pairing: Eddie x female reader
context: The year is 2026. Youâre back from college for the summer, slipping right back into the same barista job youâve had since you were sixteen. Same early mornings, same regulars, same hum of the espresso machineâbut the place isnât exactly the same anymore.
The owner renovated while you were gone. Expanded the seating area, redid the floors, added a whole kitchen upstairs overlooking the cafĂ©. Itâs nicer now. Busier. A little less like the place you grew up in.
And apparently, a little more dangerous, too. Eddie Munson took the kitchen job. You didn't know until your first day back.
Because the last time you saw Eddie Munson, you were eleven years old.
He was sixteen. Loud, reckless, always sprawled across your living room couch with your brother, guitar in hand, boots kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place. He used to ruffle your hair when you walked by, call you âkid,â give you just enough attention to make your chest ache in that quiet, confusing way only first crushes do.
You were just the little sister. Round cheeks, awkward limbs, hovering in doorways, hoping heâd notice you a second longer than he had to. But that was years ago. Now youâre twenty-one. Sharper. Edgier. Not soft in the same ways you used to be.
tw: nsfw (18+) smoking, drinking
*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË**  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*
Your alarm blares at 5:30, ripping you out of sleep so fast you jolt upright.
The early mornings, the bitter customers already pissed off before the sunâs even up, all of them desperate for their caffeine fix like itâs life or death. But itâs the only job youâve ever really had. Itâs easy. Muscle memory at this point. You could make a latte half-asleepâand most mornings, you basically are.
You drag yourself into the bathroom, brushing out your hair before parting it down the middle and braiding it into two long Dutch braids. A quick swipe of mascara. Good enough.
The dress codeâs chillâalways has been. Just the logo shirt and youâre fine. You grab one of the many black Java Blue tees from your drawer and pull it on with a pair of flared leggings.
You rush out the door, the early morning air biting just enough to wake you up as you make a beeline for your car. The key barely makes it into the ignition before youâre turning it.
If you donât leave now, youâre definitely going to be late.
You speed down the main road, barely slipping through a yellow light just as it snaps to red behind you.
You pull onto the street, park a little too fast, lock your car, and hurry inside.
The second you step through the door, your mood lifts.
Melanieâs already behind the counter, warming up the espresso machine, sleeves pushed up like sheâs been here for hours.
âHey! You made itâon time, too,â she grins, pulling you into a quick hug. âWhen did you get back?â
âLast night,â you say, hopping up onto the counter like youâve done a hundred times before. âNew York to Hawkins is easily the worst drive on the planet.â
She laughs under her breath, testing the steamer as it hisses to life. âI donât doubt that.â
Sydney and Ava rush in from upstairs, giggling to themselves like theyâre tryingâand failingâto keep a secret.
âWhatâs up with you two?â you ask, eyeing them.
They exchange a look, both smirking.
âOne of the new chefs is exceptionally hot,â Sydney says, twirling a piece of her hair around her finger.
Those two are still relatively newâhired last summer as hostessesâand apparently very easily impressed.
âOh yeah?â you grin, sliding off the counter. âWhatâs he like?â you ask, crossing your arms.
Ava lets out a little giggle. âTall, dark, tattooed, mysterious. And insanely handsome.â
Your eyebrows shoot up. âTattoos? So heâs at least eighteen,â you deadpan. âMeaning way too old for you heathens.â
They roll their eyes at you, exchanging one last look before slipping out from behind the counter and into the dining room, already fixing menus like nothing happened.
You glance upstairs, then back at Melanie. âHave you seen him yet?â
She nods, not even looking up as she wipes down the counter. âYeah. Heâs alright. Not really my type, but heâs nice. Funny, too.â
âWell,â you shrug, âno oneâs your type. Youâre basically married.â
Melanie huffs out a quiet laugh.
Sheâs been with the same girl since eighth grade. Honestly, they were made for each other.
The morning rush starts to creep in, slow at firstâjust a couple regulars, the bell above the door chiming every few minutes. You fall into rhythm easily. Taking orders, calling drinks, moving without thinking.
Melanieâs beside you, already two steps ahead like always.
Youâre reaching for a lid, half-listening to a customer ramble about oat milk when you hear it.
Heavy. Slow. Not rushed like Sydney and Ava.
You donât look up. Youâre too busy, too focused, scribbling on a cup, sliding it down the counter.
The voice cuts in low and familiar.
Not all the wayâjust enough to throw you off.
And itâs like your brain short-circuits for a second.
Heâs standing right there, a tray of fresh scones balanced in one hand, the other steadying it. Taller than you remember. Broader. Tattoos crawling down his forearms, rings catching the light as he adjusts his grip.
But itâs his face that hits you.
Older. Sharper. Still him.
He freezes just as fast as you do.
The tray dips slightly before he catches it, straightening up like he didnât just almost drop the whole thing.
ââŠHey,â he says, like heâs not entirely sure itâs actually you.
He almost didnât come down.
Early shift, new job, new kitchenâheâd been trying to keep his head down, focus, not screw anything up. The last thing he expected wasâ
It doesnât register at first.
Just another barista. Someone behind the counter, moving fast, hair in braids, voice sharper than the others.
And it hits him all at once.
His brain scrambles to place itâbecause thereâs no way the girl in front of him is the same kid who used to hover in the hallway, peeking into the living room while he and your brother played guitar too loud.
But it is. Itâs you. Just⊠not the same, not even close.
He straightens without thinking, like heâs suddenly aware of himselfâhow heâs standing, what he looks like, the fact that heâs been staring a second too long.
You blink, still trying to catch up.
And then he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little.
âYeah. Uhâyeah, itâs me.â
Thereâs a brief pause, not awkward, just charged.
You glance down at the tray, then back up at him, like youâre piecing it together.
âDidnât peg you for a chef,â you say, tone light, but curious. âLast time I saw you, you were threatening to drop out and join a metal band.â
His mouth twitches, like heâs trying not to grin.
âHey, that was a solid plan,â he says. âStill is, actually. This is just⊠slightly more sustainable.â
You hum softly, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing.
âRight. The rockstar-to-pastry-chef pipeline.â
âExactly,â he nods, dead serious. âVery common. Youâd be surprised.â
Your lips press together, holding back a smile.
He notices. And it does something to him, something small but immediate.
He clears his throat, nodding toward you. âYou, uh⊠you work here now?â
âHave since I was sixteen.â
âOh.â He winces slightly. âRight. Yeah. That tracks.â
He studies you for half a second too long before catching himself, shifting his weight.
âYou lookâŠâ he starts, then stops.
Not smooth. Not smooth at all.
Your head tilts, just slightly. Waiting.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
âDifferent,â he finishes, a little more carefully.
Thereâs a flicker of something in your expression, amusement, maybe.
âYeah,â you say. âThat tends to happen over ten years.â
He lets out a breath through his nose, nodding like, fair enough.
âStill,â he adds, a little quieter, âitâs good, though.â
Not heavy. Not overwhelming.
You glance away for a second, like youâre deciding what to do with that, before pushing off the counter.
âWell,â you say, brushing past him just slightly, close enough to notice, not close enough to be obvious. âDonât burn the place down, Munson. I just got back.â
His head turns immediately as you move past, watching you for a second longer than he should.
âWouldnât dream of it,â he calls after you.
Then, under his breath, ââŠHoly shit.â
The rest of the morning settles into something unfamiliar.
Not chaotic, not really, but different enough that you notice it.
You keep moving, same as always. Calling orders, steaming milk, sliding drinks across the counter with practiced ease. But now thereâs a new rhythm layered into it. One youâre not used to yet.
The sound of trays being set down.
His voice, closer now, more frequent, weaving in and out of the space behind you.
You shift without thinking, bodies just barely missing each other as he passes. It happens again. And again. Each time a little closer, a little less accidental.
By mid-morning, youâve mapped him out without meaning to.
He hums when heâs focused. Low, absentminded, like he doesnât even realize heâs doing it. Taps his rings against the counter when heâs waiting. Runs a hand through his hair when an order backs up.
Not constantly, but enough. Little comments under his breath, half-jokes to Melanie, quick remarks to customers that make them laugh without trying too hard.
Itâs easy. Annoyingly easy.
Youâre reaching for a stack of lids when he steps up beside you again, closer this time, setting down another tray.
âBusy for a Tuesday,â he says, glancing out at the line.
âSummer,â you shrug. âPeople get bored.â
He huffs a quiet laugh at that, nodding like he gets it.
Thereâs a pause, but not an empty one.
âMel said you just got back,â he adds, a little more casual than it probably is.
You glance at him briefly, then back to your hands. âYeah.â
âFrom New York, right?â
He leans back against the counter slightly, crossing his arms. âCollege?â
You nod, popping a lid onto a cup. âYeah. Just finished my third year.â
âDamn,â he says softly, almost to himself. âLook at you.â
Itâs not teasing. Not really. You feel it anyway.
âTry not to sound so surprised,â you reply, sliding the drink down the counter.
âIâm not,â he says quickly, then catches himself, smirking a little. âOkay, maybe a little.â
You glance at him again, this time holding it for a second longer. âDidnât think Iâd make it out?â you ask, tone light but pointed.
He shakes his head immediately. âNo, no, itâs not that. I justâŠâ He trails off, searching for it, then lets out a breath. âYou were, like, what, eleven the last time I saw you?â
âUnfortunately, yes.â
âAnd now youâreââ he gestures vaguely, like he doesnât have the words, or maybe just shouldnât say them out loud.
