All stranger things fics are gender neutral unless stated otherwise
Fruity Four
🌻 An Ode to Roadtrips - You had always wanted to go on a road trip, but when you go with your four loves it turns out it’s isn’t exactly like the movies (1.9k)
Poison - You run into your ex and find yourself reflecting on your past. Did you deserve the love you found yourself surrounded with?
Robin Buckley
🌻Sculpt me like one of your greek girls* - Robin and her girlfriend have a sleepover during which Robin tries to get her own back for her girlfriends previous teasing. Reader is hopelessly lovesick. Illusions to smut (2.8k)
Something borrowed, something blue* - Robin has a bad habit of stealing your stuff, but gets more than she bargained for when you find out (1.5k)
But she’s a cheerleader - You’re the next head-cheerleader, so why are you flirting with Robin all summer? (fem!reader) (1k)
🌻But I’m a band geek - Robin tries to navigate the insecurities that dating a cheerleader is bringing up (fem!reader) (4.5k)
Love in Print - Robin is smitten with a girl in the newspaper club (4.7k)
Mundane Meandering - You’re struggle to find a passion for life, Robin can’t find it for you, but she’ll do what she can (2k)
blurbs
🌻 A Somewhat SWF Alphabet for Robin Buckley*
Thoughts about being Eddies bff and dating robin
Robin Buckley being your comfort character
🌻Robin Buckleys first kiss
Tease
🌻*Robin ‘Motormouth’ Buckley*
Steve Harrington
Waltz - Two years of you and Steve dancing around your hidden feelings has led you to this (2.1k)
summary: To you, he's always been Stevie. Until one day he's just Steve. He isn't handling the change well.
wc: 2.5 k
warnings: lovesick Steve, reader is overly fond of nicknames, meddling kids, tooth-rotting fluff
a/n: I am absolutely losing my mind over the new season, please feel free to send Steve thoughts/requests my way <3
“Hey, Steve?”
The yelling that had filled the entirety of Steve’s living room for the past ten minutes ceased. His heart started beating out of his chest. There was no reason to get all twisted up about it, that is the name his parents gave him. Except, you were so sweet, and everyone had a nickname. Everyone, but especially him. He’s your Stevie. Well, not strictly yours, as much as he’d like to be.
You would drop the others’ nicknames when you were tired, or when you had a headache after a long day. Dustin was no longer Dusty-Bun, which you’d gleefully stolen from Suzie. The ‘Y’ was dropped from the end of Mike. Steve could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard you call his best friend ‘Robin’ instead of ‘Robs’. But always, without fail, he was ‘Stevie’.
He’d been Stevie when your respective parents had brought the both of you to the company Christmas party and you were the only two there below the age of 30. He’d been Stevie when you found him shamefully cleaning up Tommy’s graffiti on the front of the theater, Stevie when you saw him from across the mall, face beaten to a pulp and there was no one else to pick him up. And he was Stevie every single time that he crawled in through your window after a nightmare or when he needed someone to sit with him in the aftermath of another concussion.
Max was still sitting on the floor in front of you as you diligently weaved her hair into a braid, eyes looking as far up as they could to catch a glimpse of you. Robin was hanging upside down in her typical arm chair, and the other kids were tangled up in a pile on the rug. But without fail, every eye in the room was boring into you. Steve watched you tie off the braid in an elastic and jump a bit when you looked up, squirming under their scrutiny. You blinked, confused. “What?”
Oh God, you didn’t even realize. You hate him now and you don’t even know it.
Robin was the first one to break her trance. “You called him Steve,” she said, her finger pointing at you accusingly as she sat up straight in the armchair. Steve’s heart, which was already doing double time, picked up the pace. He loved her, but Robin was the last person he would’ve chosen to try and sort out this mess.
Your head tilted to the side of it’s own accord. “That’s his name?” Max turned towards you, head already in her hand.
“Riiight,” Robin said, eyes darting between the two of you. “Right! Okay, yes.” She nodded her head slowly, as if trying to convince herself.
Steve could see Max’s smile threatening to break into a grin, and Dustin looked dangerously close to snarking off. He couldn’t let it go on like this, someone was dangerously close to blowing his poorly maintained cover.
Steve snatched the pile of VHS tapes off the coffee table and flipped through them. The Thing, The Exorcist and The Shining? He was never letting Robin escort the kids to Family Video without him again. Last movie night, you’d all watched Nightmare on Elm Street and you’d nightmares for a week. It wasn’t that he minded you waking him up, but hearing your voice shake over the phone made his chest tight in a way he would do almost anything to avoid. “Executive decision, we aren’t watching any of these.” He announced, tossing the tapes on top of the tv and kneeling down to dig through the entertainment cabinet.
For once, he was thankful for the chorus of groans and teenage whining from the couch. Anything to break the tension. Steve chanced a glance you and was content to find you giggling with Max and El. Crisis somewhat averted. He grabbed Pretty in Pink off the stack of John Hughes tapes he’d stashed in the back of the cabinet and popped it in. If anyone asked, he’d claim they were his moms. He’d bought them two towns over after you came into Family Video with your heart set on it only to find the shelf empty.
He flopped down on the couch beside you in this usual spot, mindful not to sit too close. If you were mad at him, he didn’t want to make it worse. You gave him a strange look, but El quickly distracted you by asking to have her hair braided as well. The trailers played softly in the background while the tv casted a cool glow across the room. Steve was thankful you were distracted, because he couldn’t stop watching you out of the corner of his eyes.
You smiled at the top of El’s head, unfazed to be missing the beginning of your favorite movie. He wracked his brain, trying to figure out what had caused you to drop his nickname. He’d been on time picking you up from work, but even when he’s been occasionally late you hadn’t minded in the slightest. You’d seemed fine last night on the phone when you’d called to make sure that he’d gotten home okay. He was in the middle of replaying the short conversation you’d had when he opened the door when your hand found his and your head settled on his shoulder. El had rejoined the pile of teenagers and snacks on the rug and you were right back where you belonged.
“You okay?” He asked quietly, leaning so close his lips almost brushed the top of your head. Your concentration on the tv didn’t break as you hummed a ‘hmm?’ back to him. Steve smiled despite himself. “You okay, honey?”
His heart shuddered when he realized a nickname of his own had slipped out. A quick glance around you confirmed that you were just as focused on Andie making her prom dress as you had been thirty seconds ago. You nodded, adjusting so that you could nuzzle further into his bicep, your grip on his left arm growing tighter. “I’m fine, Steve.” Your voice was muffled, but Steve still felt his stomach drop.
Steve didn't realize he’d spent the whole movie worrying over whatever must’ve done to upset you until the credits roll and the kids are gathering up their blankets and pillows from the floor. He started to stand up to chauffeur everyone home, but you weren’t following suit. In fact, your lashes were brushing the tops of your cheeks and your breathing was deep and steady. You’d fallen asleep on him.
Mercifully, Robin was already corralling the kids out of the house, confirming that she would walk them to the Wheeler’s. “Talk to her, Stevie!” She calls from the front door before shutting it behind he. Steve winced, glancing down at you to confirm that you hadn’t woken up. If you hadn’t been dead to the world on his chest, he would’ve given her an earful.
He felt like he was going to be sick from all the whiplash. You were so unbelievably normal today. You were sweet with the kids, laughing with Robin and unable to last through an entire movie without falling asleep. It all checked out. And still, he was ‘Steve’. His head fell back against the sofa, and he fought the urge to groan. Suddenly, he was tired. Surely it wouldn't hurt to rest his eyes for a second.
Steve woke up to the sight of you about to slip out the front door. “What’re you doing?” He asked, his voice heavy with sleep.
You froze with the door half open, as if he’d caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. Your eyebrows scrunched together and your lips parted in an ‘o’. “Just, I didn’t realize I fell asleep,” you said, your hand still grasping the handle of the Harrington’s front door. “Felt wrong to wake you up,” you shrugged.
Steve scrambled over the back of the couch, nearly falling when his foot caught on one of the kids’ blankets. A strangled cry of “Wait!” Came out shakily as he managed to catch himself before falling face first into the carpet.
“Oh my god, Steve!” You laughed, doubling over at the waist.
Usually, the sound would cause the butterflies in his stomach to kick up. But there it was again. ‘Steve’. He gently took your hand off of the door handle, shutting the door behind you. “We’ve gotta talk about this, honey.” His thumb was rubbing soft circles around your knuckles, and when he noticed what he was doing, he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
You leaned back against the door, ducking down in order to catch his gaze. “Is everything okay?” Steve could feel his cheeks turning pink, and it was suddenly very difficult to meet your eyes.
He took a deep breath, and leaned his free hand on the door behind you. “You’ve been calling me Steve all day.”
“Oh, that.” Your eyes are wide, and if he’s not mistaken, you’re pouting.
It’s one of the cutest things he’s ever seen and he can’t help it, he’s grinning. “Yeah, that.” Maybe you don’t hate him after all. He squeezed your hand once, and then threaded your fingers together. “You’re breakin’ my heart here.”
“I just,” you started to explain and then paused, taking a deep breath and gathering your courage. “Didn’t wanna embarrass you.”
Steve’s hand slid down the doorway to rest on the side of your neck. “Now where’d you get a crazy idea like that?” the tip of his nose was nearly brushing against yours. “Thought you were mad at me all day, honey.”
You blinked up at him, suddenly feeling woozy. You had always been affectionate with each other, but something about this felt different. “When I was visiting you at work the other day?” Steve nodded, doing his best to be patient. “I, well…” you weren’t sure how to get the words out. “I heard the kids laughing at us, and I just. I don’t know. I guess I got shy.”
Steve was holding himself back from rolling his eyes. Those little shits managed to get in the way of things even when they weren’t in the building. “I’m sure they weren’t laughing at you, honey.”
Embarrassed tears begin to well at the corners of your eyes. “I’m pretty sure.” Steve’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that managed to escape. “They were giggling, and I thought it was just over a movie or something,” Steve nodded, his hand not leaving your face. “But then I heard Dusty say ‘she doesn’t even know’ and they all took turns saying… well. They were all saying ‘Stevie’ in high voices. And I don’t even sound like that!” You winced, hearing your voice pitch up at the end.
“When have you ever cared what the kids think? Hell, when have I ever cared what they think?” He was laughing, but it didn’t feel unkind. You could tell he wasn’t laughing at you.
“And you always tell them to shut up if they call you Stevie. I thought maybe you didn’t like it anymore.”
You hesitated, the reality of the situation really hitting you for the first time. Steve had you trapped between him and the door, one hand intertwined with yours and the other making lazy strokes across your cheekbone. And he was hurt that you’d stopped using his nickname. One that you have specifically heard him telling the others that they weren’t allowed to use. Did he-? No.
“I was so worried.” He said, voice barely a whisper.
“About what?” Your asked gently, matching his volume.
“Thought I’d screwed it all up. Your Dusty-Bun is always insisting I’m going to mess this up. Guess he got in my head.” Steve’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes fluttering shut.
Oh. Maybe he did. “Mess what up, Stevie?”
His grin was blinding, despite his eyes remaining shut. “Say it again.” You felt like your face was on fire, and your heart was doing summersaults in your chest. A swarm of butterflies was causing a ruckus in your stomach. Your eyes fell shut, and you tried to pull away. Steve’s hand slid from your cheek to find the back of your neck, the his other hand leaving yours so that his thumb could run along the end of your eyebrow. “Please,” he was practically begging, and not one part of him had managed to feel ashamed of it.
Your hands found his forearms, needing something to cling to. “Stevie?” You couldn’t wrap your head around this. It was like you had all the pieces but they wouldn’t fall into place. Your eyes peak open, and the next thing you know, Steve is smoothing out the space between your brows with his thumb.
“You don’t know how hard it’s been for me,” his inhale is shaky, and loud to your ears. “To not do that constantly.” His eyes were soft in a way that you realized had been more and more common lately. “Wanna kiss you so bad, honey.” Steve watched as your eyes went wide, but you didn't pull away. You’re processing, and he has been working on his patience for a good long while now.
Moments feel like a lifetime before you nod your head, just once. Up and down and so sure. Steve mirrored you, his nose bumping gently against yours before he was leaning in.
You would’ve expected fireworks, big explosions that made you go weak in the knees. You got something better. Steve’s arms wrapped around your middle, molding you to him, and it felt like coming home. He was gentle at first, giving you a moment to adjust. And then your arms found their way around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he couldn’t help it anymore.
You didn’t know how long you were backed up against the door, but you were sure you would’ve happily stayed for a few more hours. And you would have, if it weren’t for the banging from the other side of the door. In seconds, Steve had swept you behind him and plucked the bat that sat in the umbrella stand near the door.
“Steve, man! I don’t care if you’re asleep I left my walkie.”
Steve sighed, his shoulders deflating as he propped the bat up against the wall. “We don’t have to answer it,” he whispered, hands at your waist again.
You laughed, forehead resting against his shoulder. “Stevie, don’t make him suffer.”
Steve grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “he’s never suffered a day in his life” and before planting a kiss on your temple and throwing the door open. “Henderson, you’re lucky she loves you.”
Dustin rolled his eyes, shouldering past his friend. He had the decency to give you a sheepish look on his way to the living room. “Where’d you leave it, Dusty-Bun?” You asked, Dustin called something back, but you were distracted by Steve playing with the hem of your sweatshirt.
“You waited months, a couple more minutes won’t kill you, hot-shot.”
Steve groaned, his forehead meeting the space between your neck and your shoulder. “It’s sweet you think it’s only been months.”
summary: Y/N hears from a friend of friend that a guy who sits in the back of her physics class sells weed. New at this, she finds herself at a small party at Oscar Piastri's place - where she tries to buy drugs for the first time.
Can't be that hard, right?
warnings: smut 18+ (sex for drugs, dom/sub dynamics, shotgunning, one puff of a joint before sex, minimal praise kink, some condescending dom!oscar, dry humping, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, couch sex?, some v light degredation/)
word count: 5.5k
The air downstairs felt different—warmer, thicker, like it had been exhaled too many times and never replaced. A single bulb hummed in its cage above, throwing long shadows across the damp concrete walls. You clutched the folded bills tighter, the edges softening with the sweat of your palm.
Oscar sat at the far end of the room, not so much relaxed as perfectly composed. One leg crossed over the other, a glass balanced at his fingertips, the kind of posture that made it clear he wasn’t the one out of place here. He’d been watching you since you first hesitated at the bottom step of the staircase.
“First time?” he asked, voice quiet enough that you weren’t sure if it was meant to carry. Still, it cut through the background noise — the bass thrumming from upstairs, the muffled laughter, the shuffle of footsteps.
Your mouth went dry. You nodded before you could stop yourself, embarrassing pinkening your cheeks.
Oscar's eyes flicked down, just briefly, to the fist you hadn’t yet unclenched. Then his gaze drew back to your face, steady, unreadable. He hummed thoughtfully, a sound closer to amusement than approval, and leaned back in his chair.
“Y’shouldn’t advertise that,” he advised, though the words almost seemed more warning than wisdom. The words weren’t cruel, but they were edged with something pointed.
He shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “Someone could take advantage, you know.”
You swallowed, suddenly looking alarmed, trying to steady your voice. “Are you—?”
He cut you off without raising his tone. “Am I that someone?” he finished for you.
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite not. Oscar shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his body closing the distance between you enough for you to feel the warmth of his body heat. Or perhaps it was your own.
Dark, hooded eyes meet yours, the moody lighting of the place making them gleam obsidian.
“Well, bunny,” his mouth quirked, holding back a smirk. “Depends how dumb you’re willing to be.”
Your pulse kicked hard, but you forced a breath, forced yourself to hold his gaze. That seemed to entertain him—his eyes flickered, sharp, appraising, like he’d found something unexpected.
“You’re nervous,” he murmured, softer now, like he was speaking to himself. “And curious. Dangerous combination.”
He reached out—not fast, not threatening, just extending a hand across the table, palm open, patient. “Show me what you brought.”
The bills felt heavier as you uncurled your fist. For a second, you thought you might change your mind, retreat up the stairs into the safety of noise and the swarm of bodies. But his eyes held you in place, steady, waiting, already seemingly certain of your choice.
The bills looked small in your hand when you handed them to him. It was a crumpled handful, your fingers reluctant to let go until you forced yourself.
I can’t believe I’m buying drugs. Oh my god. Oh my god–
Oscar’s hand lowered, flattening each note against his knee before he flipped through them. He counted slowly, lips moving just enough for you to notice. Then he stacked them back together and tapped the slim bundle (if you could even call it that) against his knuckle, finally meeting your eyes again.
“Cute,” he said, voice low, casual. “This all you brought?”
You nodded. “It’s—”
“Not enough,” he interrupted smoothly, pushing the money back toward you.
Heat rushed up your neck. “But you said—”
“I said I’d sell you a bag,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair again. His glass clicked softly as he set it aside. “Didn’t say I’d give it away for free.”
Your stomach dropped. “What? What do you mean?”
He cocked his head, like you’d just asked him what color the sky was. “I mean,” he drawled, waving the money once before setting it back down in front of you, “this gets you half a gram, maybe. Like, if I was feeling generous.”
Heat crept up your neck. You had no way of knowing that of course, but hearing it said like that—like he’d expected it, like it amused him— still stung. You always were a perfectionist like that – always had to get it right.
“Oh, uh– I can… I can Apple Pay you?” you tried, fumbling for your phone.
Oscar’s laugh was a quiet exhale through his nose, barely there, but it lit up his eyes. “Apple Pay?” He leaned back again, lacing his fingers loosely in his lap. “What do you think this is, a farmer’s market?”
Your face flamed hotter. “I just—I didn’t know—”
“Yeah.” He cut you off gently, not unkind, but with that same sharp edge. “Not trying to get arrested tonight.”
“Oh! Oh, right. Sorry about that.”
You bit your lip, glancing down at your bag, at the little wallet where the rest of your cash was stuffed. It wasn’t much—barely enough to get you home. You shifted in your seat. “Well, I do have… a little more.”
Oscar arched a brow, waiting.
“It’s just—” You exhaled, embarrassed. “It was kinda supposed to be for taxi fare…?”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you, that unreadable calm still plastered over him, though you could feel the shift—the way his silence pressed heavier than words. Then he smiled, finally, lazy and deliberate.
“You sure are something,” he murmured, almost to himself. He thought for a moment, before he added, “Don’t worry. I don’t leave girls stranded. Not my style.”
Your heart hammered, and you hated how much you wanted to prove him wrong. “So… what am I supposed to do?”
He leaned back again, taking his time, letting the pause work on you. When he finally spoke, it was with that same calm certainty, like he was only stating the obvious.
“For a girl like you?” His gaze drifted down, then back up, deliberate. “I can be flexible. Doesn’t have to be cash.”
The words settled between you, heavy with implication but never rushed, never sharp. He wasn’t pushing—you could feel that.
The air seemed to thicken, charged, the unspoken hanging heavier than the bulb above. He didn’t lean closer, didn’t have to. His voice carried the weight all on its own—smooth, certain, a clever fox cornering his rabbit without lifting a paw.
“Question is,” he added, lips twitching like he was biting back another laugh, “how bad do you want it?”
Oscar let the silence work you up, his thumb tapping idly against the rim of his glass. You swore he was enjoying this a little too much—the way your nerves tangled with eagerness, how you couldn’t quite hold his gaze without looking away again, cheeks singed pink.
Finally, he tipped his chin at you, voice low and amused.
“C’mon, bunny.” The nickname slid out lazily, unbidden. “You have anything else you can offer me?”
Your stomach dipped. You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I…” Your fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt sleeve. “Oh, uhm. Maybe I could… do something for you? Like… like a trade?”
The corner of his mouth pulled up, slow and knowing, as if that was exactly the answer he’d been coaxing out of you all along. He didn’t move right away, didn’t pounce—just sat back, letting the weight of your own words settle on you.
“A trade,” he echoed, savoring it. “Don’t hate that. What’ve you got?”
You froze, scrambling. “Well, I, um… I bake?
One of his brows ticked up.
Sometimes. Like banana bread. Or muffins? I don’t know if you’re a banana bread kinda guy,” she chuckled nervously, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear that had never really come loose in the first place.
“But I don’t exactly—” you gestured helplessly at your relatively empty hand, containing only your small wallet, “—carry loaves of it around, so I guess that wouldn’t really help right now.”
Your heart thumped rapidly in your chest.
What do drug dealers do if you don’t have enough money? Can they kill you? Oh no, I’m going to end up on some TV show, aren’t I?
That earned you a soft huff of laughter. He leaned back, lazy as ever, watching you trip over yourself. “Shame. Banana bread would’ve been a first.”
You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck.
Think of something else, c’mon.
“O-or, I mean… I could share my notes? I’ve seen you in the back of my physics lecture sometimes, and I know people sell theirs, so if you needed—”
That earned the smallest huff of laughter, more breath than sound. He shook his head, disbelieving and almost fond, and leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees.
“Oh, sweetheart. Banana bread and physics notes?”
Your cheeks burned hotter. “I’m just… trying to think of something useful. I don’t exactly have anything valuable just… on me.”
Oscar’s smile deepened, lazy, like a cat watching a bird tire itself out. “Depends how you define valuable.”
Your brows pinched. “I just told you—I don’t have anything.”
Oscar hummed like he was considering it seriously, even though the glint in his eyes could’ve easily gavin him away. “Banana bread, physics notes…” His gaze dragged down your figure, then back up, the pause deliberate. “…nothing else comes to mind?”
Your mind scrambled, stuttering through possibilities—laundry, tutoring, walking someone’s dog—
Did he even have a dog?
You were interrupted from your thoughts when he shifted forward, the chair creaking softly as he leaned his forearms onto his knees. That alone shortened the space between you, made your pulse spike. His eyes stayed fixed on you, steady, unblinking in a way that made you squirm.
“Why don’t you c’mere a sec,” he murmured. Not a command, not quite, but the kind of suggestion you felt tug low in your stomach.
You stepped closer before you even thought about it, and his hand lifted—fingertips brushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. The touch was casual, almost careless, but it made your breath stutter all the same.
“There we go,” he said softly, studying your face like it was something worth taking his time on. “Much better when I can see you.”
Your throat went dry. “I– I don’t really know what you mean, though.”
“Really?” he drawled, leaning back in his chair like this was all a game he had endless patience for.
“Because I can think of plenty you’ve got to offer.”
And suddenly it clicked—the weight in his words, the way his gaze lingered, the casual touch that felt anything but. Your stomach flipped, heat rushing under your skin. Your breath hitched, his thumb still ghosting along your jaw.
Oh.
Oh.
“I think I get it now.”
Oscar’s mouth curved, slow and faint, like smoke curling at the edge of a flame. Like he’d just been waiting for you to catch up. “Yeah?”
You fumbled, cheeks hot. “Like… not banana bread. Or notes.”
His chuckle was soft, warm enough to ease some of the tightness in your chest. “Not banana bread,” he echoed, amused.
You swallowed hard, nerves buzzing. “Something with… me?”
For a moment, he just looked at you, steady and unreadable. Then he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your skin, and spoke low. “Now you’re gettin’ there.”
Your stomach flipped, the confirmation leaving you dizzy. He wasn’t mocking, not sharp-edged—his tone was almost gentle, coaxing, like he was proud you’d figured it out.
“See,” he went on, brushing your hair back again, lingering this time, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath hitched, eyes wide as they looked up to meet his.
“So you… you really would take…”
He brushed your hair back again, gentler this time, almost fond. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m not gonna bite.” His smile deepened, warm and wicked all at once. “Not unless you ask.”
The room seemed to shrink, the bass upstairs humming through the floor, but all you could focus on was the quiet certainty in his voice. He wasn’t rushing you, wasn’t pushing—just sitting there, patient, letting you choose if you wanted to take the step he’d already laid out.
It was the look that did it—the steady, knowing patience of it, like he wasn’t surprised, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up.
You wet your lips, voice barely steady. “So… what happens now?”
Oscar leaned in just enough that the smoke from his last exhale curled between you. His smile was small, almost kind, though the glint in his eyes betrayed it.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he murmured. His thumb traced your jaw again, feather-light. “You tell me how you want to pay, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
A joint smoldered between his fingers now, smoke curling lazy toward the ceiling. His hand looked too elegant for something so careless, long fingers rolling the paper like it was second nature. You shouldn’t have been staring, but you were. Smoke curled upward in thin ribbons, catching the light, and when your eyes darted back up, the glow haloed his face in a way that made your stomach twist.
Your breath hitched, and suddenly it was impossible not to notice the rest—the warmth of his knee a hand’s breadth from yours, the way his shoulders slouched like he had all the time in the world, the line of his throat when he tilted his head back to take a drag.
The silence between you stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable, like the air had thickened. You couldn’t tell if it was the heat from the smoke, or him.
Maybe both.
You realized how close you’d let yourself get. Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that your pulse tripped, panic and want muddled together.
Your gaze darted down before you could stop it, quick and betraying — tracing the line of his hand, lowering over the slope of his chest under that loose shirt, down to the way he sprawled like he owned the room. Then back up, fast, guilty, to find him still watching you.
Oscar’s mouth curved, slow and sure, as his voice dropped into something lower, something that made the air feel thicker. “Want a taste?” He turned the joint lazily between his fingers, holding your gaze.
Your breath hitched. Heat spread through your chest, your neck. Slowly, almost shyly, you nodded.
He hummed, approval soft, and lifted the joint to his mouth. You blinked, confused, brows knitting as he drew in a drag—like maybe you’d misunderstood, maybe you were too naive again.
You blinked, confusion knitting your brow, and then—
His free hand slipped up, steady at your jaw, tilting your face just enough. His lips pressed to yours in one smooth, unthinking motion, smoke blooming between your parted lips as he exhaled into you.Your gasp turned into a shiver, your body caught between surprise and the rush of the high threading in all at once.
When he pulled back, just enough for your lips to part, his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, catching the stray smear of tinted lip balm. His eyes stayed locked on yours, steady, unblinking, a sly glint under the haze.
It was dizzying, all heat and haze, the sharp burn of it chased by the warmth of his mouth. By the time you realized what he’d done, he’d already leaned back just slightly, watching you through half-lidded eyes, that same sly glint tucked into the edges of his calm.
“Sweet,” he murmured, like a verdict.
Your lungs still burned, chest fluttering as you tried to catch your breath. The haze clung to you, curling at the edges of your mind until all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, heart thundering.
His face hovered close, the bass from upstairs thrumming through the floor in rhythm with your pulse. You tried to think of something to say, anything, but all that came out was a small, shaky breath.
Oscar’s lips curved, like he could read every scrambled thought on your face. His hand was still at your jaw, warm and steady, guiding without pressure.
His lips tilted into a lazy smirk, and then they ghosted against the column of your throat, feather-light. “Say the word,” he murmured, the word dragging slow, intentional. “,-and I’ll show you all kinds of tricks.”
Your breath hitched, your body leaning into the touch before you could stop it. Dizzy, hazy, you nodded, quick and small, like your body was answering faster than your brain.
He chuckled under his breath, leaning in just enough that his mouth brushed the barest graze against the side of your throat. The touch made your heart trip over itself, made your breath hitch audibly. “Mm, not enough.” His mouth brushed higher, near your jaw, voice soft and teasing. “Gotta hear the words, baby.”
He could feel the bob of your throat when you swallowed nervously.
The smile that pulled across his mouth then wasn’t mocking—it was slow, sweet, edged in satisfaction but soft in its core. He pressed a brief kiss beneath your ear, reward-like, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again.
You blinked up at him, still dazed, lips parting on instinct. Your voice came out small, roughened from the smoke. “Yes.”
That was all it took. The smirk on his mouth broke wider, sharper, like he’d been waiting for it—then he kissed you. No hesitation this time, just a sudden, dizzying heat that knocked the air out of you. His lips pressed hard and slow, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he could take his time.
Your head spun, breath catching, and then his mouth was back on yours, hungrier this time. His teeth caught your lower lip, tugging until you gasped, and he laughed softly against you—quiet, cocky, like he liked hearing how you couldn’t quite keep it together.
One hand slid down to your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. “Easy, baby,” he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. “Let me take my time with you.”
Every kiss after that was messier, wetter, the kind that left your lips swollen and your lungs begging for air. He nipped down along your jaw, then lower, his breath hot against your throat.
You gasped, the sound swallowed by him as his hand slid lower, gripping your waist and dragging you flush against his lap. The rough pull sent you tumbling into him, your knees straddling his thighs before you could think twice.
His grin pressed into your mouth. “That’s it…”
The bass thudded through the walls, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat, frantic and loud. His fingers slid under the hem of your top, warm against your bare skin, trailing up your spine.
You shivered. He noticed.
His other hand tightened at your hip, rolling you forward until the friction made your head spin.
“Oh-!”
Oscar swallowed the sound with another bruising kiss, his tongue pushing deeper, controlling the pace. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric as he coaxed you to grind down harder.
“That’s it, baby. Yeah, there you go.”
The joint still smoldered in the ashtray, forgotten. The only haze left was the one clouding your thoughts as his thumb brushed under the band of your bra. A teasing graze, then a firmer press that made your back arch.
You broke the kiss with a whimper, lips slick, chest heaving.
Your back hit the couch cushions before you could even catch your breath, Oscar pressing forward like he’d been holding back for hours instead of minutes. His mouth was on yours again, harder this time, stealing every sound you tried to make.
You arched up to him without thinking, and that was all the invitation he needed. His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying hot against your stomach before skating higher, higher—until your gasp broke the kiss.
He chuckled low, lips brushing yours. “Sensitive, huh?” His thumb stroked once across your skin like he wanted to memorize the texture. Then his mouth was back on yours, swallowing the small, desperate noise you gave in answer.
Your hips moved before you realized it—pressing into him, needy, clumsy, trying to close the unbearable distance. He caught it instantly, rolling his hips into yours in a slow grind that pulled a whimper from your throat.
“Fuck, baby…” he murmured into your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip before sucking it between his. “Want it that bad?”
Hoping it would distract from your questions, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer still. His hand traced down your side, gripping your hip and dragging you flush against him, the friction sparking white heat up your spine.
You gasped into his kiss, breath hitching when his other hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans—not far, just enough to tease the edge of you, just enough to make your head spin.
He groaned against your mouth, the sound raw, hungry. “Feel good?”
Every nerve in your body screamed yes, but all you could do was nod against his lips, dizzy, lost, chasing the next kiss like it was air.
His hand slipped lower then – past the dip of your waistband until your jeans were pushed past the curve of your ass and halfway down your legs.
You broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, your head tipping back against the couch. You whined, tried to kiss him again, but he was too busy watching your face as he slid a finger past the fabric. His lips chased your throat, mouthing at your pulse, his breath rough when his fingers finally slid inside your underwear.
“Fuck…” His voice cracked soft with awe, then curved into a smirk. “Already wet for me? Didn’t take much, did it?”
You whimpered, hips twitching against his hand. He pressed two fingers through your folds, lazy at first, spreading the slick before circling your clit just enough to make your knees tremble.
Oh my fucking god.
You tried to speak, but his fingers pushed deeper, slow, filling you in a way that stole the air from your lungs. Your nails dug into his shoulders, clutching his hoodie like it was the only thing tethering you down.
Overwhelmed by the pleasure, you bit down on his shoulder, muffling another sound, and he laughed softly — then hissed when you rolled your hips harder against the hand still inside you, angled so his palm rubbed against your clit with every roll of your hips.
“That’s it, baby,” he coaxed, voice low and filthy against your ear. “Take it. Good, lemme hear you.”
His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles that had your hips grinding down on his lap, desperate, messy. He groaned when your thighs clenched around his wrist. “Fuck, you’re practically riding me already. Sweet little bunny, can’t even keep still.”
You turned your face into his neck, gasping against his skin, and he laughed softly, almost cruel in how gentle it sounded. “Aw, shy now?”
Your hips chased every thrust of his fingers anyway, desperate and needy, and he kissed you filthy when you tried to answer, swallowing your moans like they belonged to him. The rhythm of his hand quickened, each thrust of his fingers matched with a roll of his hips beneath you, denim rough against your soaked underwear.
“You are fucking dripping for me,” He kissed you again, hard, swallowing your moans like they belonged to him. “Bet you’ll let me fuck you stupid if I ask nicely.”
The moan you let out was answer enough.
In the blink of an eye, your back was against the couch cushions, Oscar turning the pair of you around and following you down without breaking the kiss.
Oh, fuck me.
His jeans were unzipped now, your legs tangled around his waist as if they had a mind of their own. Every brush of denim against your bare skin had you gasping into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders.
“Fuck, bunny,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough, hips rolling just enough to make you whimper.
“Please?” The word tumbled out half-broken, half a breath, more desperate than you meant it to be. Doe eyes stared up at him, shining in the low lighting of the room, glimmering with far more innocence than he’d seen in a long time.
He groaned — low, guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest — and tugged his jeans down far enough to free himself, shoving his briefs down in the same motion. The sight made your stomach clench, your pulse thunder in your throat.
He caught your gaze, smirking faintly as he stroked himself once, slow, right in front of you. “This what you want, baby?”
You nodded, wide-eyed, lips parted.
His hand slid back to your hip, steadying you as he shifted between your thighs. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance, and the shock of it had your breath catching, a soft “ahh—” spilling out before you could stop it.
“Easy,” he murmured, pressing forward a fraction, enough to feel the stretch. “Breathe f’me.”
You did — or tried to. The burn and pull had you clenching tight, another shaky moan breaking free. “ahh—oh, God—”
Oscar swore under his breath, his head tipping forward to your shoulder. “Fucking hell, you’re tight.” He pulled back, pushed a little deeper, slow, deliberate.
Your nails dug into his back, your body arching up to meet him without thought. “Please, please, want more–”
That earned a quiet laugh against your skin, his breath hot on your collarbone. “Greedy little thing.” But he gave it to you, inch by inch, until your walls fluttered around him, until you couldn’t bite back the desperate moans spilling from your lips.
