feel the ghost of her breath.

Even in those heels, she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes. And suddenly she wasn’t smirking anymore. Her whole face had softened, eyes steady, warm. “No, really” she said quietly “That song is beautiful. It's...everything we were, and everything we couldn’t be.”

Her words hit harder than any crowd screaming my lyrics back at me. She’d heard it exactly the way I wrote it, exactly the way I’d meant it. 

Before I could even process that, her hand came up. Just her thumb, brushing the scruff of my cheek, soft like she’d been dying to touch me and finally gave in. My heart went off like a drum solo but I stayed still. I let her. Because she was a cat, always had been. Skittish, proud, impossible to chase. The only way was to wait, to let her come closer on her own terms.

And then she leaned in, and for one dizzy second I thought she was about to kiss me, but instead she dropped her face into the curve of my neck and wrapped her arms around me, tight. So goddamn tight I almost staggered.

And fuck if I didn’t melt right there on the spot.

I didn’t even hesitate. My arms went around her instantly, instinct taking over. I pulled her in like I’d been waiting years to do it, because I had. Eyes shut, holding on like she might vanish again. She was all warm suit fabric and perfume, I pressed so close it almost hurt, and I didn’t care. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted her to feel me everywhere.

We stayed like that for what felt like forever, clinging to each other like the world outside didn’t exist. Neither of us seemed willing to loosen first. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, frantic and steady all at once.

Eventually I loosened my hold, just enough to let her breathe, but I kept one arm hooked around her, refusing to let her drift too far. She leaned back a little, just enough to look up at me.

Her armor cracked wide open right in front of me. Behind those glasses, her eyes were unguarded, glassy with whiskey and something softer. She was her again—sweet, fragile, mine. 

A rebel strand of hair had slipped from the bun, brushing against her cheek like it wanted to betray her. I couldn’t help it, I lifted a hand and tugged at the loose elastic holding the rest. She didn’t stop me. Just watched, those deer-soft eyes locked on mine, as the band snapped free and her hair spilled down, darker and longer than I remembered. A goddamn waterfall. I let my fingers drift through it, gentle, and her eyelids fluttered, slow and heavy.

Then my hand slid higher, brushing over her temple, and I caught the edge of her glasses. I pulled them off, folded them shut, and held them loosely in my hand. And there she was. The girl I’d written songs about. The one who once looked at me like I was the only man on earth.

She stared up at me in the same way now, while my knuckles grazed her cheek.

Her voice came soft, breaking the silence. “We can’t do this. It can’t happen.”

I didn’t flinch, because her body told me something else entirely. “Why not?” I murmured, steady, calm, even though inside I was burning alive.

Her throat bobbed as she leaned into my hand, betraying herself completely. Still, she whispered, broken and small: “Because tomorrow… you’re the one who leaves. And I can’t go through it again.”

I held her gaze and kept my voice calm, like I was trying to coax her off a ledge. “It’s not the same. We can figure it out now, find ways—”

But she cut me off, sharp and sure. “No. We can’t.”

That was it, no compromise. And suddenly the only explanation that made sense slammed into me like a fist: there was someone else.

Had to be. 

For years, I’d convinced myself she’d moved on easily. That she’d left me behind like an old tour T-shirt—maybe once in a while she’d stumble across the memory of me, smirk faintly, then get back to her shiny perfect life.

But looking at her now, raw and cracked open, I knew better. She’d hurt just as much as I had and was just scared.

Which only made me want her more. Because if she’d suffered the way I had, then she knew what this was. And no phantom boyfriend, no fear, no five missing years was gonna keep me from holding her tonight.

So why not try? Why not fucking try, when the universe had been cruel enough to give us a second shot?

My thumb grazed along her cheek. “Okay,” I said softly “Here’s the deal. We head back inside, have another drink, then I drag you to McDonald’s, ‘cause it’s obvious it’s been way too long since you let yourself near actual garbage food...and then we decide.”

She snorted, shaking her head “You really think you’re gonna convince me by getting me drunker?”

I shrugged, let the smallest smile tug at my mouth. “What can I say? Lowered inhibitions work wonders for my odds.”

Yeah, turns out my plan had worked a little too well.

One more whiskey and all her carefully built walls crumbled like wet paper.

We were both drunk, her more than me, though I wasn’t exactly winning any sobriety contests. 

We didn’t even make it to McDonald’s. Hell, we didn’t even make it past the backseat of the taxi without her mouth on mine, hands in my hair like she was making up for all five lost years in one go. By the time she told the driver to change the address, we were gone. Completely gone.

Now we were pressed against her apartment door, both of us laughing into each other’s mouths, half-drunk and half-crazy. She was digging through her bag with one hand, cursing under her breath, and I couldn’t stop kissing her long enough to give her room to breathe. 

Her taste was whiskey and smoke and something that was just her. My hands were everywhere—waist, back, tangling in her hair.

She finally fished the keys out, fumbling them toward the lock, and I almost laughed into the crook of her neck when she missed. 

Christ, she couldn’t even aim straight. Maybe I wasn’t helping, because I shoved her hair aside and pressed my mouth to the line of her throat. Her pulse was hammering so hard I felt it against my lips.

I was furious at the alcohol, because tomorrow I’d only get pieces of this night, blurry edges instead of sharp focus. This was the kind of thing I wanted to memorize, to burn into me. Like the scrape of her ring when her hand gripped the back of my neck, the little groan she made when I bit her collarbone.

She finally shoved the key home with a triumphant little gasp, but I still didn’t let her go. My mouth stayed on her neck, as I shoved us both forward, one hand flat at her hip, steering her through the doorway like I’d lived there all my life. 

She stumbled forward a step, laughing breathless, and I kicked the door shut behind us with the heel of my boot without breaking stride. 

My hips found her ass, pressing against her without shame, and she didn’t protest, just pressed back.

I barely registered the dark room, just enough to clock some shiny countertop thing by the stove, one of those kitchen islands or whatever the hell rich people called it. Perfect height, perfect surface. My brain went caveman in an instant. I shoved her toward it, palms greedy on her waist, her heels clicking against the floor until she bumped right into the edge with a soft gasp. 

My lips never left her skin, dragging hot over the slope of her neck while my hand slid up, wrapping around her throat to keep her head tipped, exactly where I wanted her.

She arched against, bending slightly forward over the countertop, palms flat against the glossy surface. My hand was already fumbling down, clumsy as hell, trying to hike her tight skirt up, but before I could get anywhere she gasped it out, all shaky and sweet:

“Not here.”

I groaned into her throat, frustration clawing at me. “Why the hell not?” My hand just changed course, sliding up instead, closing over her breast through the fabric of that perfect black suit.

She moaned, but still managed to get out “Bedroom.”

Fucking hell.

I grunted like an animal, pure frustration tearing out of me, then without warning I scooped her up, arms under her thighs, bridal-style. No warning, no finesse. She shrieked, arms flying around my neck like I’d just kidnapped her.

I started down the dark hallway while she covered my face in messy little kisses, jaw, cheek, nose, hell, even my eyelid at one point. I could barely see where the fuck I was going, drunk, hard and dying to get her flat on a bed before I lost my goddamn mind.

First door. I shifted her up in my grip, managed to free one hand, fumbled with the knob. She broke from my mouth just long enough to murmur against my ear, breathless, “That’s the bathroom.”

I cursed almost tripping over my own boots as I staggered further down the hall. 

She was too busy dragging my mouth back to hers, tongue sliding against mine, to care where the hell we were headed. I powered down the hallway, convincing myself the last door had to be her bedroom.

Because if it wasn’t? I was ready to drop her right on the carpet and take her there. 

I stumbled on a rug, nearly lost my footing “Jesus fucking Christ—” I tightened my grip, heart hammering like I’d just dodged death.

She only laughed into my mouth, the sound buzzing against my lips.

The last door opened and, hallelujah, it was the bedroom. The place was dark, only a slice of city light cutting through the blinds and I could tell from the outline of shadows that it was bigger than my van. Bigger than my whole life, honestly. 

I set her down and she didn’t let go, her mouth glued to mine while her free hand reached back, shuting the door with a soft click. The sound felt final, like the world had just locked us in.

Her hands drifted lower, fumbling at her own buttons, tugging at the jacket over her chest.

But I grabbed her hands, panting against her mouth. “No. Don’t take it off.”

She blinked, pulling back just a fraction. Her eyes glistened with alcohol, her lips swollen and red, hair wild around her face. The suit hugged her body so perfectly it was obscene. She looked like every dirty dream I’d ever had, stitched together and standing in front of me.

“No?” Malicious little spark in her eyes.

Then, Jesus fucking Christ, she sank. Slowly, deliberately, lowering herself to her knees. My breath caught as her hands dragged over me on the way, chest to stomach, until they landed at my hips. I swear I almost blacked out.

“You like it, huh? Me in my work clothes?” she murmured, biting her lip.

All I managed was a dumb nod. Jesus, I was supposed to be a rockstar, a man who should be able to work a crowd of thousand, and here I was, mute.

Her smirk curved sharper “You know what this is?” Her words slurred a little. Meanwhile, her fingers were already working at my belt, clumsy but determined. “It's…hang on” she paused, scrunching her nose like she had to drag the word out of some dusty corner of her brain. “Right. It’s… displacement. No, transference. Yeah.” She tapped my hip with one finger, proud of herself. "You don’t just want me, you want the…symbol.” She circled a hand vaguely in the air, nearly missing my belt loop on the way. “Authority. The role. You wanna…possess me, not just as me, but as the professional identity. The whole suit package.” Her fingers slipped the last loop of my belt while she let out a soft drunken giggle, before adding “Textbook Freud, baby. Absolutely textbook.”

I probably looked like a cartoon wolf, mouth hanging open, tongue nearly rolling out. The only thing missing was drool.

There she was, unbuttoning my belt while giving me a fucking lecture. And all I could think was:

She is literally diagnosing my kinks while undressing me on her knees. Hot. Smart. Drunk. This is it. This is how I die. RIP Eddie Munson. Cause of death: horny psychology.

Then, calm as a doctor asking me to breathe deep, she said, “Can you close your eyes for me, Eddie?”

And I did. Like the dumbest, most obedient dog in the world. Immediate compliance. God, I was pathetic.

After a few moments of nothing, I heard her moving and a hand dragged slow up my thigh, palm hot through the fabric, and my whole body lit up like a pinball machine. Then her voice came almost like a purr but still with that clinical tone that made me want to drop dead on the spot. “Good. Stay still. Feel the tension. Sit with it. That’s what you want most… isn’t it?”

Christ almighty. She was turning my dick into a therapy session. 

But then—click.

My eyes snapped open.

Not exactly the sound of heaven I’d been expecting. 

That was a camera.

And what do I find? Not her worshipping me. Nope. She was flat on her back across this massive white rug, black suit stark against it, holding a goddamn Polaroid camera. The photo was sliding out, not even developed yet, and she wheezed, heels kicking uselessly in the air.

Meanwhile I stood there, belt hanging open, dick straining against my jeans, face probably contorted like a man getting electrocuted. And now it was all on film.

“You—oh my God—your face!” she howled, clutching her stomach, camera still in hand.

I snapped out of my shock, indignation bubbling up with my arousal. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. Give me that.”

Her eyes went wide, then wicked, and she rolled to the side, clutching the camera to her chest. “No way!”

“Oh, yes way” I lunged, and suddenly we were wrestling on that plush white rug like two drunk idiots on a college dorm floor. She twisted, kicked, tried to squirm free, laughing the whole time, while I growled and grabbed at her wrist.

“Eddie—stop—” she shrieked between giggles. Finally, the camera slipped from her grip and thudded onto the rug somewhere out of reach, but the photo itself fluttered loose. She reached for it but too slow. I snatched it first, triumphant, and pinned her wrist above her head with one hand, shoving the picture out of her sight with the other.

“Mine,” I panted, grinning down at her like I'd just won a war.

She wriggled beneath me, still laughing, still fighting, but weaker now, softer, the sound catching on a gasp when I ducked down and sank my teeth into her neck.

She let out this sharp, startled little ah! when my teeth sank in, her whole body jolting under me. I didn’t stop—just dragged it into a mark, deep, until I knew she’d be cursing me in the mirror tomorrow morning.

Her back arched instantly, pressing up into me like her body couldn’t help itself. My free hand clawed at the hem of that tight little skirt, and when fabric didn’t cooperate, I yanked it higher, up until it bunched at her waist. I had no patience left. Just need.

And then my palm slid exactly where I wanted, between her thighs. One touch and I felt it. Heat. Damp through the lace, like she’d been waiting for this all night. 

I lifted my head, forcing myself to look. Her mouth was open, lips shining, chest heaving like she’d run a marathon. Her cheeks flushed red, eyes glazed, and she looked so goddamn wrecked already.

Finally. Finally she wasn’t the one pulling the strings. She wasn’t smirking up at me with all her clever little games and Freudian bullshit. She was pinned, mine to take apart.

I leaned in close, enough that my lips brushed hers without sealing it, just letting our breaths tangle hot and shaky between us. My fingers pressed firmer against the soaked fabric and I watched her twitch with every brush. “So tell me, doc,” I whispered, my voice rasping between us, “What’s this called in psychology, huh? When you’re already dripping before I even get my hand on you?”

She didn’t answer my question. Not with words anyway. Her back just arched more, spine bowing off the rug as a broken little sound fell out of her throat, like a plea.

Take this Freud.

I kissed the corner of her mouth, lips brushing the curve of her cheek. “Open this for me, baby,” I murmured, tugging at the lapel of her jacket.

She did. Instantly. No hesitation, no questions. Just those shaky hands fumbling at the buttons to please me. Which, let’s be real, hit me straight in the fucking ego because two minutes ago I was her obedient little mutt with my eyes closed, and now here she was panting under me, obeying like her life depended on it.

I scrambled upright, ripped my shirt off so fast I nearly got stuck in it (sexy as hell, Munson, ten points), then shoved my jeans down, kicking them away with my boots. Clothes scattered everywhere, probably knocking over her fancy shit.

When I looked back down at her, I almost came just for the view.

The jacket was wide open, hanging off her shoulders. Black bra underneath, tight and perfect, her breasts practically begging for my mouth. Skirt still rucked indecen high, panties halfway down her thighs, her hand pushing them lower like she was in a goddamn race. I helped,tugged them the rest of the way, flung them aside, and dropped back over her, caging her in.

One greedy hand shoved her bra down, not even bothering with the clasp, just enough to get what I wanted. And then my mouth was there, sucking, my stubble rasped against the soft skin.

Her gasp broke into a curse, nails digging into my scalp. “This...this beard is driving me fucking insane.”

I smirked against her, lips still wrapped around her nipple. 

Meanwhile, my other hand slid back down, fingers parting her thighs, and Jesus—she was drenched. Hot, slick, pulsing under my fingers like her body was begging me.

Two fingers slid into her and it was like being swallowed whole. Tight, wet and warm. My mouth stayed latched on her breast, sucking greedily and her whole body writhed under me. Her thighs shifted restlessly against my hand, hips lifting off the rug, chasing every curl of my fingers. Each little sound that fell from her lips went straight down. I was dying for her, every nerve begging to bury myself inside, but no, she wasn’t ready. I wanted her wrecked first. I wanted her to know who the hell had her now.

I sped up, fingers pumping faster, curling just right until I felt her tighten. Her nails dragged through my hair, caught hard against my scalp, her breath ragged and uneven.

And that’s when I pulled my mouth from her breast.

Her eyes shot open, dazed and desperate, lips parted, cheeks flushed bright red. I hovered above her, fingers still buried deep, and rasped against her mouth, “What do you want, sweetheart?”

For a second, she couldn’t even speak. Just stared at me, trembling, breathless, eyes wild. Then finally, voice cracking:

“You. Now...please.”

Fuck me. That one last word nearly took me out. “Well,” I muttered, curling my fingers one last time before sliding them free, “when you beg that nice…”

Her whole body shuddered at the loss, her chest heaving, hands scrambling for me like she couldn’t stand the space.

And me? I was already tearing my boxers down, clumsy, graceless, almost tripping in my own rush, because if I didn’t get inside her right then, I was going to fucking combust.

I crawled back over her, lining myself up between her thighs while she was still trembling from my fingers.

One hand braced beside her head, the other guiding myself lower, I pushed forward slowly. 

And holy...fuck.

The second I slid into her, heat slammed into me, tight and slick and fucking perfect. My eyes rolled back in my skull. 

Jesus Christ. 

She clenched around me, molten, pulling me in deeper until every nerve ending lit up at once.

I’d been with women over the last years, too many, if I was honest. Random faces, blurry nights, nameless bodies that barely registered. Not a single one of them touched this. Not even close. This wasn’t just sex...it was homecoming, collision, annihilation all in one.

She arched against me instantly, legs clamping tighter around my hips, dragging me deeper like she’d been starving for this as much as I had. Her eyes shut, lips parted, and what came out of her mouth was pure drunken poetry.

“Holy...Christ—you’re too—God...GOD!...too much” She kept going, strings of broken syllables tumbling out, like her brain couldn’t keep up with her body.

My breath stuttered, my hips already rocking into her. Each thrust sent sparks shooting down my spine, left me shaking from the effort of holding back.

I didn’t remember her being this vocal. Not back then. Maybe it was the booze loosening her tongue, or maybe she’d just been hiding this wild side all along. Either way, it was hot as hell.

I’d kill for a Polaroid of us right now. Frame it. Hang it up and call it art, because It was obscene. Clinical lines of a work outfit, ruined just enough to expose everything I wanted. And me? Naked, hair wild, rutting into her like I was trying to fuck years of frustration out of both of us.

I dropped down, chest pressed to hers, face buried in her neck. My hair stuck to her damp skin, and she arched under me, clawing at my back hard enough to sting, her nails scoring lines. Every time my hips slammed forward, she cried out.

Animal noises ripped out of me too, grunts, growls, half curses muffled against her throat. I couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. My hips just kept grinding forward, sharper, harder.

Five years wasted. And now here we were, drunk, ruined, tangled on her expensive rug, tearing each other apart like we’d die if we let go.

I pushed up on my arms, just to look down at her, because hell, I couldn’t not.

Her jacket hung open showing sweat running down her flushed throat. Only one breast was bared, just the one I’d freed earlier, and it bounced with every slam of my hips.

She surprised the life out of me when her hand came up, covering it to cup herself, while her back arched hard against the rug, head tipping back like she was offering her whole throat to me. It was the dirtiest, hottest thing I’d ever seen.

Every push forward had her babbling, words spilling out unfiltered, drunk, half nonsense but goddamn perfect. Over and over, like a chant, like she was praying.

My arm near her head shifted, hand dragging up until my thumb found her mouth. Couldn’t resist. I pressed it to her lips, just testing.

She didn’t even hesitate.

Her mouth opened, sucking me in like it was second nature. No thought, just pure instinct, like a kid given a pacifier. Her cheeks hollowed, tongue pressing under the pad of my thumb, and Jesus H. Christ—my hips stuttered, rhythm breaking apart instantly. Because how the fuck was I supposed to stay sane while she was sucking me off with her mouth and clenching down on me like that?

“....you’ve gotta be kidding me,” I groaned, head dropping forward. My hair fell in my face, and I could barely see through the haze of lust. “You’re gonna kill me, baby....you’re actually trying to end my life.”

I slid my thumb out of her mouth, slick with spit, and threaded my hand into her hair instead, holding her there under me. My thrusts picked up, sharper, faster, the kind of pace that said I was seconds from the edge whether I wanted to admit it or not.

I dropped my face to hers, cheek scraping hers, whispering against her skin, ragged, broken.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

Nothing. No answer. No sound but her shallow gasps.

I pulled back just enough to look at her, and my stomach lurched. Her eyes weren’t locked on me, they were half-shut, glazed.

“Baby…” I panted, desperation cutting the word in half, “inside?”

She blinked at me, unfocused, and whispered hoarse, “...what?” Like she didn’t understand English anymore.

Christ. I tried again, choking on it. “I’m—Jesus—You want me inside?”

And then

snap. 

Her whole body went rigid under me. Eyes flew open wide, glassy with terror. Her hands shoved at my shoulders, frantic, shaking.

“No! No—nononono—” Her voice cracked, thin with panic, her palms shoving me like I’d burned her.

“Whoa—hey—hey, okay, okay!” I yanked back instantly, pulling out of her, hand up like surrender. The heat, the fire, the haze of booze  it all evaporated in a heartbeat. I was stone cold sober watching her come apart.

Breath tearing out of her in ragged gasps that didn’t sound human. Her chest heaved like she couldn’t get air, pupils blown wide, face pale under the flush of sweat, like she was about to pass out. “I don’t want to—I can’t—” she stammered, voice breaking, words spilling out in pieces like she couldn’t string them together.

“Shit—hey, hey, look at me,” I rasped, crouching close but not touching, because every time I tried to reach her she flinched hard like my hand was a knife. My gut twisted so bad I thought I’d puke.

Her breathing got worse, fast and shallow, little gasps like she was drowning. Her hands clutched at the rug, then at her own chest like she was trying to rip her heart out.

“Baby, you’re okay—you’re safe, I swear—you’re with me.” My voice cracked, useless, my own pulse racing out of control. I didn’t have a degree or shit, but I’d seen it before, kids in Hawkins high freaking out, guys in the crowd at shows hyperventilating till they puked. This was that...except worse, because it was her.

And I had no idea how to fix it.

Her eyes darted wild, not even landing on me, tears gathering but not falling. “No—I don’t want—don’t—”

“I’m not—I’m not doing anything to you, okay? I stopped” My hands hovered over her arms, aching to hold her, but every inch of me screamed not to make it worse. I felt helpless, useless.

The rug scratched my knees, sweat dripped down my back, my cock hung heavy and forgotten between us. None of it mattered. The only thing in my head was help her, help her, help her.

“You know me baby, I’d never hurt you, never. Just—just breathe...please, calm down”

For a second, it was like I was talking to a wall. Her eyes weren’t on me, weren’t on anything, just staring through me like I was smoke.

Then slowly her sheaky hand lifted off the floor, pressing flat against her own sternum. Her lips moved, soundless at first, then whispering in broken pieces: “One… two… three…”

Counting. Christ, she was counting.

Her eyes squeezed shut, lashes wet, and she dragged in one shaky breath, then let it out hard, almost a sob. Again—inhale, exhale, numbers under her breath like a lifeline. 

And me? I just hovered there like an idiot, chest caving in, watching her claw her way back piece by piece.

Finally, her breathing slowed, still uneven, but no longer sharp. Her fingers trembled where they pressed over her heart, and her eyes cracked open, glassy but focused now. On me.

The tight fist around my lungs loosened. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and, slow as hell, I let myself move. My hand crept up, cautious, until my fingers brushed back the damp strands plastered to her temple.

“Jesus…” My voice was hoarse, torn up. “You scared the shit outta me.”

Her skin burned under my touch, sweat-slick and trembling, but she didn’t flinch this time. Didn’t shove me away.

Her lips parted, voice thin and broken. “...sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I murmured back, shaking my head like I could erase the word from the air.

I bent down, pressed my mouth to her cheek, soft, lingering. Then I stayed there, forehead resting against her temple, breathing her in.

Hours later, she was out cold. Me? Not a fucking chance. 

Every time my eyes started to shut, I jolted awake again just to check she was breathing normal. Couldn’t stop myself. That image of her gasping, clutching at herself like she was dying, it had me by the throat.

Earlier at some point, after she’d calmed down enough to stop trembling, I’d wrestled her out of that damn black skirt suit. Thought it looked hot as hell on her, now I fucking hated the thing. Zippers, clasps, layers on layers, like it was designed by Satan just to piss me off. I ended up tossing it away with the rest of my clothes, like I never wanted to see the damn thing again.

She hadn’t fought me when I lifted her off the rug. Just melted into my arms, dead weight, head against my shoulder. I laid her down on that ridiculous big bed, piled with too many little useless pillows that I ended up throwing across the room. She was out the second her head hit the sheets, mouth slack, makeup smudged down her eyes.

I laid there next to her, stroking her hair, untangling the strands where they clung to her face. Her breathing had evened out, soft and steady now, but it didn’t stop the guilt gnawing me alive. I’d wanted her wrecked, and I got it, but not the way I meant.

And the worst part? I had no goddamn clue what the hell had triggered it.

My head kept circling back to five years ago, to that night she’d told me about the teacher in Hawkings high. How he’d taken advantage of her when she was too young, too trusting. My stomach churned just remembering it. Maybe that’s what cracked open tonight. Maybe me asking—stupid, selfish—if I could finish inside her had snapped something loose.

But fuck, it didn’t add up. It didn’t feel like that. There was something else, buried deeper, and I couldn’t reach it.

So there I was, in the dark of her stupidly big room, sheets tangled around my waist, staring at her like an idiot while my brain tore itself in circles.

But that’s when I heard it.

A sound. Outside the bedroom door, low and muffled.

My eyes snapped up, every nerve in me going tight.

Because of course. Why wouldn’t this mansion of hers decide to get spooky as fuck the one night I already felt like I was losing my mind?

Or maybe thieves. Because why wouldn’t they come rob? It made sense. People robbed places like this. I’d never had to worry about that in my little shithole trailer. But here? Hell yeah. Big house, closed-off windows, screaming “come take my diamonds.”

So, naturally, I did the logical thing. Slipped out of bed as quiet as I could, pawed through the heap of clothes on the white rug until I found my boxers, and pulled them on. Nothing like creeping into danger in your underwear. Real heroic shit.

The hall stretched long and dim, just this faint gray glow leaking in from the cracks of the blackout curtains. At the end, a soft light flickered. Kitchen, maybe.

I pressed myself to the wall, creeping slow, every step careful. Which, in hindsight, was stupid as hell. No weapon, no plan. What was I gonna do? Distract him with my hair?

I edged up to the doorway, leaned just far enough to peek around the frame.

And froze.

Not a dude in black ski mask, not a knife-wielding psycho.

A woman.

Standing there, back to me, setting something down on the table like she owned the place.

“What the fuck?” I whispered.

Maybe she was her roommate? Some long-lost auntie who lived here rent-free? Didn’t seem like her style, but what the hell did I know about her life anyway?

The woman moved quiet, deliberate, like she didn’t want to wake anyone. She was maybe mid-forties, skin warm brown, hair tied up neat, cardigan slipping off her shoulder. 

When she finally turned and spotted me, she jumped like I’d fired a gun. “Oh!” she gasped, hand to her chest. “So sorry, sir.”

Sir?

The fuck?

I blinked at her, still plastered half-naked to the doorframe, brain trying to reboot.

She hurried to gather her bag, eyes dropping to the floor like she was embarrassed to even exist. Which, yeah, hard to blame her, given the fact I was standing there in nothing but boxers and sex hair.

“I didn’t mean to wake anyone,” she whispered. “I just… I wanted to leave these out”

She motioned at the table. A plate. Muffins. Like twelve of them.

“Uh…” was all I got out.

“We made them yesterday,” she went on quickly, eyes still down. “...Dr. Cole's favorites”

Doctor Cole. That meant Marissa, right?

I just nodded like a moron, because none of this was making sense. “We made them”? Who the hell was “we”? And why the fuck was this lady in the house at dawn?

Housekeeper? Maid? Pastry fairy?

She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder, still avoiding my eyes, and murmured, “Okay. I go now. Sorry again, sir. Please… tell Miss Cole I said goodbye.”

And then, with one last awkward smile, she slipped past me and closed the front door behind her slowly.

Leaving me alone. In the kitchen, staring at muffins.

I scratched the back of my neck before padding over, bare feet silent on the tile, eyes fixed on the muffins like they were the only sane thing in this house.

Had I underestimated her? Hell yes.

She didn’t just have money. She had a maid who baked her muffins and called her Miss Cole, like she was some Victorian duchess. And me? I got tagged “sir,” which was hilarious, because I looked about as far from a sir as a guy could get.

Rich people, man. They had a whole different operating system.

Still, the muffins smelled insane. Blueberry, maybe? My stomach answered for me. I grabbed one, shoved it in my mouth like some starving raccoon.

I chewed, wandering around her kitchen, eyeing the perfect cabinets, the glossy counters, the kind of fridge you could probably hide a body in. Every damn thing gleamed. It was so spotless it made me itch, like I should apologize just for breathing near it.

But then I turned, still chewing, and...

Froze.

Half a muffin hung out of my mouth, my jaw stuck mid-bite.

Because there, at the mouth of the hallway, stood… someone.

A kid.

Or maybe… a ghost shaped like a kid.

Small, still, just standing there in footie pajamas covered in little cartoon doodles. A toy car clutched tight in one fist, pressed against his mouth like a shield. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at me.

Motionless.

The hairs on my arms stood up.

Okay. No. Nope. That wasn’t a kid. That was an apparition. A full-blown haunted-house special. Because there was no way in hell I wouldn’t have heard him coming. No way he’d just materialize like that, dead quiet, eyes locked on me like he was weighing my soul.

I swallowed hard, muffin sticking in my throat. My brain was too fried to compute, still spinning from panic attacks, lack of sleep and mystery maids. 

The silence cracked first from him. Not echo-y ghost shit or demon Latin but a tiny voice, soft, sweet in a way that punched me straight in the chest. 

“Where’s my mommy?”

I blinked at him, brain scrambling.

Okay. Right. The lady. The muffin fairy. She’d forgotten her kid here. Left him standing in the hall.

I glanced around the kitchen, half-expecting her to pop back in and scoop him up with an “Oops, my bad, forgot the child!”

But my eyes snagged on the fridge.

A cluster of post-its slapped on the stainless steel door, dates, phone numbers, little reminders in neat handwriting. And dead center, pinned under a flower magnet, was a photo.

Her.

Marissa. Sitting at the bottom of a playground slide, hair wild, makeup-free, sunglasses pushed up in her hair. And in her lap...him. This exact kid. Cheeks flushed, both tongues sticking out, her arm wrapped around him like she was never letting go.

Not the maid’s. Hers.

Her son.

The room tilted. My chest squeezed so hard it knocked the breath out of me.

She had a kid.

A kid.

I set the muffin down fast, hand gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping me upright. Heart hammering loud enough I swore the kid could hear it.

Mother. She was a mother. Her, the woman I’d spent five years trying not to drown over, had built a whole life that had nothing to do with me.

My eyes bounced between the photo and the boy standing there in his pajamas. Over and over, like my brain was refusing to process the math. Same kid. Same eyes. Same everything.

“Your…” My voice cracked, dry as sandpaper. I swallowed, tried again unsteady. “Your mom’s… sleeping.”

The boy nodded, toy still pressed to his mouth, and just kept staring at me.

Then finally, muffled but clear: “Are you… mommy’s friend?”

Christ. I nodded, because what the hell else was I supposed to do? Friend. Sure. Ex? Not really. Whatever I was, it didn’t have a name that made sense in kindergarten vocabulary.

But the nod barely landed before my brain spun out again.

Where the hell had he even been all night? We’d been tearing each other apart on that rug like animals. He couldn’t have just been… here. Not awake, not listening. Right?

Except, my gut lurched, she had shut the bedroom door. Even drunk, she’d been careful. Not with me, but with that. With him.

And then it hit me, like a brick to the teeth. That phone call outside the club. The one I thought was her sweet-talking some guy.

She’d said something like “I’ll pay you extra if you stay the whole night.”

Not some mystery man.

The babysitter.

The woman in the kitchen hadn’t been the maid. She’d been here watching him.

And suddenly, her panic when I asked if I could finish inside made terrifying, awful sense. Because last time someone finished inside her… this happened. This kid.

But—no. Wait. That couldn’t be right.

Five years ago, she’d told me doctors said it was practically impossible for her. I remembered it clear as day. The way she’d laughed bitterly about it, like she’d already made peace with never having kids.

So how the hell—?

The kid’s gaze flicked from me to the half-eaten muffin abandoned on the table. Back to me. Expectant.

“You want it?” My hands felt stupid, heavy, but I picked it up. Held it out.

He hesitated, rocking a little on his socked feet, eyes flicking from me to the muffin. But then, one cautious step at a time, he padded closer and reached out with the hand not clutching that little car, tiny fingers closing around the muffin.

Up close, I saw the curls. Wild little loops sticking up at the crown of his head, same color as hers. 

He took a bite, crumbs scattering on his pajamas, eyes still on me like he was cataloguing every move.

I crouched down, knees popping like an old man, forearms resting on my thighs so I could look him straight in those big, watchful eyes. Felt less like I was meeting a kid and more like I was facing trial.

“What’s your name, kid?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

He chewed, swallowed, then looked right at me and said, “Ozzy.”

Everything inside me stopped. My stomach dropped so fast it was like an elevator cable had snapped. I thought maybe I’d misheard him. Maybe he’d said “Ollie” or “Austin” or literally anything else that didn’t sound like it had been ripped straight out of my chest.

Ozzy.

No. No way.

Sure, plenty of kids out there were named Ozzy. Cute name, rock star vibe, parents wanted to feel edgy. Right? Just a coincidence. Just—

Except my brain didn’t buy it.

Because five years ago, in Hawkings, a stray black cat had started hanging around the parking lot. Scruffy, mean little bastard, but I’d fed him until he stuck. Named him Ozzy because, well, you know. And she’d loved that cat. I still saw it when I closed my eyes: her, the morning after our first time, hair tangled, naked, with Ozzy perched across her chest. That image had burned itself into me so deep I could sketch it blindfolded.

And now here was this kid. Her kid. Saying that name.

Why? Out of every name in the goddamn universe, why that one?

Sure, maybe she just liked it. Maybe she’d been a secret Sabbath superfan all along. Or maybe my heart was trying to jackhammer its way out of my ribcage because deep down I already knew what it meant.

My voice came out shaky, unsure. “How old are you, buddy?”

His whole face brightened, like it was the best question he’d ever been asked. He dropped the toy car onto the floor with a soft clatter, held up his little fist proudly, and then, one by one, uncurled each finger.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Five fingers spread wide, right in front of me.

Five.

I stared at that tiny hand while I had to fight the urge to sit straight on the floor before I blacked out.

Because five years just happened to line up perfectly with the last time we’d been together. That last night in the van when she’d begged me not to pull out. Because it was okay,  it didn’t matter, the doctors had said it was impossible.

But Wait. Hold on. My brain scrambled for a loophole, any loophole.

She’d come straight here after Hawkins, hadn’t she? Chicago. New city, new job, new life. She’d told me herself at that bar, she’d been engaged. Engaged. Maybe she’d gotten knocked up right after Hawkins. Not impossible.

The thought slammed into my mouth before my brain could stop it.

“Your… your dad. He’s an attorney, right?”

The kid blinked at me. Blank as a chalkboard. Like I’d just asked him to solve quantum physics. Muffin crumbs on his chin, staring at me like I was the idiot here.

Shit. Okay. Simplify, Munson.

“Where’s your dad?”

He just shrugged. Bit into the muffin again. Like this was a casual Tuesday morning and not me actively short-circuiting in his kitchen.

I could feel my pulse in my ears. “You don’t… you don’t know?” My voice was thin, desperate.

The kid shook his head. Crumbs rained down his pajamas.

“You don’t… know your dad?”

Another shake of the head. Casual. Easy. Like he didn’t even realize he was ripping my entire ribcage open.

I sat down hard, ass hitting the floor, back against the table leg. 

My hands clawed through my hair, pulling at the roots, anything to ground myself. Anything to not look straight into those goddamn eyes.

Because they were my eyes. My curls. My goddamn face, just… smaller. Softer. Innocent. Like Wayne’s old wallet photo of me had come to life and started eating muffins in front of me.

My chest caved in.

I pressed my palms over my face, dragged them down. My voice came out raw, broken around the edges. “Didn’t your mom… didn’t she tell you anything about your dad?”

He chewed. Chewed forever, slow as molasses, every second killing me. Swallowed finally, then said through a mouthful of crumbs, “No. But she said one day I’ll meet him.”

And that was it. That was the knife. Clean between the ribs, straight through.

I slid lower, head falling forward, elbows on my knees, hands gripping my hair so hard it hurt. Tried to breathe, but my chest had gone hollow. My eyes burned holes into the floor.

Because there it was. The truth, simple as a kid’s shrug. 

Christ. I was going to be sick.

“Fuck,” I hissed, palms digging into my eyes. The word came out cracked, pathetic, more sob than curse. My throat burned, my chest ached, and I couldn’t tell if I wanted to scream, puke, or just curl up on the kitchen tile and never move again.

Why hadn’t she told me? Why the hell hadn’t she told me?

My head spun with it, looping, gnawing at the edges of sanity. Maybe I was still drunk and this was some whiskey-soaked nightmare, my brain punishing me for every bad decision I’d made in the last years. Because that made more sense than this.

I laughed. Bitter, broken, one sharp exhale that hurt on the way out. My hands fisted so hard my scalp screamed. My lips moved without meaning to, whispers under my breath—impossible, no way, fuck, no, no, no.

And then, light and warm. A small little hand, soft as anything, pressed against my shoulder.

I froze. Slowly lifted my head.

My hair stuck up in every direction, my eyes burned, wet, raw. And there he was, right in front of me, watching me like even at five years old he understood this was one of those moments that carved itself into bone.

“Wanna see how fast my car goes?” he asked. 

Just that. 

Not a question about why a stranger was losing his shit on his kitchen floor. 

Something cracked open in me then, deeper than all the panic. This kid, this little boy with my curls and my eyes, he was trying to fix it. Trying to pull me out of the dark with the only thing he had: a toy car.