He hesitates. Then grins, a little crooked. âDifferent.â
You let it sit this time, not giving him anything back right away. Just turning, grabbing the next cup, continuing like it didnât land exactly how it did.
âYeah,â you say after a second. âYou keep saying that.â
âBecause itâs true.â
You shake your head slightly, but thereâs the faintest hint of a smile pulling at your mouth. He notices that, too.
Another order gets called. Another drink made. The moment slips, but not really. It lingers.
By the time the rush starts to die down, it feels like youâve been doing this, working around him, moving with him, for a lot longer than a few hours.
And every time he brushes past you, every quiet âbehind,â every glance that lasts just a second too long. Just enough to keep you aware of him. All damn day.
It doesnât happen all at once.
Thereâs no big moment where things shift, no clear line between then and now. It just settles into place.
By the end of the week, you donât flinch when you hear his footsteps on the stairs anymore.
Mornings start earlier now, not because you have to, but because youâve found yourself showing up ten minutes before your shift without really thinking about it.
The first time it happens, you tell yourself itâs a fluke. The second time, you stop questioning it. By the third, itâs just routine.
You push through the front door, the bell barely chiming before the smell hits you, warm, savory, something fresh off the stove. Stronger than the usual burnt espresso and sugar.
âDonât get used to this,â Eddie calls from behind the counter, not even looking up. You glance over, dropping your bag in its usual spot.
Heâs already plating something, moving like heâs been awake for hours, sleeves pushed up, hair still a little messy like he didnât bother fixing it all the way.
Melanie leans against the counter beside him, watching like this is the highlight of her morning.
âToo late,â she says easily. âWe are.â
He rolls his eyes, but thereâs no bite to it. Two plates slide onto the counter. One gets nudged toward Melanie, no hesitation, no second thought. The other follows, stopping just in front of you.
You glance down. Turkey sausage. Not the regular kind. You look back up at him. ââŠYou remembered?â
He shrugs, like itâs nothing, like he didnât clock it three days ago when you made a face at the menu.
âYeah, well,â he says, busying himself with wiping down the counter, âsomeoneâs gotta save you from eating that rubber they call sausage.â
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you pick up the plate.
âExactly,â he mutters.
Across from you, Melanie is already halfway through hers, completely unfazed.
âYouâre setting a dangerous precedent,â she says, pointing her fork at him. âWeâre gonna start expecting this.â
âDonât,â he warns. âSeriously. Donât.â
You catch the small smile he tries to hide when he turns away.
It evens out after that. He makes breakfast. You bring coffee. Not in a formal way, not something you ever talk aboutâit just happens.
You start grabbing an extra cup on your way in, making it without thinking. Dark roast, no sugar, just a splash of milkâbecause youâve noticed thatâs how he drinks it. Because of course you have.
The first time you hand it to him, he looks at you like youâve caught him off guard.
The second time, he just takes it. By the fourth, heâs already reaching for it when you walk in.
âTimingâs impressive,â he says one morning, taking a sip. âYou stalking me or something?â
âRelax,â you reply, tying your apron. âYouâre not that interesting.â He snorts into his cup. âCouldâve fooled me.â
Working together gets easier, quieter, in a way. You donât have to think about where he is anymore; you just know.
You move around each other without colliding, hands brushing occasionally, shoulders just barely grazing when space gets tight. Itâs nothing. Itâs something.
âBehind,â he says, softer now, like itâs meant just for you. You shift before he even finishes the word. And sometimes, just sometimes, you donât move right away. Just to see if he notices. He does.
Itâs small things. The way he lingers a second longer than he needs to. The way you donât look away as quickly anymore. The way neither of you mentions it.
By the time a week has passed, it feels like this has always been the way it is. Like heâs always been there in the mornings. Like youâve always known how he takes his coffee. Like this, whatever this is, has been building for longer than it actually has.
And maybe thatâs the part that gets you. How easy it is. How natural. How dangerous that feels.
Itâs subtle at first. Or at leastâyou think it is.
But Melanieâs been watching you longer than anyone else has.
She notices the way you grab an extra cup without asking. The way Eddie already has your plate set aside before you even walk in. The way the two of you move around each other like youâve been doing it for years.
next set: Not until youâre restocking lids one afternoon, the rush finally dying down, the shop settling into that quiet lull between waves.
âYouâre doing it again,â she says casually.
You donât look up. âDoing what?â
âThat thing,â she replies, leaning against the counter, watching you. âWhere you pretend youâre not paying attention, but you very obviously are.â
You pause, just for a second, before stacking the lids a little too neatly.
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
She hums, unconvinced. âUh-huh. And the extra coffee every morning? That just magically appears in your hand?â
âHe works ten-hour shifts,â you shrug. âItâs called being nice.â
âRight,â she says. âAnd the sandwiches?â You glance at her, narrowing your eyes slightly.
âHe makes you vegetarian ones every day, donât start.â
âThatâs different,â she says immediately.
âHow?â She opens her mouth, then stops. Because she knows exactly how
And so do you. Thereâs a beat. Then she smirks, just a little. âYou like him.â
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head as you grab the next stack. âRelax, Mel.â
âMm,â she hums, pushing off the counter. âIâll circle back in a week.â
The shift that day is off. Not bad. Just, Different. It starts small.
A group of girls comes in mid-afternoon, loud and giggly, the kind that linger too long at the counter. Sydney and Ava perk up immediately, but theyâre not the ones the girls are looking at.
Itâs him. You donât mean to notice, but you do.
The way one of them leans a little too far over the counter. The way Eddie laughs, easy, polite, that same charm he uses on everyone, but it lingers just a second longer than it needs to.
âAnything else for you?â he asks, handing over a plate.
The girl smiles like sheâs just been handed something more than food.
You press a lid onto a cup a little harder than necessary. Melanie doesnât say anything this time. She just glances at you. Thatâs worse.
You busy yourself with the next order, not looking over, not paying attention. Except you are. Itâs stupid. You donât care. You donât.
âBehind,â he says, stepping in close. You move quick this time, no hesitation.
âCareful,â he adds quietly, like he noticed something in the way you snapped back into place.
You donât respond. He lingers for half a second. Then moves on.
By closing time, the café is quiet.
Chairs flipped, lights dimmed, and the last of the dishes were stacked in the back. Melanie clocks out first, tossing you a look on her way out. We will be talking about this later, written all over her face.
You ignore it. Youâre wiping down the counter when he comes back down from upstairs, slower this time. No tray, no rush. Just him.
He drops into one of the chairs, leaning back with a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair.
âLong day,â he mutters.
You glance over, still moving.
âWelcome to food service.â
âYeah, yeah,â he says, waving you off slightly.
You finish wiping the counter, tossing the rag into the sink before finally sitting across from him, one leg tucked under you without thinking.
For a second, neither of you says anything. Itâs not awkward. Just different.
He looks at you again, really looks this time, like heâs been meaning to all week and just hasnât had the chance.
âSo,â he starts, resting his arms on the table. âYou and your brother still talk?â
You nod. âYeah. Not as much as we should, but⊠yeah.â
He smiles faintly at that, something softer settling in his expression.
âMiss that guy,â he says. âWe used to be inseparable.â
âI remember,â you reply, a small smile pulling at your mouth. âYou practically lived in our house.â
âHey,â he points at you slightly, âyour mom made the best food. I had my priorities straight.â
You laugh quietly. âYou mean you were a freeloader.â
âWoah,â he leans back, mock offended. âI was a guest.â
âA guest who never left.â
âDetails.â Then he glances at you again, something more thoughtful this time.
âYou were always around, too,â he adds. âJust⊠quieter.â
You raise a brow. âI was eleven.â
âYeah, but still,â he shrugs. âAlways hovering. Thought you were slick about it, too.â
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. âI was not slick.â
âNot even a little,â he grins.
You sit with that for a second, the memory settling between you.
Then, âI had a crush on you,â you say, like itâs nothing.
It lands anyway. He blinks. ââŠYeah?â he asks, a little slower.
You nod, completely unfazed. âHuge one.â
Thereâs a pause. And then he laughs, soft, a little surprised, rubbing the back of his neck again.
âDamn,â he says. âMissed my shot, I guess.â
You tilt your head slightly, watching him.
That does something. You can see it. The way he shifts, just slightly, like the ground moved a little under him. The way his eyes flick back to yours, holding there for a second longer than before.
The café is quiet. No machines, no customers, no distractions.
Just the two of you. And something that wasnât there a week ago. Now, very much is.
After that night, something shifts. Not all at once. Not enough to name it. But itâs there.
Eddie starts lingering more. At first, itâs small and easy to brush off.
âBehind,â he says one morning, voice low like always. But this time, his hand finds your back as he passes. Just for a second. Warm, steady, guiding.
Gone before you can react. You freeze for half a beat. Then keep moving. It happens again the next day. And the day after that. Like itâs nothing.
He starts greeting you differently, too. Not words, never anything too obvious.
But when you walk in, he taps his knuckles lightly against yours in passing. A quick, casual fist bump.
You raise a brow the first time. âReally?â you say.
âWhat?â he shrugs. âMorale boost.â
But you donât pull away the next time. Or the time after that.
Then thereâs the bread. You come in one morning, earlier than usual, and itâs already sitting there. Wrapped loosely in parchment, still warm.
You glance around. Melanieâs not in yet. Eddie is, of course, moving around the kitchen like heâs been up for hours. You pick it up, turning it over in your hands.
ââŠThis for customers?â you call out.
