𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐙𝐄𝐃. It was no surprise to anyone that he was intimately familiar with the sensation of his own mouth betraying him in moments of social dures; the way words just kept coming, tumbling out in an avalanche of verbal chaos while some distant, horrified part of his brain screamed at him to stop talking, for the love of god, just stop. So when Chrissy's forehead met the cafeteria table with a soft thunk, something in Eddie's chest spun in a little maneuver that felt suspiciously like tenderness. The marker stilled against plaster. He leaned forward slightly, ducking his head to try and catch a glimpse of her face through the curtain of blonde hair now obscuring it. From his peripheral vision, he could see Gareth watching this exchange with poorly concealed interest that suggested Eddie would be fielding questions about this for weeks.
❛ Hey, ❜ he said, his voice softer than he'd intended, losing the sardonic veneer and dissolving in the face of her obvious embarrassment. ❛ Hey, Cunningham. ❜ He reached out, then hesitated, his hand hovering somewhere in the no-man's-land between his personal space and hers. The distance felt vast, like crossing the Mines of Moria, like stepping through a portal into unknown territory. His fingers twitched with indecision, with the competing impulses of touch her and don't be weird about it and what are you even doing, Munson, since when do you initiate physical contact with people who actually have something to lose by being associated with you. ❛ Eight works, ❜ he said, ❛ eight is good. And for the record— ❜
After a moment of internal deliberation that felt approximately seventeen years long, Eddie let his fingers brush against her good arm; her skin warm beneath his fingertips.
❛ Cinderella had a curfew and she ended up with a whole-ass kingdom, so. You're in good company. ❜
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