The moment he bottomed out, you both stilled — his jaw slack, your body trembling, the only sound the sharp little gasps of your breath and his low, ragged groan.
“Shit,” he hissed, pulling back and slamming back in one rough thrust that made your whole body jolt. “You feel… nghh—ah, fuck—unreal.”
Your answer was incoherent, a high-pitched moan as your hips bucked, meeting his. Every snap of his hips drew another sound out of you — little whimpers that he swallowed with hungry kisses, teeth catching your lip.
He set a rhythm, hips rolling deep, groans spilling past his clenched teeth every time you clenched around him. “That’s it, sweetheart… ahh—take it… nghh—just like that…”
The couch creaked, your thighs trembled, the room thick with the sounds of skin on skin and the wet slide of him dragging in and out of you. You were gone to the haze, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left, every thrust wringing another broken moan from your lips.
“uh, uh, oh god—”
Oscar smirked against your cheek, his breath shaky but teasing all the same. “Look at you, takin’ me so well.”
The room filled with the sharp slap of skin, the wet drag of every thrust, your gasps and his groans tangled in the thick air.
“Ahh—ahh—don’t—don’t stop—”
Oscar’s laugh was broken, dark. “Not stoppin’, baby. Not ‘til you cum all over me. That’s the deal.”
Every thrust had your head tipping back, lips parting on broken sounds you couldn’t hold in. The couch creaked under the pace, his hips driving up into you, unrelenting.
Your thoughts were soft around the edges, blurred from the little smoke he’d coaxed between your lips earlier. Not high, not really—but enough that everything felt amplified. His touch, his voice, the dizzy thrum in your chest.
And God, he was beautiful.
From this angle, with his head tipped back, throat straining, jaw flexing with every groan—your stomach flipped. His lashes were damp, cheeks flushed, sweat already beading at his temple. You wanted to memorize him like this, wanted to kiss every part you could reach.
So you did.
Shaky, half-dizzy kisses pressed to his jawline, then down his throat when he groaned and tipped his head to give you more. Your lips parted against his skin, breathing him in, your voice catching on a whimper.
“Fuck—” your words broke against his collarbone, too raw, too unfiltered, “you feel so good—”
Oscar’s laugh cracked low in his chest, his breath hot against your ear as he thrust deeper, sharper, forcing another cry from you. “Yeah? Thought so,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Look at you… fuckin’ drunk on it already.”
Your hips stuttered, your forehead pressing to his collarbone, overwhelmed. All you could do was cling to him, bite down soft at his neck between desperate little moans, because he was everywhere—inside you, around you, against you.
And he let you, let you scatter open-mouthed kisses across his throat, his chest, your voice trembling between them. Each one only pulled more broken groans from him, like you were unraveling him right back.
“Shit,” he gasped, voice rough, “sweetheart, you’re—fuck—gonna fuckin’ ruin me.”
The rhythm built sharp and steady, every thrust dragging a cry out of you. Your nails scraped down his back, useless at grounding the way your body coiled tighter and tighter.
“Oscar—ohh—fuck—please!” Your voice cracked, words tumbling out between gasps.
He groaned low at the sound, hips grinding deep before pulling almost all the way out, making you whine. “Please what?” he murmured against your cheek, his tone maddeningly calm.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching at him. “Please—please let me—ahh—please, I need to—”
His pace faltered just long enough for you to open your eyes, only to find his gaze on you, steady, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Begging for permission?” His voice dipped rough, each word punctuated with another hard thrust that had you gasping. “Fuck. You really are a good girl.”
Your whole body shivered at the praise, a helpless whimper slipping out as you nodded, desperate.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna hear you ask.”
“Please,” you choked, the word breaking. “Please let me cum—need it, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything—”
Oscar groaned, sharp and guttural, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing your hazy eyes to lock on his. “Christ. You sound so fuckin’ sweet when you beg.”
Another thrust, deeper this time, his voice frayed with restraint. “Alright, sweetheart. Cum for me. Wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”
The words barely left his mouth before your body obeyed.
Your walls clenched tight around him, release tearing through you so fast you could only sob out a broken, “O-ohhh—Oscar—!”
Your thighs shook, nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave crashed over you. Every thrust only sent you spiraling deeper, your cries caught between moans and gasps, until all you could do was hang onto him and let it take you under.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, voice guttural, jaw slackening as he felt you clamp down around him. His rhythm stuttered, hips jerking erratically as your climax dragged him over the edge with you.
“Shit, baby—nghh—”
He buried himself deep, a raw groan tearing from his chest as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed hard against yours. His whole body shuddered with it, the sound of skin slapping, breathless moans, and the couch creaking beneath you filling the room.
You were both gasping, chests heaving, lips brushing but too wrecked to kiss properly.
Oscar finally managed a low laugh, husky and frayed at the edges. You were pretty sure he spoke then, but the words were muffled against the curve of your shoulder.
“Fuckin’ hell… you’re incredible.”
Your only answer was a dazed hum, eyes fluttering shut as you slumped against him, your skin hot and damp against his. He kissed the top of your head, still catching his breath, his hand stroking slow down your spine as if to steady you both.
Your body molded to his, cheek to his chest, breaths syncing slowly as the haze ebbed into exhaustion. His hand moved absentmindedly along your spine, steady, grounding.
“You alright, baby?” he murmured, voice rougher than usual.
You nodded, still catching your breath. Then, shyly, softer, “Was it… good? For you too?”
Oscar huffed a laugh, tilting his head back against the couch. “Good?” He looked down at you, smirk tugging his lips. “You were amazing.”
Heat flared in your cheeks, but he didn’t let you hide, tipping your chin up for a quick, easy kiss before pushing you gently off his lap.
He tugged his jeans back up, wandered to the table, and plucked up the baggie of weed. Tossed it your way with a casual flick. It landed in your lap, heavier than you expected.
“Little extra,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes, already leaning down to fish something else out of the drawer. When you looked back up, a lollipop came sailing toward you too. You caught it clumsily.
Your brows furrowed, confused.
“A… lollipop? Why are you giving me a lollipop?”
Oscar just grinned, hoodie half-pulled back over his head, hair mussed from your hands. “Pretty sure it’s called customer service.”
The laugh that broke out of you was breathless, disbelieving, but warm. And when he sank back into the couch, lighting another joint like nothing had happened, you couldn’t tell if your heart was hammering from the weed, the sex, or just… him.
a/n: holy shit. oml. so that's there. i don't know whether to be proud or scurry away and hide, but here it is! my usual readers know i've written smut like once before (literally), so this was something of an experiment. plus with the pov for x reader, this was a bit different from my usual work. but i hope you liked it, and love to hear your feedback!
dedicated to @rizzlonso81, who enabled me to write this 5.5k piece of porn!!
and also big big shout out to @f1freaks , whose phenomenal drug dealer!lando series which altered my brain chemistry and inspired this lil oneshot :)
✦ Eddie Munson x Reader ✦ Rating: T ✦ Word Count: 12,329 ✦
𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞
When Eddie Munson, alien-obsessed metalhead, and Y/N, occult-obsessed weird girl, accidentally swap books in the hallway, neither realizes they’ve just traded more than paperbacks. A friendship sparks into late-night calls and unspoken crushes, until a double-dare sends them chasing each other’s obsessions. (yes, this was inspired by Dandadan 👀)
Warnings/Notes: 🕷 AU • supernatural elements • mutual pining • book swap meet-cute • dares = flirting • secret softies • hurt/comfort • dramatic nerds in love • kiss kiss fall in love
Hawkins High thrummed, a cacophony of slamming lockers and the shouts of students battling for dominance, punctuated by the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on polished floors. Y/N remained oblivious, her gaze fixed on the well-worn leather of her book, the cracked spine a testament to countless readings, her lips whispering the secrets of protective wards and arcane symbols.
Eddie Munson was doing the same, stumbling down the hall with his nose buried in a battered UFO paperback, muttering to himself about how nobody believed abductee reports. Neither was paying attention until, they collided hard, and books went flying across the hall.
“Shit, sorry.” Y/N muttered, already dropping to her knees, grabbing pages before shoes trampled them.
Eddie crouched too, his curls falling into his face as he scrambled to help. “My fault. Wasn’t watching—” His hand brushed hers over a book. The contact jolted like static, and he jerked back, clearing his throat like it didn’t happen.
Y/N shoved her armful into her bag and Eddie did the same. Neither of them noticed in the rush that the wrong books ended up in their hands, Y/N with his UFO paperback, Eddie with her occult text. They muttered quick apologies, eyes sliding away too fast, and were swallowed back up into the tide of Hawkins High.
That Evening Y/N sprawled across her bed later, socked feet nudging one of the many pillows on her bed as she flipped pages. Instead of lunar alignments and ritual diagrams, she found grainy black-and-white photos of saucers and abduction testimonies.
Her frown deepened. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Her thoughts flicked to Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson was… loud. Not just in volume, though he definitely had a voice that could rattle lockers and make teachers pinch the bridge of their noses. He was loud in his presence and the way he lived, the world had probably told him a thousand times to sit down and shut up, and he’d decided to stand on the table instead.
Y/N only knew him in fragments and rumors traded in hallways, glimpses of him in the parking lot with his van blasting music no one’s parents approved of, but y/n didn’t mind all too much. She also knew he’d failed senior year twice, though he didn’t seem outwardly embarrassed about it. She knew he wore rings on every other finger and had a habit of leaning back in his chair in history until it was a miracle he hadn’t cracked his skull open yet. She knew he grinned like he was getting into trouble, smile splitting his face when a teacher got mad enough to shout.
And okay, maybe she’d noticed the way his curls fell into his eyes when he bent over a desk, or the ink smudges on his hands from doodling and writing in the margins of his notebooks. He was definitely trouble wrapped in denim and leather, a little bit scary to those that didn’t know him and fascinating all at once.
Unless they were a part of his hellfire club that he would often hang out with, most people seemed to avoid him like the plague. Y/N? She wasn’t sure yet. She just knew that when his hand brushed hers earlier, it felt like touching a live wire, probably just too much static built up but impossible to ignore.
Now she was stuck with his UFO book, and for some reason, that felt like trouble waiting to happen.
Across town, Eddie sat cross-legged on his bed, tapping a pencil against the book that definitely wasn’t his. Instead of sketchy alien autopsies, he was staring at protective sigils and ritual knives.
He frowned, flipped a page, and muttered, “What the hell is she reading?” He thought about the girl he’d run into, the one with the dark, too-intense eyes, the kind of girl who didn’t belong under Hawkins High’s fluorescent lights. He shut the book fast, then tossed it aside like it might hex him just for staring.
Eddie flopped back on his mattress, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. The book lay face down on the blanket beside him, its pages fanned out.
Y/N.
He didn’t know much about her, but that didn’t stop his brain from spinning. She was the kind of girl you noticed even when she clearly didn’t want you to. Always in dark clothes, not like the mall goths who were trying too hard, but like she just didn’t care for color. Always quiet, too. Not shy, exactly. More like she’d figured out she didn’t need to say anything to appease anyone.
Eddie had seen her in the library plenty of times when he was supposed to be studying but was really just hiding out. She’d be tucked into one of those corners no one else bothered with, surrounded by books, not talking to anyone. Not even looking up when the usual hallway noise passed by. And the wild part? She didn’t seem lonely. She seemed fine. Like she didn’t need friends, or approval, or even acknowledgment from the world around her.
It was… kind of badass, actually.
Most people at Hawkins High were desperate to blend in or stand out in just the right way. But her? She moved through the place like it barely existed, like she was only here on a temporary visit. The teachers liked her because she turned her assignments in on time and didn’t cause trouble, but the other students didn’t know what to do with her, Eddie wasn’t sure he did either.
He rubbed his hand over his face, groaning.
“Great, Munson. Just great. She’s probably some witch and you’ve got her spellbook now.”
But even as he said it, he couldn’t shake the image of those dark, sharp eyes meeting his for that split second when their hands brushed. Great and now he was thinking about her way too much for someone whose entire relationship so far consisted of what, two mumbled apologies and a book swap gone wrong?
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The Next Morning Y/N leaned against her locker before first period; the UFO book tucked against her chest like a piece of incriminating evidence.
People were used to blaming him for most bad things that happened around here, broken equipment, loud noises, general chaos, and he was pretty sure “stealing a creepy book” would land squarely in that category.
He held it out between them, his voice going for casual even as sweat prickled under his collar.
“I think I stole your book.” Despite his usual loud, dramatic front with the rest of Hawkins High, Eddie was certain this particular girl could and would hex his ass for touching her stuff.
Y/N arched a brow, unimpressed, then extended his battered paperback in return.
“And this tin-foil-hat digest must be yours.”
Eddie’s mouth fell open in mock offense as he went to reach for the book, immediately slipping back into familiar theatrics now that the scariest part was over.
“I’ll have you know that Aliens: A Government Cover-Up Exposé is—”
Their fingers brushed in the handoff. The same flicker of static snapped between them, she almost pulled back at how cold his skin was, not clammy just cool, like he’d been standing outside in winter air. Eddie didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. He just plowed ahead like nothing strange had happened at all.
“—a cornerstone of modern literature,” he declared, clutching the paperback to his chest with exaggerated reverence, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
For a moment they lingered in the current of Hawkins High, teens on their way to class streaming past on either side, but it felt like the noise was at a distance. For a moment they lingered there in the current of Hawkins High, books in hand while the hallway rushed around them Y/N tilted her head, the corner of her mouth tugging like she was about to laugh at him. “So… aliens, huh?”
Eddie scratched his jaw, grin twitching sideways. “And you’re into curses and demons?”
“Occult studies,” she corrected flatly, though her eyes glinted.
“Right. Totally normal high school elective,” Eddie grinned with mock solemnity, giving a dramatic nod.
Y/N’s lips twitched, trying to hide a smile like she didn’t want him to see behind a mask that she had put in place. The hallway noise came back into focus, but the connection between them lingered.
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Once the lunch bell rang, Eddie had already half-decided not to push it. He’d go sit with the Hellfire guys, joke too loud, and let the weird locker handoff fade into nothing. That was the plan, but when he turned back to the cafeteria with his tray of mystery meat and gray mashed potatoes, he saw her. Y/N was alone, tucked into the corner table like she preferred being alone, her book open beside her tray. Before he could talk himself out of it, Eddie veered off course and dropped into the seat across from her.
Y/N looked up, brow raised. “Did you need something?”
Eddie settled down at the table across from her like he’d been there a million times, even though Y/N knew he hadn’t.
“Oh! Hey, occult girl!” he brightly exclaimed, jabbing his fork into a pile of lumpy cafeteria potatoes. “Didn’t see you there.”
The lie was so obvious it didn’t even deserve a response. Y/N just leveled him with a flat look, biting into her sandwich as Eddie went on.
“I just wanted a change of scenery,” he noted casually, leaning back in his seat with that obnoxiously relaxed posture of his. “And you seem like someone who won’t make me sit through a half-hour rant about basketball.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself. “Right… and what? You’d rather talk about flying saucers?”
“Exactly!” Eddie pointed his fork at her like she’d just solved a great mystery. “Finally, someone who gets me.”
Y/N rolled her eyes again, chewing slowly. “I don’t get you, actually. Aliens aren’t real. Ghosts, however,…” She let her voice trail off deliberately, smirking when Eddie leaned forward like a cat ready to pounce.
“Oh yeah?” he challenged, elbows on the table, grinning like the devil himself. “Convince me.”
Instead of taking the bait, Y/N’s gaze drifted over his shoulder, to the Hellfire Club table. His usual group of loud, excitable misfits had been blatantly watching the whole time. The second she caught them, they all looked away at once, fumbling with their trays and pretending to be very invested in their food.
Her brow arched as she turned back to him.
“Why aren’t you sitting with them?” she asked, tilting her chin toward his friends.
Eddie didn’t even glance back. “Gareth was being annoying earlier,” he monotoned smoothly, waving a hand like it was no big deal. “So, I decided to grace you with my presence instead.”
Y/N gave him a deadpan stare. “Uh-huh. And what exactly did Gareth do to drive you all the way over here?”
Eddie paused dramatically, stabbing his fork into another bite of potatoes.
“…He tried to tell me that Ozzy’s best album was Never Say Die!” Eddie declared, eyes wide with fake horror. “I can’t share a lunch table with a heretic like that.”
Y/N snorted before she could stop herself.
“Sounds serious,” she mumbled dryly.
Eddie let the moment linger for a beat, then straightened suddenly, pointing his fork at her like a weapon. “But that’s beside the point,” he declared, theatrically serious now. “You were just about to convince me that ghosts are real before Gareth’s heresy derailed us.”
Y/N arched a brow, unruffled. “Oh, right. That.”
“Yes, that,” Eddie said, leaning in like a detective cracking a case. “Bring on the spooky sermon, occult girl. Hit me with your best evidence.”
Y/N gave him a long, unimpressed look, then deliberately set her sandwich down and folded her arms on the table. Her whole posture screamed debate mode engaged.
“Alright,” she started, tone sharp but measured, “ghosts have been recorded in folklore for centuries. Almost every culture has stories about spirits. Your aliens?” She tilted her head, smirking. “Just a bunch of bad photographs of lights in the sky.”
Eddie gasped like she’d just committed a mortal sin, dropping his fork with a clatter and clutching his chest as if she’d physically stabbed him.
“How dare you disrespect the good name of an alien encounter?” he exclaimed, loud enough that a few nearby tables turned to look.
Y/N’s smirk widened. “Oh no, did I hurt E.T.’s feelings?”
Eddie leaned across the table, eyes wide with wild, dramatic desperation.
“Hurt his feelings? You’ve destroyed his legacy!”
She snorted, covering it with a quick sip of her drink. “Eddie, they don’t exist.”
He wagged a finger at her like a teacher scolding a particularly reckless student. “And that is where you’re wrong, oh Mistress of the Macabre. See, you’re thinking too small. While you’re busy chasing Casper, the truth is out there—” he gestured vaguely upward, “—and it’s green, and it probably has way better technology than Hawkins High could ever dream of.”
“Better technology than Hawkins High isn’t exactly a high bar,” Y/N deadpanned.
“Exactly!” Eddie boomed, triumphantly pointing at her like she’d just proven his point. “Which is why the aliens are already here, blending in, waiting to strike—” He paused, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Wait a second. You’re awfully mysterious, occult girl. Dark clothes. Loner vibes. How do I know you’re not the alien?”
Y/N raised an unimpressed brow. “If I were, you’d already be abducted.”
Eddie blinked. Then grinned, slow and wolfish.
“…Kinky.”
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I regret this entire conversation.”
Eddie didn’t miss a beat. He leaned forward, grinning wickedly.
“Good. My goal is to be at least mildly regrettable.”
Y/N couldn’t help it, she laughed. The sound cracked sharp before she smothered it with her hand. Eddie lit up like he’d just scored a critical hit in D&D, chest buzzing with a strange, warm rush he definitely didn’t want to think too hard about. He covered it with a cocky grin, pointing his fork at her like the whole thing had been part of his master plan.
“See You’re enjoying my presense.”
“I’m not,” she stated firmly, but the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
“Suuure,” Eddie drawled, drawing out the word until it was almost a purr, smugness radiating off him. “Whatever you say, occult girl.”
Y/N ducked her head, focusing on her sandwich like it suddenly held all the secrets of the universe. She told herself the jump in her pulse was irritation, only irritation. When she risked a quick glance upward, Eddie was already watching her, grinning from ear to ear.
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Later that day, the library was quiet, rows of old shelves, the occasional whisper of pages turning, fluorescent lights buzzing faint overhead.
Eddie Munson of course had no respect for silence. He sprawled across a chair pulled up to the table like it belonged to him, dirty white reeboks crossed at the ankles, a UFO paperback balanced on his chest. He tapped the edge of the desk with his pencil in time with some rhythm only he heard.
Y/N sat opposite him, posture neat, a dusty book of folklore open in front of her. She tried to focus, tried to ignore how much space he took up, but Eddie had a way of dragging her attention.
“Why do you believe in aliens any ways?” she asked without looking up, her finger tracing a line of text.
Eddie lifted his head, curls falling into his eyes. “I believe there’s something out there.” His grin widened as if daring her to argue. “Too many sightings, too many stories. You can’t just chalk it all up to swamp gas.”
Y/N arched a brow at him over the top of her book. “Swamp gas?”
“It’s what the government always says,” he explained, shifting upright, gesturing with his pencil like he was lecturing a class. “Whenever something weird happens. boom, swamp gas. Or weather balloons. Or the planet Venus. Every. Single. Time.”
His voice had risen, earning him a glare from the librarian behind the desk. Eddie pressed a hand to his chest in a fake apology before lowering his voice, barely.
“Maybe the government’s right,” Y/N mumbled, flipping a page, keeping her tone dry.
“Maybe they’re lying.” Eddie leaned across the table, arms folding, his grin sharp and conspiratorial. “You ever think about that? What if they already know?”
Y/N’s eyes flicked to his face. His skin looked pale under the fluorescents, darker circles under his eyes. It made him look wired and restless, like sleep was avoiding him.
Her throat tightened. The words hit too close. She forced her hand steady on the page, feigning a casual shrug. “Maybe.”
For a moment, Eddie just looked at her. Really looked, like he was trying to figure out if she was humoring him or if she actually meant it. His gaze lingered, too sharp, too focused.
Y/N felt her stomach twist. She lowered her head over her book, pretending to be bored, though her pulse hammered in her throat.
Eddie smirked and leaned back again, like he’d let her off the hook, for now. “Knew you weren’t as skeptical as you act.”
Y/N snorted softly, eyes fixed on the page she wasn’t reading. “Or maybe I’m just humoring you.”
Eddie grinned wider, stretching back across his chair like he’d just scored a win. “Keep telling yourself that, witch.”
Y/N didn’t look up, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
The library bell rang, signaling the end of study period. Chairs scraped, books snapped shut, and students shuffled out, voices low so they wouldn’t catch the librarian’s wrath.
Y/N slid her folklore book into her bag with careful precision. Eddie, naturally, did the opposite, shoving his UFO paperback under his arm and kicking his chair back like he’d been born allergic to peace and quiet.
“See you tomorrow,” he taps the table, waggling his eyebrows as he backed toward the door.
Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t fight the small smile that tugged at her lips. “see you tomorrow, Munson.”
He grinned like she’d handed him a gift, saluted sloppily, and disappeared into the crowd of students funneling out.
The silence that followed him was heavier than before.
Y/N lingered at the table, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. She replayed his words in her head, what if they already know? It shouldn’t have mattered. Eddie Munson was just a loudmouth with too many conspiracy theories and not enough self-preservation, but the way he’d said it, the way his gaze had lingered like he saw more than he should.
Her chest ached, blood humming faintly under her skin, the pull of her secret pressing against the edges of her mask. She shoved it down, hard, before anyone could notice. With a sharp breath, Y/N shouldered her bag and slipped out of the library, her smile gone, her eyes sharp again.
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By Thursday, it had become a routine she would try and blend in and somehow, he would always seem to find her. Eddie dropped into the desk behind Y/N in history like gravity put him there, long legs sticking out too far into the aisle, pencil already tapping against the back of her chair. He wasn’t quiet about it either, each tap exaggerated, off-beat, just irritating enough that she finally turned her head with a look that could cut glass.
When the teacher turned to scrawl dates on the chalkboard, a folded scrap of notebook paper landed on the corner of her desk. Y/N hesitated, glancing sideways to make sure no one was watching, then slid it open under the desk. His scrawl was jagged, written in all caps like it was an official document.
WOULD YOU RATHER GET ABDUCTED BY ALIENS OR HEXXED BY A WITCH?
She almost rolled her eyes, but her pen was already in hand. She wrote in small, precise letters.
witch. at least you can negotiate a deal with them.
She folded it once, leaned back just enough to flick it onto his desk without the teacher noticing. Eddie snatched it up instantly, unfolding it like it was an ancient text. When he read her answer, his grin bloomed wide. Y/N peeked out of the corner of her eye just far enough that she caught the expression before she forced herself to look back at the board.
By the end of class, her notebook margin was a battlefield. Eddie had doodled a cartoon witch labeled Y/N wielding a broom and facing down a tiny UFO that was beaming up stick figures with “WITCH VS. ALIEN” scrawled under it.
Y/N pretended to ignore him as he slid it onto her desk, but she folded the scrap carefully before sliding it into her bag.
It happened at the end of history, almost like an afterthought. The bell had rung, chairs scraping, kids filing out in a rush for the weekend. Y/N was sliding her notebook into her bag when Eddie lingered, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he should just bail.
“So, uh—” He coughed into his fist, trying to sound casual. “If we’re gonna keep arguing about supernatural versus aliens, maybe we should… not limit it to school hours.”
Y/N zipped her bag slowly, turning her head just enough to give him a look. “Are you asking for my number?”
“Yes. Obviously.” His words tumbled out too fast, ears pinking. “But in the least smooth way possible.”
He tore a scrap from his notebook, covered in half-finished doodles of stars, guitars, dice scrawled in jagged pen, and slid it onto her desk. At the bottom, crooked handwriting: his phone number.
Y/N studied it longer than necessary, letting the silence stretch just to watch him squirm. Then she pulled her pen free and, without warning, caught his hand. In sharp, precise strokes, she scrawled her number across the back of it. Ink bled into his skin before she finally let go, grabbing the paper with his number on it.
“Don’t prank call me,” she ordered, standing and swinging her bag over her shoulder.
Eddie pressed a hand to his chest like she’d accused him of murder. “Me? I would never.”
She arched a brow.
“Okay,” he admitted, grinning. “Maybe.”
Y/N shook her head, brushing past him toward the door. “Knew it.”
Eddie stayed behind, staring at the black ink curling across his skin. Her handwriting. Her number. His grin spread slow at first, and even though he tried to hold it back it stretched across his face, unstoppable. He carefully tucked his hand into his pocket like it was worth more than gold, already memorizing the numbers by heart.
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Y/N was halfway through a book about the uses and benefits of garden variety of herbs when the phone by her bed rang. Her lamp cast a soft pool of yellow light across the pages; the rest of her room swallowed in shadow. For a moment she just stared at the ringing phone like it might be a mistake. Nobody called her. Not really. Not unless it was someone from school asking about homework or the wrong number altogether.
She picked it up slow, voice cautious. “Hello?”
“Uh—hey. It’s me.”
Eddie.
His voice came through the receiver too loud, crackly like he wasn’t sure how close to hold it. Y/N’s grip on the book loosened, her page folding in on itself as she leaned back against her pillows. “How’d you get this number again?” she jokes dryly.
“You wrote it on my hand,” he said, mock wounded. “Don’t act like you don’t remember. It was a whole thing. Witnesses and everything.”
Y/N twirled the phone cord around her finger, smirking despite herself. “So, what, you called to harass me about the supernatural?”
“Correction,” Eddie shot back, quick, smug. “I called to harass you about aliens. I need a chance to make my case, Witch.”
She rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see. “Fine. Go ahead, make your case.”
“Oh, gladly.” His voice warmed with energy, words spilling like he couldn’t hold them back. “Roswell, 1947. Not a weather balloon, no matter what the government claimed. Wreckage, eyewitnesses, hangars full of evidence—”
Y/N stretched her legs across the bed, biting back a laugh at how fast he got worked up.
“—It’s all in the reports, the magazines, the cover-ups no one talks about. Pages and pages, mimeographed, photocopied, passed around if you know where to look. You just have to pay attention.”
Y/N snorted softly. “Your terrible zines are not actual evidence.”
There was a beat of stunned silence, and then Eddie gasped so loud it crackled through the line. “Not actual evidence? Excuse you, those zines are the backbone of modern ufology. People risked their lives for the truth.”
Y/N laughed before she could stop herself, pressing the receiver closer to hide it. “You’re unbelievable.”
Eddie made a scandalized noise. “Unbelievable? No, no, occult witch, I am a visionary. I’m out here connecting dots no one else will touch. History will vindicate me.”
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She lay on her side now, tracing circles into her blanket, her lamp switched off, so her room was nothing but shadow and the angry red glow of her alarm clock. 11:48. The numbers glared at her. She should’ve hung up, should’ve told him to save his alien rants for lunch tomorrow. Instead, she clutched the phone tighter smiling as she listens to him raving about aliens.
“I’m telling you, those crop circles weren’t made by farmers,” he insisted, full of conviction. “You think some bored guy with a tractor can carve a perfect spiral in the middle of a field at two in the morning without anyone noticing? No way. That’s alien handiwork, sweetheart. Intergalactic graffiti.”
Y/N rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, smiling despite herself.
“Or” she countered, “it’s just some farmer who’s really bored and really good at geometry.”
“Heretic,” Eddie said instantly.
“Uh-huh.” Y/N turned onto her back, deliberately flat.
He went quiet half a second, then huffed. “You don’t believe me.”
Her lips twitched in the dark, betraying a smile he couldn’t see. “I didn’t say that.”
The line went still. Eddie, quiet, was rare. The beat stretched long enough for her to wonder if she’d pushed too hard, if maybe she’d broken something in the rhythm of the conversation.
Then his voice came back, softer, hesitant in a way that made her chest ache. “You like humoring me.”
Y/N froze. Her heart skipped a beat, throat tight. She rolled onto her side, clutching the phone harder against her ear. Her voice was low, unguarded. “Maybe… or maybe I just like listening to you get worked up,” she admitted.
There was a pause, and then Eddie chuckled, warm and low, nothing like the loud bark of laughter he used in the cafeteria. It slid under her skin, dangerous in its gentleness. Y/N shut her eyes, the sound sinking deep under her ribs, warming her up from the inside.
“Careful,” he said after a moment, amusement curling in his voice. “I might start thinking you actually like me or something.”
Y/N bit her lip, trying not to laugh, not to give anything else away. The line went quiet again, but heavier this time, the soft buzz of static on the line filling her ears. For a moment, she thought Eddie had finally run out of wild theories to rant about. Then his voice came through, low and unsteady
“You ever think,” Eddie asked suddenly, softer now, “that maybe… you don’t fit here? Like everyone else has this map of the world they’re following, and you’re just… lost.”
Y/N’s chest constricted her ribs feeling like a cage around her heart. “…Lost how?”
“I dunno,” his usual bravado was stripped away. “Like, you can play along, do all the same stuff, school, homework, smile when you’re supposed to, but underneath it, you know you’re somewhere you don’t belong. And the whole damn town knows you’re different, but they don’t really get it. They just… point and whisper from a distance.”
Her throat felt dry. She curled tighter around the phone, her blanket twisting in her fist. “…Yeah,” she mumbled. “I know exactly what you mean.”
For a while, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of their breathing, the faint hum of the line, like static had stitched them together.
Then Eddie let out a soft laugh, almost self-conscious.
“Guess that makes two of us.”
Y/N shut her eyes, a small, aching smile tugging at her lips even though her chest felt heavy. “Guess so.”
On the other end, she heard the shuffle of movement, the creak of bedsprings. She pictured him sprawled across his bed, legs hanging off the edge, smiling up at the ceiling like maybe, for once, he wasn’t completely alone in feeling like a pariah in his own town.
She smiled, small and a little sad, even though he couldn’t see it.
“It’s late… I should go. Goodnight, Munson.”
“Goodnight, witch,” he murmured, his nickname for her softer than she’d ever heard him.
Neither of them hung up right away. The line stayed open, static low and steady, a thread stretched between them, like a tin can telephone stretched across town. It made them feel stupidly giddy, like kids whispering past lights-out, and neither wanted to be the first to drop the string. The line stayed open, both of them listening to the other’s quiet breathing, as if cutting the connecting thread would break more than just the call.
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Every day after that, it got easier. At first, it was just “coincidence”, Eddie wandering into the cafeteria and flopping his tray down across from Y/N. But by the third day, he wasn’t even pretending. He got there dropping a quick “Hey, witch” before dropping his bag by her, dashing off to grab lunch, saving the seat like it was his by right.
Y/N pretended not to notice, turning the pages of her book without comment, but she noticed. It became their rhythm now: Eddie sitting with her at lunch, leaning in too close, hands flying as he launched into some ridiculous theory, Y/N raising her brow and cutting him down with a single line that only made him grin wider.
The cafeteria was loud around them, cheerleaders shrieking and giggling, jocks tossing a basketball and rough housing, the scrape of chairs, but at their table it was its own little bubble. Eddie was sprawled out on the bench, boots tangled around the legs of the table, waving a fry for emphasis. “I’m telling you; Hawkins is prime alien country. Big stretches of woods, weird government labs in the middle of nowhere—”
“Or maybe it’s just Indiana,” Y/N flatly stated, peeling the wrapper off some candy that she kept with her at all times.
He gasped before shaking his head slowly. “You can’t tell me this town isn’t hiding something. It’s too boring not to be suspicious.”
Y/N raised a brow. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard you say, and that is saying something”
“Thank you,” he said proudly, stealing a chip off her tray.
Eddie opened his mouth like he was going to launch into another long-winded rant, just as Y/N slid a piece of candy across the table without looking. Eddie picked it up instantly, grinning as he ripped the wrapper off and shoved it in his mouth. Y/N had started carrying candy in her bag, and when Eddie’s voice got too loud, when he was halfway through announcing to the entire lunchroom that the government was covering up alien autopsies, she would slide a piece across the table without looking up. He’d always pause, blink, then grin like she’d just handed him treasure, popping it into his mouth right away, and it never failed to settle him down long enough for her to finish reading her paragraph.
“Bribery,” he muttered around a piece of candy, before pointing at her accusingly eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she smiles slyly.
Their rhythm was sharp and easy, her dry, clipped comebacks; his dramatic retorts, flailing hands and gasps loud enough to turn heads, and in between, soft moments of connection. The brush of their knees under the table, neither pulling away. The way Eddie found himself watching her tuck her hair behind her ear, his chest too tight. The way Y/N caught herself smiling when he wasn’t even looking, startled at her own softness.