âNope,â he answers from behind you.
You turn slightly. âFor you.â
He shrugs, like itâs obvious. âTried a new recipe. Figured youâd appreciate it more than the morning crowd.â
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. âSure. Thatâs definitely why.â
He smirks, but doesnât argue.
On his days off, he still shows up. Which is⊠weird.
You notice it the second time it happens. He walks in like any other customer, hands shoved in his pockets, hair messier than usual, rings catching the light as he leans on the counter.
âCoffee,â he says simply. You narrow your eyes at him.
âYou know how to make it yourself.â
âYeah, but then I wouldnât get to judge yours,â he shoots back.
You roll your eyes, already turning to the machine. "Youâre insufferable.â
âAnd yet,â he says, softer this time, watching you, âyou keep making it.â You donât respond to that. You donât look at him, either. Because if you did, youâd have to acknowledge the way heâs looking at you. And youâre not doing that.
Small things. Repeated enough to matter. Anyone else would see it. Melanie definitely does. But you? You donât let yourself.
Because youâve been here before. Not like this, not exactly, but close enough. And your brain has already decided what it means. Nothing. It has to mean nothing.
You remember being ten. Standing in the hallway, just out of sight, listening. Eddieâs voice carries easily, loud and careless, the way it always was back then. Your brotherâs laughing at something.
âYouâre such an idiot,â he says.
âHey, Iâve got options, man,â Eddie replies, like heâs proving a point. âThereâs, like, three girls in my math class alone that would kill to go out with me.â
âYeah, okay,â your brother scoffs. âName one.â
Eddie hesitates just for a second. Then laughs it off. âAlright, maybe not kill. But, yâknowâclose enough.â
More laughter. And then, âWhat about my sister?â your brother throws out, joking.
Thereâs a pause. Not long. But long enough.
Your brother nudges him lightly with his foot. âCâmon, man. You know she likes you. She follows you around like a lost puppy.â
Eddie snorts, shaking his head. âDude, sheâs, like, a kid.â
Your brother shrugs. âStill.â
âAlright, what am I supposed to do with that?â Eddie shoots back, grinning. âStart planning our wedding or something?â
They both laugh. And thatâs it.
You remember the way your stomach dropped. The way you stood there, suddenly too aware of yourself, your voice, your body, the way you existed in a space you werenât meant to be in yet.
You hadnât gone into the room after that.
Now, years later, you stand behind the counter, watching him lean a little too casually against it, watching him take a sip of the coffee you made like itâs something heâs used to.
Like youâre something heâs used to. It doesnât line up. The version of him in your head, the one who barely saw you, who wrote you off without thinking. And this. This doesnât make sense.
So it must not mean anything. Right?
âCareful,â he murmurs, stepping in close again, hand briefly at your back as you reach for something.
You donât react. Not outwardly. But your grip tightens just slightly.
âGot it,â you say, a little too quickly. He lingers. Just for a second. Like he wants to say something else. Then he pulls back.
From across the counter, Melanie watches the whole thing. And this time, she doesnât wait a week.
It gets harder to ignore. Not because anything changes drastically, but because it doesnât.
Eddie keeps showing up on his days off. Not every day. Just enough to become a pattern. Just enough that you start expecting it.
The bell chimes, and before you even look up, you already know.
And sure enough, âThere he is,â Melanie mutters under her breath one morning. You donât respond. You donât need to.
He walks in like he belongs there, like he didnât just choose to spend his morning at the same place he works, on his day off, for no real reason.
Except, âCoffee,â he says, leaning on the counter, eyes flicking to you immediately.
Melanie lets out a quiet hum beside you. âOh, Iâm sure,â she says.
You nudge her with your elbow, harder than necessary. âShut up.â
Eddie glances between the two of you, catching just enough to be suspicious. ââŠWhat?â
âNothing,â you say quickly, already turning to the machine.
Melanie doesnât move. She just watches him. And then, âCrazy how you only come in when sheâs working,â she says, completely casual.
You freeze for half a second. Eddie doesnât. He just smirks.
âCrazy how youâre paying attention,â he shoots back.
Melanie grins. You refuse to turn around.
The bread doesnât stop. If anything, it gets worse. Different kinds, now. Wrapped, labeled sometimes like heâs testing recipes, but always set aside before you get there. Always for you. You stop asking about it. Because you already know the answer.
Then come the cinnamon rolls. It starts as a special.
âNew item,â he says one morning, sliding a tray onto the counter, the smell immediately filling the entire cafĂ©. Warm, sweet, ridiculous.
They sell out in under an hour. Sydney and Ava wonât shut up about them. Customers ask if theyâll be back tomorrow. Eddie just shrugs.
The next day, theyâre not on the menu. But thereâs a small plate waiting for you when you walk in.
One cinnamon roll. Still warm. You stare at it for a second.
ââŠYouâre kidding.â
He doesnât even look up from what heâs doing.
âDidnât make enough for everyone,â he says. âHad to prioritize.â
You cross your arms, leaning against the counter. âRight. Very fair system youâve got going.â
âThank you,â he nods. âI try.â
Melanie makes a noise behind you, something between a laugh and a choke. You donât look at her. Because if you do, youâll have to acknowledge it. And youâre still not doing that. But Melanie is.
She waits until the rush dies down, until youâre both tucked into the back, restocking, out of earshot. Then she turns to you fully. âOkay,â she says.
You sigh immediately. âNo.â
âI didnât even say anything yet.â
âYou donât have to.â
She crosses her arms. âHe is so into you.â
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head as you grab another sleeve of cups. âNo, heâs not.â
âOh my god,â she says, almost offended. âAre we working in the same building?â
âHe comes in on his days off. He brings you food. He makes you private cinnamon rolls like youâre some kind of VIP customerââ
âItâs not like that,â you cut in, sharper than you meant to.
She pauses. Watches you. ââŠThen what is it like?â
You hesitate, just for a second. Then shrug. âHeâs just being nice.â
Melanie stares at you like you just said the dumbest thing sheâs ever heard.
âYeah,â she says slowly. âMen are famously known for doing all of that for women theyâre not interested in.â You donât respond.
Because you donât have one. Because thereâs a part of you that knows sheâs right, and a bigger part that wonât let you believe it.
It happens later that week. Youâre wiping down the counter, the afternoon lull settling in, when Eddie walks up, closer than usual, but not in passing this time. He stays.
You glance up. âHey.â
He shifts his weight, like heâs working something out in his head. Then, âYou, uh⊠doing anything this weekend?â
Your hand stills slightly on the rag. Not obvious. But he notices.
âWhy?â you ask, tone light.
He shrugs, but thereâs something more behind it now. Less casual.
âMy bandâs playing,â he says. âFriday night. Nothing huge, just some local gig.â
You blink. Your brain catches on the word band immediately. âBand,â you repeat.
He grins a little. âYeah. Still holding onto the dream.â
You huff out a quiet laugh. âThought that was just talk.â
âHey,â he points at you lightly, âI follow through sometimes.â
Thereâs a pause. Then, a little softer, âYou could come. If you want.â
There it is. Clear enough. Not overwhelming. But not nothing.
You open your mouth, and before you can say anythingâ âOh, sheâll be there.â Melanieâs voice cuts in from behind you.
You whip around. âMelââ
âWhat?â she shrugs, completely unfazed. âShe loves live music.â
You narrow your eyes at her. âI didnât say that.â
âYou didnât have to.â
Eddie looks between the two of you, something amused flickering in his expression. But thereâs something else, too. Something hopeful.
He looks back at you. âFriday,â he says, a little more certain now. â8 p.m.â
You hesitate. Just for a second. Then nod. âYeah,â you say, quieter. âOkay.â
His smile is small. But real. âCool.â
He lingers for a second longer, then steps back.
âDonât bail,â he adds.
You roll your eyes slightly. âRelax.â But your stomach twists anyway.
From across the counter, Melanie just grins. âJust being nice,â she mutters. You shove her lightly. But youâre smiling. Just a little.
You found his Instagram by accident. At least, thatâs what you tell yourself.
Itâs late, youâre half-scrolling, half-thinking about Friday, and his name just⊠comes up. Tagged in something. One of the cafĂ© posts, maybe. You donât even really register how you got there.
Just that suddenly, itâs him.
A little grainier than real life, a little more curated, but still very Eddie. Guitar slung low, messy hair, captions that read like he typed them at 2 a.m. without thinking twice. Old flyers, random clips from gigs, the occasional blurry group photo.
You stare at it longer than you should. Then follow him.
Immediately regret it. Then, followed back. You blink at your screen.
ââŠOkay.â Your heart does something stupid.
Friday comes quicker than you expect.
Melanieâs been insufferable about it all day.
âYouâre wearing that?â she asks, leaning against your doorframe.
You glance down at yourself: black tank, low-rise jeans, boots.
She smirks. âJust checking.â
âAnd youâre nervous.â
âYouâre fixing your hair for the third time.â
You stop mid-motion. ââŠShut up.â
The venue is small. Loud, packed, dim lighting that makes everything feel a little closer, a little more intense. The air smells like sweat, cheap beer, and something vaguely metallic.
Melanie drags you toward the front before you can second-guess it. âTrust me,â she says. âWeâre not standing in the back like losers.â
You roll your eyes, but let her. And then, he walks on stage.
Not the same Eddie from behind the counter, not the one leaning casually against it, asking about your weekend. This oneâs louder. Looser. Confident in a way that feels natural.
Like this is where heâs supposed to be.