My mouth twisted into something that was half a smile, half a grimace. My voice cracked when I managed a nod.  “Yeah.”

That was all the permission he needed. He set the muffin wrapper carefully on the floor then bolted for the hallway with a burst of excitement that made my chest ache worse.

“Watch!” he called, dropping down to the tiles. He set the little car down, pulled it back until the wheels screamed in protest, then let it rip.

The thing tore across the kitchen floor like a bat out of hell, plastic wheels shrieking against the spotless tiles, loud enough to wake the dead.

Or a mother.

I didn’t even look down when it smacked straight into my bare thigh. Just sat there, chest heaving, eyes locked on the tiny figure crouched in the hall, grinning like he’d just pulled off the trick of the century.

He came running back, socks sliding on the tile, cheeks flushed. He skidded to a stop right in front of me, grinning so wide I thought his face might split.

“See?!” he said, breathless. “It’s sooo fast, right?”

His excitement hit me like a punch. I picked up the little car and didn’t even really look at it. Just turned it in my fingers once, numb, and handed it back.

“Yeah,” I rasped. “Fastest thing I’ve ever seen.”

That was apparently the magic key. The kid lit up, clutching the car to his chest, then plopped down right in front of me like I was his new audience.

“Mami gave it to me for Christmas,” he said proudly “But now I got two ‘cause she already gave me one for my birthday, but that one wasn’t fast like this one, ‘cause the wheels—see?—they don’t go like this—” He demonstrated, dragging it back and forth, wheels shrieking. “—this one goes like whooooosh! Faster than Luca’s car, and—”

He kept going. And going. His little voice tripped over itself, words piling on top of each other with no breaks, pure five-year-old chaos.

And me? I just stared. Blank. Numb.

I couldn’t follow a damn word. Because every time he said “Mami” or laughed at his own story, my brain punched the same thought into me like a broken record.

My son.

Not a random kid. Not a maybe.

Mine.

I had a kid.

I was somebody’s father. The longer I sat there, the worse it got. The realization crawled under my skin, gnawed at my ribs. My chest kept tightening like it was about to implode.

Dad.

Me.

I was going to faint.

The kid kept talking, dragging the car in lazy loops between us. I couldn’t tell how long it went on. Could’ve been two minutes, could’ve been an hour. Time didn’t exist anymore. Just the sound of his voice and the spiral in my skull.

And then—

A sound behind us.

I looked up.

She was there.

Frozen at the end of the corridor like she’d stepped into a crime scene.

She’d pulled on a black nightgown, thin straps cutting across her shoulders, fabric falling loose around her knees. Still messy, raw, but somehow...still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Except her face.

She was pale. White as a sheet. Eyes blown wide, lips parted like she’d just been punched in the gut. Because maybe she had. Because she’d seen my face, seen exactly what I’d figured out, and understood instantly that the lie, the silence, the years, were over.

The kid noticed too. He twisted around, saw her, and his whole face split open with joy.

“Mami!” he shouted, high and thrilled, and bolted for her like his little legs couldn’t carry him fast enough.

He collided with her knees, wrapped himself around her, babbling something muffled against her nightgown.

But her eyes weren’t on him.

They were on me.

Locked.

We just stared across the kitchen tiles, like two people standing on the edge of the same cliff. Both pale, both looking like we might pass out.

“Mami?” the kid piped up again, tugging at her nightgown like she hadn’t heard him. 

Finally, she blinked, dragged her gaze down to him. Her voice was hoarse, trembling like it might break.

“Baby, it’s early. You should still be in bed.”

“But I don’t wanna.”

She crouched, brushed a hand through his curls, pressed a kiss to his cheek like this was just another ordinary day. Like I wasn’t two feet away falling apart.

“If you go back to bed now,” she whispered, “when you wake up, I’ll take you to the park. We’ll play, just you and me.”

That did it. His pout vanished. “Okaayyyy.”

He shuffled off toward the bedroom, dragging his car with him. Halfway down the hall he turned, lifted his little hand, and waved at me.

My throat worked around broken glass, but I managed to lift my own hand back. Mechanical. A reflex.

He beamed and disappeared into the room, the door clicking shut.

Silence.

Ice-cold, suffocating silence.

She straightened slowly, still pale. I could see the fear in her eyes, the kind that said she already knew the question I was about to ask.

I asked anyway.

My voice came out sharper than I meant, low and hard, but steady.

“Is he mine?”

Her face cracked. Heartbreak written clean across it. The faint bruise blooming on her neck— my mark from last night—only made it worse. She rubbed her hands down her face, voice shredded when she finally forced it out.

“You weren’t supposed to find out like this.”

Pff. Fuck that.

My laugh ripped out of me, harsh and hollow. “What the fuck? Oh, yeah, great plan Marissa. Keep the big reveal until, what?! His eighteenth birthday? Graduation? Maybe let me find out when I’m old and he’s calling someone else Dad? Fantastic fucking strategy, really.”

My legs moved before my brain caught up. Heavy, furious strides that carried me straight past her. Straight for the bedroom. 

I dropped to my knee on the rug, hands shaking as I grabbed at denim and leather, pathetic, scrambling to pull myself back into my armor. Jeans, shirt, socks. Shoving myself into them like it would save me from drowning.

“Eddie,” she said behind me, voice broken, but I couldn’t look. Wouldn’t.

The only thing I knew with any certainty was that I had to get the hell out of that apartment before I screamed or broke something.

My chest heaved, hands shaking as I pulled my shirt over my head. My own voice rang in my skull, sharp and vicious:

Five years. Five fucking years. And not a word. Not a fucking syllable.

When I pushed to my feet, she was still there standing in the doorway, clutching the frame like it was the only thing holding her upright. I brushed past, jaw locked, chest heavy, the scent of her perfume clawing at me like a ghost.

“Eddie,” she whispered again. Cracked right down the middle.

It hit my back like a knife. My chest clenched, traitor that it was, but my feet didn’t stop. Rage had me by the throat, dragging me forward.

The door was just a few strides away when I felt her hand on me. Small. Shaking. Wrapping around my arm like it had every right to still claim me.

I froze. Not because I wanted to, because my body betrayed me.

Her voice came low “It’s 2214. Fourth floor. Apartment B.”

A pause. A breath like glass shattering. “For when you come back.”

My head snapped forward, eyes locked on the door. My teeth ground together so hard my jaw ached.

For when.

Not if.

Of course she thought she still had me figured out. Like she could read the map of my skull, chart every step before I made it. Like she knew damn well I’d be back.

The fury spiked, sharp.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing my face, of catching the war ripping me apart from the inside.

I just shoved the door open, stepped into the hall, and slammed it shut behind me, letting the whole building know I was pissed.

Of course, she was right.

Hours later, there I was. Standing in front of her door again like the dumbest bastard alive.

The clock above the fancy elevator said it was barely eight in the morning. Which meant I still had hours before the flight, before Corroded Coffin had to drag our asses to the next city to play warm-up monkeys for the bigger band. 

I’d burned the hours since I stormed out wandering through a half-dead Chicago at dawn. I walked until my legs ached, screamed until my throat burned, cried like some back-alley lunatic, and punted a dumpster hard enough to make my toes throb. Class act, real rockstar behavior.

And then, like the unstable psycho I am, I bought a coffee. Sat there on a plastic chair, sipping something watery and bitter, it hit like a resurrection. Suddenly the world wasn’t quite as lethal. 

By the time I circled back here, I’d lost about ten kilos of rage.

I wasn’t even that mad at her anymore. Not the way I had been. Somewhere between kicking metal and sipping burnt coffee, the fury bled out, left me hollow. Gave me space to think. And the truth? She’d had reasons. Christ, she’d had plenty.

Back then, I was twenty-one, fresh out of high school, broke as hell. No job, no plan, no clue. If she’d told me then, what could I have given them? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. So yeah. How could I blame her?

Didn’t mean it didn’t sting. Didn’t mean I wasn’t still bruised raw. But the edge was gone. The fire was embers.

I raised my hand and knocked.

The door opened quicker than I expected. She was standing there like she hadn’t moved an inch since I left. Paler, black nightgown still hanging off her shoulders, dark circles carved under her eyes.

But the second she saw me, her face softened and she moved before I could blink, arms around my neck, pressing herself against me.

For a second I froze, caught off guard. Then my eyes slid shut and I let one hand settle weakly on her back. Not tight, just enough to say, Yeah, I’m still here. For now.

Then she pulled back. And her hand was on my cheek, thumb brushing across the stubble like she had any right to still touch me that way. My chest ached. My jaw locked.

I heard my own voice come out low, scratchy.

“Can I see him?”

Her answer was instant. No hesitation, no pause, just a breath and a nod. “Of course.”

The kid was still asleep when we slipped into his room.

Figures. Five a.m. muffin heist, few minutes car show, then he’s out cold again like nothing happened. Must’ve inherited his mother’s talent for selective chaos.

I stopped just past the doorway. His world hit me in the face. Bright walls, stuffed animals piled high and some superhero bedsheets that looked like they’d been through more battles than me.

And there he was. Curled on his side in the middle of it all, fists tucked under his cheek, curls glued to his forehead. Like the universe decided to take every single weak spot I had and wrap it up in one small boy.

I moved closer and crouched next to the bed. Christ, I must’ve looked ridiculous—big, all leather and rings—kneeling in a sea of stuffed animals.

I leaned in, careful, and brushed a curl back from his forehead.

Nothing. Not a twitch. Dead asleep, like he hadn’t just turned my entire world inside out.

“He’s a heavy sleeper,” she whispered from the doorway. 

Yeah. I could see that, exactly like her.

I stayed there longer than I should have. Just…watching him existing. Every inhale of his chest felt like a punch. My blood was in his veins, my curls tangled in his hair.

He was mine, my son. The words felt foreign in my head, like they belonged to someone else’s story. Someone better. Someone who hadn’t just screamed himself hoarse in a Chicago alley.

Eventually, I dragged myself back up, careful not to make a sound. I turned—

And she was still there.

Still leaning on the door, silent tears streaking down her face, like she was determined not to let a single sound ruin the picture. She stayed there quietly falling apart while I touched our kid for the first time, watching us like her heart had been ripped open and stitched back together at the same time. Silently taking it all in like she had for years...quiet, swallowing it down so everyone else never felt the weight. Exactly what a mother does. 

I should’ve been furious still, with a speech loaded, some killer one-liner about lies and secrets and wasted years. But looking at her like that, broken, beautiful, bleeding inside without making a sound, I couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t stop myself. My hand came up, thumb swiping one of those tears away as I passed. She closed her eyes like the touch hurt and healed all at once.

I let go before I made a bigger fool of myself and stepped past her into the hall.

She closed the kid’s door carefully and we ended up on the couch, side by side. Just sitting there like two idiots waiting for the universe to hand us a script.

She drew in a long breath, like she had to steel herself just to speak. Her hands wouldn’t stay still, fingers knotting and unknotting in her lap. “When I found out,” she started quietly, “I was already four months in.”

My head snapped a little, but I stayed silent. Just watched her hands move, watched her throat work.

“I didn’t even know before that, didn’t even think it was possible. I mean—” Her lips twisted bitter. “Doctors had told me it was… ‘highly unlikely.’ So, when it happened, I—” She shook her head. “I didn’t know what to do. I’d just gone back to university, I didn’t have money. So I had two choices: go back to Hawkins, where everyone already thought the worst of me, where my career was already dead in the water… or stay here. Keep studying. Try to build something.”

Her eyes flicked toward me like she was bracing for impact. I kept my face blank, or tried to. Poker face, Munson, don’t let her see the cards.

She swallowed and kept going. “My parents said they’d help if I stayed in Chicago. So I stayed. It felt like the best choice. For everyone. Even for you.”

That last part punched. 

She looked down at her hands, voice dropping. “Because it wasn’t your fault. You were so young. And the last time we…” She trailed, choked a little. “I told you to—” Another swallow, sharp and hard “It was my call, not yours.”

My jaw flexed, but I stayed still, listening.

Her fingers twisted tighter. “Two years later, I had a little saved so I went back to Hawkins to try and find you. I went to the van, but you and your uncle weren’t there. I drove around, asked for you friends. I found Dustin Henderson.”

Henderson? What?

“He told me you were on tour,” she whispered. “He gave me tapes, your songs. Said you were doing it, really doing it.” She rubbed at her neck, the gesture small, broken. “And I thought… maybe it was better this way. That you deserved to live your dream without me weighing you down.” Her voice cracked on the next words. “Maybe I was wrong...I don’t know. But I thought it was right. I told Dustin not to tell you, about me and Ozzy”

She bowed her head then, hair slipping forward, hiding her face. Couldn’t look at me.

Meanwhile my brain was a goddamn circus.

Oh thanks babe, really thoughtful of you to erase me from my own kid’s life so I could jam power chords in shitty clubs without feeling “weighed down.”

Part of me wanted to let out a real hysterical wild laughter, because she’d mapped out my whole life like some kind of twisted guardian angel. Oh, let Eddie chase the dream, he’s too broke and stupid to be a dad anyway. Real flattering vote of confidence.

Another part of me wanted to break something. Dustin’s nose, maybe. 

But mostly? Mostly I wanted to fold in half and disappear. Because she wasn’t wrong. She was right. Back then I would’ve been a disaster. She knew it. I knew it.

Didn’t make it hurt any less, though. 

So I sat there, still, silent, staring straight ahead. My face was stone, but my insides were sludge.

The logic was there but it didn’t stop the pain ripping through me every time I pictured all the years I’d lost.

And the worst part? A chunk of me felt guilty for even being angry. She’d gone through hell, carried the weight alone, built herself back brick by brick while raising a kid who looked happy, healthy, whole. She’d done the right thing.

So why the hell was I sitting there wanting to scream at her, when all she’d done was survive?

My hand moved before my brain caught up. I reached over and caught hers, still twisted up in the other, and pried it free. Laced my fingers with hers, gave it a squeeze.

She froze. Not looking at me, just staring down at where our hands met.

My voice came out low, gravel scraping my throat. “Did it hurt?” A pause, then steadier. “When you had him?”

Her throat worked, then she nodded, the tiniest dip of her chin. “Excruciating,” she whispered, barely audible.

My chest locked up. That rock that’d been lodged in there since dawn, it shifted, but not in the good way. More like it ground deeper. 

I should've been there, with her.

She went on, soft, eyes still locked on our palms. “The pregnancy was risky from the start,” she murmured. “He’s… practically a miracle.”

Her thumb brushed over my knuckles, slow “And you known, all that pain...and then he came out looking exactly like his father.” She gave a weak huff, like it was supposed to be a joke.

But it landed like a brick to the chest. No smile. Just me sitting there with my heart ricocheting off my ribs, feeling like I should get up, storm into the street, and scream until my lungs tore again.

The words were still clanging in my skull when I forced another out. “So after Hawkins, when you came back, and decided not to tell me, you met the lawyer?”

Her chin dipped once, slow. “Yeah.”

“And you said yes to him?” I pushed, voice flat.

Her eyes stayed down like she was bracing herself for judgment. “Only for Ozzy. I thought… he needed someone steady. A dad. And I tried. But I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t love him.”

Right. Of course. It made sense. Hell, it made perfect sense. A woman like her, of course she’d line up with a guy who had a salary and a mortgage, someone who didn’t live out of a van and call power chords a career. And for the kid? Yeah. Why wouldn’t she want him raised by someone reliable, respectable, normal?

Fucking brilliant plan. 

Fucksake, who needs love when you can have health insurance? Stability, that was the jackpot.

While my brain spiraled into hell, I sat there chewing the inside of my cheek, imagining futures where I fit nowhere.

Then finally, because I couldn’t stand the silence, I let it out. “I can’t leave the band,” I said, voice flat, heavier than I meant it. “It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

Her head snapped up like I’d slapped her. First time her eyes had actually locked on mine since the door. “No,” she said fiercely, shaking her head. “Absolutely not. You don’t leave. You’ve worked too hard. You keep going.”

I let out a humorless laugh, rubbing my jaw. “Yeah, sure. But what if it doesn’t last, huh? What if the next record tanks and I’m back in Hawkins with empty hands and a bruised ego? Or worse—what if it does last, and I spend the rest of my life on planes, never home, never here? Either way, there’s no winning hand. Just like five years ago. You were right. There’s no solution.”

I didn’t mean to snap, but it came out sharp anyway. Not at her, just at the cosmic joke of it all. But she still flinched, like it hit her anyway. And what the hell could she even say to that? Nothing.

So I kept digging, because apparently I enjoy stabbing myself repeatedly. “Maybe the best thing is for you to have the guts to let me go. Let yourself fall in love with someone else, someone who can actually stand here and be a dad every day, not just when his schedule allow.”

The words nearly killed me coming out. Felt like tearing out my own ribcage and tossing it in her lap.

Her eyes filled instantly, tears welling until they spilled. She gripped my hand like it was the only thing keeping her above water. Her voice trembled, soft but steady enough to cut.

“But you are his father.” Her throat bobbed hard. “And we’re here. The door will always be open to you.”

One nod. That’s all I gave her. Because if I said anything else, I’d break. 

My body screamed to pull her in, bury myself in her hair. But the other half of me wanted to bolt for the exit, to never look back. Because yeah, I loved her so bad it felt terminal, but I didn’t trust her anymore. 

So I sat there, stuck in the wreckage, holding her hand like it was both a lifeline and a chain.

Three years later. 1994. Seattle.

Lollapalooza.

It wasn’t just a festival. It was THE festival. A traveling circus of noise, where bands either proved they belonged on the altar of the ‘90s or got chewed up and spat out by the crowd before the first chorus. And somehow—by some cosmic clerical error—Corroded Coffin had made it onto the lineup.

Me. My band. On the same bill as giants.

It was my twenty-ninth birthday, and I should’ve been on top of the goddamn world. We’d just finished soundcheck and it had been a fucking thunderstorm. The stage felt bigger than Hawkins itself, lights blinding, speakers like walls.

I’d shaken hands with Metallica that morning. Metallica. The guys who turned me into the headbanging, leather-clad menace I became. I tried to play it cool and failed miserably. James Hetfield himself had clapped me on the shoulder like I was an equal. Me. Eddie “Failed-High-School-Twice” Munson.

Now I was in the dressing room, leather sticking to my thighs, waiting for the call to head out for the final instrument check before showtime. A hundred thousand voices outside. Groupies lurking in the halls. And me sitting there, staring at the floor like a jackass.

I should’ve been buzzing. Instead, I felt hollow.

Eight years. Eight years since the first time I’d met her, and it was like a curse, hadn’t gone a single goddamn day without thinking about her. Not once. She was stitched into my skull, my veins.

And now, it wasn’t just her anymore. There was another ghost kicking around up there. Small, curly-haired, eyes too much like mine. My kid.

I asked myself daily if I’d screwed up choosing this life, chasing stages instead of sticking around, chasing a paycheck instead of a bedtime story. 

Was I doing the right thing? Staying out here, chosing this? Or was I just repeating history, another Munson screwing up the chance to be better?

My spiral got cut short by a cardboard box sitting on the couch, marker scrawled across the top: Happy Birthday, fucker. in Jeff’s handwriting.

I snorted and ripped the tape, flipping it open.

Inside a shiny pack of condoms.

I laughed, actually laughed. Apparently, and their idea of celebrating my day was making sure I didn’t reproduce again.

Idiots. My idiots. Couldn’t help but love them.

Even if my head was miles away.

That's why the smile didn’t stick. Because behind the glory, the laughter, the noise outside, I still felt that same goddamn pull. Same question chewing at me.

What the hell was I doing here, when everything I really wanted was thousands of miles away?

Some random crew guy stuck his head into the dressing room. “Munson? They need you in the big hall.”

I dragged myself up and followed him outside until he pushed open a pair of double doors.

And suddenly I was in this cavernous rehearsal space, a whole orchestra of chaos. Every band had someone noodling, smashing snares, screaming into dead mics. My guys were already there, grinning like hyenas. 

Vince was in the middle of it, mic in hand and the second he saw me, he gasped into it dramatically. “EDDIE MUNSON!” His voice boomed through the PA, arms stretched to the heavens.

“What are you doing here, man? We already started—we thought you were here the whole time!”

I frowned, “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I asked distracted, scanning the floor for my guitar and trying to make sense of whatever circus Vince was pulling this time.

He gave me one of his grins, before stepping aside.

“Sorry, brother. It’s just...you two are like twins.”

And then I saw him.

Ozzy.

Toy guitar slung across his little body, a Corroded Coffin shirt swallowed him whole, hanging off his skinny frame like a tent, curls a bit longer than I remembered, wild like mine. And on his face? A pair of ridiculous fire-engine-red sunglasses that were clearly Vince’s, sliding down his nose as he tried to push them up with one finger.

He strummed the plastic strings, totally serious, before his face split into the brightest grin in the world.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DADDY!”

And that was it, the kill shot. My chest cracked wide open.

Two fucking months. That’s how long it had been. And it was enough for him to look older, taller, different. Like I’d blinked and missed it, again.

We’d been trying, me and Marissa. Three years of trying. Red-eye flights, her dragging Ozzy through airports, me sneaking in and out of Chicago between shows, fights over nothing because we were exhausted. Jet lag, missed holidays, promises that bent but never broke. Somehow, the love never cracked. If anything, it welded tighter.

But fuck, it was hard. Hard in ways I didn’t even have words for.

Before I could even move, he was barreling toward me, toy guitar bouncing against his side, nearly wiping out on a cable but recovering with pure eight-year-old determination.

I dropped to my knees just as he collided with me, scooping him up and spinning him until his squeals drowned out the amps. He was heavier, legs clamping around my waist, arms locked tight around my neck. 

I didn't care if every metal god in the building thought I looked soft. I squeezed my kid, burying my nose in his curls, breathing him in like oxygen. “Jesus Oz,” I whispered, voice cracking before I could swallow it down. “I missed you man.” My throat burned, eyes stinging, because holy shit...he was here. 

I set him against my hip, brushing the curls back from his face. “Jesus, you’re bigger every damn time. What are they feeding you in Chicago, bricks?”

He shoved the sunglasses up his nose and gave me a cocky little smirk, the gap from a missing tooth making him look both ridiculous and impossibly cool. “You know, dad? I skipped school for this”

“Oh, perfect. Your mom lets you ditch class, and your dad got held back twice. We’re building one hell of an academic dynasty here, kid”

He leaned back in my arms, smirk turning razor-sharp. “So… does that mean when I fail math, you’ll be proud of me?”

“Proud as hell,” I said, straight-faced. “We’ll get matching F’s framed. Hang ‘em up in the living room”

He giggled and shot back, “Cool. Maybe one day I’ll beat your record and fail three times.”

“Now that,” I said, tapping his nose, “is the kind of ambition the Munsons are known for.”

He puffed out his chest like he’d just won an award, and it was just like looking in a goddamn mirror. 

I kissed his temple without thinking, then glanced around. “Alright, little man. You’ve made your grand entrance, you’ve ruined your chances for Harvard… but where the hell is your mother?”

A voice, smooth and sharp, cut in from behind me.

“Behind you, rockstar.”

My stomach flipped before I even turned. 

Hair a little messy from travel, dark circles under her eyes that no amount of makeup could hide. But she was smiling—soft, the kind of smile that punched straight through my ribs. An all-access pass glinted against her chest.

I let out a breath that came out half a laugh. “Ah, my doctor,” I said, still holding Ozzy with one arm as I pulled her closer with the other. “Perfect timing. I was just about to spiral into a full-blown depression.”

I didn’t wait, just leaned in and kissed her, right there in front of everyone. Didn’t care.

Against my chest, Ozzy groaned loud enough for the whole hall to hear. When I pulled back, I caught him making the fake-vomit gesture, aiming it at his favorite accomplice. Vince, of course, mimed dropping dead on the spot.

I leaned back in, my forehead brushing hers. “So…” I murmured, voice low enough for only her. “These… what did you call them? ‘Unmovable plans’? Guess they weren’t that unmovable after all.”

Her hand pressed flat against my chest, right over the frantic thump of my heart. 

“I didn’t lie, I have to leave tomorrow ” she said softly.

Before I could protest, she tilted her head toward Ozzy, still perched on my hip. “But the big boy here is staying with you.”

Her hand was still warm against my chest, and Jesus, I didn’t even glance at Ozzy anymore. Every time she was near me, it was the same goddamn spell, like she had me on strings. 

“So we’ve only have one night, uh?” My mouth curved, a grin with too much hunger behind it. “Well… lucky for us we’re pros at making the best of just one night.”

Ozzy let out a dramatic groan and started wriggling in my arms like he couldn’t take one more second of his parents flirting. I loosened my grip and let him slide down, his sneakers hitting the floor as he bolted away.

I barely noticed. She still had me, always.

I saw a sly spark lighting up her face. “Yeah” she said softly, and the smile widened. “But before I’ve got other plans for you. And they don’t include me.”

I blinked, already shaking my head. “Then I don’t wanna do ‘em.”

“Yes, you do,” she murmured, smug as hell. She slipped her fingers between mine “Come on, I’ve got another gift for you.”

I was ready to follow her straight out the door when Vince’s voice exploded through the hall like a goddamn air raid siren.

“EXCUSE ME—SHRINK!”

He clutched the mic like he was calling court in session. “You’ve had your little tear-jerker reunion, very moving, applause all around. But if it’s not too much trouble—could you please return my lead guitarist? if you’ll allow me, we have a crowd to entertain.”

She just let him finish his whole dramatic meltdown, then painfully slowly like a queen pulling her sword, she raised one elegant hand.

And flipped him off.

Ozzy, now stationed by Vince’s side, gasped so loud, slapping his hands over his mouth like he’d just witnessed a murder. Then, of course, he started giggling like a maniac.

I couldn’t stop grinning as she laced her fingers through mine and tugged me out. 

She pulled me through the maze of wires and crates, until we ended up tucked behind a black curtain at the far edge of backstage.

The roar of the crowd was louder here, a tidal wave waiting to crash. I could feel it in my chest.

She stopped, placed her hands on my shoulders, turned me so I was square to the stage curtain. Then, with that same sly sparkle in her eye, she pointed. “Look.”

I squinted out through the slit in the fabric, my eyes sweeping over the endless sea of bodies. A hundred thousand maniacs sweating, some screaming for the music to start. My pulse jumped just watching them.

“Uh…” I blinked at her. “Yeah, sweetheart, I see the crowd”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she shoved two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle so sharp and loud it could’ve cut glass.

I flinched. “Jesus, are you trying to deafen me before the gig?”

And then a cluster of arms started windmilling near the front rail, just under the stage. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make sense of the blur of faces.

And then—holy. Shit.

My stomach dropped straight through the goddamn floor.

There they were.

The Hellfire Club.

Every single one of the little gremlins, only they weren’t little anymore. Taller, older, stretched out in ways that made my brain short-circuit. Dustin, Mike, Sinclair the whole damn gang. They looked like someone had hit fast-forward on life while I wasn’t paying attention.

Mike threw up the horns at me, Dustin cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed something that sounded like “Dungeon Master!” and I nearly fucking choked.

I dragged my hand over my face, half laughing, half trying not to lose it. “No fucking way. No goddamn way. You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

And then I saw him.

Front and center, planted like a tree against the barricade, cigarette hanging from his mouth. Wayne.

Beard whiter than I remembered, lines deeper in his face, but it was him. Solid. Unshakable. My uncle. My old man. 

I swore my knees almost gave out right there.

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” I muttered, pressing a hand over my mouth. I glanced at her “You brought the Hellfire Club and Wayne to Lollapalooza? What are you, a witch?”

She didn’t just give me a birthday gift, she gave me every goddamn piece of my heart all in one place.

She just shrugged, with spark dancing in her eyes. “All I did was pay for a couple plane tickets from Hawkins. The festival organizer happens to be one of my clients, so… front row was easy.” she said, all nonchalance. 

Like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just resurrected ghosts and handed them back to me wrapped in a bow.

I shook my head, laughing under my breath, because Christ.

She leaned in then, close enough that her perfume cut straight through my soul. Her lips brushed mine in the softest kiss, and when she pulled back she whispered, “Happy birthday, rockstar.”

Yeah, like I had any words left after that. My only answer was another kiss, deeper this time, one hand fisting in her hair while the other locked her against me. 

When I finally came up for air, she stayed close, her breath warm against my lips.

“So after the concert,” she murmured, “Wayne, Ozzy and I are going to take a little trip around Seattle. Give the kid some time with his grandpa…”

I frowned “Okay…?”

She smirked. “Which means you’ll have a hotel room full of your old Hellfire boys waiting for you. Little late-night D&D, just like the old days. And after that—” her smile turned soft and her voice intimate “tonight is just you and me.”

For a second I just stood there, staring like a moron shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re stacking this much heaven on me in one day?” I swallowed, voice cracking around the edges. “No other day in my life will ever top this. I could drop dead tomorrow and still call it a win.”

That was when her expression shifted. The sparkle dimmed, not gone, but softer. She tilted her head, eyes catching mine in a way that told me she was about to gut me clean open.

“Well,” she said carefully, “I still owe you for those five years.”

I knew exactly what she meant. Five years of Ozzy’s life she’d kept from me. Five years I’d never get back. The guilt she carried was stitched into her every word.

I shook my head before she could sink into it. “Debt paid,” I told her, firm, like if I said it hard enough it’d erase the weight she kept dragging around.

But she didn’t let it go. Her hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, holding me there, eyes digging into mine. “So you trust me now?” she asked. Not playful. Just vulnerable in a way she rarely let anyone see.

My hand found her back, sliding slow over the line of her spine “Of course I trust you, baby” I said, without jokes, just the truth, heavy and bare between us. 

She blinked at me, like she was trying to decide if she could believe it. And maybe that hurt most of all, that she even had to wonder.

So I did the only thing I know how to do when shit gets too real. I cracked it open. Let out a crooked grin. “Although… if not trusting you means you’re gonna keep pulling stunts like this, then maybe I should reconsider. You’re setting the bar too fucking high, doc”

That earned me the smile. The real one. The kind that used to undo me in high school and still knocked the wind out of me now.

She curled into me then, arms wrapping around my middle, her cheek pressing against my chest. And I held her, because how the hell could I not? Everything I’d ever wanted, right here, wrapped up in one impossible woman.

That day felt like a fever dream I never wanted to wake up from.

The show had gone off like a goddamn bomb, an army of voices screaming our songs back at us, lights blazing, a sea of bodies moving like one beast. but all I saw was my tiny kingdom under the stage lights. My family. My people.

Wayne snapping pictures with that old camera of his like it was ʼ85 again.  Ozzy, on Mike’s bony shoulders, sticking his tongue out and screaming “ROCK N’ ROLL!” every five seconds. Marissa, shaking her head with that crooked smile behind her sunglasses every time another bra sailed my way, until I hung one off my guitar neck like a proud little degenerate.

Sure, she smiled...didn’t exactly go wild for Corroded Coffin. But after I’d played my set, cleaned up backstage, and finally made it back out? Holy hell. Guns N’ Roses came on, and she absolutely lost her shit. Jumping, screaming, hair everywhere. I just stood there watching her, thinking you know, fair enough. I wasn’t Slash.

The rest of the day blurred into perfection. I stayed with them in the crowd, arms around Ozzy and her during the ballads, thrashing with the Hellfire boys when the heavy stuff hit, slinging an arm around Wayne and shouting in his ear, “Eardrums still intact, old man?” until he smacked me upside the head. 

And hell, I even got my D&D fix. The Hellfire Club piled into my hotel room, pizza boxes, dice everywhere, arguing over initiative like nothing had changed. I DM’d until my voice was shot, watched them roll Nat 1s like it was tradition, and for a couple hours, it was like Hawkins had never let me go.

But no rush of feeling twenty again with the guys, no glory or stage, no ocean of screaming fans could touch the best sound I’d heard all damn day, the soft, broken little moans spilling out of Marissa under me.

I’d spent what felt like hours buried between her thighs, refusing to come up until she was trembling, clutching at my hair, whispering my name like a prayer. And when I finally slid inside her, I did it slow, careful, because she was tired, I could see it in the way her body melted beneath mine. Hell, I was tired too, but I couldn’t not hold her close, couldn’t not whisper a rough, shaky “I fucking love you” against her lips as I rocked into her.

The first time I’d ever said it out loud. Three years together, and I’d been a coward about those words, even when I knew they were true. Because the five years of silence before? That had scarred deep. Even if my head understood, my trust had been left in pieces. But she, piece by piece, had rebuilt it. Stronger. Unshakable.

Now, lying next to her, I saw the proof.

The lamp on the hotel nightstand cast a soft gold glow over her flushed cheeks, the damp sheen on her skin, her hair spilling messy across the pillow. No makeup, no mask, just her. My girl. She was catching her breath, lips parted, still trembling slightly under the white sheets.

I brushed my hand over her hot cheek, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. She sighed, still catching her breath, eyes heavy.

That right there, seeing her spent, vulnerable, satisfied, was the greatest goddamn triumph of the day.

I kept stroking her cheek while the words slipped out, almost a whisper.

“How long was the flight?”

Her eyes fluttered shut, cheek sinking deeper into the pillow. “Only four hours.” she said with voice soft and rasped from exhaustion. 

I let out a quiet laugh through my nose. “Then why the hell do you look like you haven’t slept since ’86?”

Her lips curved into the faintest, tired little smile. “Because I worked extra hours to take the day off and surprise you for your birthday.”

Jesus, I wanted to shout to the whole damn hotel how much I loved this woman, but instead I swallowed it back down, kept my voice low, steady.

“You know,” I murmured, brushing a strand of hair off her temple, “I’ve got some surprises for you, too.”

That got her eyes to open, her head shifting slightly on the pillow. “Really? Good news with the band?”

I rolled my eyes. “See, this is exactly why it’s impossible to surprise you. Could you maybe stop reading my damn mind for two seconds and let me have this for once?”

Her smile widened as she whispered “Sorry. Go on.”

“Alright,” I said, shifting onto my side so I was facing her fully, watching her expression like it was the most important thing in the world. “So, you know the band signed that new record deal last month, yeah? Well, besides the obscene amount of cash they threw at us, which is honestly indecent, they asked where we wanted to record the next album.”

Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering in her tired eyes. I grinned.

“And I managed to convince the guys to do it in Chicago.”

I let the words hang there for a second before adding, softer, “Which means… next year I’ll be in Chicago for most of the time. They’ve given us a long break before the next tour cycle.”

I watched her smile grow, slow but unstoppable, like dawn breaking across her face. Her eyes shone, glassy with emotion, and she whispered, “Really? That’s… amazing.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, heart pounding, “but I’m not done yet. So…” I kept my eyes on her “I figured after these three years of absolute hell, we deserve a vacation. So I might’ve taken the liberty of calling your secretary—”

Her head snapped up so fast I thought she’d give herself whiplash. “You what?” she practically squeaked, eyes wide. “Eddie, no. I can’t just not—”

“Shhh.” I pressed a finger gently to her lips, smirking at how panicked she suddenly looked. “No, no, let me finish before you diagnose me with chronic irresponsibility. I canceled your sessions for two weeks next month and booked us a trip to Vegas.”

She just stared at me like I’d grown another head. “Vegas?” she repeated, brows knitting together. “Why Vegas?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool while my heart jackhammered in my chest. “Because, that’s where rockstars get married.”

That got me her classic side-eye. She tilted her head, lips pressing together like she was trying to read the punchline. “Right. So let me guess, Vince is marrying another model and you need to stand up there as his best man?”

I actually snorted “Thank God, no."

I rolled onto my side, reached toward the nightstand. My hand found the drawer I’d been avoiding opening all night. The little box was right where I’d hidden it, like it had been burning a hole through the wood since the second I’d bought it. I was supposed to give it to her back in Chicago. I didn’t know I’d see her here, tonight. But maybe that was the point, life never gave me the script anyway.

I turned back, propped my chin on her stomach, curls falling into my eyes, I pushed it back just enough so she could see my eyes.

I held it up between two fingers. The ring. Golden band, dark stone set in the middle. Cost too damn much for a guy like me, but when I saw it, it just screamed her, us.

Her eyes went wide “So here’s the deal, doc,” I said, my voice rough trying to keep myself from passing out. “I am not promising to be a normal domesticated male. I am not promising to stop teaching Ozzy bad words. I am definitely not promising to stop hanging bras off my guitar. But—” I wiggled the ring at her, “—I’m fucking crazy about you. Always have been, always will be, I promise you this. So how about you make me the luckiest bastard alive and marry me?”

She just stared at me, eyes huge, lips parted like she’d forgotten how to breathe. Then, slowly, she reached out and plucked the ring from between my fingers. Rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, studying it with her mouth still hanging open.

Then—finally—her lips curved into this tiny smile. “So if I say no,” she murmured, eyes flicking to mine, “you’re not taking me on vacation?”

I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. “Oh, I’ll still take you. But we’re going to Hawkins.”

That got me the exact reaction I wanted—her nose scrunching, that groan she always gave anytime the town’s name came up, but the smile only grew as she shot back, “Well then, I don’t have a choice. Guess I’ll have to say yes.” She tilted her head, eyes glittering, and whispered, “Now get up here.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. My arms braced on either side of her as I crawled up, heart hammering like I was crashing into my first stage dive. She caught my face in her hands, held me steady like I might float away, and when her lips met mine, it was slow, soft, and the single greatest encore of my life.