By the following week, Y/N and Eddie had become a pair that people noticed around the school. They were often far off to the side, orbiting each other with books clutched against their chests. Y/N always leaning against the metal of her locker, thumbing through some ancient-looking volume on moon rituals with frayed edges. Eddie beside her, backpack dangling off one arm, grinning like he’d been waiting all day to get her going.
This time, Y/N had her nose in the alien book Eddie had eagerly shoved into her arms earlier this week, when she off Handley asked what it was about. She frowned almost regretting even asking in the first place, turning a page with deliberate care. “This reads like a bad horror movie,” she muttered, squinting at a diagram of a dissected cow.
Eddie slammed his own locker shut, the clang making a freshman down the row jump. He leaned back against it, crossing his arms, smirk tugging at his mouth. “That’s because you’re not reading it with the right mindset.”
Y/N raised a brow, not looking up. “And what mindset is that? Tinfoil on the head?”
“Exactly,” he said, grinning wider. “It’s all about conspiracies. You gotta picture the government panicking every time a cow goes missing. Then it’s fun.”
Y/N finally glanced up, unimpressed. “Fun isn’t the same thing as believable.”
“Sure, it is,” Eddie shot back. “Believing is the fun part.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the start of a smile. Eddie caught it instantly, grinning back at her with that overconfident warmth that made it impossible to look away. And before either of them realized it, they were just… staring. Smiling in a way that lingered a little too long. The hall buzzed around them, lockers slamming, kids brushing past, teachers barking orders, but neither moved.
Y/N lowered her head back to the page slowly almost reluctant to break eye contact with him, lips twitching trying to erase the shy grin that was on her face.
Eddie cleared his throat, rapping his knuckles against his locker to break the moment, but the smile stuck stubbornly to his face.
For the rest of the day, both of them kept catching themselves thinking about that pause, about how, for just a second, it felt like the rest of Hawkins High had disappeared, and it was only them.
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Later at lunch, Eddie had worked himself into a full rant at their lunch table, half a sandwich in one hand and his fork in the other like a conductor’s baton.
“I’m serious,” he said, waving the fork so wildly a glob of mashed potatoes almost flew off. “The government plants people. They walk around looking normal, suits, ties, the whole thing, but they’re watching. Taking notes. Keeping tabs on who’s paying attention.”
Y/N tore a corner off her sandwich and popped it into her mouth, unimpressed. “You’re telling me,” She stated dryly, “that some government guy in a black suit is lurking in Hawkins, Indiana, of all places, just to watch us eat cafeteria slop?”
“Yes!” Eddie stabbed his fork down onto his tray for emphasis. “Exactly. Because Hawkins is suspicious as hell. Think about it, nothing ever happens here. No excitement, no headlines, no big news stories. And that’s exactly the point. When a place is that boring? That means something is happening under the surface. You just don’t see it yet.”
Y/N raised a brow, chewing slowly, like she was humoring a child. “Or maybe it means this town actually is as boring as it looks.”
“Wrong,” Eddie was shaking his head so hard his curls flopped into his face. “This is ground zero for something. I can feel it in my bones.”
Y/N tilted her head, studying him more carefully than before. His eyes burned with conviction, his grin reckless, but beneath it was something else. Something that made her stomach twist. Her voice softened. “You really believe that don’t you?”
The words seemed to catch him off guard. Eddie faltered, his shoulders hunching a little as he shrugged. For once, the bravado cracked. He looked younger, unsure, almost fragile.
“I believe in weird,” he said finally, his voice lower, almost thoughtful. “Weird finds me. It always has. I figure… maybe one day, I’ll find it back.”
Y/N’s throat went tight. She glanced down at her tray, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. Her hands curled in her lap, nails digging faint crescents into her skin. “Careful what you wish for,” she murmured.
Eddie leaned across the table, closing the space between them, fork forgotten. His grin came back, sharp but curious now. “Why? You hiding something, witch?”
Y/N let the silence stretch just long enough to make his grin falter. Then she looked up, lips curving sly. “Maybe.”
For a heartbeat, the cafeteria noise fell away, the clatter of trays, the shrieks from the jocks’ table, the endless chatter. It was just the two of them, locked in that space where teasing threatened to tip into something heavier. Y/N broke the eye contact first, biting into her sandwich. Eddie leaned back slowly, still smirking, but his knee softly brushed hers under the table.
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The next Tuesday the Hawkins High library was nearly empty, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, the smell of old paper hanging heavy in the air. Students dotted the tables here and there, heads bent over homework, but otherwise it was quiet. Until Eddie Munson decided to crash it. Y/N tried to ignore him, eyes skimming a passage on regional folklore. She’d barely finished the sentence when Eddie leaned forward and said, far too loudly, “You ever notice Mrs. Grant might be an alien in disguise?”
Her head snapped up. “Munson.”
“What?” His grin was already tugging. He jerked his chin toward the circulation desk. “Don’t pretend you don’t see it. She’s always watching, just waiting for the perfect moment to—”
“Shh!” Y/N hissed, heat rising surprisingly in her cheeks.
But Eddie only leaned back in his chair, grin spreading wider like he’d won something. “—zap you with her mind-ray and drag you to detention where no one ever comes back.”
Y/N kicked his shin under the table. Hard.
He yelped and stifled a laugh at the same time, which only made it worse. A second later, a sound like thunder cracked across the quiet, the clearing of a throat.
Mrs. Grant straightened behind the counter; glasses low on her nose. Her glare was sharp enough to cut through the stacks. “Mr. Munson.” Her voice was clipped, each syllable like a knife. “One more word out of you and you’ll lose your library privileges.”
Y/N wanted the floor to swallow her whole. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Eddie, of course, leaned forward dramatically. “But Mrs. Grant,” his voice carrying in perfect stage projection, “knowledge is my life. To deny me access would be cruel and unusual punishment.”
A couple of students snickered. Mrs. Grant didn’t. “Try me.”
Y/N muttered under her breath, “You’re gonna get us both in trouble.”
Eddie grinned, dropping his voice to a whisper now that the damage was done. “Don’t worry I’ll take the fall for you.”
She shot him a death glare, cheeks hot. He noticed immediately.
“Your cheeks are red,” he whispered, pencil tapping in her direction.
“No, they are not.” She snipped.
“You are. Totally red, are you embarrassed?” His smirk softened into something teasing but strangely fond. “Looks good on you.”
Her whole face flamed. She ducked behind her book like it was a shield. “Shut up.”
Eddie leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, the picture of smug satisfaction. “Never.”
He went back to doodling in his notebook, and this time when Y/N risked a glance, she saw it wasn’t an alien or a guitar, it was another little cartoon witch standing next to a UFO.
Y/N rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the start of a smile. She snapped her book shut, looking up from her book. “You’re distracting me.”
“You love it,” smiling smugly before popping the candy into his mouth.
“I tolerate it,” she corrected, though her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.
“You like me,” Eddie sing-songed under his breath, tapping his pencil against the page.
Y/N finally looked up, narrowing her eyes. “Keep talking, Munson, and I’ll actually summon something to shut you up.”
He grinned, sharp and delighted. “Hot.”
Her cheeks burned hotter before, she ducked her head. Opening her book, she turned a page too fast and hissed softly when the edge sliced her thumb. A bead of dark blood welled up almost instantly. Before she could reach for a tissue, Eddie’s head snapped up. He’d been half-slouched in his chair, doodling aliens with guitars, but now his eyes were locked on her hand, sharp and worried.
“You okay,” he said quietly.
Y/N frowned at him, surprised. “It’s just a paper cut.”
For a beat, he didn’t move. Then, like a switch flipping, the crooked grin snapped back into place. He leaned across the table, catching her wrist before she could move it away.
“What are you—”
He bent and pressed a quick, dramatic kiss to her thumb. “There,” grinning up at her through his lashes. “All better.”
Y/N’s cheeks burned as she yanked her hand back, turning to her bag to grab a tissue.
“Death by paper. Tragic way to go.” Eddie joked, leaning back like it was nothing. He picked up his pencil again, twirling it between his fingers, as his knee bounced under the table hard enough to rattle the surface.
Y/N wiped her thumb against a scrap of tissue and tried to ignore the sting.
Across from her, Eddie had gone suspiciously quiet. His chair creaked as he leaned back, pencil scratching across the page of his notebook. For once, the dramatic smirk was gone. He looked, focused. Y/N tried to return to her book, but her eyes kept flicking up. His curls were falling into his face, shadowing the way his mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. He turned his notebook, so it wasn’t visible.
Finally, she couldn’t take it. “What are you doing?” she whispered, voice sharp.
“Homework,” he whispered back without looking up.
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t do homework.”
“Touché.” He smirked and angled the notebook toward her just a little.
Her heart gave a stupid lurch. On the page was another doodle, this one of a cartoon witch sitting cross-legged on top of a UFO, next to her was a little alien that suspiciously reminded her of someone, holding up a guitar like a trophy.
Y/N tried to hide her smile, but not before he saw her mouth twitch.
“it’s you finally meeting aliens, which by the way are real,” he whispered.
“Whatever you say, Munson,” she shot back.
“You might try and hide it, but I know you believe in them,” he said, grin widening.
Mrs. Grant cleared her throat just once, sharp. Both of them flinched like kids caught sneaking candy.
Y/N leaned closer across the table, her voice low so the librarian couldn’t hear. “She’s going to throw you out.”
Eddie leaned in too, grinning like a menace. “Then you’ll be stuck here all alone with your creepy folklore books.”
Y/N arched a brow, whispering back, “I’d survive.”
He dropped his pencil, gaze holding hers a second longer than it should have. “Yeah,” he stated, softer. “You would…but I’d miss you.”
Her stomach flipped. She looked down fast, flipping a page she hadn’t even read.
Eddie sat back again, smile curling at the edge of his mouth. He didn’t push further. For the rest of the period, he stayed quiet, just doodling, scribbling nonsense, occasionally sliding the page a little closer so she’d see it. Y/N, though she pretended to keep her eyes on her book, kept noticing the way the edges of his grin softened when he thought she wasn’t looking.
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At the end of the day, Y/N cut through the east hallway past the band room, on her way out of school. The building had mostly emptied out, as teens shove books and slam their lockers making their way down the halls toward buses and cars, but from somewhere deeper came the rough hum of sound.
A Guitar.
It wasn’t neat or polite, it was messy and raw, too loud for an empty school and definitely not the sounds that usually filtered out from that room. It was alive in a way that made her stop in her tracks, tilting her head toward the cracked band room door.
Through the narrow window she saw him. Eddie sat on a stool, guitar balanced across his lap, curls falling into his face as his fingers flew across the strings. His whole body leaned into it, shoulders tense, foot tapping time, head bobbing to a beat only he heard. For once, he wasn’t talking, wasn’t grinning at his own joke. He was just there, completely lost inside the sound of his own music.
The chord crashed to an end, reverberating against the music stands and empty chairs. Eddie looked up, flushed and breathing harder than he should have been, and caught her.
Y/N stiffened, ready to slip away, but his mouth pulled into that crooked, wicked grin. “Caught you.”
She stepped inside before she could talk herself out of it, leaning against the doorframe like she wasn’t fazed. “You’re loud enough to wake the dead.”
“Perfect,” he said, turning the guitar upright on his knee. “Always wanted a zombie horde to do my dark bidding.”
Her lips twitched. “You’re not bad.”
“Not bad?” Eddie mumbled narrowing his eyes jokingly, mock offended. “That’s the kind of glowing review a guy can only dream about.”
Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t leave. Her gaze lingered on his hands, still twitching, restless, like they hadn’t figured out how to stop playing. When he finally stilled, he flexed his fingers once like they ached, then shoved them against his jeans as if hiding the twitch. He caught her staring and wiggled his fingers at her with a grin.
“Wanna try?” he asked, tilting the guitar toward her.
Y/N blinked. “No.”
“C’mon,” he coaxed. “One chord. It's even tuned already. Easiest thing in the world.”
She shook her head, crossing her arms tighter. “Not my thing.”
“Scared?”
Her brow arched. “Of sounding bad? No. Of listening to you brag about teaching me one chord forever? Yes.”
Eddie laughed, a loud bark that bounced off the walls. He strummed once, sloppy and dramatic, letting the note ring. “Fair enough…I think you’d shred on one of these.” He gave the guitar a pat.
Y/N snorted rolling her eyes.
Eddie didn’t press her again. Instead, he slid his pick into the pocket of his ripped jeans and bent forward, carefully easing the strap off his shoulder. The guitar went into its battered case with the kind of reverence that showed he’d done it a hundred times, his calloused fingers brushing the worn stickers on the lid before he snapped it shut. The quiet clicks of the latches felt loud in the emptied practice room, the air still holding that faint electric hum of the last chord.
Y/N didn’t move from the doorframe. She watched him gather up the clutter, an amp cord coiled carelessly but fast, a couple crumpled sheets of paper, a crushed mountain dew stuffed into the outer pocket, his leather jacket thrown over one arm. He was still buzzing, restless as a storm trying to fit itself inside a human form, and she could feel his restless energy even standing across the room.
“You waiting for me?” he asked, glancing up through the mess of his hair.
Her arms stayed crossed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Nope just loitering in school after hours.” she said, but she didn’t move to leave.
That grin came back and then Eddie slung the case over his shoulder like a weapon before heading toward her. He didn’t hurry, he moved with that lazy swagger he always had, like the world was obligated to fall into rhythm with him. When he reached the door, he tilted his head at her, curls falling into his eyes. Then, with a dramatic flourish worthy of a court jester, he gave a deep, exaggerated bow.
“After you,” he said, voice smooth and teasing, like he already knew she’d roll her eyes and go first anyway.
The hallway was dim, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and their footsteps echoed as they made their way out of the band room. Eddie’s rings clicked against the case where his hand drummed absently, a rhythm he couldn’t keep inside. Y/N kept pace beside him, eyes flicking once to the scuffed leather of his jacket brushing her sleeve.
“So,” she started, curiosity slipping out before she could swallow it down, “how long have you been playing?”
Eddie grinned, like she’d just asked his favorite question.
“Since I was a kid. Mostly taught myself, though,” he said, puffing up a little with pride. “Lots of bad noise, a few broken strings, and a very patient uncle.”
She raised her brows. “You’re… in a band?”
“Hell yeah, witch.” His grin went wolfish, and he slung the case higher on his shoulder. “Corroded Coffin. We’re gonna be huge. You’ll see our name on the back of some denim vest someday.”
Y/N’s lips twitched, trying not to smile. “Huh. I honestly didn’t think you were actually using the band room for music.”
Eddie clutched at his chest, staggering back a step in a theatrical offense.
“Occult girl, I’m wounded.” Then, with a dramatic sweep of his hand, he admitted, “I mean, fair. I used to be in the official band. Played in freshman year before I wanted to focus more on my own band. But the band teacher still lets me sneak in and use the room sometimes. Guess he has a soft spot for freaks.”
“Or maybe he just wants you putting that restless energy somewhere,” she said dryly.
Eddie barked a laugh, bright and unbothered.
“Yeah, well, whatever keeps me out of trouble… mostly.”
Outside, the air was cooler than she expected, the late-afternoon sun was low, spilling long shadows across the parking lot as students trickled out in clusters. Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag, planning to walk, she always walked. but before she’d even made it to the sidewalk, Eddie beside her turned to her, guitar case softly thumping against his back.
“Headed home?” he asked, like it wasn’t obvious.
“No, Munson,” she deadpanned, “I thought I’d sleep under the bleachers.”
He grinned, unfazed. “Dang, and here I was gonna offer you something better.”
Y/N eyed him sideways. “This should be good.”
“My van,” he announced proudly, sweeping an arm toward the rust-colored beast parked crooked at the edge of the lot. It looked like it had seen better decades. Stickers covered the bumper, one taillight was cracked, and the whole thing leaned slightly to the left.
Y/N raised a brow. “That?”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” he said, like she’d insulted his child. “The ol’ girl’s reliable. Gets me from Hellfire to gigs to school and back. And today—” he leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“could get you home faster than those sneakers of yours.”
Y/N slowed, giving him a long look. “You’re offering me a ride in a van that looks like it might belong to a kidnapper.”
He lit up. “Only on Wednesdays!”
Her lips twitched, betraying the edge of a smile. “No, actually I think I like walking.”
Eddie let his dramatics hang in the air, staggering a few steps like she’d shot him straight through the heart, hand over his chest, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in exaggerated agony. “Brutal. Witch shoots down generous offer, local metalhead devastated.”
Y/N didn’t slow, but he noticed how her shoulders bounced once, the tiniest laugh she was trying to bury. He caught up quickly, boots scuffing the asphalt, the faint jangle of his rings tapping the guitar case at his side.
“Fine,” his tone shifting from melodramatic to sly. “If you won’t ride in style, I’ll Walk you. Gentlemanly duty and all that.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Since when are you a gentleman?”
Eddie gasped, all fake outrage again. “Since forever. Didn’t you hear? They’re writing sonnets about me. Sir Edward Munson, protector of maidens, slayer of boredom, bringer of the world’s greatest guitar solos.” Y/N snorted, pushing past him toward the edge of the lot. “Keep dreaming, Munson.”
When she glanced back, he was still watching, still grinning, like the offer had never really been about the van. Y/N kept moving past the parking lot, sneakers crunching against gravel as she hit the cracked stretch of sidewalk leading away from Hawkins High. The air was cooling, cicadas humming somewhere in the trees. She thought Eddie was joking about walking with her and that might just let her go, but he didn’t. His boots thudded against pavement as he jogged a few steps to catch up, guitar case bouncing against his back. “So, you’re really walking,” he said, falling into stride beside her. “Like, by choice.”
Y/N kept her gaze forward. “It’s not that far.”
“Not that far?” Eddie scoffed. “This is Indiana. Nothing’s close.”
“You complain a lot for someone with working legs.”
“I’m preserving my energy,” he shot back, tapping his temple. “For important things. Like spotting government agents disguised as teachers.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Oh really? And let me guess you have some suspects”
“Yes.” He grinned, pleased with himself. “Mrs. O’Donnell? Totally a plant. No one’s that enthusiastic about American history unless they’re covering something up.”
She snorted. “Or maybe she just likes history.”
“Impossible.” He spread his arms, nearly walking backward in his enthusiasm. “The woman lives to make us memorize dates, only a government agent could be that cruel.”
Y/N shook her head, ducking her smile behind her hair.
They walked in companionable silence for a while, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable. Their shoulders brushed every now and then when the sidewalk narrowed. Eddie kicked a rock down the path, chasing it with lazy strides, while Y/N tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, eyes sharp but softer than usual. When they reached the corner where her house was, Eddie slowed. “So, this is bye, huh?”
Y/N nodded. “Yeah...”
He shifted his weight, grinning crooked. “Well then, I think this is where I say, ‘See you tomorrow, witch.’”
She arched a brow. “Bye Eddie.”
“Cool. Cool, cool.” He lingered a second too long, scratching the back of his neck. Then he stepped back, walking backward down the sidewalk with his grin widening again. “Don’t summon anything without me.”
Y/N’s lips curved before she could stop them. “Don’t get abducted on your way home.”
He clutched his chest like she’d said something romantic, staggering dramatically before turning to jog off. She shook her head, still smiling faintly as she headed for her door.
The screen door creaked as Y/N stepped inside. The house was still, the kind of silence she was unused to, too still, like the air itself was holding its breath while she was gone. It felt too empty without Eddie to fill up the space.
She dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her boots, and padded into her room. The blinds were drawn against the late-afternoon sun, shadows pooling across the floor. Usually, this was her comfort, but tonight it felt different.
She sat on the edge of her bed, pulling her knees up and tucking her long skirt under her, fingers toying with the frayed edge of her book. She told herself to focus, to pick up where she’d left off, to bury herself back into the books that had always been her refuge.
Instead, her mind replayed the walk home. Eddie’s voice filling the space between their footsteps, his ridiculous certainty about teachers being government plants. The way he’d kicked that rock all the way down the sidewalk like it was a game. The crooked grin he’d given her at the corner, lingering just long enough to make her chest tighten.
Y/N shut her eyes, pressing her forehead briefly against her knees. When she opened them again, her mouth had already curved, a soft smile that startled her.
She hated how much it lingered. She hated how much she didn’t hate it.
Her room was quiet again, but now it wasn’t the same kind of quiet. It wasn’t empty. It was filled with the echo of Eddie’s laughter, the hum of his voice in her ear, and the memory of how close his shoulder had been to hers.
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Y/N sat cross-legged on her bed, a book was open in her lap, but she hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. Her eyes kept drifting to the phone on the nightstand, like it might ring if she stared at it long enough.
It did.
The shrill ring jolted her, though her hand was already reaching before the second chime. She lifted the receiver, pressing it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, witch.”
Eddie. His voice crackled through the line, rough and too-loud at first like always. She could picture him, sprawled somewhere on his bed with his hair falling in his face, grin tugging at his mouth.
“You call every night now?” she asked, pretending at boredom, though a slight smile bloomed across her face.
“Only because you’d miss me if I didn’t.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, leaning back against her pillows, twirling the phone cord around her fingers. “Doubtful.”
“Liar,” he shot back without hesitation.
There was a pause, both of them breathing into the line. It wasn’t awkward, more like they were waiting to see who blinked first.
Finally, Eddie cleared his throat. “So, I’ve been thinking, what if not only Hawkin’s high is crawling with undercover agents but the whole town, you know my neighbor Cynthia looked at me weird!”
Y/N snorted. “This again.”
“Picture it!” he pressed on, animated. “They’re watching the woods, monitoring crop circles, taking notes on all the freaky kids in school—”
Her stomach tensed, just for a moment. But she forced her voice steady, dry. “You’d be at the top of their list, then.”
“Please. I’d be the last guy they’d suspect. Too obvious.”
Y/N smirked. “Or too loud.”
“Exactly.” He grinned into the phone; she could hear it, bright even through the static.
But when he spoke again, the grin thinned. “Y’know, Wayne would laugh his ass off if he heard me right now. Rattling on about government spies instead of doing something useful.”
Y/N frowned at the ceiling. “Wayne?”
“My uncle,” Eddie said, his tone softening. “He raised me. Old guy works nights at the plant. Doesn’t say much, but he’s the reason I haven’t totally fallen off the edge. Best person I know.” A pause, then a quieter add-on, almost muttered: “Only family I’ve got left that matters.”
Y/N caught the slip but didn’t push. Her fingers twisted the phone cord tighter. “He sounds… good.”
“He is,” Eddie said, quiet but certain. Then his voice shifted again, rawer. “Wish I was more like him sometimes. He’s steady. Normal. Me? People look at me and see trouble. Or worse something to laugh at.” He huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Guess that’s the price of being the freak, right?”
Her chest ached. She wanted to tell him he wasn’t just that, not to her, but her own truth pressed too hard against her teeth.
“What about you?” he asked, gentler this time. “Any family worth bragging about?”
Y/N’s throat went tight. The easy lie was right there, but instead, the words slipped out, hushed. “No…nobody…I ran away.”
Static filled the line as Eddie sat up straighter on his end. “You… ran?”
“From my family,” she whispered. “A long time ago. I couldn’t stay there. I just… didn’t want to play pretend anymore.” Her fingers twisted in the phone cord, knuckles white. “The house I’m in now it’s … a second place, a vacation home I guess, but they never come here so it’s the perfect place to hide.”
Eddie was quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice had an edge, something brittle under the softness. “Yeah. I get that.”
Y/N stilled. “You do?”
He exhaled slow. “Sometimes family isn’t what saves you. Sometimes it’s just something you survive.”
The words landed heavy, and Y/N realized he wasn’t just talking about her anymore. Her eyes burned, and she had to bite her lip to keep the sound in her throat from breaking loose. Her breath caught, shaky and uneven. Eddie’s words echoed in her head, raw and jagged, like he’d just opened a wound he usually kept stitched up tight.
She swallowed hard. “…Is that why you hate this town so much?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Eddie gave a short, humorless laugh that scraped at the silence between them.
“This town?” he said, bitter amusement curling through his tone. “Nah, this town’s just… background noise. The real fun started at home.”
Y/N’s felt her breathe halt, She wanted to ask more, wanted to know, but something in his voice warned her not to push. Instead, she just stayed quiet, letting him decide what to give.
After a long pause, Eddie sighed, slow and shaky.
“My old man bailed when I was young. Mom… did her best, but when you’re broke and tired all the time, ‘your best’ doesn’t always cut it. After she was gone, it was just me and Wayne. He’s… he’s like a dad to me. Saved my ass, really.” His voice cracked for just a second before he cleared his throat. “But you don’t come out of that kind of mess without a few scars. Some of ‘em on the outside, most of ‘em not.”
Y/N closed her eyes, clutching the phone tighter. “…I’m sorry, Eddie.”
“Don’t be,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. There was a sharp inhale on the other end, like he regretted letting himself get that raw. Then, softer, “It’s just… you get it. That feeling like you’ve been holding your breath for years, waiting for the next hit, the next fight, the next—” He cut himself off with a shaky laugh. “Guess we’re both running, huh?”
Her throat worked as she forced words past it. “Maybe we’re not just running. Maybe we’re… searching for somewhere we belong.”
There was silence, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything unsaid, everything they were both too afraid to say.
Finally, Eddie let out a slow breath, his voice almost tender.
“Maybe,” he said.
The line stayed open, neither of them hanging up, the static between them humming like a fragile promise that, for tonight at least, neither of them had to be alone.
Finally, Eddie murmured, softer than she’d ever heard, “Sometimes… I think if I just keep talking, I won’t… y’know. Feel so weird all the time.”
Y/N shut her eyes, hugging the receiver closer. “Talk to me, then.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then came a low chuckle, shaky at the edges. “Careful. You’ll never get me to shut up.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to.”
A beat of silence. Eddie’s breath hitched, audible through the line. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
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It was raining the following Monday, thin needles of water falling against the gray sky, making the whole school look washed out and tired. The kind of rain that lingered, steady enough to soak through everything if you stood out in it long enough.
Y/N stood near the edge of the building, her back against the brick wall, a black umbrella tilted above her. Her hair had started to curl damp at the edges, little strands sticking to her cheeks, but she didn’t look bothered. If anything, she looked perfectly content, like the rain was something she’d been waiting for.
Eddie came jogging across the lot, clutching his denim jacket closed with one hand, his curls plastered flat against his forehead. He spotted her immediately, parked there like a shadow with an umbrella.
“You’re just gonna stand there like a statue?” he called, boots splashing through a shallow puddle.
Y/N raised a brow, eyes flicking over his drenched state. “You’d rather I melt in the rain like you?”
He gave a snort, pushing wet hair out of his face. “I don’t melt unlike you, witch.” He jokes.
Y/N’s lips curved into a small, sharp smile. “Good to know.”
He stared a beat too long, something buzzing in his chest. Then he shook his head, playing it off with a grin, and ducked under her umbrella without asking, she didn’t shove him out.
“Really, Munson?” she said instead, shifting the umbrella just enough to keep him from being completely drenched.
“Desperate times,” he answered, brushing at the water dripping down his sleeve. “Besides, this thing is big enough for two!”
Y/N gave him a look, amused but pointed. “Barely.”
“We’ll just have to stand closer, then.” He waggled his brows, grinning through the rain, but didn’t move away once he was there.
Their shoulders brushed under the narrow umbrella, damp fabric pressing against damp denim. Neither stepped aside. The drizzle pattered steadily above them, turning the world outside the umbrella into a blur of gray. For a moment, the noise of kids rushing past, yelling and shoving to avoid getting soaked, felt distant. It was just the two of them, sharing stolen space in the rain.
Y/N’s hand tightened on the umbrella handle, but she didn’t say anything. Eddie caught the way her lips twitched again, almost-smiling, and filed it away like treasure.
The umbrella wasn’t really made for two. Eddie had to duck his head to fit under it, curls dripping onto the shoulder of his jacket. Y/N tilted the handle just enough to keep them both covered, but it meant they had to walk close, closer than either of them would admit out loud.
Eddie glanced sideways, grin tugging at his mouth. “Y’know, I’m starting to think you summoned this weather just to watch me suffer.”
Y/N’s lips curved. “Maybe I did.”
“Figures.” He nudged her shoulder lightly with his own, playful. “Witchy powers used exclusively to ruin my week.”
She smirked, eyes fixed ahead. “Didn’t take much.”
“Wow,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest like she’d landed a physical blow. “Cold-blooded. Thought we were friends, witchy.”
“Friends?” Y/N arched a brow.
His grin faltered for a heartbeat, then came back brighter, a little forced. “Unless you’re holding out for ‘nemeses.’ Which, hey, I’d be honored. Nemesis has a nice ring to it.”
Y/N’s smile softened, just a fraction. “Friends works.”
The rain pattered steady against the umbrella, the gray world blurred around them. Their shoulders brushed again as the sidewalk narrowed, neither moving aside. Y/N could feel the chill clinging to him, even through his soaked jacket. Eddie caught the faint scent of her shampoo, sharp, clean, like rain itself, and almost lost his train of thought.
By the time they reached Y/N’s Street, the drizzle had picked up into a steadier curtain of rain. Puddles spread wide across the cracked pavement, and Eddie had to hop over one to keep his socks from soaking through. Y/N only raised the umbrella higher, steady in her stride, letting him stumble along beside her.
They stopped at the gate in front of her house, the porch light buzzing faint against the gray sky. Y/N folded the umbrella just enough to shake off the water, tilting it so Eddie stayed dry until the last possible second.
“This is me,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag.
Eddie nodded but didn’t step back. The rain pattered down harder now, plastering his curls to his forehead. He looked ridiculous, grinning through the water. “Thanks for saving me from certain death by pneumonia.”
Y/N smirked, humoring him per usual. “Mhm, sure. Anytime, Munson.”
She hesitated, then held out the umbrella, handle first. “Here. You’ll drown without it.”
Eddie blinked, caught off guard, for once, he didn’t have a comeback. He just took it carefully, like it was more than an umbrella, grinning crooked. “Guess I owe you my life twice now.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched. “Don’t break it.”
Hands tightening around the handle like he’d been handed treasure. For once, he looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself. The silence stretched, filled only by Eddie shifting in place, rocking on his heels like he was trying to psych himself up.
“So,” he started, dragging out the word. “Friday night.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “What about it?”
“I’ve decided,” he said, gesturing broadly with his free hand, “that you, witch, are overdue for a proper cultural education.”
“Cultural education,” she repeated, flat.
“Yes. Metal. Movies. D&D. Aliens. The essentials.” He leaned closer, grinning wide. “And you’re getting the Eddie Munson crash course, delivered live and in person at Casa Munson.”
Y/N crossed her arms, one brow arched. “Casa Munson.”
“My house,” he clarified, with a dramatic bow. “The palace of all things loud, weird, and questionably legal.”
“Sounds… safe,” Y/N said dryly.
“Safe? No,” Eddie shot back. “Fun? Absolutely.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “Why are you inviting me?”
For a second his grin wavered, but only for a second. “Because you’re the only one who hasn’t told me to shut up about aliens this week.” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but her face. “And maybe I kinda like having you around.”
Y/N’s lips curved, small but sharp. “Maybe?”
Eddie groaned, throwing his head back like she’d skewered him. “Yes, witch. Definitely. Completely. Are you happy?”
“A little,” she admitted.
His grin returned, brighter this time. “So, you’ll come?”
Y/N pretended to think it over, letting the pause hang long enough to watch him fidget. Finally, she nodded. “Fine, but if it’s awful, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal,” he said, beaming like she’d just agreed to sign her soul away. “Friday night, Casa Munson. You won’t regret it.”
Y/N smirked. “I better not.”
he beamed clearing his throat. “Soo you, uh… want a ride tomorrow? Assuming my van doesn’t burst into flames overnight.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You’re really determined to get me into that van.”
“Hey,” he said, lifting his hands in defense, umbrella dripping at his side, “it’s reliable. Most of the time. Plus—” he leaned closer, grin crooked, “I make a killer mixtape. That’s gotta count for something.”
Her lips twitched. “We’ll see.”
For a second, they just stood there under the awning. The rain blurred everything else, the houses across the street, the road, the world beyond her porch.
“Goodnight, Munson,” she said at last, softer than before.
“Night, witch,” he answered, voice just as soft.
Y/N slipped inside, closing the door gently behind her.
Eddie lingered on the porch a moment longer, her umbrella clutched in his hand, before he finally turned and jogged off down the street, grinning like an idiot all the way back to his van.
By the time he made it back, his jacket was soaked through. He slung the guitar case into the back and dropped into the driver’s seat, water squelching out of his boots onto the floor mat.
He should’ve been annoyed. He hated being wet, hated the smell of damp denim. But instead, he just sat there, gripping the steering wheel with a stupid grin plastered on his face.
She’d let him under the umbrella. She’d given it to him. She hadn’t shoved him out. That alone would’ve been enough to keep him buzzing for days. But then there was the way her shoulder brushed his, the way she tilted the umbrella toward him like it was automatic, like keeping him dry had mattered.
And the smile. That sharp, reluctant smile she tried to hide when he teased her. The one that lit up her whole face when she thought he wasn’t looking. He’d seen it again tonight, right there under the awning. Small, but real.
Eddie leaned back in the seat, running a hand over his face. “Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered, laughing under his breath. “I’m screwed.”
He drummed his fingers against the wheel, restless energy humming through him. Normally he saved this kind of jitter for post-gig adrenaline or a good D&D session. But this wasn’t that. This was Y/N, quiet, sharp, unreadable Y/N, who carried weird leather-bound books and gave him candy just to shut him up.
The rain tapped steady against the van roof, and Eddie tapped with it, boot bouncing against the floor. He thought about calling her, as soon as he got home, just to hear her voice again. But it was too soon, he’d just left her at her door, for crying out loud. Even he wasn’t that desperate.
…Was he?