He doesnât see you at first. Too busy adjusting his guitar, saying something to one of his bandmates that makes them laugh. Then he looks up. And finds you immediately. Like he knew exactly where youâd be.
Thereâs a flicker of something, surprise, maybe. Then recognition. Then, a grin. Not subtle. Not casual. Just for a second before he looks away again, like it didnât just happen.
You swallow. Melanie elbows you. âYeah,â she says. âHeâs definitely not into you.â
âShut up,â you mutter, but thereâs no bite to it.
The set is loud. Good, too. Better than you expected, if youâre being honest. Heâs good. Annoyingly good.
You find yourself watching him more than you should, the way he moves, the way he plays, the way he leans into it like nothing else exists when heâs up there. At one point, he glances over again.
Longer this time. You donât look away.
After the set, everything blurs a little. People crowd around them, talking, laughing, shouting over the noise. Melanie pulls you toward the side, waiting it out.
And then heâs there. A little sweaty, hair even messier, a different kind of energy clinging to him now.
âHey,â he says, slightly breathless.
âYeah,â he huffs a quiet laugh. âGood point.â He looks like he wants to say more, but someone calls his name from behind him.
âHold on,â he says, glancing back. âDonât disappear.â You raise a brow. âI might.â
âDonât,â he repeats, already stepping away
Melanieâs talking to someone, you donât really register who, while you scroll absentmindedly through your phone.
You post a quick story. A photo you snapped of yourself before you left, a slight flirty pout in the mirror. You put "Beware" by Deftones over it.
You donât think about it. Not until your phone buzzes.
Eddie Munson replied to your story: "hell yeah"
You stare at it. A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Of course, thatâs what he says.
You type back before you overthink it: figured youâd approve
Three dots appear almost immediately. Then disappear. Then: they're a good band.
Your stomach flips. You lock your phone. Youâre not doing this right now.
âYouâre smiling at your phone.â
You look up. One of his bandmates, tall, easy smile, leaning a little too casually against the bar.
âIâm not,â you say automatically.
âMm,â he hums, unconvinced. âYouâre with Eddie, right?â
You pause. âWork with him.â
âSame difference,â he shrugs. âIâm Gareth.â
You nod slightly, giving your name. He smiles, easy and a little charming. âYou staying after?â he asks. âWeâre probably heading back, hanging out.â
Before you can answer, âThere you are.â
Eddieâs voice cuts in. You glance over. Heâs closer now, expression just slightly tighter than before, nothing obvious, but enough.
His eyes flick briefly to Gareth. Then back to you.
âWeâre heading back to my place,â he says, a little more direct this time. âJust a few of us. You should come.â
Gareth smirks slightly beside you. âYeah,â he adds. âYou should.â
You look between them. Melanie appears at your side like sheâs been waiting for this exact moment. âOh, weâre going,â she says immediately.
You sigh. âDo I get a say in this?â
Eddie laughs under his breath. âCâmon,â he adds, a little quieter, looking at you now. âItâs not far. You said you live nearby, right?â
âYeah,â he repeats, like that settles it. And for some reason, it does.
His trailer isnât far, just like he said. Close enough that the walk back feels easy, the night air cooling everything down just slightly, but not enough to shake the night's energy.
Thereâs laughter, overlapping conversations, and Melanie is already deep in it. You hang back just a little. Eddie falls into step beside you.
âHaving fun?â he asks. You glance at him.
He nods, like heâs glad, but not surprised. âGood.â Thereâs a pause. Then, softer, âGlad you came.â
You look away slightly, a small smile pulling at your mouth. âYeah,â you say. âMe too.â
Behind you, Gareth calls out something that makes Melanie laugh. Eddie glances back, then forward again. Just a little closer to you now than before. And for the first time, you donât question it.
His trailer is warmer than you expected.
Not messy, just lived-in. Music posters layered over one another, a guitar resting against the wall, a couple of dim lamps casting everything in a low, amber glow that makes it feel smaller than it is.
Melanie disappears almost immediately, already mid-conversation with Gareth and one of the others, laughter blending in with the low music playing from somewhere in the background.
You linger near the door for a second. Taking it in.
âNot bad, right?â You glance over.
Eddieâs watching you, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed loosely like heâs trying to play it off casual.
âItâs veryâŠâ you pause, eyes scanning the room again, ââŠintentional.â
He lets out a quiet laugh. âThatâs a nicer way of saying cluttered, I think.â
âNot cluttered,â you shake your head slightly. âCurated.â
That gets him. You can see it.
âCurated,â he repeats, like heâs trying the word out. âAlright. Iâll take that.â
He nods once, satisfied with that, before pushing off the counter and stepping a little closer, not too close, just enough.
âYou want something?â he asks, gesturing vaguely. âWater, beer, something stronger if you trust my life choices.â
You huff a quiet laugh. âIâll take a beer.â
âBold,â he says, already turning to grab one.
You watch him for a second longer than you mean to. The way he moves in here is different. More relaxed. Like everything fits around him. He hands it to you, fingers brushing yours just briefly.
He tilts his head slightly, studying you.
You nod, taking a sip. âNew York.â
âWhatâre you studying?â he asks.
âLiterature,â you say. âMinor in film.â
His brows lift. âOkay,â he says. âThat actually makes a lot more sense.â
You glance at him, amused. âWhat does?â
He gestures vaguely toward you. âThe whole⊠vibe,â he says. âYouâve got this...â he pauses, searching, ââlike youâre analyzing everything as itâs happening.â
You smile faintly at that. âI probably am.â
You lean back slightly against the counter, turning the bottle in your hands. âI like stories,â you add after a second. âHow people tell them. What they choose to show, what they donât.â
He watches you a little more closely now. âFilm, too?â
You nod. âFilmâs just⊠literature you can see,â you say. âSame idea, just different language.â
He huffs a quiet laugh. âDamn,â he says. âAnd here I am just trying to not burn cinnamon rolls.â
You glance at him, a small smile pulling at your mouth. âYouâre doing more than that.â
He pauses. Just slightly. Then recovers with a smirk. âYeah?â
âAlright, then tell me something, professor.â
âYouâve been watching me all night,â he says. âWhatâs your analysis?â
You hold his gaze. Long enough to make it intentional. Then, âYouâre different here,â you say simply.
He doesnât look away. âHow?â
You tilt your head slightly, considering him like youâre choosing your words carefully.
âLess guarded,â you say. âLike you donât have to think about how youâre coming across.â
Heâs quiet for a second. Then, âIs that a good thing?â
You shrug lightly. âI think so.â Then, softer, âI like this version of you better.â
âCareful,â he says, voice quieter now. âYou keep saying stuff like that, Iâm gonna start thinking you like me or something.â
You donât rush to respond. Just take another sip, letting the silence stretch for a second longer than expected. âMaybe I just like observing you,â you say.
Thereâs a hint of something behind it. Enough to keep him guessing.
He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. âYeah,â he says. âThat sounds about right.â
Later, when the room gets too loud, you slip outside. The night air is cooler, quieter, the hum of everything else settling around you. You lean against the railing, exhaling slowly, letting the noise fade out.
âYou always do that?â
You glance over. Eddie steps out, closing the door behind him, the music dulling instantly.
âDisappear,â he says, walking over. âRight when things get interesting.â
You shrug slightly, gaze drifting out toward the dark street. âSometimes itâs more interesting from a distance.â
He huffs a quiet laugh at that, like he expected the answer, and leans beside you. Close enough to feel him there.
For a second, neither of you says anything. And then, he really looks at you. Not the quick glances from behind the counter, not the passing moments during a shift. This time, it lingers.
The way your hair falls over your shoulders, the braids long gone now, replaced with something looser, softer. And there, subtle but impossible to miss, a streak of pink woven through it.
It catches the light just enough. And it throws him off for a second. Because he remembers pink.
Just not like this. Not the same shade, not the same girl.
Not the kid who used to sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by dolls, humming to herself while he and your brother made too much noise in the next room. Youâre not that girl anymore. Not even close.
âYâknow,â he says after a second, voice quieter now, âyouâre a lot different than I remember.â
You glance at him, already half-expecting that.
âYeah,â you say lightly. âYouâve mentioned.â
He smiles a little at that, shaking his head. âNo, I mean it,â he says. âLike⊠I remember you always having something pink on. Thought it was, like, your whole thing.â
You follow his gaze for a second, fingers brushing absently against the streak in your hair. A small smile tugs at your mouth.
âItâs just weird,â he admits. âSeeing you now and trying to line it up with⊠that.â
You tilt your head slightly, studying him. âYou donât have to,â you say. âTheyâre not really the same person.â
He looks at you again. Longer this time. Like heâs realizing thatâs true. âYeah,â he murmurs. âI can see that.â
âI think I like this version better.â You donât respond right away. Just let the words settle between you, quiet and steady. Then, after a second, a small, almost private smile crosses your face.
âGood,â you say softly.
He watches you for a moment longer. Like heâs trying to figure out something heâs not quite ready to say out loud yet.
Inside, someone calls his name. He doesnât move right away. Just lingers there beside you, in that quiet space you carved out. Then, âDonât disappear again,â he says.
You glance at him, that same knowing look in your eyes. âNo promises.â He smiles. Like he expected that answer.
The summer settles into something steady. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just consistent.
The kind of rhythm you donât notice at first, until you realize youâve stopped thinking about it altogether. Mornings come with the same routine.
You show up early, earlier than you used to, and the smell hits you before anything else. Something warm, something fresh, something that isnât just coffee anymore.