When we finally pulled apart, she kept her forehead pressed to mine, her breath warm against my lips. And then, quiet but steady, words that made my whole chest ache spilled out of her.

“I fucking love you too, my love.”

Jesus Christ. My heart wasn’t built for that kind of blow.

I leaned down and kissed her again, slow and tender, her fingers still cradling my face.

When I finally pulled back, my grin slipped out before I could stop it.

“So,” I murmured, brushing my nose against hers, “I guess this is the part where I should… y’know… slip it in.”

Her brows shot up, and I bit my lip, smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “The ring, sweetheart. I meant the ring. Jesus, calm down. I’m too damn tired for that,” 

“Idiot”, she shaked her head, but her smile betrayed her. She pressed the ring back into my palm and muttered, “Still time to change my mind, you know.”

That got me. I snapped upright with a mock gasp. “Oh, hell no.”

And before she could blink, I grabbed her hand and shoved the band onto her finger with a ridiculous flourish.

Her laughter burst out, filling the room, and I grinned like a lunatic.

“Safe!” I declared, pointing at her hand like I’d just won the game.

She shook her head “How old are you Munson, thirteen?”

“Ah, right—speaking of brats…”

I leaned over to the nightstand, snatched up the clunky hotel phone, and dialed the number I’d memorized earlier—the one for the room Marissa had stuck Ozzy in with the Hellfire boys. Her idea, so she and I could have the room to ourselves tonight. 

The line barely rang once before I heard his tiny voice, groggy but wired: “Dad?”

My smile nearly split my face. “She said yes, Oz. We’re going to Vegas.”

There was a beat of silence and then the kid absolutely detonated.

“NO WAY! NO WAY! WE’RE GOING TO VEGAAAAAS!”

The yelling was so loud I yanked the receiver away from my ear with a wince. Even at arm’s length, his screeching filled the room. I held the phone out toward Marissa, and we locked eyes, both of us grinning while our kid lost his goddamn mind on the other end.

Then Ozzy’s voice piped back, breathless: “Can I come to your room now?”

“Absolutely not. Go to sleep” And before he could argue, I slammed the receiver back into the cradle, still grinning.

With a satisfied sigh, I threw myself back onto the bed, burying into Marissa’s arms. She carded her fingers through my hair, soft and steady, and for a few minutes I just lay there, cheek pillowed on her stomach, floating in the warmth of it all.

Then—three sharp knocks at the door.

“Little shit...” I muttered under my breath, before pushing myself upright. I yanked on my boxers as I stalked toward the door.

Behind me, Marissa snorted a laugh into the blankets, shaking her head as she tucked the sheets higher around her body, clearly enjoying the show.

The second I cracked the door open, a blur of curls and skinny limbs shot past me like a bullet.

“WE’RE GOING TO VEGAAAAAS!” Ozzy screamed, launching himself straight onto the bed.

I barely had time to blink before he landed smack between Marissa’s arms, the exact damn spot I’d been lying in not two minutes ago. She let out a soft oof as he collided with her, then started laughing, gathering him against her chest while he bounced with pure eight-year-old mania.

And me? I just stood there at the door, hands on my hips, watching my spot get stolen by a tooth-gap gremlin in Spider-Man pajamas.

I cleared my throat, dropping my voice low, chest puffed out like I was about to hand down a death sentence.

“You didn’t obey your father, kid,” I rumbled, trying to sound like some dark lord of discipline. “Which means… now I’ve gotta punish you. Hand me that leg.”

Ozzy squealed instantly, already thrashing against Marissa’s hold, kicking like a caught fish. “NOOOO!” he howled, burying his face in her side while she laughed.

“Too late!” I barked, throwing myself across the mattress with a dramatic dive. My hands clamped around his skinny ankle before he could wriggle free, and I sank my teeth lightly into his calf through the fabric of his pajamas.

Ozzy lost his goddamn mind. “AAAAH! MOM! HE’S EATING ME!” he screamed, thrashing against Marissa’s grip, while she laughed hard as she tried—and failed—to peel me off him.

I finally let his leg go, sitting back on my knees with an exaggerated huff of outrage.

“Traitor witch” I gasped. “You’re his accomplice!”

Her laugh hitched, eyes wide as she shook her head, but it was too late.

“Attack!” I roared, throwing myself over both of them like some unhinged wrestler.

I buried frantic kisses into Ozzy’s curls while he shrieked like a banshee, peppered Marissa’s forehead, her cheeks, her mouth with quick, ridiculous pecks, my hands sneaking in to tickle Ozzy’s sides until he was convulsing under me.

Their laughter tangled together, high and sweet, vibrating straight through my chest as I kept going, relentless, drunk on the sound.

After a few minutes of full-blown chaos, they both finally tapped out. The kid was panting, face red, hair plastered to his forehead, still giggling every few seconds even as his eyes started to droop. Marissa wasn’t doing much better, chest heaving, her laughter tapering off into soft little sighs.

It didn’t take long. Ten minutes, maybe less, before the room went quiet.

When I lifted my head, they were completely gone.

Ozzy had curled on his side, back pressed against Marissa’s chest, her arms looped around him like he was part of her, her lips brushing the top of his curls. His little hand had drifted out, palm resting against my arm, like even unconscious he didn’t want to let me go.

Every hotel, every city, every time we got lucky enough to be in the same place, this was how it ended.

I lay there, staring at them. My spot was gone, stolen fair and square. And I didn’t even care. Because this? This right here was everything. More than I’d ever dared to want. Every time I caught them like this, it knocked the breath out of me. I thought I’d get used to it someday. Turns out, not a chance.

Knowing now I’d get to see it more, that next year I’d actually be around to watch this every night? My chest could barely hold it.

My throat burned. And it wasn’t from screaming on a stage. It was just… love. Too much of it.

Careful, I leaned forward, brushed the curls off Ozzy’s forehead, and pressed a kiss there. He didn’t stir. Then I shifted, kissed Marissa’s temple, soft as I could.

I reached over, flicked the lamp off, and let the room sink into darkness. 

Not too long ago, I was a nobody. A loser flunking out of high school, dealing dime bags, shredding my guitar for the sticky floors of Hawkins dive bars. No plan. No future. 

And now? I had a son who thought I hung the moon, a woman who somehow still looked at me like I wasn’t a total idiot, and a ring on her finger that said I’d tricked her into keeping me for good, I had a band with an actual record deal, money and a home to go back to.

So yeah. Somehow, inexplicably, impossibly...I had everything.

And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, I cried like a fucking baby in the dark, silent tears soaking into the pillow while I laughed at myself.

So if you’re wondering how the story ends… it’s right here.

A reformed freak, a stolen family, and the kind of love songs I never thought I’d get to live in.

Lucky bastard doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The fucking end.

This is how I picture the Munson family 🥹

🖤

✨ Epilogue unlocked ✨

Okay… first of all: if you’ve survived this monster of an epilogue, congratulations. You deserve a nap, and maybe a medal. 🏅

I honestly had SO much fun writing this. It was long, chaotic, very Eddie-coded, and I hope it gave you exactly the ending you wanted.

Thank you for screaming in my inbox, for hyping me up, for loving this little messed-up, soft, loud, ridiculous ppl as much as I do.

Love you all.

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog @clya4 @tigolebittiez @ari-joe @love-anonymous-writer @the-rowanoke @velvetvenusvixen @sammybrrr

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

-> FREAK THERAPY MASTERLIST HERE

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

general warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Session eight - Marissa’s POV

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Not antiseptic, not bleach or the metallic tang of a hospital room.

No, this was different.

It was him, everywhere...woven into the pillow under my cheek, clinging to my hair, drifting in the air like smoke. My chest loosened before my brain even caught up.

I wasn’t in white sheets. I wasn’t strapped to a bed.

I was face-down on a mattress that sagged in the middle, half-covered by a thin sheet he must’ve tossed over me at some point. 

I blinked awake, groggy, my body sore in ways that felt almost like proof. 

The world swam, blurred at the edges, but slowly came into focus: an electric guitar propped in the corner, a poster of Corroded Coffin plastered crooked against the wall, stacks of tapes and magazines scattered on a dresser. A clutter that was too specific, too him to be anything my fractured mind could’ve invented.

And then, his voice.

Muffled, low, sharp with irritation, carrying through the thin closed door. I couldn’t catch every word, but the curses were unmistakable. A crash, then a muttered: “Jesus! Ozzy, you little shit—move your furry ass!”

A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it because that had to be real. My mind could invent a lot of things, but not Eddie Munson swearing at a stray cat named Ozzy.

I exhaled, long and shaky, my lips pressing into the pillow as relief washed through me like a tide.

When I finally pushed myself upright, my hair fell into my face in a wild tangle. I raked a hand through it, wincing at the knots, blinking around the room. 

The floor was too clear. The heap we’d left last night, or this morning really, was gone. My shirt, my jeans, his jeans, his t-shirt, all vanished.

My eyes landed on the lamp.

I snorted. Perched there like some crooked little flag were my panties, the only survivor.

I hooked my fingers through the waistband and tugged them on, wincing at the dull ache in my thighs. 

The noises outside hadn’t stopped, pots clinking, the scrape of metal on metal and a scent had grown stronger, warm, sweet. Something cooking. My stomach tightened with a sudden, greedy pang.

I pushed off the mattress and padded barefoot to the door, pulling it open slowly.

The hallway creaked under me and I trailed toward the source of the smell until the kitchen came into view.

He was there.

Back to me, shoulders hunched under a loose black t-shirt, a dish towel slung over one shoulder like he thought he was running a diner instead of a dingy little kitchen. His hair was a mess, curling down his back, frizzing at the edges. He was…cooking. Actually cooking. A pan in one hand, a spatula in the other.

And then—

A sharp meow.

Ozzy spotted me first. The little black shadow padded out from under the table, tail flicking, and made a sound that was half cry, half purr as he wove his way toward me.

I crouched without thinking, scooping him up. His fur was warm against my bare chest, his tiny head nudging under my chin. Two little trills of contentment vibrated out of him as I scratched behind his ears.

That’s when Eddie turned.

He pivoted on his heel, spatula still in hand, and his eyes locked on me. Or more accurately, on me in nothing but my underwear, with a cat plastered across my chest like the world’s smallest censor bar.

His face went blank for a second. Then his mouth twitched, slow, curling into that crooked grin I knew too well.

“Unbelievable,” he said, voice rough with sleep and sarcasm. He flicked the spatula at Ozzy. “I’m in here sweating over a hot stove, and he’s the one getting all the action?”

I bit back a laugh, hugging Ozzy closer, the cat purring like a damn engine.

“You treat him terribly,” I said, scratching under Ozzy’s chin as he leaned into me. “Someone has to balance it out.”

Eddie snorted, shaking his head, turning back to the stove like he hadn’t just caught me half-naked in his kitchen.

But I could feel his eyes linger before they left me.

I bent down, setting Ozzy gently on the floor. He strutted away like he owned the place, tail high.

I padded closer, until I was right behind Eddie. Without thinking, I slipped my arms around his waist, pressing my chest against his back. His body tensed for a fraction of a second, then relaxed.

I rose on my toes and let my chin rest on his shoulder, peeking down at the pan he was fussing over.

“Mmm,” I murmured, closing my eyes just long enough to inhale. “That smells amazing. What is it?”

He smirked, tilting his head just enough that a few wild strands brushed my forehead. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

I gave his side a little squeeze. “Tell me.”

He finally relented, flipping the thing in the pan with unnecessary flair. “Your lucky day, sweetheart. You’re about to try Munson’s world-famous... crap.”

I bit my lip, trying and failing not to laugh against his shoulder. “Oh my God. You remembered that?”

He shot me a look over his shoulder, dark eyes glinting with triumph despite the purple smudges of exhaustion under them. “Remembered? Please. That’s my legacy. My gift to the culinary world. One day, there’ll be a neon sign in Vegas: ‘House of Craps.’”

The laugh escaped loud and too honest, and I buried my face against his shoulder, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, sliding the spatula under the thin golden crepe and transferring it onto a growing stack on a chipped plate beside him, “here you are. Half naked in my kitchen, begging for my crap.”

I swatted at his hip.

His arm suddenly hooked backward, sliding across my shoulders like it had always belonged there, nudging me forward until I was practically pressed against his side. My arms stayed wrapped around his waist, stubborn and possessive.

He slid a piece of folded crêpe from the stack, already stuffed with something glossy and deep red, and held the fork up to my lips. “Open,” he ordered, that lazy grin tugging at his lips.

I rolled my eyes, but obeyed, letting him slip the bite past my lips.

Sweetness bloomed on my tongue, strawberry jam, butter, eggs, warm and rich and so much better than I expected. My brows shot up as I chewed, savoring it. “Mmm,” I managed once I swallowed. “Okay… wow. That’s actually good.”

“‘Actually,’ she says” he repeated, smirking as he forked up a piece for himself. “you wound me”

I reached over him, pinching another piece straight off the plate with my fingers, popping it into my mouth. We chewed in tandem, eyes locked with our cheeks full, a stupid game of who would crack first.

When I finally swallowed, I tilted my head. “Say it,” I told him. “Crêpes.” I exaggerated the syllable, soft and perfect, the way my French teacher would’ve approved.

He squinted at me, suspicious, then tried.

“Crrrhh—ehhh—pphhss.”

It sounded like he was gagging on the word. Then, with perfect timing, Ozzy made this awful retching noise by the table, the unmistakable throat-hack of a cat about to cough up a hairball.

Eddie jabbed a finger toward him.

“Exactly the same.”

That did it.

I broke.

The laugh burst out of me so violently I had to slap a hand over my face, the sound ripped free, high, unrestrained. Not the polite chuckle I used to ration out in our sessions. This was real, raw, ugly and bright all at once.

My eyes watering as I doubled over against his chest, and he just stood there, grinning like he’d just discovered treasure.

My laughter bled into shaky breaths, then into silence. I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand and let my forehead drop into the warm curve of his neck. My arms already looped again tight around his waist.

His was still around me, firm, holding me there like he wasn’t planning on letting go. The other reached past the pan to flick the burner off with a soft click.

The next thing I felt was the drag of his hand up my spine, slow, lazy, until his palm spread against my bare skin and began tracing idle lines lower, lower… 

My breath caught.

I tightened my arms around his waist, fitting myself closer, almost molding against him. The words came out of me in a whisper as my lips brushed his throat.

“So… I guess this is not a dream after all”

He huffed, low, close to my ear. “Sure it is. We haven’t woken up” His voice was rough, the kind of rasp that carried both exhaustion and intent. “...because I’m not done with you yet”

Heat bloomed fast, spiraling low in my stomach and my fingers fisted in the hem of his shirt, clutching tighter, pulling him to me as though that could slow the rush in my chest. My mouth found his neck again, this time deliberate. A soft kiss, then another, just below his jaw, then lower where his pulse jumped under my lips.

I felt him breathe deeper, chest rising under my cheek, and then  God...I felt him. Hard against my stomach, unmistakable, pressing through the thin barrier of his sweatpants.

His grip on me changed, fingers sliding lower, cupping the round of me through my panties, his palm firm.

My back arched instinctively, pressing me harder into his chest, into the solid warmth of him, into the rough fabric of his shirt against my bare skin.  And just like that I was wet again, aching, the thin cotton damp against me. 

But then—

A metallic clunk. The distinct creak of hinges.

The van door.

We froze.

Every muscle in both our bodies went rigid. My breath caught in my chest as the hinges groaned, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

Then a voice, a man’s voice. Gruff. Surprised.

“Christ almighty—sorry! Didn’t mean to—uh—interrupt.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. My brain screamed at me to let go, to cover myself, to do something, but instead I clung tighter, burying my face in Eddie’s hair like it was a shield.

“Uncle Wayne,” Eddie muttered, his tone somewhere between horrified and sarcastic. His hand, the one that had been on my ass, was suddenly very firmly back on my upper back. 

My heart stuttered. Uncle. Oh God.

From the doorway, the man cleared his throat. “I was just… dropping somethin’ off. Stopped by to say congrats on graduating, Ed. And—uh—brought you a little gift.”

I heard the thunk of something set down on the floor by the steps.

“Oh my God,” I whispered into Eddie’s hair, mortified. My entire body was burning red. My ass was on display. For his uncle.

His uncle!

“Sorry for the disturbance,” the man added quickly, and then, with a softness that made it worse: “Lovely young lady, by the way”

I wanted to die. My face was hot enough to melt through the floor. Without turning, without lifting my head, I managed a pathetic little wave behind me, fingers twitching awkwardly.

Eddie’s chest shook under me. At first I thought he was holding in a cough but then I realized he was laughing. Actually laughing, the bastard.

“Thanks, Wayne,” he called out, voice cracking with embarrassment and amusement all at once.

“Enjoy it… the gift, I mean. The gift” His boots scraped against the gravel outside, retreating. “Gotta get back to work. Behave yourselves.”

The door clicked shut.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe. My forehead was still pressed into Eddie’s curls, my arms still locked tight around his waist, praying the universe would erase me on the spot.

And then Eddie lost it.

The laugh burst out of him, loud and unrestrained, shaking us both as he bent over me. His arm squeezed tighter around my back.

“Oh my God,” he wheezed between laughs. “Your little wave—”

“Shut up,” I hissed, my ears so hot they burned.

He just wheezed harder. “Did you—did you seriously wave at him? Like you’re the Queen of England but ass out,”

“Eddie!”

“‘Lovely lady,’” he repeated in a pitch-perfect imitation of his uncle, before breaking down again, practically doubled over.

I peeled myself off him finally, palms pressed to my flaming face. My cheeks burned, my whole body buzzing with that mortifying mix of laughter and humiliation. “Stop it,” 

“C’mon,” Eddie chuckled, looping an arm around my neck and tugging me back into his side. “At least he didn’t see your face.”

I dropped my hands just enough to glare up at him. “Oh, thanks. That makes me feel so much better.”

My eyes darted past him then, catching the tall cardboard box Wayne had abandoned near the door. “That’s… a pretty big gift.” I said, nodding toward it, grateful for the distraction

Eddie sighed, “Yeah. Guess that’s why he skipped my graduation. Probably worked extra shifts to pay for it.” He shuffled closer, tugging the top flap open with care.

There was something in the way he said it, offhand and too casual, but I caught the little twist of his mouth. That kind of affection, the kind you don’t name out loud. My chest warmed in spite of myself.

“That’s… really sweet. He obviously cares a lot about you.”

Eddie glanced up at me. “Yeah.”

Then, almost immediately, he tilted his chin to the ceiling with a dramatic groan, like he was appealing to God himself. “Jesus Christ. Tell your boobs to stop staring into my soul”

My mouth fell open. I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. “Well, excuse me if I don’t know where the hell my clothes are.”

“Outside,” he said easily, prying at tape. “They were still soaked. Left ‘em to dry. You can grab something from my drawer, second one down, next to the desk.” 

I was already halfway to the back of the van when his voice shot out after me, sharp and urgent: “Not the top drawer! Don’t open the top one!”

“Okayyyy!”

I passed the tiny bathroom on my way to his room, pausing with one hand on the doorframe. “Hey, can I shower?” I yelled toward the kitchen.

“Sure, go on,” he answered. Then louder: “After I check what this is, I’m rollin’ one. You want in?”

I smirked, shaking my head even though he couldn’t see me. “Sure, go on,” I shot back, throwing his own line at him.

I could practically hear the grin in his silence before the faint rip of tape resumed.

The smoke curled lazy from my lips, ribbons of gray twisting toward the ceiling before dissolving into nothing.

My body felt the same...floating, boneless, like I was melting into the mattress. The pillow propped at my back kept me half-upright, but every nerve was draped loose and heavy.

Between my legs, he moved slowly while my thighs were open, loose.

His curls brushed against my skin, wild from my fingers tugging at them when I came just minutes ago. They tickled, soft, a contrast to the hot insistence of his mouth, unrelenting even as my muscles trembled with aftershocks.

But it was unhurried now, like he was tasting something he’d never get enough of. Every flick of his tongue sent soft ripples through me, not sharp, not urgent anymore...just waves, deep and rolling, tugging me under in the gentlest way.

I tilted my head back against the pillow, eyes falling shut, then cracked open just enough to look down.

He was handsome like this, flushed and stoned and utterly focused, eyes heavy-lidded and glassy red but still fixed on me like I was the only thing in the room.

I took another drag, fingers trembling around the paper, the ember flaring bright before fading back to orange. My free hand drifted down, smoothing the curls from his forehead, stroking gently where heat stuck them in uneven clumps.

He hummed at the touch. The vibration shot through me, low and delicious. 

And it hit me then, why I felt so undone, so full, so impossibly safe. Because he didn’t even have to try. He had fed me like it was the most natural thing, rolling me a joint that quiet my nerves, spent himself between my thighs for what felt like hours without asking anything back. I felt cared for in a way I never had before. Whole, like I’d stumbled into a place I didn’t know I’d been missing.

Home.

I let the smoke seep from my lips in another lazy exhale, my hand still in his hair, guiding him without pressure.

The thought drifted hazy but clear enough to sting:

I could live here.

Right here.

Floating. Wrapped in smoke and heat and his mouth on me like he had nowhere else to be.

And for the first time in too long, I didn’t feel the urge to analyze it. To pick it apart. To fight the rush of warmth spreading through my chest.

I just let it happen.

“Eddie…” It slipped out of me, pleading, fragile.

He lifted his mouth from me with a last kiss pressed to my inner thigh before looking up through his messy curls. “I know, baby.”

I kept my elbow braced on the mattress, holding the joint above us with trembling fingers. He climbed upward slowly, his weight sinking into the bed with every shift.

His hand slid over mine, careful, steady, and he plucked the joint from between my fingers. He leaned just far enough to tap the ash into the tray by the headboard. 

I watched him through half-lidded eyes, dazed, every movement magnified.

He brought it back to his lips, the paper glowing bright orange as he pulled deep, chest hollowing, cheeks drawing tight. His lashes fluttered low, curls messy. When he exhaled, smoke poured from his mouth like a sigh, and for some reason it stole the air from my lungs.

I couldn’t tell if it was the weed or just him, but he looked so beautiful it ached. My stomach flipped, warm, dizzy, butterflies tearing through the haze in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

My own hand still trembled as I brought it to my lips, wetting my fingers with spit before slipping them down to where his hardness pressed hot against me. I wrapped around him, stroking slowly, dragging the moisture along his length until he was slick.

A sound tore out of him, deep and raw, his head dropping forward as the joint burned low between his fingers. He crushed it into the ashtray blindly, his attention snapping back to me, entirely to me.

I guided him down, the weight of him heavy between my thighs. His tip brushed my center and I almost cried at how sharp the need spiked. The moment he pushed forward, easing inside, everything around me fractured into sensation.

It was too much.

Every nerve sang, every ripple of pleasure stretched longer, deeper, because of the haze in my bloodstream.

I rolled my eyes as he filled me, his body folding into mine, chest pressing heavy against me like he wanted to sink straight through. My arms looped around his shoulders automatically, clutching him closer.

The weed had turned everything molten, every nerve ending buzzing, like each stroke lasted an eternity. 

His hips rocked into me in that slow, deliberate rhythm, every inch of him dragging through me like it was carved to fit there. My fingers dug into the muscles of his back, my thighs trembling where they wrapped around his waist.

The silence pressed in thick. Just his ragged breath, my small gasps, the sticky sound of our bodies sliding together.

And then his head shifted.

I felt the brush of his curls against my cheek as he lifted just enough to look at me.

Eyes, red and glassy, searched mine. His lips parted, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, his voice broke through, broken, threaded with desperation.

“How long do we have?”

The words punched straight through me like a fist to my stomach.

We had been avoiding it. Pretending this was suspended, lawless, outside of clocks and calendars. Pretending this was a dream we didn’t have to wake up from.

But we both knew...we always knew.

My lips trembled as I pressed them to his cheek, buying myself half a second to breathe before I whispered, so faint it barely existed:

“Tomorrow evening....my flight’s tomorrow evening.”

The syllables scraped my throat raw, each one soaked in a sadness I couldn’t hide.

His face crumpled in something I couldn’t name. He didn’t argue, didn’t curse. He just buried his face in the crook of my neck, arms tightening around me so fiercely it almost hurt. Like if he held me hard enough, he could anchor me here.

I swallowed hard, blinking up at the ceiling of the van, the metal roof blurry through the tears burning at the edges of my vision. I pressed my cheek against his hair, trying to hold the tears in. 

His rhythm broke, lost its careful patience. His hips slammed into me like it was the only way he knew to fight the clock. Deep, messy, desperate.

And I let him.

I let him lose himself, let him push into me like I was already slipping away. My nails scraped down his back, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold, to say I’m here, I’m still here, take what you need.

Every thrust felt like goodbye. Every kiss of his skin against mine a countdown.

The sounds that tore out of him gutted me...half growls, half broken gasps, wild and feral like he was coming apart in my arms. 

I closed my eyes, pulling him tighter against me, chest to chest, his heat burning into me. My throat ached from holding in the sobs.

Because I knew tomorrow he couldn’t keep me and I couldn’t stay.

So I gave him everything I had in silence.

The room was quiet except for the lazy hum of the fan and the faint tick of his bedside clock. My cheek rested against the slope of his chest, skin still warm, rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

The haze from earlier had lifted. No more floating. No more fire in my veins. Just… quiet. A calm I didn’t realize I’d been starving for.

The crumpled cookie package sat on the nightstand like a trophy, evidence of our detour into sugar when the smoke had worn off. 

My fingertip wandered across the ink on his pectoral, following the black lines of a demon’s skull. I whispered, almost afraid to break the quiet, “Who’s this supposed to be?”

Eddie tilted his chin, glancing down at me, eyes glinting with mock seriousness. “You don’t recognize it? That’s you.”

I huffed out a laugh and planted my middle finger right in front of his face, mimicking his tone. “Recognize this? That’s you.”

His grin cracked wide as he caught my wrist before I could pull away. He pressed my hand back flat against him, pinning it over the demon’s grin. “Christ, you’re spending too much time with me,” he muttered, still grinning. “You’re turning into a foul-mouthed woman, Doc. Tragic.”

I shook my head against his chest, hiding my smile. He was impossible. Infuriating. And I loved it.

We stayed like that for a while, quiet.

His hand dragged slow circles down my back, fingertips lazy, unhurried. I thought he was as close to sleep as I was when his voice cut through the quiet.

“Why are you scared of hospitals?” 

The question slid through the dark like a stone breaking the surface of still water.

I froze, my body went stiff against him. I tilted my head back, meeting his eyes. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged, his expression soft but tired. “That night at the Guns show… You were gone, out of your head and begged me not to take you to a hospital. Over and over. So...I figured there’s a reason. Some kind of phobia or shit like that.”

My stomach twisted. That night. The foggy black hole I still couldn’t piece together. I hated how much he’d seen while I couldn’t even remember.

I sighed, shifting so I wasn’t looking straight at him anymore. My eyes found the ceiling instead. Neutral ground. “When I was sixteen, hospitals were…a constant back then.”

The words scratched my throat, raw and unfamiliar, even though I’d said them a hundred times in therapy. But this was different. This was him.

“It started in school—” I cut myself off, jaw tightening. “No. If I’m being honest, it started way before that. But Hawkins High… that’s where it got worse.”

My chest ached. I swallowed, forced myself to keep going even when my body begged me not to.

“There was this teacher.” The words tasted sour. My eyes dropped, tracing the worn blanket under my fingers, anything but his face. “He gave me attention, unwanted. At first I thought maybe it was harmless. I told myself I was imagining things. But I wasn’t, it escalated. Turned into…you know, more.”

The silence after felt like a scream. My throat closed, my heart punching against my ribs. After all these years, after everything, it was still hard to say it out loud. Still made me feel sixteen and powerless all over again.

I huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “I didn’t tell anyone. Who would’ve believed me? He was young, charming, good-looking. Everybody adored him. Parents. Students. He was—”

“A dick,” Eddie cut in, sharp and sudden, voice laced with irritation. His jaw tightened, eyes flashing dark. “Sounds like a complete dick.”

That startled a small, humorless smile out of me. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

I pulled the sheet higher around my chest, feeling the weight of memories pressing down. “That’s when the panic started. Then the rumors. People at school calling me a slut, a liar, crazy. It got worse and worse until… until I was hallucinating. Seeing things. Hearing things. My brain was—” I gestured vaguely at my head, laughing without humor. “—fried. That’s how I ended up in hospitals so much. Over and over. And I guess… the smell, the lights, all of it...stuck. It never went away.”

For a long beat he just stared at me. Not pitying, not shocked. Just staring, jaw tight, like he was holding something in.

Then his hand moved, dragging up my arm until his palm settled warm against my shoulder. A slow rub, almost absentminded, but steady enough to ground me.

“Y'know” he finally said, voice rough with sleep and something else, “I always thought I had the shittiest Hawkins High experience. Guess you just blew me outta the water.”

I huffed out a laugh. Of course he’d find a way to undercut the heaviness, to keep me from drowning in it, like a lifeline disguised as a joke.

“If we’d been there at the same time,” he went on, softer, “you wouldn’t have been alone. I’d have scooped you up, no question. Made you roll dice with the other freaks. Protected you, whether you liked it or not.” His thumb brushed idly against my skin. “That’s kind of my thing, you know. Lost kids, outcasts. The ones everybody else kicks around.”

I turned my head, studying him in the dim light. There it was again, that shift in him, the way he could pivot from biting sarcasm to raw sincerity like it cost him nothing.

“I actually thought about that when we first met,” I said, before I could stop myself.

His brows shot up. “You did?”

“I thought that If we’d been at Hawkins High at the same time, we probably would’ve ended up hooking up after school. Repeatedly.”

The look on his face was priceless.

His eyes went wide, his whole body jerking upright like I’d just dumped ice water on him.

“What?!” His voice cracked, incredulous. “That’s what you thought? During the first session?”

I couldn’t help it. I smiled slow, wicked, guilty and shrugged. “Yeah,” I admitted, meeting his stunned stare with a raised brow. “You were definitely my type.”

His reaction to my little confession still had me grinning, but then his face shifted, curious, sly. “Okay, hold on.” he said, tilting his head. “If that’s true, then explain to me why the hell I heard you were hooking up with Luis Carver. Jason’s golden boy cousin. Huh?”

The name hit me like a bad smell. I groaned, dragging both hands over my face. “God, Luis.” My voice muffled against my palms. “That wasn’t because I liked him. I was lonely, and he was there. He just… took advantage. Honestly? I think he only did it so he could brag about banging the ‘crazy girl’ to his friends.”

Eddie muttered under his breath, voice low “What a dickhead.”

We let the silence stretch after that. 

Finally, I rolled onto my side, fully facing him. My eyes narrowed, a spark of mischief cutting through the weight of old memories. “And what about you, huh?” I asked, tone sharp but playful. “No condoms in the van, but you open bras like it’s a daily hobby. Should I be concerned?” I put on my best fake-professional therapist voice.

He smirked, puffing himself up in mock arrogance, and leaned back like he was about to deliver some great revelation. “Well, sweetheart, let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of… experiences.” He dragged the word out with exaggerated mystery, like he was some kind of rock god instead of a guy half-asleep in a crumpled bed.

“But,” he went on, stretching his arms above his head, “the whole condom situation is Henderson’s fault.” 

That made me blink. “Your friend Dustin?”

“Yeah. We got into this long-ass argument about whether condoms expire. He kept insisting they did, went on this whole science lecture about latex molecules and time or whatever. I told him he was full of shit.” Eddie rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Then I checked when I got home, saw the damn date, and realized he was right. Whole box in the trash.” He threw his hand up like it was proof of injustice.

I couldn’t stop it. Laughter tore out of me, sharp and unexpected. I pressed a hand to my stomach, shaking my head. “Oh my God. I didn’t even know they could expire either! And what, now you just decided the safest option was—don’t use them at all? That’s your big solution?”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Well—”

I cut him off, still giggling, waving a hand dismissively. “Relax. Don’t worry about it. Extremely unlikely you’d knock me up. They told me years ago it’d be… close to impossible”

That sobered him instantly. His brows shot up. “Really?”

I shrugged “Yeah, I told you. Too much time in hospitals. ”

The room went quiet again, but different this time.

He studied me for a long moment after my little confession, eyes scanning my face like he was trying to decide if “impossible” felt like freedom or like a wound. I wasn’t sure myself, if I was honest.

“Well…” he said, dragging the words out, “you could’ve maybe mentioned that earlier. First time we did it, I nearly popped a vein trying not to—” He gestured vaguely downward, eyes wide for effect.

I shook my head, smiling. “Highly unlikely doesn’t mean impossible. Never trust a doctor completely.”

He rolled onto his side, then over me, caging me in without even trying. His hair fell loose around his face as he kissed me, soft, brief, then pulled back just enough to murmur, “Guess you’re right. As always.”

Another kiss followed, slower, sweeter, and I caught the faint taste of cookies lingering on his lips. My mouth parted instinctively, a silent invitation, and he answered, kissing me deep but unhurried.

He broke away only to press his lips against the corner of my mouth, then trailed down, slow, until he reached my collarbone. I bit my lip, testing the taste he left behind, while my hand slid instinctively into his hair, my body already warm, ready for him, despite the lazy rhythm.

Then my gaze landed on the poster taped to his wall. I frowned. “Who the hell are Corroded Coffin?”

He paused mid-kiss, lips on the side of my breast. “My band.”

“What? You have a band?”

His voice vibrated against my skin “Uh, yeah.”

“You never told me that.”

“I told you I play guitar.” he said, distracted, still trailing lower.

“That’s not the same thing.” I raised a brow.

“Not my fault you didn’t put it in your precious notes.”

I smirked, running my fingers lazily through his hair, but my eyes snagged on something propped against the wall. The acoustic guitar, new, shiny, gifted by his uncle for graduation. He didn't even touched it yet, too busy spending time buried between my thighs.

I tapped his shoulder lightly, nudging. “Get off.”

He lifted his head, brow furrowed, hair falling into his face. “Excuse me?”

“Now’s the perfect time to test out that graduation gift.” I tilted my chin toward the guitar.

His face was priceless. Pure betrayal. “Nooo, you’re kidding.”

“Nope.” I wriggled out from under him and swung my legs off the bed.

Behind me I heard him flop onto his back with an exaggerated groan. “Unbelievable. Actual torture.”

When I turned, I nearly doubled over laughing.

He was sprawled out, one arm flung over his eyes like he’d just been struck down by fate, the other hand dramatically clutching at his chest. The thin cotton of his boxers did nothing to hide the obvious tent between his legs, which only made his whole performance ten times more ridiculous.

I grabbed the guitar and brought it over, biting my lip to hide my grin. “Come on, rockstar.”

He peeked at me from under his arm, then dropped it entirely, scowling but with that glint in his eyes that told me he wasn’t mad, not even close.

“This better get me laid after,” he grumbled, reaching for the guitar.

He sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the guitar propped against his bare chest, the strap dangling useless at his side. The sound of strings shifting filled the room as he twisted the pegs, head bent, hair falling forward. I curled up beside him, legs crossed, waiting, watching the way his hands, calloused and careful, moved over the frets.

He plucked a couple of uncertain notes, the sound warm, intimate, filling the dim space. Then he tilted his head toward me.

“So,” he asked, voice scratchy, “what do you wanna hear?”

“Well… one of your songs, obviously ”

He snorted softly. “Yeah, no. Not without the whole band. Doesn’t work without the guys. But—” he ran his thumb over the strings, coaxing out a soft strum “—with this baby, maybe I’ll figure out some acoustic versions soon”

He fiddled with a few chords, testing, then glanced at me sidelong. “Mmh... there’s one I think you might actually like more”

The second the opening notes hit, I knew. My chest tightened instantly.

Guns n' Roses.

Patience.

I couldn’t stop the small, stupid smile that spread across my face. That song. That moment, months ago. Him teasing me for weeks, trying to guess my favorite track off the cassette I’d given him, and then, without hesitation, nailing it. It was the first time I’d felt seen. Really, actually seen. And now here he was, playing it for me.

My heart swelled, tender and unbearably full.

He didn’t look at me as he started to sing. His eyes stayed glued to the strings, voice rough, low, carrying more weight than I’d ever heard in it before:

“Shed a tear ’cause I’m missin’ you

I’m still alright to smile

Girl, I think about you everyday now”

The room went impossibly still, the words vibrating through the wood of the guitar and into my chest. I shifted quietly, leaning forward until my temple rested against the warm skin of his bare back. My ear pressed there too, so close I could feel the vibration of his voice as he sang. It rumbled through me, steady, achingly beautiful.

Tears pricked my eyes before I could stop them. I let them fall, hidden in the curve of his spine.

He kept going, voice steady but shy, the kind of singing that felt private, like he hadn’t meant to let anyone hear it:

“Was a time I wasn’t sure

But you set my mind at ease

There is no doubt you’re in my heart now.”

When the last notes hung in the air, dissolving into silence. He let the guitar rest on his thighs, fingers still curled on the strings.

I pulled back, swiping at my cheeks, then rested my chin on his shoulder so I could look at him. His profile was soft in the dim light, lips curved in the smallest smile when he saw my eyes, still wet.

“You’re gonna be a rockstar,” I whispered, voice shaking with everything I didn’t have words for.

He kept smiling, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Already am.”

A breathless laugh escaped me. I reached up, brushing a stray lock behind his ear. “Yeah,” I breathed. “You are.”

Before I could overthink, I leaned in and kissed him—slow, tender, gratitude spilling into it. “Thank you,” I whispered against his lips.