Eddie groaned, slumping forward onto the steering wheel. He was that desperate. He forced himself to start the engine, the van rattling to life. As he pulled out of her street, umbrella leaning against the passenger seat, he caught himself grinning again.
𝕿𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖚𝖊𝖉 … 𝖎𝖓 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 2
✦┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦
That’s a wrap on part one of The Truth is Out There! haha yeah…this is just gonna be a chill one-shot… cut to me 20,000+ words later like
👁️👄👁️
Any way I hope you enjoyed part 1 and check out part 2 when it comes out!
Big shoutout to dandadan for sparking the inspo that dragged me into writing this mess in the first place.👽🖤
Also I’m gonna be honest, it gets weird from here on…
Next part is here!
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@melvin333 @nativity-in-black @lucydixon
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Summary: You and Eddie Munson are roommates. He thinks that means something more. You just think he’s being Eddie.
Contains: roommate chaos, college setting, Eddie being down horrendously bad, delusional one-sided love (for now), sarcastic reader, mutual domesticity, a sprinkle of pining, and lots of goofy banter
A/N: I' m so sorry i haven’t posted in a while pls take this feral college era Eddie while I recalibrate my brain. Andddd, I just love writing quirky, goofy fics for Eddie.
masterlist |
After defying all odds and passing Ms. O’Donnell’s final with a suspicious number of lucky guesses, Eddie Munson graduated. You didn’t expect him to make it out of Hawkins High, but here he was, diploma in hand and clinging to your side like a caffeinated barnacle. When the college acceptance letters came, it made sense to be roommates. You were best friends. Eddie was harmless.
Except harmless didn’t exactly include the part where he kept calling you “babe” in front of the RA. Or how he bought two toothbrushes before you even moved in, one red, one black. “Yours and mine,” he said, totally casual, like you were an old married couple and this wasn’t your first day sharing a bathroom.
You? You thought Eddie was just being dramatic. He’d always been like this, loud, clingy, theatrical. You were used to it.
But Eddie? Eddie Munson thought he was living out his greatest fantasy, domestic bliss with the girl of his dreams, shared laundry and all.
You’d barely put your backpack down before Eddie kicked the door shut behind you, arms flung wide open like he was revealing a surprise party. “Welcome home, babe,” he grinned, eyes gleaming. “Look! I vacuumed.”
You blinked at the haphazard rugs, the lava lamp already plugged in, and the fact that he’d managed to hang a framed Dio poster next to what you hoped was a scented candle.
“You vacuumed the carpet once and suddenly you’re a house husband?”
He put a hand to his chest, wounded. “House partner, sweetheart. We’ll get to the husband and wife part later. Unless you want it that way, I ain't complaining..” Then he winks.
You dropped your backpack with a thud. “We’re roommates, Eddie. Just roommates.”
He saluted, completely ignoring you. “And I take my domestic duties very seriously. I already took the garbage out and I washed the dish you used for breakfast this morning. So, technically, I’ve been husbanding you for hours.”
You made a face, walking into the kitchen. “That’s not a verb. And stop saying ‘husbanding.’ You’re going to freak out the neighbors.”
Eddie leaned against the fridge with a smug look, still watching you. “You know, you’re lucky I’m this committed. Most guys don’t even make it past moving day without a breakdown. Me? I labeled our snacks.”
You opened the cabinet. Sure enough, a bright sticky note read “Eddie’s Secret Stash touch and DIE <3.”
“I see we’re off to a mature, healthy cohabitation,” you muttered, grabbing one of your granola bars.
Things only got worse (or better, depending on which one of you you asked) from there.
He insisted on walking you to class. He made your coffee in the morning, just how you liked it. He left notes on the fridge like Out of milk :( I’ll get some, don’t worry babe, as if you were a couple sharing groceries and not two broke college kids trying to survive Econ 101.
And the worst part? He looked so smug about it. Every time you rolled your eyes or called him ridiculous, Eddie just beamed at you like he was winning some secret game.
One day, you opened the closet to find his Hellfire shirt hanging next to your cardigans.
“Why is your stuff in my half?”
He shrugged. “Just trying out the married aesthetic. Feels more real when our clothes mingle, y’know?”
You chucked a slipper at him.
Then with laundry.
You don’t mean for it to. You really don’t. But one Saturday afternoon, your favorite hoodie is missing, and Eddie’s favorite band shirt is somehow tucked into your drawer, and before you know it, you were shouting.
“Did you put our clothes in the same load again?” you shout from the bedroom.
“Define ‘our,’” Eddie yells back, and you can hear the grin.
You storm into the living room. “Are you just washing everything together now? My delicates were in there!”
Eddie, curled up on the couch in your hoodie (your hoodie!), blinks up at you with zero shame. “What’s mine is yours, sweetheart. It’s just more efficient.”
You gesture wildly. “That is not how laundry or roommates work!”
He stretches his legs, bare feet propped on the coffee table like this is some kind of sitcom. “Okay, but consider: if you marry me,”
“I’m not marrying you.”
“you won’t have to worry about separate laundry loads ever again. Think of the savings.”
You deadpan, “You think this is a pitch?”
“It’s a lifestyle.”
You walk off muttering something about bleach and boy germs, but Eddie just smirks to himself and nuzzles deeper into your hoodie. He’s winning. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a fungus. A charming, metal loving fungus with a hopeless crush.
“It’s like we’re already married,” Eddie said, tossing a bag of off brand cereal into your shared shopping cart.
“We are literally just roommates.”
“Exactly. Roommates. The first stage of marriage.”
You gave him a look, the usual one. The one that said I don’t know what weird brain chemicals you’re running on today, Munson, but I’m too tired to argue. Then you just sighed, picked out your preferred kind of yogurt Eddie called it “girly parfait goop”, and turned the cart toward the freezer section.
It wasn’t that you didn’t like living with him. Honestly, you seemed pretty happy with your arrangement. You let him play Dio in the living room, you didn’t even yell when he forgot to take out the trash, and you always made a second cup of coffee in the morning, leaving it by his door without fail. You were sweet. You were golden. You were absolutely not in love with him.
Yet.
But Eddie had plans. Long game plans. Big, delusional, deeply unserious plans.
Your apartment wasn’t much. Just two bedrooms, a shared bathroom, and a tiny living room and a tiny kitchen with a microwave that sounded like it was dying every time you used it. But it was yours, and Eddie was thriving. His band posters were up in the living room. His guitar leaned permanently on the couch. And you, beautiful, radiant, confusing as hell, you left your fuzzy socks all over the floor like you were just asking him to fall harder for you every day.
“I fixed the shower pressure,” you said one night, walking into the living room drying your hair with a towel and wearing one of his old Hellfire shirts like it was no big deal.
Eddie, who was halfway through eating dry Cap’n Crunch and watching a horror movie, immediately forgot the plot and maybe his name.
“You did?”
You shrugged, plopping down beside him and stealing a handful of cereal. “It was just the nozzle. It was all gunked up.”
“My sexy little plumber,” he said, mouth full.
“Gross,” you replied, but you were smiling, and Eddie was pretty sure he saw God for a second.
A/N: hi hello I’m back on my clown shit thank you for waiting. I missed writing a painfully delusional Eddie so much. I'm planning on adding a few more parts, what do you guys think??
Hi!! Could I get an Eddie Munson neat, make it with whiskey and pineapple juice, add an orange twist and serve it with a paper straw and coaster. Ty! Also congratulations on 100!
oh, this was fun because it isn't like anything else I've written.
(and i lowkey took some irl inspo for some parts from my metalhead partner looking absolutely ridiculous in my all pink bedroom lol)
this is a very unserious vamp!eddie fic, some heavy themes are mentioned but it's mostly just cutesy and silly and fun.
I hope you enjoy it!
If you guys haven't placed a fanfic drink order, please do so here! I'm having so much fun with them!
[fic masterlist]
phantom heartbeat
wc: 9086
order up: eddie munson x reader, fluff, supernatural au, slow burn, opposites attract, bonding over similar/shared traumas
tw: talks of death & vampirism, talks of sex but no actual sex, eddie in a pink bathrobe
The trailer looks the same as it did the last time you were here. Same dent in the siding near the door, same sagging front step that creaks when you test it with your foot. Weeds have started curling over the edge of the walkway, dry and brittle. The place isn’t abandoned, not really, but it’s clear Wayne hasn’t been fussing over appearances lately. You don’t blame him.
You knock anyway, knuckles rapping against the metal doorframe. "Mr. Munson?" You wait. No answer.
You glance back at your car, engine still idling. Dustin said it would take two minutes. Just grab the binder off Eddie’s desk, the one with the old Hellfire character sheets Wayne found, and go. Quick errand. Do a favor. That was the deal.
You knock again, louder this time. "Wayne? It’s me. I’m here for Dustin’s thing."
Still nothing.
You twist the doorknob and it gives under your hand.
It’s probably fine. Dustin said Wayne might be at work. Said it was totally okay. Said the trailer was always unlocked.
You step inside.
The air is stale in that specific way closed-up places get. Faint hints of coffee and cigarette smoke linger in the carpet, and underneath it all there’s something sharper. You pause, nose wrinkling. Not exactly bad, just… odd.
The living room is dim. Curtains half-drawn, couch cushions sunken in with familiar wear. A few dishes in the sink. A flannel slung over the back of the recliner. The TV is off, but a mug sits on the side table beside it, like someone got up and forgot to come back.
You make your way down the narrow hall. The floor creaks under your sneakers. You glance toward the bathroom as you pass. Towels on the floor. Toothbrush cup empty.
Dustin said the binder would be in Eddie’s room. Just sitting on the desk. In and out.
But as you reach for the doorknob, you hear it.
A low sound. A thud. Something shuffling.
Your hand freezes.
You strain your ears, leaning closer. There it is again. Floor creaking. The scrape of something heavy being dragged. A muffled curse.
The voice sounds familiar in a way that punches you in the chest.
You shake it off.
That’s impossible.
You look around, heart thudding. There’s nothing even remotely useful nearby. You double back to the kitchen and grab the first thing with any heft.
A metal spatula.
You hold it up like a knife and immediately feel ridiculous, but your grip tightens anyway. You don’t say anything this time. Just open the door.
And what you see is impossible.
There’s someone in the room, back turned, shirtless and damp, hair plastered to bare shoulders in wet tangles. His jeans are filthy. The floor is soaked around him. His boots are kicked off in the corner. He’s pulling off what looks like a bloodstained vest with shaking hands.
He smells like rain and copper and something else, something almost burned.
You freeze. Your mouth opens. No sound comes out.
And then, without turning around, he mutters, “I swear to God, if you—”
You whisper his name. Not even meaning to.
"Eddie?"
He whirls.
His face is pale. Eyes sunken and rimmed in red. There’s blood on his chest, drying in jagged rivers. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, but you don’t hear it.
Because you’re already screaming.
He screams too, loud and high and startled.
Your hand flies forward on instinct and you smack him across the chest with the spatula.
It clangs and he flinches.
“Ow! What the—?”
And then the world goes a little fuzzy and you barely register when your body hits the floor.
You wake up to the feeling of someone watching you.
Not in the normal way. Not like a teacher checking if you’re asleep at your desk or a friend hovering over your shoulder. This feels like laser beams. Like x-ray vision. Like whoever is watching you has been doing it for a while and isn’t sure if you’re real.
You blink hard against the low light, trying to remember where you are, and why your shoulder feels like you got dropped on it.
The first thing you see is the ceiling. Yellowed. A faint water stain in the corner shaped like Florida. You’re in a bedroom. Someone’s bedroom. The air smells like damp fabric, ash, and something vaguely metallic.
And then there’s a voice.
“Finally.”
Your head jerks toward it.
He’s sitting in the desk chair. Hair still wet. Wearing a clean shirt now, a less blood-covered one. Arms crossed over his chest like he’s not sure whether to laugh or run.
Eddie Munson.
Alive. Or something close enough to it.
You stare at him.
“You,” you say flatly, because your brain hasn’t caught up yet. “I hit you with a spatula.”
“You did,” he nods. “Hard. Impressive form, actually. I thought I was being robbed by someone’s grandma.”
You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. Your vision swims.
He’s standing before you can say anything, hovering with the weird hesitancy of someone who’s not sure if he should help or keep six feet of distance like you’re radioactive.
“You fainted,” he says. “Which was kind of fair, considering the whole… me being not dead thing.”
Your eyes settle on him fully this time. The bruising beneath his eyes. The bloodless skin. The eyes that were now too bright, too sharp. The veins at his neck stand out more than they should. He still looks like himself, mostly, but carved out and shadowed. Less living. More... something else.
“I’m sorry,” you say slowly, “but are you a vampire?”
He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.
“I mean… maybe? I don’t know. Nobody gave me a manual.”
You squint at him. “Do you have a reflection?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Unfortunately. Still got this mug.” He gestures to his face and smirks, but there’s something fragile in the way he says it.
You hesitate, then ask, “Have you, like… wanted to bite anyone?”
“No more than the usual amount.”
You level a look at him.
He sighs. “It’s not like I want to kill people. I’m just… hungry. All the time. But not for food. I tried eating a can of ravioli earlier and it tasted like wet dog.”
You glance at the corner of the room where a dented can is still sitting, unopened.
Then you ask, “Have you read any Anne Rice?”
He freezes. “What?”
You clear your throat, already regretting it. “Just wondering. Because the symptoms sound sort of… vampire–adjacent.”
He blinks at you.
You look away, cheeks warm. “I like vampire books, okay?”
He stares for a second, and then, unexpectedly, he grins.
“You? You read that stuff?”
“Yes,” you say, tone clipped.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Silk bookmarks. Paperbacks with shirtless dudes on the cover. A secret stash of garlic and forbidden romances.”
Your face heats. “It’s not weird. And it's research now, technically.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he says. But there’s no venom in it. Just surprise. Something soft curling at the edge of his voice. “You. Out of everybody.”
You look at him again.
“Why are you here anyway? I thought you hated me.”
“I didn’t hate you,” you say. “We just didn’t… run in the same circles.”
Eddie snorts. “Yeah. You had your sparkly little cloud of popular friends before you got wrapped up in whatever… all that was.”
You smile a little despite yourself.
And he sees it. Sees that you’re not running. Not screaming. That you’re holding his gaze like you’re not afraid of what’s behind it.
The tension drops a notch. Still tight, but less ready-to-snap. He settles back in the chair, arms resting loosely on his knees.
You exhale slowly, the humor in your voice fading as you say, “Everyone thought you were dead.”
“I was,” he says quietly.
You don’t respond to that right away.
Outside, the wind shifts. A tree branch scratches against the window. Neither of you moves.
He watches you like he’s trying to solve a riddle. And maybe he is. You, of all people, showing up at his door. Seeing him like this. Not running.
“You okay?” he asks after a long moment.
You nod, but your eyes flick toward the bloodstained clothes still piled in the corner.
He follows your gaze. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Same.”
He already knows why you came. That part’s out of the way.
Eddie, for his part, just muttered something like “that little shit better not mess up my campaigns,” and then looked away too fast, like maybe if he didn’t hold your gaze too long he’d fall apart in it.
That was a few minutes ago.
Now you’re still sitting on his bed, legs pulled up under yourself, and he’s back in the chair, spinning it a little as he talks. He doesn’t know why he’s still here. Doesn’t know how long he was in the Upside Down. Just knows he woke up near the lake and stumbled through the woods with blood dried in his ears and mud in his teeth. Found his way back to the trailer, crawled inside through the bedroom window, and hasn’t left since.
He hasn’t told Wayne. Doesn’t plan to.
“That would go over real smooth,” he says, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “Hey, Uncle Wayne, it’s me, your dead nephew, back from the grave. Let’s catch the Sunday game and pretend I don’t have a blood craving.”
You don’t laugh. Not this time.
“Does he think you’re dead-dead?” you ask.
Eddie nods. “Yeah. They told him I didn’t make it.”
The silence lingers a little too long.
“I thought about leaving a note,” he adds, voice quieter. “But what do you say, really? ‘Hey, sorry I’m not corpse enough to stay buried?’”
You glance at him. “You should tell him eventually.”
“Eventually’s not a plan.”
You don’t argue with that.
Instead, your fingers toy with the blanket as you say, “People still talk about you, you know.”
He snorts. “Yeah, I bet. I was a murderer, remember?”
“You weren’t,” you say quickly.
“Didn’t matter,” he replies. “They said it enough, it stuck.”
You look at him again, really look. His eyes aren’t glowing anymore, not like before, but there’s a strange glassy depth to them, like something inside got left out in the cold too long and never quite thawed.
“They already thought I was a freak,” he says. “Now I actually am one.”
You shake your head, then pause.
“I never thought that.”
That gets his attention. He looks over at you.
“But,” you add, quieter now, “not saying anything is just as bad. I didn’t stand up for you. I didn’t stop anyone else either.”
He watches you, something unreadable in his face. You expect him to say it doesn’t matter. Or maybe crack a joke. But he doesn’t. He just lets the silence sit there, heavy and honest.
You break it first.
“I knew Chrissy,” you say, not quite looking at him. “We weren’t best friends or anything, but we were close enough. And then I got wrapped up in everything else and... I didn’t know where to put it. What to do with all of it.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he says, voice like gravel.
“Well yeah. I definitely know that.”
The quiet returns, but it’s softer now. Less barbed. More raw.
“If anything,” he says after a long beat, “getting to know Chrissy taught me not all of you were terrible.”
You blink, startled.
“‘You’?”
“You know. You.” He gestures vaguely toward your shoes. “Normal people. Shiny hair. Clean sneakers. Lives. That kind of thing.”
You arch a brow. “You think I’m normal?”
“Compared to me?” he says. “Please. You’re practically a prom queen.”
You make a face. “I wasn’t even on the ballot.”
He shrugs. “Still.”
You start to say something, but he cuts in again, a smirk forming. “Besides, if Steve fucking Harrington is actually a decent guy now, then maybe the whole world’s upside down.”
You snort. “It kind of is.”
He huffs out a laugh, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes this time. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.
“So what now?” you ask. “What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Stay dead, I guess.”
“You can’t hide forever.”
“Why not? I’m halfway to vampire shut-in as it is.”
You tilt your head. “Because you’ll rot in here. Because Wayne deserves to know. Because—” You stop. Swallow. “Because you don’t have to.”
When he doesn’t respond, you take a breath.
“You can come with me.”
He lifts his head slowly, eyes locking on yours. “What?”
“It’s not like my parents are ever home. They probably wouldn’t even notice you were there. They barely notice when I am.”
He’s still staring.
“Look,” you add, standing up before you can think too hard about it. “You’ll have to lie low in the backseat. Wear a hoodie. Maybe a blanket. But I’ll get you there. You shouldn’t be alone.”
His expression flickers, something cracking just beneath the surface.
“You’re serious?”
You nod.
He stands too, not quite steady, but close. Closer than before.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” he says, voice rough. “You were supposed to be a background character in my weird little movie. One of those people who lives their life and never gets pulled into this kind of shit.”
You give him a look. “Well. I read a lot of vampire books. So right now, I might be your best bet.”
He laughs once, low and surprised.
Then you pick up the stupid spatula from where it still lies on the floor, hand it to him like it’s a peace offering, and say, “But if you mock me for it again, next time I’ll bring a stake.”
It’s gotten easier.
Or maybe you’ve just stopped caring.
You don’t flinch anymore when people glance at you funny in town. At the butcher shop, the guy behind the counter doesn’t ask questions. Not anymore. He wraps the containers quickly, seals them tight, slides them across the counter without meeting your eyes. Maybe he doesn’t want to know why someone your age keeps showing up asking for sealed animal blood “for a project,” or maybe he already knows and just wants no part of it. Either way, you pay in cash, thank him politely, and walk out like you’ve done nothing wrong.
You haven’t, technically.
You’re just feeding the vampire boy you’re hiding in your basement.
Totally normal.
“—seriously thinks I'm practicing witchcraft or something, the way he looks at me every time I pick it up, which to be fair isn’t totally far off but… ” you say as you round the corner of the stairs into the basement, voice trailing off the second your eyes land on the couch.
You stop walking.
Eddie doesn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He’s half-reclined, stretched across the far end of the couch like a cat who’s taken over a sunlit windowsill. The light in the basement is weak, but it’s enough to see the full picture: bare legs, damp curls, and your bathrobe. The pink one. The soft one with the stitched-on daisies at the shoulder and the belt you always double-knot because it slips otherwise.
“Is that my robe?” you ask, flatly.
Eddie looks up from the book in his lap without a single ounce of shame.
You narrow your eyes. “You were in my room.”
He shrugs. “You left the door open.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
You’re still staring, mostly at the robe, but also at his chest where it gapes slightly. The top of the robe has slouched open, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone and just enough skin below it to be distracting.
Then you see the book he’s holding.
It’s familiar. The bent spine. The ripped corner of the cover. And then the awful, creeping realization hits you.
“Oh my god.”
He turns the book slightly, his face bright with mock surprise, like he’s posing with it. “Yours?”
You say nothing and Eddie grins.
“I was looking for something to do. You’ve got a surprising amount of these in that little box under your bed.”
“You snooped under my bed?!”
“Not for long,” he says casually. “Just long enough to find this masterpiece.”
He clears his throat and starts to read out loud, his voice sliding into something too slow, too amused.
“She whimpered against his mouth as his hand slid lower, his fangs ghosting over her neck like a promise. Her thighs parted of their own accord, desperate and trembling, begging to be—”
You move fast.
He yelps as you launch yourself over the back of the couch, trying to grab the book from his hands, but he holds it out of reach, twisting onto his side and pulling you off balance.
“You’re into this?”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”
He’s laughing and ducking, holding the book over his head as you climb fully onto the couch and reach for it again. His arm goes out. You scramble to follow. The robe slips farther off one shoulder. You grab the lapel for leverage without thinking, and he yanks away at the same time.
The motion pulls you forward.
Suddenly you're not kneeling anymore. You're straddling him.
The book hits the floor and the laughter dies in his throat.
It takes a beat for either of you to realize what just happened. Your hand is still on his chest, fingers splayed. The robe has fallen almost completely open, his skin cool under your palm.
His eyes flick up to meet yours, and everything else just... stalls.
There’s heat here, but it’s not just from the mess you’ve made. There’s something else, something wired tight and aching beneath the surface. His eyes catch the light strangely, a flicker of red that isn’t normal. He swallows. You do too.
Neither of you moves.
“You’re stronger than you look,” he says quietly, voice rough.
“You’re dumber than I thought.”
His mouth quirks like he might say something else, something worse, something closer to the thing neither of you will admit out loud, but you push off of him before he can. Not gently. You retreat two steps like it might protect you.
“I brought your dinner,” you say, voice stiff.
He sits up slowly, eyes still on you, but some of the teasing has faded. The robe slips back into place. He still doesn’t bother tying it.
You place the package on the coffee table and move to leave, fast, before he says something else.
He props himself up on one elbow, but doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you.
“Thanks,” he says finally. “For the groceries. And the porn.”
You roll your eyes and turn to go. Your pulse is still pounding in your ears.
“Aww you warmed it up,” he calls after you, his voice lighter now, trying to pull the tension back into something else. Something easier.
You don’t look at him when you say, “Don’t get it on the robe.”
You turn, ready to put this whole moment behind you, but just before you reach the top of the stairs, you pause.
You could go back and take the book with you.
You don’t.
“Okay, that one definitely wasn’t realistic,” Eddie says, gesturing toward the screen as the credits roll. “That guy got staked through the stomach and exploded like a firecracker. I’m pretty sure I still have a stomach.”
You shake your head and toss another handful of popcorn into your mouth. “You say that like you’ve confirmed it.”
He taps his chest lightly. “Still squishy. Still gurgles when I lie down too fast. I think I’d know if I were full of smoke and bats.”
The VHS whirs softly in the background as Eddie slouches deeper into the couch, legs stretched long, arms loose at his sides. He’s not touching the popcorn bowl between you. Hasn’t touched any of it all night, but he still keeps it within reach like he wants to pretend.
This is the third movie you’ve watched tonight. The first two were corny—cheap blood, bad wigs, women in billowy nightgowns. You laughed more than anything. But the third one is different. You didn’t pick it. Eddie did. He mentioned it like it was the crown jewel of the stack you rented, then shrugged like he didn’t care that much.
But he does. You can tell by the way he stopped talking halfway through.
The room is quiet now, dim. Just the glow of the TV and the occasional creak from the floor above.
Onscreen, the movie slips into a scene that’s… not subtle. Not pornographic, but sensual. Lingering. Hungry in ways that have nothing to do with blood. A woman’s hand sliding down another’s bare side. A flash of sharp teeth. The quiet gasp before skin meets skin.
You don’t say anything. Neither does he.
You shift in your seat and try not to be obvious about it. The popcorn bowl feels like a stupid barrier now.
Then, casually, like it’s not a trap, he says, “I read the rest of that book.”
You glance at him, wary. “Really. You’re bringing that up now?”
His eyes stay on the screen, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “Seemed topical.”
You don’t respond. You can feel the heat rise in your face and know he sees it, even if he’s pretending not to.
Another quiet moment. Another breathless sound from the screen. You steal a glance at him.
He’s closer than he was an hour ago.
You don’t remember moving. Don’t remember if he did either. But your knee is almost touching his now. His arm is relaxed on the back of the couch, not around you, not even brushing you, but close. Just enough to be noticed.
“You really like that stuff?” he asks, voice lower. Not teasing now. Something closer to genuine.
You blink at him. “What stuff?”
“The books. The... whatever this is.” He nods toward the screen. “You know. Like, in that way.”
You raise a brow. “In what way?”
He doesn’t take the bait.
“I don’t know. You just don’t seem like someone who would be into that kind of thing. Like, how you look. You were... popular.”
Your mouth presses into a line. Not angry. Just tired of the assumption.
“Looks can be deceiving,” you say.
He turns to you. Really looks.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “They can.”
You don’t say anything after that. Neither does he. But the moment stays, long and strange and full of something unnamed.
When you shift again, you don’t realize how close your thigh is to his until the backs of your knees touch. You start to move away, but he doesn’t, and somehow that feels like permission.
So you stay.
The next scene starts, but you don’t really watch it.
You’re not sure he does either.
"So..." He says, clearing his throat.
Does he even need to do that anymore? He speaks before you can really think about the answer.
"Is it like...the teeth that do it for you or like... the cold skin? Cause even I gotta admit that would be weird. If it was the second one. Cause thats too close to--"
"Oh my god, will you let it go!"
"I'm just asking!"
"It's none of your business."
"I mean, if I'm staying in your house, and reading your secret book porn, and stealing your clothes..."
"Eddie, seriously."
"I'm just saying, we're at least in the realm of personal questions here."
"It's the... taboo of it all." You mumble, not looking at him. The bowl of popcorn is suddenly very fascinating.
"Huh. So the cold skin thing."
"No, It's..." You sigh, feeling yourself blushing. "I'm not that much of a freak."
"That's not what I was saying."
"I just... It's not the cold. Or the blood. It's the... the fantasy."
"And the teeth?"
"The fangs are part of the fantasy, yeah."
He runs his tongue over his canines when you say that, mouth shut (for once), with a twisted up look on his face.
"What are you doing?" You ask, trying not to laugh at him.
He looks at you then. "They're not like... super sharp. I mean, not like, during everyday activities."
"Oh my god, would you stop?"
He grins at that, and then the credits are rolling. The tape stops, the TV goes black. It's late. You have no idea when, exactly, but late enough that the light coming in the window has shifted. That thick silence comes back, more suffocating than before.
"They get sharper when I'm like, hungry or whatever." He says, leaning back against the counch, arms still spread wide along the back. He says it with so much nonchalance you can't help but laugh.
"How can you possibly be so comfortable with this? You're a vampire and you're talking about it like you're telling me about a bad hair day."
He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes, but it's not totally fake. "Okay we technically don't know what I am exactly. Henderson is still trying to like, take weird DNA samples from me and Harrington wore a rosary the last time he was here."
It was true, once you confided in the party about Eddie, and the shock wore off, they'd been trying to get answers. They'd tried to sneak a crucifix past you one day and Dustin had been wearing garlic around him for the last week. You're pretty sure it wasn't even an actual rosary Steve had, just some beaded cross necklace he'd picked up at the thrift store.
"But, the way I see it," Eddie continued, "If I'm not dead, or like, going to kill someone, there's not much reason to freak out about it."
"You're a lot calmer than I thought you'd be." You said, and he chuckled.
"I'm just trying not to lose my mind, honestly."
You were quiet, and his smile faded.
"You can't keep doing this forever, right?" You say after a long pause.
"Are you saying you don't want to be secret roomies anymore?" He said with mock offense, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
"Eddie."
"It's cause it turns you on too much right?" He lets out an extra dramatic sigh, leaning his head back. "It's okay, I can tell when a girl is attracted to me."
You swat at him, and he ducks away, laughing.
"I'm just saying!" He raises his hands slightly ofs the couch back defensively. "It's understandable, and it's not my fault that--"
You grab the pillow from the corner of the couch and swing at him again, and this time he catches it, grinning at you like an idiot.
"You're so annoying."
"And you're cute when you're flustered."
You open your mouth, ready to make some scathing retort, but his smile drops, just a fraction. He's looking at you now, not teasing. Not trying to get a rise. You can feel the change in the air. Something thick and charged.
"What?"
He doesn't say anything. He just sits, eyes fixed on yours.
And then he moves, faster than you expect. He's still holding the pillow. You reach out to snatch it back, but the angle is all wrong. You end up grabbing the pillow case instead. He doesn't let go.
"What?"
You're closer now. Too close.
He leans in.
You freeze.
Your heart is pounding, so loud it almost drowns out the sound of him. Of the rustle of his clothes, the soft sigh of breath. The whisper of something unspoken.
And then his nose is at your neck, and he breathes in, letting the pillow drop on the floor.
"This isn't funny..." You say, barely above a whisper.
He makes a noise, like a hum. He's so close you can feel his lips move when he says, "I know."
His fingers brush the edge of your collar. Your breath hitches.
"You smell like flowers."
"What?"
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. His own are bright, feverish. The pupils are blown.
"The soap. It smells good. Like flowers."
His fingers trail down the side of your neck, then lower, tracing the line of your collarbone.
"I showered last night, you can't possibly..."
He smirks a little and taps his nose with his free hand. "Vampire senses."
You're about to scoff, but his expression changes. He looks almost shy.
"I like it. When you come home from work. Can always tell it’s you by the way you smell. I'd know it anywhere at this point."
His voice is soft. He's looking at you like you're not real, and his hand is still on your neck. Your heartbeat kicks up. His gaze flicks down.
"You're nervous."
"I'm not."
He laughs quietly, a huff of breath. His fingers move up your throat, along the edge of your jaw. His thumb brushes your cheek. Before you can tell him to stop, he's speaking again, softly.
"There's a vein here. Right beneath the skin. And if I did this..." He moves his fingers along the side of your throat, his thumb resting in the hollow where the carotid artery pulses.
Your breath stutters. He tilts his head slightly, like he's listening to something. A strange look passes over his face. His mouth twitches.
"And what," you say, voice cracking slightly, "you'd bite me there?"
"Uh, no... that would kill you." He says it so calmly, as if the thought of hurting you is the most absurd thing he's ever heard. "It's a lot less sexy in reality, believe me."
"How do you know?"
"Well, for one, anatomy was like, one of the classes I didn't totally suck at." He presses his fingers lightly against the pulse point, just enough for you to feel the pressure. Your breath hitches. "And for two, I can feel it."
"Feel what?"
"The way the blood moves under your skin. It's like... a little drumbeat. Right here." He presses a little harder, just enough for you to feel the pressure. His voice drops. "Fast."
Your hand goes to his wrist. Not pushing him away, not yet. But he notices the contact. His eyes flick down, then up.
"Are you afraid of me?"
"Should I be?"
"Come on. I'm an undead, possible vampire guy that you've hidden in your basement. You wouldn't have given me the time of day before this whole Vecna shit. Why start now?"
You hold his gaze.
"You're not the only freak in the room, Munson."
He smiles at that, crooked and real. "Sweetheart, you wanting a little sexy monster roleplay in the bedroom is one thing. Me not having a pulse is a whole other beast. Two entirely different types of freak."
You actually frown at him then, having had enough of his self deprecating bullshit tonight. "You're not even close to the scariest thing I've faced from the Upside Down."
He looks down, then away.
"Don't you think that if I thought you were dangerous, or some kind of threat, I would have run by now?" You add.
His gaze returns to you. "I guess."
"Well I didn't. And neither have the others. So.... yeah."
"Yeah."
Neither of you speak. Neither of you move. The moment drags on, a strange, fragile thing. He swallows. You hear it. Feel the way his fingers shift on your skin.
"So, uh, are we gonna talk about this, or just... keep staring at each other like weirdos?"
You raise a brow. "What's there to talk about?"
He blinks. "Look, I'm not like the most experienced guy out there, I know, hard to believe-"
You stare him down, daring him to keep going.
"Hey, put your dagger eyes away for a second, Miss Congeniality."
You snort, despite yourself, and he continues.
"My point is, you haven't moved my hand for the entirety of this conversation."
You realize, too late, that he's right. His palm is pressed flush against your skin. Fingers curled lightly around the side of your neck. Cold, but not uncomfortably so. Just different. Strange. Intimate.
"And, unless I'm crazy, which, who knows, maybe I am, you've got a vein in your neck beating fast enough that it's distracting, and I'm the one who can hear it. So I'm just going to ask. Once."
You swallow. His thumb shifts with the movement.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why haven't you shoved me off you yet? Because I'm not gonna lie, I'm a little worried that if I move too fast, I'll get another spatula to the chest."
"Well, the spatula was justified. We've been over this. It was the first thing I grabbed."
"Right. Of course. And right now you're grabbing at anything to deflect with."
"No, I'm not."
"Oh cool. Totally. Cool cool cool..."