Thereâs always a sandwich waiting. Melanie's set off to the side, vegetarian without question. Yours beside it, turkey sausage, never the regular kind, like he made a point of remembering that once and never letting it go.
You stop commenting on it after a while. Because he doesnât make a big deal out of it. And neither do you. You just eat.
Coffee becomes your thing. You bring it without asking, sliding it across the counter before he even looks up.
He takes it without hesitation now, like itâs expected. Like you are.
âTimingâs still impressive,â he says one morning, taking a sip.
âYouâre predictable,â you reply.
âWow,â he scoffs. âAnd here I thought I was mysterious.â
You glance at him briefly. âYou try to be.â
That gets a laugh out of him every time.
The cinnamon rolls donât come back to the menu. Customers ask. Sydney and Ava complain. Eddie just shrugs it off like it was a one-time thing.
But every few mornings, thereâs one waiting for you. Just one. Still warm. You donât ask about that, either.
On his days off, he still shows up. Always around the same time. Always for âcoffee.â Youâve stopped pretending itâs a coincidence. Heâs stopped pretending he doesnât know that you know. But neither of you says it out loud.
It builds like that. Small things. Repeated enough to matter. Until suddenly, itâs July.
âYour birthdayâs coming up,â Melanie says one morning, like itâs a warning. You glance at her. âDonât make it weird.â
âIâm not gonna make it weird,â she says.
You narrow your eyes. âYouâre definitely gonna make it weird.â
She grins. âIâm just saying. End of July. Big deal.â
âItâs not a big deal.â
You roll your eyes, but thereâs no real resistance behind it.
Eddie doesnât say anything about it. Not at first. Not to you. But he notices. And one afternoon, when youâre in the back, grabbing inventory, and Melanieâs alone at the counter, he asks.
âHey,â he says, a little quieter than usual.
She looks up immediately, already suspicious. âWhat?â
He leans on the counter slightly, casual, but not really. âItâs her birthday soon, right?â
Melanieâs face changes instantly. Not subtle. Not even a little bit. ââŠWhy?â she asks.
He rolls his eyes. âRelax. Iâm just asking.â
She studies him for a second longer than necessary. Then, âYouâre making her something,â she says.
Melanie breaks into a grin, âOh my god.â
âKeep it down,â he mutters.
âI didnât say that.â
âYou didnât have to.â
He sighs, dragging a hand over his face. âAre you gonna help me or not?â
She crosses her arms, satisfied.
âWhat does she like?â He pauses. Then, quieter, âSomething she wouldnât expect.â
Melanie thinks for a second. Then smirks. âTiramisu.â
He nods once, like heâs locking it in. âAlright.â
âAnd Eddie?â she adds.
âDonât mess it up.â
He scoffs. âI wonât.â
Your birthday doesnât feel like a big deal. You and Melanie spend most of the day out, walking around, getting lunch, doing nothing in particular but making it feel like something anyway.
By the time evening rolls around, youâre tired in that good way. âYou wanna head back?â she asks casually.
You shrug. âYeah, sure.â
Sheâs already texting someone. You donât question it.
When you walk past Eddieâs, the lights are on.
You pause slightly. "Isn't he working tonight?â
Melanie just smiles. âSomething like that.â
You narrow your eyes, but follow her anyway. She opens the door without knocking.
âHello?â she calls out.
You step inside, slower. And then you see it. Nothing over the top.
No decorations, no big scene. Just the table cleared off. A small cake sitting in the center. And Eddie, standing off to the side like heâs trying to pretend this is casual. Like he didnât plan this.
You stop. ââŠWhat is this?â
Melanie nudges you forward. âYour birthday, genius.â
You look at him. âYou did this?â you ask
He shrugs, but itâs not convincing. âYeah, well,â he says, rubbing the back of his neck, âfigured you deserved something.â
You step closer to the table. Glance down. Tiramisu.
Your brows lift slightly. ââŠHow did youââ You stop and turn slowly toward Melanie.
She grins. âDonât look at me.â
You shake your head, a small laugh slipping out. âThatâs⊠actually insane.â
Eddie watches you carefully. âIs that good or bad?â
You look back at him. And for once, you donât deflect. âGood,â you say, softer now. âReally good.â
Something in his expression eases. Just a little. âAlright,â he says. âCool.â Thereâs a pause. Then, âHappy birthday.â
You hold his gaze for a second longer than usual. âThank you.â And this time, you mean more than just the cake.
Itâs mid-shift when he brings it up. Not during a quiet moment, either, right in the middle of everything, like itâs casual. Like itâs not.
He leans against the counter, wiping his hands on a towel, glancing between you and Melanie. âSo,â he says, âyou two doing anything tonight?â
Melanie doesnât even look up. âDepends,â she replies. âWhy?â
Eddie shrugs, but thereâs something behind it. âBar down on Mapleâs got a couple tables open. Figured we could hang out. Play a game or two.â
You glance at him briefly, then back to the drink youâre making. âSince when do you play pool?â you ask.
âI contain multitudes,â he says dryly.
Melanie snorts. âAlright,â she says. âIâm in.â
You raise a brow at her. âThat was fast.â
She shrugs. âI like pool.â
You narrow your eyes slightly. Somethingâs off. You can feel it.
Eddie watches the exchange, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. âCool,â he says. âThen itâs settled.â
An hour later, Melanie suddenly isnât so available.
âI canât go,â she says, way too casually, tying her apron like she didnât just agree.
You blink at her. ââŠWhat?â
âWhat came up?â you ask.
She shrugs, avoiding your eye. âJustâstuff.â
You stare at her. She refuses to look back.
Across the counter, Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh. âDamn,â he says. âThatâs rough.â
He just lifts his hands slightly, innocent. âGuess itâs just us, then.â
It lands. Not heavy. But not nothing. You glance between the two of them. Melanie finally looks at you, and the look she gives you is way too knowing.
âHave fun,â she says.
You sigh. ââŠUnbelievable.â
But you grab your bag anyway. Eddie pushes off the counter, grabbing his keys.
âCâmon,â he says, already heading for the door. âDonât bail on me now.â
You shake your head, following him out. âIâm not bailing,â you mutter.
âGood,â he says, glancing back at you, that same grin pulling at his mouth. âWouldâve been a real shame.â
The bar is dim, low-lit, the kind of place that feels like it exists outside of time. Music hums softly through the speakers, something slow and familiar.
âPlay?â he asks, tapping the table lightly.
You glance at the cue stick. ââŠIâve never played.â It comes out easy. Too easy.
His brows lift slightly. âReally?â
You shrug. âGuess I missed out.â
He watches you for a second, like heâs deciding if he believes you. Then hands you a stick anyway. âAlright,â he says. âCâmere.â
He steps behind you, closer than heâs been all night. Not touching, just there.
âHold it like this,â he says, reaching around you, but stopping just short, letting you mirror him instead. You follow along, biting back a smile. âLike this?â
âYeah,â he says, voice lower now. âAlmost.â
You line up the shot. Pause. Then, a clean hit. Ball sinks instantly. You donât react. Just straighten slightly. ââŠBeginnerâs luck.â
By the third shot, he knows. By the fifth, heâs laughing. âYouâre such a liar,â he says, shaking his head.
You glance at him, faintly amused. âI said Iâd never played.â
âThat was not what you implied.â
You tilt your head slightly. âSounds like a you problem.â
He huffs a laugh, stepping closer again. âAlright,â he mutters. âNoted.â
You play for longer than you mean to. The game turns into something else. Not really about winning. Just, proximity. Conversation.
The way he leans against the table, watching you line up a shot like itâs more interesting than it should be. The way you catch him looking, and donât call him out on it.
The walk back is quieter than the bar. Not awkward, just heavier in a way you canât really name. Eddie walks a little closer to you now, hands shoved in his pockets, glancing over every so often like heâs still deciding something.
When you get inside, the energy shifts again. Softer. Contained. Like the rest of the world, stayed outside.
He kicks the door shut behind him, tossing his keys onto the counter before turning back to you.
âAlright,â he says, stretching slightly, âIâve been meaning to ask you something.â
You raise a brow, setting your bag down. âThat sounds ominous.â
He smirks. âI heard your playlistâs good.â
You blink. ââŠFrom who?â
He shrugs, way too casual. âSources.â
You narrow your eyes. âMelanie.â
âMaybe,â he says. âMaybe not.â
You shake your head slightly, but thereâs a faint smile there. âYou want me to DJ?â
âYeah,â he nods, stepping aside, gesturing toward his setup. âLetâs see what youâve got.â
You hesitate for half a second. Then move. It feels weirdly personal. Handing someone your music always does. You scroll for a second before hitting play. Something slower. Atmospheric. A little heavy, but not overwhelming.
The kind of song that fills a room instead of demanding it. Eddie watches you while it starts. Not the screen. You.
âAlright,â he says after a second, nodding. âYeah. This tracks.â
You glance at him. âWhat does that mean?â
âIt means,â he says, leaning back against the counter, âthis is exactly what I expected you to listen to.â
You tilt your head slightly. âAnd what is that supposed to mean?â
He smiles a little. âNothing bad,â he says. âJust⊠youâve got a vibe.â
You huff quietly. âYou keep saying that.â
âBecause itâs true.â
At some point, the music fades into the background. He grabs the remote, flipping through something before settling on a film. Black and white. Grainy. The kind of thing most people wouldnât pick.
You notice immediately. ââŠYouâre kidding.â
He glances at you. âWhat?â
âYouâre putting this on?â
âYeah?â he says. âProblem?â
You shake your head slowly, stepping closer to the couch.