He didn’t move when I kissed him again, just let me guide it deeper, let me linger. I slid my hands to the guitar, gently lifting it from his grip without breaking the kiss, setting it carefully on the floor beside the bed.

And then I pressed back into him, intent on giving him what he had just given me, every ounce of warmth, of love, of care. Covering him in it, piece by piece, kiss by kiss.

I eased him back against the bed, guiding him onto his spine without breaking the kiss. His hair spilled across the mattress, wild as ever.

My lips trailed down from his mouth, over his jaw, across the line of his throat. His pulse beat fast under my mouth. My hands smoothed down his chest, over the wiry muscle there, fingertips brushing across the tattoo inked on his skin. 

He groaned, low in his chest, when I moved lower. My hands hooked into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down. He lifted his hips, breath shaky, and I slid them off tossing them blindly to the floor, leaving him bare under my touch.

He was already hard for me, waiting.

I kissed the flat of his stomach, then lower, leaving a trail across the sharp planes of him until he twitched under my mouth. My palm wrapped around him, warm and careful and I felt the sharp inhale ripple through his chest as I stroked, slow, steady, feeling him pulsing against my hand.

I lifted my eyes to his face, he was already watching me, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

When I leaned in and dragged my tongue from base to tip, warm and wet, his head fell back against the bed with a curse. The sound shot heat straight through me.

Then I wrapped my lips around him and his heat filled me, thick and heavy. The taste spreading across my tongue. I took him in slowly, still stroking with my hand as I moved. 

“Aaah—sssshit—” His hips twitched, then stilled, as if he was forcing himself to stay still for me. 

His hand found my hair, not forcing, just resting there, his fingers tangling gently as though he needed the anchor. His other hand brushed my shoulder, then traced down my arm, grounding me as much as I was grounding him.

Every small shift in him pulsed against my lips, against my tongue. I hollowed my cheeks, careful, deliberate, and the groan that spilled from him made my thighs press together.

His mouth curved even through the tension. “Jesus, If I’d known this was the payoff...” he said breathless, voice breaking, “...I’d have been playing you every damn ballads I know months ago”

I smiled around him and had to pull back for air, my lips swollen, breath shaky, and even then I couldn’t stop touching him. My hand still worked him slow as I looked up through half-lidded eyes.

He met my stare, gaze dark and heavy, so intimate it made my chest ache. His hand reached for me, fingers full of rings cupping my cheek, thumb brushing over my wet mouth. Then, almost testing, he slid it between my lips. I closed around it without thinking, feeling the faint salt of his skin and his eyes fluttered at the sight.

When he pulled it free, his thumb traced lazily over my lips, shining them before guiding me back down.

And I obeyed, closing my lips around him again.

My free hand slid up his stomach, across the scatter of dark hair, pressing flat against his heart as it thundered beneath my palm. He covered my hand with his, lacing his fingers between mine.

And God, I was getting just as undone as he was, even while I focused only on giving.

Because tonight was his.

And I wanted him to know, in every way I could show, that I saw him too.

I woke slow, dragged up from the kind of sleep that had no bottom. My body felt heavy but the first thing I registered was warmth, his palm was moving slowly over my bare back while I was on my stomach.

I shifted, my cheek pressed against the pillow, head turned toward the nightstand. The red digits on the clock swam into focus and my heart lurched.

Too late. Too many hours gone. The countdown had shrunk without me even noticing. Just a few more hours and I’d be gone.

Airplane. Goodbye.

Of course he knew it too. That had to be why he was touching me like that, like he was memorizing skin, line by line, refusing to waste what little time we had left.

I turned my face toward him, still sunk into the pillow. Every inch of me ached, sore, marked by everything we’d done. My limbs felt leaden, my eyelids like stone.

He brushed the hair back from my face, fingers gentle as he bent to press a kiss to my forehead. His voice was raw with sleep when he asked, “You tired?”

I shook my head faintly against the pillow. Lie.

He kissed my bare shoulder, lips curving into the faintest smile against my skin. His whisper rumbled against me, amused, “You can’t even open your eyes.”

I didn’t open them, didn’t move. “I’m not tired,” I murmured, words muffled, stubborn.

Without looking, I slid my hand down and tugged the blanket away from my body, baring my skin to him again. A silent answer.

I felt him still for half a beat, then his hand traced lower, reverent, as if to say he understood.

Because neither of us was willing to waste what little we had left.

His hand kept tracing the length of my spine, raising goosebumps in its wake. I shivered even though I wasn’t cold, my eyes still sealed shut, clinging to the dark behind them.

Then I felt the faint tickle of his hair brushing my skin, another kiss pressed to my shoulder.

“You know…” his voice was low, almost shy in its honesty, “I never told you how fucking beautiful you are.”

My chest clenched.

God, I wished those words only made me blush, wished they didn’t ache like a fresh wound. But they did. Because I knew he was saying them now, at the end, when there wouldn’t be another chance.

His hand drifted lower, fingers skimming the curve of my hip, then down, cupping me with a kind of pressure that made me bite back a sound. When he slipped lower, between my thighs, I shifted without thinking, arching into him, silently asking for more.

A rough breath escaped me, half-groan, half-moan, when his finger slid inside, slowly. My back bowed against the sheets, but my eyes stayed closed, too heavy, too vulnerable to open.

“Shh,” he murmured against my skin, his lips brushing my cheek as he spoke, “we gotta keep it down. Wayne’s in the van.”

That jolted me for a second but then I nodded faintly, a soft, broken “...okay” spilling out.

He pressed a gentle kiss to my jaw, almost like a thank you, and his hand never stopped moving, coaxing me open, steady and tender until I couldn’t keep still, my hips started moving on their own, rocking against his hand, chasing every drag of his fingers inside me. 

He seemed to understand, maybe he’d been waiting for it. His touch slowed, then slipped away, leaving me aching, empty. I caught my breath as I felt the shift of the bed as he moved behind me.

The mattress dipped, shifting under the weight of his knees and my stomach knotted tight in anticipation. I lifted my hips just enough, offering myself despite how every muscle in my body screamed with fatigue.

I was so damn tired, could have slept for twenty more hours, but time was the one thing we didn’t have.

Heat, thick and undeniable, brushed against me. A teasing stroke that had me shuddering, biting down hard on my lip to stop the sound clawing up my throat.

Then he pressed forward, sliding into me inch by inch. My lips parted against the pillow, as I tried to strangle the cry that wanted to rip free. My whole body shuddered, stretched, filled, and I forced myself to breathe through it. Behind me, his chest lowered to my back, heavy and solid, his breath ragged against my ear. 

Our fingers found each other blindly, tangling near where my face was buried in the pillow. His fingers lacing tight as he sank deeper. 

The first thrust made me hiss and choke out a broken sound. Painful, too sharp, too soon. My body wasn’t ready, not fully, still tender after everything we’d already done. I clung to his hand like a lifeline.

He stopped instantly.

“Shh, easy…” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. One of his fingers traced the bridge of my nose, featherlight, like he could soothe me back into place with that single touch. Then his mouth pressed to my temple, a kiss that felt like an apology.

“...sorry,” he murmured. The word was raw, thick with guilt and sincerity.

My throat tightened. He didn’t understand. He would never understand what it meant for me to be treated like this, to be seen, to be handled with care. Because nobody had ever stopped before. No man had ever cared if I hurt.

After what had been taken from me without a word, this was everything. The way he waited, the way he listened to the smallest twitch of my body, the way he treated me like I was breakable and precious.

“I’m okay,” I whispered back, voice breaking on the lie as I dragged our joined hands to my face, pressing my lips to his knuckles. “Don't stop”

Something in him melted then, I felt it in the way his body softened against mine.

His hips moved slow, cautious, like he was testing me with each shallow thrust, waiting for my body to accept him. I let the weight of his tenderness swallow every memory of hands that had only ever taken.

His free hand slid up, fingers spreading wide across the crown of my head, like a shield. Not pressing, not holding me down—just there, steady, protective.

Each slow thrust pushed me forward into the pillow, my body stretching, learning the shape of him all over again. 

I exhaled hard, the sound shaking as I forced myself to unclench, to let him in. My body slowly softened against the mattress, hips tilting back finally meeting him. Welcoming him.

And I could sense how close he was already.

It must have been the angle, the way he was pressed flush behind me. His rhythm faltered, uneven, like he was holding something back. I could feel it in how tightly wound he was, in the erratic drag of his lungs. 

My free hand slid back blindly until my fingers caught his side, gripping his hip bone. My voice was nothing but breath when I whispered, “Eddie… inside…”

He faltered, his rhythm slowing, almost halting. His forehead dropped to the curve of my shoulder, his voice strained, ragged.

“What about… not trusting doctors?”

I clenched my fingers tighter against his side, nails biting into his skin, and whispered, raw and reckless, “Fuck it. Just this once…”

Silence. 

His chest shuddered against my back. Then, slowly, he began to move again. Careful, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure I’d take it back. But I didn’t.

He lifted off my back, his weight shifting so he hovered above me.

I felt the sudden loss of heat on my skin that was slick with sweat cooling too fast.

The palm that had been on my head slipped down, sliding along my spine until it anchored at the small of my back, pinning me into the mattress. His hand in mine stayed tight, tangled, our fingers locked together like neither of us could afford to let go.

The new angle drove him deeper, each thrust deliberate, unhurried but devastating. 

I clenched my eyes shut, bracing against the flood of sensation, and the sound that tore from my throat was strangled against the sheets.

He wasn’t fast. God, no...he didn’t let himself be, but every push was deep, filling me until I thought I might splinter apart.

His rhythm faltered only when the tremor started in his thighs, when his breath went sharp and broken against my hair. His hand pressed harder to my back, holding me still while his body fought to keep control.

I clung to his hand when he broke.

A strangled moan tore from him, muffled in my hair as his hips pressed flush to mine. I felt him pulse inside, every shudder and twitch spilling into me until I could hardly breathe. His whole body shook with it, the sound of him unraveling seared into my skin.

His forehead pressed to the back of my head, his chest heaving, his moans choked down into silence as if the effort of holding them back was killing him.

His body finally gave out against mine, heavy and trembling, and for a moment I thought he might fall asleep right there, still inside me, still wrapped around me like I was the only thing holding him to earth. My muscles finally let go, softening under his weight, the exhaustion crashing over me all at once.

We stayed there like that, tangled and breathless, the sound of our uneven lungs filling the tiny space of the room. Then, slowly, he stirred. He pressed one last kiss into my hair before pushing himself up, careful, as if he was afraid of crushing me. The slow slide of him leaving me made my lungs seize. I exhaled through my nose, sharp, the emptiness hitting harder than I’d expected.

I kept my eyes closed, too drained to move, listening to the faint creak of the mattress as he shifted behind me. His hands slid over my hips, parting me gently, as though he couldn’t resist looking at what he’d left behind.

Heat burned my face, but I let him look. Let him see me undone, claimed in a way I’d never allowed anyone else. Let him witness the evidence of himself seeping from me, proof that even if this ended, some part of him would linger in me longer than the morning.

His silence was thick, heavy, almost worshipful. I felt it more than I heard it.

He moved back up, slow, his hair whispering across my spine, until I felt his mouth near my ear. His breath was warm when he whispered something, another compliment maybe, words I couldn’t quite catch. My body was too spent, my heart too raw to hold them.

I forced my eyes open and he came into focus above me. His face was flushed from exertion, hair wild and tangled around his cheeks, damp at the temples, eyes swollen from lack of sleep, from everything we had poured into each other these last days.

But what undid me wasn’t the mess of him, it was the love in his gaze. Undiluted. Unashamed. Fierce and fragile all at once.

Full of it, as blinding and reckless as the storm that had dragged us here in the first place.

A weak smile tugged at my mouth, but it broke almost instantly, twisting into a grimace I couldn’t hold back. The tears spilled before I even realized they’d come, hot and unrelenting, my chest heaving with sobs I’d been swallowing for too long.

His expression cracked with alarm. His hand flew to my cheek, rough fingers brushing frantically at the tears.

“Hey, hey—” His voice shook, raw with panic. “Did I hurt you? Christ, did I—?”

I shook my head hard, words snagging in my throat. The tears wouldn’t stop; the harder I tried to quiet them, the faster they came. His thumb traced under my lashes, wiping them away, but I was already breaking apart, undone in front of him.

Finally, through a trembling breath, I managed to whisper it. The truth that had been clawing at me since the clock’s red digits burned into my vision.

“I don’t want to go.”

The words hung between us, fragile, desperate, stripping me bare. No clinical distance, no calm, practiced detachment. No professional mask to protect him, or me. Just a woman in love, falling apart in his hands, admitting that leaving him would tear me in two.

For once, I wasn’t the one steadying him. For once, I let myself be the broken one.

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t promise to fix it or make it better. Just stroked my hair back, slowly, letting me come apart without shame. The pads of his fingers traced the lines of my face as if to memorize me. His silence wasn’t empty—it was full, weighted with everything he couldn’t say, everything we both already knew.

After a long moment, his voice came low and heavy with sadness.

“You can’t stay longer, can you?”

I only shook my head helpless, choking on another sob.

The defeat in his eyes hollowed me out, but he didn’t push. Didn’t beg. Instead, he lowered himself, pressing his face into the curve of my shoulder. His arm slid around my waist, pulling me back into him, holding me tight even though I was still limp and ruined by the weight of it all.

And there we stayed, his arm clutched around my body, as if he could shield me from the clock still ticking down. 

We had no more solutions. No more therapy. No more time. Only this: the two of us holding on until the end.

Outside the van, I stood in his arms for as long as I dared, crushed against him, the late afternoon light painting everything gold and cruel. The open car door waited for me, accusing, reminding me that time had already run out. I was late, maybe unforgivably late, but I didn’t care. If holding him one more second meant running through the airport like a madwoman, so be it.

When his arms finally loosened, it wasn’t because he wanted to let go. It was because he had to. His palms framed my face, thumbs stroking gently along skin that felt raw from salt and tears.

And God, I must have looked nothing like the woman he first met. No polished version, no sharp lines or professional armor left. Just me—bare, undone, with wild hair unbrushed after too many stolen showers, his t-shirt hanging loose on my frame, smelling entirely of him. He’d peeled me down to the bone, and I’d let him.

His eyes searched mine like he wanted to memorize me that way. Then his voice came, steady even as it wavered at the edges:

“You’ve gotta go back to it...to being a psychologist. You’re… fuck, you’re a phenomenon. Don’t waste it. Promise me you’ll try again”

My throat tightened. I could only nod faintly, whispering, “Okay.”

And because I couldn’t bear the weight of his earnestness without giving something back, I forced a weak smile. “And you...don’t you ever stop being a rockstar.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward, a broken grin flashing like lightning in the storm of us. “Can’t,” he said softly. “Born this way.”

We both smiled then—thin, fragile things—and leaned in at the same time. Our lips met, still and unmoving, a kiss that held no fire because it was too full of grief. The last one. The one that would have to last us a lifetime.

When we pulled apart, his eyes were glassy and I wanted to run, to escape before the sobs ripped me apart.

“Will I ever see you again?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

I touched his face, the rough line of his jaw, my thumb brushing the damp corner of his eye. “I don’t know,” I breathed.

He nodded once, like he’d expected the answer all along.

My hand fell from his cheek, slid down over his chest until it found his hand. I held it tight, pressed my forehead briefly to his. “Goodbye, Eddie.”

“Bye, Doc,” he whispered back, squeezing my hand hard enough to brand it into memory.

It nearly killed me to turn away. To break the tether. I climbed into the car, shut the door with a finality that echoed like a gunshot in my chest. The wheel blurred through my tears as I started the engine.

The pain I felt was the punishment for letting myself love him when I shouldn’t have. For breaking every damn rule.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Wayne, crouched by his toolbox, some tool in hand. He caught my gaze and gave me a small, silent wave. A kindness I didn’t deserve but would carry forever. I managed a broken smile in return, lifted my fingers in a half-hearted wave, then shifted into reverse.

I didn’t look at Eddie. Not directly. But in the rearview mirror, I saw him. Standing there, still as stone beside the van. 

His hair tangled, his face wrecked, watching me like the world was ending.

My vision blurred. My sobs ripped free. And I drove away from Hawkins, away from him, believing with everything in me that I had just left behind the love of my life forever.

I believed it.

But I was wrong.

✦ 5 Years Later — 1991 ✦

Chicago blurred past the cab windows, neon streaks caught in the drizzle. My phone was warm against my ear, heavy in my hand. I pinched the bridge of my nose beneath my glasses, exhaustion grinding behind my eyes.

“No, Sandra, I told you yesterday,” I said, keeping my voice low, measured. “That appointment was canceled. Two weeks ago. He was informed.”

On the other end, my secretary’s voice faltered. “I know, Dr. Cole, but he showed up anyway. He’s in the waiting room. Says he wasn’t told—”

I closed my eyes, exhaling through clenched teeth. “He was. I dictated that letter myself. If he’s there, you need to send him home. I warned you he might test boundaries. Don’t enable it.”

A pause. “So I should…?”

“Send him home, Sandra. Kindly, but firmly. He’ll be fine.”

Before she could protest, I ended the call and dropped the phone into my bag. My shoulders sagged against the cracked leather seat.

God. The audacity. These clients, these artists, with their fragile egos and endless demands. Half of them wanted therapy less than they wanted validation. Money bought them too many excuses. They clung to me like I was the only thing tethering them, and maybe sometimes I was, but not tonight. Tonight I wasn’t theirs.

The cab slowed to a crawl, the glow of blue neon bleeding into the rain-washed pavement. Music thrummed faintly from somewhere underground, a pulse I could feel in my chest before I even stepped out.

“Metro Club,” the driver muttered, eyes catching mine in the rearview.

I nodded, handing him a few crumpled bills. “Keep the change.”

The door creaked when I pushed it open. I stepped out onto the curb, heels clicking against damp pavement. The cool air bit against my legs, goosebumps rising beneath my skirt suit. My hair was twisted into its usual knot at the nape of my neck, a few strands slipping loose from the rush of the day, and my glasses slid down the bridge of my nose when I looked up at the pulsing blue lights.

I must have looked every inch the uptight professional, entirely out of place among the leather jackets and ripped denim crowding the entrance. But I didn’t care. Not tonight.

I drew in a steadying breath and looked toward the stairwell glowing electric blue, where the music pulsed louder. My stomach clenched as if it knew before I let myself admit it.

I slipped the ticket from my clutch and the bouncer barely glanced at it before his eyes flicked over me, slow and deliberate. His gaze dragged from my neatly pinned hair to the hem of my black skirt suit, then back up again, his lip twitching like he couldn’t decide if I was lost or insane.

“Has the opening band finished yet?” I asked, chin up.

He lifted his wrist, checked a battered watch “Nah. Couple songs left.”

I nodded, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck, and pushed past. My heels clicked against the stairs until the bass swallowed the sound whole, the noise of the crowd rising like a storm below.

Just before I reached the doors, a flash of color caught my eye. A poster slapped crooked against the wall, glossy ink gleaming under the harsh light. My stomach dropped when I saw the name scrawled in small block letters under the headliner. 

Corroded Coffin.

Then the door banged open and I was shoved forward with the tide of bodies.

Light blinded me first, white-hot strobes cutting through smoke. Then came the noise: the crowd clapping, whooping, stamping as the last chord of a song faded. The singer tilted back a bottle, sweat dripping down his jaw, blond hair standing on end like he’d just rolled out of a hurricane. Behind him, the bassist fiddled with his strings, the drummer hunched to adjust a pedal.

I edged closer, weaving between strangers.

The singer stepped up to the mic, grinning like he owned the room. His voice rasped rough but playful, and it cracked over the speakers with raw charm.

“Alright, you filthy fuckers,” he drawled, dragging the words out, cocky as hell. The crowd screamed back, drunk and hungry for more. “We’ve got one more before they kick our asses off stage. And it’s that one—yeah, you know the fucking one. This is our sad little love song, so if you’re too cool to sing, get the fuck out now.”

The room erupted, the floor trembling under my heels.

The frontman laughed, wiping sweat off his forehead. “But before we break your fucking hearts, give it up for the poor bastard who actually wrote it. Our own king of misery. The demon on six strings. Our guitarist.” He jerked his thumb toward the shadows at stage left.

The guitarist turned, and the air left my lungs.

For a split second, my mind refused to believe it. 

But there he was...my Eddie.

He swung the acoustic strap over his shoulder with lazy precision, like he’d done it a thousand times, and faced the crowd. His hand lifted in a mocking bow, exaggerated and playful, his grin boyish despite the shadow of scruff on his jaw.

Five years had carved themselves into him—broadening his shoulders, sharpening the angles of his face, darkening the boy into a man. The light caught on that uneven beard, not full but enough to roughen him up, framing his mouth in a way that made the familiar grin almost unbearable to look at. And yet, when he bowed, ridiculous and theatrical, milking the applause like some medieval jester-turned-rock god, it was him. Entirely him.

The crowd laughed, clapped and I just stood there, frozen. My training mind told me to observe, catalog, put words to the reactions surging through me. A flood of recognition mixed with longing. Cognitive dissonance: the man onstage was both the boy I remembered and someone entirely new.

God, five years. Five years of silence, of imagining him scattered to the wind, and here he was...alive, smiling, taking up space in the light like it belonged to him.

He lowered himself onto a stool, one boot hooked on the rung, his guitar slung across his thigh like it had always belonged there. 

The blond singer glanced his way, and Eddie answered with a look, something conspiratorial, unspoken, the kind of silent signal born only out of hours, years, of making music together. He nodded once, just enough, and then his fingers fell into motion.

The first notes cut through the smoke, warm and achingly familiar, threading straight into me before I even had the chance to steel myself. My chest tightened. Of all the songs, it had to be this one. The one I had worn thin on the record, listening in the quiet hours of night until the needle crackled over silence.

A song I knew had been mine, even if no one else in the world knew it.

Now it belonged to the crowd.

As soon as the singer leaned into the mic and let the first words out, some voices swelled around me, raw, imperfect, drunken, shouting the lyrics like a hymn. Strangers pressed shoulder to shoulder, some eyes shut, shouting a story they didn’t know had been mine. They sang what Eddie had once carved out of himself for me, a wound turned melody, and I stood there drowning in it.

My throat ached, my eyes stung. Pride surged up hot and sudden, tangled with something softer, something I had buried deep. He looked radiant under the stage lights, lost in the one thing that had always belonged to him, to his hands, to his heart. He was doing it...more than surviving, more than drifting. He was thriving, and I was here to see it.

And I realized then: I was glad I had let him go. Glad I hadn’t gone chasing ghosts or dragged him back into my orbit. We had both suffered, yes, but we had turned that ache into something worth carrying. He had carved his grief into a song the world now sang, and I had built mine into a career that stood solid beneath me. For a fleeting second, I almost wished I could lay my life out before him the way he was laying his music bare now, just to see pride spark in his eyes the way mine did for him.

I let myself watch him, unguarded, my eyes shining in the dark as though he were the only one in the room.

And somewhere inside, in the place I kept sealed the tightest, a quiet truth stirred: I wasn’t the only one who had built something in the years apart. I had carried pieces of him with me too, nurtured them in silence, let them grow without ever turning back. My success was mine alone, yes but it had roots in us.

When the last note trembled out, the room erupted. Cheers, whistles, stomping feet, the kind of applause that rattled walls.

I didn’t move. I didn’t clap. My hands hung still at my sides. My applause was in the tears I refused to wipe away, in the way I couldn’t tear my eyes from him, not for a second.

Eddie lifted his head, pushing damp curls from his forehead, and gave the crowd a grin—bright, shameless and grateful. The sight of it cracked something open in me.

And I smiled back. My lips curved before I even realized, a private echo of his joy. He didn’t see it. He didn’t know I was there, hidden in the sea of strangers.

But for the length of that smile, we were together again.

The night air hit colder than I expected, sharp against my skin after the heat of the club. My heels struck the asphalt in quick, deliberate clicks, the sound far too loud in the empty alley as I circled the building. For a heartbeat I thought about leaving, just slipping back into the city and keeping the memory of his smile intact. Letting him stay untouched, radiant, unburdened by me.

But I couldn’t.

Not when he was here, in the same city, the same night, breathing the same air. Years of silence had stretched too long. I couldn’t walk away, not this time.

I turned the corner and stopped dead.

A black van idled beneath a flickering streetlight, its sides dented. A few people lingered nearby, laughing low, smoking, waiting. Crew members hauled heavy cases out the back door, their voices muffled as they loaded the van with the skeleton of the show.

And then I saw him.

The blond singer leaned against the brick wall, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, his laugh rough and careless. But it wasn’t him I saw first, it was Eddie.

He stood a step away, bent slightly as he ground out the last of his cigarette under his boot. He said something to the singer, his voice too low to catch. My heart clenched at the sight of him so near, so tangible I could almost touch the air between us.

My hands twisted together before I realized, palms damp. I adjusted the strap of my bag against my shoulder, forcing myself forward. One step, then another. The sound of my heels tapped out a rhythm, a countdown.

And then his head turned.

Maybe it was the echo of my footsteps, maybe something else entirely, but his gaze slid past the singer and landed on me.

He froze.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just that look—his eyes locking on mine, wide, disbelieving. His mouth parted like the breath had been stolen clean out of him. I stopped walking, my body betraying me, caught in place under the weight of his eyes.

The singer followed his stare, frowning before turning to glance at me. But Eddie barely registered him. He muttered something soft, distracted, maybe sorry, man, without looking away, already stepping around him, closing the space between us.

He stopped a few feet in front of me.

The air between us felt electric, heavy with years unsaid. His chest rose and fell, lips parted, eyes wide as though he’d stumbled into some cruel trick of the mind.

And then he just… looked.

His gaze dragged slowly, disbelieving, From my hair pinned back, to the tailored lines of the black suit that still clung to me from work, down to my heels planted firm against the damp asphalt. His gaze lingered as if cataloging every detail, searching for proof, for flaws, for the glitch that would tell him I was only a trick of his mind. 

My throat tightened under the weight of it. His eyes lingered at every change the years had written into me, but when they finally rose back to mine, they stayed.

That was when he exhaled. A shaky breath, almost a laugh, his head tipping the slightest bit. His mouth twitched upward, a smile tugging against the disbelief.

I had already had my storm, back inside with the music, five years crashing down on me all at once. I didn’t need to process him anymore. I only needed to stand here, steady, and let him look.

So I smiled. Soft, sure, the kind of smile that carried both the ache and the wonder of it. A silent I know. It’s insane.

For a moment, we were suspended in it...just our eyes, just the space between us holding everything we hadn’t said in half a decade.

Until I finally broke it. My voice slipped out steady, but low, intimate enough that it belonged to only him.

“Guess my favorite song,” I asked, carrying us back to the very beginning.

The ghost of a laugh flickered in his eyes, sudden and luminous. I saw recognition ignite there, the memory of a younger version of us in a cramped office, him forever trying to crack the mystery of my cassette tape.

His grin spread slow and certain, dimples cutting through the scruff on his face, those familiar little half-moons I had once memorized. His voice was low but sure when it came.

“Freak Therapy” 

My heart clenched. I nodded once, smiling with him, unable to stop.

And in that fragile, impossible moment, I let myself be her again...the version of me that only he had known, tender and unguarded, my voice softened into something I hadn’t heard in years.

“Hello, Eddie Munson,” I whispered.

His grin broke wider, disbelief softening into something almost tender. His voice dropped warm and familiar, carrying me straight back to those days that had never really left me.

“Hello, Doc.”

a/n: ✨ that’s a wrap ✨

Ok, so… we made it. Freak Therapy is officially complete.

I love the way it closes here. Bittersweet. Cue credits, roll the sad love song.

BUT. I do have an epilogue in mind. The thing is… I’ll only write it if YOU want it. If not, I’ll happily let our disaster babies live forever right here, frozen in this moment. So: let me know. Do you want the extra heartbreak, (and SMUT) or do we leave them with their fragile little happy ending?

A giant thank you to everyone who’s been here since the messy first chapters and especially to the brave souls who took the time to comment. You’re the reason I kept going whenever I thought “nah, this is stupid, nobody’s gonna read this.” But apparently a LOT of you did. Which is both scary and the best feeling ever, so thanks for that emotional whiplash and for reading, for screaming in the tags, for making me laugh with your reactions. This has been way more fun (and chaotic) than I ever imagined.

Love you all.

Bye. I’m gonna go cry into a pillow now 🖤

-> READ EPILOGUE HERE.

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog @clya4 @tigolebittiez @ari-joe @love-anonymous-writer @the-rowanoke @velvetvenusvixen @sammybrrr

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

general warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Session seven - Eddie’s POV

Three months.

That’s how long it had been since she walked the hell out of Hawkins without so much as a “see you never.”

Three months since Jason opened his big mouth, since my life went from shit to extra crispy shit. 

The dream was the thing that finally snapped me out of it. That one night when my subconscious dragged me to the ugliest part of myself, showing me how I’d treated her in my head. It scared me straight, literally. So from that day no more drowning, no more poisoning. 

And somehow, with Hellfire watching my sorry ass, I actually did it.

Didn’t mean it was easy. Hell no.

One day I was pathetic enough to drag myself to that damn supermarket at the exact same time I’d run into her once, just to walk the aisles like some lost puppy hoping that she’d appear again. 

Another day, I’d paid way too much cash to my guy for a bootleg Guns N’ Roses demo. Listened to it until the sound warped, then I smashed it under my boots, like it was her fault.

But now here I was. Standing in a stupid cap and gown, waiting for my name to be called. Me. Edward Munson. High school graduate. Took me three tries, two breakdowns, and one spectacularly ill-fated crush on the school shrink, but hey...miracles happen.

Everybody knew the saga: freak loser, depressed junkie, in love with his therapist and now suddenly limping across the finish line. The redemption arc practically wrote itself.  Teachers probably passed me out of pity, charity, or maybe just because they were sick of seeing my face. Whatever, a win’s a win.

When they finally called my name, the room erupted louder than I expected. Some cheers, some jeers, the usual mix. I walked up, all swagger, all fake confidence, took the diploma folder and, because why the hell not, turned back to face the entire gymnasium.

And I flipped them the bird.

Right there, middle finger held high under the fluorescent lights, my cap slipping sideways.

The crowd broke. Half horrified gasps, half laughter. The teachers all did that synchronized disappointed head shake, like they’d rehearsed it.

And in the stands? Mike groaned, reached into his pocket, and handed Dustin a crumpled ten-dollar bill. Henderson grinned like Christmas came early.

Guess someone had bet against me.

After the ceremony, everyone scattered to their rich-kid pool parties and secret booze fests. Not me. My crew hadn’t graduated yet, they were still a year or two behind. So they threw me the best damn party I could’ve asked for: a marathon Hellfire campaign.

We broke into the drama room while the whole school was outside tossing caps and hugging. Meanwhile, we slipped in like thieves, lugging dice, books, maps, and, courtesy of yours truly, a six-pack.

I built them an adventure worthy of legends, dragons, betrayal, one hell of a boss fight. And the little gremlins ate it up, beer in hand, eyes shining.

By the time we stumbled out to go home, the sky was pale and soft with morning light. We hopped the school gates like criminals, the guys grabbed their bikes one by one, wheels, scattering off in different directions.

I was a little drunk, light-headed in the good way, not the “I hate myself” way. I hopped on my bike and felt untouchable, like the idiot hero of my own story, graduation cap still stuck on my head like a crown as I pedaled toward the RV park. 

The streets were dead, silent except for the hum of my tires and my own voice singing Changes by Black Sabbath, off-key. Yeah, yeah, cliché as hell, but it felt right.

By the time I rolled in, my throat was raw from singing the same lines over and over. I hit the brakes and grinned at the sight of it...my van, my kingdom.

And parked right behind it, like some cruel cosmic joke, her car.

I knew that car. I’d trained myself not to flinch every time I saw the same model rolling down Hawkins streets, but this one...this one I recognized instantly. Same dent in the bumper, same exact shade.

And in the driver’s seat, a shape. A silhouette that looked too much like her to be anyone else.

My hands froze on the brakes, my bike still between my legs, breath locked in my throat.

No way. No fucking way.

Three months of silence, of pretending I could claw my way out of the hole she’d left, and now...now she was here. 

My chest burned. I couldn’t even tell if it was anger, panic, or some sick kind of hope. Probably all three.

Figures. Even at the finish line, even with my diploma in hand and freedom dangling in front of me, she still managed to show up and ruin my victory lap.

Marissa’s POV

When I arrived the parking lot was quiet, still, everyone in town pulled toward graduation, which suited me fine. Less eyes, less whispers, less of the looks that had followed me for weeks before I left.

My name was a stain in Hawkins now. Rumors had done their job well. And yet, here I was, waiting for the one person who still made all of that background noise irrelevant.

Eddie.

The hours bled into each other. First dusk, then night, then that pale shade of almost-morning that makes everything look lonelier than it is.

He hadn’t shown.

I told myself a dozen explanations. Maybe he was with friends, maybe he was celebrating...it was graduation, after all. Maybe he was finally letting himself have something normal.

I rubbed my temple, tried to exhale it out. Fingers tight around the steering wheel even though the car was parked.

Out the windshield the sky was clear, painfully so. Pale early June light stretched wide. Except for one cloud, far out on the horizon black and heavy.

Exactly how I felt.

Like I was sitting in all this forced calm while something inevitable was already gathering speed just out of sight.

As a therapist, I knew exactly what I was walking into. His history was a roadmap I’d memorized: abandonment carved into him since childhood...mother gone, father vanished. Attachment wounds like that don’t just heal, they fester, they make you wary, raw, quick to anger.

So if my hypothesis was right, if the sessions and the careful confessions hadn’t lied to me, he would be furious. Not just hurt, furious.

Because in his eyes, I hadn’t just left. I had become another person who decided he wasn’t worth staying for.

And the truth? I couldn’t blame him.

I rubbed my palms against my knees, nails biting fabric. Anxiety spread warm and prickling in my chest, reminding me that for all the theories and diagnoses, I couldn’t predict how his face would look when he finally saw me.

And then—

The faint crunch of wheels over gravel. Slow, deliberate...a bike.

And with it, a singing voice, raspy, low, too familiar for my pulse to do anything but spike.

“...but it’s too late now...I’ve let her go...I’m going through changes...I’m going through changes...”

I stopped breathing. My heart slammed against my ribs, painful and bright.

I turned, and there he was.

The bike slowed to a halt in front of the van.

He was thinner, maybe, a sharpness to his jaw that hadn’t been there before. Same wild curls, though now hidden under a graduation cap tilted sideways like it didn’t quite belong. Hellfire shirt clinging loose, a backpack slung carelessly over his shoulder.

He froze when he saw me, still straddling the bike.

For a second neither of us moved, just two ghosts staring through glass.

Three months collapsed in a single glance, hitting me like a punch to the lungs.

I swallowed hard, forcing my hand to the door handle. My legs felt foreign as I stepped out, feet crunching against the gravel.

I shut the door behind me, the sound echoing too loud in the quiet lot.

“Hi Eddie” I said softly, voice thinner than I wanted. Trembling, almost.

Silence.

He blinked, then swung his leg off the bike, landing with a soft thud. He tugged the cap off, raking a hand through his flattened hair in a quick, almost irritated motion. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even really look at me.

“Congratulations,” I tried again, careful, like the word itself might spook him.

Nothing. He dropped his backpack, and let it drop against the side of the van. Then he sat down on the old chair by the little table, fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The silence thickened as he patted his pockets for a lighter.

I shifted my weight, keys in hand, twirling them just to keep my fingers busy. The silence roared between us.

“I wanted to come,” I said finally, quieter, “to the ceremony. But… I didn’t want to embarrass you. Thought maybe showing up here would be easier. Just your uncle to face, not a whole gym full of people.”

The flame snapped alive. He lit up, exhaled smoke like it was the only answer I deserved. Then, finally, words.

His voice came flat. “My uncle’s out of town. Work.”

The ache in my chest deepened. I swallowed. “So… he wasn’t there for the ceremony?”

A small shake of the head.

I felt a hand squeezing around my heart. Nobody. No family. Maybe just his friends. He hadn’t had anyone there for him.

I studied him the way I’d been trained. He couldn’t hold my gaze for more than a second, like it burned. Which told me enough. Anger, yes. But beneath it, sadness and...shame. Like he was the one who’d failed me, not the other way around.

“Can I sit?” I asked gently, careful not to push.

He didn’t look at me, just tapped ash into the tray beside him and gave a single, curt nod.

I dragged the chair closer, the legs scraping faint against gravel, and sat down beside him. Too close, maybe. He didn’t look at me, just smoked, eyes narrowed at nothing.

“I came to explain” I began softly, the words rehearsed in my head, lined up like soldiers  “I didn’t want to leave. I wouldn’t have, not like that. But someone saw us, when I hugged you outside my place and they told the principal. I don’t even know who—”

“Jason Carver.”

My mouth snapped shut. I turned toward him, but his gaze stayed forward, steady on some invisible point past the haze of smoke. “You didn’t know?” His tone shifted, it was bitter “Jason's cousin... Luis, didn’t tell you?” He spit the word cousin like it was poison.

My stomach dropped. Luis Carver. My throat tightened, heat flooding my face but not from guilt, from the shame of him knowing at all. I hadn’t even done anything with Luis. I’d only called him one stupid, desperate night when I was drowning in feelings I wasn’t supposed to have. Feelings for Eddie.