He moves faster than you expect and his lips are on your neck agin, firmer this time and- oh. Okay.
His lips move along the column of your throat, slow and deliberate. Then you feel his teeth, just grazing the skin of your neck. They're definitely sharper than they were a few moments ago.
He kisses the underside of your jaw. Then the spot just below. Your pulse jumps.
"See, right there." He whispers.
You don't say anything. You can't. Your heart is hammering.
"That's the vein I was talking about." He says. "Carotid. Carries the blood straight to the brain."
"What are you doing?"
"Well," he says, his breath hot on your skin, "you're the one who said we shouldn't just stare at each other. And if the staring is getting too weird for you, this seems like a much more interesting alternative."
He leans in again, and your hand flies up. Not to stop him. Just to catch him, brace yourself, hold him, something. But that isn’t how he takes it.
"Hey..." He says, pulling back a fraction. "I wouldn't actually- I just thought, you know, you're doing all this stuff, helping me. And I can't really give much else in return, but you seemed to be into all that vampire stuff... forget it. I didn't mean to like, freak you out, or-"
He moves his hand from your neck to run through his hair. The absence of his touch is like ice water, a jolt back to reality. You miss it immediately.
"I don't need you to repay me."
"Yeah, no, I know, I just- it's hard, knowing that someone's doing all this and I can't really, like, reciprocate in the traditional sense, but I could at least..."
He's rambling. The words are spilling out of him, and it takes you a second to realize it's because he's nervous. Because he's worried he did something wrong.
"It's late." You say, firm but quiet, cutting off any more rambling.
"Yeah."
You stand, brushing off your jeans like the motion will make your hands stop shaking. The pillow is still on the floor. The popcorn bowl sits abandoned on the table, only a few half-popped kernels left. You can feel him watching you, waiting for something else to fall out of your mouth, another joke to break the weight of what almost happened.
You don’t give him one.
The stairs creak under your first step, then your second. You’re almost out of sight when you stop, hand pressed flat to the wall.
“You know,” you say, not looking back, “if you wanted to… whatever that was… it kind of sucks to hear it framed like some kind of repayment. Like I’d only want it because you don’t think you’ve got anything else to give me.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than you meant them to be.
Behind you, he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make another crack. The silence is long enough that you finally glance over your shoulder. He’s still sitting on the couch, hair wild, robe half-tied again, looking at you like he’s not sure if you’re real.
“You don’t owe me anything, Eddie,” you add, softer now. “Not that. Not anything.”
His throat works like he wants to say something, but nothing comes. He just nods once, slow.
You turn and head upstairs. The door clicks shut behind you.
Down in the basement, he exhales, low and rough, and stretches out on the couch. The springs creak under his weight as he stares at the ceiling. For a while, he doesn’t move at all.
You toss the book across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud and slides to the floor, the pages bending beneath its own weight. Normally you’d cringe at the thought of creased covers, of bent spines, but tonight you don’t care. You can’t read about love that feels dangerous without thinking about the monster in your basement, the boy who jokes about fangs and veins and yet looks at you like you’re the one that isn’t real.
A few days had passed since…whatever that was… happened in the basement. Since then it's been business as usual. You've even resorted to having Dustin bring him dinner sometimes so you didn't have to.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. The paint is chipped above the window. A crack runs like a fault line near the corner. You trace it with your eyes until your chest feels too heavy, then sigh and turn to face the glass. The night outside is quiet in a way your head could never be.
You reach over and switch off the little light on your nightstand. Darkness softens the room.
That’s when you hear it.
A faint scuff of feet in the doorway. The hinge creaks.
“You know,” Eddie says, voice low and rough in the quiet, “I thought you’d treat your books with more care than that.”
Your eyes snap open. You don’t turn to look at him. You sigh instead, dragging the sound out of your lungs. “What are you doing up here?”
He’s never been in your room before. Not when you were in it, anyway.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.
You push up on your elbows, finally turning your head. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms loose at his sides, shadows painting him taller than he is. His hair is a tangled curtain around his face, his eyes shining faintly in the dark.
“I haven’t—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. His mouth curls, but there’s no real humor in it. “I know when someone doesn’t want to see me. Believe me, I’m kind of an expert in that department.”
“You shouldn’t be up here,” you say, sharper than you mean.
His shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I know your parents aren’t here.”
Your heart kicks at your ribs. You sit up fully, legs crossed under you, and watch him step into the room.
He takes a few slow steps forward, and his gaze fixes on you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away. “I know you’re lonely,” he says.
You don’t answer. You don’t even breathe for a second.
He comes closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you can see the exhaustion carved into his face, the strange stillness that clings to him now. “And I know it’s not just the kind of lonely you can shake off with music or friends or keeping busy. It’s the kind that sits under your skin.”
You feel it, heavy and familiar, like he’s naming something you thought you’d hidden well.
His voice softens. “It’s the kind that goes deeper than you can ever really say out loud.”
You swallow. The silence presses in around you, thick and quiet, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore.
You don’t tell him he’s wrong. You don’t tell him to leave. You just sit there on your bed, watching him, and realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s been carrying it alone.
"I understand lonely." He says, so quiet it's almost a whisper.
The admission hangs there between you, fragile and strange and full of things unspoken.
Neither of you speak for a long moment. You don't break eye contact. He doesn't move closer. The ball is in your court now.
"Do you want to sit?" You ask, patting the edge of the mattress.
He hesitates for a split second, then slowly steps closer, as if any sudden movements might make you run. The bed creaks as he sits, the springs adjusting to his weight. He doesn't look at you.
"Look," he says, and there's an edge to his voice, a hint of fear. "What I said the other day... about owing you..."
"Eddie-"
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
You pause. You've been thinking about this too, trying to figure out what you wanted to say when the time came.
"Then how did you mean it?"
"I just..." he sighs. "Okay, let me be a total cliche for a second here?"
He turns to face you now. You nod.
"You're like... this pretty girl who's been nice to me. And not because of any obligation, or some fucked up guilt, or anything. You're just... nice. For no reason. You let me stay here. You talk to me, and I don't mean, like, 'oh she talks to the local freak' but like, you actually listen to what I have to say. You could have easily had one of the others deal with me. Hell, even Steve, but you're the one who's always come through."
"It's the decent thing to do."
"Yeah, I know, but most people don't really care about that kind of thing, and... god, I'm bad at this."
He drags a hand down his face, the rings on his fingers catching the light.
"Okay. What I'm trying to say is, you're pretty and nice. And you're into some... sexy monster shit. Which, yeah, I've really made fun of you for, but you have to know its because I think it's hot--"
You can't help but smile, a little, and he pauses.
"Okay, fuck. I'm gonna say something stupid. If it makes you uncomfortable, just like, slap me or something."
You blink. "Okay...?"
"You're the kind of person that makes a guy wish he had a pulse again, just so his heart would beat faster every time you walked in the room. The kind of person who's worth fighting for, who makes the risk seem less terrifying. Who's worth the risk. The kind of girl that..."
He trails off, before speaking more quietly:
"The kind of girl a guy like me doesn't deserve."
You stare at him, unsure what to say. You're not sure if it's the lack of sleep or the shock, but your brain isn't coming up with the right words.
"And the last thing I wanted to do was make it seem like I was just trying to repay you. I just wanted to show you... something. That I liked you. In case it wasn't clear. But I guess the whole thing was kind of weird, and maybe it's been too long since I've actually touched someone like that, or maybe--"
"Sleep with me tonight."
The words tumble out of your mouth, unbidden, and the room goes dead silent.
His eyes widen, just a fraction. "What?"
"Uh... that was- I didn't mean, uh, the sex kind. Like, the, uh, sleeping kind. The, um... sleeping. Together."
The corner of his mouth twitches, just a bit. "Are you asking me to have sex with you or not?"
"No!"
He's smirking now.
"No. Just sleep. Next to each other."
"In your bed."
"Yes."
"In your room."
"Eddie."
"Right next to you."
"Jesus, would you quit it?"
"And we would just..."
"Just... sleep."
"And nothing else."
"Right."
"Like, no funny business."
"Oh my god, if you make me change my mind, I swear--"
"So there is a chance for funny business?"
"You're insufferable."
He moves to lay next to you in the bed, you under the covers, him still on top of them. You both lay there, looking at the ceiling.
"You can get under the covers. You don't have to stay on top. It's cold."
"I'm pretty cold too. Might not help."
"Try anyway."
He shuffles down, and the blankets rustle. Your knees are almost touching. His hair is still a mess, the strands catching the moonlight. He glances at you, and something flickers across his expression.
"I've never slept in a girl's bed before. Kinda exciting."
"We're just sleeping."
"Still. It's a milestone. I can brag about this tomorrow."
You can't help but laugh, the sound soft and low. "To who? Dustin? My dad?"
"Shit, no. Definitely not your dad."
You're both quiet for a second. Then he speaks again.
"This is the part where we kiss."
"What?"
"Like, in the movies. The big romantic climax. They're laying next to each other, staring into each other's eyes, and then they lean in, and--"
"Eddie. Go to sleep."
"I don't really sleep, remember?"
"Well then lay there and shut up."
"Fine."
You close your eyes, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. You try to ignore him. But its hard. The earlier conversations is still playing in your head...
"You're overthinking. I can feel it."
You open your eyes and look at him, propping yourself up on your elbow. "What makes you say that?"
"Your breathing got a little faster. Plus you're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The scrunchy, thinking-too-hard thing. Right here." He reaches out and runs his thumb across the space between your eyebrows. The touch is so soft you almost gasp. "Don't worry, I can't read your mind, y'know. The movies also got that one wrong."
"Can you even have sex?" You blurt out.
"What?"
"The whole... vampire thing. Can you, like, have sex?"
His brows shoot up and he looks like he's considering the answer, his expression going distant. "I'm not entirely sure, actually."
"Do you have like, a penis still, or--"
His head whipped around to face you, looking both shocked and slightly offended, before you could finish the sentence.
"Why would I not have a penis anymore?!" He practically yelped, voice going a little higher than usual. "Where would it have gone?!"
"No that's not how I meant it--" You take a big huff of a breath, stealing yourself to talk about this calmly. "Look, you said you were good in anatomy? So you would know that in order for someone to get an erection there needs to be blood flow, which vampires lack, so logically, it would stand to reason that you couldn't have sex if you don't have a penis that works that way anymore. Unless there's some kind of supernatural, vampire dick magic or something that I don't know about, but even then, like, there has to be a lot of blood, right? Or like, the equivalent?"
"Vampire dick magic," he says, a little incredulously.
"You know what I mean."
He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face, laughing a little, though it sounds forced. "I honestly don't know. It's not exactly something I can just, like, look up or whatever."
You frown.
"Why the sudden curiosity about my junk, anyway?"
"You're the one who brought up 'funny business'," you say, making air quotes with your fingers.
"Okay, fair. But that doesn't mean we're gonna start talking about my dick like its a science experiment."
"Fine."
"Fine."
You're both silent again for a moment.
"You never actually said anything you know." Eddie says, softer. "To my whole, Mr. Darcy-esque confession. Just asked me to sleep in your bed."
"Oh." You say, feeling the blush spread across your cheeks. "Right."
You don’t answer him right away. The words linger in the space between you, heavier than either of you intended. You’re still staring at the ceiling, but the weight of his gaze pulls you sideways until you find yourself shifting onto your side. He notices. He always notices. His body follows yours, slow and hesitant, until you’re both turned toward each other in the half-dark.
The room feels smaller like this. The quiet is louder. His hair falls across his cheek, shadowing his eyes, but you can still see the flicker there, bright and uncertain.
“Maybe tonight,” he says softly, “we can just pretend I’m… some guy. Not a monster. Not a freak. Just… me.”
Your chest tightens. You shake your head before he can look away. “You’re not a monster, Eddie.”
He exhales, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. His hand lifts slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you time to stop him. When you don’t, his fingers brush into your hair, light as a whisper, settling just behind your ear.
His thumb traces the curve of your temple, and he leans in, close enough that you feel the cool of his breath. “Does ‘no funny business’ mean I can’t kiss you?” he murmurs.
Your heart lurches. You should say something clever, but the words stick in your throat.
So instead, you tilt forward, closing the last inch between you.
His lips meet yours, soft and tentative, as though he’s afraid the whole moment might shatter if he presses too hard. It’s sweet, almost shy, and it feels more like a question than a claim.
You pull back, just far enough to catch his eye. Your hand finds his cheek, and you trace his jaw, the line of his neck, until you feel where his pulse should be. You hold it there, your thumb against his skin.
"Sometimes it feels like a phantom pain," he whispers.
"What does?"
"My heartbeat. Sometimes I swear I can feel it."
The words settle, heavy and strange. You move closer. Your fingers slip down, past the hollow of his throat, over the ridge of his collarbone. He holds his breath, watching. Waiting.
"Especially when you're around," he says, voice low.
You kiss him again, a little harder now. He leans into it, his palm still cupping your cheek. When you feel his tongue, hot and insistent against the seam of your mouth, you let him in, letting him deepen the kiss. It's not frantic, but it is hungry. Like he wants to crawl inside you and stay.
It's both everything you fantasized about and nothing like you imagined.
He rolls you onto your back and kisses down the column of your throat, his lips finding the spot his thumb had brushed earlier.
"Eddie..."
He nips at the skin and you shiver. His teeth are sharper, somehow, but not so much that it hurts. Just different.
Then he pauses, and you look up at him, confused. He's hovering over you, one arm propped next to your head, the other on your waist.
"What is it?" You ask, eyebrows knit together.
"I'm going to respect your 'no funny business' rule. Just know that." He says, his grin already on full display for reasons you're unclear of.
You stare at him, mouth falling open slightly. "Uh... thanks?"
"I'm not a guy who rushes these things, okay? I'm a gentleman."
"Uh huh."
He leans in and kisses you again. And it's softer, sweeter. Still hungry, but in a different way. Like he's trying to savor you.
"I just want you to know..." he speaks in between kisses. "For your scientific curiosity, or whatever..." he smirks. "I'm, like, rock hard right now."
"You're an idiot."
"An idiot with a fully functioning dick." He leans his forehead against yours, his smile bright and crooked.
You laugh, loud and unexpected. The sound echoes off the walls. It's the happiest he's seen you since this all began.
"And if we were going to have sex," he says, grinning. "Which we aren't. Not tonight. But if we were... I think my junk would probably still work. And if it didn't, I'd find another way to make you happy. I'm nothing if not a giver."
"Shut up," you say, shaking your head.
"But I think we'll be fine. I have it on very good authority right now that everything's in working order. So, you know. Yay."
You swat him lightly, and he laughs, rolling off you and onto his back. You lay side by side again, but this time you're closer, your bodies pressed together, the heat of him radiating into your side. He turns his head, and you turn yours, and he looks at you like you're something precious.
You shift onto your side, curling toward him without even thinking about it. His arm slides beneath you naturally, pulling you closer until your cheek is against his chest. He smells faintly like smoke and clean cotton, something familiar threaded with something new and strange.
For a moment, neither of you say anything. The rise and fall of his chest is steady, but too deliberate to be real breathing. You realize he’s doing it for your sake, to make it feel normal, and somehow that makes your throat ache more than if he hadn’t.
“Eddie?” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
You smile into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re fine as you are.”
His arm tightens around you, fingers curling gently against your shoulder. He tilts his head so his lips brush your hairline when he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel like I’m still… me.”
You look up at him then, but his eyes are already closed, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it. He doesn’t need an answer, so you don’t give one. You just tuck yourself closer, sliding your hand to rest against his chest where his heartbeat should be.
He covers your hand with his own, holding it there. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
joey taking care of sick!reader? he’d be so gentle and caring
ok, so, i'll give you gentle and caring, but ive added a little bit of frustration and annoyance for extra flavour <3 hope thats ok!
Wordcount: 1.9K
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Snugly, Softly, Sleepy
It was cold.
“I’m so done with you,” Joe scolded, his soft gentle touch a stark contrast from the annoyance in his tone.
So cold.
“You never just tell me things, do you? I’m always finding out when it’s already too late, when it’s gone too far and you’re knee deep in shit we could have easily prevented.”
We.
Like Joe had any power over the flu sneaking into your system.
“Couldn’t have just said you weren’t feeling the best before we went out, for fuck’s sake, and look– 39.2, oh my God,” he genuinely sounded pissed off.
Because he was.
A lethal mixture of guilt, exhaustion, frustration and, if he was honest, a little bit of fear. One day he was going to wake up and you’d be half dead, just because you succeeded in lying to yourself and everyone else about how you really felt.
“For fuck’s sake, babe. 39.2 is not normal.”
It didn’t help that it had just gone 3 AM, and that he’d rather be asleep. He had been, for a little while, until he woke up from a chill and realised you’d stolen all of the covers.
“Darling,” he’d whispered then, giving the duvet a slight tug which immediately and all too easily pulled you into consciousness.
“Mm?”
You had been in a weird half awake half asleep state, sort of restless. Tired enough to let yourself doze, yet unable to get comfortable enough to really fall asleep properly. You somehow felt too hot and too cold at the same time, face burning, but body shivering.
When you croaked a soft, “Sorry,” as you rolled over, Joe got a glimpse of the sheen of your skin, how some of your hair stuck to your forehead, and the deep blush of your cheeks.
“Hey,” Joe spoke softly, but said it urgently enough for you to open your eyes. “Sleepy girl. Are you all right?”
“Fine. Just cold.” You’d murmured then, scooting closer to Joe as the duvet unraveled around you.
A hesitant hand moved across, landing at your waist, immediately aware of how hot you felt. And how clammy.
“Babe, no,” Joe said a little louder this time as he sat up in bed. “You’re sweating, you’re,” he felt your forehead. “You’re burning up.”
You replied with mumbled nonsense, searching out Joe’s body heat after exiting the damp cocoon you’d created, now only more aware of how cold the air of the room was. You didn’t get a chance to find it though.
What followed next was the lights turning on, covers being thrown back, soft gruntled swearing and brows furrowing deeply as the flinch and shiver of your full body reaction left an awful feeling in Joe’s chest. The reveal of a drenched bed, of wet fabric that stuck to your chest, made Joe swipe a hand down his face.
“Of course you feel cold. All right, c’mon. Up.”
Your body had never felt heavier, every muscle tense and aching. Joe had to put real work into getting you to sit up in bed, which was difficult with eyes that didn’t want to adjust to the bright light all that willingly.
“My God, did you get food poisoning? How did this come about so quickly?” Joe pulled at your top, wet with sweat, and with eyes closed and your head flopping every which way, you let the boy undress you. “Do you feel nauseous?”
“N-no, just– …”
Joe thought you were going to say cold again, which made sense but felt so weird in contrast to the flaming heat that was radiating from your skin.
“Thirsty.” You then finished, sagging to the side a little, so ready to curl back into bed and to let sleep pull at you.
“Wait, wait. Careful. Left hand,” Joe guided you into dry clothes, unimpressed at how difficult you were making it for him. “No, the other left. Left– oh my God.” You weren’t exactly helping, limbs weak and heavy with sleep.
When the soft cotton of one of his jumpers got pulled down your frame, you instantly felt a little better.
A rough hand pushed hair from your forehead, and Joe’s cold hand felt so nice against your skin, you whined as you reached up, grabbing his wrist to keep it in place.
“That feel nice?”
“Yea,” you sighed, moving his hand across your face wherever you needed some cool relief, humming when gave you his other hand as well. It gave Joe the chance to glance a look behind you, at the wet rumpled sheets that were going to need a change.
Joe was tired and slightly annoyed, because there was not a chance that this had just come about after you’d gone to sleep which was just so typical. If it hadn’t been the middle of the night, he’d have pushed you into a hot shower. Couldn’t do that now; you were practically falling back asleep as your teeth chattered whilst you relished under Joe’s cool hands, pressed against your cheeks.
“Thirsty girl. Okay. Let’s go check how bad this is.”
“Noo,” you softly whined, eyes still closed, body so very ready to just flop back down onto the mattress.
“None of that,” Joe said sternly, kindness lining his words as he pulled you up to your feet. “Bedding needs a change, and you need some, I don’t know, ibuprofen, for one…”
You let yourself be lead over into the kitchen in the dark and parked yourself against the counter, leaning into the surface as much as you could. With your eyes closed, maybe you could just fall asleep right here, even if it was cold – you could sort of drift like you’d been doing before…
“Water.” Joe grumbled, pulling you from your daze as he handed you a full glass.
You had a few sips of luke warm water with your eyes closed.
The biggest chill came from the nape of your neck; your hair there soaked with sweat, and pulling your shoulders up only helped so much.
“Tablet.” An ibuprofen got pushed into your palm.
Then, you heard the kettle turn on and you smiled to yourself. A nice warm mug of tea was so very welcome, even just the idea of it made you go a little more lax.
“Can you– careful!”
You nearly dropped the glass you were holding.
“Oh, sor–”
Before you had even finished the sentence, Joe’d removed the glass from your hand and with two arms curling around your thighs, he lifted you onto the counter.
A frowning face made you a cup of tea, a swearing voice checked your temperature, and a worried set of hands took hold of your head before Joe softly said, “What am I going to do with you, hey? Poorly girl.”
39.2 degrees.
Joe couldn’t not be worried at your half-opened unfocused eyes that he couldn’t really seem to make contact with.
Joe whispered your name, and it almost sounded like a cry for help.
“Mm? Take me back to bed…” you softly murmured in answer to his question as you let your head be fully supported by Joe’s hands. “Please.”
“Bed’s soaked, baby.”
He wasn’t going to lay you back down in the puddle you’d left behind.
“Oh. Sorry...”
Joe didn’t need you to be sorry. He needed you dry and warm and comfortable.
Just a minute ago he had every intention to leave you in the kitchen for a second to go change the sheets, but stood in between your legs with your 39.2-degree-fever-face in his hands, he couldn’t find it in himself to leave you on your own.
“We’ll sleep on the sofa. Gotta tell me next time you don’t feel okay. Can’t ever do this again.”
He rested the back of his hand against your forehead once again, checking to feel what 39.2 degrees really felt like before ducking his head a little to look at you, gazes meeting. Even in the low light, Joe’s big eyes shone with worry.
“You hear me? Fucking tell me when you have a chill, all right? When you start feeling achy and sick.”
You nodded sluggishly, mind moving slow, every thought a little foggy.
“I promise I’ll tell you immediately next time, doctor.” you tried to make light of it, but you felt how you were rejecting the idea already. You were known to need help from time to time, but known even more for not accepting a single fucking inch of it. Joe was probably joking anyway, it was hard to tell with him sometimes, he’d keep a straight face for too long and the joke would pass and he’d forget to smile.
You got an unimpressed look in return whilst two arms swung a throw blanket around your back and then two big hands furiously rubbed over your upper arms.
“You’re close to your fever being dangerous, you know. This isn’t funny, okay?”
You rarely got sick anyway, there was no need for Joe to worry so much.
“Okay?”
But he was persistent, and all you could really do, was comply.
The smile slipped from your face before you softly said, “Yea, ‘kay”
You were practically boneless as Joe helped you down from the counter and onto sofa. The furthest he strayed away from you was about four steps when he went to grab two of the other throw blankets you kept in a basket near the sofa.
You got tucked in as well as you could be tucked in on the sofa before Joe joined you, curled up in the corner right next to you.
In a dry jumper, with two blankets wrapped around you, and a hot tea in your body, you should have felt toasty beyond what was even really comfortable. Yet, when Joe snuggled up next to you, covered by his own throw blanket, he could feel you shake through all of the fabric still.
It just made him cuddle up tighter.
Made him rub your arms, and pull you closer.
Joe nuzzled your nose with his own, and made you hum softly.
“Still cold, chilly girl?”
“Mm,” you replied, too tired to speak, your tone telling him absolutely nothing.
It felt safer to presume that you were still cold, which left Joe to rearrange his limbs over your body, scooting up enough to press your head into the crook of his neck.
He was going to hug this fever right out of you, you just watch.
He’d fix the bed tomorrow.
He’d help you shower in the morning.
He’d make sure you were going to get all the fluids and nutrients your body craved.
But right now, he’d see that you got the rest you needed.
And it was easy to fall asleep in Joe’s arms as they wrapped around you firmly. One of his legs slung over both of yours, and one of his hands made sure your head stayed in place exactly where he wanted it.
“Better?” Joe wasn’t expecting an answer, so he couldn’t help his little smile when he got a really faint, “Mm.” in reply.
“Sleep, cosy girl.” were the last words you heard Joe whisper, followed by a soft kiss pressed into your hair, before you let sleep take you.
summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.
How hard could it be?
[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]
STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL
"Be my girlfriend."
The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.
You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"
Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.
"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."
You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.
Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.
"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."
Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."
Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.
"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"
Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.
"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.
"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"
"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."
He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.
"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."
Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.
"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"
He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.
"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."
You take in his words. "But you're not."
"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.
"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."
You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."
Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."
His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.
"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."
You take a moment to think it over.
"When is it?"
"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."
"Dress code?"
"Formal. Duh."
"How many people?"
"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."
Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.
You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?
Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.
You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.
It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?
Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.
Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.
Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.
"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."
You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.
He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."
You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.
Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.
He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."
Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.
"You've got a deal, mister."
Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.
"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."
Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."
You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.
"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.
Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.
His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.
He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."
"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."
—
A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.
You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.
Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.
You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.
You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.
It would take an hour, tops.
A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.
"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.
Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"
You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.
"And just what are you trying to say?"
Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.
"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."
He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."
You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.
Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.
You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.
"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.
"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."
"Different?"
"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"
His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.
You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"
Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.
"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"
You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.
You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.
His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.
You could do that.
"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"
"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."
You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.
A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.
"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."
You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.
Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.
"Think this'll do?"
Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."
You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.
"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."
Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.
"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."
Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"
Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."
Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.
"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."
Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.
"And Brandon."
"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."
"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."
Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."
You blink, perturbed. "What?"
"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."
You cringe a little. He does have a point.
"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.
You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."
Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.
"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"
You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.
"Yeah," You say.
Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.
Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"
"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.
You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.
"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"
Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."
"You lost that game."
"I still scored!"
"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."
Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."
You laugh again, soft and light.
"Who asked who?"
"I asked you." Steve says.
You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.
What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.
Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.
That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?
You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.
You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.
For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.
"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"
"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."
He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.
"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.
Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"
Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."
Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!
Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"
Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.
"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.
"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"
STEP TWO: THE ACT
Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.
Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.
You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.
"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.
He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.
You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.
"We got together the 20th—"
"—of June, last year." You finish for him.
Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."
You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"
"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."
That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.
"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.
"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."
"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."
Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.
"Thanks." He murmurs.
He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.
What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.
You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"
Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.
"They definitely did."
There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.
Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.
"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.
The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."
"Steve."
"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."
"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.
"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.
"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."
"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.
You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.
"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.
Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.
You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."
Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"
"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.
Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.
Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.
"Ready?"
Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."
You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.
He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.
A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.
As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.
Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.
Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.
Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.
Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.
Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?
“Steven.”
The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.
You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.
“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”
He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.
“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”
You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.
“No, Mom, you didn’t.”
There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.
That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.
“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”
The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.
Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.
“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”
You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.
Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.
“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”
This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.
The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.
“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.
Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.
“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”
It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.
Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.
“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”
“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?
You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.
You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.
Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.
“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.
“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”
Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.
He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.
“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.
“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.
Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.
The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.
“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”
The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.
“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”
For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.
However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.
“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.
Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.
A new voice interrupts.
“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”
You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.
He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.
The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.
“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.
Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.
Then he does the same to you.
It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.
God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.
“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.
You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.
“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”
Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.
Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.
“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.
He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.
Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”
He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.
You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.
And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.
Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.
“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”
“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”
Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.
You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.
“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”
Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.
“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”
“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.
He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.
“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.
You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.
“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.
“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”
There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.
You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.
The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.
You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.
“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.
“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.
He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”
He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.
You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.
Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.
It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.
As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.
“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.
From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.
You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.
“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”
“You think?”
You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.
If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?
"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."
Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.
"Touchy?" He provides.
You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.
The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.
And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.
You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.
How different would it really be?
Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.
Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?
The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.
Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.
Just more. More of this.
Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.
"Hm?"
"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”
Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."
Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.
"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”
The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.
Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.
The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.
“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?
He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.
“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.
How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.
“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”
“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.
“Okay," You say. "Fair."
"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"
It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.
"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."
"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."
Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.
"What about you?"
Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."
"Too late."
“Yeah, well, obviously.”
There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.
“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.
He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”
“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”
Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.
Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”
“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”
You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.
“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.
You’ve met him thrice.
Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.
Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.
“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”
Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”
Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”
Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.
Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.
You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.
You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.
“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.
Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.
“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”
There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”
Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”
“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.
“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.
A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.
“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”
Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.
“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.
You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”
He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.
“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”
The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.
Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.
Does he really think all those things about you?
Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.
He turns back to his father’s business friends.
“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”
You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.
It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.
“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”
You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.
Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”
There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.
“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.
“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”
“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”
Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”
Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.
You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”
Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.
“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”
“Eh, what’s the big difference?”
“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”
He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.
“Steve? Leaving so soon?”
The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.
“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.
“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”
Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.
Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.
Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.
“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”
He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.
“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”
He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.
“It’s like- wait, no—”
Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.
“Is he paying you?”
You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.
Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.
“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”
He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.
STEP THREE: THE KISS
You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.
You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.
And… oh.
He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.
For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.
And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.
Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.
He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.
“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”
The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.
“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”
Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.
STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH
It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.
You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.
Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.
You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”
Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.
Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.
Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.
By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.
Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.
As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.
“I'm sorry, okay?"
Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.
"What?"
"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.
"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."
You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.
"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."
Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"
His particular wording isn't lost on you.
"But you are mad." You press.
"I'm not."
You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?
"You sound mad."
Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.
"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"
“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”
Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.
"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"
“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”
That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?
Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.
His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.
"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"
He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"
He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.
A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.
"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.
"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."
"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."
He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.
"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.
"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”
There's desperation in his final plea.
A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.
A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.
"Wha... You never said anything."
It comes out a little insulted.
Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"
"I didn't think I was your type!"
Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.
"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"
"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”
Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.
“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."
"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.
He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.
"And... now?"
Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.
"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"
It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.
"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"
Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.
"Would you... want that?"
"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.
Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.
But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.
And there it is; the true revelation.
"And I don't think I want to."
The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.
He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.
How the hell did you miss it?
"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"
What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.
"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.
Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.
But you want to try.
That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.
He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.
He pauses just before your lips can touch.
Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.
Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.
You're excited.
His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.
"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."
The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.
He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.
You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.
"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.
"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"
"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.
God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.
"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.
You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.
"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"
Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.
"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."
Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.
You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.
Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.
One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.
Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.
As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.
taggin some peeps below!
@illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime
just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm
oscar’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. he just nods and says, “we make it work.” short, clipped, but it’s the truth. somehow, you and him fit.
ꔮ starring: divorce attorney!oscar piastri x wedding planner!reader.
ꔮ word count: 20.4k. (!!!)
ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, light angst. alternate universe: non-f1. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. set in new york, pining... yearning..., idiot best friends in love, a bout of miscommunication, sunshine/grumpy trope, carmen & george name drop. title from gracie abrams’ in between.
ꔮ commentary box: nobody talk to me about the word count. this is one of my favorite tropes of all time, and i always thought my pipe dream romcom novel would sing a similar tune to this. until that day comes, we see it play out in fanfiction 🩷 this fic means a lot to me, so if you ever decide to consume this behemoth: thank you in advance!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Oscar spots them before you do.
You have your nose in your tablet, scrolling through sample menus and floral arrangements, completely oblivious to the couple two tables over who are clearly yours. Matching mood boards, latte art going untouched, the sort of soft hand-holding that suggests they’ve already merged Spotify playlists. You’ve got that look you get when you’re planning someone else’s Happily Ever After: focused, bright-eyed, borderline evangelical.
Oscar, on the other hand, believes in love the way he believes in Wi-Fi on the subway. Pleasant in theory, disastrous in practice. And, as your best friend, he sees it as a public service to intervene before strangers spend years in litigation over who gets the air fryer.
When he recognizes the telltale signs of a newly engaged pair, he leans forward, forearms on the table, voice warm but edged with professional mischief. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”
They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”
“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”
The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”
He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”
The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.
“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”
“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”
You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”
The bride-to-be laughs nervously, still unsure if this is a bit. Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a sleek business card, and slides it across the table toward them with the kind of flourish usually reserved for magicians revealing the queen of hearts. Oscar Jack Piastri, it says. Associate Attorney at Brown & Stella, PLLC.
“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s offering directions to the nearest subway station.
You snatch the card before it can land. He raises both hands in mock surrender, pushes back from his chair, and retreats to his own table by the window. He glances at you one last time; you look like you’re resisting the urge to throw a sugar packet at his head. Turning back to your clients, you smooth your skirt and force a professional smile. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.”
Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re selling or the way you sell it.
Your pen glides over your notepad as you sketch out ideas. Ivy-wrapped arches, candlelit dinners, first dances under fairy lights. You tilt your head as you listen, nodding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious confessionals. You treat their love like it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.
It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.
Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once.
Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t staring while you debated the symbolism of a green light with a ferocity that could scare lesser mortals. You were sunshine with sharp edges, a hopeless romantic who didn’t mind being right about everything. He was the cynic with a dry remark always cocked and ready. You butted heads over everything. Song lyrics, cafeteria pizza, the proper ranking of Bond actors. He thought it was exhausting. He also thought it was the best part of his day. Somewhere along the way, you grew into different lives but kept orbiting the same way. Maybe that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical.
Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is the best possible result. A withstanding friendship, no messy confessions to ruin it. He can sit here and admire you without wanting more, without needing to risk what you’ve built.
The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup.
Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.
Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s learned this is part of the performance. You standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping just enough to register as a warning sign. He lets you stew for a moment, because he knows you like to deliver your charges with maximum dramatic timing.
Finally, he glances up, all false innocence. “Problem?”
“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank.
“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”
You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”
Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And yet, contingency clauses are what keep centerpieces safe in the event of an irreconcilable breakdown. No one wants a custody battle over a floral arrangement.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”
“Oh? What’s the damage?”