âNo,â you say. âJust didnât think you were the type.â
He pauses. Then, âIâm not,â he admits. âBut you are.â
You look at him for a second longer than usual. ââŠYou asked Melanie.â
You shake your head, but you sit anyway. The movie starts. A slow-burning mystery, all shadows and long pauses, dialogue that feels heavier than it sounds. You settle into it almost immediately. He notices that, too.
You end up side by side again. Closer this time, not quite touching, but not far.
âYouâve seen this?â he asks quietly.
âA few times,â you say. âItâs good.â
âYeah,â you nod, eyes still on the screen. âYou have to pay attention, though.â
He glances at you instead. âI can do that.â
You donât look at him, but you feel it.
Time stretches. The movie plays. The music hums underneath it. And slowly, he shifts closer. Not all at once. Just enough.
âCâmere,â he murmurs after a while, softer than before. âYouâre still sitting too far away.â
You glance at him briefly. Then move. This time, you donât stop halfway. You settle beside him, shoulder brushing his.
He exhales quietly. Like heâs been waiting for that
His arm comes up along the back of the couch, then slowly, carefully, his hand finds your back again. Familiar now. Expected. His fingers move lightly, tracing slow patterns, pressing just enough to make you aware of it.
âYou always this observant?â he asks after a while, voice low.
âSometimes,â you reply.
You hum softly, not asking what he means. Because you already know.
The movie keeps playing, but neither of you is really watching anymore. His hand drifts up your back, into your hair, fingers catching gently on the pink streak.
âStill thinking about this,â he murmurs.
You glance at him. âYouâre easily distracted.â
His hand moves again, resting against your leg now, thumb brushing slowly, absentminded. You let it happen. Again, longer this time. And the whole night feels like that. Like youâre both standing right on the edge of something, just seeing who moves first.
Eventually, the movie ends. Neither of you moves right away. The credits roll quietly in the background, the room dim, the air heavier than it was before.
You sit there for a second longer than necessary. Then, ââŠI should go,â you say, softer this time.
His hand stills against your back. But doesnât leave. âYeah,â he replies, just as quiet.
Neither of you sounds convinced. You shift slightly, pulling away just enough to stand. The loss of contact is immediate and noticeable.
You grab your bag, fingers fidgeting with the strap for a second before you look back at him. Heâs already watching you.
âThanks,â you say, a small smile pulling at your mouth. âFor tonight.â
âYeah,â he says, standing now, a little closer than before. âAnytime.â
You hesitate, then step forward, closing the distance just slightly. Your arms lift, tentative for a second before settling around him in a quick, soft hug.
He exhales quietly, like he wasnât expecting it, but his hands come up anyway, one resting lightly against your back.
It lingers, just a second longer than it should. And when you pull back, you donât go far. Your hands drop, but youâre still close. Too close.
His face is right there. Closer than itâs ever been.
You can feel it now, that shift, that quiet pull thatâs been building all night, all summer. Neither of you moves at first.
His eyes flick down, just briefly. Then, back up, you feel your breath catch slightly. And then, you both lean in. Slow. Careful. Like giving the other time to stop. But neither of you does. And when your lips meet, itâs soft. Just a brush.
Like testing it, like confirming itâs real. And then it settles. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to change everything. When you pull back, itâs barely an inch. Still close, still there.
His forehead almost brushes yours, breath uneven now. âOkay,â he murmurs, like heâs half-laughing, half in disbelief.
You donât say anything. You just look at him. Because thereâs nothing left to pretend about now. The lineâs already been crossed.
The second your lips part, the air between you feels charged, like the hush right before the turning point in a novel youâve read a hundred times.
Eddieâs forehead stays pressed lightly to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your mouth. His hand is still at the small of your back, fingers splayed like heâs afraid the chapter might end too soon if he lets go.
âYouâŠâ He swallows, voice rough. âYou have any idea how long Iâve wanted to do that?â
You donât answer with words at first. Your heart is hammering, but thereâs a spark of that familiar wit flickering through the haze.
âCareful, Munson,â you murmur, lips brushing his as you speak. âKeep talking like that, and I might start quoting poetry at you. And nobody wants that mid-kiss.â
He laughs softly, the sound low and warm, and it loosens something tight in your chest. âPoetry, huh? Fuck, youâre trouble.â
This time, when he kisses you, itâs deeper. Slower. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of careful hunger, like heâs savoring every line of you. You make a tiny, involuntary sound, half sigh, half whimper, and he answers it by sliding his free hand up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking along the pink streak in your hair.
Your body responds before your mind catches up. Youâve done this before, with other boys, other fumbling moments, but never with him. Never with someone who feels like heâs rewriting the whole story just by touching you.
You clutch at the front of his worn Black Sabbath tee, fingers twisting in the soft fabric, and he smiles against your lips like he can feel how quickly youâre unraveling.
âEasy, sweetheart,â he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. âWe donât have to rush. Tell me if itâs too much.â
You shake your head, a small, wry smile tugging at your mouth despite the flush creeping up your neck. âToo much? Please. Iâve read worse cliffhangers.â But your voice is softer than the words, breathy, giving away how much youâre already yielding to him.
He seems to understand anyway. One corner of his mouth lifts, soft and crooked. âYeah? Then letâs make this one worth the reread.â
His thumb traces your bottom lip, then he leans in again, kissing you like heâs got all the time in the world and none at all. You let him lead, melting into it, letting your body follow wherever his hands guide you.
When his tongue brushes lightly against yours, you shiver hard, a helpless little sound escaping you, and he groans quietly, pulling you closer until your chest is flush against his.
Somehow you end up on the couch again, only this time youâre not sitting politely beside him. Youâre in his lap, straddling his thighs, your skirt riding up without either of you acknowledging it yet. His hands settle on your hips, warm and steady, thumbs rubbing slow circles through the thin fabric.
âYouâre shaking,â he whispers against your mouth.
âIâm okay,â you breathe, then add with a touch of that sharp wit, âJust⊠recalibrating the plot twist.â
âGood nervous?â His lips trail along your jaw, then lower, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just beneath your ear.
You nod, eyes fluttering shut. âThe best kind.â
He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. One hand slides up your back, under your shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin. The touch is so gentle that it makes you arch into it without thinking.
He rewards you with another kiss, deeper this time, tongue stroking yours until your head spins and youâre clutching his shoulders like heâs the only solid thing left in the room.
When he finally pulls back again, his gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, taking in the way your chest rises and falls too fast. âCan I take this off?â he asks, fingers curling at the hem of your shirt. âJust the shirt. We can stop whenever you want.â
You bite your lip, then nod, lifting your arms for him with a quiet submission that feels natural, like turning the page when you know the next scene will change everything. He peels it away slowly, reverently, like heâs revealing the first vulnerable line of a new chapter.
The cool air hits your skin, and you instinctively start to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists gently. âDonât,â he says, voice low and rough. âLet me look. Fuck⊠youâre beautiful.â
Heat floods your face. Youâre not used to being looked at like this, seen so completely by someone whoâs known you in fragments for years. But the way his eyes move over you, dark and worshipful, makes something warm and liquid pool low in your belly.
He leans in and presses a kiss to the center of your sternum, then another just above the lace of your bra. When his teeth graze the soft swell of your breast you gasp, fingers threading into his messy curls.
Eddie groans. âLove the sounds you make⊠so fucking sweet.â
He shifts beneath you, and you feel himâhard, pressing insistently against the apex of your thighs through his jeans. The realization sends another jolt through you, sharper this time because itâs him. You rock forward experimentally and his head falls back against the couch with a hissed curse.
âShit, careful, baby. You keep doing that, and this is gonna be over way too fast.â
You freeze for a second, but then that witty spark flickers again. âWouldnât want to spoil the ending,â you murmur, voice teasing even as it trembles.
He laughs, dark and breathless, and pulls you down for another kiss, slower, soothing. His hands roam up your ribs, over the curve of your waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts until youâre whimpering into his mouth, all wit dissolving into soft, needy sounds.
Then, without warning, he turns his head and bites your cheek.
Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to leave a mark. His teeth sink into the soft, rounded flesh of your face just below your eye, holding for a second before he soothes the spot with his tongue. You squeak in surprise, a startled little sound that makes him chuckle darkly against your skin.
âBeen wanting to do that since you walked in with that pink streak and those big eyes,â he murmurs, voice husky. âGonna look so pretty with my teeth marks on you tomorrow. Like a secret annotation only I get to read.â
Your whole body flushes hotter. The possessive little bite, the casual way he says itâlike marking a favorite passageâdoes something dangerous to the submissive part of you thatâs been quietly humming under your skin all night. You duck your head, hiding against his shoulder for a moment, but he catches your chin and tilts your face back up.
âHey. No hiding. Not from me.â
He kisses you again, deep and claiming, and this time when his hands slide down to your thighs and start pushing your skirt higher, you donât stop him. You let him guide you, let him lay you back against the couch cushions, let him settle between your legs like he belongs there.
His mouth finds your neck, sucking lightly, then harder, leaving little blooming marks that match the one on your cheek. Every time you make a soft, needy sound, he rewards you with more, more kisses, more touches, more murmured praise against your skin.
âSuch a good girl for me⊠so fucking pretty when you let goâŠâ
Your hands stay in his hair, tugging gently, guiding him without words because even with your experience, this feels differentâdeeper, like the first real intimate scene after years of buildup. But he seems to know anyway. He always has.