But this was Hawkins. This place turned whispers into knives.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. How could I even begin to explain?

I sat frozen, wondering how the hell he knew more about my life than I did. I thought I was here to explain, to finally clear myself. Instead it was like walking into a play where everyone already knew my lines but me.

And then, unexpectedly, his voice shifted, softer. “Look… I’m sorry you lost your job over it,” he muttered “I just would’ve wanted… a goodbye. That’s all.”

The words lodged in my chest like stones.

I turned to him fully now, studying the the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his curls framed his face.

And in that moment, I realized—my reasons, my careful explanations, the guilt I wanted to cleanse—they meant nothing to him. He already knew. None of it was what broke him. It was the silence I’d left behind. The vanishing, that was the wound.

I drew in a shaky breath. “I needed to leave,” I admitted, voice fragile, careful. “It was becoming too heavy for me. I just… I needed peace.”

His lips twisted, bitter. He finally answered, still watching the cigarette burn between his fingers. “And I needed you,” he said simply, voice hollow. “Funny.”

Every syllable cut through me like glass.

I couldn’t answer. My throat locked, I didn’t want to talk anymore. Not at all. Every instinct in me screamed to close the distance, to fold myself against him, to take some of the weight I’d left him carrying alone.

The words scraped their way out anyway, thin and breaking. “I’m sorry, Eddie.” My voice fractured on his name. The air caught in my chest, threatening to spill over in sobs I refused to let him hear. I clenched my jaw, blinked hard at the gravel under our feet. 

He still didn’t look at me.

But I knew he’d heard me because he nudged the pack of cigarettes across the table toward me, silent. A quiet gesture, almost gentle. An offering.

I shook my head quickly, unable to trust my own voice with the tremor inside it. 

For a beat, nothing but the scratch of wind against the trees. Then finally his voice, lighter, crooked. Almost himself again.

“Guess I should thank you, all this drama? Probably the only reason I graduated. Teachers couldn’t flunk the depressed freak who got ditched by his therapist, right? Guess pity’s good for something.”

I didn’t laugh...of course I didn’t.

Because I’d known exactly how he might have reacted to me leaving. I’d tried to prepare myself for it, to rationalize. But hearing it confirmed, seeing the proof of it carved into the bitterness in his smile, was unbearable.

He’d been depressed, my absence had gutted him so visibly that even the teachers had pitied him, enough to pass him through.

The guilt cracked through me like a whip. I stared down, fighting the sting in my eyes. If I had just said goodbye, just explained, it wouldn’t have undone the damage, but maybe it wouldn’t have hurt him this much. Maybe I wouldn’t have left him thinking he wasn’t worth even a word.

Then his voice cut through.

“...So what are you doing now?”

I blinked, startled, and when I looked up, he was finally looking at me. Really looking. Big brown eyes locking onto mine for the first time since I’d stepped out of the car. His tone had shifted, it was gentler, less sharp.

“You working at another school?”

For a second I couldn’t breathe. Seeing him like that again, so close, those eyes after months of emptiness, it rattled me more than I wanted to admit.

I shook my head slowly. “No. I… took a break. From everything. I moved back near Chicago. I’m just… doing a normal job now.”

He nodded, lips twitching with the faintest of smiles. “Normal job, huh? so being a shrink doesn’t count as normal? Took you long enough to figure that out.”

The delivery was so perfectly Eddie that I couldn’t help it...my mouth tugged at the corner, the smallest smile slipping through. He’d done it on purpose, I knew. Trying to make me laugh. And in some way, it worked. The tension that had been sitting like a stone in my chest loosened, just a little.

The air between us felt softer now, not sharp and cutting, but fragile.

“So,” he asked after a moment, tapping ash into the tray, “you came back to see family in Hawkins?”

I shook my head again “No. My family moved away after I graduated. They’re not here anymore.”

He tilted his head, brows furrowed in thought. Then his gaze sharpened, and he leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Then what? You making the rounds? Explaining yourself to all the students you left behind?”

I let the silence stretch, searching his face, the pause hung heavy.

Finally, I answered. Soft and certain.

“No, Eddie,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Just you.”

He looked away and I could almost hear it—the catch in his chest, the way his heart seemed to miss a beat. 

He wasn’t used to receiving, not like that.

The faintest pink rose across his cheeks, and I thought, foolishly, that it was embarrassment. But then he dragged a hand down his face, rough, and I realized I’d been wrong. Not embarrassment, anger.

“Why didn’t you come before?” His voice dropped again, colder, cutting, like the brief softness between us had never happened.

The question stabbed through me, unfair in its simplicity. I had just told him why I was here, hadn’t I?

I felt my own irritation spark, quick and hot, but I pressed it down the way I’d trained myself to.

“Because I—”

A sound interrupted me. A small, plaintive mrrrow.

I glanced down, startled, as something brushed against my ankles. A sleek black cat wound around my legs, tail curling like a question mark.

“What do you want, Ozzy?” His voice was tight, like even the animal wasn’t safe from his edge.

Instinctively, I reached down, fingers brushing soft fur. The cat leaned into my touch, purring faintly, and I couldn’t help the softness in my voice when I asked, “He’s yours?”

“No.” Eddie shook his head, leaning back, his eyes still shadowed. “Everyone feeds him. I just… gave him a name.”

My lips tugged upward, just slightly. “Ozzy” I whispered.

The cat gave a low chirp and padded away toward Eddie’s van. He sat at the closed door, tail flicking, then let out another sharp, impatient meow.

Eddie frowned, twisting in his chair to watch. “The hell’s your deal now? You’ve never wanted in there.”

“Maybe he’s hungry,” I offered, though my gaze lifted past the van, past the restless animal, up into the sky.

The world above us had darkened while we sat here tearing each other open, and I hadn’t even realized. Clouds gathered heavy and low. The air felt weighted, electric.

The wind cut sharper, rustling the trees around us. Ozzy let out another plaintive cry, but I understood now, it wasn’t food he wanted. It was shelter.

“It’s going to rain, like...a lot” I said, eyes flicking to the sky as the wind picked up.

Eddie shot up like I’d announced a fire.

“Fuck—fuck, fuck!” He shoved his chair back and lurched to his feet, stumbling before crouching low to peer under the van.

“What?” I called, already dragging myself to my feet. The first drop splattered on my arm, cold and sure, and then another on my cheek.

“There’s a goddamn toolbox,” he muttered, eyes darting around like the thing might sprout legs. “Big metal one. My uncle’ll kill me if it rusts, already the second one he’s had to buy ‘cause I keep leaving it out when it rains.”

While he explained, he was already circling the van in frantic jerks, scanning the ground. The rain thickened, plinking harder now, damp spots dotting his Hellfire T-shirt.

I frowned, scanning the ground and then I saw it. The faint metallic edge just visible under the van. “Is that it?” I pointed.

Eddie scrambled toward it, and he pulled it fully out from under the van. The thing looked like it weighed as much as a small horse.

“Does that—uh—need to go inside?” I asked.

“Yeah. Right now.” His hair was plastering to his face already, raindrops streaking down the pale line of his jaw. 

I hurried over. “Here—let me—” I bent, wrapped my fingers under the cold metal edge, and immediately regretted it.

“Jesus Christ, what is this made of? Lead?”

“Muscle,” he hissed through his teeth, bracing on the other side. “Other side, grab the handle—no, the handle!”

“I am grabbing the handle!” I snapped back, fingers slipping.

“No, not that—”

“I know what a handle is, Eddie!”

We ended up half shouting, half tripping over each other’s words as the rain came harder, drumming on the metal, on us, on everything.

“We lift on three.”

“Fine. One—two—”

“You didn’t say if we’re starting on three or after three!” I shouted, rain dripping down my nose.

“After three! Who starts on three?!”

“You could’ve said that first!”

Ozzy’s meow cut sharp through the noises, like he was just as pissed at us as we were at each other.

Eddie gave me a wild, hysterical look then just shouted, “THREE!”

I barely got my hands under the edge in time before he yanked up with a grunt, and by some miracle I managed to hoist my side high enough to keep up. 

We staggered the last few feet, half blind from the rain and wind, the toolbox slamming against our legs with every uneven step. My arms burned, lungs heaving, the water stinging my eyes until I could barely see the van looming in front of us.

We lurched against the door. Closed. Eddie cursed hard while fumbling one-handed for the latch while the metal box threatened to tear my arms clean off. Finally, the lock gave, and we practically fell inside with the weight of it, slamming it down onto the van’s floor.

Both of us bent double, hands on our knees, chests heaving. My hair sticking in wet clumps to my face. Thunder cracked outside.

“Fuck—Ozzy,” Eddie gasped suddenly, twisting, eyes wide as if he’d left a kid out in the storm. “Where the hell—”

“He’s here,” I cut in, breathless. I pointed down. “By your feet.”

Ozzy was a little black shadow pressed against his leg, damp but purring, winding around his ankle like this had been his plan all along.

Eddie slammed the door shut and the sound of the storm dulled immediately, reduced to a heavy drumming on the van’s roof. A cocoon of noise, thick and constant, wrapping around us.

We were both standing there, soaked, panting, with Ozzy curling smugly between us and that ridiculous metal box at our feet. My pulse was still racing, adrenaline buzzing under my skin.

I pushed my hair back from my face and exhaled hard. “As soon as it stops, I’ll head out.”

Eddie nodded, hands braced on his hips, still trying to catch his breath. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Silence stretched between us, broken only by the relentless rain hammering above. It was almost worse than shouting, the way the quiet settled, heavy.

My heart hadn’t slowed either, still racing from the ridiculous weight of that toolbox, from being trapped here with him.

In his space. His home.

The silence stretched and my stomach twisted with it. Then thunder cracked so loud it shook the walls, and I flinched.

The sound broke something in me.

“Since we’re stuck here,” I said, my voice tighter than I meant, but still steady in its own way, “...we may as well finish the conversation.”

He looked at me then and for the first time since I’d stepped back into his life, I decided not to hide behind detachment. Not to dodge with clinical distance or professional phrasing. Just truth.

“These past three months,” I began, breath trembling, “They’ve been awful. I didn’t expect to be pulled off my assignment like that. I’ve spent years building toward my career, toward being the kind of therapist who doesn’t...fail.” My throat closed on the words, heat flooding my eyes, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. “But I failed with you. Not just because someone saw us. But because—" The words lodged like glass. I couldn’t push them out.

His brows furrowed, a muscle jumping in his jaw. 

“You are right, I should have come sooner,” I pressed on, swallowing the knot clawing up my throat. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come here. I kept telling myself I needed to figure out what would be best for you before I saw you again. Truth is, I was scared. I didn’t have the courage.”

My chest tightened, the warning ache before tears, but I pressed on.

“I came because I wanted to tell you… that I’m proud of you. That you made it through, even after everything. Even after me. I don’t care how you did it. You did. And I’m so damn proud of you, Eddie.” My voice cracked on his name, breaking open something I’d been holding too tight. The tears I’d been holding back slipped free, tracing hot down skin already damp from the rain. I shook my head, tried to stop, failed.

“And then I left,” I whispered, the words quaking. “Because I was confused. I had my whole life planned out, every step. But I didn't—”

I broke. The sound of my own sob startled me, ripped raw from my chest. My hand flew to my mouth, like I could stop it, but it was too late.

“I didn’t plan on falling in love with one of my patients,” I choked, the admission tearing out of me with the force of the storm outside.

The van seemed impossibly still after the words fell. Just the hammering rain above us. Eddie didn’t breathe, it seemed. His eyes were locked on me with something fierce and unreadable, like I’d just split him open the way I’d split myself.

Then he moved, closing the space between us in two sure steps. His hands came up, palms cradling my face with a gentleness that unraveled me. My breath caught while his face blurred through my tears.

His thumbs brushed over my wet cheeks, chasing away the tears as if he could erase them from existence.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered. Soft. Fierce. A plea wrapped in command.

I sniffled hard, the sound ugly, my chest hitching as his palms stayed warm against my cheeks. Instinctively, my hand rose, fingers wrapping around his wrist, clutching at the solidness of him like I’d sink without it. 

But the tears kept coming. Hot, endless, spilling faster the harder I tried to stop.

“It’s my fault, all of it” I managed, voice strangled and broken. “I knew better. I knew the consequences. I was supposed to protect you, not—” My breath shuddered out of me, guilt clawing sharp in my chest. “Not make it worse. I should have—”

“Sshh.” His voice cut through, low and firm. One thumb brushed another tear away “Please, don’t cry.”

After months of silence, of detachment, of pretending I was fine, the flood poured out of me in front of the one person I’d tried hardest to stay strong for.

I shook my head against his hands, choking on a sob that hurt all the way down my throat.  “I’m so sorry. For everything I let happen. For everything I—”

He hushed me again, softer this time, like he could press the sound into me and make it stay. “Ssssh.”

And then he gave up on his hands.

His mouth pressed to my cheek, warm, lips sealing against the wet track of a tear, still holding my face steady in his hands.

My breath locked tight in my chest. The heat of his mouth lingered there, still and unyielding, like he was willing the sadness out of me, like he was trying to drink it away.

My eyes shut on instinct, lashes still damp, and my hand tightened around his wrist.

He pulled back a fraction, just enough to murmur, “It’s okay.” 

Another tear slipped free and he was there again, kissing it away. My chest ached, my heart battering so hard I thought it might tear through bone. I couldn’t tell where the storm ended and I began anymore.

A tear slipped to the corner of my mouth, and before I could move, his lips followed. A soft, tentative touch that sent a shock straight to my core. 

And then he did it again.

This time, the angle shifted, deliberate, and his lips met mine.

Soft at first. Careful. Like he was testing me.

But I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. I leaned into it like I’d been drowning for months and only now found air.

It was devastating in its gentleness.

The salt of my tears clung to both of us. My fingers slid from his wrist to his jaw, trembling as I cupped him closer, needing more.

My lips parted and his tongue brushed mine, tentative, and then it wasn’t gentle anymore. It was deep, desperate, our mouths clashing with the taste tears and all the things we’d swallowed for too long.

His mouth moved against mine like he’d been waiting just as long, holding back just as hard, and now the dam had cracked. The sound that tore from me was small, broken, half moan, half sob.

He swallowed it whole.

We pressed together, bodies soaked from the rain, clinging as if letting go would mean collapsing. His hands left my cheeks, sliding down, strong fingers curling around the back of my neck, tangling into my wet hair.

I had spent months pretending. Months barricading every thought, every spark, every glance.

And now—

Now I was kissing him like I’d never kissed anyone before.

When we finally tore apart for air, it wasn’t distance we sought. Instinctively, we did the same thing at the same time. His arms wrapped around me, lifting me up to his level, clean off the ground like it cost him nothing. I threw mine around his neck, cheek to cheek, hugging him like I had always wanted to.

My legs instinctively curled around his waist, as if we had done this a thousand times before.

He held me close, chest heaving against mine. His breath ghosted over the shell of my ear, shaky but sure, before I heard it...low, rough, torn straight from somewhere deep.

“I missed you.”

The words shattered something in me all over again. My throat closed, my chest squeezed, and before I could even think, the tears came rushing back hot and heavy.

I buried my face into his neck, arms tightening desperately around him, answering not with words but with the strength of how hard I clung to him.

Slowly, he carried me toward the back of the van, to his room, holding me tight. I closed my eyes, resting against him, letting him carry me. I could feel his warm skin pressed to mine. The only sound was the rain beating on the van and distant thunder rumbling.

I kept my eyes closed but could feel him shifting, adjusting me gently in his arms. One arm on my back to support me while the other hand flicked on what felt like a lamp. My body moved with him, trustingly, and I found myself gently laid on his bed.

When I opened my eyes, he was above me, still brushing my face with his hands. His hair was still damp, droplets catching the faint light. I took in every line of his face, every detail, as he traced my skin like he couldn’t believe he could finally touch me like this. 

Then he smiled, that teasing glint in his eyes, and asked in that half-joking tone, “So… you gonna stop crying now, or…?”

I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips.

Before I could even think, he moved—fast, sudden, that Eddie way—and in one swift motion, lifted my t-shirt just enough to plant a loud, silly raspberry on my stomach.

“Aaah!” I yelped, bursting into laughter, the sound spilling out of me like sunlight breaking through clouds. my fingers flailing against his shoulders. His wet curls tickled my stomach as I squirmed.

He laughed too, that deep, warm sound, before coming back up to my level, nose hovering over my face. He leaned in, sniffing dramatically, “Hmm… are you crying because my breath stinks?”

I shook my head, smiling despite the lingering wetness of my tears. “Your breath’s fine,” I said, adopting my professional tone, “although there is a slight note of cigarette and alcohol, specifically beer. A more thorough gustatory test would be required to determine the brand.”

He grinned, dimples deepening, sending that familiar flutter through my stomach. Leaning down again, a little slower this time, he whispered, “Yeah?”

And then his lips found mine...slow, deliberate, sensual. I melted into the kiss, tasting his heat.

My hands slid lower, fumbling blindly until I caught the damp hem of his shirt. I tugged, urgent, and he broke from my mouth just long enough to peel it off in one swift, impatient motion as if the fabric annoyed him. The shirt landed somewhere with a wet slap.

For a fraction of a second, my gaze caught on the ink sprawled across his chest, black lines etched over pale skin, something bold and dark I didn’t have time to see. My brain barely registered tattoo before he was already back on me. His lips on mine again, slow, teasing. 

Then he mirrored me, fingers sneaking under my own shirt, dragging it higher inch by inch, so painfully slow I thought I might combust. Our tongues tangled, my breath stuttered against his lips as he finally pulled away to let me finish. I ripped it off, tossed it blindly aside.

When I blinked back open, he was already trailing downward, kissing my stomach in hot, open-mouthed trails that made my back arch right off the mattress. I had no air, none at all, as he paused just long enough to look up at me with that crooked grin.

“Can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” he murmured against me, voice hoarse, every word vibrating through my belly.

The only response I managed was a shaky, breathless laugh making my stomach twitch beneath his lips. 

Then he was moving up again, his mouth grazing the column of my throat, sucking lightly, like he wanted to map every inch but couldn’t decide where to begin. My head tilted back instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, offering him more.

I felt the slow drag of his fingers slipping the strap of my bra off my shoulder, then further, until cool air brushed against skin that was suddenly exposed. His hand followed, covering my breast in a firm, reverent hold.

Then he froze.

I opened my eyes just in time to see his gaze drop, his breath stutter.

“Well...” he rasped, eyes locked on my chest. “I didn’t expect that.”

My nipple ring gleamed faintly in the lamplight, the small silver hoop glinting against damp skin. The cool metal contrasted with his warm palm still half-covering me, and for a heartbeat, he just stared.

I smiled reaching up as I cupped his jaw, guiding his face back to mine. His eyes were wide, somewhere between disbelief and delight.

“I stopped crying,” I whispered, my voice low. “So now shut that pretty mouth and take my clothes off.” 

He grinned at me, eyes glinting even as his breath came rough and uneven. “You’ve spent months trying to drag words out of me, and now you tell me to shut up?” he said, teasing, “...but yeah, sure. At your service, ma’am.” and brushed a quick kiss over my lips before diving straight back down to my neck.

Then I felt his hand—sly, practiced—sliding like a serpent down my back. One smooth flick and my bra was undone, so fast I barely registered it until the straps loosened. He didn’t even pause. Just slipped it away and let it join the pile of discarded clothes without ceremony.

Heat bloomed sharp and immediate when his lips closed around the swell of my breast, tongue flicking before he sucked slow, greedy. My head tipped back against the pillow again, eyes rolling shut as if my body couldn’t handle the overload.

My fingers threaded through his damp curls almost instinctively, tugging when the suction deepened. I forced myself to look down, to see him, and the sight alone nearly unraveled me: his cheeks hollowed, his eyes shut, his mouth curved around me with such intent that I forgot how to breathe.

“God…” I whispered, my voice trembling.

He hummed against me at that, low and pleased, the vibration traveling straight through my skin. My hand slid from his hair to cup his jaw, feeling the movement of his muscles as he sucked.

His mouth left me slick and aching, the cool air hitting where his lips had just been as he moved from one breast to the other with the same deliberate hunger.

I gasped, fingers locking at the nape of his neck, holding him there. My hips were restless, moving on their own in tiny, desperate shifts against nothing. It was unbearable, and still he took his time, savoring, like he had all the patience in the world.

Somewhere in that haze, I realized he was moving, his body angling to the side instead of looming above me. His lips never faltered, never let me go, but I felt the drag of his hand sliding lower, fumbling with the button of my jeans.

His eyes stayed closed as he tugged at the waistband and I lifted my hips without thinking, helping him peel the denim down. My free shaky hand fumbled to push them lower, working with him until the fabric was sliding away from my legs, tossed aside and all I had left was the thin barrier of my underwear.

Relief hit me in a rush, cool air brushing over the inferno burning between my legs. My thighs pressed together instinctively, a futile attempt to ease the pressure, but it only made the throbbing worse.

Finally—finally—he let my breast go, leaving me wet and swollen. He dragged himself back up, until his face hovered above mine again. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with hunger, but he kissed me, tender and slow, and my chest clenched tight at the contrast, how could he be this careful while I was falling apart beneath him?

His hand, though, didn’t stop. I felt it trail lower, past the rise of my stomach. My breath hitched, anticipation clawing up my throat.

He broke the kiss only to brush his lips over my cheek, then lower, over the curve of my jaw to the slope of my shoulder. 

Then he didn’t hesitate, didn’t give me time to think, his hand pushed past the barrier, straight into heat so sharp it ripped a moaned out of me that was loud, guttural, raw and my thighs opened instantly.

He was right there with me, his face pressed to mine, both of us burning like fever. And when his fingers finally slid inside, filling me in one deep, sure push, he groaned too. 

My hips jerked forward against his hand, helpless, chasing the sensation. His rings were cold against my overheated skin.

My body wasn’t mine anymore, it was all pulse and ache and wet heat around his fingers, squeezing him, begging without words.

He moved them slowly at first, dragging out, then sinking back in, each stroke deliberate, claiming. My forehead pressed harder to his, skin slick, breath messy and shallow. I couldn’t stop the way my hips rolled with him, greedy, frantic.

But it wasn’t enough. God, it wasn’t enough.

“Eddie…” My voice cracked, broken into pieces. I tried again, breathless, “... please”

Those were the only words I could find, my hand fumbling toward the button of his jeans, tugging in clumsy desperation. I needed him closer, needed him inside, nothing else would do.

He froze, just barely, his mouth dragging from my jaw to hover by my ear, voice so hoarse it barely sounded like him.

“Baby… I don’t have protection.”

The world stilled for a heartbeat, my body still twitching. 

I turned my face enough to see him, inches away, his lips swollen and his gaze still heavy. “It’s okay.” My voice was barely a whisper. “...please.”

“You sure?” he breathed, almost pained, like the restraint cost him everything.

“Yeah,” I managed, with a pleading nod.

It was like a switch flipped in him, the restraint snapped.

His hand slipped from inside me, leaving me empty and aching. Then he was all frantic movement, fighting with the button of his jeans. My fingers scrambled down, shoving my underwear off in a clumsy rush before helping him, tugging at denim that didn’t want to give.

We were both breathless, swearing under our breaths, our hands colliding. I felt him finally force the jeans low, boxer-briefs dragged with them until the fabric was bunched uselessly under his hips.

He didn’t bother getting rid of them fully, he was already between my thighs, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I barely had time to breathe before his mouth was at my jaw again, open and hot, while his hand moved between us, fumbling, freeing what I’d been desperate for.

I gasped when the blunt heat of him nudged against me, dragging over my entrance, only my own slickness separating us now. My legs closed instinctively and I felt the rough denim of his jeans grazing the inside of my thighs. 

His forehead dropped against mine, his body straining with the effort not to just slam inside.

And then he pushed forward.

Slow, careful, sliding into me inch by inch until my breath fractured into a sharp, choked sound.

The stretch was blinding. My lips parted, eyes squeezing shut, my body clutching around him as he filled me.

“Jesus...Christ…” he groaned, low and raw. His whole body shuddered as he buried himself deep, every muscle tense like he was fighting the urge to lose control.

It was too much, not enough, everything at once. Fullness bloomed inside me, so sudden, so complete it was almost unbearable.

My nails bit into his shoulders, grounding myself. 

He stilled, chest heaving, his breath hot against my lips. “You okay?” he whispered, voice frayed at the edges.

My heart swelled, absurdly tender at the question. “Yes” I whispered back and I reached up, brushing damp curls back from his face before cupping his cheek. “I’m good, sweetheart.”

I kissed him then soft and tender like I wanted to anchor both of us in that single heartbeat.

But the moment he started to move inside me, slow, steady thrusts, my mouth fell open against his, every roll of his hips dragging a sound from my throat I couldn’t swallow. My moans slipped into his mouth, messy, helpless, until we were both gasping against each other, our breaths mixing.

He moved deeper, a little faster, and I thought I might actually come undone just from the way he filled me. My back arched off the bed, eyes rolling, the stretch of him inside me making my whole body quake.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dropping his head to my shoulder. “You feel… unreal.”

I wanted to answer, but I couldn’t. The only thing that came out were broken whimpers, spilling into his ear.

Without thinking my hand slided down to clutch his back, feeling the rough denim still clinging below his hips. The friction of the fabric against my palm, the muscles tensing under my hand as he drove into me. 

Then instinct took over, I started moving under him, grinding,

my hips moved on their own, rolling up to meet his like some reckless dance. Every grind sent a shockwave through me, I moaned louder, needier. 

The effect was instant. He grunted, a raw sound that vibrated against my chest, and I felt his rhythm falter. His hand slammed into the mattress by my head, muscles straining. He lifted himself just enough to look at me, hair hanging wild, eyes wrecked.

“If you keep doing that,” he rasped “I’m gonna ruin everything and embarrass myself in about ten seconds flat”

I smiled, breathless “Okay… okay,” I whispered, forcing my hips to still, “I’ll behave.”

I smoothed my palm over his chest, tracing down his damp skin until I reached the hard lines of his stomach. We both followed the movement, foreheads pressed, gazes dragging down to where our bodies were joined. 

I saw him, hard and slick, disappearing inside me inch by inch, my body parting around him. The sight made my breath hitch. Every slow retreat and deeper thrust dragged a wet sound from us both, obscene and perfect.

My hand was on his side, and I felt his stomach muscles contract under my touch with every roll of his hips. Tight, coiled power, trembling restraint.

I was already half-gone, but a thought clawed its way out of me anyway. “Eddie…” I whispered against his cheek, “I want to be on top.”

He froze. Dead still inside me. His jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut like I’d just told him the most dangerous thing in the world.

“Jesus - fuck” he groaned, the sound guttural, half a curse, half a plea. He dropped his forehead harder to mine, like he was trying to hold himself together with sheer force of will. “That’s just… cruel, sexy as hell, but cruel”

I laughed softly, the sound mingling with his pained hiss, and before I could answer, he was already moving rolling us clumsily, but keeping himself buried deep inside as his hands steadied me.

The new angle stole the air from my lungs. The stretch felt sharper, deeper, like every inch of him was pressing into places I didn’t know how to handle.

I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, and his head fell forward, forehead brushing against my chest.

“Fuck, wait...” he muttered, one arm banded tight around my waist to hold me completely still. I felt him shifting beneath me, his other hand fumbling, tugging at the denim still clinging stubbornly to his skin. He cursed under his breath, yanking, jerking, his legs kicking behind me. “They’re strangling my ass.”

A shaky laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. I tilted my head down, breathless, lips brushing the curls plastered to his temple.

“That’s very erotic,” I teased, sarcasm sharp but warm.

He let out a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, muffled against my chest. “Goddamn… fucking—get off—” His thighs flexed beneath me, his heels scraping against the sheets as he tried to kick them down, still keeping me locked on him the whole time.

Finally the jeans gave, sliding off enough that he could kick them away. 

“Victory,” He sagged back into the mattress, curls spilling wild around his face like dark snakes against the pillow, breathing like he’d just fought a war. His chest rose hard and fast, and his eyes, half-lidded, glazed, dragged up my body like he was drunk on me. Then he tilted his chin up “Alright, doc…"  he smirked "show me what you got.”

That look, wrecked and cocky all at once, made my stomach twist deliciously. 

I bit my lip, smiling down at him, then braced my hands on his chest and started to move, his muscles twitching under my palms. Slowly, I rolled my hips, testing the drag of him inside me.

His hands found my thighs, gripping tighter with every rise and fall of my hips. His eyes fluttered half-shut, his mouth open on a strangled groan as if he was holding on by the thinnest thread.

The rhythm came faster, my hips finding their pace, each movement sending sparks tearing through me. His chest flexed under my hands, his stomach tightening with every shift, every squeeze of my body around him.

His grip was bruising now, his knuckles white on my thighs. He looked wrecked, like every second was torture. The veins in his neck stood out, tendons taut, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. 

I dragged my nails down his skin without realizing it, leaving red marks across the pale canvas of his torso.

“Okay—” his voice broke on a ragged breath, “cool. Yeah. Just—” another sharp gasp, “ruin me, why don’t you.” his hands slided up to clutch my hips, holding me like he wasn’t sure he’d last another second. I felt the tremor in his arms, the raw restraint in his grip.

But it was too late for restraint for me. The position, the freedom to move, the sight of him undone beneath me, it all spiraled together until I shattered. My body clenched around him, back arching, head thrown back as the orgasm ripped through me tearing a strangled cry from my throat. 

I collapsed forward, chest against his, still pulsing around him, boneless in the aftermath. His arms wrapped around me instantly, strong, desperate, crushing me so tight I thought he’d squeeze the air right out of my lungs. Then his hips moved, sharp, insistent thrusts upward, and my body rode the rhythm helplessly, still quivering from my release.

He was gone, no restraint this time, his breath hot against my ear, ragged and uneven. I could feel every muscle in him straining, his body chasing its own edge. My hand clutched the sheets at his side, fist tight, knuckles aching. I wanted to tell him to be careful, but no words came, only broken gasps. He was holding his breath too, like he was right at the brink.

Then it tore out of him...a low, guttural sound, primal and raw. His body jerked, and suddenly he pulled free just in time. Heat spilled hot against his own stomach, a few drops catching my skin.

I kept my face buried in his neck, my fist still knotted in the sheets, trembling with him as his head finally collapsed back against the bed, both of us shaking, gasping, undone.

And then...stillness. 

Just our ragged breathing, loud in the small space, the weight of him beneath me, the mess of our skin.

My ears rang with the silence, and I realized for the first time that outside, the storm had stopped. No more rain hammering the van, no more thunder. Just us.

I let my lips brush the shell of his ear, my voice low, still ragged. “The storm’s over.”

He huffed a laugh, still breathless, his chest rising fast beneath me. “Yeah, well...” he rasped, “Figures. Whole damn thing was just a deal I made with God. He said he’d shut it off if I managed to get you into my van.” 

I smiled at the ridiculousness and whispered “Idiot,” before kissing his cheek and sliding off him, my legs shook as I moved.

I turned, finding tissues on his nightstand, and reached for them. I started to clean him gently across his stomach but his hand shot out, catching my wrist, taking the tissue from me and swiping himself off in one careless motion before tossing it to the floor. Then he tugged my hand down against his chest, pinning it there, like he wasn’t ready to let me go even for a second.

I couldn’t fight the smile, eyes heavy, as I rested my chin on his chest, body sinking into his warmth.

His curls were less soaked now, drying into soft waves, and when he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, I thought I might melt all over again.

“I didn’t think you’d be like this in bed.” I murmured into the quiet.

Something flickered across his face instantly, a shadow pulling the light away. His gaze drifted past me, avoiding my eyes. “You thought I’d be some freak or something?”

The sudden change made my chest tighten, I knew that look. “No,” I rushed, shaking my head, “God, no. I expected you to be sweet. But you were… careful. Like you thought you might break me.”

He didn’t answer right away, just kept twirling one of my strands of hair between his fingers, eyes still averted.

“What?” I asked, my voice soft, coaxing.

He exhaled, the sound heavy. “When you were gone…I took some shit I shouldn’t have. One night I—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “I had this dream. You were there, but I wasn’t...good to you.” His throat bobbed. He forced the words out.

My breath hitched, but I kept my tone steady. “Was I consenting?”

His eyes flicked to mine, then away. He nodded. “Yeah. But… you were fucked up. High. Doesn’t count.”

I reached up, cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at me. “Eddie, it’s a dream. You were angry with me. You can’t control what your subconscious throws at you.” My thumb brushed along his cheekbone, grounding him. His eyes finally flicked to mine, raw and uncertain.

“What you can control,” I whispered, my thumb stroking along his cheekbone, “is how you’ve treated me here. Today. And that was…” My lips quirked in a tired, genuine smile.“…the best sex of my life.”

He snorted making a face. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

I let my smile grow wider “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

His eyes dropped, heavy-lidded, tracing over me like he was trying to memorize every inch of my face. The pad of his thumb brushed my forehead, soft and unhurried, then drifted lower to graze my cheekbone. My lashes fluttered at the touch. It was too much tenderness for my sleep-deprived brain. I stayed still, let him touch me like I was something fragile he’d been given permission to hold.

When he spoke, his voice was low, the kind of rasp you get when sleep is only one blink away. “Doesn’t matter, though. ’Cause this… it’s another dream. Tomorrow I’ll wake up, find out I failed again, and you’ll still be gone. None of this ever happened. ’Cause… how could it?”

A weak smile tugged at my lips, my eyes still shut under his touch. “Then I guess I’m dreaming too.” I whispered.

He huffed a tired laugh. “Yeah? Well, maybe we’re having the same dream. Is that a thing? You’d know, doc. Shared hallucinations? Dream telepathy? Some Freud shit?”

I cracked an eye open at him, amused despite myself. “Scientifically? No.”

He smirked faintly, dimples ghosting through his stubble. “Then maybe we’re the world’s first co-dreamers, a medical marvel ” He paused then, almost shyly, he added: “Tell you what...if this really is the same dream, when you wake up, even if I didn’t graduate, even if everything’s still the same… just come back anyway. Deal?”

My throat tightened. I opened my eyes fully, found his waiting, raw and uncertain. I smiled at him, small, aching. “Deal.”

He lifted his pinky, wiggling it between us like a kid. “Seal it.”

I gave a small laugh through my nose, hooked my pinky with his, and pressed it tight. His grin lingered a moment before fading into something softer, heavier, and he let our hands fall back onto his chest, still tangled together.

I let myself collapse against him again, pressing my ear to his skin.

The sound of his heartbeat filled me. For a while, I let it be enough. Just the soft rise of his chest beneath my cheek, the warmth of his skin under my palm, the weight of his arm heavy around my back. I could almost believe it...believe him, believe us.

But then the thought came. 

What if he was right?

It crept in, that familiar whisper. The one I thought I’d buried years ago.

What if none of this is real?

The silence wasn’t peace anymore. It was loud, too loud. My pulse skittered. My chest tightened like the room was shrinking.

What if my mind was doing it again, building whole worlds out of scraps? It wouldn’t be the first time.

I’d studied this. I knew the way the mind could splinter, fabricate, create entire worlds when it was pushed too far. Psychosis. Dissociation. Hallucinations so sharp and convincing they cut deeper than truth.

And I’d lived it, once.

Hadn’t I been the girl they whispered about in high school, the one who couldn’t keep it together? The one who’d disappear for weeks, only to come back thinner, quieter, carrying hospital bracelets like jewelry she couldn’t take off?

They told me later it was “episodes.” Breaks from reality. Trauma, chemical imbalance.

Now I knew the textbooks, the diagnostic criteria, the warning signs. And God, I ticked every box: losing my job, the move, the stress that never stopped pressing down. Sleep slipping through my fingers night after night. Too much noise, too much silence, too much of everything. Isn’t that the recipe for a break? A trigger?

My chest tightened.

Maybe this was just another episode.

Maybe I was sixteen again, back in that sterile room with the buzzing fluorescent lights, and none of this—Eddie, his warmth, his heartbeat—was anything more than a beautiful lie my exhausted brain had spun out to protect me.

I swallowed hard, but the taste of old pills rose like bile in my throat. The tiny white tablets they’d handed me, promising clarity. I’d stopped taking them years ago, convinced I could outgrow the fog.

But maybe I’d been wrong.

Maybe stopping had been a mistake.

My hand tightened over his chest, desperate, clutching him like if I just held on hard enough he wouldn’t vanish into the shadows of my mind.

Because what if Eddie wasn’t here at all?

What if the laughter, the touch, the tenderness...what if every second of it was just my brain tricking me?

A cold shiver ran through me, sharp and merciless.

Maybe I wasn’t in his bed.

Maybe I was lying somewhere else entirely.

Maybe the next time I opened my eyes, it wouldn’t be him beside me.

It would be white walls, the smell of antiseptic.

It would be the echo of my own scream as the truth came crashing back.

I buried my face into his skin, clutching tighter. So tight he stirred in his sleep, shifting with a small, unconscious murmur, his arms adjusting around me like instinct.

What if I never left Hawkins High? What if the hospitals, the white rooms, the restraints, that was the truth, and this was the lie? What if all of it, becoming a therapist, moving away, coming back as a woman and falling for a patient, was nothing but the fantasy of a broken mind trying to survive?

Maybe I wasn’t a therapist.