“Dinner tonight. My pick.”
Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”
You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”
It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Always has been. The two of you were the only ones in your friend group who stayed close after college; everyone else scattered across the map, swallowed by jobs and relationships and time zones. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted.
And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s idea of cooking is Thai takeout artfully decanted onto ceramic plates). Quarterly road trips, usually with you in charge of the playlist and him complaining about it until track five, when he inevitably starts humming along. Sunday mornings, one of you knocking on the other’s door with a coffee and a headline to discuss. Emergency grocery runs, emergency advice, emergency laughter in the hallway when neither of you can remember why you were mad in the first place.
There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s the strange comfort of knowing that no matter how messy his cases get or how stressed your wedding timelines become, the other is just a few steps away.
Oscar picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, and watches you fish your phone out of your bag, already scrolling through dinner reservations. He knows you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.
When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve made an executive decision. The next, he was being ushered out of Arrow Central, corralled into the stream of foot traffic like a particularly unwilling briefcase.
“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”
“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”
“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”
“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”
You’re an odd pair. He’s always known it. You, with your free-flowing skirt and unshakable knack for making mismatched colors look like a deliberate choice; him, in his uniform of suit and tie, the kind that announces courtroom even when he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.
The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s the kind of place where the outside world blurs out the moment you step inside. The air is noisy in that particular New York way: clatter, conversation, the hiss of the oven door. No one here cares about job titles, or what you wear, or whether you spent the day dismantling marriages or assembling them.
You claim a booth by the window with the casual entitlement of someone who has done it a hundred times. “Same order?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”
“It’s called a compromise.”
“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”
“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.
Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s learned you have a habit of leaning across the table mid-meal and swapping slices without warning, like his plate is just an extension of your own.
The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re already halfway into a story about a florist who nearly set her arrangement on fire with an ill-placed candle display, your hands sketching shapes in the air as if the details need choreography. Oscar props his chin in his hand, letting the words spill over him.
There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want.
The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t changed since the Obama administration, but you stand there studying it as if the oranges might suddenly reveal a plot twist. He lingers just behind you, watching your reflection in the glass, the curve of your mouth lit faintly by the streetlamp. Not that he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.
By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re rifling through the layers of your bag. Oscar leans on the wall, arms crossed. This is the dance: you muttering about receipts and lip balm, him tossing in the occasional dry remark, neither of you breaking the rhythm.
“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.
“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”
“I have a system,” he interrupts.
“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”
“Which is why I’m never locked out.”
You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”
“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”
The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”
“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”
“You loved that one.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You cried.”
“Allergies.”
You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”
He watches you vanish inside, the door shutting with a soft click. The hallway feels oddly warm, filled with the low hum of pipes and the faint scent of your perfume. He imagines years of this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest.
When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t mind if this were it for the rest of his life. Standing in the quiet of his apartment, he almost believes he truly will be okay with nothing more, as long as he gets nothing less.
It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s already questioning his life choices before the opening credits even hit. He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Years of empirical evidence suggested that “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.
He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.
“What agenda?” you say, faking innocence so badly it should be a crime.
Two hours and several predictable plot twists later, the credits roll. You stretch, all casual, and then drop it: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”
Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”
You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”
He levels you with a look. “Three.”
“Six,” you insist.
He leans back into the couch, shaking his head. This is familiar territory. Uncharted for most friendships, but well-trodden for you two. He thinks about all the other times: in cafés, on road trips, once while he was battling in an IKEA bookshelf you swore you could assemble yourself. Always the same question, always the same dance. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.
“And you love me for it,” you retort.
The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t about to scream that from the rooftops.
Oscar stacks the empty cupcake plates, balancing them like evidence exhibits, and heads for the sink. His sleeves are already halfway rolled before you even follow, trailing after him with the tenacity of a lawyer smelling a weak spot in the witness’s story. You prop yourself against the counter at just the right distance to be distracting. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to make him aware of you in his peripheral vision.
“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.
“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”
“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”
He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ marriage collapse in slow motion. Ten years of silences, slammed doors, and holidays you could cut with a knife. Was old enough to Google the numbers, and surprise, surprise. Half of all marriages end in divorce. The odds for second marriages? Worse.”
You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”
“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery.
Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t break hearts. They just prevent them from getting too ambitious.
The hem of your skirt sways as you shift your weight, brushing your legs in an idle, thoughtless way that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say.
He exhales through his nose, resisting the temptation to glance at you too long. Leaning there with your hair slipping loose around your face, you look maddeningly like you belong in his kitchen. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”
You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him.
Oscar slides the last plate into the drying rack, flicking suds from his hands and briefly feeling like the conversation is over. Safe. Ready for you to pivot to some other harmless hill to die on.
Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”
He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”
“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” You say it with the same breezy cadence as a promotional offer. Limited time only! Terms and conditions apply! Cancel anytime!
The words take their sweet time sinking in. When they finally do, it’s like something snaps in his chest. He starts to laugh. Not polite, not even dignified. Full-bodied, doubled over, holding the edge of the counter because his knees apparently no longer feel trustworthy.
“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”
You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s gone. Helpless. The kind of laughter that shakes his ribs and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes blurring with the kind of tears he refuses to admit exist.
“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”
You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.
Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”
The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.
“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”
You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”
You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.”
“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.”
“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.”
“Oscar.”
The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”
Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”
“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”
The man has no shame. You stare at him for a beat too long, probably weighing the public humiliation against the joy of watching him eat cake in formalwear. His expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”
He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”
You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”
“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”
Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon.
The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s at that suspiciously photogenic park wedding photographers swear by for its natural light and timeless atmosphere, which is code for: there will be at least three other couples here today in matching beige, posing like they invented romance. Still, Oscar doesn’t expect this. To be standing ten feet away from Carmen Mundt and George Russell, whose faces he only half-remembers from yearbook spreads stuffed with pep rally candids and overwrought prom photos.
“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” he says flatly, hands buried in his coat pockets. He watches George dip Carmen for the photographer, the scene so perfectly manufactured it could be the poster for a holiday rom-com. All that’s missing is a fake snow machine.
You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.
“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.
You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”
“Headshots.”
“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”
“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” Oscar says, sweeping his hand toward the setup: the strategically rumpled picnic blanket, champagne flutes brimming with something so pale and fizzless it might as well be Sprite, and the pièce de résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.
You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”
Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re playing chess.
The shoot winds down with the photographer packing up lenses in meticulous slow motion, and the rented golden retriever trotting off to its handler with the air of an exhausted professional. Carmen and George spot Oscar before he can retreat to the safety of the car. In hindsight, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.
“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”
Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”
Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!”
Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”
There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”
You both stop, glance at each other, and promptly talk over each other again, this time with clarifications that only make it worse. Something about being friends, something about just helping out. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.
You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”
“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.
“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”
“I’m a divorce attorney.”
The effect lands exactly as expected: first the blink, then the snort of laughter, then the delighted realization of the irony. The wedding planner and the divorce attorney. George, grinning, throws out, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”
“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.
Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”
That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s already flipping through the list when you look at him. Not just look. You deploy the full arsenal: tilted head, softened grin, those eyes doing that thing that could disarm a firing squad.
And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re involved.
Dinner turns out to be… something. A bizarre theatre production where Carmen and George play the leads in a romance so committed it borders on parody. They feed each other, trade bites back, and laugh in perfect sync, like they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation.
Across from them, Oscar sits beside you, playing the role of vaguely polite companion. He holds the door, pours your water, throws in the occasional wry remark that Carmen misses entirely but earns you a small laugh. George squeezes Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”
Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”
You kick him lightly under the table. He pretends not to notice, but the curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. Underneath all the polite detachment, he’s hyper-aware of how close your arm brushes his, of the way your laughter curls somewhere in his chest.
Carmen and George launch into a greatest-hits reel of their history. Promposals, senior pranks, late-night drives. The nostalgia is so sweet it’s practically crystallizing in the air. You lean in to listen, smiling in all the right places, your hair brushing your cheek. Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of practiced disinterest. But when your knee bumps his again, he doesn’t move it away. If anything, he leaves it there.
Later, the apartment hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of an old ceiling light that flickers like it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re in front of your door, patting down your bag like the keys might have sprouted legs and made a break for it. He leans against the wall, watching you with the same patient skepticism he reserves for opposing counsel mid-argument.
“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”
You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”
He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”
“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.
“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”
That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”
The words land heavier than you probably intended, though they sound casual enough. Oscar freezes for half a second, just long enough for the thought to lodge somewhere inconvenient.
What if he went to prom? No, more than that. Asked you to prom. Asked you out in between reads of The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice. Would you have stayed together throughout college, throughout his time in law school? Would you have been the annoying kind of high school sweethearts posting about about seven-year anniversaries?
Would you have been happy? (He knows he would have been.) What if, what if, what if.
“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.
You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ before slipping into your apartment, door clicking shut behind you.
Oscar stays where he is. His eyes linger on the door as the hum overhead grows louder, or maybe it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.
Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters.
The train rocks along, every stop unloading a tide of commuters in a mix of suits, sneakers, and faces wearing that blank morning mask, all moving as though on the same reluctant conveyor belt. He wears the same look, though his coffee at least pretends to help. A man two seats over is watching videos without headphones. Oscar imagines citing him for cruelty.
The city’s already in motion by the time he hits the sidewalk. Shop shutters halfway up, buses sighing at curbs, a street vendor shouting in two languages at once. He sidesteps a puddle, considers the physics of how that much water exists on a perfectly dry street, and joins the slow drift toward the firm.
His office hums its usual chorus: phones ringing somewhere down the hall, printers coughing up paperwork, the faint scent of burnt espresso curling out of the break room. Janine at reception looks up from her desk, bright as a storefront window display. “Morning, Oscar.”
“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”
“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”
Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”
“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.
“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.
Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.
“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”
His office is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked in controlled disorder, legal tomes on one side, mugs on the other that have begun to resemble a science experiment. The desk tells a quieter, stranger story if you bother to look closely.
A Post-It stuck to the monitor in your handwriting. Half a grocery list, half a doodle of a cat with questionable anatomy. A worn Polaroid from high school, the two of you barricading at an All Time Low concert. A single black hair tie looped carelessly around his pen jar, forgotten or maybe not.
He doesn’t touch any of them right away. Boots up his computer. Skims his calendar. Pretends to be a man with a normal Tuesday ahead of him. But his gaze keeps catching on the hair tie, like it has its own gravitational pull. You don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month.
Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t even agree on the shape of the conference table, let alone custody. He sits at the head of the long, too-polished wood, flanked by Mick on one side, Frederik on the other, both of them looking like they’re preparing for trench warfare.
Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.
Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”
Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”
Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”
Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”
“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”
“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!”
Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern.
Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”
“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to.
There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.
He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d been all shouting, all shaking hands, all wanting someone to pick a side and stick to it. He remembers the heat of that anger, the way it never helped. Now it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.
The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says.
It’s a TikTok. From the thumbnail, it seems to involve two animated penguins. Oscar can feel the corner of his mouth pulling upward despite himself. Professionalism, temporarily postponed. He pockets the phone without opening it yet, saving the video you sent like a cigarette after a long day. Something small and certain to cut through the taste of other people’s endings.
Oscar takes the train home in that post-work daze everyone wears like a second suit. Sshoulders heavy, tie slightly askew, head still full of someone else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.
Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.
By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s already trying to shake it off, to think about dinner, laundry, anything else. He steps out into the evening air, which smells faintly of rain on concrete, and heads down the block toward home. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision.
You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s there. Long enough for the windows to start fogging slightly from the inside, long enough for him to realize that people probably walk by and think he’s lost.
You look up eventually. Your eyes land on him, widening in surprise before they light up. The change is instant, like flipping a switch. You smile so wide he almost forgets how to breathe.
He manages a tired smile in return, the kind that still somehow carries all the warmth he’s been trying to keep to himself. He lifts a hand and waves, brief and almost shy.
And in that moment, the day feels a little less heavy.
“You’re my logistics team.”
Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”
“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”
“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”
That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve roped him into the ninth circle of hell: bridal retail.
The boutique smells like roses and champagne. An aggressive kind of luxury that makes him feel like he should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” and sweeps you both toward a back fitting room.
Carmen, radiant and rosy, is already mid-spin in a lace creation that probably costs more than Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.
“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.
Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.
He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”
You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”
“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t bridal-friendly.
From his perch by the wall, he listens to you and Carmen debate the merits of tulle versus organza, which sounds like a legal dispute he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.
Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”
At first, he assumes she’s read his mind about where he wants to nap. Then he glances up and sees you. Holding a dress against yourself, hesitant but smiling like you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”
“So? Humor me.” Carmen waves a manicured hand, all command and no room for argument. The kind of gesture that once made high school teachers wilt.
Oscar leans back, waiting for you to refuse, maybe stutter some excuse about time or budget or basic dignity. Instead, you grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.
He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”
Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him.
The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.
You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”
He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue. “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”
Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead.
Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.
It’s ridiculous, he tells himself, that his brain immediately starts filling in the gaps. Swapping Carmen out for a crowd, replacing the fitting room with some floral arch, and suddenly it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position.
But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.
It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.
“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”
He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”
“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”
“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”
You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”
He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”
The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school.
Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.
“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”
She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve survived the same hellish coursework. Law school war stories, professors they loved and loathed, nights when the library coffee tasted like burnt cardboard but kept them awake long enough to memorize the finer points of civil procedure.
On paper, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s sake.
But halfway through her story about a particularly messy corporate merger, he catches himself looking at the way the candlelight reflects in her wineglass rather than at her face. His mind drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.
Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”
“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”
“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s not half-distracted by a ghost.
He tries harder. Asks about her current cases, listens to her take on the latest SCOTUS decision, even cracks a joke about how law school didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.
The date survives dinner, and now they’re roaming the streets, hunting ice cream like two people who have run out of small talk but are determined to keep pretending otherwise. The summer air is heavy, and the neon of a late-night gelato place blinks as if it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected.
“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”
The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”
Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”
Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story.
“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”
The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”
She arches an eyebrow, lets the joke hang between them, then changes the subject. He catches the flicker of something in her expression. A note of recognition, the kind you file away for later. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy.
As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.
The walk to Isabella’s apartment is pleasant in the way most well-lit, tree-lined streets are pleasant. Pretty, unthreatening, and peaceful enough to hear your own thoughts. Unfortunately, Oscar’s thoughts are not the kind you want amplified. Isabella is talking about a new case at her firm, her voice warm and animated. He listens, really listens, because she’s truly the kind of person you can imagine parents approving of in seconds. The problem is that his brain keeps running a silent parallel commentary: not her, not you.
They reach her building faster than he expects. She pauses at the door, smiling up at him. “You want to come in?”
It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”
Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s no spark, no pulse of something unexpected. Just the faint, sweet aftertaste of her pistachio gelato.
When she pulls away, she studies him for a beat and then says, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.
“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.”
He watches her slip inside, the lobby light catching in her hair for a moment before the door shuts. Then he turns and starts the walk back to his own place. The night air is cooler now, brushing his skin, and his hands are sticky from where his ice cream dripped down the cone. He licks at it absently, the sugar grit catching on his tongue, wondering why something as small as this feels heavier than it should.
Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead.
You’re there. Not metaphorically. Not in some wistful, post-date replay of memory. Physically there, padding around his kitchen like you own the lease. Which, he reminds himself, you absolutely do not.
You glance over your shoulder mid-chew. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”
You hadn’t even bothered to dress up in any way, shape, or form. Ratty pajamas, hair a little mussed, posture loose in that way people only get when they’re somewhere safe. You look better like this than Isabella had tonight. Than anyone has, probably.
He drops his jacket on the back of the couch, still mentally tripping over the fact that you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”
“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”
Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”
“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.
You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s ill-fated attempt at baking bread. Oscar half-listens, half-watches you, wondering why it feels like the night only started making sense once you showed up.
You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”
A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”
He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s just different hearing it out loud, the words sliding into place with a kind of brutal simplicity.
Oscar leans back against the counter, nursing the chocolate milk he’d poured himself. Date to marry. Right. He thinks about your exes. Not a sprawling list, more like a curated exhibit. Each one stuck around for years, long enough to look like they might last forever, long enough for him to get used to seeing them in your orbit.
And then they were gone, quietly, for one reason or another. Oscar, whether or not he cared to admit it, was always a little glad to see them go. You shovel the last bite of cereal into your mouth, unfazed. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”
“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”
You laugh—easy, unbothered—before you go to rinse your bowl in his sink like you live there. When you pad over to the door, Oscar almost says something stupid. Something like, stay. Stay the night. I never want you out of my sight, and if I could keep you here forever, I would.
Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered.
The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly.
The caterer’s late, the florist’s lost in traffic, and someone apparently thought now was the time to test how much champagne a tablecloth can absorb. Oscar would feel bad for you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re running a high-stakes covert op, except your comms are a phone glued to your ear and a pen stuck in your hair.
He watches from the corner, pretending not to be entirely captivated. You point at the florist when they finally arrive, then pivot to soothe the maid of honor, then somehow charm the caterer into an apology and extra dessert. When you finally pass him, breathless but smiling like you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”
You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”
“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.
You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re off again, darting back into the chaos, and Oscar follows. Partly because you told him to, partly because watching you do this is better than any dinner theater he’s ever seen.
Despite your utter salvation of the shitshow, Oscar spots the tells before anyone else does. The quick snap in your voice when someone hands you the wrong seating chart, the way your smile freezes for half a second before you glue it back on. Everyone else sees a flawless operation humming along. He sees the seams, the hairline fractures running under the polish.
You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.
Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out.
You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands.
“Oscar, I have a million—”
“Eat.”
Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”
You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”
The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s something else too. The way his eyes soften under the joke, the concern tucked into the stubbornness. You take the fork. One bite. Then another. Then a sigh that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.
“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”
You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.
It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s no polite phrasing, no humble alternative. You flat-out rescue it from the jaws of chaos, and Carmen and George know it. They corner Oscar near the dessert table, beaming like proud parents. Carmen gushes about how flawlessly you handled every last hiccup, George nods so hard his tie shifts sideways, and Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has to bite back the urge to smirk like he had anything to do with it.
He does, however, get the tiniest satisfaction in thinking, Yeah, that’s my girl.
It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d vanish to if given half a second. He ducks out a side door, following instinct and maybe a little muscle memory. Sure enough, there you are in the garden, exactly where he expects. Among the flowers you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.
He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”
You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”
“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.
But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”
Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.
Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into his side. Not much, just enough for him to feel the weight of you. He pretends it’s nothing. Forces himself to keep his hands in his pockets, because holding you would be a bad idea. The worst kind of good idea.
The flowers rustle in the evening breeze, and for a few beats, neither of you speaks. Oscar decides this is the sort of silence he could live in forever.
The road out of the city unspools in long, lazy stretches, all cracked asphalt and the occasional reckless squirrel. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.
“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”
“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”
“That’s volunteering.”
He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”
You let the radio fill the gap for a minute. Static, pop ballads, the occasional truck blasting past. He catches you humming along and files it away for later, because apparently even your off-key is better than most people’s pitch-perfect.
“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”
“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”
“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”
“And yet you trusted me with it.”
“Desperate times.”
He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re better company than the screen. The trees outside flicker sunlight across your face, and he has the passing thought that maybe the whole lackey thing isn’t the worst gig he’s ever had.
You choose your topic with the precision of someone sliding a particularly risky track into a playlist. Light in tone, catastrophic in potential. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.
Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”
“Better now than during the vows,” you say, one hand drumming on the steering wheel.
He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man already exhausted by a conversation that hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”
“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”
“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”
You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”
Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”
It should come off as a joke. It doesn’t. The air in the car cools just enough to notice. The steady rhythm of passing fields outsides suddenly becomes riveting. He leans back, eyes on the horizon, shoulders angled away like the conversation is already several miles behind you. For a while, only the hum of tires fills the space between you, along with the faint, uneven tap of his fingers against his thigh. He’s probably thinking he went too far. You might be thinking the same about yourself. The silence stretches, not hostile exactly, but brittle. Something that could break if either of you pressed just a little too hard.
The two of you pull up to the curb of your destination with the kind of synchronized silence that only two very stubborn people can manage. Oscar stares at the dashboard like it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.
“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”
The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though you weaponize that, obviously. You make people feel taken care of without making it feel like a debt. You remember the little things, like who hates olives and who only pretends to hate olives because it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”
“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief.
Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”
You blink, slow, deliberate, and then lean in. Not to kiss him properly, but to press your lips once, briefly, against his shoulder through his shirt. It’s the kind of gesture that says, Fine. Truce. Oscar exhales, almost a laugh, and lets you go. You push open your car door, the fake smile now replaced with something just slightly realer.
The front door to your house swings open before you’ve even knocked. Your mum has a sixth sense for arrivals, honed over years of intercepting neighbours before they ring the bell. She pulls you into a hug so tight Oscar half-expects to hear vertebrae shift. Then she turns to him, and the smile doesn’t even dip.
“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”
He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”
She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s already at the door, hand outstretched, but it turns into a half-hug, half-back-pat before either of them can stop it. The kind of greeting reserved for family members you see less than you’d like but more than you can forget.
“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye.
He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. He never left without a Tupperware container, usually returned weeks later with something completely unrelated inside. Inside, the familiarity swallows him whole: the faint smell of laundry powder, the buzz of the fridge, the same photo frames on the wall except now with more moments crammed in. Your mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve eaten, offering tea before you can answer, and trying to herd you towards the kitchen like two sheep that have wandered into her hallway.
Oscar catches your eye as you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.
“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” your mother says as all of you settle into the living room. Your parents, side by side; you and Oscar, crammed into the arm chairs that are a little too small. “He was always a good fellow, that one.”
“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”
There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter.
You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades. “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks.
“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.”
Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them.
“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”
Oscar’s grin freezes.
Your parents, with their thirty-odd years of marriage, should not be asking Oscar that. Yet here they are, on their couch, watching him with a delicateness that dates back to when he was a teenager watching his parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents.
He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s had relatives and friends ask for his services. Divorce proceedings are a monster in their own right, and it helps to go through them with someone you trust. Your parents trust Oscar. They have since he was a lanky teenager, throwing rocks at your window because you were upset over something he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life.
He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”
For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over.
Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.
It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s conversation with your parents presses on him like a poorly fitted suit. He had smiled and nodded and deflected, said all the right things while trying not to let the weight of implication crush him. They had praised him, teased him, looked at him with a familiarity that made his throat tight. And you had no clue. At least, he hopes you don’t. You have enough to worry about without his conscience leaking into the bouquet arrangements.
He watches you. Watches the way you smooth your dress before you even sit, the way you give orders with a smile that masks the bite underneath, the way you pause every few minutes to take a breath, reset, then whirl forward again like a clock wound too tightly. And he thinks: if anyone deserves honesty, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.
You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.
He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.
It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”
Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out.
“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”
Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s feet. George, of all people. Steady, buttoned-up, mildly boring George. Hardly the type to bolt. He looks at you, waiting for you to laugh it off, except you don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”
George’s mother nods furiously, like secrecy will summon him back. You turn toward Oscar, already mid-stride, ready to take charge of yet another potential disaster. He sees it. The way your shoulders square, the muscles in your jaw working overtime, the storm gathering in you. And he decides he’s not letting that storm break.
“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”
“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”
“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”
Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”
There’s a beat where you almost argue. He can see it in the way you open your mouth, close it, open it again. But then you nod. A sharp, reluctant motion. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”
“Scout’s honor.”
As he heads out of the reception hall, he feels the weight of it. Your trust, however begrudging, pressing into his back. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll do. He pushes open the doors and steps into the warm afternoon, beginning the search.
The church is quiet in the way only a building this old can manage. Heavy with incense, dust, and the weight of a thousand whispered prayers layered into its walls. Oscar walks the aisle as if he’s a man on a mission, though in truth he feels more like a private investigator in an overpriced suit than a wedding guest. His shoes click against the stone, each sound bouncing up to the rafters like a tattletale. When he catches the faintest shuffle from the direction of the confession booths, well—case closed.
He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”
“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”
The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”
Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”
George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”
Ah. And there it is. His own cynical quip coming back to haunt him, boomeranging with perfect aim. Oscar closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, the irony settling heavy in his chest. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”
The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.
Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”
Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”
Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”
The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s just found the floor under his feet again. Oscar claps him on the shoulder. Firm, grounding, the closest thing he can offer to reassurance without choking on sentiment. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”
George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily.
Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”
By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re there, sweeping in like a general surveying her battlefield. One glance at George, present and upright, and your shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. You brush past Oscar, fingertips grazing his arm in a quick, instinctive squeeze. It lasts less than a breath, but it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t knock the wind out of him.
The ceremony begins. The church doors open, and Carmen steps through, radiant in a gown that makes even the stained glass look dull. The room collectively exhales, but Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.
Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek to make sure no detail slips. Ridiculous, he thinks, that the most commanding presence in the room is the one people aren’t even supposed to notice.
The vows begin and the congregation leans forward, hungry for their words. Oscar leans back. His eyes find you across the nave, tucked discreetly by the side pews. You look up. Just for a second, maybe checking on him, maybe accident, maybe not. But it’s enough.
There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t George and Carmen standing at the altar. If it were him. If it were you. The thought crashes into him with the force of a spinout. Utterly uninvited, utterly undeniable.
Oscar swallows hard, forces his attention back to the couple trading promises that aren’t his. The image lingers, stubborn as tire marks on asphalt: you, a gown that would outshine every candle in this place, saying words that could undo him. To him. With him.
There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life.
The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t belong to this carefully choreographed world of champagne flutes and choreographed entrances.
You appear about thirty minutes in, armed with two paper plates of whatever the caterers managed to squirrel away for the vendors. Professional efficiency, no-nonsense stride. You steer him to a peaceful corner near the kitchen door, away from the storm of speeches and flash photography.
“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”
Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?”
“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”
Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”
You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”
“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows.
“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”
Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”
“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”
“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”
You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s long since been established.
The drive back to your place is quiet. Not awkward. Quiet, like both of you are storing the night away in some mental scrapbook, cataloging details you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s fine with silence; he usually prefers it, really. But this silence trills in the space between your elbows brushing on the shared armrest, in the way you don’t reach for the radio, in the occasional flicker of the dashboard light across your face that makes him glance over longer than he should. He tells himself he’s imagining it. He tells himself a lot of things. None of them hold.
The house looks exactly as it always has, which is both comforting and mildly suffocating. Curtains drawn, porch light on, that faint scent of grass and cement he’s always associated with late nights here. The place hums with the stillness of sleeping parents, furniture resting in their well-worn grooves. Oscar trails you in, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers and his own unspoken thoughts. He toes off his shoes, careful to line them up neatly, because your mother notices when he doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows.
You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”
He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s been batting away for years. Familiar hallway, familiar you, nothing objectively remarkable happening, except every nerve in his body seems to think it is. The faded family photos on the wall, the buzz of the old refrigerator in the background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s supposed to.
Instead, the two of you just look at each other. Too long. Long enough that he can hear the slow shift of your breathing, notice the faint flush on your cheeks that might just be the heat of the day lingering. Long enough that he feels the weight of every almost over the years crowding into this very small, very ordinary space. He thinks of high school evenings when he lingered too long on your porch, of college breaks where you laughed just a little too hard at something he said. He thinks about every moment he could have leaned in, and didn’t.
Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.
Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real.
The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re this close. Not when your breath hitches against his. Not when every sharp edge inside him finally, blessedly, goes quiet. He thinks, with a rush of clarity he’ll never admit out loud, that maybe he was always meant to end up right here. Bare feet on linoleum, parents asleep down the hall, and you, finally, leaning toward him instead of away.
Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t care. Not even a little.
You laugh against his mouth, which is unfair, because the sound shivers right down his spine and makes him kiss you harder. Greedy. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.
“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”
“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t stop.
You huff out a giggle, muffled by his insistence, and press a palm to his chest like maybe you mean to hold him back, except you don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.
“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t care if your dad wakes up, if your mom comes down the stairs, if the whole world finds him here in his socks and suit pants, kissing you like a man starved. The hallway could collapse around him and he’d still find your lips in the rubble.
Your laugh bubbles up again, giddy and breathless, and it tips something inside him dangerously close to joy. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.
Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.
Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s going, too busy pressing into you. Which is why your back bumps squarely into the television console. The sharp clatter that follows is less romantic than he’d prefer.
You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.
But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”
On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s gutted all over the carpet. Keys, receipts, lipstick, a crumpled tissue that has definitely seen better days. Oscar crouches beside you halfheartedly, though his eyes keep darting to your mouth. If you’d just stay still for two seconds—
You freeze. Your hand is hovering over something. Not lipstick, not keys. A simple rectangle of thick cardstock. His card.
You pick it up slowly, confusion creasing your brow. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”
For a split second, he thinks about lying. It would be easy. Say he left it there years ago, some business pretense, some polite exchange. But the words don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you.
He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.
How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you.
Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s couch is about as forgiving as a park bench, and Lando himself is an early riser who treats the morning like a competition. Oscar, meanwhile, feels like he’s been KO’d several rounds already.
He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d wanted to say something, anything, before the door shut behind him. Instead, he got a midnight exile and a guilt hangover to carry onto public transport.
Oscar leans back against the rattling train wall, the city sliding past the windows in quick blurs of gray and neon. He tries to tell himself this is temporary. That once you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s ready to look in the eye.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Lando, probably, asking if he left his charger. He ignores it, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.
Except Oscar doesn’t hear from you. Not a knock, not a muffled laugh through the thin wall, not even the telltale click of your front door shutting in the evening. Nothing. The silence has weight, and it presses on him harder than any courtroom opponent ever has. He tries to tell himself you’re just busy. People are busy, people have lives.
He checks his phone again and sees the three unread messages he sent, floating there like desperate balloons. He thumbs out another one, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes that too. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s willing to look in writing, even for you. The thought of using his spare key crosses his mind more than once, and every time he pictures it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.
He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.
“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.
Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”
“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”
“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”
Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t the loudest thing in his life right now. Later, he returns from work with a headache blooming behind his eyes and a shirt clinging to his back. An unholy combination of stress and the city’s humidity. All he wants is a shower, a nap, maybe something fried and terrible for dinner. Instead, he sees the moving truck parked out front of the building.
He freezes at the bottom of the stoop, pulse doing something it really shouldn’t. The side of the truck is stamped with a cheerful slogan about new beginnings. He hates it instantly.
Monica, his landlord, stands near the door, clipboard in hand. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”
He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”
Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged.
Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s distracted, he bolts upstairs, phone in hand. He dials again. And again. Straight to voicemail. Your voice, prerecorded and maddeningly calm, greets him like it hasn’t already greeted him twenty times this week. He paces the hallway, the movers clattering past, his chest tight enough to crack ribs.
By the fifth attempt, his thumb hovers over the call button, and he thinks, so this is what going crazy feels like. Not the big cinematic breakdowns, but the humiliating repetitions. The endless, one-sided conversations with a voicemail box that never talks back.
Oscar decides he’s had enough of chasing ghosts. Enough of the unanswered calls, the locked door, the movers packing your life into cardboard while he stands useless in the hallway. Enough. He isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole.
He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—
Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.
Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”
“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”
He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”
Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”
She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.
Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s gone before either of you can object, leaving behind a slam of the door and an air thick with unsaid things.
Oscar stands there, still at the threshold, heart doing its best impression of a bass drum. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.
He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”
Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”
Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”
“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What exactly were you going to explain, Oscar? That my mother just happened to have your card in her bag for no reason? That it just fell in there, like magic?”
“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.
“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
He does. He knows, because it’s written all over your face now, wet and trembling. And Oscar has always been weak to this. He could win arguments, out-stubborn you until the end of time, but the second tears arrive? Game over.
“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”
You close your eyes against his touch, shoulders still shaking. He swallows hard. All his practiced sarcasm, all the barbs he hides behind, dissolve like sugar in water. Right now, all he can do is hold you steady and hope you let him.
You keep going, even through your tears. Oscar doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.
He’s cornered, and lying suddenly feels impossible. He waits for you to take a breath, for the betrayal to temper just enough, so he can get out, “It wasn’t for them.”
You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”
“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”
The words hang in the room. For a second, he can almost see the gears turning in your head. Then it hits, and you fold, shoulders shaking as the fight drains out of you all at once.
“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”
Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”
You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”
“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”
You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”
“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”
You sag against him, still crying, but your fists unclench in his shirt. Relief slips through your sobs, uneven and fragile, and Oscar holds on, helpless but steady. He doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.
Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s scatter of throw pillows, digging through cupboards like a raccoon in search of comfort items. Blankets? Snacks? Possibly both at once? Why not. He shoves a bag of pretzels and a blanket into your lap like he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.
You’re quiet now, no longer snapping, no longer crying quite as hard. Just curled on the couch, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. Still beautiful, because of course you’d manage that. Oscar spreads the blanket over you with the finesse of someone trying to fold a fitted sheet. Badly, unevenly, one corner hanging off. Still, it earns him the tiniest sound from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.
“I wasn’t going to,” you murmur, which is a lie. The smile tugging at your mouth gives you away.
He sighs, lets himself lean back, and then he tentatively slides an arm around you. For one terrifying second, he expects you to shove him off. Instead, you sink into his side with a long, shaky exhale. Relief shoots through him so fast it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.
“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.
“Oh, you definitely did,” Oscar replies before his brain can catch up with his mouth.
Your head tips up, glare sharp even through swollen eyes. He deserves it. He really does. Still, the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile he doesn’t bother fighting. Absentmindedly, almost without thought, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You freeze for half a beat, then relax, settling more firmly against him. Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.
“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back.
“Promise?” you say in a small voice.
Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.”
“Already? You rented it already?”
Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s grading papers. You and Oscar are seated across from her, twinning in the way your jaws are unhinged. You were her tenant for three years; did loyalty count for nothing in this damn city? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”
You’re frozen, eyes wide and breath hitching, and Oscar can see it. The start of a full-blown panic winding its way up your spine. He recognizes the signs; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”
Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.