When his fingers finally slip beneath the waistband of your panties, slow and careful, youâre already soaked. He groans at the first touch, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
âJesus Christ, sweetheart⊠all this for me?â
You can only nod, breath hitching as he strokes you with reverent, teasing fingers. He takes his time, learning every little reaction, every gasp and shiver, until youâre trembling beneath him, hips rocking up into his hand without shame, your usual wit reduced to breathless whispers of his name.
Only when youâre whimpering for more does he finally ease your panties down your legs, kissing every inch of skin he reveals. Then heâs back between your thighs, mouth replacing his fingers, and the world narrows to the wet heat of his tongue and the low, filthy sounds he makes like heâs the one being rewarded.
You come apart with his name on your lips and his teeth grazing the inside of your thigh, the bite on your cheek still tingling like a secret brand only heâs allowed to leave.
Afterward, he pulls you into his chest, both of you breathing hard, skin damp, and hearts racing. He presses a soft kiss to the bite mark on your face, then to your swollen lips.
âStill with me?â he whispers, voice tender now.
You nod, curling closer, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest like youâre mapping out the next few pages. âYeah,â you murmur, a hint of that wit slipping back in. âJust⊠bookmarking this moment.â
Eddie smiles against your hair, arms tightening around you like he never plans to let go.
The next morning feels⊠off. Not bad, just different.
You wake up later than you meant to, the light already too bright through your window, your phone buzzing with missed alarms you definitely slept through.
For a second, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling. Replaying last night. And thenââShit.â
Youâre barely on time. Rushing in, hair still slightly damp, heart beating a little faster than it should for a normal shift. The bell chimes as you push through the door. And heâs already there.
Behind the counter, mid-conversation with Melanie, sleeves pushed up, moving like nothing happened. Like last night didnât exist. Your steps slow just slightly. He looks up, sees you, and for a split second he freezes.
Just enough to notice. âHey,â he says.
Itâs normal, too normal.
âHey,â you reply, also normal.
Melanie looks between the two of you immediately. Eyes narrowing. ââŠOh my god.â
You shoot her a look. âDonât.â
âDonât what?â she says, already grinning. âI didnât even say anything.â
âYouâre thinking it.â
âI am,â she confirms. âVery loudly.â
Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turns away slightly, grabbing something off the counter. But heâs listening.
You move past them, setting your bag down a little too quickly. Everything feels hyper-aware now. Where heâs standing. How close he is. The way your shoulders almost brush when you pass him, and how neither of you acknowledges it.
The shift is weird. Not in a bad way. Okay, maybe a little. Like youâre both trying not to do anything that gives it away. But somehow that makes it more obvious.
Melanie notices everything. The way you avoid eye contact for too long. The way he lingers just slightly closer than usual. The way neither of you mentions last night.
âYouâre both acting insane,â she mutters at one point, wiping down the counter.
âWeâre not,â you say.
âYou are,â she insists. âItâs painful.â
Eddie snorts under his breath.
âLeave her alone,â he says, but thereâs no real argument behind it.
Melanie looks at him. Then back at you. Then, âOh my god, something did happen.â
You donât respond. You donât have to. Your silence says enough.
Her jaw drops. âI knew it.â
âI knew it,â she repeats, pointing between the two of you. âYouâre both so obvious.â
Eddie laughs quietly again, rubbing the back of his neck. âAlright, alright,â he says. âRelax.â
âRelax?â she echoes. âYouââ
âMelanie,â you cut in, sharper now.
She stops. But sheâs still smiling. Because sheâs right.
Later, when things quiet down, he finds you. Not dramatic. Just slipping beside you while youâre restocking, voice lower than usual.
You glance at him. âHey.â
Thereâs a pause. Different from before. More aware. âSo,â he says, âtomorrowâs your last day, right?â
He shifts slightly, like heâs working up to something. âThen⊠come in early,â he says. âBefore your shift.â
You raise a brow. âWhy?â
He hesitates. Just a second. Then, âSunrise,â he says. âFigured we couldâyâknow. Before everything.â
You study him for a second, then nod. ââŠOkay.â
His shoulders ease slightly. âOkay.â
But the next morning? Everything goes wrong.
You wake up to a text from Melanie: you need to get here. now.
No context. No explanation. Just that. Your stomach drops.
Flour everywhere. Containers knocked over. A shelfâone of the main onesâcompletely collapsed, ingredients scattered across the floor like something exploded.
Melanieâs in the middle of it, already trying to clean. And Eddie? Eddie looks stressed.
More than youâve ever seen him. Heâs pacing slightly, running a hand through his hair over and over.
âWhat happened?â you ask, stepping in quickly.
Melanie looks up. âShelf gave out. Everything came down.â
You glance at him. He barely meets your eyes. âIâI didnât check the weight,â he mutters. âI thought itâd hold.â
Thereâs a tightness in his voice you havenât heard before.
âIâm gonna get fired,â he adds, quieter.
You donât think, just move. âOkay,â you say, already grabbing a towel. âThen we clean it up.â
Melanie nods immediately. âYeah.â
Eddie looks at you. âHey, you donât have toââ
âI know,â you cut in, not looking up. âI want to.â
Thereâs no hesitation in your voice. No teasing. He watches you for a second. Then nods, âAlright.â
You work like that for a while. Quiet, focused, side by sideâbut not in the same way as before. This time, itâs not about tension. Itâs about showing up.
The sun rises without you noticing. The plan, forgotten. Ruined even. But neither of you says it out loud.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. By the time the shift winds down, the mess is gone, the café looks normal again, and the adrenaline has worn off just enough for everything else to settle back in.
Youâre wiping down the counter when he finds you again.
You glance up. âHey.â
Thereâs a pause; short, but not empty. âBandâs playing tonight,â he says. âOne last thing before you ditch this place for good.â
You huff softly. âIâm not ditching.â
âLeaving,â he corrects. âAbandoning me. Same thing.â
You roll your eyes, but thereâs a hint of a smile there. âWhat time?â
His expression shifts just slightly. âEight.â
You nod. âYeah. Okay.â
The venue is louder than last time. More crowded, more bodies packed together, the air thick with heat and movement.
Melanieâs with you again, but she drifts off pretty quickly, pulled into a conversation with someone near the bar. You stay closer to the stage. You always do.
Eddie spots you before the set starts. Thereâs that same look, quick, but unmistakable. Then heâs gone again, pulled into it.
You watch from the side this time. Closer than before, close enough to feel it. The bass, the drums, the way the floor almost vibrates beneath your feet. Heâs different up there again, looser, more confident.
And every so often, his eyes flick over, just to check. Just to make sure youâre still there.
Between sets, the crowd shifts.
Another band takes the stage, heavier this time, louder, the energy in the room changing almost instantly.
The pit opens up before you even realize it. Bodies pushing, shoving, movement turning chaotic in seconds.
âHeyââ A hand catches your arm steadily.
Pulling you back just enough to keep you out of it. You turn, Eddie. Closer than usual, expression focused now, not teasing.
âCareful,â he says, guiding you slightly behind him. You donât argue. Just let him.
He positions himself between you and the edge of the pit, one arm still lightly at your side like he hasnât fully let go.
âYou good?â he asks, glancing down at you.
His hand lingers for a second longer. Then drops. But he doesnât move far.
Later, outside, the air feels cooler. Quieter.
You lean against the brick wall, pulling a cigarette from your pocket, tapping it lightly against your hand before lighting it. He watches.
âDidnât take you for a smoker,â he says.
You shrug, taking a drag. âOccasionally.â
âOccasionally,â he repeats.
You glance at him, amused. âYou repeat everything I say.â
âOnly the interesting stuff.â
You roll your eyes slightly, exhaling. He steps closer. âLemme see that,â he says, nodding toward the cigarette.
You hand it over without thinking. He takes it, bringing it up, but instead of immediately taking a drag, he pauses, the filter resting between his teeth. Biting it. Absentminded.
Like he doesnât even realize heâs doing it.
Your eyes linger on it for a second longer than they should. The slight pressure of his jaw. The way his rings catch the light as his fingers hover near them.
ââŠYou do that a lot?â you ask, before you can stop yourself.
He glances at you. âDo what?â
You gesture vaguely. âThat.â
He looks down at the cigarette in his hand. Realizes. Lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
âYeah,â he says. âDidnât even notice.â
Then his eyes flick back to yours, something a little more aware settling in now. âWhy?â
âNothing,â you say lightly, taking it back from him. âJust⊠noticed.â
He watches you for a second longer. Like he knows itâs not nothing. But he doesnât push it. Just smirks slightly, stepping back.
âCareful,â he mutters. âYou keep paying attention like that, Iâm gonna start getting nervous.â
You hum softly. âGood.â
He huffs a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head slightly, but his eyes linger on you for a second longer than before. Like heâs trying to figure out what you meant. You donât let him.
The door behind you swings open, voices spilling out, the sound of laughter and overlapping conversation cutting through the quiet. You glance over your shoulder at his bandmates. Perfect.
You push off the wall slightly, taking another drag before flicking the ash off the end, using the distraction without making it obvious.
âSo,â you say, like nothing just happened, âI got something to show you.â
He raises a brow. âYeah?â
You nod, already pulling your digital camera out. âFrom your set.â
That gets his attention immediately. You scroll for a second, then turn the screen toward him.
Photos from earlier; angles caught between movements, lighting hitting just right, grain from the low light giving everything this raw, almost cinematic feel.