Maybe I was still the patient and I just had to wake up.

a/n: And that’s where I leave you… sooo, tell me besties, is this all real or just one giant hallucination? 👀 Did she actually graduate, become a therapist, and fall for her patient… or is she about to wake up? Drop your theories in the comments, babes! I can’t wait to hear how unhinged you get with this one 😂 Secondly… yes, yes, I finally gave you the smut. And honestly? I had the best time writing it because this is exactly how I imagine being with Eddie would be... messy, clumsy, sarcastic, sweet, and just the right amount of frantic 😏🔥

this chapter is officially dedicated to Ozzy 🖤 (still can’t believe he’s gone, RIP legend).

-> READ NEXT SESSION HERE.

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog @clya4 @tigolebittiez @ari-joe @love-anonymous-writer @the-rowanoke @velvetvenusvixen

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

general warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angst, oral sex (m receiving), drug use, possessiveness, a bit of dark Eddie, Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Session six - Eddie’s POV

Mr. Keating was up at the chalkboard, scribbling some list about… I don’t even know. Civil War battles? Honestly, it could’ve been the Ten Commandments and I still wouldn’t have cared.

Because I was making my own list.

Not of things to memorize for the test, but of cold, hard evidence that Marissa-the-therapist was into me.

1. The night she was high out of her mind, she told me she liked my face. My face! Then she pulled me toward her for a kiss. She does not remember, but that’s fine, I remember. And in my book, that’s proof that, when her brain isn’t busy playing by the rules, she finds me irresistible.

2. Last session. She laughed at my joke. Not a polite chuckle. No, a real can’t-hold-it-in laugh. Which, if I understand women at all (I don’t), is basically the same as writing “I have a crush on you” in her diary with little hearts over the i’s.

3. The cassette. How could I forget? Months ago, she handed me a tape of Guns N’ Roses and said, “I think you’ll like them.” Like I was special. I’d bet my last D&D miniature she hasn’t given that kind of gift to any other student she’s counseled. Tell me that’s not personal.

Now, sure, rationally, and I can be rational sometimes despite popular belief, I knew nothing could actually happen between us. But still… making this list? It pumped up my ego like nothing else.

Hell, it even made me want to try in school. Which is the whole point of these sessions, right? To keep me from flunking senior year for the third time.

And, okay, maybe I’d let my brain wander once or twice (fine, every night) to a certain fantasy: Me in my cap and gown, diploma in hand, the crowd going wild. And there, in the middle of it all, her, clapping for me.

I glanced at the clock.

One more hour ‘til I saw her again.

Plenty of time to add a few more items to the list.

I pushed open her office door without knocking. Yeah I know, rude, but she’s was used to me by now.

I froze. Not her.

Instead, there was this woman I’d never seen before, maybe mid-forties, dark skin, glasses sliding halfway down her nose as she wrote in a folder. She looked up at me like she’d been expecting me.

My heart did this weird stop-start thing in my chest.

“Uh… pretty sure I’ve got the wrong room,” I muttered, glancing at the plaque outside.

“You’re here for your session?” she asked, calm as a pond.

“…Yeah?”

She glanced at some paper on her desk, probably the sacred list of all the troubled kids, and then back up at me. “Eddie Munson?”

I nodded, still standing in the doorway like my shoes were nailed to the floor. Something in my stomach twisted.

“Come in, have a seat.”

I stepped inside slowly, like the room might explode if I moved too fast.

Sliding into the chair, I glanced around. The coffee mug on the desk was different, even the air smelled different. “Where’s she?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual but feeling something ugly crawl up the back of my throat.

The woman folded her hands on the desk. “My name is Dr. Owens,” she said, voice soft but deliberate. “Marissa had to step away from her role here. I’ll be taking over your sessions from now on.”

I stared at her. “Step away?”

“Yes,” she nodded, too evenly. “She had to leave her position,” she said, voice soft like she was talking to a scared kid. “I know change can be difficult, but I’m here to help you.”

It felt like she was talking to me the way teachers talk to kindergarteners about why the class hamster is ‘in a better place now.’

“Okay… but where is she?” I pushed. “Why’d she leave?”

Another calm blink, like she had all the time in the world. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the circumstances. What matters now is that we focus on you.”

Focus on me, right.

Except all I could think was that someone had yanked her out of my life like ripping a record off mid-song, and no one was gonna tell me why.

My brain was already running laps, a hundred different reasons.

Maybe she’d gotten sick. Maybe she’d moved. Maybe—

God.

Maybe she remembered. The kiss.

Maybe she decided she didn’t want to deal with me anymore, not here, not anywhere.

My leg was bouncing so hard the chair rattled.

Dr. Owens was still talking soft, slow, like she thought I was fragile but her words didn’t land. Not one.

Before I even realized it, I was on my feet.

The legs of the chair screeched against the floor.

And then I was out the door, the sound of her voice chasing me down the hall, getting quieter with every step.

A week.

Seven days since I’d walked into her office and found… not her.

And yeah, I handled it great. If by “great” you mean skipping school for days, parked in the back of the van with a bottle, a pack, and a whole lot of bad thoughts.

Didn’t eat much. Didn’t sleep much. Mostly stared at the ceiling and let my brain run every possible scenario for why she’d left. None of them made me feel better.

After I don't know how many days, I got an unholy pounding on the van door at, like, dawn.

It was Dustin on his bike, helmet on. Backpack bulging like he was ready for a survival trek. He didn’t even let me speak. Just “Get up. You’re coming to school.”

I muttered something about homework allergies, but the little bastard wasn’t having it. Ten minutes later, I was stumbling into first period, smelling like a Marlboro factory, looking like a dead zombie.

By the end of March I went through the motions...class, hallways, lunch, all with my brain set to static.

So there I was, in the cafeteria with the Hellfire guys.

I hadn’t told anyone.

Not Gareth, not Jeff, not Lucas or Mike. Just Dustin knew, because the kid’s got a bloodhound nose for this crap and wouldn’t leave me alone until I spilled.

So imagine my surprise when, by then, I could feel it. The stares, the whispers, the way conversations shut down the second I walked past.

Apparently Hawkins High didn’t need me to give them the headline. They’d written their own:

Local Freak seduced by shrink, dumped, spirals into tragic rock-bottom.

Hell of a tabloid title, just missing the UFO abduction part.

Even the guys, every single one of them was staring at me like I’d sprouted a second head.

“What?” I said around a bite of whatever the lunch lady was calling meat today. “Do I have, like, spaghetti sauce on my face? Is there an alien behind me?”

They didn’t laugh. Which was unsettling, because usually all I have to do is breathe weird and these nerds crack up.

Instead, Gareth leaned in. “Uh… what time are we meeting tonight?”

I frowned. “For what?” I mumbled around a forkful of whatever-the-hell this was.

Everyone exchanged glances, then it hit me. “Oh… shit.” I dropped the fork, leaned back in my chair like I’d just been punched.

Tonight. One of our last campaigns before graduation. I’d been hyping it for months, and I’d forgotten it even existed.

I slouched back in my chair, running both hands through my hair until it stood up worse than usual. “Oh, man. I—” My voice cracked, which was humiliating. “I totally spaced. I can’t believe I forgot”

“It’s fine,” Lucas jumped in quickly, too quickly.

“Yeah, no big deal,” Jeff added. Only it didn’t sound fine. It sounded like worry wearing a fake mustache.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, staring down at my tray. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Yeah,” Mike said under his breath. “We were starting to wonder the same thing.”

The table went quiet again. I could feel all their eyes on me, like spotlights. I dragged a hand down my face, trying to scrape the feeling off.

Then something weird happened.

Everyone… looked at Lucas. Like, all at once.

I caught it in my peripheral, sets of eyes ping-ponging in his direction like I wasn’t sitting right there. “What?” I asked, looking between them.

Lucas suddenly found his mashed potatoes fascinating.

Mike’s elbow “accidentally” jabbed him in the side, subtle as a brick to the face.

“Hey—what the hell?” Lucas hissed.

“What the hell what?” I narrowed my eyes. “Why is everyone staring at you like you’ve got state secrets?”

“Nothing,” Lucas said too quickly, waving a hand. “It’s nothing.”

“Mm-hm,” I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. “See, that’s exactly what people say when it’s definitely something.”

Jeff scratched his neck. “We just think maybe you should, uh—”

“Nope,” Lucas cut him off. “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

“Sinclair,” I said, my voice flat now, “You can either tell me now, or I’m gonna follow you all day like a bad smell until you do. Your call.”

He shook his head. “You’re gonna get mad.”

I spread my hand. “I’m already mad, man. This is just my factory setting.”

Mike finally piped up. “Jason saw you two—uh—saw you and your therapist... on the street, hugging.”

I frowned. “...Okay? Congratulations to him for having eyes?”

Lucas groaned, rubbing his face. “He told the principal. Said—” He glanced around like the mashed potatoes on the plates might save him. “Said you were… you know… involved and… the principal kicked her out.”

My fork froze halfway to my mouth.

Lucas winced. “...that’s what I heard in the locker room. Jason was bragging about it. Said...he ‘got the maniac out of here.’"

I set the fork down slowly, my pulse kicking up.

Everyone at the table suddenly found the walls incredibly interesting.

A heavy silence fell.

“Well,” I said after a dramatic pause, my voice tight, “isn’t that just fucking adorable.” and slammed my palms on the table so hard the trays rattled, and the whole place went quiet for a split second.

The chair scraped back so hard it almost toppled.

I was on my feet before I even realized I’d moved, pulse pounding in my ears like a war drum.

This time? Yeah. This time I was going to break his fucking nose.

Heads turned, conversations stopped. The whole cafeteria went into that weird frozen state you see right before a fight breaks out.

Hellfire’s table erupted behind me, voices calling my name, chairs clattering.

I stalked forward, long strides eating the distance toward the gym hallway. My fists clenched so hard my knuckles ached. Every step felt like it shook the floor.

“Eddie, wait!” Dustin’s sneakers squeaked as he ran to catch up, voice pitched halfway between panic and a bad sitcom. “Okay, yes, broken bones are theoretically satisfying, but detention and assault charges are, like, way less fun—”

Didn’t hear him or maybe I just didn’t want to.

Lucas came up on my other side, breathless. “Man, listen to me—”

Nope. My ears were full of the roar in my own head, like blood rushing in time with my steps. 

All I could see was Jason’s smug face, all I could hear was his voice saying got the maniac out of here.

The double doors to the gym were in front of me now, my hands already reaching for them.

I shoved them open so hard they bounced off the walls. 

A couple of the jocks were hanging under the basket, talking plays or some other mindless crap. They all stopped mid-sentence when they saw me storming through with Lucas and Dustin in tow.

No Jason, so I didn’t even look at them.

Didn’t need to see him to know where he’d be. I could smell the bastard, like a damn animal catching scent of its prey, my body just knew where to go.

Locker room.

The door banged again against the wall as I shoved inside.

And there he was.

Back to me, digging through his gym bag, talking to one of his buddies. His friend’s eyes went wide, words dying in his throat the moment he clocked me.

Few seconds and my hands were on Jason’s collar, yanking him so hard his feet scraped the floor. I slammed him into the lockers, the clang echoed in the small space, sharp and satisfying. Lucas and Dustin’s voices blurred somewhere behind me, high-pitched and panicked, but I didn’t hear the words. 

All I saw was him.

All I felt was weeks of anger and frustration burning under my skin, now with a nice, neat place to go.

Jason’s first reaction was shock, wide-eyed, a fish out of water. Then his expression shifted, recognition, like he’d been waiting for me to come swinging.

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Hey—hey—relax,” he said, voice oozing fake calm. “I didn’t do anything to you, man. My intentions were good.”

My grip tightened, knuckles grinding against the stiff fabric at his throat. “You got her kicked out, you piece of shit.” My voice came out low, dangerous, like it belonged to someone else. “She lost her job because of you.”

Jason’s mouth twisted into something halfway between pity and smugness. “You should be thanking me, Munson. She wasn’t good for you. You heard the stories, right? About when she was at Hawkins High?  She used to get carted off to the hospital all the time ‘cause she’d lose it. Full-on crazy."

I bared my teeth, shoving him harder against the locker. “You’re just spitting bullshit to save your ass.”

He shook his head slowly, eyes locked on mine. “My cousin Luis went to school with her. Said everyone knew she was giving certain… favors to one of her teachers for better grades.”

My knuckles whitened in his collar.  “Shut your fucking mouth—” My voice cracked, and I didn’t even care.

Jason leaned in like he had the upper hand now, his breath hot against my face. “Luis said they hooked up sometimes. And you know what? Makes sense you’d be into her, he told me she’s a total freak in bed. Weeks ago? She called him, asked to hang out.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Something hot and cold shot through my chest at once, and for a split second my grip faltered.

Weeks ago...

My brain flickered for some unwanted flashes...her mouth on someone else, his hands on her. It was like getting sucker-punched in the ribs from the inside.

Jason saw it. Smelled the weakness so he went for the jugular. “Maybe you’re just not freak enough to keep up with her… needs, Munson”

Something in me snapped.

I didn’t hear Dustin shouting, didn’t hear Lucas swear, just the white-hot rush of blood in my ears. I drew my fist back and went for his face but the bastard twisted, shoving out of my grip. Voices were shouting, feet moving fast around us. Jason’s friend grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

I surged forward, aiming again, but suddenly Dustin was in my way, hands out “Eddie, No!”

My arm was already moving but my elbow caught Dustin behind me right in the face.

The sound was sick, flesh and cartilage and a muffled cry. Dustin went down hard, clutching his nose, blood spilling through his fingers.

I froze.

The room was spinning but all I could see was Dustin on the ground, eyes wide and wet, looking up at me like he didn’t even know who I was for a second.

Jason and his buddy were already gone.

And all that adrenaline, all that rage, crashed into one cold, heavy truth in my chest—

I’d just hurt the wrong person, I hurt my friend. 

The locker room was dead silent except for the metallic drip… drip… drip of his blood on the tile.

My chest heaved. My fist was still clenched.

I didn’t even hear them come in.

One second the locker room was just me, Lucas and Dustin’s blood on the tile and the next, Hellfire was there.

Mike was already crouched by Dustin, hands moving quick, grabbing paper towels, pressing them to his nose.

Lucas’s hand landed on my shoulder. “Hey, man—”

I jumped like he’d burned me. Pulled away fast, every muscle still lit up like a downed powerline. My breathing was too loud in my own ears. I backed up until my shoulder hit cold metal and stayed there.

Everything after that blurred, voices, questions, the sound of sneakers squeaking on the tile as they got Dustin up, out, away from me.

End of the day, sun low and bleeding orange over the parking lot.

They were all outside my van. Dustin sat on the curb with a bag of ice pressed to his nose, still swollen and red. Mike and Lucas hovered close, shooting me little glances when they thought I wasn’t looking.

I was on the steps of the van, elbows on my knees, hands knotted in my hair, eyes locked on the cracked asphalt like it might give me a way out of this whole mess.

I’d already told Dustin I was sorry, about a hundred times.

Did it again. “I’m so sorry, man.”

He gave a crooked little smile, voice stuffed from the swelling. “If you’re trying to win some kind of Guinness record for apologies, you’re killing it.”

Nobody laughed, not even him.

He adjusted the ice. “Only sorry I’m taking is seeing you graduate this year.”

My head stayed down. “Can’t.” My voice came out flat, dead weight in my throat. “Don’t care. Not going back.”

Mike stepped forward, like he could will me into listening. “We can help you catch up.”

Lucas nodded. “And I’ll make sure Jason keeps his distance.”

Didn’t matter, none of it mattered.

Because she wasn’t coming back.

She wasn’t gonna walk into that office again, wasn’t gonna look at me like maybe I wasn’t a total lost cause.

I’d wrecked it. Her job, her reputation, gone.

All because of me. I felt sick.

All I wanted was for them to leave so I could get high enough to not think or feel anything at all.

The next month was a loop. Same scenes, same soundtrack, same busted record skipping in my skull.

Every morning, without fail, Dustin or Mike would show up like the goddamn truancy police, banging on the van until I caved. Drag me to school, shove me through the doors, dump me in homeroom like some kind of stray dog they’d decided to foster.

The looks had changed.

Before, it was the usual Hawkins High Greatest Hits: disgust, fear, maybe a little bit of “is he gonna sacrifice me to Satan behind the gym?”

Now? Pity.

The jocks didn’t shove me into lockers anymore. Teachers didn’t yell at me for being late. Even the lunch lady gave me extra fries once, like she thought I might be on my last meal.

And Lucas actually kept his word, Jason stayed out of my way or maybe Lucas kept me out of his. Either way, I only ever saw golden boy at lunch.

That was my favorite part of the day. Because that’s when I’d park myself at Hellfire’s table, ignore the guys completely, and just…stare.

Jason knew. Pretended he didn’t, but he knew. You could see it in the way his shoulders went tight, the way his jaw worked too hard when he chewed.

Meanwhile, I’d shovel cold fries into my mouth and silently catalogue all the different ways I could smash his teeth, break his perfect jaw, make him feel just one ounce of the misery he left rotting inside me.

End of the day, I’d head back to the van. Wayne would be there sometimes, sitting at the little table with a cup of coffee, trying real hard to do the whole “concerned guardian” thing. He’d ask how school was, if I’d eaten, if I wanted to talk.

I’d mumble something and lock myself in my room before he could try again.

That’s where I stayed.

Curtains closed, lights off. Just me and whatever it took to make my head go quiet. Weed didn’t cut it anymore, I’d built a tolerance that could tranquilize a horse. So I’d moved on. Shrooms, sometimes. Acid if I could get it, a trip that bent the walls was better than lying awake.

And her. She was in every corner of it.

Some days I missed her so much my chest hurt, like the space between my ribs was caving in. I wanted to see her, hear her voice, have her look at me.

I figured I’d probably never see her again. Why would she come back to Hawkins, after everything? With the kind of rumors flying around her, I couldn’t even blame her, she was too smart for this shithole.

Still, pathetic as it was,  I caught myself wishing I had something, a picture of her, anything.

Other days...I doubted her.

Because Jason didn’t sound like he was bluffing, not entirely.

The crap about her at Hawkins High - the hospital, the teacher thing - yeah no, I knew that town well enough to smell bullshit dressed up as “everybody knows.” Maybe there was a sliver of truth in there, warped and stretched until it was practically unrecognizable.

But the cousin part? The call she made? That felt like something he knew.

Which meant while I was spending months acting like some lovesick middle schooler over her, she was screwing a knockoff version of Jason Carver. And not just that, Jason’s little add-on, about her being a “freak in bed.”

I hated that it stuck in my head. Hated the flash of heat it brought with it, the twist in my gut that wasn’t entirely anger.

Freak how?

I’d refuse to touch myself when the thought came, because it felt… wrong, like letting him win somehow.

So I’d kill the thought the only way I knew, drinking, smoking or dropping something under my tongue.

It was a Saturday night when I went low enough to touch rock bottom. No school the next day, no reason to keep myself in check. So I didn't because I wanted nothing. No thoughts, no goddamn feelings, just black. 

But my brain didn't listen. Even drugged to the eyeballs, it still found her in a dream.

My mind dragged me back to that night at the concert like I’d been yanked by the collar.

The dream didn’t start soft, no drifting into it. One second I was awake, the next I was right back in the bathroom of the club with her.

Only it wasn’t how it happened. 

In real life that night I’d pulled her out of the pit, gotten her into the empty bathroom, sat her up on the sink and cleaned the blood off her temple. Careful like she was something breakable. I kept my voice low, told her to hold still, to let me take care of it. 

But in that dream? I wasn’t taking care of her, I wasn’t even pretending to.

She wasn’t on the sink.

She was on her knees, looking up at me as I stood over her.

Her leather pants creasing against the cold white tile, back of her head tilted just enough that it rested against the porcelain sink behind her. Hair messy from the pit, loose strands sticking to her cheek where that same drop of blood still traced a slow, crimson line from her temple. I didn’t wipe it away in the dream, because maybe...she deserved it.

My hand was spread wide across her crown, the silver of my rings glinting under the ugly bathroom light, veins standing out along my wrist as I hold her still, forcing her to take exactly what I gave her.

My jeans were undone, hanging loose on my hips. My hard length already disappearing in between her stretched lips.

She blinked up at me through the curtain of her lashes, her breath hitching in rhythm with the movement of my hips - forward back, forward again into the heat of her mouth.

My other hand braced hard on the sink beside her head, knuckles whitening against the porcelain, keeping me steady as I rocked in. 

And her eyes...same as that night, glassy, half-lidded, high out of her mind, unfocused from the drug she’d taken. In the dream, I made her look wrecked in the kind of way that fed the darkest parts of me.

Because I officially hated her.

Because she’d left me to rot. Because I was jealous of Jason’s fucking cousin. Because she walked away without a word, like I wasn’t even worth a goodbye. I hated her for it. Hated her for the whispers in the hallway, for the way she’d ripped the brakes clean off my life.

And here, in this twisted mess my brain had built, she was mine. Not in some gentle, soft way, mine because I was taking, because I was holding her still and not letting her go.

Mine in the ugliest, most possessive way I knew.

She didn’t fight. Didn’t even flinch. She just looked up at me, pupils blown wide, like she was offering herself up to it, like she deserved it. Like every push was some kind of penance she was gladly paying.

The bead of blood slowly slid down the curve of her cheek, that hollowed then filled again every time I moved. 

I felt the soft resistance of her throat and the heat pooling in my gut clawed higher. The wet sound of it echoing off the tiles, tangled with the faint clink of my belt.

That flicker in her gaze—submission, heat—lit something brutal in my chest. She was watching me with that look, the one that said take what you want.

Then I freed her mouth as I leaned down, closing the space between us.

I catched her cheeks in my hand, fingers pressing lightly as I tilted her face upward. 

I stole a kiss—open-mouthed, quick, nothing tender. Just enough to smear the dryness from her lips, to leave them slick the way I wanted.

When I straightened, her gaze was already fixed back on me with heavy eyes, mouth parted again, obedient as if the pause had never happened.

It twisted something in my chest. Because the truth was ugly: I was punishing her for things I had no right to punish her for. She wasn’t mine, we weren’t anything. And still I took, like she owed me.

My palm slid to rest on her hairline and my thumb brushed over her damp forehead in a single, fleeting caress, the only softness I’d let slip while I sank back into her warmth again.

Her eyes fluttered, a muffled small sound escaped her like half-plea, half-release, as her mouth was fully filled again.

The noise that tore out of me in answer was raw and low.

I should’ve stopped. Instead I could feel my jaw clench, the muscles in my arm tightening as I held her steady. My rings dug into her hair, my knuckles brushed her scalp. 

But her gaze never wavered, that was what pushed me over the edge.

I woke up choking on my own breath with sheets damp and twisted around my legs. My chest heaved like I’d been running, my pulse pounding against the inside of my skull.

I didn’t even have time to register where I was before the disgust hit, sudden and sour, rising fast. I stumbled out of bed, knees nearly buckling, and made it to the trash can just in time before I doubled over and vomited, retching until there was nothing left but acid. What little food I’d forced down earlier, the chemicals still in my system, it all came back in a violent rush.

I collapsed back against the wall, sweat running down my spine.

I looked down at myself, only in boxers, skin damp, trembling and the shame hit harder than the nausea.

Because I knew what had happened, the stickiness between my thighs told me everything. 

I’d never felt more filthy, not just from the sweat and the mess, but from where my head had gone. From what I’d done to her in there, and how much that part of me — that dark, ugly part — had enjoyed it.

She had always been untouchable in my head. Something I could only look at from below. Something to protect, the kind of thing you held in your hands like glass, careful not to crack it.

But in that dream… Jesus.

In my dream, I’d dragged her down to where I was and kept her there.

She was dirty and I wanted her that way. Wanted her at my feet, small, surrending, wrecked. My hands on her, like she belonged to me in the worst possible sense. Like I could stain her and make it stick.

The thought made my stomach seize again.

Freak. They’d called me that my whole damn life, and I’d laughed it off, made it a badge. But now? Now it felt like the truest thing about me.

I wiped my mouth with a shaking hand, still panting, still sweating. My legs felt weak. My whole body hurt like my muscles had been clenched for hours.

I sank lower, curling against the side of the bed, pressing my palms into my eyes until stars burst behind my lids, trying to erase every frame, every second of that disturbing dream. 

I wanted to crawl out of my skin, rip it off, burn it. Anything to not feel like this.

A knock at the door made me flinch. Wayne’s voice, low and careful: “You alright in there, kid?”

I froze. Even the thought of what noises he might’ve heard made my stomach turn.

I didn’t answer, couldn’t because my throat was a desert.

I had to get out. Out of this van, out of my head, out of this version of me that sat here rotting in the dark.

I dragged my knees to my chest, still trembling, still reeking of sweat and shame. 

Tomorrow, I decided.

Tomorrow I start clawing my way back.

Because if I stayed here, I was never going to come back at all.

For the next months, I promised myself I would scrub her out of me. I’d bury every thought, every image, every damn ghost of her.

a/n: Well, this was cheerful, wasn’t it? 😂 Don’t worry, I promise I won’t leave you drowning in angst forever. Next chapters = sunshine, rainbows, puppies in flower crowns…Okay, maybe still a sprinkle of drama, but like, diet drama. And about our boy Eddie...yeah, he went through a pretty dark moment here. But hey, we all have our shadows, right? Personally, mine showed up as getting way too hot while writing that scene...🔥

-> READ NEXT SESSION HERE.

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog @clya4 @tigolebittiez @ari-joe @love-anonymous-writer @the-rowanoke

[clya4]

what chapter are you most excited to write or share with us 🙌🙌

Honestly, I cannot WAIT to write the last two chapters of Freak Therapy, because they’re gonna be all about sweet love and… ahem… smut 👀🔥 Not gonna spoil too much though 👄. Right now I’m working on the one before those and… yeah, turns out it’s the trickiest so far because it’s a lil’ dark 😫

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

general warnings: Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), eventual smut, sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

FIRST SESSION

SECOND SESSION

THIRD SESSION

WINTER BREAK part1 - part2

FOURTH SESSION

FIFTH SESSION

SIXTH SESSION coming soon

SEVENTH SESSION

EIGHTH SESSION

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

-> FREAK THERAPY MASTERLIST HERE

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

Warnings: Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), eventual smut, sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Session five - Marissa’s POV

I was lying on my side, sheets tangled around my bare thighs, skin already tender in spots where bruises would bloom by morning. Behind me, the soft rustling of clothes, a belt buckle, the zip of jeans. The familiar, awful sound of someone getting dressed too quickly.

I stared at the cassette on my nightstand. White plastic, fading sharpie letters: GNR.

Patience

The word stabbed at my chest, again.

I didn’t need to turn around to know Luis was running a hand through his hair right now, probably checking himself in the mirror with that blank look of drunk confusion, or maybe disappointment. 

Whatever, I didn't care. I hadn’t done this for him. This had been about Eddie or, more precisely, escaping Eddie.

Because after he walked out of my office leaving that goddamn cassette on my desk, everything had shifted. That moment, so small and quiet, had hit me harder than anything he’s ever said or done.

He saw me. He remembered. He listened. Even when I pretended not to, even when I tried to shut it all down, to be his therapist, to be professional, safe.

He still saw me.

And the look in his eyes when he said it — your favorite song’s Patience — it undid something in me. Those big brown eyes, heavy with all the weight he carried, too much for someone his age.

And I wanted to hold him, like really hold him.

I was falling for Eddie Munson.

Fully, irreversibly.

And I had to stop it.

That entire week had been unbearable. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t think without him slipping through the cracks of every silence.

The next session was tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

And I still didn’t know how I was going to face him.

So I called Luis. Ex-fuckbuddy from school, clean-cut. Reliable and so boring. We hadn’t seen each other in years, but I knew what he was good for...hands, mouths, temporary erasure.

I wore something easy, put on a little perfume. We met at some generic bar downtown, and I let myself pretend this was normal. 

Luis was a golden boy, squeaky-clean, charming in that beer-commercial kind of way. I didn’t even like him back then, but he was safe...he didn’t see me.

Except twenty minutes in and two beers down, he asked if what people used to say about me back in school was true. I stared at him over my glass and thought: you fucking idiot. I should’ve left right then, but I didn’t because I was desperate. So I laughed it off, told him they weren’t and I let him pay for the next round.

And a few hours later, we were at my place. Hands under my shirt, everything moving fast like it was supposed to, like I wanted it to.

Luis’s mouth found my neck with a hard bite and a gasp slipped out before I could stop it. He caught it, just like back then,  and his palm cracked across my cheek in one practiced, unhesitating slap. Not out of anger, out of knowing exactly what it did to me.

The sting bloomed hot, sharp…and before I could even exhale, the same hand clamped over my mouth. Warm, heavy, cutting my breath in half.

Heat flared instantly, the way it always had. That jolt of pain turning to something else, something I’d dissected years later in clinical terms —power exchange, sensory override—but right now, it was just raw, familiar. 

And the irony wasn’t lost on me: the only way I’d managed to get off lately was imagining Eddie’s arms around me: Warm, sweet...safe. This was the opposite, deliberately the opposite. A distraction loud enough to drown him out.

Then Luis shoved me onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under my spine. His fingers wrapped tight around my wrist, too tight, pinning it into the sheets like he was nailing me there. He yanked at the waistband of my jeans, quick, jerky, impatient, shoving them down in one rough motion, baring only what he wanted.

And I felt delirious because it was working. My body was lit up, primed, ready to be taken apart and used. I wanted him to strip the control from my hands, crush me into something wordless, brainless.

But when my eyes squeezed shut, it wasn’t Luis I saw. It was Eddie. His face, the untamed fall of his hair, that silver ring he fidgets with when he’s nervous, the warmth in his smile, the sharp edge of his anger, the hollow ache of his hurt.

And just like that, the heat drained out of me so fast it left me cold. My body locked up, stiff under his hands. I pushed Luis back and told him I wasn’t feeling well, that I needed him to leave. He didn’t argue, just muttered something and started dressing.

Now here I was, back turned, listening to a man I didn’t want zip up his jeans.

This was me slipping back into my old skin, the toxic one. The girl who’d do anything to quiet her head, to escape herself for a few hours, even if it meant letting someone else take the wheel. I thought I’d buried her years ago under late-night study sessions, evaluations from professors who said I had “discipline.” I thought I’d scrubbed her out of my system with healthy routines, the clinical detachment I wore like armor.

But Eddie… Eddie was peeling all of that away without even trying. One cassette tape and he had me unraveling.

I’d come back to Hawkins for an internship, a stepping stone toward the future I’d mapped out in meticulous detail. And now, here I was...wondering if I even wanted that future anymore. Wondering if I could still do the work I’d fought so hard for when the only thing I could think about was him.

I glanced at the cassette again while the ghost of Luis's grip still circled my wrist.

Patience.

Being seen like that, really seen...it had been more intimate than anything I’d felt in years and it scared the hell out of me.

The front door clicked shut. Silence settled.

My skin was still sore where Luis had left his mark. I’d tried to scrub Eddie out of my mind with pressure and pain.

It hadn’t worked,  I tortured my body for nothing.

I could still feel Eddie, everywhere Luis hadn’t been.

My throat tightened, chest squeezing like something had cracked inside. Before I could stop it, a tear slid down my cheek, hot and traitorous.

And that was the first time I cried for Eddie Munson.

Eddie’s POV

That fucking song was still in my head.

No matter what I did, how loud I played Metallica or even how much Rick’s weed I smoked to try and melt it out of my brain, it was still there.

Even now, in the middle of the Hawkins High cafeteria, trying to cram an entire semester of Algebra II into the ten minutes before Ms. Simons dropped a pop quiz on my ass.

“And you carry the x, not the two,” Mike was saying, stabbing his pencil at a crumpled worksheet like it owed him money.

“No,” groaned Jeff from across the table, chewing on the end of his hoodie string, “he distributes the two before combining like terms. Jesus Christ, Wheeler, do you want him to graduate or die trying?”

“Distribute what?!” I hissed, rubbing both eyes like I could press the math into my brain.

Mike threw his arms up. “We’re all wasting our time if he doesn’t understand basic—”

“Here,” Dustin, looking like an overconfident little professor, chimed in, handing me a tiny scrap of notebook paper torn from the margins of The Silmarillion, of all things. “I wrote the key formulas. Just keep it in your pocket. Don’t get caught. Also don’t sweat through your jeans or the ink’ll smudge.”

I stared at it. “You think I sweat through my jeans?”

“Not on purpose,” Dustin said.

“I hate this,” I muttered, shoving the paper into my vest pocket.

“Not as much as this quiz is gonna hate you,” muttered Gareth, flipping his drumsticks between his fingers.

Across from me, Jeff leaned in. “Okay, let’s just assume Munson is functionally illiterate in math—”

“Hey—”

“—so we focus on survival. Multiple choice? Pick C. Always C.”

Mike threw his pencil down. “That’s literally the worst advice I’ve ever heard.”

“Wrong,” Jeff shot back. “The worst advice you’ve ever heard is ‘Sure, join the basketball team, they totally respect nerds.’”

Lucas, sitting a few chairs down, grimaced. “Uncalled for, man.”

“You guys,” I said, pushing my tray away like food had personally offended me. “If I survive this, I’m writing you all into the next campaign as noble high elves. Except Mike. Mike gets to be a goblin., a dumb one.”

“Hey—!”

“Fitting,” said Dustin with a shrug.

The table cracked up. I leaned back, secretly enjoying the noise. It was easy to forget the constant buzz of her in my head when I was with them.

But then, of course, the cafeteria gods decided the vibes were too good.

“Hey FREAK!”

That voice. Fucking Carver. I turned, jaw already tight, as Jason strutted past with one of his matching clones, both in their stupid varsity jackets, smelling like cologne and mediocrity. He tossed his head in that smug way only douchebags and shampoo commercials could get away with.

“You’re looking cleaner these days, Munson. Shrink’s magic finally working?”

My shoulders locked. He smirked, eyes cutting. “Or maybe she’s just got a kink for broken toys? I heard she is saving her best hands-on treatment just for you.”

The table went dead silent.

My blood ran hot.

Not just the words, the way he said them. Loud enough for the nearby tables to catch the gist, enough that the gossip machine wouldn’t even have to work hard.

I could feel the looks. That whisper-ready charge in the air. The kind of attention I didn’t want, not for me and sure as hell not for her.

My blood boiled hot, my fists curling under the table, nails digging into my palms. Jason kept walking, like he’d just dropped a lit match into a dry forest and couldn’t wait to watch the smoke.

I couldn't say anything because the only thing I wanted to do was to leap across the table, wipe that smirk off his face and break his fucking nose. Twice.

Dustin stood up. “Back off, Jason.”

“Yeah,” muttered Jeff. “don’t you have a mirror to go flirt with?”

Jason didn’t even turn around, just smiled and vanished into the crowd of athletes near the vending machines.

Lucas, sitting a few tables over with his team, caught my eye. He looked… apologetic. “Just let it go, man,” he said quietly.

I sat there, pulse still thudding in my ears, wondering how the hell he could’ve known something like that… or if he was just fishing for gossip that, unbeknownst to me, was actually fucking true. I could feel it already, that prickling weight of eyes on me.

Slowly, I turned my head toward the next table over. Sure enough, some girl I didn’t even know was staring at me like I was a live exhibit at the zoo.

So I did what any reasonable human being would do in that situation: widened my eyes, bared my teeth in an exaggerated snarl, and jerked forward just enough to make her flinch.

She yelped, clutching her tray.  The look on her face was worth at least half the Algebra grade I wasn’t going to get today.

Mike snorted into his milk carton. Dustin muttered, “Real mature,”

Before anyone could say anything else, the bell shrieked through the cafeteria. Like breaking a spell, the table exploded into motion.

I got to my feet with them, actually kind of relieved to be herded toward Ms. Simons’ class.

Almost.

At least the quiz meant my brain would be too busy panicking over algebra to replay the last five minutes — or the last weeks — on a loop.

The quiz went… shockingly well.

Mental note: buy Dustin a burger for that cheat sheet, and maybe send a silent thank-you to the nerd sitting in front of me who all but shoved the answer to problem three in my face.

But now, walking the hall toward her office, that tiny victory in algebra didn’t mean jack.

Fifth session.

Didn’t want to do it.

Still pissed about last time, though I had no right to be. She was just doing her job, the therapist thing. And me? I’d gotten all bent out of shape because she wasn’t laughing at my jokes anymore, or that her eyes had that… distance to them.

That was me taking it personal when I shouldn’t.

Pathetic.

So I went in stiff, jaw tight, bracing myself for whatever… vibe was waiting.

But the second I stepped inside, the anger dropped clean out of me.

She was behind the desk. Pale, like she’d been sick, big shadows under her eyes. High-neck sweater hiding the part of her that had completely scrambled my brain last time. Barely any makeup, hair wilder than usual, like static was clinging to it for dear life.

Her eyes lifted to mine.

“Hello Eddie,” she said, perfectly professional.

And just like that, whatever leftover heat I’d been carrying from last week burned out, gone. I closed the door slow, still looking at her. Didn’t bother with a “hi” back. Instead, it came out before I could stop it.

“You okay?”

Wrong question, not the patient-to-therapist script. She blinked at me, just a flicker of surprise before her expression slid back into something smoother, polite.

“Yes. Thank you for asking.”

And I knew I shouldn’t, but I kept watching her like I didn’t believe it.

I dropped into the chair, slouching automatically. She didn’t say anything at first, but after a beat “How are you?”

I usually answered that one with something stupid, but for some reason, what popped out was, “I just did my algebra quiz. Pretty sure I didn’t bomb it.”