You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”
“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”
“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”
Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s just the two of you, stranded in the echo of his impulsive offer. You stare at him, clearly weighing whether to strangle him on the spot or admit he has a point. Oscar holds his breath, heart thudding so hard it feels like it’s trying to make a break for it.
Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”
“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”
See, Oscar has always been good at compartmentalizing. Work here, groceries there, feelings in one box, whatever-this-is with you shoved into another. But apparently boxes don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.
You barely look around because this isn’t new to you. Your shoes already know where to live in his hallway, your hoodie has been camped out on the back of his chair for months, and the couch still carries the faint indentation from all the times you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.
Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” you protest, but let him anyway, because some things are inevitable: death, taxes, and Oscar carrying your things.
By the time evening swallows the apartment, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t squeak every time he breathes too deeply. He also pretends not to notice the way your snores drift out from the bedroom and makes the place feel smaller and bigger all at once.
The adjustments sneak up on him in tiny, ridiculous ways. The extra toothbrush next to his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.
Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.
He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s not silence at all. He lies there on the too-short sofa bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that if this is what going crazy looks like, he can probably live with it. Day in, day out. Being good to you, being your best friend. He can take it. He can do normal. He’s a grown man. Sort of.
Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.
You’re wearing his favorite dress. The one that makes him stupid, though technically most dresses you wear qualify. Earrings catching the light, lips glossed. The whole nine yards. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”
You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”
Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”
You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”
That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.
You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”
He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”
A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.
“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point.
Oscar doesn’t mean to start yelling. Technically not yelling, but the Oscar version of yelling, which is a slightly louder monotone with too much hand motion. It bursts out anyway, like pressure behind a dam finally giving way.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”
Your brow furrows. “What happened?”
“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”
You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”
“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”
Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.
He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”
Instead of answering, you grab him by the shirt and kiss him. Hard.
Everything folds in on itself and then sparks, like someone hit the emergency power switch. He stumbles a step back but doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for.
The taste of your lip gloss, the stutter of your breath. It all hits at once, dizzying, disarming. He had a whole speech queued up, righteous fury and all. Gone now. Vaporized. Turns out there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.
Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist.
You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”
Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”
“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”
He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”
He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.
You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens.
What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between.
“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me.
It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s enough. You smile, deem it sufficient, and pull him back down to kiss you again.
Oscar should know better than to let you out of his sight for thirty seconds.
Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.
There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re charming when you want to be, and dangerous when you are.
Oscar narrows his eyes, closing the distance in quick strides. He catches the tail end of your sentence: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”
You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”
“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.
“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”
Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”
The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”
Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading.
You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”
“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”
Your scandalized gasp almost makes him laugh. Almost. Oscar shoos you back with a look that could double as a cease-and-desist order. One hand makes a subtle little off you go motion while the other slides into his pocket like he has infinite patience. He doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.
“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.”
And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.
The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”
Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s the truth. Somehow, you and him fit.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you leaning against the counter, watching him. His glare finds you instantly, sharp as a spotlight. You, of course, don’t wilt under it. No, you grin, cock your head, and send him a dramatic flying kiss.
Oscar sighs internally, but his hand twitches up before he can stop it.
He catches the damn thing midair and begrudgingly presses it to his chest. ⛐
“It’s not fucked up.” You hide your socks. “Not fucked up.”
“Baby, you don’t have a single pair without holes in them, what the fuck?”
“Okay, maybe the guy with mysterious white stains on his sheets shouldn’t judge.”
He punches you in the arm, but it doesn’t hurt. “I drool in my sleep and you know that.” Eddie bends a little to put him face to face. You’re sitting on the bed, and he’d been standing in front of you; doing the hard work if he’s to be believed, passing you socks from the laundry pile on the floor so you can pack them away into your sock box.
Eddie drools in his sleep, but he’s also a little tiny bit disgusting in the human way, and it’s not like you care. “Gross boy,” you mutter, folding your socks into a tight ball that brags at least two holes just looking at them.
“Give me those,” Eddie says, snatching them out of your hand. “They’re going in the garbage. They should’ve gone in the garbage five years ago, you fucking pauper. Jesus, you act like I don’t provide.”
“Jesus!” you say, mimicking his tone.
“I’ll get you some new socks, you freak. Or you can just wear mine.” He gives you a kiss like a bite where your teeth knock together. “So we can buy fancy grapes with the sock money.”
You like the sounds of fancy grapes, especially if he’s buying.
He brings the last of your socks and panties onto the bed. You smile at how happy it seems to make him to get to perv through your underwear. He nods and hums approvingly whenever he sees his favourites, and throws a pair of your girly boxers on top of the pile pridefully, though you’re confused when he sets aside a white pair of ankle socks and some pointelle panties you’d already folded.
“What’s wrong with them?” you ask, tucking the last of your socks away into the box.
“Just saving ‘em for later.”
“You’re gonna wear my panties?”
“As much as we’d both enjoy that, they’re for you. Gotta shower tonight, don’t you?”
“Is that it? No bra?”
He grins wildly, and you can guess what he’s gonna say before he says it, ‘cos of course you can. “You won’t need one.”
“I get chilly,” you say, giving him an earnest frown that is a hundred percent bullshit, satisfied when he loses his teasing, sharp look and bends down over everything to give your knee a smacking kiss. Your skin tingles where his lips touch.
“And I will keep you warm. Starting with socks.”
He swaps your little ankle socks for a pair of thick, thermal working ones. They go halfway up your calf and sit baggy on your toes, but you like ‘em, and you rub them up Eddie’s thigh until he pins you to the bed, arm twisted behind your back demanding you beg Uncle for being a harlot. He turns your face and kisses you like a prince over your shoulder when you tell him that you concede, and he apologises for his attempted spiral fracture with a bruise nibbled into the soft spot under your ear.
Imagine Steve and Robin questioning you about your new relationship with Eddie…
You went into the store to find a movie for the weekend. While you had expected to find Steve and Robin working there during the day, you hadn’t anticipated on your relationship being discovered. Which was currently the subject of discussion as you walked through the various movie genres and Steve followed you around.
“Seriously?” Steve frowned. “Eddie Munson, that’s who you’re dating?”
You grabbed a pile of discarded VHS tapes sitting on top of the row you were browsing and pushed it into his chest. “That sounds like you’re judging.” You told him.
Robin rounded the corner and sent the young man a low whistle. “Judgey McHarrington.”
“I’m not judgey- grr, I’m just trying to understand how one of best friends - an upstanding member of society and all round Upside Down fighting badass - is besotted with someone like Eddie.”
You took in a deep breath and thought of the denim-wearing fool who stole your heart. His dimpled-smile, the warm embraces, his gentleness and quirky knowledge of all things nerdy.
“He’s kinder than most people think. Treats me like I’m his whole world.” You answered and pulled out two movies that seemed interesting. “Tell me how that’s a bad thing?”
Steve shook his head. He couldn’t win against that. Not really. “It’s not. I just don’t know him that well, I guess.”
Robin approached the counter as you walked closer and handed her the selected tapes. “I think what Judgey McHarrington is trying to express is that he doesn’t want you to get hurt.” She offered quickly while Steve was still dawdling in the aisle. “Neither do I. You’re one of my best friends too.”
The sentiment from both was appreciated and you understood where it was coming from. But if there was someone you absolutely trusted, it was Eddie Munson. He was devoted to you. He kicked his bad habits when you were around, he had you stitch a small heart on his denim vest. More recently, he had your name tattooed on his chest as a promise be the person that you deserve. You once likened his behaviour to a swan, unwaveringly loyal to their partners, and he kissed you silly the whole night.
“I trust him.” You reaffirmed. Steve finally emerged to join by the counter and you made sure that he was listening. “I’m in love with Eddie. When he graduates this year, we’re going to find a place together. But as two of my best friends, you have permission to kick his ass if he ever acts up.”
Robin grinned back and Steve cleared his throat with a nod. “I can accept that.”
Happy to have cleared the air, you hugged them goodbye and took the bag of movies with you. Little did you know that Fate was preparing a twist to your future… and Eddie’s.
SUMMARY: She's Johnny's girl and he wants to make sure that everybody knows it.
WARNINGS: None, just pure fluff
W/C: 1.8k
Johnny Storm was popular.
Johnny Storm was a superhero.
But most importantly, Johnny Storm was yours.
Throughout his life, he'd embraced the fact that women swooned from merely being in his presence, going home with different girls and enjoying that no-strings-attached lifestyle that perfectly suited his desire to be an eternal bachelor.
He was quite content with the trajectory of his life.
Then came you.
And you tilted his entire world on its axis.
Nothing made sense the moment you walked into his life, a nervous wreck of a human being faced with working alongside the brightest minds in the world. You'd been clutching the strap of your bag with one hand like a lifeline, a binder held to your chest with the other like a shield against the nerves. You moved through the room as though at any moment gravity would shift and you'd be toppled back into the real world where this wasn't happening.
Nothing made sense to Johnny the moment he laid eyes on you, but it seemed like everything was aligning somehow.
He didn't know what it was about you that changed something in him, but he felt it. A desire, a stirring deep within his soul to explore whatever connection he could feel in his chest. The moment you locked eyes with him from across the room, he was well and truly within your orbit, trapped in the pull of your presence with no hope of escape.
He'd never uttered a word to you at that point, so he knew that he was well and truly off the deep end.
You were warned by Ben and Reed of Johnny's proclivity for being a ladies' man. You'd met the two of them at college, where they'd found you crying in the men's restroom after your first class ended disastrously. Ben had teased you for the mix-up but climbed over the stall to keep you company until you felt better and Reed had sat in the next cubicle offering words of comfort. Despite being a few years younger than them, they became your best friends and looked out for you throughout the rest of college.
Despite their warnings and your best efforts to avoid him, Johnny seemed to be everywhere that you were. He would bug you in Reed's lab, asking about your experiments and whether he could watch you test them out. He flirted shamelessly, laying on the charm whenever you were within earshot. He didn't seem to care that you were seemingly resistant to his charm; it strengthened the appeal.
It got to the point where he had abandoned his usual nightly activities in favour of hanging out with you. Reed and Sue had put you up in a room in the Baxter Building while you saw out this project with Reed that you were working on, so Johnny would be knocking on your door most nights.
"Want to watch a movie?"
"I'm busy, Johnny. Sorry."
He'd show up two nights later.
"Johnny, I have to finish this report. Maybe another night?"
You sent him away, but he was nothing if not resilient. For at least two weeks, he showed up at your door and offered different options, but while you were elbows-deep in research, you kept turning him away.
"Johnny, are you ever going to give up?"
"Not until you inevitably say yes."
He showed up the next night, knocking on your door with a triumphant set to his shoulders. He'd found Reed earlier that day sans you in the lab and asked where you were. The answer was one Johnny was a big fan of.
Blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape, Johnny stood at your door with a bag of microwave popcorn in one hand and a bottle of your favourite wine in the other. He was ready for the day you finally said yes to hanging out with him. When you opened the door, your eyebrows scrunched in an adorable way that made him grin.
"Before you say you're busy, I know Reed gave you the day off so you don't have any excuses."
"Oh, fine. One movie."
One movie turned into two, then a few nights later you were fast asleep in your bed with Johnny sitting up against the headboard while yet another film played on your TV. He knew he should've left, but you looked so pretty dozing next to him, one hand outstretched across the mattress like you were trying to reach him in your sleep. He couldn't leave.
Then he asked you if you wanted to go to dinner with him. You assumed that dinner meant a nice restaurant, fancy clothes, extravagance that you could only associate with Johnny. What you hadn't expected was a picnic blanket on the roof of the Baxter Building beneath the stars. Just the two of you, the bottle of wine on ice and an endless sprawl of space and cosmic beauty to keep you company.
He'd shrugged when you asked what made him pick this spot and he had said, "I know you don't like crowds. Figured this was more your speed."
He talked about space with you and you realised you might have misjudged him. Johnny was incredibly smart and watching the way his eyes lit up while talking about the galaxy made you smile. You wondered how often a woman sat with him and let him waffle about planets and black holes and dying stars without interrupting him. From the way he kept checking that you were still interested, you doubted that many gave him the time to truly talk about his passions.
After that, you agreed to another date and then were forevermore known as Johnny's Girl, affectionately. Reed and Sue couldn't believe it when they walked in one evening and found the two of you sprawled on the couch, fast asleep despite the daylight streaming through the windows. Johnny had you wrapped in his arms like he was terrified to let go even when he was sleeping, while you were perfectly content in his embrace.
Ben liked it. You mellowed out Johnny's madness and quelled his capacity for chaos. He was even less teasing towards Ben whenever you were in the room.
The two of you were a dichotomy that nobody could figure out. Somehow, Johnny had worked his way into a space in your heart and fit so perfectly that it was like it was reserved just for him. It was with a natural ease that you fit into the lives of the Fantastic Four, like you were a missing piece they hadn't realised they were without. All his life, Johnny had felt that something was missing.
He hadn't realised it was you until he had you.
And now he wasn't letting you go. Not for anything that the galaxy could offer him.
"Johnny! Johnny, put me down!"
Your laughter echoed through the living room of the Baxter Building and Ben, who was in the kitchen helping HERBIE prepare dinner, looked up at the sound of your approach. Johnny came blazing into the room, all grins and cheerfulness, with you tossed over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. His arm was hooked around the back of your knees and your hands were fisting his shirt to steady yourself as he bounced into the room like a man who was never coming down from cloud nine.
"Uh-oh," Ben said. "What's got Johnny grinning like a lunatic?"
"I'm not grinning like a lunatic," Johnny protested, shifting you on his shoulder slightly. "I'm just happy."
"Okay, why?"
Johnny finally put you down and you turned to Ben with a sparkle in your eyes and a smile that rivalled Johnny’s. "We have news."
"Big news!" Johnny exclaimed. "But- oh! Wait for Reed and Sue."
They showed up not long after and your heart melted at the sight of them both. Franklin was cradled in Sue's arms like a bundle of light incarnate and Reed kept glancing over at them like they were his proudest achievement in life.
"What's going on?" Sue asked, immediately noticing the charged air in the room. "Did Johnny set fire to something again?"
"Okay, no, I have to be careful now that Helicopter Dad installed all those smoke alarms," Johnny said, draping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. "We have news."
Ben pointed his spoon at the two of you. "They were waiting for you guys."
"Well, we're here," Sue said. "What's the big news?"
You grinned at the people you had come to call family, stuck out your left hand and said, "Johnny proposed!"
Sue's eyes widened and a smile bloomed on her face. She passed off Franklin to a slightly stunned Reed before beelining for you. Johnny was helpless to defend against her as Sue pulled you from his arms and into hers, squeezing you in a hug that you melted into with an excited laugh.
“Hey! I’m here too, remember?” he said, frowning at the obvious favouritism.
"Oh my God, this is incredible!" she said, holding you at arm's length. "You're going to make the most beautiful bride." She turned to her brother. "And you are going to make a lovely groom. Just kidding, you're definitely gonna mess up somehow."
She winked at her baby brother, teasing him back for the time he made a joke about Reed being out of his depth when it came to fatherhood. Ben gave you a hug next while Reed clapped Johnny on the shoulder affectionately.
"I never thought I'd see the day," Ben said. "Little Johnny Storm is all growed up."
"Yeah, I'm gonna be a married man before you," Johnny tossed back. “How does that feel?”
“Have you been brainwashed?” Ben asked you. “Is that it? Are you in trouble?”
You giggled. “No, Ben, I haven’t.”
“She just couldn’t resist my charm,” Johnny said.
“Charm?” you asked. “More like your annoying ability to not give up.”
“Ouch.”
"Congratulations, you two," Reed said.
"So come on, we'll have dinner and you can tell us how Johnny proposed," Sue said.
"Oh, absolutely," you said. "You'll never believe it, but he cried when he was asking!"
"No!?"
"You weren't supposed to tell them that!"
Johnny's protest was lost amidst the laughter of your family and he resigned himself to being teased mercilessly through the dinner. He did cry when he was asking you to be his wife, but only because he was so overcome with the thought of spending forever with you. Getting to call you his wife was going to be the greatest privilege of his life and as he watched you helping Ben and Sue bring the dinner to the table, he couldn't help but think that he was endlessly lucky that you gave him the time of day.
While you ate, his hand was clutching yours beneath the table, thumb brushing the ring that was sitting pretty on your finger. You weren't one for the spotlight, but Johnny would shout it from the rooftops to let the whole world know that you were his girl.
You head to a free art exhibit in the city hoping to score a free dinner, while browsing you end up picking up a artsy metalhead too.
AN: This is a love letter to all the lovely creative people here, whether the muses are currently blessing you with the time and head space to make things or not, we're all in a big artist community in my head. Maybe I'll write more for this world if the fancy takes me. Picture that sent me into a hyperfixation spiral and started all this.
Chapter warning: Nothing really, it's a big fluffy fluffball of a thing or about as close as I can get, reader is struggling with money, post S4 au but nothing too heavy.
WC: 4.5k.
*********
An early finish on a Friday can serve you well if you know what to look out for.
For example, yellow flyers that have been dotted around your end of the city for a couple of weeks now, say for… a community exhibit.
Food and drink.
Free admission.
Donations appreciated.
You fold the paper away into your back pocket and step inside the yellowing staff washroom, the bulb fizzing as it illuminates the small space and with it your reflection in the aged mirror.
Quickly stripping off your dirty apron you throw it into your bag and turn on the spluttering faucet of the small sink, cursing as it sprays water across your front with the force of the stream.
Art with a free dinner and maybe a slight buzz before you return home to sink into your bed.
The between paycheck jackpot.
The water runs down your sleeves and coats the collar of your shirt making you grimace as you wash your face and neck. There's going to be no getting the smell of fryer oil out of your hair, but you can at least wash off the sheen it's left on your skin and change.
You strip off your coffee stained shirt and pull out a clean if slightly creased t-shirt from the depths and fish out the almost empty can of deodorant. It makes a sad hiss as you try to squeeze the last of the life from it and you let out a sigh like you're mimicking it.
You're not going for good, just good enough.
The streets look busy as you slip out the back and down the side alley, a sea of jostling bodies that all need to be somewhere, and as you join them you mourn the lack of a/c as the sun sinks into your back.
Doors opened at 5 so you're only an hour late but community exhibits are always luck of the draw. It's going to be a toss up between it being dead until around 8ish or all the family and friends being there as the doors open. You dodge your way around a group of people chatting and blocking the sidewalk, oblivious to the glares of everyone passing around them and then cross the street.
Hopefully nobody will notice you piling your plate if it is still quiet, but you've learned the hard way that it's better to be judged than to fall victim to a leftover buffet that's been left out in the summer heat for too long.
It's another fifteen minutes of dancing between bodies as Sauron beats down on your fragile mortal frame before you finally see it. A banner the same shade of slightly muted neon yellow as the flyer in your hand, cable tied over the doorway of a small terraced building.
The relief is immediate as you dip inside, the walk leaving your skin hot, and for a moment your eyes struggle to focus with the change in light as you make your way down a narrow corridor flanked by noteboards and peeling posters.
It leads out into a reasonably sized room, which is busy but not overly so, just filled enough that you don't feel out of place as you press into the belly of the place. You stuff a couple of bucks into the donation jar that's guarded by an older looking woman in turquoise dungarees with pin straight grey hair, and she nods at you in thanks as you pass.
You realise suddenly that this is only an entrance, a room filled with details of the exhibit and pictures of the artists all huddled together and posing in different pictures while they create. The art starts beyond a doorway to your left where most people filter straight through and you're about to join them but then you spot it, the main reason for your after work excursion.
In the corner a couple of fold out tables sit, lined with up turned tupperware cake stands and foil serving platters. The paper plates and napkins are stacked a little too high and a multitude of bottles sit next to them, simply labelled red and white in thick black marker.
You take your time and try not to make too quick of a bee line directly to the food meandering over slowly, a group of guys stand chatting by the table and you feel eyes on you as you pick up a plate.
It's a good spread, and you take your fill ignoring the looks until the paper starts to bend in your grip. Etiquette is different at every show when it comes to food so considering they separated it off from the actual exhibit you decide to stay put while you eat, looking over the details of the exhibit instead of leaving crumbs everywhere and unintentionally pissing off the organisers before you've even had dessert.
Your stomach groans loudly at the first bite, welcoming something other than the stale left over fries you'd swiped from the kitchen between the ever present Friday rush. The chefs would usually rustle you something up but if you'd asked today and added another order to the ever growing ticket line they might have just lost it.
The pictures along the wall make you smile as you push a carrot stick loaded with too much hummus into your mouth, the whole group looking like more of a rag tag group of friends than the usual awkward group photos you see at these things, and from the printed statement it's because they're just that.
A group which has grown from two people struggling to find where they fit into the art landscape to a 30 strong group of creatives who create for the love of it.
You finish the food quicker than you would have liked reaching for another chip and realising the plate is nothing more than grease smudges and crumbs.
You place the plate in the trash and press your lips together as you stare at the assortment of cakes. It's all home baked and you struggle to pick but ultimately decide to take a slice of the chocolate cake, looking around before quickly folding it in a napkin and placing it into the pocket of your bag.
The group of guys are still all chatting animatedly by the tables and you give a quiet excuse me as you gingerly reach in behind them and grab a thin plastic cup, filling it, and making your way to the doorway.
The free food may be the reason you came, but the art is a glimmer of intrigue in the mundane, a split in the daily routine and this place…It's nothing like the community exhibitions you're used to.
The over 80s watercolour exhibit put on a nice spread but you would have been round it and out in 10 minutes if it wasn't for the lemon bars.
This place is a fucking tardis.
Pigeons made of wire and shredded newspaper hang from metal rafters overhead as you step in further, swaying slightly with the movement from visitors below and the old a/c that's fighting for its life.
The room’s stuffed with a mix of mediums big and small, and you start with a photography display. Fitting in beside a group who fawn and gush about each piece, you look over each one as they speak. Obviously related or friends from the way they talk, you smile as you take out a pen from your bag and the flyer from your back pocket and take note of the artist.
Next is another crowded display, this one's painted canvases of varying sizes, each one thick with layers of dark blues and reds that are then carvered out with black lines. Some stay sharp and angled, gnarling faces and abstract creatures where others are softer, colours blurring and melding like smoke.
The strangers around you shift and a sudden displeased hum comes from beside you as someone walks up to replace them. You ignore it, continuing to rake your eyes over the work until it comes again louder.
You side eye the guy, standing in cut off jeans and a white shirt his face is stoic as he stares at the work “Not like it?” you ask.
You see him shrug in your peripheral, “You? ”
“Yeah. The colours are-”
“A bit samey.” he cuts in and you shake your head throwing him a quick frown.
“No, I like-”
“Kind of chaotic too, like he doesn't know what he's doing.”
Your eyes snap back to his profile as he grimaces at each piece and you feel irritation prickle at the back of your throat.
“Who says chaotic is bad, just because you can see how it's been worked on.”
The guy looks at you a little but you're too focused on your defence of the works to notice the smile forming on his face. “It's oil so they must have let it dry, see.” You point at the jaws of one of the angled creatures “there's intention.” Your voice is clipped on the last word and you take a drink to push down the rest of the argument you can feel fighting to be realised.
He's quiet for a few beats and you keep your eyes ahead hoping he will take the hint and leave if he's just going to complain then he speaks again.
“Thanks.”
“What?” You look to find him smirking to himself.
“They're yours.” you say flatly and he nods once.
You let out a breathy laugh turning back to the canvases “Well, good job they're good.”
“They're alright.” He says, eyes continuing to drag over his work.
You frown to yourself, pause and tilt your head towards him again. “You done that to many people?”
“Passes the time.” He shrugs again, takes a sip of his wine and you finally turn fully towards him, crossing your arm over your waist and taking a drink of your own.
“What do you do if they say something bad?”
He dips his head and turns towards you. “Tell them thanks too.” The smirk on his face pops a dimple in his cheek and you swallow dryly, suddenly wishing you'd tried a little harder with that deodorant can.
“Well glad that I avoided that.” You chuckle “They're good.”
“Thanks.” He gives you quite honestly devastating eye contact that you really cannot handle right now so you nod to yourself and move to the next artist's work.
This artist only has one piece but it's huge, a landscape that spreads from dawn to dusk the further up you go, it sort of takes your breath away and you find yourself taking out your pen again to make a note of them.
“Took her almost a year.”
You jump a little at the sound of his voice turning to find him looking up over the work from a little bit away.
“Not surprised it's…”
“Fucking massive?” he interjects and you laugh, a loud surprised sound that echos a little and you clamp your mouth shut as he grins at you. “I was going to say detailed”
“That too, should have seen us trying to get it in here.”
You look over the work again, never really having given much thought to how you would get things like this in.
You can sense he's still there lingering and glance over to find him looking at you with a slight squint as if he's assessing you.
“Want a tour?” he says suddenly and you falter.
“A tour?”
His smile slips a little and he takes an awkward step back. “No pressure. Just thought, as a…thank you. For defending my honour.”
Some of the smile that's slipped from him makes its way onto your face. “Against yourself? Don't you have more visitors to fuck with?”
He tips his head from side to side. “Kind of loses its charm after a while.” he lets out a self-deprecating laugh and you mimic his earlier look and watch him for a moment. A cute tour guide could be fun and one of the artists at that?
“Okay, sure. Why not.”
At your confirmation he grins and takes a stepup next to you. “Eddie by the way.” He leans in a little holding out his hand and you shake it gently and give him your name in return.
He slips into tour guide mode straight away giving you the run down of each artist as you move around, with small anecdotes sprinkled in. He's dramatic and funny, and you find yourself leaning into the small awkward flirty comments he throws your way.
“You usually give guided tours?” you ask, recapping your pen and pushing it into your back pocket after noting down another name .
“Nope, first time. How am I doing?” He asks leaning in to you a little.
“Good.” You say smiling to yourself as you stop at the last artist of the first room your attention’s suddenly dragged from him.
“Oh that's so cool.” You move in closer to one of the framed still life's, they're all of motel rooms and the paintings themselves have so much depth. They would be impressive in themselves but then they come out into 3D.
The one you're staring at has bed sheets spilling onto the floor and where they meet the frame soft quilted fabric spills out over the frame.
“I know, this is my favourite," he flicks the coiled dusty rose cable of a rotary phone, the head of it jutting out from the corner and the cord hanging down.
“She disappears for months on end and appears back with them. Like souvenirs.” he says with a fond smile.
“Are the parts actually from the rooms?”
He grins, “Yeah, her apartments must look like a dismembered lost property.”
He carries on telling you animated stories of each piece and you listen with wrapt attention, until a flick of his hair reveals his neck. Thick pink scars crawl up and out the collar of his shirt, drawing your attention away for a moment before you check yourself.
“So you do a lot of stuff like this together?” you ask and he steps away to lead you to the next artist.
“We try, but getting everyone's schedules to line up these days is a bitch.”
“Eddie!”
The sudden shout of his name has you both turning in time to see a guy marching across the room, you recognise him, one of the guys chatting by the food earlier.
“Dude where the hell have you been.”
“Giving a tour.” Eddie says and you watch as confusion spreads over the guy's face until his eyes flick to you and a smile creeps in.
“A tour? ”
“Yes.” The words come out a little gritted and you look to see Eddie's eyes widening a little while the guy looks between you with a small smirk.
“I defended his honour.” you offer and the guys grin only widens.
“What? “
“Did you need something?” Eddie cuts in, taking a step forward.
“Well sorry to interrupt,” he says looking around Eddie to you, “but someone wants to speak to you about a commission."
“Fuck. Okay.” He points at you as he turns. “I'll be back.”
“We need to finish the tour… I'll be back.” he wanders off after the guy and you bite back a grin.
“It's fine. You chuckle, "I'll be good from here.”
You're assuming this probably isn't the first ‘tour’ he's given.
You sigh at the loss of a flirty tour guide, resigning yourself to browsing the last of the exhibit alone and check the time, you could probably make the 8 o'clock bus if you walk quick enough.
The next two artists are textile based, the first making heavy quilted blankets made to look like the forest floor and the other stitched portraits on silk.
“Where were we?”
He manages to jump scare you again as you're taking notes of their names and you find him standing with two newly filled cups of wine.
“Oh…” you eye the cups in his hands and his eyes widen a little.
“Oh shit.” he takes a mouthful of each and licks his lips “No poison.”
You laugh and take one from him, “Trying to get me drunk?”
“No!” he almost yells and then shrinks a little as you grin into your drink letting him direct you onwards.
You slowly make your way to the back of the room and both your necks crane as you step up to where black amorphous plushies tower above you from the back wall.
“Woah” you stare up, the height of them making you dizzy and his hand skims between your shoulder blades as you take a clumsy step back, you flinch at the contact which he promptly removes and shoves into his shorts pockets.
You blink away the vertigo, walking up to inspect the stitching. “Is it weird that I kinda want to hug them?”
He laughs and hisses through his teeth “I probably wouldn't. They took three days to hang, wouldn't let anyone help,” he smiles and shakes his head. “If one falls, they will never find your body.”
Your eyes widen a little “Noted.”
“They're awesome though, like soft stalagmites.”
He grins and you wonder if his cheeks are starting to ache a little too.
"That's what I said, if you listen they make a sound”
You lean in with him and sure enough a low off key hum emanates from them.
Another name added to the list and you rock slightly on your heels, wincing at the ache in the soles if your feet and his eyes shift down.
“ You okay?”
“Yeah.” You wave him off, “just came straight from work, so my feet are sort of screaming.”
“Just that excited to see the exhibit, huh?” his eyes glance to your bag and you suddenly remember the slice of cake in there. He smiles, taking a sip of wine.
Busted.
“Can I be honest with you?”
“If I say no will you carry on anyways?”
You consider it for a second and then nod “Yes.”
God he has a nice smile.
“Then proceed.*
“I came here mainly for the food.”
He lets out a loud gasp that makes a couple of people around you turn and you quickly pull at his arm to move him away. “But, this might be the coolest free dinner I've had in a long time.”
You look around at all the pieces you've seen so far, and he watches you.
“You do this a lot? ” He asks and your eyes snap back to him. The question feels loaded but there's no judgement on his face, just soft curiosity.
“More when I was younger, I wanted to go to every show or exhibit I could and sort of learnt it was a perk sometimes? I like the community ones best, got thrown out of a couple of fancier ones.”
“Yeah?” his face lights up with mischevious interest.
“Yeah but the food sucked anyways.”
He laughs and takes a drink watching you over the rim.
His finger nails have blue under them.
Walking up to the next display your eyes widen in delight “Oh my god they're so, cute? Are they real?”
Three miniature scenes are set out on display, the first is a scene from The Shining with the twins stood in the hallway, the next is the shower scene from Psycho and the third from The Lost Boys in their cave. All costumed and displayed perfectly, and all depicted by mice.
“I'm not sure.” He crosses his arm over his chest and points a finger to the tiny mouse in a bathtub. “She says they're not but then she has this look. ”
“Look?”
“Some people weren't overly comfortable with having rodents live or… deceased in the building. Including the property manager." he says hushed. "So, she said she she would make them all from felt, but then after we spoke about it and she had this…look. ”
The way he speaks about everyone makes you feel something akin to a homesickness which you can't really place. A familiarity in his voice that makes you yearn.
You lean forward, taking in their beady eyes.
“I like them either way.” You smile, pushing the feeling away and you make another note, your flyer almost full by this point, his face is curious as you recap your pen and you shake your head as you read over it.
“I can't afford to buy anything right now,” you explain, “can't really hang anything either without it coming out of my deposit. So I keep names for… Someday.” you shake the paper slightly in your grip before you step to move away.
He pouts a little, nodding and following along with you you to the next artist until you both come to a stop as someone calls him over again.
Like last time he promises to be back, but you doubt it a little less now, watching as he looks over the room to you while he chats.
When he gets back you realise you're only a couple of spots from the end and when he finishes a story about the last artist you both stand suspended at the back of the room.
“So, what does the rest of Friday night look like for you?” he asks, suddenly looking like he doesn't know what to do with his hands.
“Home I guess?” You subconsciously pull a face and he raises his eyebrows in question.
“Shared apartment, sounded like a good idea at the time.”
“Oh, messy housemates or?”
“Fuck, I wish. They…” You hold a hand up stopping yourself from unloading onto a complete stranger about the woes of your living situation “it's fine. I did it when I was younger and thought it would be fun but, rose tinted glasses and all of that.”
“Blessing and fucking curse.” he laughs and you nod rocking on your feet a little again, your heels are starting to pinch and it must show.
“Sounds good.”
“We could sit for a while before you get going, if you want to rest your feet?" he offers before scratching the back of his neck." Could... get another drink?"
A smile creeps onto your face.
He smiles too, an almost shy one as he nods towards the doorway and you follow him back through towards the food tables which have dwindled significantly in their offerings.
He hands you another drink and you give him a small thanks, the thin plastic creasing delicately in your hold.
“Isn't there a limit on how much we can drink of this?” you say taking a sip and he shakes his head taking his own mouthful.
“Nah, it's fine we get it cheap. Linda makes it in her tub.” he says nodding over to a woman in a bright purple blouse talking animatedly to an intimidated looking man.
You laugh and take another drink but stop as he gives you a confused deadpan stare and you spit the wine back into the cup, his eyes go wide.
“I'm kidding, I'm kidding, shit, sorry” he hands you a bunch of napkins and does a bad job at hiding his smile as you wipe your chin.
“You're funny.” you say, and his smile slips free as he grins at you, nodding towards the edge of the room where a few chairs are scattered.
You stretch your legs out with a sigh as the pressure lifts from your soles and it seems like he needs it too, a small groan coming from him as he sits pulling out a pouch of tobacco from his back pocket and shifting to roll a cigarette.
“So where was the shift?” he asks filling one of the papers.
“You know The Maple, just off main?”
He smiles “Yeah I know it. Been there long?” He licks along the length of the paper and you try not to stare, instead leaning further back into your seat
“A couple of years, was meant to be a pitstop but still there.”