He leans in. Closer than necessary. ââŠWait,â he says, taking the phone gently from your hand, eyes scanning. âYou took these tonight?â
You nod, watching him. âYeah.â
He flips through them, slower now. Really looking. âHoly shit,â he mutters under his breath.
âYouâre good,â he says, glancing up at you briefly before looking back down at the screen. âLike, actually good.â
You shrug slightly, like it doesnât matter. âItâs just timing.â
âYeah, well,â he says, still scrolling, âyour timingâs insane.â
Behind him, one of his bandmates leans over. âYo, what are you looking at?â
Eddie doesnât even hesitate. âHer photos,â he says, holding the camera up slightly. âFrom the set.â
The way he says it is not casual or dismissive. Just proud. You feel it.
His bandmate takes the camera, scrolling quickly. âDamn,â he says. âThese are sick.â
Another one steps in. âLemme see.â
Eddie shifts slightly, closer to you now, without thinking, watching them look through them like heâs already decided they matter. âTold you,â he says, glancing back at you for a second, a small smirk pulling at his mouth. âBest ones weâve got.â
You raise a brow slightly. âThat so?â
âYeah,â he says easily. âMight have to start bringing you to every show.â
Thereâs a pause. You tilt your head slightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. âCareful,â you say. âSounds like a commitment.â
He huffs out a quiet laugh.
After that night, the texts started getting shorter.
At first, it was just the usual lag: hey, sorry, band shit ran late, or catch you tomorrow? But tomorrow kept sliding into the day after, and the day after turned into radio silence. You tell yourself itâs nothing. People get busy. Life isnât a neatly plotted novel where every absence means foreshadowing.
Still, you catch yourself rereading the last message he actually sent, the one with the little smirking emoji after youâd sent him a photo of the bite mark on your cheek fading to a faint bruise. Looks good on you. That was three days ago.
Now itâs the night before you leave, and your suitcase is half-packed on the bed like an open wound. The pink streak in your hair feels suddenly childish under the lamplight, like a detail you added to a character who was never meant to stay in this chapter.
A soft knock at the door. Melanie lets herself in before you can answer, eyes already a little too bright, a little too shiny. She closes the door behind her and leans against it, arms crossed like sheâs trying to hold something in.
âHey,â she says, voice quieter than usual.
You force a small smile, the kind that doesnât reach your eyes. âIf youâre here to talk me into staying, the answerâs still no. Iâve got that train ticket burning a hole in my wallet and everything.â
She doesnât laugh. Instead she crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, next to the open suitcase. Her gaze flicks over the folded clothes, the book youâre halfway through (a dog-eared copy of something melancholic and Russian, because of course it is), then back to you.
âI saw Eddie today,â she says finally. The words land heavy.
You go still, fingers pausing on the zipper. âYeah?â
She nods once. âHe was⊠off. Distant. Kept finding reasons to be in the back room, didnât stick around for the usual bullshit banter.â A pause. Her eyes glisten, but she blinks it away fast. âLooked like shit, honestly. Like he hadnât slept.â
Your chest tightens, but you keep your tone light, wry. âClassic Munson. Probably stayed up rewriting the campaign again. Or listening to the same three Metallica tracks on repeat until his brain melted. Very on-brand.â
Melanie hesitates, then exhales slowly, choosing her words with care. She doesnât tell you the rest â that she had mentioned you were leaving tomorrow, that Eddie had already known and tried to joke it off at first (âYeah, well, Hawkins canât keep all the pretty ones foreverâ), before the tone turned serious because she can pull confessions out of anyone.
She doesnât tell you how heâd cracked under her stare, admitting that knowing you were about to disappear had twisted the knife on every old insecurity he carried: that he was always the one left behind, the older brotherâs best friend who was never supposed to matter, the guy who pushed first so no one else could reject him later.
She keeps all of it locked away. Because she knows you â your soft, sympathetic heart that would immediately offer to transfer somewhere small and close just to give him more time, just to fix what he was breaking on purpose. She wonât let you do that to yourself.
Instead she simply says, âI didnât bring you up at all, actually. Didnât want to make it worse.â
The half-truth sits between you, heavy but safe.
You let out a quiet laugh that doesnât sound like one. âGod, Mel. You make it sound like Iâm the tragic heroine in some Victorian novel. All pining and unanswered letters.â
But the wit feels thin, even to you. Underneath it, your throat aches. Because sheâs right about the cycle. Youâve felt the shift; the way his replies grew drier, the way he stopped initiating, the way the warmth that had wrapped around you on that couch suddenly had teeth. Insecurity, probably. Eddieâs always carried it like an old scar he pretends isnât there.
You just didnât think youâd be the one heâd push away first.
Melanie reaches over and squeezes your hand once, quick and tight. âI love you,â she murmurs. âAnd Iâm sorry. I wish he wasnât such a coward about his own heart.â
You hug her back when she pulls you in, pressing your face into her shoulder for a second longer than necessary. When she finally leaves, the room feels quieter than before.
You pick up your phone, thumb hovering over his name. The last message thread stares back at you, your words getting longer, his getting shorter, until they stop altogether.
You donât type anything.
Instead you set the phone face-down, close the suitcase, and turn off the light. Tomorrow the train will leave, and the story will keep moving whether he shows up in it or not.
But the bite mark on your cheek, faint now, almost gone, still tingles sometimes when you touch it. Like a footnote you canât quite erase.
The lecture hall smells like old paper and cheap coffee, the kind of scent that usually pulls you into the story on the page. Today it just feels distant, like you're reading a chapter from someone else's life.
You sit near the back, notebook open, pen tapping idly against the margin. The professor is droning on about unreliable narrators in Russian literatureâhow the protagonist convinces themselves the ending is inevitable when it's really just fear wearing a clever mask. Your mind keeps drifting anyway.
To messy curls and tattooed forearms. To the low rumble of "behind" against your back. To the faint mark on your cheek that finally faded weeks ago but still ghosts under your fingertips when you touch it without thinking.
Your phone buzzes in your lap. You glance down.
Eddie Munson: that new Deftones album is actually insane. listened to it twice already. you win this round
You smile despite yourself; small, private, and type back before you can overthink it.
figured you'd approve. the bridge on track 4 feels like a plot twist you don't see coming
Three dots appear, then vanish. Then: yeah, exactly. like the song knows something you don't yet
Nothing more. No how's school, no when are you coming back, no real substance. Just these little threads, random song replies, a photo of a new guitar pedal he found, a blurry shot of the café kitchen with the caption your sausage substitute is judging me.
You send him one back a few days later: a flyer screenshot from a small venue in the city, an indie metal night that might suit his band.
thought this spot looked decent. good sound, not too corporate. might be worth checking if you're ever up this way
His reply comes hours later, during your evening reading: damn. looks sick. thanks for the heads up. we'll see
That's it. No follow-up. No miss having you around the counter. Just enough to keep the page from fully turning.
You tell yourself it's fine. This is what distance looks like in real life, not dramatic goodbyes or grand gestures, just quiet footnotes trailing off. You've read enough stories to know when a character is holding their breath, waiting for the next line that never quite comes.
Eddie stares at his phone screen in the dim light of the trailer, the glow casting shadows across the cluttered counter. The TV is on low, some old horror flick heâs not really watching, but his thumb keeps scrolling.
Your story pops up first tonight: a quiet shot of campus at dusk, leaves turning, overlaid with a line from some book he doesnât recognize but feels like it was written for moments like this. Then another, a mirror selfie with that pink streak catching the light, headphones in, expression half-lost in thought. Caption: when the unreliable narrator starts sounding too familiar.
He watches it twice. Then again.
âFuck,â he mutters under his breath, tossing the phone onto the couch like it burned him.
Heâs been doing this more than he should. Checking for new stories the second he wakes up, during breaks at the cafĂ©, late at night when the silence gets too loud. Each one feels like a tiny window into a life thatâs moving forward without him.
College. New city. New chapters. And here he is, still in the same damn trailer, still making the same damn cinnamon rolls for a counter that doesnât have you behind it anymore.
He almost quit last week.
The new restaurant downtown offered him full-timeâbetter hours, better pay, no early mornings slinging pastries for the same familiar faces who still look at him like the town freak who never quite left. He had the resignation half-written in his head. Walk in, hand it over, cut the cord clean.
But then he thought about summer. About you, maybe coming back for break, sliding onto that counter like you used to, braids and wit and that soft way youâd let him brush past you just a little too close. About the chance, however small, that youâd walk through the door again and heâd get to see that faint smile when he remembered your stupid turkey sausage.
So he stayed. Told the new place maybe later. Held out like an idiot, hoping for a plot twist he knows better than to expect.
Because he already knows how this ends. Youâre leaving, Melanie had let it slip that night at the cafĂ©, and heâd tried to joke it off, but the truth settled heavy anyway. Everyone leaves eventually. Better to start pulling away first. Keep the texts light. Random songs. Gig spots. Nothing real.
Nothing that lets you see how much heâs still thinking about the way youâd melt under his hand on your back, or the quiet sound you made when he bit your cheek like he could mark a place for himself in your story.
He picks the phone back up. Your last message sits there, the venue flyer. He stares at it a second longer, thumb hovering.
Then he closes the app without replying.
Maybe tomorrow heâll send something stupid about a new recipe. Keep the thread alive just enough.
Just in case you decide to come back for one more summer.
*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË**  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*  à©â©â§âË*
will she, wont she? the world may never know. unless... ;)
anyway, thank you always for your appreciation. this one hit a little too close to home, honestly.