It sounded ridiculous even to me, like some little kid running home to show his mom a gold star, but I’d said it. And truth was, yeah, maybe I did want her to know but because I wanted to see her eyes not look so damn heavy.

And it worked, the corner of her mouth lifted. “That’s great, Eddie. I’m glad to hear it.”

Yeah. There it was, a little light. Felt like a stupid win, but I’d take it. She clicked her pen, settling back in her chair. “So… how did you feel after our last session?”

Right, last session. The one where we’d dug into the parental greatest-hits: dead mom, disappearing dad, Uncle Wayne picking up the pieces. I scratched the back of my neck. “Uh… fine, I guess. Not really used to talking about that stuff, but…” I shrugged, “I don’t think I’m carrying any big grudge or anything. It’s just… the way it was.”

She made a small face and jotted something down in her notebook, then the pen tapped against the page. “So how do you think your past shaped you… as a person? I mean your relationships, your hobbies, even your taste in music.”

Her voice was even, clinical, but her eyes… yeah, still heavy. Like she was somewhere else entirely, and I didn’t like it.

Normally, this was where I’d toss her some vague answer just to keep my walls where I liked them. But today? She looked like she needed out of her own head more than I needed to stay in mine.

“Well,” I started, slouching deeper in the chair, “growing up how I did definitely made me into the refined, well-adjusted gentleman you see before you.” That got the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth, not enough.

“Imagine me listening to… I don’t know… Phil Collins? Wearing khakis? With both parents alive? Nightmare fuel.”

No reaction this time. She was trying so hard to keep it together, like she had duct tape over all her cracks. And I wanted, needed, to rip at least one of them open.

“I mean,” I went on, “the bad stuff gave me the good stuff. Music, D&D, the ability to—” I waved my hands vaguely “—spot assholes from a mile away. Oh, and cooking”

Her eyes flicked up. “Cooking?”

“Yeah,” I said, dead serious. “I had to cook for myself. I make a mean chicken alfredo. And, uh… those little fancy pancakes… what’s the word…” I searched the ceiling like the answer might be stapled there. “Crepels.”

The pen froze mid-tap. “...Crepels?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding like I’d just dropped gourmet knowledge. “You know...French, thin, foldy.”

“Crêpes.” she pronounced it perfectly in French, all soft and breathy.

My eyes widened. “Did you just call them ‘crap’?”

Her mouth twitched. “No, crêpes.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, crap” She tried to keep a straight face, failed miserably, so I pushed harder.

“I'm so good that one day I’m gonna open a restaurant: ‘Munson’s House of Craps.’ I’ll walk up to every table and go, ‘Sir… how’s your crap?’ and not move until they answer.”

That was it, she broke.

A sharp laugh burst out before she could stop it, and she immediately buried her face in both hands, elbows braced on the desk like she needed structural support just to survive the moment while the laughter slipped out between her fingers. 

Not loud, just this helpless, quiet kind that shakes your shoulders no matter how much you try to stop it. I could hear her mumble something like “oh my god” into her palms.

She was too tired to keep her usual control, too worn down to dodge the stupid, relentless jabs I’d been aiming at her since I walked in.

A satisfied grin tugged at my mouth before I could stop it. Little victory buzz, right there in my chest.

Mission fucking accomplished.

When she finally peeked out from behind her hands, her cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy at the corners. She swiped at them with the back of one hand, still wearing the ghost of a smile.

I leaned back in my chair, satisfied. Her face looked lighter now, like I’d peeled a few bricks off whatever load she’d been carrying when I walked in.

The rest of the hour was this weird mix, her doing the therapist thing, leaning in with the serious questions, me deflecting with sarcastic one-liners. She kept trying to dig for deep meaning under the jokes, like maybe it was a code she could crack.

And maybe it was.

By the time she started winding us down, the air in the room felt different, lighter. Like we’d been two people just talking instead of… whatever we were supposed to do. 

“I’m glad school is going better for you, Eddie. Keep at it. I’ll see you next week.” she said, capping her pen. 

“Assuming I don’t die of crap poisoning before then,” I shot back, already standing. That earned me a small smile and a head shake. I shoved my hands in my pockets and headed out.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the last time I’d ever sit in that chair across from her. 

Hawkings would chew her up and spit her out, because that’s what Hawkings does.

If I’d known… hell, maybe I would’ve stayed longer. Made one more joke, gotten one more laugh.  Maybe I’d have memorized the sound of it, burned it into my brain for the nights when everything went to hell.

Just one more minute.

If I had known how bad the next few months were gonna get. I wouldn’t have walked away so easily.

Because without her… I didn’t just backslide, I fell, straight into the stuff that makes you forget.

If only I’d known.

-> READ NEXT SESSION HERE.

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog @clya4 @tigolebittiez @ari-joe @love-anonymous-writer

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

-> FREAK THERAPY MASTERLIST HERE

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

Warnings: Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), eventual smut, sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Session four - Marissa’s POV

I hadn’t slept in three nights.

Well technically, I hadn’t really slept since that night.

The winter break was almost over. Everyone I knew had gone home or out of town, or were off doing normal holiday things like drinking and pretending to like their families. And I was here, alone in my apartment. Thinking about how the last time I’d dared to leave my house during the holidays, I’d sabotaged a patient’s therapy, melted my prefrontal cortex with God knows what, and blacked out a good chunk of my memory.

I turned over in bed, pressing my cheek to the cold pillow trying not to think, but my brain, as always, refused to listen.

Every time I tried to reach back to that night at the concert, it was like hitting a wall, a blank space. Amber’s kiss, the pill, then... nothing, just flashes. 

And then waking up in my car.

With Eddie.

Amber had left two messages on my answering machine, both awkward and chirpy and stopping just before the guilt could catch up to her voice.

I hadn’t called her back, not yet.

I needed the anger to simmer down so I could actually talk to her without yelling.

But the thing that looped the most in my head wasn’t her, it was the moment after I woke up.

Eddie driving my car through the gray morning light, pale and quiet with exhaustion.

Parking under the building. Both of us stepping out into the icy air. He’d told me he was walking back to his van, said it was “not that far." (It was.)

His face was gaunt in the early light, like sleep had forgotten him for days.

When I handed him back his jacket, something twisted in my chest.

It smelled like him, it had kept me warm.

I’d whispered a soft, “Thank you.”

He’d blinked at me like it hit a nerve somewhere he didn’t like to show and then, in that voice of his, dry and tired but still Eddie, he said something like: “Yeah no problem, doc. Just another Tuesday.”

I couldn’t help it.

I stepped forward and hugged him.

I don’t know what came over me...maybe the night, or the exhaustion, or the fact that I had already bulldozed through more boundaries in a single day than I had in an entire year of practice. 

But I wrapped my arms around his middle, hesitant at first then tighter, and pressed my cheek into the front of his shirt.

He smelled like his jacket. Stronger up close, warmer.

And after a moment of stunned hesitation, he hugged me back. One palm on my back, the other settling near the base of my neck. 

Not tentative, but firm.

His chin rested lightly on top of my head, and for a second, everything in me went still.

No spinning thoughts, no guilt, no therapy-speak. Just warmth.

Human, infallible and tired warmth.

I could feel his heart through the layers of fabric, a low grounding thrum as I whispered it again. “Thanks. Really.”

He didn’t say anything, no jokes. He just held me.

Now, lying here in the dark, the memory looped non-stop. In that moment, I hadn't felt like a therapist. I’d felt like someone who’d been scared, held and seen...I wasn't used to that.

And, god, I was embarrassed to even think it, but I’d gone back to my apartment after that hug with wet underwear.

From a hug. 

A hug! Jesus. 

If my old clinical supervisor could see me, she’d revoke my license on grounds of hormonal misconduct.

I rolled again in bed, tangled in the sheets. I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment. The warmth of it, the stillness, his arms. The way his hand settled at the back of my neck like it belonged there.

I bit my lip, annoyed with myself.

Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, I tried to quiet my mind with touch. It wasn’t uncommon self-soothing, clinically speaking. Focus the body, ease the mind. Classic parasympathetic response activation, nothing shameful about it.

So I slid my hand down under the waistband of my sleep shorts. Fingers tentative at first. My skin was already flushed, too warm. A single press of my palm and I was reminded, again, that I hadn’t come in weeks.

Not since long before the concert.

Not since I started thinking about him.

I exhaled slowly, kept my eyes closed. Kept the motion clinical, external only. Simple, surface-level pressure.

No fantasy, no faces, just touch. Just me...but it wasn’t enough.

Not even close.

It had stopped working like this. This attempt at detachment, at control. Like trying to meditate while a fire alarm screamed in your ear. My body was hungry, all nerves, but my mind refused to go where it needed to.

Because I knew where it would go.

To him...and I didn’t want that.

I clenched my jaw, frustrated, and stopped. Flipped onto my back. Stared at the ceiling, my fingers twitched with residual heat.

Fine.

Screw it.

I closed my eyes and let myself imagine that moment again.

But this time in my mind, it wasn’t just an embrace. 

His hand didn’t just rest on the back of my neck, it slid into my hair tangling in the strands at the base of my neck, tugging just enough to make me gasp. His breath ghosted over my temple, then lower, hot and steady against the shell of my ear.

I slipped my hand back between my legs, this time I didn’t resist the image.

Didn’t fight, I needed it so bad.

I imagined how I could feel the rough scrape of his rings against my scalp as he tilted my head back, his mouth dragging down, lips touching the sensitive skin below my jaw.

My chest pressed tight to his, the swell of my breasts against his ribs, our bodies molded like puzzle pieces.

His curls brushing my cheek...wild and soft, smelling like smoke and something feral.

I pictured his fingers slipping beneath the hem of my shirt, with no rush. A thumb brushing over the underside of my breast, knuckles dragging upward until his whole hand cupped me, rough and reverent like he’d been dying to touch me there. 

And then my hand sliding under his shirt in return, feeling the heat of his stomach, the ridges of muscle twitching under my palm. I imagined dragging my nails up, feeling him tense, hearing that low sound he’d make.

My breath caught. My hips shifted. And just before I reached that perfect, blinding snap...

I whispered his name.

Desperate, raw and forbidden.

And came so hard I had to bite the corner of my pillow to stay quiet.

Afterward, I just lay there. Flushed, ashamed. Relieved and deeply, profoundly annoyed.

It had worked.

Of course it had worked.

I sighed, dragging the back of my hand over my forehead.

Goddamn Eddie Munson.

Of course I had finally come to the thought of an embrace. Not sex or some wild fantasy. Just... his arms, his warmth.

It was honestly pathetic.

If a hug was enough to unravel me like that, what the hell would happen if I let my mind wander somewhere darker? Somewhere messier?

There was a traitorous throb low in my belly at the thought, sharp and hot. A pull so visceral it made my thighs shift on instinct.

For a second, a very stupid second, I actually thought: maybe this is the way.

Maybe if I just did this, let it happen, let it out.

Maybe if I let myself think about him in the dark, in the privacy of my room, where no one could see me fall apart, I’d get it out of my system.

Drain the obsession, exorcise the fantasy. Just my body, chasing regulation.

Clinical and simple.

Except… he was my patient, that made everything very not simple.

I wasn’t this person. I wasn’t supposed to be this person. But lately, I wasn’t sure who I was at all.

I shoved the thought aside, hard, like slamming a door on a fire.

I exhaled through my nose and turned my face into the pillow to muffle the sound of my own disgust, as I tried not to think about how wet I still was.

In the days that followed, I kept telling myself it was just my body reacting, nothing more than a natural physiological response to contact and stress.

But every night, when I laid down to sleep, I kept thinking about that hug. Not the fantasy version, the real one.

Too much.

Too close.

Too dangerous.

I’d made a mistake, one that could cost him more than me. Because that moment might have felt simple, human.

But for someone like Eddie?

A boy shaped by grief and abandonment, told from every angle that he was too much, too weird, too loud...that hug could mean something it wasn’t meant to mean.

It could root itself in him like a seed, a kindness mistaken for something more.

Therapeutically speaking, I knew exactly what I’d done. I’d given him a tether, a door that shouldn’t have opened.

He could start seeking that comfort in me, expecting it - subconsciously or not- trying to recreate that same emotional warmth in ways that blurred the lines between transference and desire and I’d be the one who let it happen.

I had to be smarter, I’d already crossed too many lines.

In our next session, I’d hold the boundary. No softness, no casual smiles or humor. No letting him feel safe in ways that could become addictive.

Just clinical distance, that was the plan.

I kept thinking that it would pass. That eventually, my mind would let go of the image.

But it never did.

The loop of that hug kept playing, over and over.

But something about it always felt… incomplete, like there was a detail just out of reach. 

A missing frame in the scene and I thought it was just the fog in my head.

But what I didn’t know - what I couldn’t have known then - was that someone had been watching us that morning.

Across the street, tucked into the deep shadow of a doorway, someone was standing still. Half-concealed behind the overhang of rusting mailboxes. A figure in a varsity jacket, collar turned up against the cold. The school’s emblem faintly visible even in the dim light, a duffel bag at his feet.

He looked like he belonged there, like he’d just stepped out for early practice.

He never moved, his eyes didn’t shift.

He watched me press the jacket into Eddie’s hands, watched us talk.

Watched as I stepped into Eddie’s arms and let myself stay there longer than I should have.

And something, barely visible, tensed in his jaw.

I didn’t see him.

But much later I’d replay that morning over and over. Try to find the exact second the thread pulled loose.

Try to figure out when everything shifted and every time, I’d land here. Not on the kiss I didn’t remember, not on the pill or the pit.

But on this moment.

The hug and the watcher in the dark.

Because that was the beginning of the end, even if I didn’t know it yet.

Eddie’s POV

“You kissed her?! You kissed your therapist?!”

Dustin’s voice bounced off the bleachers like a damn cannon shot.

I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow and hissed. “Jesus Christ Henderson, keep your voice down”

The gym was mostly empty, a few freshmen were scattered in the corner pretending to study, two cheerleaders were practicing something that looked suspiciously like a human catapult, and I was losing my will to live. 

But still, my voice? Low. Dustin’s? Borderline megaphone.

“I didn’t plan it, It just... happened.”

He threw his hands up like I’d personally betrayed every code of human behavior. “Oh yeah, sure. Just tripped and fell mouth-first onto hers, huh?”

"You done?" I shot him a look. "She doesn’t even remember it anyway...” I added, a little quieter now.

Dustin’s head whipped toward me. “What?!”

“Dude...”

“Sorry, what?" he whisper-yelled like we were in the middle of a scandal... which, I guess, we kinda were. "Are you telling me she legit doesn’t remember kissing you?!” 

“SSSSH!” I hissed again, glancing toward the cheerleaders a few benches over. One looked up and I smiled, it didn’t help. I probably looked like I was about to sell her a haunted amulet.

He plopped down beside me, eyes still bugged out. “Let me get this straight. She was out of it, you kissed her, she doesn’t remember, and you just… left that part out when she woke up?”

“Correct.”

“And you’re seeing her today. Just gonna roll in like it’s casual Friday?”

I shrugged. “I mean, sure. If casual Friday includes carrying the crushing weight of shame while pretending you don’t remember the taste of someone’s lip gloss.”

He winced. “Jesus.”

“You didn’t see her, man,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "She woke up in the backseat like I’d stashed a body back there. If I drop a 'hey, surprise, we made out’ on her now, it’s gonna be a full psychological Chernobyl. She’ll feel awful, I’ll look like a creep, no one wins.”

I sighed, running both hands through my hair. My legs bounced under me like I was powered by static.

" ...and it wasn’t - It wasn’t just the kiss" I added "After I drove her back in the morning, when she was sober...well, she gave me this hug.”

His eyebrows shot up. “She hugged you?”

“Yeah.” I leaned forward, arms on my knees. “Like... a real hug. Not a polite pat on the back or some therapist-y shoulder squeeze. She just wrapped her arms around me. Full-on, no warning.”

Dustin blinked. “And you’re surprised?”

“Yes!” I threw my hands up. “Dude, she never touches me. Ever. Like, I make a joke and she stares at me like I’ve asked to borrow her liver. She’s all about posture and boundaries bullshit. But that day... I don’t know.”

He tilted his head. “So you think she remembers?”

I hesitated. “I think maybe... part of her does, not the details, but something. Like the part of her that’s all rules and clinical detachment forgot to show up for a second.”

Dustin turned on the bench to face me fully, expression locked in judgmental teenager mode. “Okay. Real talk. You have to tell her about the kiss today”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“Man, did she even know what she was doing? Was she sober enough to choose?”

He stared at me, then folded his arms.

I stopped. The words hit harder than I wanted to admit. "Yes...probably." a pause "It shouldn’t have happened, I know.”

His voice dropped, serious now. “Dude, she was high. That’s the whole damn point. Doesn’t matter how or who started it, if she wasn’t all there it’s not real, it’s a no.”

I flinched, not from his words, but from the way he said them. Like he wasn’t just giving me shit, he meant it and he wasn’t wrong.

I picked at the edge of my ripped jeans. “I didn’t do anything else, man. I swear. I just made sure she was okay."

Dustin nodded. “I believe you. But if you actually care, you’ll do the right thing. You owe her that."

I sighed and leaned back on the bleacher, tilting my head toward the ceiling like maybe the answers were stashed in the rafters. 

I let the silence stretch, let it sit there between us like it needed to. Because he was right, and we both knew it.

I didn’t touch her after that. I didn’t even think about it, not once. But the kiss… yeah. That part still clung to me like smoke on skin.

Dustin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, then gave me a look. Not the judgmental kind, just curious. “So… was it… like, a good kiss at least?” He said it low, cautious.

“Jesus Christ, Henderson.” I shot him a look. “I’m not giving you a review.”

But my mind, that traitorous little bastard, had already wandered back. To the press of her mouth on mine, warm and wild.

To the moment she leaned in like I was the only solid thing in the room. To the split second where everything else had gone quiet.

“Oh come on, I’m basically your moral compass at this point, I deserve something.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. It was...”

“It was... warm,” I finally said. “She was scared. She needed something to hold onto and I... I was there. I shouldn’t have let it happen. But for like, one second, I didn’t feel like the guy who ruins everything. I just felt... useful.”

Dustin gave me that patented Henderson squint. “Fuck man, you’re so screwed.”

I groaned and let my head fall forward between my knees, hair curtaining everything. “You think I don’t know that? I’m halfway to writing bad poetry and listening to The Cure on loop.”

And it wasn’t just some dumb crush or a rebellious way to screw with authority. It was something worse, something that curled up in my ribs and stayed there, irritating and constant.

I’d watched her fall apart that night, seen her face go slack and scared and lost, and I’d wanted to fix it. Not because I had to but because it hurt not to.

Dustin didn’t say anything for a second, then he patted my shoulder like he was officiating my funeral. “Well, good luck with that.”

And then, mercifully, the bell rang. Sharp and shrill like the universe was sick of this conversation before I was.

I didn’t knock. Because I’m a fucking coward, apparently. Or maybe because if I knocked, I’d give myself time to turn around. I just shoved open the door to her office like I was late to math class and pretending not to care.

My heart was going fuckfuckfuck in my chest and my palms were sweating like I’d just committed arson.

She was at her desk. Head bowed, writing something. No...not writing, scribbling. Like we were in a noir movie and she was writing a list of suspects.

She looked up when I stepped in, eyes calm and unreadable.

“Hi, Eddie.” A professional mask with a slight smile, all business.

I blinked, not because of the greeting but because of her.

Hair half-up, a few strands loose around her face. A neckline just low enough to make my brain fizzle like an old TV.

Red lips. Not like full vampire red, more like... cranberry.

Jesus Christ.

She’d never worn it before, not once. Which, okay, maybe was just post-holiday fresh start shit, New Year, New You crap.

But all I could think was: Why now?

And then there was her perfume, stronger than usual. Sweeter, it hit me like a damn molotov.

Was this on purpose? Was she trying to kill me?

I sat down across from her with what I hoped was casual indifference and not full-on internal combustion.

“Hey, Doc” I said, because that’s all my brain could manage without throwing up sparkles.

I tried not to stare, I failed.

Was she always this pretty?

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

Probably I just hadn’t had the full, neck exposed, soft red lips, clinically distant but vaguely devastating version of her shoved in my face before.

Or maybe I was losing it.

Actually, no...scratch maybe.

I was losing it.

I glanced at the sliver of her collarbone peeking out and immediately had to look at the floor. Because my brain, bless its dumb little neurons, decided this was the perfect time to go full Dracula and whisper:

You should bite her there and suck.

I forced myself to make eye contact as I sit back. Cross my legs. Act like I wasn’t a man teetering on the edge of horny and guilt-induced psychosis.

She folded her hands, pen resting neatly between her fingers.

"How was your winter break, Eddie?"

No: "Hey, maniac, thanks for not letting me die in the back of my own car."

Her voice was cool, professional. Like we were back at square one and I hadn’t seen her half-conscious and bleeding under club lights.

No sly smile, no teasing lilt in her voice. Just that blank, calm tone that therapists must get implanted during grad school.

I leaned back in the chair, arms folded. "Oh you know. A little light crime, some Satanic rituals, and I finally reorganized my cassette collection."

She didn’t bite, just nodded like I’d said I went skiing. "And how did that feel? Being back in your own space for a while?"

I squinted at her. "What, the van?"

She nodded again. Calm, collected, fucking zen.

I shifted in my seat. Something about her tone was off. She wasn’t meeting me halfway like usual, no banter.

"It felt like a van. Cold as shit. Smelled like onion rings. My uncle keeps hiding smokes under the seat and pretending he quit. I pretend I don’t know. It’s a fun little game we play."

Still nothing, just the pen resting lightly between her fingers. "And your uncle? Wayne, right? How is he doing?"

I blinked. She’d never asked about Wayne before. Not like that, not like she actually wanted to dig.

"He’s fine," I muttered, suddenly way less interested in making jokes. "Same as always. Works nights, yells at the microwave."

Marissa or Dr. Marissa, apparently, because that’s who she was wearing today, nodded again. "That must have been challenging, growing up without a lot of structure."

And just like that, we were in it.

I looked away. "What are you fishing for, Doc? You want my origin story?"

Her face didn’t change. "Only if you feel like sharing."

I laughed once, sharp. "Right yeah, totally up to me. Just you, a notebook, and all the ways you can put my broken story into a small page."

She didn’t flinch, I hated that I kind of wanted her to.

"Fine," I said, dragging my fingers through my hair. "My mom was... something. Loud and messy. Thought being a parent meant giving me a pack of Twizzlers and a stack of horror movies and calling it bonding."

My throat went tight. I hated that, too.

"Loved music, hated silence. Threw plates when she was sad and told me she loved me right after. She OD'd when I was twelve on the bathroom floor, I found her. Dad was already long gone. That is why I live with Wayne. He took me in, didn’t even blink. Just cleared a spot in the van and said, 'Guess you’re with me now, kid.'"

Silence.

I looked back up, half expecting a reaction. Sympathy, pity...hell, even judgment.

But her face was unreadable.

“Wayne did what he could,” I added quickly, like it made it all okay. “Worked nights, took extra shifts. Slept in his truck sometimes ‘cause we couldn’t pay the heat. But he’s a good guy. Always showed up.”

She wrote something down, I looked at the pen moving.

Oh, I hated that pen with a passion, I wanted to snatch it out of her hand and snap it in half.

She didn’t ask me how I felt about any of it. Didn’t ask me to unpack it, no clever metaphors or sarcastic nudges like the old her might have done.

Just a cold, detached "thank you for sharing that."

Something twisted in my chest. "You know," I said, sharper than I meant, "you used to actually talk to me, like a person. Not just some lab rat in a trauma cage."

She paused. Her eyes flicked up, met mine. "I'm still here, Eddie."

"No," I said, voice low. "You're not."

And just like that, I missed her. The her that played D&D and smiled when I made dumb jokes. The one who hugged me like I wasn’t toxic.

And yes, maybe it was my fault. Maybe I broke it, whatever "it" had been.

But it felt like I’d shown her too much and now she was pulling the curtain back down.

“Okay..." she cleared her throat "I think we should take a more structured approach from now on.” Still calm, still unreadable. 

“I asked your teachers and they haven’t seen much improvement in your performance before break. If we want to keep you on track to graduate, we need to focus and...I’m here to help you. That hasn’t changed.” There was something under her voice, something shaky, but it disappeared as fast as it came.

I looked away as my knee bounced hard enough to shake the floor. “Well, maybe I liked it better when you made me draw monsters.”

“I thought you might,” she said. “But that version of this wasn’t helping you pass. So we try something else.”

I met her eyes again, and this time I didn’t hide the hurt in mine.

She hesitated then added softer “Don’t forget why we’re here, Eddie.”

That stung more than it should’ve.

Because I’d forgotten that this was a job to her. That I was just another file folder. That whatever happened in that parking lot didn’t mean anything.

So I leaned back, forced a smirk, and nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure. Therapy. Grades. Graduation. Got it.”

She didn’t say anything, just picked up her pen again.

And maybe that should’ve been the end of it.

But my chest felt like something sharp was stuck behind my ribs, and no matter how I sat or breathed, I couldn’t get it out.

She asked something about school next, about how the past shaped the way I behave in class. I answered flat. Honest, but stripped down. Like I was giving her bones and no meat.

No jokes this time, no sarcasm. I didn’t want to make it easier for her.

She kept writing and writing.

And I kept watching her.

I’d always thought she was cute, I’m not blind. But now? Now she looked like something carved out of stone and light, perfect...untouchable.

I hated how much it made my chest ache.

The rest of the session blurred. She talked about goals, progress, study habits, asked about my teachers.

When the session started winding down, she spoke again. “Is there anything I can do to help you? With your classes? Or the teachers? Or something that you want to tell me?”

My brain threw a dozen sarcastic lines at me but I didn’t say any of them.

Dustin had told me to tell her. Said it’d eat me alive if I didn’t, that it was better to say it than pretend it never happened.

And I’d walked in here almost ready to bring up the kiss, to see if she remembered.

But now? She was all polished professionalism. Every bit of warmth sealed behind bulletproof glass.

So I just sat there, deflating slow.

“Nah, Doc,” I muttered. “I’m good.”

She nodded, businesslike. “We’ll meet again next week.”

“Sure,” I said, already standing.

She turned back to her notes immediately, like she couldn’t wait for the door to close behind me.

I made it halfway there.

Paused then turned.

“Patience.”

She looked up, brow pinched. “What?”

I walked back to her desk, slow.

Reached into my jacket and pulled the cassette from my pocket. Her tape, the one she gave me.  White plastic, faded sharpie letters: GNR.

Guns n' Roses.

I set it down in front of her gently. “Your favorite song’s Patience,” I said, no doubt in my voice this time.

She stared at the tape, then at me.

And this time, she really looked, not a polite distant glance. Her mask cracked.

Something raw flickered through...shock, recognition, maybe even guilt. Her eyes softened, like she couldn’t pretend for one second more.

And I didn’t wait for a reply.

Didn’t need it.

I turned and walked out, shutting the door behind me like it might hold in whatever just cracked open between us.

a/n: Thanks for sticking around this far you brave, emotionally resilient souls. We’re halfway through, and yes, the tension between these two disasters is finally about to boil over. Buckle up, because the drama is only just getting started. 😈

-> READ NEXT SESSION HERE.

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog @tigolebittiez @ari-joe

[clya4]

Hey my lovely little freaks! 🖤✨

I know it’s been a hot minute since the last chapter of Freak Therapy dropped, and you were probably starting to think I had abandoned it and left Eddie and that poor girl suspended in post-kiss limbo forever... BUT FEAR NOT!

I was just on a (much needed) vacation. That’s why Session Four is fashionably late. But good news: It's coming to your screens in a few days.

Stay weird, stay tuned 🦇

Thanks for being patient and awesome 💕

[clya4]

I’d love to be added to the freak therapy tag list!

I can’t wait to see where you go with it!!

Ah, another brave soul signing up for emotional chaos 🖤

You’re officially on the tag list, obligated to witness every poor life choice and suppressed feeling I throw at these two disasters 😌

Thanks for reading! 🥰

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

-> FREAK THERAPY MASTERLIST HERE

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

Warnings: Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), eventual smut, sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Winter Break part 2- Eddie’s POV

Sold out, gone. Every last sketchy little tab of MDMA, even the crumbly ones.

Which, theoretically, meant I could finally relax and enjoy the concert and the rare sensation of not being completely broke.

But nah.

Because the second I saw her, Miss Professional Boundaries herself, I was done. Finished. Cooked.

I couldn’t stop watching her. Not even when she disappeared into the crowd with her bombshell friend and left me standing there.

Of all the places to run into your school therapist, this had to be the worst.

Middle of a half-legal concert and pills in my pocket.

But she was lit up, literally. Club lights bouncing off her cheekbones like some goddess. And I mean...leather pants? Was she trying to kill me?

But the part that really twisted the knife was that she looked like me. Like, if I had a hot twin sister who read Nietzsche and carried trauma in her shoulder blades. I couldn’t tell if that was disturbing or the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Probably both.

The crowd was moving like a beast, but my eyes kept going back to her. Even when the band finally exploded onto the stage like a goddamn sonic bomb.

They were ten times wilder than the tape she’d given me. For a second, I let it pull me in. The sound. The chaos. It was ugly, perfect.

And then I turned back to where she’d been, stage left, near the guy with the red banda...

Gone.

Fuck.

I craned my neck, scanned the room again, like I’d just lost my wallet and not my most inappropriate crush.

I don’t know how many songs passed. Three? Maybe four. 

The pit was brewing.

You could feel it before it even started, the ripple in the crowd, the shift in tension. That loose ring of maniacs starting to carve out space like wolves circling, waiting for the drop.

And then...

Boom.

Chaos.

The beat hit like a hammer and the circle exploded.

Bodies slammed.

Beer sprayed.

Someone flew past me like a chair in a hurricane and I just grinned, because hell yeah, rock and roll.

God, I loved mosh pits. Nothing like consensual violence to bring people together.

I was half a second from diving in, but then I saw her.

No, her friend first.

Big curls, platinum blonde, bouncing like a shampoo commercial. She was laughing, spinning, high as a kite.

A few feet behind her, stumbling sideways with a sloppy grin and sweat gluing her hair to her face.

Marissa.

Jesus, she looked...wrong.

High as hell. Eyes too bright. Cheeks flushed. Make-up smeared like war paint.

And laughing, totally fucked and loving it.

My stomach dropped.

The pit didn’t give a shit that she was five-foot-nothing. She was in it, getting shoved, bounced, thrown around between guys twice her size, all hair and elbows.

And she wasn’t helping herself grinning, pushing back, wild like she’d forgotten the size of her body.

I winced as some huge dude in a AC/DC shirt slammed sideways and she hit someone else, arms flailing, catching herself on someone’s back.

Fuck.

Best case scenario, she was gonna wake up tomorrow covered in bruises. Worst case, she went down and didn’t get back up.

And she didn’t even realize. 

She was too high to calculate physics. Or danger. Or survival.

My blood ran cold, I stopped thinking.

I just moved.

Because, of course, this was on me.

I was the asshole who dumped a batch of half-rotted pills into the hands of a couple hundred strangers. I knew they were sketchy. I knew they were damp. I sold them anyway. I’d poisoned the whole fucking pool and now I was watching her drown.

So yeah. My feet moved.

Not because I’m some hero, but because I wasn’t about to let it end with her bleeding in the middle of a pit I helped fuel.

I shoved my way in, carving a path through the madness like some pissed-off Moses.

It wasn’t easy. 

Heat, noise, fists flying.

I took a shoulder to the ribs, but I kept moving.

And then I saw her again, barely. She was a few feet ahead, still bouncing and turning.

But something had changed.

A red line, just above her eye. Tiny but stark, cutting through the sweat and smeared makeup.

Blood. A single drop crawling down her temple 

Someone must’ve hit her. Maybe a ring, a spiked bracelet, who the hell knew.

She didn’t even notice.

She was laughing.

Christ.

I closed the distance fast and caught her by the waist from behind. She jerked in my grip, instinctive, but then...nothing.

No scream.

No fight.

No turning to see who the hell had her. She just…let me.

Let me pull her body tight against mine and start steering her through the mess, like I had every right. Like I could’ve been anyone.

And that’s what gutted me, because I wasn’t anyone...but I could’ve been.

Some guy. Hands on her waist, dragging her out into the dark while she giggled and swayed, too high to know the difference.

My chest went cold from the guilt.

Because this — this numb, open, easy kind of trust— it wasn’t hers.

It was just the drug.

My fingers tightened against her waist. Soft skin under the hem of her top. Narrow, warm, real. I forced myself not to notice. Not now. Not fucking now.

I pressed my mouth to her ear, breath sharp. “It’s me,” I said, low. "It’s Eddie” Nothing.

Just a soft laugh, like it tickled. Like the whole night was a dream she didn’t plan to wake up from.

So I kept pulling her, one arm around her waist, one clearing the path ahead. Trying not to think too hard about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t seen her first.

The crowd spit us out near the edge of the room. I kept her close, steering her past the bodies buzzing by, until I saw the bathroom sign glowing blue in the dark.

I pushed the door open with my shoulder.

Empty. Thank fuck.

Just some plastic cups abandoned on the sinks with half-melted ice.

She stumbled in, laughing quietly to herself like she’d just walked into a secret garden. Skin pale under the haze of sweat and makeup.

I guided her to the sink. She leaned on it like her knees forgot how to hold her. Palms flat, breathing fast but steady, eyes glazed and bright as hell.

I dropped my hand from her waist and tugged the bandana from my belt loop. Just for show. Never thought I’d actually use it.

Turned on the tap. Cold water blasted out.

I soaked the bandana, wrung it out quick, then moved back to her.

Her eyes were somewhere else. Flicking around the tiles like they were moving.

“Hold still,” I said quietly, and raised the cloth.

She flinched, blinked at me, then leaned into my hand like a cat. “Uuhhh…woow...really nice” Her lashes fluttered.

I dabbed at the cut carefully, wiping away the blood and sweat and whatever else she’d picked up in the pit.

"You okay?"

Her pupils were huge as she looked at me, lips parted. “I like...your face,” she whispered, her voice all syrupy, soft.

Jesus fuck.

“Marissa,” I said, soft but sharp. “It’s Eddie. You with me?”

She squinted like I was too bright. “Eddie…yeah” Her voice tilted upward, like she wasn’t sure if she was asking a question or answering one.

I smirked without meaning to. “Yeah. Your favorite delinquent patient.”

Her lips pulled into the beginning of a smile, lopsided and slow.

But she was pale. Really pale. The cut on her temple still trickled faintly. Her cheek was now red too, maybe from an elbow or a hand or who knows.

I tossed the wet bandana into the sink and ducked slightly to level with her.

“Hey,” I said gently. “How do you feel?”

She blinked. Like the words had to travel across a thousand miles before reaching her.

Then she pressed her hand against her chest, fingers splayed, a confused look on her face. “My heart…” she murmured. “It's everywhere. Like…super fast”

I nodded, swallowing.  “Yeah same, you scared the shit out of me.”

She giggled. Like I’d told her a secret.

Her laugh faded slowly, but the dazed smile stuck around. She glanced down, head tilting slightly like something had caught her attention.

Then her eyes landed on my forearm. My sleeves were still pushed up, now her gaze locked on the bats inked across my skin, little wings frozen mid-flight.

She leaned in with theatrical slowness, reached out, and gently poked one. Her fingertip rested right on its tiny head.

“This one,” she whispered, “he’s...judgy.”

I blinked.

She nodded, solemn as hell. “He’s been...judging me since we walked in. Like... mh, morally.” I couldn’t help it, my mouth twitched into a grin.

“Yeah?” I said. “He’s got strong opinions.”

“I knooow,” she sighed dramatically. “I... respect him.”

I turned to the sink and grabbed one of the sad leftover plastic cups, ice half-melted. Ran it under the tap for a second and handed it to her.

“Here,” I said. 

She took it with exaggerated reverence, raised it like it was champagne. “To Mr. Judgy Bat,” she declared, eyes wide. “May he find...peace.”

Then she took a huge sip and immediately spat it back on the floor.

Her face twisted like I’d betrayed her. “Ew. Water!”

I was about to say something, maybe a little pep talk to convince her to drink it, when the bathroom door slammed open.

A guy stumbled in, face purple and sweating like hell. Probably one of the poor bastards who’d taken those sketchy pills.

He made it just in time, dropping to his knees and vomiting into the nearest toilet.

Marissa blinked slowly, eyes half-lidded, then whispered, “Is he… part of the band?”

I shot her a look, disgusted and done. “Yeah, no. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

I took her gently by the arm and led her out of the bathroom.

As soon as I pushed it open, we were hit hard, bass punching through our ribs, the air thick with sweat and smoke.

Marissa flinched like she’d just stepped into another dimension. “Woah,” she mumbled, throwing a hand over her eyes.

She tilted backward unsteadily, and I caught her by the elbow again before she could crash into the wall.

“Easy,” I muttered, tightening my grip. “Let's go outside.”

The back exit was just a few steps away. Some cracked metal door propped open for smokers. I guided her through it and we made it out. Finally.

Cold night air wrapped around us while the throb of music became a dull heartbeat behind the walls.

We stepped onto a narrow metal landing, the kind bolted onto the side of buildings. Below us, the parking lot stretched out in every direction, cars jammed together.

She stood there blinking, like the sky was too big to look at. 