He nods, finishing his smoke and sticking it behind his ear. “Where was it a pitstop too?”
You shake your head “Honestly not sure anymore.”
He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off as someone shouts over to him, his head drops forward and he rolls his eyes dramatically.
“Just a sec’. ”
He grimaces as he stands and there's a slight limp to the way he walks away and you suddenly realise he spoke about everyone but himself.
“I realised something.” You say when he returns back and he looks at you curiously as he sits.
“I got stories about everyone else...” you tilt your head and he chuckles a bit.
“What do you want to know?”
He talks about his art and how he met everyone for a little while and then over the next hour you both let more and more tidbits of yourselves reveal themselves. Your face hurts from smiling, laughter sitting high in your chest, this wasn't the plan.
You don't want to leave.
But as he gets pulled away again you realise it's time to go, the few glasses of cheap wine have started to make you tired and the pain in the soles of your feet have started to take root.
You grab your bag and stand, walking through the bodies until your eyes meet and his face falls. Excusing himself he walks over to you as you pull the strap of your bag up over your shoulder.
“I need to head out.”
“Oh, uh yeah, yeah course.”
“Nice meeting you Eddie. Thanks for the tour and the tub wine.”
“No problemo.” he winces at himself slightly and you smile. “Maybe I'll see you again, next time you need a free meal?"
You nod and laugh “Yeah, see ya.”
You press through the bodies and out into the night, the last of the sunlight's still lingering but the air's a little cooler than when you arrived.
You've only just cleared the neighbouring building when you hear him call your name and you turn to see him walking down the street towards you.
“Here.” He hands you a postcard and you hesitate for a second on taking it.
“Oh, I don't have any cash.”
“On the house, don't think you can fit anymore on that flyer that's all.” He smiles and you take it from him.
Like you were going to forget him.
“Thanks.” He holds your gaze for a moment before he gives you a small wave and heads back up towards the building.
Despite your aching feet you make it to the bus stop on time and you settle in for the journey home, reaching into your bag you pull out the postcard. Blue and red storm clouds that fade to inky black, you tap it against your hand and turn it over.
6.6k | mechanic!Eddie Munson x coworker!Reader | Smut
Eddie's trying to rebuild his social life, with little success. When he finally has something to celebrate, he invites you and some guys from the shop out for drinks - his treat. When you're the only one who shows up at the bar, he finds himself seeing you in a new light.
anon asked: Eddie goes out one night and sees the funny kind but not attractive girl from work at a club. He sees her in a new light. NSFW idea
Notes: Reader is a little insecure. Soft dom!Eddie/needy sub!Reader. Gareth makes an appearance, but I (the author) am not very nice to him. Or his grandma.
Eddie's always been a little bit of a flirt. Nothing too crazy - he's always considered himself pretty good at reading the room - but sometimes just enough to get himself into trouble. Between that and his bad reputation, there's a reason his boss normally has the girl at the front desk handle all his transactions with customers.
Working at Kovach's took some getting used to at first. He's a social person, freak or not, and his coworkers… Well, they're outgoing in some ways, but they're not much like Eddie. Not nerdy, not big into his kind of music. And while he's been able to skate by with coworkers in the past by being charming and funny, the coworkers who've liked him the most are usually women. And, well, there aren't a lot of girls working at Kovach's Auto Repair. As a matter of fact, there's only one: you.
While Eddie knows his way around a car, he doesn't always know how to handle the sausage fest that is Kovach's. He's not an unmanly guy, but he's not exactly one of the boys, either. So more often than not, when Eddie's feeling social, he finds himself leaned against the front desk, teasing you about little things. How carefully you write when you total up parts and labor, the way you've actually got a preference for brands of copy paper.
Today's been a good day. Eddie's made a fair bit of cash from wrapping up a big repair - uninsured driver, hit a deer - and all that work has paid off. He's going out tonight to celebrate, and of course, you're invited.
"Me?" you ask, brow furrowing in disbelief as he plucks a cupcake out of the Tupperware dish beside you.
If Eddie notices your surprise, he doesn't mention it. "Yeah, duh," he says flatly. "You ever been to Crafter's?" It's a little brewery that opened up in the center of town. It's not the Ritz, but it's a little classier than The Hideaway. Over the last few years, Eddie drinks a lot less than he used to, so he prefers a quality drink when he does, instead of whatever glorified nail polish remover will get him drunk the fastest.
He's got no shame as he crams about two-thirds of the cupcake into his mouth. It's yellow cake and blue-dyed buttercream frosting. Eddie wouldn't just kill for the sweets you bring in on Fridays - he'd die for them. You gave up a long time ago on expecting Eddie to stick to one, so you've started bringing a little extra. For the whole crew, of course. Just in case.
You shake your head. "No, I've never been."
"Well, consider it a date," he says casually as he licks icing off his hand. "You, me, Gareth, and whatever other unlucky schmucks here don't already have plans for the night."
It doesn't go unnoticed by you that Eddie just assumes you don't have plans. Unfortunately, he's right, so it's hard to be mad. It's been a while since you've gone out anywhere, so you really can't blame him.
"Alright," you shrug.
Eddie throws a little side-eye your way. "'Alright'?"
You laugh at that. "What do you want me to say, Eddie? 'Oh, benevolent overlord, thank you for this blessing. I'd never be invited anywhere without you.'"
His grin is worth the teasing, and he throws a wink your way. "Now, that's more like it," he says, pointing in your direction. Then, he leans back in to snatch another cupcake, and you swat his hand away. He heads back into the shop with his hands up in surrender, wicked grin all but promising he'll be back to try again.
Surprising absolutely nobody, none of the guys from the shop come. Eddie's been trying to get to know his coworkers better, but it's been an uphill battle. Not everyone is keen to be seen associating with him in the first place. Plus, most of them have worked there since the shop opened. They're all somewhat older than Eddie and usually have wives to get home to or some sportsball event on TV.
But Eddie's been working hard to keep an open mind and an optimistic outlook. It's hard to do - harder than ever - but it's also more important than ever. Somewhere in the aftermath of all the shit that's gone down in Hawkins, he realized the only way he was ever going to have a life was to start acting like, one day, he might have one.
So he tries to let it roll right off his back, like a duck in water.
Gareth showed up, which is at least better than no one. And you should be here any minute now, assuming you keep your word. And he doesn't take you for a liar.
"What's this girl's name again?" Gareth asks, frowning at his cider. He doesn't love meeting new people and isn't very good at remembering them, either. He's already met you once, when he brought his car into the shop, but Eddie supposes maybe he wouldn't remember your name, either, if he'd only ever interacted with you once at the checkout counter.
It's not that there's anything wrong with you. It's just that he wouldn't exactly consider you memorable. You're punctual and diligent. You do a good job working the front desk, but Eddie's not sure what would even make a receptionist stand out in a place like Kovach's, or what would qualify one for employee of the month.
You're not what Eddie'd call a knockout, either. The guys at work don't make up excuses to come and lean against the counter all casual-like, just so they can lay eyes on you. They don't ask you out for dinner, or offer their "services" - the single employees or the customers. It's not like someone would take a look at you and run for the hills, but you're just… a regular person. Exactly the kind of girl Eddie would expect to see working the counter at Kovach's.
So no, you're not exactly memorable. But you are cool, in a sense. Your uncle runs the shop, so you're not afraid of making fun of the other mechanics with Eddie when you've got downtime. (What's he gonna do? Fire you?) And you're always willing to help Eddie squeak in last-minute orders for parts, even when you should tell him to wait until tomorrow. And the thing that makes you the coolest is that you look at Eddie like he's somebody, which is a lot better than he gets from anyone else at the shop, except for Kovach himself.
Eddie reminds Gareth of your name for the third time since he invited him to Crafter's in the first place. Says it nice and slow, then spells it for good measure with a mocking tune.
He never even sees you coming when you pull the barstool away from the high-top and climb onto it. One second, there was no trace of you, and now, here you are, in all your glory (or lack thereof).
"You spelled it wrong," you say by way of a greeting. You don't look directly at him, but you're not looking at Gareth, either. Instead, you lean slightly toward Eddie, bending over at the waist to place your purse on the ground between his seat and yours. Your hair brushes his arm, and he pulls back, trying to give you some space.
When you sit up straight, you flash Eddie a half-heartedly apologetic smile. "Sorry 'bout that." Then you look across the table. "You must be Gareth?" you ask.
Eddie blinks, realizing he's fumbled the intro already. "Oh, yeah." There's something about your arrival that's thrown Eddie off-kilter. It's probably just that he expected he'd see you walk through the door - that's part of why he chose this table in the first place.
Gareth, for his part, doesn't seem fazed at all. He just says "yep," as though having a bit of personality might actually kill him.
"No Greg?" you ask Eddie.
He shrugs. "They all said no, except for Michael, who said maybe, which means no."
Gareth whistles lowly at that and shakes his head, taking a big swig of his cider. Eddie wrinkles his nose in response. Gareth's never learned how to savor anything. He drinks to get drunk. Eddie used to, too; now, he doesn't remember what he enjoyed about it.
"Wow, Ed," Gareth drawls, "your social life is reaching new heights every day."
Eddie doesn't even dignify Gareth with a response. There's plenty he could make fun of Gareth for, but he knows this game well. Eddie's got the advantage of knowing both of his guests, and you and Gareth don't know each other at all. Leave it to Gareth to try and build a bridge by making Eddie the butt of the joke.
He doesn't mind, not really. It's probably better than Gareth ignoring you all night.
So instead of reacting to Gareth's stupid jab, Eddie looks at you intently. "Want anything to drink?"
You cock your head to the side and look at the glass he's got his hand wrapped around. "What are you drinking?" Your voice is soft; he can just hear you over the low thrum of guitar and voices of regulars.
Eddie's been experimenting with mixed drinks since he started coming to Crafter's, and he's challenged himself not to drink the same thing twice all summer. It started as a bid to make conversation with the bartender on duty during his first visit. Now it's turned into a collaborative quest to test the limits of what Bartender Nick can do with the supplies available to him. Eddie's had some real stinkers as a result - last week, it was some atrocity that had the consistency of egg drop soup - but this one's not bad at all.
"Coffee and Coke," he tells you, like that's a normal thing to be drinking.
You don't seem impressed. Even worse, from your expression, you're a little revolted. "Seriously?"
"Well, yeah. It's like an espresso martini but with Coke." You don't seem convinced. "Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it. I'll buy you one if you'll give it a chance."
"I think I'd rather have a drink menu."
Eddie sighs theatrically, but like a diligent host, he pushes his barstool back and stands. "Your loss," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "Food menu, too?"
"Yes," Gareth chimes in, looking bored as usual.
"Be nice," Eddie warns Gareth, signaling that he's keeping an eye on him before weaving through bodies and chairs to the bar. That's all he needs, is Gareth scaring you off before you can even settle in.
For better or worse, before Gareth even receives the appetizer he ordered, his mom calls the bar, asking for him, and he has to leave. Grandma had a fall, and his mom had to take her to the hospital but forgot all of Grandma's meds at home. Eddie asks if he's going to be okay, but Gareth doesn't let on like he's worried. He says it doesn't sound too serious, and despite how much Gareth pretends he doesn't care about anything, Eddie knows he's a Grandma's boy through and through. If it was a big deal, he'd be acting like it.
"Poor Grandma," you say with a contemplative frown after Gareth leaves.
Eddie'd never given a lot of thought to the prospect of getting older and what that must be like until '86. He never really thought he'd live to be old. Now that he's determined to do so, that kind of stuff weighs on his mind more than he'd like. He makes a mental note to take some flowers to Gareth's grandma tomorrow, after sleeping off whatever level of hangover he leaves Crafter's with.
As if like clockwork, one of the servers brings out the appetizer sampler. Eddie asks her to put Gareth's purchases on his tab. Gareth tried to insist on paying for himself earlier, but Grandma's unfortunate fall means that he isn't there to stop Eddie from covering the bill.
You and Eddie split Gareth's appetizer, and you chat a bit about you. While you're always friendly at work, you don't talk about yourselves much at all - just small talk and the like, and those awesome desserts you bring. You talk about how you moved back to Hawkins after college, that your family had lived here for a while when you were young, and then when you struggled to find a job after college, your uncle agreed to hire you. You tell him about your little shoebox apartment above the general store on Main Street.
He tells you he plays guitar, and that he and Gareth used to be in a metal band together, called Corroded Coffin. You talk about music quite a lot, comparing notes - the unexpected things you have in common, the funny differences in your tastes. Eddie's softened up a little in the last several years and has been trying to expand his musical horizons. He confesses that he's got a soft spot for Madonna.
It's when you laugh at his admission that something shifts in his mind. When you arrived, you sat between him and Gareth at the circular table, meaning you're directly to his left. You're sitting so close, he hasn't actually gotten a good look at you - although, he guesses he wasn't really trying. But when you laugh, he sees up close the way your eyelashes flutter, the way your smile touches your eyes. And your eyes - they're full of affection instead of judgment.
Eddie's seen you nearly five days a week for months now, and talked with you at least once each of those days, and yet, he's never really noticed you. Not the way he's noticing you now. He can't help but smile at the sound of your laugh, and against his will, his eyes follow the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips. You feel impossibly close. He didn't even see it before, the way your shoulders are tilted in towards him, and the way he's also turned slightly on his barstool, leaving you only a few inches apart.
When you place your elbow on the table and support your cheek with your hand, he sucks in a breath and leans back, blinking. He's been drinking, but he's not drunk. Not drunk enough to cause the warmth in his belly and chest, or the muddled feeling in his mind.
"I'm gonna go grab another drink. D'you want another one?" he asks with a nod toward your empty glass.
"Oh," you say, perking up, "sure!"
"Alright, what do you want?"
You're already sliding off of your barstool behind him. "I'll come with you. I don't trust you with my drink." Eddie's brow furrows at that before you interrupt his train of thought with another laugh. "Not like that - I don't remember what's on the menu, and you clearly have bad judgment," you say, waving a hand at what used to be his drink.
Bartender Nick had called it a Monkey Gland, whatever that means. Eddie's not even sure what was in it, just that it was a lot in the flavor department.
Eddie lets you lead the way to the bar, and oh, man, that was a mistake. Now that he's more than a foot away from you, his curious eyes are quite busy, and that's not a good spot to be in when trying to keep up in a crowd.
You've done your hair, is the thing - not like you do for work, but something softer and more feminine. He noticed your makeup earlier, your striking eyes, but he failed to notice the hair. Or your dress, for that matter; it's a tight little thing that ends at your mid-thigh. It fits like it was made for you. He's never seen you out of uniform, or wearing anything but non-slip tennis shoes. Your strappy heels draw his attention, glinting gold in the overhead lights.
You look like you dressed up, is the thing. Yeah, your outfit is cute. Yeah, you're more relaxed tonight than you ever are at work - and more conversational. But you look like you tried. Do you try like this for all your social events? Did you dress up for Eddie?
Did you come to Crafter's with the intention of going home to a place you've never been? Or do you have an "afterparty" he's not been invited to attend?
By the time you reach the bar, he's sweating, and it's not just his hair. It's you.
"I thought you weren't having anything you've already had this summer," you tease as you climb back onto your barstool. You just got a refill of your usual, but Eddie's changed from some obscure cocktail to a piña colada.
"Maybe I've never had a piña colada before," Eddie says, raising his eyebrows at you.
"I don't believe you."
Eddie simply sips through his straw in response, pink lips wrapped nicely around the black plastic.
You're feeling warm from the alcohol, and making conversation with Eddie is as natural as anything. Eddie's always a little bit of a charmer at work, and sometimes you struggle not to blush, but this is different. His not just charming tonight - he's flirtatious. You wonder if he's like this with all of his friends. Although, you can't imagine he'd flirt well with Gareth.
After a little while if shooting the shit, Eddie's posture grows a little more stiff. He leans back on his barstool and rolls his shoulders. "Thank you for coming out tonight," he says, just loud enough for you to hear him over the music, but low enough that you have to lean in.
"Yeah, of course," you say with a smile, surprised at the gratitude. "I wouldn't have missed it." Although, it's just now occurring to you - none of the guys from work came, and Gareth had to leave early. If you hadn't come, Eddie'd be spending tonight at the bar all by himself. The thought reminds you of birthday parties from your past, the ones where everyone said they'd be there but nobody showed.
Eddie's so genuine and so lively, you can't imagine him sitting in a bar all by his lonesome, waiting for someone to come who never will. Maybe it's just your little crush talking, but Eddie is… He's friendly and witty and oh my God, he's even hotter with his hair down. Someone like Eddie - it's baffling to think he could ever be stood up, by friends or otherwise.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" Heat rushes to your cheeks as soon as you say it, and Eddie's brown eyes widen a little. You didn't exactly mean to ask. It just came out as soon as the thought crossed your mind. But you don't retract the question.
Clearing his throat, he says, "No, I'm not seeing anyone. Why do you ask?"
You feel a little bold, although not quite assertive. You look down at the table as you say, "I was just curious if anyone else would be coming to meet up with us."
After a beat of silence, Eddie's fingertips graze your thigh, just above the knee. When you look up at him, his brown eyes are warm like caramel. "It's just us."
Eddie doesn't know how it happened. It's like his fingers moved of their own volition, but he could swear he feels a spark when his skin meets yours. Your eyes haven't left his, but you take a sip of your drink through the little black straw, and then he feels you press into his touch, ever so slightly.
Every time Eddie's ever talked to you, he's noticed how kind you are, and how funny. But he's never before noticed the exact shade of your eyes, or—Jesus Christ—the scent of your hair. It's coconut. The smell is intoxicating, and it leaves him wanting more. So much that when his chest brushed against your shoulder at the bar, the only thing he could think about was coconut. He opened his mouth to ask for a lemon drop and ended up ordering a piña colada instead.
"Do you—" Eddie cuts himself off abruptly. For a moment there, he was almost so lost in your eyes that he forgot himself. You're his coworker. Your uncle owns the company he works for. The first place that's really given him a chance. It's a terrible idea.
But he doesn't miss the way your jaw drops, lips parting just slightly. "Do I what?" you ask. Slowly, you lift your leg up and cross it over the other, leaning just a bit closer in your seat. And Eddie can see it. He can see the way you want him, too. It's in your eyes. It's in your touch as you lay a soft hand on his forearm. It's in the flutter of your lashes as you look up at him, like you're waiting for him to give you something. Something he'd love to give.
Earlier today, Eddie had only ever thought of you as a friendly coworker, a buddy, maybe a confidant of minor indiscretions. Tonight, he can feel the charge of the static between you, can almost see the desire rolling off of you in waves. He knows what it feels like because it's vibrating at the same frequency of his own.
Eddie's been keeping a slow pace for his drinks, slower than he thought he would. His intention tonight was, despite his usual attitude, to get absolutely plastered. But he's been so caught up in chatting with you that he's only had three drinks, and it's been two and a half hours. And he's not even finished the third.
You're on your second, and he doesn't know your tolerance, but your eyes aren't glassy and your movements aren't that languid, too-slow pace of someone who's beyond tipsy. No, you're both a little tipsy at worst.
Your thumb brushes over the mottled scarring of his bat tattoo, and his breath catches in his throat. Finally, against his better judgment, he asks, "Do you wanna get out of here?"
Eddie's presence in your apartment is almost unnerving, with just how aware you are of him. You haven't had a guy over since you moved into the place six months ago, so for it to be Eddie, the funny guy from work who's way out of your league, is mind-boggling.
There's an awkward density to the air. It's surreal, is the thing. He's hanging his leather jacket up at the front door beside your raincoat, and your eyes are zeroed in on your feet as you undo the straps of your heels. Eddie takes his time unlacing his combat boots beside you. If he's as nervous as you are, he doesn't let on.
His hand brushes against your hip as you stand, ready to support you if you were to stumble. When you look up at him, he pulls you in close, one hand resting at your waist, and the other delicately cupping your jaw. His touch is gentle, like he's afraid you might shatter, or worse, run away.
You don't miss the way his gaze flickers to your lips and his own part slightly with anticipation. He leans in just an inch or two before stopping himself, big, brown eyes looking into yours. "Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice a low murmur.
Your breath catches in your throat. This is the way you get out of this awkward feedback loop in your head, you think. The overthinking, the wondering what changed for him, why he suddenly wants this when he's never seemingly looked at you twice. This is how it ends - by you taking his cues. You've thought about touching Eddie close to a hundred times, at this point, and now that you've got the opportunity, you don't know how to close the deal.
So you nod quietly and follow his lead.
For all that Eddie's fingers are calloused from working on cars and playing guitar, his touch is gentle. He strokes the pad of his thumb over your cheek, his breath warm on your skin as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyelashes flutter as your eyes close, and you try to relax into him, hands finding his waist. His lips are softer than you would have expected, and he kisses you like…
It doesn't feel like an easy score or a one night stand, really. He moves slowly and methodically, but not without urgency. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his lips find yours again quickly, and you inhale the scent of his cologne through your nose - bergamot and cinnamon. Your lips part slightly as his fingertips graze the soft skin behind your ear, and when they do, you feel his tongue brush gently against yours. It startles you a little, and you pull away, cheeks burning.
Eddie leans back to see you better. "You okay?"
Embarrassed, you nod and bite your lip. "Yeah, I'm fine. You just surprised me is all."
Cocking his head to the side, he asks, "Good surprise, or bad surprise?"
"Not bad."
His eyes search yours, and he cradles the back of your head with his hand. "You're sure you want to do this?" When you hesitate to respond, Eddie tips his head toward the couch behind you. "Why don't we go sit down and talk it out?"
As he leads you to the sofa, you complain, "I don't think we need to talk, really."
He shoots a look your way that says he begs to differ. "Honey, we're not getting anywhere if you can't talk to me about how you're feeling." When he sits, he turns his body to face you, one leg pulled up onto the couch and the other hanging off of it. Uncertainty all over your face, you mirror him, dress riding up your thighs.
Eddie politely pretends not to notice, instead taking your hand in his and leveling you with a look of genuine curiosity and a hint of concern. He hesitates to begin, not sure which route to take to steer the conversation in the right direction, but after a second, he finally just asks, "Are you attracted to me?"
Your cheeks burn hot at the question, but you nod. "Yeah, I am."
"Okay," he says, drawing out the second syllable. "Do you like me?"
Your brow furrows, like you're not sure why he would ask. "Of course I like you."
He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb and asks, "Okay, so what's going on? You seem nervous." After a beat, he says, "Is it because of Kovach?"
You wrinkle your nose at that. "Don't talk about him," you say quickly, like you're trying to put your uncle out of your mind as quickly as possible. "No, it's not that; it's just… are you actually, like, into me?" Eddie's taken aback by your question. You can tell from the way he blinks in response, so you continue. "You've never acted like you had any particular interest in me before, and then tonight, it's like something has changed, but—Do you actually want me, or do you just want someone?"
There it is, Eddie thinks, the big question.
He lets go of your hand and sits up a little straighter before asking, "Have you ever been somewhere before, like a neighborhood you drive through all the time, and thought it was a nice neighborhood but never thought too much about it?" When you make a face, he says, "Seriously, just humor me. Think about it."
Even though it's silly, you try to do as he asks. You imagine your drive to and from work. It's a short one. You follow Main Street, and then go out toward Maple, and then on to the edge of town. And between Maple Street and Kovach's, sure, there are some pretty nice houses, and some average ones, but overall, it's a decent neighborhood.
"Yeah, I guess so," you say hesitantly.
Eddie perks up a little at that. "Okay, so you're driving through this neighborhood that you go through every day, and part of what makes the neighborhood nice is all the individual houses. So you pass the first house, and it's decent, you know, you like the house alright. And you pass the second one, and it's pretty good, too. And you start thinking, okay, this must be an alright neighborhood. And then on down the street, there's, like, this beautiful house. It's got nice siding and brick, and the lawn is manicured really well, like the people who live there must really care about their house. It's got the white picket fence and everything. It's the American dream."
You laugh, a little awkwardly. "Eddie, I really don't understand what you're getting at here."
"You're the neighborhood," he says quickly, as though that makes perfect sense. "And it's like all the houses in the neighborhood are parts of you that I've seen before. But it's like, today, I saw this fucking beautiful house in the neighborhood, on a street I'd never gone down before, and all I could think about was how gorgeous that house is - and how much I like this neighborhood."
You make a face.
"Seriously," he says, leaning in a little closer. "I see you every day, and you know what? I like it when you bring cupcakes, and I like it when you make fun of the other guys and shitty, asshole customers with me, and the way you let me get away with putting in last-minute parts orders, and the way you get embarrassed when I catch you reading, and—"
He can see it in your eyes and the little crease between your furrowed eyebrows - he sees the way it's dawning on you now, but he says it anyway.
"I didn't realize how much I like those things, but tonight, when I got to see you really just be yourself instead of who you have to be at work - I loved that. And I love seeing you dressed like this, and acting a little more confident, but it's not just about the way you look. I feel like, for the first time, I'm really seeing who you are. And this isn't just a decent neighborhood to me anymore. I just realized tonight that this is a really nice neighborhood, a beautiful one, and I'd move there if one of the houses were up for sale. But before tonight, I just hadn't seen enough of the neighborhood to know."
Your voice is smaller, softer when you look up at him through your lashes. "Eddie…"
He licks his lips, brown eyes searching yours, and then he asks again, "Can I please kiss you?"
This time, you feel it - that electricity that binds you, the same spark that simmered in the current between you both at the bar. You don't bother answering him, just raise up onto your knees and close the gap between you. Your fingers slot themselves into Eddie's hair, that soft, curly hair you've been dying to touch for ages, and as your lips meet his, he pulls you in closer, standing to his feet. On paper, it looks like you're following his lead, but Eddie feels the insistence in your touch as your press your hands to his chest, guiding him backwards to the bed in the corner of the room.
When the backs of his legs connect with the mattress, you slide your hands up to the hem of his shirt and begin tugging it up his torso. Your lips part from his just long enough to pull the shirt over his head, and then you're back on him, pushing him down by the shoulders until he gets the memo to sit down at the foot of the bed.
A moan escapes you as your hands find his abdomen, palms pressed flat against the firm muscles you've only seen in glimpses at the shop. Eddie laughs at the needy sound that spills from your mouth, and he hooks one leg behind your knee, rolling over to pin you to the mattress. "Oh, honey," he coos, all sticky sweet sympathy. "You've been wanting this a long time, huh?"
If it was anyone else, you'd probably feel patronized, probably take offense. But you know Eddie, and instead of offending you, it only makes you want him more. Nodding emphatically, you tug him closer by the belt loops. "Think about you a lot," you confess, your breath catching at the end as he presses a soft, languid kiss to your neck, beneath your ear. Hitching your leg higher up his waist, you press your hips against his, searching for relief.
"Mm, do you?" His hands roam your body, caressing the outside of your thigh with one and hiking up the hem of your dress with the other. His smile is a little smug. "What do you think about?"
You don't think you could feel embarrassed right now if you tried. Your response spills out of you of it's own accord, on a breathy sigh, as he lowers the strap of your dress and kisses along your collarbone. "Think about your - mm, your fingers," you whimper. "Filling me up, getting me ready for you."
"Yeah?" he pulls you onto his lap, then. With his hand, he cups your heat through your panties. "These fingers?" he murmurs, stroking you through the thin fabric.
Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you brace yourself for his touch, hips squirming slightly to give him better leverage. You're on fire now, pulse thrumming hard and fast in your throat. "Eddie, please."
"Oh, honey," he says, looking into your glassy eyes, "you don't have to beg. I'll give it to you, I promise."
You can't help it - when he hooks his fingers into the side of your panties, pulls them aside and grazes his fingertips against your clit, you whine and dig your nails into his back. This isn't just sensitivity after a dry spell. You need his touch like you need to breathe. Now that you have it, it feels so surreal that it's painful.
"Let me take these off, sweet girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You do as he asks, and the maneuvering is a little awkward, but the anxiety is gone. When you settle back into his lap, he strokes the hair at your hairline and pulls you to his chest, letting you slump against his shoulder.
Eddie presses the pad of his thumb into your folds, and he listens to your sounds to help guide him. After just a couple of seconds, he finds your clit again - confirmed when you whimper and spread your thighs a little farther apart for him.
"That's it, baby," he coos, sweeping a broad circle around your clitoris before using his middle finger to trace a trail all the way down from your labia to your hole. Your walls clench at the sensation, and he must feel it because he hums soothingly when you do. Then, just as he presses one fingertip to your entrance, he asks, "D'you touch yourself like this?" You nod against his shoulder, shame and embarrassment completely absent from your mind. He dips his finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, before pulling out again. "You imagine it's me touching your pussy like this?"
He doesn't wait for your response before sinking his finger deep inside you, all the way down to the chunky, silver ring at his third knuckle. You cry out in response, thighs already shaking with anticipation. "Eddie," you whine, lifting your hips up to fuck yourself on his finger.
"You should have said something, baby," he says, syrupy sweet. "I'd have taken care of you a long time ago if I knew you needed me so bad."
Normally, his cockiness might be sexy, but right now, it's more frustrating than anything. You grit your teeth as he works another finger inside of you. The stretch is so delicious, you lose your train of thought for a moment, walls clenching tightly around him. It's made even more difficult to think when he resumes rubbing little circles into your clit with his thumb. For a few seconds, the only thing you can do is surrender to the pleasure and moan into his shoulder.
Just when you're starting to adjust, he curls his fingers forward, toward your pelvic bone, and you gasp at the sensation. He tries different angles, but it's only a matter of seconds before he finds that spot, the one that fills you with blinding, white-hot pleasure. Before long, you're chanting his name like it's a life-saving incantation, and you're barely able to get a grasp on what's happening before your climax hits, hard and fast and way too soon, and suddenly, you're cumming all over his fingers. When you cry out his name, your voice sounds ragged to your own ears, like it's coming from someone else entirely. Your hips buck against his hand, silently begging for both more and less at the same time.
He works you through your orgasm, tells you what a great job you've done, how beautiful you look while taking his fingers. Wrenching a sob from your throat with one hand, he uses the other to rub your back, soothing you with touch and praise.
When you finally finish, you push his hand away half-heartedly, clitoris too overstimulated to handle anymore of his ministrations. Eddie laughs and eases you down onto your back, then presses a soft kiss to your temple as you try and catch your breath.
He takes your hand in his and kisses the back of it, gentleman-like, as though he didn't just make you cum all over his lap merely seconds ago. Your brain is seemingly stuck in overdrive, thoughts incoherent.
When his hand grazes your thigh, you look over at him, where he lies beside you, and his expression is serious - the most serious you've ever seen it. "Can I touch you again?" he asks, and your mind races at the thought.
Of course he can touch you, you think, but you don't know if you can handle it. "I-I'm sensitive," you say, looking into his eyes for any hint of disappointment.
"Sensitive… here?" He taps a finger just to the side of your clitoris, and you nod, curling into him. When you do, he asks, "What if I don't touch you there? You think you could handle that?"
Headlights shine through the window above Main Street and ricochet off the walls, casting Eddie's face in just a glimpse of light. In that moment, you can see it highlighted all over his face, the desire smoldering in his big, brown eyes. And you know you'd give him anything he wanted, even if you felt like you were going half-insane with over-stimulation.
Swallowing thickly, you nod. "What do you wanna do?"
He walks his fingers across your arm and pulls you closer. His voice is low as he murmurs, "I wanna take my time with you… wanna see how pretty you look when you cum on my cock."
Normally, that kind of talk might make you feel embarrassed from it's crassness, but instead, it's the flattery that makes you bite back a smile. "I'm not pretty," you say. Your voice holds no conviction.
Eddie's fingers cup your jaw, tilting your chin up so you can't look away when he says, "You're beautiful to me."
Hey youuu any chance you have any billy x reader recommendations? Thanks in advance even if you don't 🖤
Hi Lovely :) Thanks for asking. I love giving out recommendations. Tbh I haven't read for Billy in a long time and half of my favourite posts have been deleted (rip Sin-Bin Billy,I will forever hold that fic in my heart).
But here are some of the ones I found that I really enjoyed.
The Hurt is Good - @bookshelf-dust
I'm not even sure how to describe this story in a way that does it justice, but I'll try my best. Reader is Billy's neighbour and doesn't have any friends, but finds one in Billy. It's really sweet, so well written, with amazing pacing. It feels like a warm hug or a nice bowl of soup.
Kids Show Up - @bookshelf-dust
Reader and Billy celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday the way they want to. It has some lovely Billy and Max moments and again, just feels so comforting to read.
*Honestly, OP's entire masterlist is amazing. I love everything she writes, but these two are my favourite.
Friends to Lovers w Billy - Deactivated Account
Touchy reader is friends with Billy and Billy starts to realise how much he enjoys her non-sexual touch. This is why it's important to reblog! Even though this account is deactivated, I can still see this drabble.
Billy Helps you sleep - @shes-an-odd-bird (18+ blog! This blog reblogs 18+ images! While this is not smut, there is plenty on op's blog).
A cute little drabble, pre-established relationship, where Billy helps the reader sleep. I think op has some of my favourite Billy dialogue. he still sounds kind of rough around the edges, but you can tell he always cares about reader.
Sorry, it's not as much compared to some other characters, but I was pretty picky about Billy fics, even when I did read them more often.
Imagine getting a computer for the first time in the ealy 2000s and Eddie going absolutely crazy for it, googling random shit and showing it to you every five minutes. There would be a lot of long nights, trying to fall asleep while Eddie calls out random facts he found on Google from the living room of your shared apartment, too excited to come to bed.
“Did you know that sharks are like dinosaurs? Like they’re a billion years old or something?”
“We can watch a whole Metallica show on here!! Come quick!”
“Did you know that cats sleep for like 15 hours a day?”
“Imagine all the homework I coulda breezed through if we had one of these babies in high school.”
“A baby hedgehog is called a hoglet… Huh. The more you know.”