Her face had gone pale again, worse than before. Sick-pale. Her lips had a bluish tint, and her pupils looked like they were trying to swallow the world.

“Hey,” I said, stepping in front of her. “You good?”

She didn’t answer.

I snapped my fingers sharply in front of her face. Once. Twice. “Hey. Hey! look at me.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, unfocused.

Then, finally, her lips parted, barely a whisper. “I need to...sit.”

“Yeah,” I said quickly, already steadying her again. “Come on.”

I guided her to the steps. The metal groaned under our weight as I helped her down, one slow step at a time.

Then I sat down, legs wide for balance, and pulled her down with me, careful, slow. She sort of folded into it, like gravity decided for her.

Her shoulder pressed into my chest, her head tilted just under my jaw. One of her legs bent awkwardly, the other stretched out like she’d forgotten about it.

And for a second, we just stayed like that.

Her breathing was shallow and fast. I could feel the thrum of it against my ribs.

“Of course my therapist goes harder than me at a rock concert.” I muttered, half to myself.

I looked down at her and exhaled through my nose. “Better?” I asked quietly.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, a faint whisper barely escaped her lips.

“Don’t call...the hospital”

What?

“No,” I said immediately without thinking.

Slowly, she turned her head, resting the back of it against my forearm. Her eyes found mine, wide and pleading.

“Please...” she breathed. “I don’t want to go”

Her voice was so fragile and scared, it caught me off guard. 

I hesitated, staring down at her, and a quiet unease spread through my chest.

What the hell had happened to her in a hospital, that even the idea made her sound like that?

I realized, not for the first time tonight, how little I actually knew about her.

She looked so delicate like this, all vulnerable. My hand moved up slow, I brushed the stray hairs off her face.

Then my thumb traced the curve of her unbruised cheek.

My fingers were rough, callused from years of playing, all jammed with rings. Against her soft skin, it was like a rusty guitar string against silk.

Normally I wouldn’t have the balls to touch her like this. But right now? Screw normal, she needed it. Hell, maybe I did too.

“It’s okay,” I said softly. “We’re not going anywhere"

Her gaze lifted to meet mine, pupils huge and shimmering. She whispered again, “You promise?...no hospital?”

Her head tilted back, still resting on my forearm, looking up at me like I was some kind of anchor.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding slowly. “On Mr. Judgy Bat”

Her lips curled into a weak smile, eyes half-closed, the haze still thick but somehow softer now.

And I smiled with her, just a little.

She blinked, slow, then raised one hand. Her fingers found my cheek — tentative, wandering — and brushed over the dimple that had just barely formed.

“These…” she whispered, voice paper-thin. “These drive me crazy.”

My breath caught, chest tightening like a wire pulled too fast.

She didn’t know what she was saying. Not really.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe but Inside, every nerve lit.

She was too far gone to realize what this looked like from the outside, how close she was to me, how soft her voice had gotten, how her body had all but melted into mine.

But I couldn’t let myself want that, not like this.

So I stayed still and quiet, while her fingers lingered like she was trying to memorize me through a fog.

Then, slow, her hand moved...sliding over to my jaw, gentle but firm, nudging my head downward, urging me closer.

I froze for a second, heart hammering like a goddamn drum solo.

It was a bad idea. A colossal mistake. The kind you don’t get to undo.

Every nerve screamed at me to pull back, to remember who she was, what this was. 

My therapist. Not some girl I got tangled up with.

But there I was, leaning in, chasing that little pressure from her hand.

She wanted it and you know what? Fuck it.

I closed the gap and kissed her.

No words. Just that quiet, reckless moment.

And so that was happening.

Her lips moved like she wasn’t sure where she was, slow, but god...soft.

I kept it gentle, careful. Like I was kissing a fuse.

Because I was.

In fact, soon enough she shifted, just a little, tilting her head to the side and suddenly there was no doubt. 

Tongue. Yeah, she went there.

And Jesus Christ, I felt it all the way down.

The wet heat of it, the glide and pressure - slick, hungry, real.

Her tongue met mine with slow confidence, then pushed a little deeper, dragging a groan straight from my chest. I let it out into her mouth, couldn’t help it.

Exhaling against her lips, I followed her lead, because apparently I’d lost all sense of reason.

My palm slid down from her cheek to her neck, over the soft dip of her collarbone, coming to rest just below her ribs. 

Tentative, respectful. Definitely not creeping closer to her waist, no sir.

I could feel the quick rise and fall of her breath there.

She was practically lying between my legs—head cradled on my arm, back curved against my thigh, her whole body tilted toward me like gravity had made its choice.

The kiss got hungrier fast. Messier.

Our tongues tangled slower but deeper.

The sound of it, wet and low, filled the tiny space between us.

Her breathing sped up against my mouth and her hand left my jaw and curled into a fist on my shoulder, clutching the fabric of my jacket with a surprising strength.

Okay, shit.

Her body arched, I heard the faint squeak of leather shifting as her legs moved. 

and...

She made a sound.

A quiet, broken thing that slipped from her lips A breathy moan or maybe a sob, or hell, a hiccup for all I knew, but it hit me. Straight to the spine.

I froze.

Pulled back just enough to see her face.

She wasn’t pale anymore. Hell no. 

Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen and damp, parted like she was waiting for me to come back. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow.

She was stunning. And wrecked. And high.

And her legs? Drawn tight, like she was trying to contain something that was already leaking through.

And I…

I was hard. Of course I was.

But I was also Eddie Munson, certified screw-up, making out with a woman who wasn’t just out of his league but she was supposed to help him with his trauma, not star in it.

I just sat there, breath gone, hands hovering like I’d just touched something forbidden.

Jesus. I was so completely, irreparably fucked.

Then, eyes still closed, she bit her lip.

She was flushed everywhere now. Not just her cheeks, but down her neck, collarbone, her chest rising and falling way too fast.

Her hand drifted down.

Fingers fumbling with the hem of her shirt.

No urgency, just... instinct. A half-lidded daze.

She grabbed the edge and started to lift just a little, exposing some skin. Then her hand moved lower, right toward the waistband of her pants.

Wait...No.

She was about to touch herself.

Right there.

In front of me.

No thought. No awareness. Just raw, unfiltered impulse.

“Whoa—whoa—hey—”

My voice cracked as I caught her wrist.

My fingers wrapped gently but firmly around hers.

She blinked, sluggish, confused. Like she’d forgotten where the hell she was or who the hell I was.

“Stop,” I was still breathless, heart punching through my ribs “Jesus—stop.”

Her brows pinched slightly, Her pupils were still huge, swimming in a haze. 

She made a soft, frustrated sound, somewhere between a whine and a sigh, and tilted toward me again. Lips slightly parted like she was already reaching for another kiss.

“No, no—shit,” I whispered, my chest tightening as I moved my hands, gently but decisively wrapping them around her back, pulling her into me and holding. Holding like I meant it. Like I could rewind time just by keeping her still.

She slumped against my chest with a soft, defeated groan, her face burying itself in the side of my neck.

“I’m so sorry,” I breathed. My voice cracked.

God, I was the worst.

“I shouldn’t’ve done that,” I murmured into her temple, cheek to cheek now, her body pliant in my arms. “You weren’t… I should’ve known better”

My whole body burned with guilt and adrenaline and something that felt a lot like heartbreak.

She mumbled something incoherent into my shoulder.

Didn’t matter.

She was still high. Still not here.

I closed my eyes, jaw clenched, and just held her.

Because yeah, maybe she’d pulled me in, maybe she’d kissed me first.

But she was high. She wasn’t thinking straight and I should’ve known better.

I needed to remember that she wasn’t mine to touch.

Not like that.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

Marissa’s POV

The first thing I registered was early light.

Pale, slicing through the fogged-up windows, cutting right across my face like some cruel divine spotlight.

The second was pain, a dull, throbbing thump behind my right eye that pulsed with every heartbeat. My mouth was dry and my throat, sandpaper.

I blinked trying to make sense of the foggy windows and the ache in every joint.

Then I realized I wasn’t in my bed, or my apartment. 

I was in my car.

Backseat, sprawled out sideways, like someone had tossed me in there like luggage.

What the hell?

I shifted, wincing.

I tried to sat up, and that’s when the real pain hit. A spike behind my left temple. Sharp and blinding.

There was a heavy weight over my shoulders...a jacket, not mine.  As I sat up slowly, it slid off and pooled in my lap.

Black. Heavy. 

Smelled like smoke and old cologne and something weirdly comforting. The scent hit me like a memory I couldn’t place.

Something warm. Familiar and safe.

I wasn't alone.

I turned my head slowly, stiffly, toward the front seat.

There he was, a silhouette I was starting to recognize on instinct.

His curls were a dead giveaway. Even from the back. Head tilted toward the window, arms crossed, shoulders rising and falling in that steady rhythm that meant sleep, or something close enough.

Of course.

Because of course.

Was there a single time I tried to leave my house and not somehow end up entangled with Eddie Munson?

I shifted like a dying animal, trying to sit upright without puking. My spine popped. My throat was a desert.

And I groaned, loudly.

That must’ve been enough to wake him, because he stirred.

His head jerked forward, eyes squinting as he blinked himself awake and turned to look at me.

“You’re alive,” he muttered, voice gravelly. 

He looked... awful.

Dark circles under his eyes, face pale, like whatever passed for sleep had been more stress than rest. 

He dragged a hand down his face and through his curls, making them stand up even more.

“I was starting to think I’d have to check your pulse again.”

I stared at him.

Again?

“What..." I coughed and tried again "...what are you doing in my car?” I asked, voice scratchy.

He raised a brow “You’re welcome.”

I blinked, disoriented, trying to sort through anything, that might explain this. But my head was blank after that kiss from Amber and the little pill she slipped me like a joke.

Nothing after that.

I looked at him again.

Right, he was there selling. I remember that part.

I touched my face instinctively, mascara smudged, skin sticky. My hair probably looked like I’d been electrocuted.

He sighed, glanced out the windshield, then back at me.

“You don’t remember?”

My silence answered for me.

He leaned his head back and exhaled like the night was still sitting on his chest. “You were out of it. Like, really out of it. I saw you in the pit, didn’t look good. So I got you out, figured I’d take you home with your car”

He paused, then gave a half-shrug. “But you fell asleep and never told me where you live. And I kind of… passed out waiting.”

That was it. No embellishment. No dramatic heroics.

Just tired, simple facts.

I covered my face with both hands, sinking my fingers into my scalp, like I could physically rearrange my thoughts.

Then, half to myself: “I am never forgiving her for this.”

He tilted his head. “Huh?”

“Amber, my friend” I said, hands still pressed into my eyes. “She kissed me and shoved the pill in my mouth like it was funny. Like a game.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough to hear him shift in the seat. “...So you didn’t take it willingly?” he asked, voice lower, maybe even careful.

I pulled my hands away and looked at him sharply. “Does it look like I’m having fun?”

The words came out sharper than I meant. Defensive and mean.

I regretted it the second they hung in the air, because I was supposed to know better. I do know better. Reactivity is a mirror and this mirror was cracked. 

Eddie raised his hands slowly, like I was holding a weapon instead of just my own shame. “Okay, chill, I’m just the guy who carried your high ass out of a mosh pit. My bad.”

My stomach twisted. Not from nausea this time.

He was tired. He’d stayed. He didn’t owe me that and worse, he was still my patient. Even if we kept blurring the line, I still saw it.

But I didn’t apologize, not out loud.

I leaned forward and let my forehead fall against the seat in front of me with a quiet thunk. It felt like the only solid thing in the universe.

“...did you see Amber?” I asked after a beat. “She was with me, we came together with the car”

“Yeah, saw her leaving after the show with some guy.”

I blinked “Tall? Blonde? Kind of a smirk that makes you want to hit him?”

He huffed a laugh. “That’d be the one.”

I closed my eyes. “Randy, of course.”

The sun was creeping higher, burning through the mist on the windshield and I felt like I was experiencing the worst hangover of my life.

“My head is going to implode, I can’t drive.” I mumbled against the vinyl.

There was a pause. Then, “I can take you.”

That made me open one eye, just barely. “Do you even have a license?”

“Jesus Christ, I’m not fourteen.” he snapped.

I huffed a tired, humorless sound. He was offended...genuinely.

There was a beat, and then he softened, rubbing a hand down his face. “Sorry. That came out nicer in my head, promise."

I waved a lazy hand without opening my eyes.

"It’s normal.” I took a breath, trying to anchor myself. “Sleep deprivation lowers emotional regulation. Increases irritability, impulsive reactions. Cortisol spikes, amygdala overactivity. It’s textbook.”

He lets out a soft snort. “Got it,” he said. “I’m just cranky because I didn’t get my beauty sleep.”

“You and me both,” I murmur, letting my shoulders finally sag.

It was ironic that he was apologizing. He was the one managing his tone, softening when he noticed my discomfort.

Right, that made sense. The drug dealer with impulse control was behaving better than the woman with a degree in mental health care.

Gold star, Marissa.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, lifting my head at last. “For staying.”

He glanced at me, one brow twitching up, but didn’t say anything.

“I mean it,” I added, softer. “You didn’t have to.”

He exhaled, a faint huff of air through his nose, like that was the closest to accepting a compliment he could manage at this hour.

I sat back slightly, watching him.

The slump of his shoulders. The purple smudges beneath his eyes. The fine tremor in his fingers when he rubbed his temple.

All I wanted — suddenly, overwhelmingly— was to crawl forward and wrap my arms around him. Pull him into my chest and hold him there until the weight left his body. Like I could draw the fatigue out of his bones if I just squeezed hard enough.

It was a ridiculous impulse.

So, I shut it down. Swift and clinical, like I’d been trained to do.

Box it up. Lock it tight.

“I’d... appreciate the ride home,” I said instead. My voice was calm now, almost professional.

He nodded slowly. “Just tell me where I’m headed, Doc.”

And that word—Doc—shouldn’t have hit as soft as it did. But it did.

I gave him my address, then leaned back again, still holding the jacket in my lap. Still trying to make sense of everything.

Of him.

Of me.

Of this entire goddamn mess.

We were halfway back to Hawkins. The sun was higher now, silvering the edges of the empty highway like the morning was trying to clean the world from last night’s chaos.

I’d moved to the passenger seat a few miles back. Something about sitting upright helped ease the pounding in my skull.

Almost.

I turned the visor down and flipped open the mirror. Winced.

A small gash peeked through the mess of my hair near my temple, red and crusted with dried blood.

“Terrific,” I muttered, prodding it with a finger.

"You're not that bad," Eddie said, eyes still on the road, voice rough but light.

I turned my head toward him. “I look like Jesus on the cross.”

He snorted. Tried to hide it, but I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

Which felt strangely like a win.

We drove in silence for a while after that. I watched the trees blur past. The way the light shifted between branches. My hand still clutched the jacket in my lap, fingers curled into the worn leather.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice broke the silence. “The band was great though.”

I looked over at him, blinking against the light. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Really great.”

I sighed “Glad one of us remembers. That’s something, at least.” I sighed, rubbing my face with both hands. “God, I’ve never...I mean, never, blacked out like that before. Not once.”

He didn’t answer right away, just kept driving.

The silence stretched. Too long. Something in it... shifted.

I turned my head toward him slowly, wary.

“Okay,” I said, carefully, “If I did or said something dumb last night... you need to tell me.” That came out almost desperate.

Still nothing. His jaw ticked slightly.

My stomach turned cold.

“I’m serious,” I pressed, trying to keep my voice neutral. “If I embarrassed myself, or...God, if I crossed a line... I should know.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, hesitant. Then finally, still watching the road, he said, “Well, let's just say...you might’ve...kissed someone.”

My whole body froze.

I blinked at him. “I—what?”

My heart dropped straight into my gut.

Kissed someone?

Oh god.

Instantly, like my brain had been waiting to betray me, an image popped into my head, a random guy from the concert. Big, sweaty, damp curls stuck to his forehead, leering at me like I was dessert. I remembered him, vaguely. He’d been behind me during the first song,  I didn't remember kissing him, but maybe I did?

And Eddie saw me kissing that disgusting pig?

No. No, no, no.

Panic rose, along with something else.

“Pull over,” I said abruptly.

Eddie glanced at me. “What?”

“Pull over. Now.”

He hit the hazard lights and swerved gently onto the shoulder just as I threw the door open and leaned out.

And puked violently, misery in liquid form.

Behind me, I heard him mutter under his breath with dry sarcasm, “Well...not exactly flattering.”

But I didn’t even hear it for what it was.

I was too busy retching and spiraling.

Still no idea it had been him.

I stayed folded over, breathing hard, forehead against my arm, my stomach finally still.

Then I felt a hand.

His hand. Light, tentative, pressed to the middle of my back.

“You alright?”

I nodded, still gasping, my chest burned.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, humiliated beyond reason.

Eventually, I sat back up, slow and woozy, and pulled the door closed.

My throat felt raw. My eyes were wet from the strain.

I sniffed and wiped them quickly with my sleeve, pretending it didn’t matter, even as shame settled deep in my gut.

“I’m truly sorry, Eddie....” I said, my voice raw from throwing up, thick with guilt. “This could compromise everything. What we’ve been doing in therapy...” I swallowed hard “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. Drunk, high...kissing some stranger.”

I saw something flicker in his expression, almost like surprise.

He parted his lips like he was about to say something, to correct me maybe. But then he stopped. Closed his mouth again. Swallowed it.

“You saw me dealing" he muttered, shrugging slightly. "So… I think we’re even.”

He wasn’t looking at me, just staring out at the road ahead, jaw set, something unreadable in his expression.

“Let’s just pretend none of that happened,” he added, and this time the sarcasm was gone, replaced by something else.

Something like disappointment.

It landed like a stone in my chest.

I nodded once, exhausted.

“Okay.”

He turned the key. The engine hummed back to life.

We pulled back onto the road in silence.

-> READ NEXT SESSION HERE.

a/n: If you’ve made it this far...first of all, WOW, you’re officially in too deep. This chapter was long, chaotic, and yes… they finally kissed, you’re welcome. Thanks for sticking with these two disasters. I hope reading this mess gives you at least half the joy I get from writing it. More chaos to come. 🖤

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog

[clya4]

Do you have a certain schedule for when you post or is it just random?

Darling I wish I had a perfectly organized schedule 🙃 but I try to post once a week!

Usually on Sundays or Mondays in the morning (CET), depending on how much caffeine I’ve had and whether the writing gods are smiling on me. ✨

Thanks for asking! 💛

[clya4]

Freak Therapy

-> FREAK THERAPY MASTERLIST HERE

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

Warnings: Masturbation, Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), eventual smut, sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Winter Break - Eddie’s POV

The camper was quiet.

Too quiet.

Uncle Wayne was at work, the TV was off, and the shitty little space heater was hissing in the corner like it, too, wanted no part in what I was doing.

I was on my bed half-naked, boxers slid low, cheeks flushed, one arm tossed over my eyes like I was in some overdramatic romance novel.

The other hand?

Yeah.

Busy.

I’d told myself I’d take the morning to rest. Play some Sabbath. Maybe clean the ashtray. Pretend I was a functional member of society.

But the second I woke up hard, with her stamped behind my eyelids, it was game over.

And now, here I was...breath shallow, hips shifting against my own touch, chasing the ghost of a memory that hadn’t even happened.

In my fantasy, we were back in her car.

Rain hammering the windshield. Steam on the windows. The sleeves of her sweater pushed up just enough to show the smooth skin of her forearms. Wet strands of hair clung to her flushed cheeks.

She looked like something out of a fever dream.

Still in the driver’s seat, but leaned toward me, her forehead rested against my cheek. Her hand, soft and sure, pressed over my chest.

"You're carrying so much tension," Spot-on diagnosis, delivered in the most casual tone, like she was pointing out a tight muscle, not the aching bulge in my jeans.

Her hand kept going down.

Over the buckle of my belt.

Over the button.

"Just relax for me..." voice all breath and honey, like she was walking me through breathing exercises. 

And then...

A pop.

A flick of her wrist.

The release of pressure as she undid my jeans.

In the fantasy, I exhaled hard through my nose, barely holding still as she dragged the zipper down...slow. Her knuckles grazed my stomach, the back of her hand brushing over the waistband of my boxers.

“I've got you” 

In real life, I groaned into my arm as I stroked myself, matching the rhythm I imagined her hand taking once she slipped inside, like she knew exactly how I like it.

Not rough. Not fast. Just… intentional. Controlled.

The bed creaked under me, hips lifting off the mattress just enough to chase the friction.

"You’re doing so well Eddie, let go for me” 

With forehead still pressed to my cheek, her voice was so measured.

Like jerking me off in a parked car during a thunderstorm was part of some wild treatment plan.

I bit my lip. Hard. My hand sped up.

I pictured her watching me fall apart under her touch, her breath catching, lips parted, as she whispered,

“That’s it... that's it Eddie...”

Jesus.

Back in the camper, my thighs tensed, stomach tightening, mouth open but silent.

She wasn’t real.

None of it was.

But the ache was.

The need.

My toes curled. I could feel it coming. Hips stuttering, my hand slick and hot, pulse crashing in my ears...

KNOCK. KNOCK.

I froze.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“Dude,” came Trevor’s voice from the door. “You ready or what?”

A strangled breath left me like I’d just taken a punch to the gut.

“Fuck...,” I muttered, dragging my hand away and flopping back onto the mattress like a tragic Victorian widow.

“I was in the middle of some very important mental health work.” I huffed, still half out of breath, wiping my hand on the sheet.

A beat of silence. Then, deadpan:

“Not my business, man. But your pants should definitely be on before the train.”

“I just need five minutes,” I huffed, already stumbling toward the bathroom with my boxer still half down. “Like, literal five. Don’t touch anything.”

Trevor scoffed. 

Shower: record time. Two minutes of scorching water, Wayne’s half-empty shampoo bottle, and zero shame. 

I toweled off, threw on jeans, a clean shirt, still damp, and shoved my feet into a pair of scuffed-up boots while Trevor leaned by the door, arms crossed like he was my parole officer.

“So,” I said, lacing up. “What’s the rush? You usually don’t care if I sell anything before second period.”

Trevor pulled a small, beat-up tin from his pocket and gave it a rattle. “This ain’t school merch. Got some old MDMA. Time-sensitive.”

I blinked. “Time-sensitive?”

“They’ve been sitting too long. Got a little soft, maybe the humidity fucked with ‘em. Probably not dangerous, just... not great. but y’know, I’m not takin’ the loss on these."

I stared at him. “This is the part where you tell me why I should sell them anyway.”

“Because,” he grinned, “Rock n' roll crowd won’t care. All hyped on volume and whiskey already. Plus, you’ve got the look.” He gestured at me. “The hair, the leather, the eyeliner if you feel festive. They’ll trust you. You’re one of them.”

I finished tying my laces, heart still thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with illegal pharmaceuticals.

I stared at him, grabbing my belt off the nightstand and threading it through the loops. “Okay, but that means I want a bigger cut. This is like, discount candies at full price.”

Trevor shrugged, unfazed. “Fine. Fifteen percent more. But you’re carrying it and charming the drunk girls, deal?”

“Deal,” I muttered, tucking my shirt into my jeans. “But why out of town, anyway? What’s this gig even for? Some big deal band?”

He popped a piece of gum in his mouth. “I have no fucking clue man, Guns and Knifes or some shit like that. Heavy, loud, lots of sweaty idiots with cash to blow.”

I froze mid-button.

“Guns N’ Roses,” I muttered automatically, brain short-circuiting

Since she’d given me the cassette, I’d listened to it non-stop. In the van. In the shower. During lunch. I’d practically dissected the thing trying to figure out which track was her favorite.

And now?

Now the band was playing twenty miles from Hawkins.

Which meant...

She might be there.

My stomach flipped. Actually...no, it did a full fucking back handspring.

Jesus Christ. I was getting butterflies. Real, fluttery, teenage-boy butterflies. Over my therapist.

I needed help. Real help, from an actual exorcist.

Marissa’s POV

“…I’m sorry, okay? I meant to call,” I said, eyes on the road, hands at ten and two like the boring adult I’d apparently become.

“Wow,” Amber drawled from the passenger seat, flipping her curls over one shoulder like she was offended on a spiritual level. “Heartwarming. You meant to call me, your one and only friend left in this godforsaken town, and yet you didn’t?”

“I’ve been busy trying to survive that school without completely losing it,” I muttered.

She snorted. “Please. Last time you were here, you swore you’d rather die than ever set foot in there again.”

“Metaphorical death,” I said.

“Babe. It’s crazy. You went back willingly. For money. That’s dark.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not that bad, actually.”

She gasped dramatically. “Oh my god. Do you like it?”

I hesitated, then shrugged. “I mean… kind of? It’s definitely weird being back, and the internship is intense, but the kids are... honestly great. Messed up, sure but smart. Some of them even remind me of us.”

Amber blinked at me like I’d grown another head. “Oh my god. You’ve been brainwashed.”

“I’m serious! It’s different now. Being on the other side of the desk... gives you perspective.”

Amber grinned. “Look at you. Miss Trauma Turned Career.”

“Shut up.”

Amber propped her feet on the dash and stretched. “Well, I think this concert’s gonna be good for you. I was starting to think you’d just rot in that weird little apartment forever.”

“It’s outside Hawkins,” I said simply.

“Exactly..." she paused "Anyway, be honest,” Amber said, shifting in the seat and tugging down the neckline of her top. “Are my tits out enough?”

I snorted. Classic. “If they were out any more, they’d need their own tickets."

“Perfect.” She adjusted again, checking herself in the visor mirror. Her curls bounced like they had their own gravitational field, and her lipstick was dangerously red. She was all hips, boobs, attitude. The complete opposite of me, at least how I dressed 99% of the time.

“You trying to seduce the entire band?” I asked.

“Nope. Just one idiot named Randy who still works at the Jiffy Lube and thinks breaking up with me was a power move.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding. “Healthy coping mechanism.”

Amber gave me a look. “Shut up, we’re not talking psychology tonight, Dr. Freud. Tonight, we’re getting loud, have fun, and maybe going home with a man who owns more leather than clean socks.”

I laughed, but my stomach twisted, not from nerves. Excitement. Anticipation. It had been a while.

She leaned over and turned up the volume on the cassette player. A familiar riff kicked in. Guns N’ Roses.

For half a second, my chest tightened.

Eddie.

He would’ve thrived at a show like that. The noise, the sweat, the beautiful chaos of it all. For a brief second, I imagined him in the crowd, head back, grinning like a maniac, high on adrenaline and the music. 

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

Why was I thinking about him? Why not literally any other student I was working with? Why not the quiet second-year who talked to me about his cat for thirty minutes?

Because I didn’t give a cassette to the kid with the cat, that's why.

Right. Okay. No, not going there.

Amber pulled me back with a nudge. “You look hot, by the way. Like, unfairly hot. You should dress like yourself more often.”

I glanced down. Black leather pants, cropped tank, my old jacket from college. Hair pin-straight, heavy liner. I looked like the version of me that existed before I decided "mature" meant beige sweaters and practical shoes.

Amber tilted her head. “...and who are you planning to seduce tonight?”

I smirked. “The guitarist”

She burst out laughing. “Why not? We wasted our twenties writing essays, when we could’ve been perfect groupies”

“Nah, I’d be a terrible groupie,” I said, half-smiling. “Too picky. Too sober.”

Amber leaned back with a wicked grin. “We can fix both of those tonight.”

I rolled my eyes again “Absolutely not, I'm driving after the show.”

“Marissaaa,” she whined, dragging my name out like a bratty kid. “Live a little. We are not sleeping in our beds tonight, baby.”

The concert was minutes away. Amber and I had been inside the club for about an hour, and only two drinks in, I was definitely feeling the pleasant buzz that makes bathroom tiles seem a little too wavy.

I was in the cramped bathroom stall, finishing up, when I caught Amber’s voice outside. She was talking with a couple of girls, asking about the dealer.

I heard one of them say, “Short guy, blue jacket, and a red baseball cap, you can’t miss him girl”

Amber said something like, “Thanks, babe!” in that high, girly way she always used.

I took a deep breath and stumbled out. Amber, on the other hand, looked perfectly steady, despite having had the same number of drinks. She snatched her half-finished cup off the sink, then caught my arm. “Come on, I found our guy.”

“I don’t want anything, really,” I tried to protest, but Amber just tightened her grip and tugged me toward the door, ignoring me.

Outside, the crowd was thickening, the hum of anticipation buzzing in the air. We started scanning for the dealer Amber’s new friends described.

We found him posted up near the stage, half-hidden under the flicker of a busted neon sign. He was leaning against the wall, red baseball cap low over his face.

Amber didn’t even hesitate. She strutted up like she owned the place and gave him a little chin-tilt.

The guy sized us up, hands tucked in his pockets like he had all night. “Got only light stuff, ladies. If you’re looking for something that kicks harder, talk to the kid over there.”

He jerked his chin toward the other side of the room.

Leaning against a column near the edge of the crowd, facing away from us, tall and loose-limbed. Black jeans, battered boots. Hair falling in messy waves to his shoulders. One hand half-raised in a lazy gesture as he spoke with someone, the other tucked into his back pocket.

He looked familiar in that blurry.

Amber lit up. She grabbed my arm again. "Let's go"

I groaned, but let her pull me along, head spinning just enough to feel reckless, just enough to pretend I wasn’t curious why that guy looked oddly familiar from behind.

We walked in between bodies that packed in tighter. Lights flashed low and red across the ceiling.

He stood with his back to us, exchanging folded bills with two guys. The kind of transaction you didn’t have to see up close.

Amber, being Amber, didn’t hesitate. She tapped him on the shoulder with two fingers like she was greeting an old classmate and not interrupting a drug deal. “Hey, rockstar. You working?”

He turned, smirking already. “Depends who’s asking—”

And then he saw me.

His words dropped dead in his mouth. The smirk fell right off his face.

Eddie Munson.

Our eyes locked and I died. I actually died. My heart stopped and then immediately screamed WHAT THE FUCK into my chest.

I just stood there. One step behind Amber, eyes wide, chest frozen, sobriety crashing down like a bucket of ice water. 

I was staring at my patient.

My emotionally volatile, school-skipping patient.

Who was apparently dealing drugs at a rock concert.

And I - his therapist - was tipsy, in leather pants, about to buy from him.

Amber glanced between us, eyebrow raised, like she was watching a ping-pong match in slow motion. “Okay, did I miss a plot twist?”

I probably looked insane, glossy-eyed, standing completely still like someone had hit pause on my body.

As her eyes swung back to Eddie, I caught his gaze and mouthed a sharp, silent: Don’t.

He caught it instantly. Of course he did.

Eddie blinked once, twice, and then...

“Whoa,” he said, eyes flicking between us with mock gravity. “Sorry, I wasn’t ready for a double knockout by two ridiculously attractive beauties this early in the setlist"

Smart.

Amber laughed amused. “All right, Romeo”

But Eddie didn’t move on just yet. Instead, his eyes slowly traveled over me, head to toe, deliberate and unhurried, like his brain had just caught up with the fact that I wasn’t in a cardigan and I looked like a female version of him.

His brows lifted just slightly. Amused? Shocked? Both?

There was a beat of weird silence where I could practically hear his internal monologue rebooting.

Amber, totally unfazed, gave him a playful look. “So what’ve you got for us handsome?”

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little too serious for a guy leaning against a wall selling party favors.

“Look, the stuff I’ve got it’s… strong. Real strong. You might wanna try someone else if you’re just looking for a little buzz.”

That only made Amber perk up more. 

I wanted to say something. Anything. I wanted to drag her away by her crop top and pretend none of this ever happened.

But instead I stood there, still one step behind her, eyes locked on Eddie like maybe if I stared hard enough the universe would implode and suck me through the floor.

Amber grinned. “No, it's perfect. We take two. How much?”

Eddie exhaled through his nose. He looked at me once, quickly, like he was checking if I was about to scream or faint or slap him.

I did none of the above. I just stared, praying my face didn’t scream licensed mental health professional committing life errors in real time.

“Twenty,” he muttered, already reaching into his jacket.

Amber didn’t miss a beat. She pulled out a crumpled twenty from her bra and handed it over one-handed, her other still holding the drink she’d been nursing since the bathroom. 

He gave her two tiny pills, palm-to-palm, quick and practiced. Smoothness that made it painfully clear this wasn’t either of their first rodeo.

The whole thing took five seconds. Maybe less.

She tucked them into her bag smiling. Then, because of course she did, she reached up and traced a finger along Eddie’s jaw.

“Come find us when you’re off duty, rockstar.” 

He gave Amber a lazy smile "Sure"

But his eyes didn’t stay on her. They went straight to me...and lingered.

Something sharp twisted in my chest. Jealousy. Immediate, hot and completely ridiculous.

Ridiculous because, again, he was my patient. A messy one, with long hair and illegal habits. And here I was, feeling territorial like a toddler guarding a toy.

Great. Just what I needed a personal crisis wrapped up in a clinical disaster.

How was I supposed to keep a professional distance after this encounter?

This could complicate everything, our sessions, his trust, my objectivity.

But the worst thing was, that despite the gravity of the situation, the only thing I cared to do in that moment was to slap Amber’s hand off his face.

Perfect timing for my emotional puberty to kick in again.

“Okay,” I blurted finally, louder than I meant to, fingers closing around Amber’s wrist. “We should go. They’re starting. Let’s...yeah.”

Amber raised an eyebrow, but let me drag her off into the crowd without protest.

Behind us, I could still feel his eyes on my back. Like a goddamn magnet I didn’t ask for.

The room was electric now, people cheering, whistling, clapping as the lights over the stage flickered low. We weren’t at the front, but close enough to see the drum kit gleaming under the rig.

My heart was still hammering. My hands were sweating. My whole body was reacting like I’d narrowly escaped a car crash, like Eddie was some kind of catastrophic force that had just cracked through the last bit of control I had.

Amber leaned toward me, shouting over the noise. “Did you see that, girl?I just found you someone to go hom—”

“Amber,” I snapped, spinning on her, voice sharp and too loud. “Shut the fuck up.”

She blinked at me like I’d just thrown a drink in her face. Which, honestly, might’ve been less shocking.

I didn’t know why I said it. Was it the ethical violation of buying drugs from Eddie? The fact that she had touched him? Or the deeper, darker realization: I’d hated that she touched him because I wanted to.

My fingers were shaking. My mouth was dry. My brain had lost the plot completely.

And the show hadn’t even started yet.

Amber raised her hands in mock surrender, that ever-present smirk curling the corner of her lips. “Okaaaay,” she drawled, still way too chill. “Maybe adult-you processes alcohol a little differently. Responsible brain chemistry and all that.”

Then, like a Bond villain in lip gloss, she popped the pill onto her tongue, looked me dead in the eye, and swallowed it dry.

“You should try this instead,” she said casually, like she wasn’t three seconds from ascending to a new dimension.

“I said no,” I hissed, more venom than voice.

She smiled wider. Then pulled me into a hug.

Which would’ve been sweet if I hadn’t known her for twenty years and felt the scheming behind it.

The crowd roared as the stage lit up, neon red, pulsing, sinful. The first guitar screech tore through the air.

The guitarist let his first note rip through the speakers like a beast, and the floor shook. His wild, afro hair snapped forward with the force of the sound, like the music had punched through him. People jumped. Shouted. Bodies swayed and collided, hands reached for the ceiling.

I turned to look around, scanning the room. Long hair, jackets, tall silhouettes. A hundred versions of almost-Eddies, but none were him. Just a sea of denim, leather and sweat.

Why was I even looking for him?

I had nothing to say. No reason to find him. Not one single rational thought behind it.

But still, my eyes kept moving.

But he was gone.

Like smoke. Like a hallucination.

Like I’d imagined him into existence.

And that was all the distraction my evil friend needed.

Amber flung her arms around me again, practically vibrating. “I’m so happy we’re here together!” she shouted, too close, words crashing over the music.

That hit somewhere softer. She’d been saying that since we were kids, since the first shitty house party, since our first fake IDs.

“You never change!” I yelled, half-smiling, half-exasperated.

I let my body relax into hers just for a second, until she leaned in, and planted a kiss right on my mouth.

Classic. Nostalgic. Fine.

Except this time... her tongue slipped something across mine.

Something small hit my tongue.

I jerked back, eyes wide, just in time to see her smirk and tip her half-empty drink against my lips like a toast from Satan himself.

My body betrayed me. I swallowed.

Of course I swallowed.

Chemical bitterness. Liquid heat.

I stared at her, horrified. She smiled, mouthing  something I couldn’t hear. Probably you're welcome.

The crowd around us was roaring. Bass slammed through my ribs. I could barely hear myself think which, lucky for me, meant I didn’t have to listen to the part of my brain screaming about the long-term impact of drugs on cognitive functions.

I opened my mouth, maybe to scream or slap her, but the music swallowed everything.

And Amber was already back to dancing like she hadn’t just committed a felony in my mouth.

I was officially compromised.

Couldn’t scream.

Couldn’t puke.

I wiped my lips, blinked through the strobes, and instinctively scanned the crowd again, like somehow finding Eddie would've fixed this.

Again, I couldn’t see him.

But if the night had taught me anything, it was that trouble knew how to find me.

Especially when I was half-drunk, overstimulated, sexually repressed and now drugged.

As the singer screamed and the crowd roared, I realized something else:

I was minutes away from doing something monumentally stupid.

And oh, it was going to taste like sin.

-> READ NEXT PART HERE.

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve