[sexwithnocondom]

— CHANEL

23 • Virgo

Writing emotionally unavailable people since forever. Expect ugly coping mechanisms. Everyone falls in love eventually. That’s when I make it hurt

Steve Harrington connoisseur. Eddie Munson apologist.

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[graywrenhart]

SMOKE BREAK

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: There's just one thing Steve Harrington can't quite seem to quit.

tags: MDNI [smut] [sorta kinda exes to lovers but not really] [at a wedding] [smoking] [riding] [telling steve to quit smoking, but you secretly think it's hot] [steve blows cigarette smoke in your mouth] [king steve] [second chance] [idiots in love] [angst] [unprotected p in v sex] 1.5k words

a/n: got obsessed with joe with that damn cigarette at the tame impala concert last night, and then i saw blaize @harringtonsdiary post this, and the next thing i knew…here we are lol.

“Nuh-uh,” Steve scolds, hooking his thumb between your lips and tipping your chin back down to meet his gaze. “I know it feels so good, but you were saying something. Go ahead.”

He punctuates his words with a thrust of his hips, shoving his cock deeper inside your soaked cunt. Your thighs shake as you clamp down around him, your dress whispering against his rumpled button down.

It’s dark in this field, your only witnesses are the crickets and the moon, but you’re close enough to hear the music from the wedding reception happening just over the hill. The fairy lights strung from the trees in the distance cast a dim halo around Steve’s mussed hair as he sits on the ground with you straddling him.  

“So drunk on my cock already,” he croons, “Can’t even remember what you were yelling at me about. Jesus, you must’ve really missed me, huh?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, but your reprimand falls flat when his thumb finds your clit beneath your dress, rubbing those perfect, firm circles that have you jerking into his touch despite yourself. “It’s only been two w-weeks.”

The sharp smell of smoke fills your nose, and you watch through heavy lids as Steve lifts his cigarette to his mouth again, the end flaring bright orange before dimming again.

The sight reminds you why you came out here in the first place. 

“I told you,” you grit out, trying to ignore the way his swollen tip brushes that spot deep inside you that no one else can ever seem to reach. “R-robin sent me to get you for your best man, or man of honor—or whatever the fuck you’re called—speech, and then I find you out here doing that d-disgusting habit of yours again—” 

“Disgusting?” he interrupts with an amused huff. “You sure about that?”

And when his eyes find yours again in the moonlight, he leans back on one arm and takes another slow pull from the cigarette. His lips purse, cheeks hollowing softly and revealing those dimples you used to kiss before he woke up in the morning. 

You swallow hard, and your knees tremble in the dirt on either side of his hips, his cock twitching inside you. It’s not fair that he looks so hot doing it, too, with that smirk building at the corner of his mouth, and his tongue swiping over his bottom lip?

“Yes, Steve,” you whisper, breathy and desperate, your body arching against his. “It’s disgusting. This is why we took a break, remember? You don’t listen to me when I tell you it’s going to kill you one day—“

“God, you know what the worst part is?” he continues, tipping his head toward the sky like he didn’t even hear you. The smoke leaves his mouth in soft puffs as he speaks, drifting up towards the stars. “You keep telling yourself you hate it, because deep down…you actually like it.” His eyes drop back to yours. “Why do you think I didn’t quit these immediately when you asked, huh? Maybe I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

Despite the summer heat, a shiver rolls through you as he brings the cigarette up to his mouth again. Your breath catches as his eyes drop to your lips.

Then, he sits up and grabs your face, long fingers dimpling your cheeks and tilting your face down towards his and just…holding you there. His breath is hot against your cheek, and saliva pools in your mouth, your cunt clamping down on him hard in anticipation of his lips on yours. 

His hand under your dress slips under your thigh, spreading you wider so he can push his cock in deeper before it returns to your clit. Your mouth parts, a whimper caught in your throat. 

All it would take is one kiss to send you over the edge. Just a brush of his tongue against yours, and—

A stream of smoke hits your face. 

You jolt back on instinct, eyes burning, but Steve’s hands settle on your hips, fingers splayed possessively over your ass as he holds you against him. You cough, your walls fluttering around his length and pulling a helpless grunt from his chest.

“Goddamn it, Steve—” you croak, but he’s not fighting with you anymore.

He’s fucking up into you now, his mouth on your neck, and you work in unison to pick up the pace, neither one of you willing to stop.

Your hands fly to his shoulder for balance, but you can’t help but trace his strong arms through his shirt, feeling his muscles shiver under your touch. 

“I know what you like,” Steve says, “What you need. What turns you on. One cigarette and look at how wet you are for me.”

He’s right, you are wet. You’re practically dripping down his balls, soaking your inner thighs, and every pass over his hard, thick length is so slick and tight it draws whimpers unbidden from both your throats.

“Steve, you’re the one who dragged me into your lap out here, you think this is what I really need right now—”

“Yeah, well, you know what I really need?” he snaps, brown eyes flashing up in the dark. “I need you back in my bed every night.”

You swallow hard and your eyes drop to his lips. 

“More?” he asks, and you’re already nodding. He lets go of your hip with one hand, and picks up the cigarette again. This time, when he exhales it into your mouth, the smoke isn’t as harsh. It’s almost…sweet. Especially when you close the distance and press your lips to his. 

The familiar taste of him loosens something in your chest, and your hands fly to his hair, curling into the nape of his neck. 

His brows furrow as he kisses you back, and his arms leave your hips to wrap around you, helping you ride him quick and hard. Just how he likes it. 

“Will you come back to me, baby?” he pulls back to whisper against your mouth. “Fuck, I’ll do whatever….whatever you want. Anything, you know that—”

You kiss him again, slower this time, because the gentle press of your lips against his says more than any words can. His thumb returns to your clit, slipping under the fabric of your dress bunched around your hips, and he feels the familiar stuttering pattern of your breaths, the way your hips lock under his touch. 

“Go ahead, sweetheart, come around my cock,” he groans. “I know you need it. I need it too. C’mon, please—”

And just like that, the hot band between your hips finally snaps. You come with a muffled cry of his name, your forehead falling against his shoulder as your walls pulse around him. 

His hips jerk and you lift your head to cover his mouth with your own as his climax overtakes him and he moans, releasing deep inside you.

Your chests heave against each other as you slowly come down from the high. His cock twitches inside you, and he mouths at you neck, pulling soft whispers and promises from your lips as he tastes your skin. 

You let yourselves savor that moment—until the music stops in the distance and you remember that Robin’s looking for her best man.

He’s quick to help you up, steadying you with an arm around your waist as your legs wobble underneath you, before tucking himself back in his clothes and raking a hand through his hair.

Your gaze drops to the dying embers of the cigarette on the grass beside you, and you grind the toe of your high heel into it, smothering it into the dirt. 

“I’m still serious about you quitting, Steve,” you toss over your shoulder as you straighten your dress and prepare to walk back to the reception. 

“Fine,” he says, coming up behind you and dropping a kiss to your shoulder. His warm, calloused hand trails down your arm until his fingers thread through yours. “Just as long as you never ask me to quit you ever again.”

steve masterlist

steve taglist: @s3xytosomeone , @xoxocelestial , @another-widow , @calelundaa , @unabashedlyinlovewithyou,

@micheledawn1975 , @another-widow, @keer-y , @lacywithdrawal, @parabathigh,

@itszulli, @assumedcryptid , if you want to be added, comment here!

[cat-thingy-thing]

it’s way too hot 🔥

[sexwithnocondom]

What the fuck, man

[sexwithnocondom]

OUT OF OFFICE— Steve Harrington

SYNOPSIS— Schedules are followed, meetings start on time, assistants keep everything running exactly as planned, and your life has been built around one very simple principle: efficiency. The only exception has ever been your son. What begins as a quick stop for Royce slowly introduces you to a world you never intended to become part of…

CW—Single parenthood, emotionally unavailables, workaholic tendencies, mild language, slow burn, accidental feelings (pending), Steve Harrington smiling too much, excessive sexual tension that absolutely does not exist… yet.

AUTHORS NOTE— they put steve harrington on a baseball field and expected me to act normal. bold assumption.

The first thing you noticed was the noise.

Not the loud kind—not sirens or shouting or the constant polished chaos that filled every inch of your normal life—but the layered kind. The kind that settled into the evening air and wrapped around the baseball field like a living thing. Aluminum bats cracking against baseballs. Sneakers scraping over packed dirt. Children laughing too loudly somewhere near the dugout. A whistle blowing twice in the distance while chain-link fences rattled every few seconds from boys throwing themselves against them.

The entire park smelled like fresh-cut grass, dirt, sweat, and summer heat still trapped in the pavement long after the sun had started setting.

You hated it immediately.

Mostly because you were never supposed to be here.

Your evenings ran on precision. Everything in your life did.

Your assistant color-coded your weekly schedule three months in advance. Your meetings were timed down to fifteen-minute intervals. Dinners happened in private restaurants with reservations booked under fake names to avoid unnecessary conversation, and your son’s baseball practices were usually handled seamlessly by Sofia—your nanny of four years—who never once disrupted the careful structure you built around your life.

Except tonight, Sofia had the flu.

Which meant at 6:42 PM, while sitting in the backseat of your Escalade reviewing investment reports on your iPad between calls, your entire evening collapsed with one phone call.

“I’m so sorry,” Sofia had croaked weakly through the speaker. “I tried to wait it out, but I don’t think I can drive.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose immediately.

Outside the tinted window, downtown traffic crawled in thick streams of red brake lights while your driver maneuvered through the city with practiced calm.

“Okay,” you said after a pause, already opening your calendar. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

But it wasn’t fine.

Nothing about tonight was fine.

Your seven o’clock call had to be moved. Dinner reservations canceled. Tomorrow morning’s presentation still needed revisions, and somewhere between all of that, you now had exactly thirty minutes to cross town and pick your son up from baseball practice yourself.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d done that. (First practice was the last pick up). Guilt twisted quietly in your stomach at the thought.

Not because you missed games—you never missed games—but practices were different. Practices happened in the middle of conference calls and board meetings and rushed afternoons where you spent more time signing papers than sitting still long enough to breathe.

Games mattered.

Games were important.

Practices were… harder.

By the time the Escalade pulled into Hawkins Community Park, the sky had turned dusky blue, the last streaks of orange sunlight melting behind the trees surrounding the field. Stadium lights cast bright white beams across the diamond, illuminating drifting clouds of dirt kicked up beneath running cleats.

Your driver barely finished parking before you were already reaching for the door handle.

“Ma’am—”

“I’ve got it.”

The door swung open. Warm evening air hit your skin instantly.

Your heels clicked sharply against pavement as you stepped out of the SUV, one hand already shoving your sunglasses higher onto your head while the other balanced your phone between shoulder and ear.

“No, move the meeting to Thursday,” you said quickly into the phone, irritation sharpening your tone as you crossed the parking lot. “I don’t care if Martin complains about it, he can survive one inconvenience—”

A baseball flew into the fence nearby with a violent clang.

You flinched instinctively.

Children screamed somewhere behind you.

Parents crowded near folding chairs lining the field, some talking amongst themselves while others watched practice with exhausted expressions and paper coffee cups clenched between their hands.

You stood out immediately.

You always did.

Cream silk blouse tucked into tailored black slacks. Gold jewelry catching beneath stadium lights. Designer heels sinking slightly into uneven pavement. Your hair still perfectly styled despite the stress headache building behind your eyes.

Several parents glanced toward you automatically before looking away just as quickly.

You ignored them.

“Call me back once it’s fixed,” you muttered before ending the call abruptly.

The second you looked up, your son spotted you. “Mom!”

The sound of his voice cut through everything else instantly. Your entire expression softened before you could stop it.

He came running toward you across the edge of the field, baseball pants streaked with dirt, cap crooked sideways, face pink from practice and summer heat. His equipment bag dragged behind him awkwardly before he abandoned it entirely in the grass just to reach you faster.

“There’s my handsome boy,” you sighed, finally smiling for what felt like the first time all evening.

He crashed into your side without hesitation, nearly throwing you off balance despite the laugh that escaped you quietly. “What’re you doing here? You’re late,” he informed you dramatically.

“I know,” you said, brushing sweaty curls from his forehead. “I had a horrible day.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Worse than mine?”

“Definitely worse than yours.”

“That’s impossible,” he argued immediately. “Coach made us run laps because Tyler wouldn’t stop throwing sunflower seeds at people.”

You groaned softly.

“Tragic.”

Your son grinned.

The familiar warmth in your chest settled immediately just from looking at him. It always amazed you how quickly he could pull you out of your own head without even trying.

You adjusted his cap absentmindedly, straightening it properly before crouching slightly to inspect him.

“You eat the snacks Vanessa packed?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

A pause.

“…Mostly.”

You gave him a look.

He smiled sheepishly.

Before you could continue interrogating him, you reached automatically for his equipment bag abandoned nearby. The oversized thing nearly weighed half as much as he did, the leather straps rough beneath your manicured fingers as you hauled it upright.

“I can carry it,” your son protested weakly.

“You absolutely cannot.”

“You carried it weird.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I’m wearing heels on gravel.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

A laugh sounded nearby.

Low. Warm. Male.

You looked up instantly and there he was. Coach Harrington.

Leaning against the dugout gate like he’d been standing there long enough to witness the entire interaction.

The backward cap pushed dark hair away from his forehead. Grey athletic hoodie sleeves shoved carelessly to his elbows. A whistle hanging loose around his neck while one hand rested lazily against the chain-link fence.

And annoyingly enough—

He was prettier in person. You’d noticed him before, obviously. Every mother had noticed him before. It was nearly impossible not to.

But usually you saw him from a distance during games while juggling phone calls and coffee cups and conversations you barely listened to. You’d never been close enough to actually look at him properly before.

Big mistake.

Because up close, coach Harrington had the kind of face that made prolonged eye contact dangerous.

“First pickup?” he asked casually.

You blinked once.

Then immediately narrowed your eyes.

“Excuse me?”

Your son visibly winced beside you. Apparently Coach Harrington had a death wish.

Steve pushed off the fence slowly, amusement flickering across his face as he walked closer. “I just meant,” he clarified easily, “usually your nanny comes.”

The irritation that already lived beneath your skin all evening sharpened instantly. “You keep track of my childcare arrangements, Coach?”

To your annoyance, he laughed.

Not awkwardly.

Not nervously.

Actually laughed.

And the sound of it was warm enough to make your irritation worse instead of better. “Steve,” he corrected. “And only because your son’s always the last kid to leave practice.”

Your son grinned proudly beside you like this was somehow an accomplishment.

Traitor.

You shifted the heavy equipment bag higher against your shoulder. “Well,” you replied coolly, “sorry to shock everyone, but yes. I’m capable of picking up my own child.”

The words came out sharper than intended. Immediately, something in Steve’s expression changed. The amusement faded first. Then the teasing. Like he realized too late that maybe this conversation wasn’t entirely harmless to you.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly.

And somehow that was worse. Because his tone held no judgment whatsoever.

No pity either.

Just sincerity.

Which caught you off guard enough to irritate you further. You looked away first, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your blouse while your son wandered a few feet away to grab his water bottle.

The field behind Steve buzzed with movement. Kids yelling. Parents gathering chairs. Someone dragging equipment bins across concrete with loud scraping sounds while stadium lights hummed overhead.

“You had him practicing curveballs today?”

Steve glanced toward your son instinctively before nodding.

“He’s getting better.”

You crossed your arms lightly.

“He said Tyler was throwing sunflower seeds.”

“He was,” Steve sighed. “Your son also tackled him afterward.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

“Oh my God.”

“In his defense,” Steve added, clearly fighting another smile, “Tyler deserved it.”

You stared at him flatly for a moment before letting out a long sigh through your nose, already exhausted by the mental image of your son body-checking another child over sunflower seeds.

“Fantastic,” you muttered dryly.

You reached for your son’s water bottle just as your phone vibrated sharply. The sound alone made your shoulders tense again.

Reality returning.

You glanced at the screen immediately.

Three unread emails.

Two missed calls.

One calendar reminder flashing across the display in aggressive red.

8:30 PM — Tokyo investor call.

Right.

You closed your eyes for half a second.

The tiny moment of quiet you’d accidentally stepped into disappeared almost instantly beneath the weight of everything waiting for you once you got back into the car.

“Everything okay?” Steve’s voice came from somewhere behind you.

You looked up automatically.

You slipped your phone back into your purse.

“Fine,” you answered automatically. “Work.”

Steve nodded once like that explained everything. Maybe it did. Your son groaned dramatically the second he heard the word. “Mom has meetings all the time.”

You gave him a look.

“And those meetings pay for your baseball addiction.”

“It’s not an addiction.”

“They’re different bats.”

Steve finally lost the fight against his smile at that. You noticed it accidentally. Not because you were looking at him.

Just because it happened.

Warm amusement softened his expression briefly before he glanced toward your son again. “He’s right, actually.”

You blinked once. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m just saying,” Steve replied lightly, “different bats do different things.”

Your son looked vindicated immediately.

“See!”

You stared between both of them for a long second. “This feels targeted.”

Steve laughed quietly under his breath.

Not loud.

Not showy.

Just enough to earn another suspicious glance from you before your phone buzzed again insistently inside your purse.

The moment shattered instantly. You exhaled softly before reaching for your son’s shoulder. “Come on, baby. We have to go.”

A chorus of disappointed groans erupted from him immediately. “But we’re talking to Coach.”

“You can continue your very important bat conversation on Saturday.”

Your son sighed like his life was impossibly difficult before finally grabbing the rest of his things. You turned back toward Steve out of simple politeness more than anything else.

“Thank you,” you said after a pause.

The words surprised both of you slightly.

You weren’t entirely sure why.

Steve straightened a little.

“For what?”

“For not letting my child commit aggravated assault during practice.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again. “I’ll try my best next time too.”

You shook your head faintly, already stepping backward toward the parking lot.

“Goodnight, Coach.”

“Night,” he replied easily before adding, “See you Saturday.”

Something about the certainty in his tone made you glance at him one last time.

Of course he’d see you Saturday.

You never missed games.

For a brief second, neither of you said anything else. Then your son tugged impatiently at your sleeve. And just like that, the moment disappeared.

You turned away first, heels clicking sharply against pavement as you crossed the parking lot beside your son. The stadium lights glowed against the glossy black exterior of your Escalade while your driver stepped out to open the door the second he saw you approaching.

By the time you slid back into the leather seats, your phone was already ringing again.

You answered before the door fully shut.

“Yes,” you said immediately, exhaustion slipping back into your voice like it had never left. “I’m on my way home now.”

Outside the tinted windows, the baseball field slowly disappeared behind you as the SUV pulled away from the curb.

You looked back only once.

Just briefly.

Long enough to see Coach Harrington still standing near the dugout beneath the bright stadium lights while boys continued running circles around him.

Then traffic swallowed the view completely.

Saturday mornings at Hawkins Community Park looked entirely different from weekday practices.

Weekday practices were rushed.

Parents arrived late carrying coffees and work bags, children sprinted across pavement while trying to finish homework in backseats, and the entire field usually carried the exhausted atmosphere of people squeezing baseball into lives already overflowing with other obligations.

Game days, however, were events.

The parking lot buzzed before eight in the morning, SUVs and luxury sedans slowly pulling into crooked rows while little boys in oversized baseball pants ran between cars with gloves already on their hands. Folding chairs unfolded with snapping sounds across the bleachers. Portable speakers somewhere near the concession stand played classic rock loud enough to echo through the surrounding trees while the smell of coffee, sunscreen, fresh-cut grass, and dirt lingered thickly in the warm summer air.

The entire place felt alive before the game even started.

Your Escalade rolled slowly into the crowded parking lot just as sunlight began spilling fully over the field. Golden morning light reflected sharply against the windshield while your driver maneuvered carefully past parents carrying coolers and equipment bags across cracked pavement. Baseballs smacked rhythmically into leather gloves somewhere nearby, the steady sound blending into the endless chorus of whistles, laughter, and distant yelling already consuming the park.

You sat in the backseat with one leg crossed neatly over the other, sunglasses perched atop your head while scrolling through emails on your phone.

Three new investor updates.

One missed call from your assistant.

Two schedule changes for Monday.

None of which you cared about at the moment. Because the second the baseball field came into view, your son practically launched himself forward in his seat. “We’re early,” he announced excitedly.

“We’re always early for games,” you corrected absentmindedly.

“That’s because you’re scary.”

You looked up slowly over the top of your sunglasses.“Excuse me?”

Your son grinned shamelessly. “You yell if we’re late.”

“I do not yell.”

“You threatened to fire Greg last time.”

From the driver’s seat, Greg cleared his throat carefully.

“You said,” your son continued dramatically, “‘If we miss warmups because of traffic, I’m driving this car into the ocean myself.’”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then sighed.“…That feels slightly out of context.”

Greg pulled smoothly into an open parking spot near the edge of the field before stepping out immediately to open your door.

Warm morning air wrapped around you the second your heels touched pavement.

The weather was perfect already. Bright sunlight filtered through towering trees surrounding the park, casting shifting patterns of gold across parked cars and crowded walkways. Somewhere nearby, fresh coffee brewed from a small concession cart while the scent drifted through the air alongside grass and summer heat warming the concrete.

Your son barely waited for the door to fully open before climbing out beside you. “Can I go?” he asked quickly, already bouncing with energy.

You adjusted your sunglasses properly over your eyes before smoothing a hand down the side of your dress automatically.

The black fabric hugged every curve cleanly, simple enough to appear effortless while still looking far more expensive than anything appropriate for a little league baseball game. Your heels clicked softly against pavement as sunlight caught the gold jewelry resting against your skin, glossy hair moving lightly with the breeze while Greg retrieved your son’s equipment bag from the trunk.

“You stretch first,” you reminded him immediately.

“I know.”

“And hydrate.”

“I know.”

“And if I see you climbing fences again—”

“I KNOW.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Go.”

Your son sprinted off immediately toward the field, cleats hitting pavement loudly while he yelled one of his teammate’s names across the parking lot.

The second he disappeared toward the dugout area, silence settled around you almost instantly.

Not real silence.

Just temporary stillness.

You slipped your purse higher onto your shoulder before leaning lightly against the side of the Escalade, taking a slow sip from the iced coffee Greg handed you moments later.

Around you, parents continued arriving steadily.

Luxury cars.

Minivans.

Children darting between them endlessly. You recognized most faces by now even if you rarely spoke to anyone longer than necessary.

Which was why the sound of your name immediately made your shoulders tense slightly.

“Well, there’s my favorite mystery woman.”

You closed your eyes briefly behind your sunglasses before turning toward the voice.

Daniel Mercer approached with the kind of confidence that only existed in wealthy men who had never once been told no loudly enough.

Expensive watch.

Expensive sunglasses.

Perfectly styled hair despite the humidity already building outside.

His son went to school with yours. Their baseball team overlapped. Their social circles occasionally collided at charity events and private school functions you attended mostly out of obligation.

You knew exactly who Daniel was.

Which unfortunately meant you also knew he thought he was charming. “Daniel,” you acknowledged politely.

His grin widened immediately like he’d accomplished something. “I was beginning to think you only existed at games.”

“That would probably make my accountant very nervous.”

He laughed louder than necessary. You took another sip of coffee instead of encouraging the conversation further.

Daniel stepped closer anyway. “You know,” he said casually, glancing toward the field before looking back at you, “I invited you to dinner three times last month.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I said no three times last month.”

His smile somehow remained intact.

Cocky men always fascinated you slightly in the way reality television did. Deeply embarrassing yet impossible not to observe.

“I still think you’ll change your mind eventually.”

You lowered your sunglasses just enough to look at him properly.“That level of confidence should honestly concern you.”

Daniel laughed again.

“See, that’s exactly why I like you.”

You sighed softly through your nose.

Around you, more parents filtered toward the field carrying folding chairs and oversized tote bags while children sprinted toward warmups. The metallic sound of baseball bats cracking against practice balls echoed rhythmically through the park while coaches shouted instructions across the field.

You looked toward the dugout automatically, immediately spotting your son among the crowd of boys already gathered near the fence.

Then—

A familiar car turned into the parking lot. Your attention shifted before you could stop it.

An older BMW rolled slowly through the crowded rows before pausing near your Escalade. The paint gleamed darkly beneath sunlight despite the layer of dust coating the lower half from what looked like years of baseball fields and back roads.

You recognized the driver instantly.

Coach Harrington.

Steve maneuvered into the empty spot directly beside you with casual ease before cutting the engine. Music still played faintly through the open windows for a second before disappearing completely when he shut the car off.

Daniel followed your gaze.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Baseball Ken arrived.”

You nearly smiled.

Almost.

Steve stepped out moments later wearing backwards cap, and sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt. One duffel bag rested over his shoulder while another equipment case sat tucked beneath his arm.

He looked annoyingly natural carrying all of it. Like he belonged here in a way most people didn’t.

Steve glanced toward you automatically while shutting the car door.

Then toward Daniel.

Something unreadable crossed his face briefly before disappearing just as quickly. “Morning,” he called casually.

Daniel nodded once.

“Harrington.”

You noticed immediately that Daniel used the same tone wealthy businessmen used with valets they considered too friendly. Steve noticed too. The difference was that Steve looked entirely unaffected by it.

You pushed yourself lightly away from the Escalade.“Coach.”

Steve’s mouth twitched faintly.

Daniel lingered another second like he wanted the conversation to continue, but the second your body turned slightly toward Steve instead of him, the dismissal became obvious enough that even he picked up on it.

“Well,” Daniel sighed dramatically, stepping backward, “I’ll continue being rejected somewhere else.”

“That seems healthiest,” you replied smoothly.

Steve looked down immediately after that like he was hiding a laugh.Daniel pointed toward you accusingly before finally walking away toward the opposite side of the field.

The second he disappeared into the crowd, the atmosphere shifted strangely quieter around you.

Not awkward. Just calmer.

Steve adjusted the duffel bag higher onto his shoulder before glancing toward the field.

“You’re early.”

You took another sip of coffee casually.

“It’s a game,” you answered. “I’m always early.”

Steve looked at you then not long enough to feel strange. Just long enough.“I know,” he replied simply.

Before you could respond, another wave of parents entered the parking lot loudly, several women immediately calling your name the second they spotted you standing beside Steve’s car.

“There she is!”

Rachel approached first carrying an iced latte the size of her head while balancing an enormous designer tote bag against her hip. Amanda followed closely behind her, sunglasses perched perfectly atop glossy blonde hair while two other mothers trailed after them mid-conversation.

The second they arrived, Steve took the social cue immediately.

“I should probably rescue the field before ten-year-olds start setting things on fire,” he said lightly.

Rachel gasped dramatically.

“Coach Harrington,” she sighed. “You wound me.”

Steve grinned briefly before beginning to walk backward toward the dugout.

“Morning, ladies.”

Amanda smiled a little too brightly.

“Morning, Coach.”

You noticed it.

Mostly because it was impossible not to. Steve disappeared toward the field moments later while Rachel immediately looped her arm through yours.

“Okay,” she whispered loudly, “why were you standing alone with two attractive men at eight in the morning?”

You began walking toward the bleachers with them slowly. “One was asking me out,” you replied flatly. “The other coaches my child.”

Rachel looked scandalized. “God gives his hardest battles to his prettiest soldiers.”

Amanda laughed while adjusting her sunglasses.“I’m serious, though,” Rachel continued. “Coach Harrington is unfairly attractive for a children’s baseball coach.”

“He wears those fitted baseball pants on purpose,” another mom added immediately.

“He absolutely knows what he’s doing.”

You tuned most of it out automatically Not because you weren’t listening Because your attention kept drifting elsewhere.

Toward the field.

Toward your son already stretching near the dugout while Steve walked between groups of boys checking equipment and adjusting caps. The energy around him felt entirely different from the parking lot version of himself. Faster. Focused. Easy. Comfortable.

You settled into your usual seat near the center of the bleachers while conversations continued around you about husbands, vacations, school admissions, and increasingly inappropriate commentary about Coach Harrington’s arms.

You barely participated.

Your eyes stayed on the field instead.

One second your son stood near the dugout bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet while tugging repeatedly at the strap of his batting glove.

The next—

He found you in the stands.

And immediately settled.

His shoulders loosened first. Then the restless pacing stopped. Even from halfway across the field, you could tell the tight anxious energy that usually clung to him before games had eased almost instantly.

Beside you, Rachel continued talking about something involving private schools and a teacher scandal that apparently consumed half the parent group chat.

You barely heard a word of it.

Because your attention stayed fixed on the field.

On your son.

On the way he absentmindedly adjusted his cap before finally jogging toward Steve with noticeably more confidence than he’d had thirty seconds earlier.

And apparently— You weren’t the only person who noticed.

Steve glanced toward the bleachers briefly after your son reached him.

Not directly at you.

Just toward the stands in general.

But his eyes lingered for half a second longer once he spotted you sitting there.

Then he looked back down at your son immediately, crouching slightly in front of him while fixing the strap of his batting glove with practiced hands.

The gesture itself was simple.

Small.

Your son talked animatedly while Steve listened with the kind of attention children always seemed to gravitate toward instinctively. Steve nodded seriously through whatever dramatic story was currently being told before holding out his fist toward your son.

Your son grinned immediately.

Then completed some ridiculously complicated handshake involving finger guns, two fist bumps, and an aggressive shoulder tap that nearly sent him stumbling backward.

The entire thing lasted maybe five seconds.

Still— You found yourself staring.

“Oh my God,” Amanda sighed beside you suddenly. “That’s actually adorable.”

You blinked once before looking away from the field.

“What is?”

Rachel pointed downward dramatically.

“Coach Harrington basically adopting every child on this team.”

Another mother laughed.

“No seriously, my son cried for twenty minutes when he missed one practice because apparently Coach Steve makes orange slices ‘better than mom does.’”

Rachel clutched her chest theatrically.

“I would actually fold if a man was good with children.”

Amanda hummed in agreement while watching the field openly. “He’s ridiculously attentive.”

You took a slow sip of coffee instead of responding. Below, Steve stood again while your son adjusted his batting gloves proudly like he’d just been knighted.

Then— Your son looked toward the stands again.

Straight toward you.

And without thinking, you lifted your hand slightly.

Just enough.

His face lit up immediately before he turned back toward the field. The reaction happened so fast it almost hurt.

Beside you, Rachel smiled softly.

“He really loves that you come to every game.”

You kept your eyes forward.

“I should hope so. I pay for the entire baseball obsession.”

Rachel laughed quietly, but her expression stayed gentler than before. “No, I mean it,” she said. “He talks about it constantly.”

The words settled somewhere uncomfortable beneath your ribs. Because the thing was—

You knew.

You knew your son watched the stands for you.

You knew he checked for your car before games started if you didn’t ride with him.

You knew he played differently once he realized you were staying.

That was why you never missed games.

No matter how impossible your schedule became.

No matter how exhausted you were.

Some things mattered more.

The loud metallic crack of a bat split across the field suddenly as warmups officially began.

Players scattered quickly across positions while coaches shouted instructions over one another. Dust kicked into the sunlight beneath moving cleats while whistles echoed sharply through the park.

Steve moved easily through all of it.

Calling plays.

Fixing stances.

Throwing batting practice.

And annoyingly enough—

He was good at it.

Not performatively enthusiastic the way some coaches became around parents.

Actually good.

Patient without being soft.

Encouraging without sounding fake.

Focused enough that the boys clearly respected him instead of just liking him.

You watched him correct one player’s grip before immediately jogging toward another kid who looked close to tears over something near third base.

Within thirty seconds, the child was laughing again. You frowned faintly behind your sunglasses.

“That man’s gonna get married by the end of the season,” Amanda announced matter-of-factly.

Rachel nodded immediately.

“Oh, absolutely. Women are probably already hunting him for sport.”

You glanced toward Amanda briefly. She looked entirely too interested in that possibility.

Interesting.

Before the conversation could continue further, the umpire called both teams toward the field loudly enough to cut through the noise surrounding the stands.

Parents shifted immediately, conversations pausing while chairs creaked and coolers opened around the bleachers.

Game time.

Your son jogged toward his position before looking toward the stands one final time.

Again—

The second he saw you watching, he smiled. And for reasons you couldn’t entirely explain, your chest tightened all over again.

The game itself started messy.

Little league baseball rarely looked polished for longer than thirty consecutive seconds, and within the first inning alone:

one child tripped over second base,

another forgot which direction to run,

and Tyler somehow managed to launch his helmet directly into the dugout fence hard enough to make half the parents flinch.

Rachel nearly cried laughing beside you

Meanwhile, you stayed locked onto the field with surprising intensity.

Every pitch.

Every stance adjustment.

Every missed catch.

You noticed all of it.

Which was exactly why, halfway through the second inning, your brows slowly pulled together beneath your sunglasses.

Steve shifted Tyler farther left again.

Too far.

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

Three pitches later, exactly what you expected happened. A fast ground ball shot sharply toward left field. Tyler missed it completely. The opposing team scored immediately.

A frustrated groan rippled through the stands while Tyler looked devastated near the outfield.

You sat forward automatically.

“No,” you muttered under your breath.

Rachel glanced sideways.

“What?”

“He shifted him too early.”

The mom beside her blinked.

“…What?”

You kept watching the field carefully.

“Tyler panics under pressure,” you explained absentmindedly. “His reaction time drops if you pull him left too fast.”

Rachel stared at you.

“Aren’t you, like… in finance?”

You ignored her completely.

Below, Steve rubbed a hand across the back of his neck while glancing toward the outfield with obvious frustration.

Then his eyes lifted toward the stands briefly.

Toward you.

And somehow—

You knew immediately he realized you’d noticed the mistake too.

Interesting.

The inning ended a few minutes later with another round of shouting, whistles, and scattered applause while players switched positions.

Before you fully thought it through, you stood.

Rachel blinked up at you.

“Where are you going?”

You slid your sunglasses higher onto your head.

“To speak to Coach Harrington before he destroys Tyler psychologically.”

“You can’t just say things like that and walk away,” Rachel called after you while you descended the bleachers.

But you were already crossing toward the dugout.

The heat hit harder the second you stepped off the bleachers.

Sunlight reflected sharply off aluminum seating and chain-link fences, The kids shouted over one another near the benches, baseballs cracked violently against gloves somewhere behind the batting cages, and the scent of grass, sweat, sunscreen, and dusty infield dirt hung thickly in the air.

The entire field buzzed with restless movement.

You moved through it untouched.

Parents instinctively shifted aside as you crossed past the front row of bleachers, black dress moving lightly against your legs while your sunglasses caught flashes of sunlight with every step. A few fathers looked up automatically when you passed. One nearly stopped mid-conversation entirely before his wife smacked his arm hard enough to snap his attention back forward.

You noticed. You simply didn’t care. Your attention stayed fixed on the dugout instead.

Steve stood near the fence talking to one of the assistant coaches while absently rolling a baseball between his palms. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt slightly beneath the morning heat, backwards cap casting shadows across his face while sunlight cut sharply across the exposed line of his jaw.

The second he noticed you approaching, he frowned slightly.

Not annoyed.

Surprised.

Like he genuinely hadn’t expected you to leave the stands.

You stopped beside the dugout fence just as another boy sprinted past carrying helmets nearly bigger than his torso.

“Coach.”

Steve turned fully toward you.

Even up close, he still carried that same relaxed energy you noticed during practice. Nothing about him felt rushed despite the chaos unfolding around him. Parents yelled from the stands, children nearly crashed into equipment bins beside him, and someone on the opposite field blew a whistle loud enough to echo through the entire park.

Steve barely reacted to any of it.

“You abandoning the bleachers already?” he asked lightly.

Your eyes flicked briefly toward Tyler standing miserably near the bench while pretending not to look upset.

“You shifted him too early.”

Steve blinked once.

Then again.

“…Excuse me?”

You folded your sunglasses atop your head fully now, finally looking at him directly without the dark lenses between you.

“Tyler,” you repeated calmly. “You shifted him left before he settled. He panics under pressure and overcorrects his glove positioning.”

For the first time since meeting him—

Steve genuinely looked caught off guard.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that it showed.

Around you, boys continued rushing in and out of the dugout while another coach shouted batting orders toward the field. Somewhere behind the bleachers, a parent dropped an entire cooler hard enough to make several people turn.

Neither of you moved.

Steve stared at you for another second before glancing instinctively toward the outfield.

Then back at you.

“…How do you know that?”

You looked almost confused by the question. “My son’s been playing baseball since he was six.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

You crossed your arms lightly. “I watch games.”

“You watch games,” Steve repeated slowly.

“Yes?”

He let out a short laugh under his breath, shaking his head once like he was trying to reorganize information inside his brain.

“No offense,” he admitted, “but I thought you were one of those parents who only paid attention when their kid was batting.”

The comment should have irritated you.

Strangely—

It didn’t.

“Interesting assumption,” you replied smoothly.

Steve winced immediately. “Okay, yeah, that sounded worse out loud.”

“A little.”

He rubbed the back of his neck briefly before looking toward the field again.

“But you actually know what you’re talking about.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

Steve looked back at you then.

And for a brief moment, something shifted slightly in his expression.

Not attraction.

Not yet.

Recognition, maybe.

Like he was seeing you clearly for the first time instead of just observing the polished surface everyone else reacted to first.

The moment stretched only a second before one of the boys yelled loudly from inside the dugout. “Coach! Tyler said Carter picks his nose in center field!”

Steve closed his eyes briefly.

“Oh my God.”

Another kid immediately shouted:

“HE DOES.”

“I DO NOT!”

Chaos erupted instantly.

You watched Steve pinch the bridge of his nose like a man fighting for survival.

Then he sighed heavily before pointing toward the bench.

“Everybody sit down”

The boys obeyed surprisingly fast.

You almost smiled.

Almost.

Steve turned back toward you afterward, exhaustion and amusement mixing together across his face.

“You were saying?” he asked.

You glanced toward Tyler again.

“He watches everyone else too much,” you explained. “That’s why he gets nervous.”

Steve followed your line of sight immediately.

“Tyler?”

You nodded once.

“He starts overthinking if he notices people reacting around him. Especially during games.”

Steve stayed quiet for a second.

Then:

“That’s… actually exactly what happened.”

“Mm.”

“You figured that out from the stands?”

You gave him a look.

“My entire job is observing people before they ruin million-dollar deals.”

Steve laughed quietly at that.

Not loudly.

Not performatively.

Just genuine enough to soften the edges of his expression again.

The sound caught you off guard slightly.

Which irritated you immediately. “You know,” he said after a second, leaning one arm casually against the dugout fence, “you’re very different during games.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

“That sounds ominous.”

“No, I mean—” Steve stopped himself briefly. “At practice you looked like you wanted to murder someone.”

“I probably did.”

“But here…” His gaze drifted toward the field where your son laughed at something near first base. “You actually relax.”

You looked away first.

Toward your son.

Because unfortunately, Steve wasn’t entirely wrong.

You knew he’d remember your absence longer than he’d remember any missed school pickup or late-night work call.

So yes.

You showed up.

Every single time.

“That obvious?” you asked eventually.

Steve shrugged lightly.

Only if you’re paying attention.”

Something about the answer lingered strangely between you.

The noise around the dugout swelled again as the next inning prepared to start. Cleats scraped against dirt nearby while parents applauded loudly from the stands after another team scored on the opposite field.

Then your son suddenly appeared beside Steve out of nowhere.

“Coach, am I batting after Carter?”

Steve looked down immediately. “You’re up third.”

Your son nodded seriously before finally noticing you standing there.

“Mom?”

“You’re dropping your shoulder again,” you informed him instantly.

His face fell.

“I fixed it.”

“You fixed it badly.”

Steve made a choking sound beside him like he nearly laughed. Your son pointed accusingly between both of you. “See? This is why I have issues.”

You stared at him flatly. “You’re nine.”

“And suffering.”

Steve fully laughed this time.

Warm and unguarded enough that several boys immediately looked toward him curiously afterward. Your son grinned proudly like he’d accomplished something.

Then Steve crouched slightly beside him again, adjusting the strap of his batting glove automatically before tapping twice against the side of his helmet.

“Relax your shoulder,” Steve reminded him. “You’ll hit better.”

Your son nodded.

Then—

without hesitation—

He looked toward you next Like he needed confirmation from both of you. The realization landed quietly.

Subtly.

But hard enough that you felt it anyway. You and Steve noticed it at the exact same time because Steve glanced upward briefly afterward straight at you. And suddenly the space between both of you felt strangely smaller than before.

Dangerously familiar.

You broke eye contact first.

“Go warm up,” you told your son smoothly.

He sprinted away immediately.

The second he disappeared toward the field again, silence settled awkwardly for the first time all morning. Not uncomfortable. Just aware.

Steve stood slowly again before clearing his throat lightly.

“So,” he said carefully, “you secretly understanding baseball was apparently not on my bingo card today.” You adjusted the strap of your purse higher onto your shoulder.

“And yet here we are.”

Steve smiled faintly.

And somewhere behind you, Rachel practically materialized out of thin air beside the dugout fence. “There you are,” she announced dramatically. “We thought Coach Harrington kidnapped you.”

You looked at her blankly. “Unfortunately, no.”

Rachel ignored that entirely before looking between both of you suspiciously. “…Why do you two suddenly look like divorced parents discussing custody arrangements?”

Steve nearly choked. You closed your eyes briefly. And for the first time that morning—

You laughed.

The laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Soft at first.

Then fuller the longer Rachel continued grinning proudly between both of you like she’d just personally uncovered the world’s greatest secret. The sound felt unfamiliar leaving your chest so unexpectedly, light enough that it almost startled you once you realized it was happening. Because you didn’t laugh like that often anymore.

Not at work.

Not at charity events.

Not during the carefully structured version of your life that usually operated down to the minute.

Yet somehow, standing beside a dusty little league dugout beneath aggressive summer sunlight, it slipped out naturally.

Steve looked equally surprised by it. You noticed immediately. His expression shifted for half a second, eyes narrowing slightly like he was trying to process the sound before the corner of his mouth pulled upward again almost involuntarily.

Rachel pointed between both of you dramatically. “Oh, that’s interesting.”

You sighed instantly. “Rachel.”

“No, no,” she continued, fully ignoring you now. “That was a real laugh. You usually laugh like you’re being held hostage socially.”

Steve looked down immediately, shoulders shaking slightly while he unsuccessfully tried hiding another smile. You stared at Rachel flatly.

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet you keep sitting next to me every Saturday.”

Before you could answer, the sharp metallic sound of a bat cracking against a baseball split violently across the field. Parents erupted into applause almost instantly.

You turned automatically toward the game just in time to see your son sprinting toward second base while dirt kicked wildly beneath his cleats. His helmet sat slightly crooked from running too hard, arms pumping aggressively while the boys in the dugout exploded into shouting loud enough to echo through the entire park.

The entire atmosphere changed immediately. Parents rose from bleachers. Kids screamed over one another. Coaches yelled directions across the field. Your son slid hard into second base with enough force to send dust exploding around him in a golden cloud beneath the sunlight.

Safe.

You exhaled before realizing you’d been holding your breath. Beside you, Steve grinned openly now while clapping once against the dugout fence. “That’s my guy!”

Your son looked toward the stands immediately after standing. Searching. The second he spotted you watching, he pointed toward second base proudly like you somehow could’ve missed it.

Your chest tightened instantly.

You lifted your hand slightly in acknowledgment again while trying very hard not to smile too obviously. Rachel noticed anyway.

“Oh, she’s proud proud.”

“I’m literally just sitting here.”

“You almost smiled.”

“I did smile.”

“That’s worse somehow.”

Steve laughed quietly beside you again before calling another instruction toward the field.

The sound blended strangely well into the noise surrounding the game. Baseballs smacking into gloves. Cleats scraping dirt. Aluminum bleachers creaking every time someone stood too quickly. Somewhere behind the concession stand, a child cried dramatically over spilled nachos while music played faintly through blown-out speakers attached to one of the snack carts.

The entire morning felt warm. Bright. Loud in a way that somehow still relaxed you. Which was unusual enough on its own. You normally hated environments like this.

Too crowded.

Too chaotic.

Too many unnecessary conversations happening at once. Yet somehow baseball games never bothered you the same way.

Maybe because this mattered.

Your son rounded third base moments later while parents shouted encouragement from every direction. Steve stepped closer to the foul line instinctively, gesturing toward home while your son sprinted harder beneath the sunlight.

Safe again.

The dugout exploded.

Little boys nearly tackled him the second he reached the bench while Steve grabbed the back of his helmet briefly, shaking him once with obvious approval before ruffling his hair hard enough to make your son groan dramatically.

You watched the interaction quietly.

Then realized—

You were smiling.

Actually smiling.

The realization irritated you enough that you immediately reached for your coffee again despite it being nearly empty.

Dangerous.

Rachel leaned closer instantly.

“Oh, you like him.”

You almost inhaled coffee directly into your lungs.

“What?”

Rachel looked unbearably pleased with herself.

“You’re smiling at Coach Harrington.”

“I’m smiling at my son scoring.”

“Mhm.”

“You need hobbies.”

“I have hobbies,” Rachel argued immediately. “This is one of them.”

You rolled your eyes before finally turning away from the field and beginning the walk back toward the bleachers.

Rachel followed beside you still grinning while Amanda remained seated near your usual spot, sunglasses pushed atop her head while openly watching Steve down near the dugout.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The second you sat back down, Amanda looked toward you immediately. “What were you talking about down there?”

“My son”

Rachel snorted beside you.

Amanda ignored her.

“You talked to him for almost ten minutes.”

You uncrossed your legs calmly before setting your sunglasses beside your bag. “And?”

Amanda hesitated briefly.

Like she didn’t fully know how to phrase the question without sounding obvious.

“You just don’t really seem like the type to… mingle.”

Rachel burst into laughter so abruptly several parents turned toward your section of the bleachers. “Oh my God,” she wheezed. “That was the nicest way anyone’s ever called her emotionally unavailable.”

You stared forward blankly. “I hate all of you.”

“No you don’t,” Rachel replied immediately.

Unfortunately—

She was probably right.

Your attention drifted back toward the field again before the conversation could continue. Steve stood near the dugout speaking with one of the assistant coaches now, one hand resting against his hip while sunlight caught against the side of his face sharply enough that several of the moms nearby visibly lost focus mid-conversation.

You understood it objectively.

He was attractive.

Very attractive.

The kind of attractive that became worse the longer someone interacted with him because his personality unfortunately matched the face. Warm. Easygoing. Attentive without seeming performative about it.

Annoying, honestly.

But still—

Nothing about your interest in him extended beyond casual observation.

You were not one of these women.

You didn’t sit around fantasizing about younger baseball coaches because they smiled at children and wore fitted athletic clothes. You barely had time to sleep properly most weeks. The last thing you needed was another complication.

Especially not one attached to your son’s baseball team.

Still—

Your eyes found Steve again anyway. This time, he glanced toward the stands at the exact same moment.

And for a brief second—

You both paused.

Just long enough to register mutual recognition before Steve looked away again almost immediately to continue talking with the assistant coach.

Yet something about the interaction lingered.

Annoyingly so.

You sat with one leg crossed neatly over the other, sunglasses back in place while absently tracing condensation along the side of your iced coffee cup. Around you, the mothers continued talking endlessly about school enrollment, summer trips, and increasingly inappropriate commentary about Coach Harrington.

Mostly Coach Harrington.

“…I’m just saying,” Rachel continued while stealing fries from someone else’s tray without permission, “if a man can coach children without visibly wanting to die, that automatically raises him two points.”

Amanda laughed softly beside her.

“Only two?”

“Okay fine,” Rachel admitted dramatically. “Four.”

Another mom leaned forward immediately.

“And have you noticed he remembers every single kid’s favorite snacks?”

You looked toward the field automatically before you could stop yourself.

Sure enough—

Steve stood near the dugout passing out orange slices while listening to three different boys talk over one another simultaneously. He somehow managed to answer all of them correctly while tightening somebody’s catcher gear and reminding another player not to put sunflower seeds inside his sock again.

The entire thing looked exhausting.

Yet Steve handled it with irritating ease.

Amanda sighed.

“That level of patience should honestly be studied.”

“Seriously,” another woman added. “Most coaches scream at children by the second inning.”

Rachel pointed toward Steve.

You looked toward the field again because your son stepped up to bat again.

The second he adjusted his stance near home plate, your full attention sharpened automatically. Everything else around you blurred almost instantly beneath the familiar wave of concentration that always settled over you during his at-bats.

The chatter.

The crowd.

The heat.

Gone.

Your son tightened his grip on the bat while Steve stood near third base giving small hand signals only the boys seemed capable of understanding.

Then—

Your son glanced toward the stands.

Searching again.

The second he spotted you sitting there, he straightened subtly.

Ready.

Beside you, Rachel noticed immediately.

“He does that every time.”

Your eyes stayed on the field.

“I know.”

“He literally won’t bat until he finds you first.”

The pitch came fast.

Your son swung immediately—

Crack.

The sound split across the field sharply enough that several parents stood before the ball even landed.

A line drive.

Straight into center field.

The bleachers erupted around you.

Your son sprinted toward first while dirt exploded beneath his cleats, helmet bouncing dangerously with every step while Steve shouted something encouraging loud enough to carry across the field.

Your son rounded first successfully before finally slowing near second, breathing hard while grinning so widely it was visible from the stands.

Then—

of course—

He looked toward you again. Your heart nearly folded in on itself. You lifted both hands this time in applause while trying to maintain some level of composure beneath the growing heat. Your son practically vibrated with excitement afterward. Steve laughed openly near the baseline before pointing toward second and yelling:

“Stay focused, superstar!”

The grin on your son’s face somehow widened even more.

And annoyingly enough—

Seeing Steve encourage him affected you too.

Not romantically. But emotionally in a way that felt increasingly difficult to ignore.

Because Steve cared. Not performatively. Not because parents were watching. Genuinely. He remembered which kids got nervous before batting. Which ones needed encouragement. Which ones responded better to joking instead of pressure.

And your son—

Your son adored him.

“You know what the real problem is?”

Rachel looked intrigued immediately.

“What?”

“He’s emotionally competent.”

Several women groaned dramatically in agreement.

“THAT’S what makes him dangerous,” Amanda continued.

By the final inning, the entire field carried that warm, exhausted atmosphere only little league games seemed capable of creating.

The sun hung lower now, softer gold spilling across the park while long shadows stretched over the infield dirt and aluminum bleachers. Empty coffee cups rolled lazily beneath seats whenever the wind picked up. Parents looked sun-drunk and overheated, children coated in sweat and dust while the snack stand ran almost entirely out of pretzels and bottled water.

Even the noise had changed.

Earlier, the park buzzed with sharp excitement and chaotic energy.

Now everything sounded slightly slower. Claps instead of screams. Tired laughter drifting across the stands. Coaches speaking louder because half the boys had clearly stopped listening thirty minutes ago.

You sat forward slightly as the final batter stepped up to the plate, sunglasses pushed atop your head while your son waited near second base chewing aggressively on bubblegum like the outcome of the game personally impacted the stock market.

Rachel fanned herself dramatically beside you with a folded score sheet.

“If one more child screams directly into my ear,” she announced, “I’m suing this entire league.”

“You say that every week.”

“And every week I mean it more.”

Below, Steve paced near the foul line while talking animatedly with one of the assistant coaches. The late afternoon sunlight caught against the sweat shining lightly along his arms while he gestured toward the field with obvious focus, baseball tucked beneath one hand.

Your eyes lingered a second too long. Not because of anything inappropriate.

Objectively speaking. Mostly because he looked entirely in his element here.

Comfortable.

Certain.

Easy in a way most people weren’t anymore.

The batter swung.

Missed.

Strike three.

The game ended instantly beneath a burst of cheers loud enough to echo across the surrounding park. Parents rose from bleachers clapping while children sprinted across the field like they’d just won the World Series instead of a local Saturday game.

Your son immediately ripped his helmet off before searching the stands. The second he found you, he pointed triumphantly toward the scoreboard with the biggest grin you’d seen all week.

You laughed softly despite yourself before clapping harder.

“Okay,” Rachel said beside you, sounding deeply emotional. “That one’s definitely your kid.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The dramatic pointing,” she replied immediately. “That was absolutely inherited.”

You rolled your eyes while standing from the bleachers.

Parents began slowly filtering toward the field now while children celebrated loudly near the dugouts. Folding chairs scraped against concrete. Car keys jingled. Somewhere nearby, someone uncorked what sounded suspiciously like champagne despite the children still actively present.

You adjusted the strap of your purse higher onto your shoulder before descending the bleachers carefully, heels clicking softly against the metal stairs.

Your son spotted you approaching almost immediately.

“Did you see my slide?”

“You almost broke your ankle.”

“That means yes.”

“You also ignored Coach Harrington’s signal twice.”

Your son looked dramatically betrayed.

“You noticed that?”

“I notice everything.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“It should be.”

He groaned loudly while falling into step beside you toward the dugout area where the rest of the team gathered around Steve.

The boys swarmed him instantly.

Talking over one another.

Arguing about plays.

Demanding snacks.

Steve somehow managed to answer every question while distributing juice boxes from an oversized cooler at the same time. His cap sat crooked now, curls damp from heat and pushed messily against his forehead while dirt streaked one side of his shorts from apparently demonstrating slides earlier in the game.

The entire scene looked chaotic.

Domestic, almost.

The thought appeared so suddenly you immediately shut it down.

Absolutely not.

Your son grabbed a juice box before launching directly into an animated retelling of his own performance like Steve hadn’t been standing ten feet away witnessing the entire thing already.

“And THEN Tyler missed the ball—”

“You missed two signals,” Steve interrupted calmly.

Your son froze.

“…You noticed that too?”

Steve gave him a look.

“I notice everything.”

You stared at Steve briefly.

Steve stared back.

Then your son groaned loudly enough for several parents nearby to laugh. “This team is psychologically against me.”

Steve finally laughed again before reaching over to ruffle your son’s hair hard enough to make him squawk in protest. “You played good today,” Steve told him warmly afterward. “Especially your batting.”

Your son visibly brightened immediately.

Praise from Steve clearly mattered.

A lot.

You watched the interaction quietly while parents continued filtering away around you. The field slowly emptied beneath the fading sunlight now, boys peeling away one by one toward waiting cars while coaches gathered equipment back into bins.

The energy softened.

Quieter now.

More personal.

Your son sprinted off toward Tyler moments later after loudly announcing they needed to “discuss strategy,” leaving you standing near the dugout fence alone with Steve for the first time all afternoon.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

The noise around the field faded into comfortable background sound. Distant conversations. Dugout gates clanging shut. Birds shifting through trees surrounding the park while warm wind carried the lingering scent of dirt and cut grass through the air.

Steve rested his forearms against the fence casually before glancing toward you.

“You know,” he said eventually, “you’re significantly scarier during games.”

You blinked once.

“Excuse me?”

“You yell at the umpire under your breath.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I was offering constructive criticism.”

Steve smiled faintly.

“At one point I’m pretty sure you called him visually impaired.”

“He missed three obvious calls.”

“That’s not the point.”

You crossed your arms lightly.

“He should improve professionally.”

Steve shook his head while laughing quietly under his breath again. “There it is.”

“What?”

“That thing you do.”

Your brows pulled together slightly.

“What thing?”

“You act really intimidating,” he explained casually, “but then your kid gets on base and suddenly you’re standing up clapping like a soccer mom.”

You stared at him flatly. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t compare me to a soccer mom.”

“It’s not an insult.”

“It absolutely is.”

Steve grinned openly now, sunlight catching briefly against the edge of his smile while he leaned back against the fence.

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately—

You did.

And somehow, that irritated you more.

Mostly because he’d noticed. Not the polished version of you everyone else reacted to first. Not the meetings or designer clothes or expensive car.

The softer things.

The embarrassing things.

Your son looking for you in the stands The way you tracked every play. How quickly your attention shifted entirely toward him once the game started.

Steve noticed all of it.

Which felt strangely invasive despite how harmless it actually was.

“You’re very observant for a baseball coach,” you muttered eventually.

Steve shrugged lightly.

“Kinda my job.”

“Mm.”

Silence settled briefly again.

Not awkward.

Just slower now.

The kind that appeared naturally after spending several hours around someone instead of forcing conversation to fill space.

Then Steve tilted his head slightly. “So where’d you learn baseball?”

The question caught you off guard enough that you looked at him properly again.

“My father,” you answered after a second. “Mostly.”

Steve nodded once, waiting.

You weren’t entirely sure why you continued speaking afterward. “He was obsessed with it when I was growing up,” you admitted. “Made me memorize statistics during dinner.”

Steve laughed softly.

“That sounds intense.”

“It was incredibly intense.”

“But you liked it anyway.”

You hesitated briefly.

Then:

“…Eventually.”

Something about the answer seemed to amuse him.

“You know,” Steve admitted, “I really did think you hated being here at first.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“At baseball?”

“At baseball practices. Games. Parent stuff.” He gestured vaguely toward the field. “You always looked like you had somewhere more important to be.”

The comment landed closer to the truth than you preferred.

Still—

You looked toward your son laughing near the parking lot with teammates before answering quietly:

“I don’t.”

Steve followed your gaze.

And for the first time all afternoon—

Neither of you joked after that.

Wednesday evenings usually belonged to work.

Conference calls.

Investor dinners.

Last-minute schedule changes sent by assistants who sounded terrified every time they called you after six o’clock.

Your weeks operated like machinery most of the time. Precise. Structured. Timed down to the minute because they had to be. Entire companies relied on your attention remaining exactly where it was supposed to remain, and normally, you preferred it that way.

Predictable meant manageable.

Which was why sitting in the backseat of your Escalade at six-thirty on a Wednesday evening felt strangely unnatural.

The soft glow of your laptop illuminated the leather interior while email notifications continued appearing relentlessly across your screen, yet your attention drifted toward the baseball field outside every few seconds anyway.

Warm sunset light spilled across Hawkins Community Park in long streaks of orange and gold, reflecting against the windshield while boys sprinted across the grass below. Baseballs cracked rhythmically into gloves. Coaches shouted instructions across the field. Somewhere near the parking lot entrance, a parent argued loudly with a child about unfinished homework while the smell of cut grass drifted faintly through the barely opened window beside you.

Your meeting had been canceled less than an hour ago.

Then your assistant rearranged tomorrow morning’s presentation.

Then Greg had casually mentioned you were already fifteen minutes away from practice pickup anyway.

And somehow—

Instead of going home…

You ended up here.

Your phone buzzed softly against the armrest beside you.

MIA: Need me to reschedule the Tokyo call too?

Your fingers hovered above the screen briefly before typing back:

No. I’ll take it later.

A pause.

Then:

MIA: Are you at baseball right now?

You stared at the message for a second longer than necessary.

Outside, your son sprinted across the field during drills while dust kicked behind his cleats beneath the fading sunlight. His laughter carried faintly through the glass even from this far away, blending into the noise of whistles and bouncing baseballs echoing throughout the park.

You typed back:

Unfortunately.

Mia immediately sent:

Liar.

[sexwithnocondom]

TERMS & CONDITIONS— Steve Harrington

SYNOPSIS— You have a company to run, a son to raise, and absolutely no interest in making ANY friends at Little League.

So why do you keep coming back?

CONTENT WARNING— No explicit content (for now). Just emotional unavailabilit

AUTHORS NOTE—i regret nothing. enjoy. 🖤

CHAPTER ONE: Out Of Office

Schedules are followed, meetings start on time, assistants keep everything running exactly as planned, and your life has been built around one very simple principle: efficiency. The only exception has ever been your son. What begins as a quick stop for Royce slowly introduces you to a world you never intended to become part of…

[sexwithnocondom]

Realizing you wrote my favorite fic, "Silver Stars," oh, how I love you and your brain.

thank you, but don’t encourage me… i’ll start writing another 22k smut.

you’ve got excellent taste btw. 🖤

[sexwithnocondom]

Girllll im eating up what we dont call love you killed it

here’s the playlist thats carrying what we don’t call love

[sexwithnocondom]

is your discord still open and accepting new people? :D I’d love to join!

Feel free! Link.

[sexwithnocondom]

you can come in.

just don’t make me regret it.

18+ writing server.

sneak peeks, playlists snd writing chaos

[sexwithnocondom]

I’ve been hiding something for monthssss, and I think it’s the hottest thing I’ve written… maybe. emotional neglect has officially become my brand, so please spare me because there’s definitely a pattern in my writing. 😭

[sexwithnocondom]

Im back from hibernation

[s111ut]

steve 'breeding kink' harrington who grips your hips extra tight and pushes himself as deeppppp (like really really deep. like you feel him in your lungs deep. like its overwhelming in the best way possible type of deep.) as he can inside of you when he cums because he wants to make you a mommy so bad :(

steve has your legs over his shoulders while he relentlessly pounds into you. his thrusts falter, he can feel his own climax building rapidly. he bends you even deeper into the mattress, your legs bent with your body molded to his.

"fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants out

"close- oh shit," he warns, his voice breaking slightly

"oh fuck, im cumming," a low groan rumbles through him.

steve uses all his strength to bury himself as deep as humanly possible in your pussy. there was so much force behind it, your body had shifted up the mattress slightly. you had never felt him this deep before, its almost too much.

your eyes widen and you gasp at the sensation. steve can feel it too, that overwhelming depth, and it makes his entire body tremble. hes so caught up in the fantasy of it all, and with you gasping and moaning his name out like that, it made the coil in his stomach snap. he burst inside of you, you felt him pulse inside of you, filling you up exactly where he wanted, praying that it takes.

steve choked out a weak, “oh fuck, baby,” before collapsing on top of you.

[sexwithnocondom]

NSFW AUDIO LIST — Steve Harrington

┊ nsfw—18+ ONLY

┊ voice— went based off their vibes ( won't sound exactly like character)

┊ listeners— afab but anyone is welcomed to listen

┊ audio—they do not belong to me!

┊ tags—read them before listening to audio!

┊a/n— to makeup for not updating these past months ;)

mommy!

CONTENT WARNING— (18+) explicit sexual content including oral sex, lots of “mommy”, face fucking, dirty talk, nipple and cum play (cream pie). Oragasms. MSUB!

All I want for Christmas

CONTENT WARNING— (18+) explicit sexual content including pussy eating. 🍽️

big bulge

CONTENT WARNING— (18+) explicit sexual content including oral sex, “daddy”, “kiddo”, “good girl”, bits of slapping, pussy sucking/licking/slurping, and face grinding!

Boy next door

CONTENT WARNING— (18+) explicit sexual content including fingering, “slut” use, dirty talk, back shots, leg grinding, Voyeuristic element (overhearing a hookup), power dynamic, moaning sounds, some possessiveness, PinV.

[littlebunnybigheartfics]

just a reminder for smut readers to not compare yourselves to what you read. at the end of the day it is porn and it still has tropes and stereotypes like any other.

if you can't go multiple rounds, or if you need more time, or if you have trouble finishing/can't finish at all, if you don't have big breasts or a small waist or birthing hips, if intimacy is intimidating, if you don't like the feel of penetration, if ur a virgin, if it takes more time for you to get wet, if you can't squirt, if you're not short and petite, if you have medical issues that get in the way, if ur a victim of sa or abuse. that is all normal and it does not make you less than. if you don't find a reflection of yourself within stories, that is more than alright. lots of it is escapism and glorified and porn trope adjacent and not a reflection of real life. you are perfect just as you are.♡

[nicherthanu]

maya’s favorite fic recommendations ೃ⁀➷

(MDNI+18)(updated regularly) (part 2??)

𓆟 𓆜 𓆝 𓆞 𓆟 𓆜 𓆝 𓆞 𓆟 𓆜𓆝

Steve Harrington ࣪⋆:⋆｡˚✧

(✰= personal favorites)

✰ EVERYTHING by @sheisjoeschateau and i am NOT playing around!!!!! (personal fave: i see fire)

my favorite steve author HANDS DOWN, no one can write a plot that simply snatches you up and has you completely at their mercy (lol ifykyk 👀) like they can- like are you kidding me? every fic is a different masterpiece and you fall in love with every character and plot!! that is A WRITER if ive ever seen one 💯 (WARNING: heavy plots with heavy content and heavy angst)

✰ hell hound (and everything else, i mean it) by @curiositydooropened| ANGST ANGST ANGST!!! this plot? 1000/10, fwb, love triangle, steve X reader X eddie, simp steve, a little bit of smut, have i said incredible plot? multi- chapter

this fic is everythinggg ugh! sadly, not finished ☹️, but ive reread it a lot because the writing and the plot are incredible and i just love me some real angst! (WARNING: real heavy content, violence, trauma)

✰ dont call me ‘baby’ by @katyswrites | rich!sugar daddy!steve, slow burn, smutty smut, praise and worshipping, great plot, multi-chapter, finished: 10/10 chapters

WELCOME TO MY FAVEEEEEE YAYYY!!!! love this one sm! maybe it’s cause im obsesseeeeeed with the idea of old money rich!steve who spoils and pampers his girl all the time, also, the way she heals him>>> love the plot, the angst, the smut!

the christmas arrangement by @harringtonsdiary| multi-chapter 5/5 complete, coworkers to lovers, grumpy boss x sunshine intern, smut, angst

love this one sooo much, this author is incredible and i recommend all their fics, but this is my fav! love how they discuss steve’s trauma and how reader unconsciously comforts him. small town holiday + found family vibes are immaculate!

✰ only the lightest blues by @levanswrites | slow burn, touch-starved steve, fluff, smut, comfort, one-shot

most rereadable one-shot of all time! just gets better with time, i love me some needy steve because that man has been through enough! he just needs reassurance and someone to be there for and with him💗 reader is an absolute angel, and all the other fics by the author are great too!

lessons in chemistry by @harringtonsdiary | multi-chapter, FINSIHED!! sweetest ending ever, angst, enemies to lovers, teasing, forced proximity, teachers/coworkers to lovers, smut

this one is sooo good, love me a well written slow burn with a reader who ain’t just a shy giggly girl and is actually keeping up with steve😻😻

my name is whatever you decide by @upsidedownwithemmy| reaallll sexual tension, angst, smut, teasing, rich!steve (yes im obsessed) , short and finished multi-chapter

okay, but imagine working at a country club where realll rich people come and go and steve the hair harrington just walks in and makes it his mission to show just how obsessed he is with you- like, are you kidding? the tension in this 😫😫 10/10

So I’ll wait for you love, and I’ll burn by @andvys | smut, angst, one-shot, exes to lovers, kinda hate-sex, smut with plot!

soo well written, love the plot and the realness of the characters- the dialogue is sooo good (the smut is also 💯)

girls like you by @sexwithnocondom | angst, smut, unrequited love (not steve), rebound, jealously, praise, one-shot, smut with a teeny bit of plot

the concept of : being in love with eddie munson although he “doesn’t see you”, so steve harrington offers to show him what he’s missing by fucking you (amazingly so) in eddie’s bed is reason enough to read this. (WARNING: squirting)

we’ll call it love by @superblysubpar | angst, more angst, friends w benefits to lovers, slooww burn, rich! steve (😛), beautifully written characters, finished multi-chapter

did i almost cry of literal ANGST while reading this? yes. will i recommend it to everyone? definitely!!! absolutely adore this one, even though it frustrated me to hell and back, but the fluffy ending made up for it 100%.

i’ll be there for you by @supernovafics | friends to lovers, angst, denial, sexual tension, fluff and smut, finished long multi-chapter, slow burnn

did someone request a well written friends to lovers with actual plot and slow burn and tension and angst and smut and everything beautiful? great, because this is the shittt!!!!

needy by @piece0fgarbag | smut with almost no plot, reaaaaal filthy dirty talk, camping, road trip, one-shot

you're on a road trip with your friends, but Steve can't keep his hands to himself... not even with them in the same room (WARNING: exhibitionism, daddy kink)

(and for those of yall who hate the use of daddy in fics- firstly, yall would absolutely HATE me, secondly, do NOT try and tell me that steve ‘the king’ harrington doesn’t have a daddy kink because you and I both know that man does)

no one knows (oh what you do to me) by @keeryhours| one-shot, CEO X assistant, power dynamics, smuttt, teasing, sexual tension, rich!steve (sue me 🙂‍↔️)

the smut in this AYEEE 😛😛 pov: you’re the personal assistant to a very important (and irritatingly sexy) CEO. at least, you thought that was all you were, until an important party uncovers the fact that the insane attraction might not be one-sided.

✰ beyond; by @abibliophobiaa | fake marriage, roomates to friends to lovers, angst angst angst, smut, then angst again then fluff! and guess what….? RICH!STEVE 😛😛

on my top fics of all time fs! beautiful plot with real and genuine characters, i absolutely inhaled this in 24 hours it’s like a literal drug im obsessed! finished multi-chapter

dancing with our hands tied by @taintedcigs | angstttt, two-shot, fluff, love triangle (kinda??), steve is head over heels (in a very endearing way)

no warnings! just great plot with great angst and great fluff! honestly revolves around miscommunication and fear of how their relationship would affect others, but they’re soo in love it hurts! this fic already had me at the tswift reference title

out-charmed by @vultbae | one-shot, SMUTTTT with a bit of plot, sexual tension, obsessed steve

steve is obsessed with you the moment he sees your angelic face and innocent smile, but your first date at a party shows that you might not be that innocent- and steve definitely digs that. the smut? the dirty talk? 💯💯

✰ gasoline by @stevie-petey | slow burn, angst angst angst angst, sexual tension, drunken nights, slow burn (WARNING: drugs and violence)

you’re hired as a photographer for an uprising 80s band- pays well enough, you get to have a good and stable home, everyone becomes a close friend quickly… the only problem? the main vocalist and absolute firehouse that is steve harrington. (THIS PLOT HAS ME IN A CHOKEHOLD)

stretched and next time by @bruisedsoupp | SMUT❗️, absolute filth (i mean it, don’t read it if you ain’t into it) , two- shot, no plot, established relationship ?

absolutely insane wtf. literally just plain, mind numbing smut, no plot- but definitely the type of smut that makes you kick your feet and shiver. the dirty talk in this 💯 (WARNING: anal play)

sweet dreams, baby by @fru1t4fr0gs| angssttttttt, GREAT plotline, fluff, bit of smut, henderson!reader, multi-chapter, unfinished 💔

i love the lil twist in this one, and the mix of flashbacks and present time is mixed sooo well! actually laughed out loud and cooed with this one. love the oc in this and their dynamics are sooo good 😫

more recs and characters to come! maybe even a part 2….?

[gwenythxfandoms]

Steve Harrington Authors

Like Steve Harrington? These authors are for you. Here is a list of authors that I've followed or read in the most recent year or two.

* - personal favorite

@andvys *

my personal favorite. this author may have inspired this list. i've followed all their stories. my personal favorite being "dancing with our hands tied." i personally want to pay them to write a fic lol

@lovebugism

has great mini blurbs/one shots. favorite is "please please please"

@piece0fgarbag

has a mini masterlist so far but great smut. my favorite one is "dustin's sister"

@iheartyouyou *

has a great series that is ongoing called "doubts." very angsty and very much pining.

@raven-dor

some of my favorite one-shots

@munsonsreputation *

"the very first page not where the storyline ends."

@taintedcigs *

hardest of hearts & fall into pieces

@roanofarcc

eighteen months & the babysitter

@simping4fictional

steve x henderson reader & stuck with me

@luveline *

literally everything!

@harringtonsdiary

lessons in chemistry (series)

@pankowcrumbs

six little nuggets x steve harrington

@sexwithnocondom

silver stars

@nostarfights

it's not a question now

@stevesgother

when the sun hits, chalkboard hearts, from now on (our troubles will be miles away)

@sheisjoeschateau

"oh so we do love steve" ongoing series

@stevie-petey

now you're a stranger (and i'm still july)

[sexwithnocondom]

I COULDN’T HURT YOU but I did— Eddie Munson

SYNOPSIS— Best friends. One night that shouldn’t have happened. And the slow, brutal unraveling that followed.You were never just another night—but Eddie Munson treats you like one anyway, because loving you would mean admitting he wants something he doesn’t believe he deserves. When he decides he isn’t worthy of you, he pushes you away the only way he knows how.

CONTENT WARNING— heavy angst, heartbreak, self-sabotage, avoidance, unrequited feelings mutual but unspoken, guilt & self-worth issues, yelling PLUS emotional outbursts, abandonment anxiety and HEAVY emotional distress!!!!!!!!!!!

AUTHORS NOTE— hi 🖤this one hurt to write… that’s all.

By the third day, Eddie’s voice had started to sound wrong over the phone.

Not angry. Not upset. Just… thinner. Like he was holding it at arm’s length, careful not to let it spill into anything real. He still answered when you called—sometimes on the third ring, sometimes on the fifth—but his words came clipped, wrapped in jokes that didn’t land the way they used to. Yeah, yeah, I’m alive. Busy day. Shop’s a mess. Nothing you could point to. Nothing you could accuse him of.

So you told yourself you were imagining it.

Florida heat pressed down on you as you pushed open the door to the shop that afternoon, the familiar buzz of tattoo machines humming under classic rock bleeding softly through the speakers. The smell of ink and antiseptic settled into your lungs like it always did, grounding, familiar—his.

Eddie should’ve been at the front by now, leaning against the counter, boots kicked up where Marlyn always yelled at him not to. He was never subtle about being there.

But the chair at the station was empty.

Marlyn glanced up from her sketchpad when the bell chimed, brows lifting just slightly. “Hey,” she said, slow, curious. “You miss him?”

Something in the way she said it made your stomach dip, just a little. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, spinning her pen between her fingers. “He left early. Said he had a headache or something. Didn’t really explain.”

That didn’t sound like Eddie. He lived at the shop—birthday hangover or not. You laughed it off anyway, too quick, too easy. “Probably still recovering. I’ll wait a bit.”

Marlyn watched you for a second longer than necessary, then went back to her drawing.

You took a seat on the worn leather couch by the window, the one you’d sat on a hundred times before. Time dragged in odd, uneven stretches. Every time the door opened, your head lifted automatically—hope without permission—only to settle again when it wasn’t him. You traced the faint cracks in the armrest with your thumb, listening to the low murmur of conversation, the steady rhythm of machines buzzing.

An hour passed. Then another.

Eddie never showed.

When you finally stood to leave, confusion sat heavier than disappointment, dull and unformed. You told yourself he’d probably call later, apologize in that crooked, self-deprecating way of his, say he’d just needed air. It wasn’t like him to disappear—but then again, it wasn’t like you to overthink things either.

Outside, the sun was starting to dip, the sky bleeding orange and pink across the pavement. You glanced back at the shop once, half-expecting him to be there suddenly, leaning in the doorway like he always did.

He wasn’t.

And still, as you walked to your car, you didn’t think to name the feeling curling quietly in your chest. Not yet.

THREE NIGHTS AGO

The apartment had gone quiet in that way it only does after midnight, when the noise lingers in the walls but the people are gone. Empty bottles crowded the coffee table, ashtray full, music still playing low and warbled from the speakers like it hadn’t realized the party was over yet. Eddie was sunk into the couch beside you, close enough that your knees brushed every time one of you shifted.

Neither of you moved to fix it.

He smelled like beer and clean laundry and the faint bite of ink that never really left him. His laughter came easy, loose, softer than it had been all night, and when he leaned back, his arm stretched out behind you, not touching—just there. The space between your bodies felt charged, humming, like something waiting to be acknowledged.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, eyes flicking to you for just a second too long.

You nodded, smiling, and the motion brought you closer without meaning to. Your knee pressed fully into his now, warm and solid.

The song changed—something slow, dragging—and the room felt smaller for it.

You looked at him then. Really looked. The way his hair fell into his eyes, the crooked line of his mouth, the softness that only ever showed when the world wasn’t watching. Eddie’s gaze lingered on you, unreadable, and for a moment neither of you spoke, the silence stretching thin.

“Hey,” he murmured, like he was testing the word.

You don’t remember who leaned in first. Only that suddenly he was close—too close—and the world narrowed to heat and breath and the way his hand hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. When he finally did, it was careful, almost reverent, like you might disappear if he held on too tight.

You didn’t stop him.

By the time you got home, the day had already slipped through your fingers.

You kicked your shoes off by the door, dropped your keys into the ceramic bowl on the counter, moved through your apartment on autopilot. The shop lingered in your mind only as an unfinished thought—Eddie not being there, Marlyn’s shrug, the way the door hadn’t opened for him even once while you waited—but it didn’t settle. Not yet. You weren’t looking for meaning. You weren’t pulling threads.

The shower steamed the day off you, hot water running against your shoulders until your skin tingled. You stood there longer than necessary, letting the noise fill your head, washing away the smell of ink and heat and the faint disappointment you didn’t have a name for. When you stepped out, you ordered Chinese from the place down the street—the one Eddie always complained about but ate anyway—and flipped the TV on while you waited.

Law & Order played in the background, voices bleeding together as you curled into the corner of the couch, damp hair clinging to your neck. The familiar rhythm of it all—takeout, television, the quiet hum of your apartment—made everything feel normal again. Like the day hadn’t been strange at all.

You reached for the phone without thinking.

Calling Eddie most nights had become habit sometime in the last two years. Easy. Automatic. A constant you didn’t examine too closely. The line rang twice before he picked up.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice was the same—rough around the edges, familiar—but there was something distant about it, like he wasn’t fully there.

“Hey,” you echoed, smiling despite yourself. “You left the shop early today.”

A pause. Not long. Just long enough to notice.

“Yeah,” Eddie replied. “Had some stuff to take care of.”

“Oh.” You shifted on the couch, eyes on the television though you weren’t watching it. “Marlyn said you had a headache or something.”

Another beat. “Something like that.”

You waited for him to fill the space. He didn’t.

“Well,” you said lightly, forcing brightness into your voice, “we were supposed to grab lunch, remember? Guess I owe you now.”

A quiet exhale on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted—careful, casual, too controlled. “Yeah, about that. I don’t think I can tomorrow.”

That gave you pause. Eddie canceled plans sometimes, sure—but never without turning it into a whole dramatic production. There was no apology this time. No joke to soften it.

“Oh,” you said again, softer now. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Totally. Just—busy.” He laughed, short and hollow. “You know how it is.”

You frowned, thumb tracing the edge of your phone. The sound of your show filled the silence between you, some detective raising his voice, the laugh track nonexistent, the moment stretching thin.

“So,” you tried, “what’re you up to?”

“Not much,” Eddie replied. “Just… stuff.”

Three minutes passed like that—small talk that didn’t go anywhere, words skimming the surface instead of sinking in. Eddie didn’t ramble. Didn’t interrupt you. Didn’t tease. He sounded like someone trying not to say the wrong thing rather than someone saying the right ones.

Then, suddenly, “Hey, I gotta go.”

“What?” You sat up straighter. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Early day tomorrow.”

Before you could ask anything else, before the confusion could turn into a question, he added, “Come by the shop, though. Tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

There it was. An invitation, almost. Or maybe a reassurance.

“Okay,” you said, easy. “Yeah. I will.”

“Cool.” His voice softened for half a second—just enough to remind you of how it usually sounded. “Night.”

“Night, Eddie.”

The line went dead before you could say anything more.

You stared at your phone for a moment, then set it down as the doorbell rang, Chinese food arriving right on time. The smell filled your apartment as you paid the driver, normal and grounding and real.

Still, as you ate on the couch, the TV droning on, Eddie’s voice replayed in your head—not what he’d said, but everything he hadn’t.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface, something began to shift. Not hurt. Not yet.

Just distance—quiet and unfamiliar—stretching out between you, inch by careful inch.

EDDIE— After Call

“FUCK!.”

The word left Eddie’s mouth the second the line went dead, sharp and sudden, like he could still stop himself if he said it fast enough. He stared at the phone in his hand as if it might light back up, as if your name would reappear and undo the damage he’d just done by pulling away.

He dragged a hand down his face, pacing the length of his apartment, boots thudding against the floor of his apartment. The couch sat where it always did—innocent and damning all at once—and Eddie pointedly didn’t look at it.

Three minutes.

That’s all he’d managed.

Three minutes before his chest had tightened, before the familiar panic had set in, before he’d felt that awful, sinking certainty that if he stayed on the line any longer, he’d say something he wasn’t allowed to say. Something that would make it real.

He tossed the phone onto the bed like it burned and laughed under his breath, humorless. “Get it together, Munson,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. His skin still felt too warm, like the memory of you hadn’t quite left him yet.

That was the problem.

You’d sounded fine. Normal. Like the night hadn’t rearranged something inside him. Like waking up alone hadn’t split him open in ways he didn’t have language for. You hadn’t questioned him, hadn’t pushed, hadn’t asked why he’d left the shop early or why his voice kept catching every time you spoke.

And that made it worse.

Because it meant you didn’t know what he’d done.

Eddie sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it might offer absolution. His hands—these stupid, ink-stained hands—curled into fists. He flexed his fingers, remembering the way they’d rested on your waist, careful, reverent, like you were something fragile he’d somehow been trusted with.

I shouldn’t have touched you.

The thought hit hard, immediate, unforgiving.

It wasn’t about the sex. It never was. It was the way you’d fit against him like it made sense. The way you’d fallen asleep without hesitation, like his arms were a place you belonged. Eddie had spent years convincing himself he didn’t get to be that for someone like you.

Good people didn’t end up with guys like him. They didn’t deserve to carry the weight of someone who was still figuring out how not to ruin everything he touched.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing out slow and shaky. You don’t get to want this, he told himself. You don’t get to keep her.

The phone stayed silent.

Eddie swallowed hard and stood, forcing himself to move, to do anything but think about the sound of your voice, easy and warm, like he hadn’t already broken something between you. He’d told you to come by the shop tomorrow—because he couldn’t stand the thought of you thinking he was gone for good.

But even that felt selfish.

Watching you leave was easier than letting you stay. Easier than admitting that if he let himself touch you again, he wouldn’t stop—and that scared him more than being alone ever had.

He turned the lights off without looking back at the couch.

Somewhere across town, you were eating dinner, watching TV, living your life like he hadn’t just redrawn the lines of it in his head.

Eddie Munson sat in the dark and wondered how someone so sweet could ever end up tangled with someone like him—and how he was supposed to let you go when every part of him already knew he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t.

THE NEXT DAY

You see him before you step inside.

Through the glass windows at the front of the shop, Eddie is bent over his station, shoulders relaxed, hair falling into his face as he works. He’s tattooing a girl’s calf—steady, focused—and he’s smiling. Laughing, actually, head tipped back slightly as the girl says something you can’t hear. It’s easy. Familiar. So him it almost makes you pause mid-step.

See? you tell yourself. He’s fine.

The bell above the door chimes as you push it open, the shop swallowing you whole—buzzing machines, the smell of ink and antiseptic, the low hum of conversation layered with music. Eddie looks up at the sound instinctively, like he always does.

His smile falters.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

“Hey,” he says, calling you by your first name, then corrects himself, using the name he gave you years ago—the one that stuck, the one only he ever used.

Marlyn’s head snaps up from her station at the sound of it.

Your eyes meet hers for half a second, something unspoken passing between you. A question. A pause. Then it’s gone.

“Hey,” you reply, easy, stepping closer like nothing has changed.

You lean in to give him a quick sit-hug, perching on the edge of his chair like you always do, arm sliding around his shoulders. Eddie stiffens just slightly—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you feel it. He doesn’t lean into you this time. His shoulder brushes yours, nothing more, a careful inch of space held between you like a rule he’s made for himself.

You pull back, blinking, and laugh it off.

“Busy?” you ask, settling into the chair beside his booth, knees bouncing lightly.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, eyes already back on his work. “Always.”

The girl in the chair keeps talking, and Eddie laughs again—real this time, unguarded. He jokes with her, reassures her when she flinches, leans in close without thinking. His hand rests steady against her skin, fingers sure, practiced, comfortable.

The girl in the chair chuckles nervously. “You say that to everyone.”

Eddie grins at her, easy and bright. “That’s ‘cause it’s true”

She laughs, shoulders relaxing. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” Eddie replies proudly. “But my lines are clean and my music taste is elite. Can’t have everything.”

From the booth beside him, one of the other artists—Jeff—snorts. “Elite? Man, you’ve been playing the same Metallica tape for two years.”

Eddie doesn’t even look up. “It’s called consistency. Look it up.”

Jeff tosses a paper towel at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Eddie says, smirking, “you love me.”

The shop laughs, the sound bouncing off the walls, easy and familiar. Eddie’s laugh joins in—full and unguarded, head tipping back just slightly. He leans closer to his client, steadying her calf with one hand as the machine hums back to life.

She winces, then exhales. “Alright,” he says gently, all focus now. “Deep breath. You’re doing great.”

“Don’t lie!” She chuckles.

Eddie murmurs. “I don’t lie to people who trust me with their skin.”

Your stomach twists at that, though you’re not sure why.

He keeps talking to her as he works—about the weather, about how Florida heat should be illegal, about the dumb banner someone hung crooked near the front window.

You watch him without meaning to.

He’s animated with everyone else—the clients, the artists, even the delivery guy who pops his head in to drop off supplies. He grins, gestures, throws his head back in laughter like the weight of the world hasn’t shifted at all.

But when you speak, he gives you half-answers.

“Yeah.”

“Probably.”

“Guess so.”

His attention never lingers. His eyes slid away too quickly, his body angled just slightly out of reach.

You fold your hands in your lap and try not to let it sink in. Okay, you think. That’s… noticeable.

Four days. That’s how long it’s been. Four days of dry phone calls, canceled plans, and now this—him right there, close enough to touch, and somehow miles away. You glance around the shop, half-expecting someone to look at you like they see it too.

Marlyn doesn’t.

She’s focused on her work, relaxed, unbothered. No raised brows. No pointed looks. No are you okay? whispered across the room. If Eddie was acting weird, surely she’d notice. Surely she’d say something.

So it must be you.

You shift in your seat, forcing yourself to relax, forcing a smile. You’re overthinking it. Projecting meaning onto something ordinary. People get weird sometimes. Eddie gets in moods. It doesn’t have to be about you.

Then you speak.

“So,” you say casually, “still coming by the beach this weekend? Marlyn was talking about it.”

Eddie doesn’t look up. “Probably.”

“Okayy.” You hesitate, then try again. “I was thinking of bringing that old radio we found? The one that still half-works.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Could.”

Silence stretches.

You shift in your seat, forcing a laugh. “real talkative today.”

That earns you a glance—brief, careful. “Just focused,” he says. “Big piece.”

And that’s it.

No follow-up. No teasing. No sideways smile meant just for you. His attention slides away again, locked back onto his work like you hadn’t been there at all.

Around you, the shop keeps moving—voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling, the hum of machines never stopping. Eddie is still Eddie to everyone else.

Just not to you. Still, you sit there longer than you meant to, listening to Eddie laugh with someone else, and wonder when the space between you got so loud.

You last maybe five more minutes.

Five minutes of watching Eddie laugh with someone else, of feeling like you’re sitting too close to something you’re not supposed to touch anymore. The chair beside his booth suddenly feels wrong—too exposed, too familiar, like a habit you don’t know how to break quietly.

“Alriiight,” you say, dragging the word out with forced ease as you push yourself up from the seat.

Eddie hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t look over.

You walk away before you can think about it.

Marlyn glances up from her sketchpad the second she hears your footsteps, eyes tracking you as you cross the shop and slide into the empty chair beside her station. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you out of the corner of her eye, pen paused mid-air.

You feel it. Her attention. The unasked question.

After a beat, she makes a face—brows knitting together.

You shrug, small and noncommittal. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just relocate your entire body away from Eddie Munson.

“…What?” you murmur.

Marlyn tilts her head slightly, lowering her voice. “Nothing,” she says, then hesitates. “Just—did you two get into a fight or something?”

Your stomach dips. “Umm, no?”

She gestures vaguely with her pen toward Eddie’s booth, where his laughter rises again, easy and unrestrained. “He’s just being weird.”

You snort softly. “He’s always weird.”

“Yeah,” Marlyn says slowly, unconvinced. “But not like that.”

You glance over despite yourself. Eddie’s focused on his work, shoulders relaxed, expression open. He looks fine. Normal. Happy, even. You turn back to Marlyn, lowering your voice further.

“I think you’re reading into it.”

Marlyn studies you for a second, then sighs. “Okay, but hear me out—maybe he’s trying to avoid you.”

The words land heavier than they should. You shake your head immediately. “No.”

“Are you sure?” she presses gently.

“I’m sure,” you say, a little too quickly. “He’s the one who told me to come by today.”

Marlyn raises a brow. “Did he?”

“Yeah,” you insist. “We talked last night. He said to come in.”

She doesn’t argue right away, which somehow makes it worse. Instead, she taps her pen against the pad thoughtfully. “Okay. But did he make plans? Or did he just… say it?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

“Well,” you start, regrouping, “we were supposed to grab lunch yesterday, but he had to cancel—”

Marlyn hums. “Uh-huh.”

“But we talked,” you add quickly. “Like, actually talked. He picked up when I called. He wouldn’t do that if he was avoiding me.”

You say it like it’s logic. Like it settles the question.

Marlyn’s gaze softens. “Avoiding someone doesn’t always mean ignoring them.”

That gives you pause.

You glance back at Eddie again, watching the way he leans in close to his client, the way his hands are steady and sure, the way he laughs without hesitation when someone says something stupid. He doesn’t look like someone avoiding anything.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, quieter now. “I think he’s just… in his head. Or tired. Or I’m overthinking it.”

Marlyn watches you carefully. “If you say so.”

You force a smile. “I do.”

She lets it go, turning back to her sketchpad, but the thought doesn’t leave with her attention. It settles in your chest instead, small and insistent.

Avoiding you.

You shake your head again, more for yourself than for her. Eddie told you to come today. He answered your call. He’s right there.

Whatever this is, it can’t be that.

Still, as the shop buzzes on around you, you find yourself sitting a little farther away than you ever have before—trying not to look at Eddie, and failing anyway.

Eddie notices immediately.

He doesn’t mean to—doesn’t look up right away, doesn’t turn his head—but the space beside his booth feels wrong all of a sudden. Lighter. Empty in a way that pulls at his attention like a loose thread. He keeps his eyes trained on the line he’s pulling, steady and clean, but his awareness drifts anyway.

You’re not there.

His jaw tightens, barely perceptible. He risks a glance through the corner of his eye and sees you across the shop now, perched beside Marlyn’s station, shoulders angled away from him like a choice you’ve just made.

Fuck me.

His chest sinks with it, that same familiar ache blooming low and slow. He swallows and forces himself to focus, hand steady even as his thoughts scatter.

“Everything okay?” the girl in the chair asks softly, sensing the shift.

“Yeah,” Eddie says automatically. “All good.”

He wipes excess ink away, careful, controlled. The hum of the machine fills the space where he wants to say something—anything—but doesn’t let himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you laugh at something Marlyn says. It’s quieter than usual. Smaller. Eddie tells himself he deserves that.

“Your friend?” the girl murmurs, voice lowered, curious but kind.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He exhales through his nose, then nods once. “Yeah.”

“She seems… nice,” the girl says, glancing over in your direction. “You two looked close.”

Eddie’s grip tightens just slightly before he corrects it.

“We are,” he says, then stops himself. Were. Are. The distinction feels dangerous. He clears his throat. “I mean. Yeah.”

The girl hesitates, then leans in just a fraction, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “Am I in the way?”

The question hits harder than it should.

Eddie forces a small smile he doesn’t feel. “No,” he says quickly. “She just gets bored easy.”

He doesn’t look at you again after that.

Because if he does—if he lets himself see the way you’re sitting farther away, the way you’re pretending not to notice him noticing—you might see it too. And if you see it, he might have to explain.

And Eddie Munson doesn’t trust himself to explain why the best thing he’s ever almost had feels like the one thing he’s not allowed to keep.

He finishes the line with precision, hands steady despite the war in his chest, and pretends that the distance between you is something he chose easily.

When really, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

THREE DAYS AGO

Eddie wakes up with a headache and the wrong kind of quiet.

Sunlight bleeds through the blinds in thin, unforgiving lines, cutting across the ceiling, the floor, the bed—and the empty space beside him. For a second, he doesn’t move. Just lies there, staring, chest tight, mind scrambling to catch up with his body.

The room smells like last night. Beer. Sweat. Something softer—you—still clinging to the sheets.

“Fuck,” Eddie groans, dragging a hand down his face.

He sits up too fast and immediately regrets it, the room tilting as his stomach churns. The couch across the apartment is untouched. The door is closed. No sign of you anywhere, except for the dent you left in the mattress and the warmth that’s already fading.

He laughs once, sharp and breathless. “Yeah. Of course.”

Memory comes rushing back in pieces—your laugh, low and tired. The way you’d fit against him like you’d done it before, like it was easy. The way he’d touched you like he was afraid you’d break, like if he held you too tight the whole thing would fall apart.

He presses his palms into his eyes, breathing hard.

What the hell did you do?

It wasn’t supposed to go there. He’d known that. Had felt it the second your knees touched on the couch, the second he realized how badly he wanted you and how wrong that felt all at once. Wanting you wasn’t the problem—it was what came after. The part where you wake up and realize who you were with.

Eddie swings his legs over the side of the bed and rubs at his temples, heart pounding. His skin still feels too sensitive, like your hands haven’t let go of him yet. The thought makes his chest ache in a way that borders on panic.

You’re good. Sweet. Untouched by the things that rot people like him from the inside out.

He stands and paces the room, muttering under his breath. “You don’t do this. You don’t get to do this.”

The idea of hurting you—of being the thing that stains something pure—turns his stomach. He’d wanted to feel wanted, wanted to feel good, wanted something that made him forget all the ways he falls short.

And for a moment, last night, he had.

That’s what scares him the most.

Eddie sinks down onto the edge of the bed again, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He doesn’t know how to be someone who gets to wake up next to you and feel proud of it. Doesn’t know how to want you without believing it’ll ruin you.

He stays there long after the sun climbs higher, staring at the floor, convincing himself that distance is the only way he knows how to keep you safe—even if it means rotting alone with the truth of how badly he wants you.

The hum of the tattoo machine pulls Eddie back.

He blinks, refocuses on the line he’s tracing, forces his hand steady even as his thoughts drift somewhere they have no business being.

Across the shop, you laugh again. Quieter this time, but still unmistakably yours.

His chest tightens.

The memory hits without warning—your mouth on his, soft at first, hesitant. The way the kiss had lingered, like neither of you knew how to stop once it started. He remembers the couch beneath you, the worn fabric against his fingers, the way you’d tilted your head like you trusted him to know what to do next.

He hadn’t.

That was the problem.

Eddie swallows and adjusts his grip, deliberately loosening his hand from the client’s skin for half a second before settling again.

He can still hear the way you’d breathed his name like it meant something.He doesn’t let himself look at you.

Because if he does, he’ll remember the way you’d leaned into him without fear, the way you hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t doubted. The way you’d kissed him like he was worth wanting.

And Eddie Munson doesn’t trust that version of himself.

“Almost done,” he tells the girl in the chair, voice steady despite the war in his chest. She nods, relaxed. Trusting.

That makes his stomach twist.

He doesn’t touch you because he knows how easily he would. Because he remembers the way his hands had learned you too quickly, like they’d been waiting for permission he didn’t deserve.

He wipes the ink clean, peels his gloves off, and stands, putting physical distance between himself and his booth. You’re still sitting by Marlyn’s station, posture closed off in a way that feels new. Eddie notices it like a bruise forming under the skin. He wonders if you remember the couch too. If the memory feels as heavy for you as it does for him.

Or if you’ve already moved on.

The thought shouldn’t hurt. It does anyway.

Eddie turns back to his work, jaw tight, reminding himself—again—that this is what keeping you safe looks like. Even if it means swallowing the urge to cross the room, to apologize, to pull you close and kiss you like he did that night.

Because wanting you isn’t the sin but believing he deserves you is.

You notice before he says anything.

The machine goes quiet, the familiar hum cutting out mid-thought, and your attention drifts toward Eddie without permission. From the corner of your eye, you watch him peel his gloves off, roll his shoulders like he’s shaking something loose. The client laughs at something he says, thanks him, stands.

Marlyn is still talking beside you—something about a stencil she can’t get right—but the words blur together.

“Give me a minute,” you murmur, already standing.

She pauses, watching you go.

The client passes you on her way out, calf wrapped carefully, the fresh tattoo dark and precise against her skin. You glance down as she walks by—clean lines, careful shading. Eddie’s work. Steady hands. Intentional.

You keep walking.

Eddie’s back is to you when you reach his booth. He’s wiping down the station, methodical, focused, movements a little too precise. You sit on the edge of the tattoo bed like you’ve done a hundred times before, the vinyl cool beneath your palms.

You don’t say anything at first.

You just watch him.

The way his shoulders move when he breathes. The way his jaw tightens as he concentrates. The space he’s put between you now feels deliberate, like he’s holding it in place with effort alone.

“Hey,” you murmur, then hesitate.

He doesn’t turn.

“What’s up with you?”

The words come out softer than you meant them to. Not an accusation. Just confusion. Curiosity edged with something deeper you’re still pretending not to feel.

Eddie keeps wiping the counter. The paper towel squeaks against the metal surface. One second stretches into two. Into three.

Your chest tightens.

Then he exhales and shakes his head once, like he’s brushing something away. When he finally turns, he forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Nothing,” he says. Short. Final.

Your stomach sinks—not sharply, not yet—but enough that you notice.

“Nothing?” you repeat lightly, brows lifting. You swing one leg idly, pretending ease. “Because it kinda feels like something.”

Eddie shrugs, eyes already sliding away. “You’re reading into it.”

There it is.

You’d said the same thing to Marlyn not five minutes ago.

You watch his hands instead of his face now, the way they move when he’s not sure what to do with them. He keeps busy—throws away gloves, wipes down the bed, avoids standing still long enough for the moment to settle.

So this is the test.

You’d told yourself he wasn’t avoiding you. That he wouldn’t tell you to come in if he didn’t want to see you. That he wouldn’t answer your calls, wouldn’t joke, wouldn’t look at you at all.

But now he’s right here—and somehow farther away than ever.

“Okay,” you say slowly, nodding once like you’ve come to a decision you don’t fully understand yet. “I’m gonna head out.”

You slide off the edge of the tattoo bed and turn away before he can see the shift in your face, the way something inside you has gone quiet. Your steps feel heavier than they should as you move toward the front of the shop, past the hum of machines and the low murmur of conversation that suddenly feels too loud.

Behind you, Eddie stills.

For half a second—just half—his mouth opens. His hand lifts, fingers flexing like he’s about to call your name, like he’s about to stop you. The instinct is there, sharp and desperate, lodged in his chest where it hurts the most.

Don’t let her walk away like this.

But he does.

“Alright,” Eddie says instead.

It’s soft. Neutral. Empty.

Not I’ll see you later.

Not Call me when you get home.

Not even your name.

You pause for a fraction of a second, the word settling in your spine like a weight. Then you nod once, even though he can’t see it, and keep walking.

Marlyn looks up as you pass her station, concern flickering across her face. You offer her a small shrug—it’s fine, really—and push the door open.

The bell chimes behind you, bright and oblivious.

Outside, the heat wraps around you again, thick and suffocating. You don’t look back.

Inside the shop, Eddie stands frozen, staring at the space you left behind, heart pounding like he’s just made the worst kind of mistake—the kind you don’t realize until it’s already done.

And for the first time, you don’t convince yourself you’re overthinking it.

Because this time, the distance answers back.

You make it a week.

Seven days of not calling.

Seven days of not driving past the shop “on accident.”

Seven days of not finding excuses to hear Eddie’s voice.

You tell yourself it’s a test. A fair one. If he wants to talk to you, he will. If he notices your absence, it’ll show. You repeat it like a rule, like something solid you can lean on.

By day three, it starts to itch.

By day five, it’s all you think about.

Your phone stays face-up on the table more than it should. You check it without realizing you’re doing it, thumb hovering, breath held, waiting for his name to appear like it used to—Eds or whatever stupid variation he’d saved himself as when he’d last stolen your phone.

Nothing.

You imagine him in the spaces you’ve left empty. Your chair by his booth. The late-night calls. The lunches that never happened. You picture him noticing, then dismissing it just as quickly. She’s busy. She’s fine. The idea settles wrong in your chest, sour and heavy.

You try to stay distracted. You don’t do a great job.

Every little thing brings him back—music you don’t skip because he liked it, the smell of ink when you pass a shop on the street, the way the heat sticks to your skin and makes you think of Florida summers spent sprawled on his couch. You replay moments you didn’t think mattered at the time, turning them over until they blur together.

Did you leave too early that morning?

Did you miss something in his voice?

Did you push too hard at the shop—or not enough?

Your thoughts don’t move in straight lines anymore. They loop. Spiral. Build and collapse and build again. One minute you’re convinced he’s fine without you—better, even. The next, you’re aching with the certainty that you’ve been quietly discarded and you don’t know why.

Some nights you draft messages you never send.

Did I do something?

Are you okay?

I miss you.

You delete them all.

You don’t want to be the one who wants more. You don’t want to chase someone who won’t even meet you halfway. But the silence stretches on, loud and unanswered, and you feel it pressing against your ribs, making it hard to breathe.

You miss him in ways that don’t make sense. The sound of his laugh. The way he’d lean too close when he was tired. The comfort of knowing he’d be there at the end of the day, no matter what.

You curl up on your couch one night, phone warm in your hand, staring at the ceiling and wondering how something that was never supposed to mean anything ended up carving such a deep, hollow space inside you.

You tell yourself—again—that if he wanted to, he would.

TWO NIGHTS LATER

You decide—very deliberately—that you’re done thinking about it.

That night, you take longer getting ready than usual. You shower, dry your hair, put on something that feels like armor—something that looks good without needing his opinion. You line your eyes just a little darker, spray perfume you haven’t worn around him before. Confidence in a bottle.

Marlyn whistles when you step out of your room. “Okay,” she says. “You look fucking amazing.”

“So do you!” you reply, grabbing your keys. “Can’t wait to drink.”

The bar is loud in that familiar way—sticky floors, neon signs humming, bass-heavy music vibrating through your chest as soon as you step inside. The air smells like alcohol and sweat and something fried. Normal. Distracting. Exactly what you want.

“Finally,” Marlyn says, weaving through the crowd beside you. “I was starting to think you’d never leave your apartment again.”

“I had things to… process,” you say, shrugging. “A lot of things.”

“Processing over cocktails, huh?” she teases, elbowing you gently. “Bold choice.”

And then you see him.

Eddie’s at the bar, half-turned toward a girl perched on a stool beside him. She’s leaning in close, laughing too loud, one hand resting on the counter. Eddie’s standing between her knees, relaxed, easy—his hand settled at the middle of her back like it belongs there.

He’s smiling.

Your heart drops so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

You don’t stop walking.

You don’t react. You don’t flinch. You don’t give yourself the satisfaction of staring. You keep your eyes forward, posture loose, expression blank—like you haven’t just been punched somewhere soft and unprotected.

Marlyn’s behind you, trying to squeeze through the crowd, and you don’t hear Eddie when he spots her.

“Hey, Mar—” he says, cutting himself off when she keeps moving, eyes on you instead.

You’re already slipping between two people at the bar, angling your body sideways to flag the bartender. You lean your elbows against the sticky counter, pretending the noise isn’t overwhelming, pretending your pulse isn’t loud enough to drown out the music.

“And this is why we are best friends,” Marlyn continues, her voice low so the music doesn’t carry it. “You just… barrel through. No hesitation.”

You give a small shrug. “Sometimes hesitation is not worth it.”

Marlyn hums, approving. “Good motto. I’ll borrow that.”

You glance at her, laugh softly. “Borrow it all you want. I’m not using it properly anyway.”

You feel it before you see it.

His stare.

It’s heavy—unsubtle in a way Eddie rarely is. You can almost feel the weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades. You keep your gaze fixed ahead, jaw set, fingers drumming lightly against the bar like you’re bored.

When you finally glance over, it’s quick. Controlled. A single second. Poker face. No reaction. Nothing.

You let your gaze slide away from Eddie, pretending nothing is wrong. Pretending you’re over it. Pretending like you don’t feel the pull of him across the room, the ache that tightens your chest every time he shifts his weight, every time the girl laughs too close to him.

Eddie’s smile is gone.

He noticed you the second you stepped inside. The music hums in the background, bass vibrating through the floor, but it doesn’t reach him. He only sees you.

The first thought hits like a punch: You’re here. Without me.

What the hell is she doing here?

He glances across the bar and catches Marlyn watching him. Her eyebrows are raised, lips pressed together, eyes narrowing slightly. She’s not saying anything—she doesn’t need to. The message travels through the space between them, across the din of music and chatter.

You did this, she seems to say, a tilt of her head, a shake of her hand.

Guilt coils in his chest. His jaw tightens. His chest burns. Every laugh you make pulls him closer to the edge of losing control, but he stands still. Silent. Helpless.

The girl beside him keeps talking, unaware, her voice animated as she leans closer, but Eddie doesn’t hear a word she’s saying. His attention is locked on you now—on the way you’re standing like you belong there, like you didn’t spend a week unraveling over his silence.

Like you’re over it.

His hand slips from the girl’s back without him realizing it.

You order your drink. Thank the bartender. Take a sip like your hands aren’t shaking just slightly. You laugh at something Marlyn says when she finally reaches your side, your voice steady, convincing.

From across the bar, Eddie watches you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You don’t look back again.

The bartender slides your drink across the counter, condensation slick against your fingers. You take a sip—strong, sweet, grounding—and let the burn settle low in your chest.

“Okay,” Marlyn says, clinking her glass against yours. “Now that’s more like it.”

You laugh, genuine this time. “Come on.”

You grab her wrist and pull her through the crowd before she can say anything else. Bodies press in from every side as you weave your way toward the dance floor, bass thudding so loud it rattles your ribs. Someone bumps your shoulder; someone else apologizes too late. The air is thick and hot and alive.

You push through the last line of people and spill into the center of it all.

Lights flash overhead—red, blue, violet—cutting the room into pieces. Sweat, laughter, movement everywhere. You and Marlyn turn to face each other instinctively, like you’ve done this a hundred times before. The music drops into something familiar, something with a beat you can sink into.

“Thank God,” Marlyn shouts over the noise. “I needed this.”

You lift your glass in agreement and take another sip, then let the music take over.

Your body loosens before your mind does. Hips swaying, shoulders rolling, hair sticking to your neck. Marlyn laughs when you exaggerate a move just to make her laugh, and she responds in kind, dramatic and unbothered. You dance close, then pull back, mirroring each other’s energy, feeding off the rhythm and the noise.

For a moment, it works.

You forget the bar.

Forget the week.

Forget the way absence has been sitting heavy in your chest.

You sing along to lyrics you don’t fully know, pointing at Marlyn dramatically. She throws her head back laughing, nearly spilling her drink. You catch her elbow before she does.

“Careful!” you shout.

“I’m fine,” she says, grinning.

The music shifts—heavier bass, slower rhythm—and the crowd presses in closer, bodies moving in sync. You’re mid-laugh, shoulders loose, drink lifted in one hand, when you feel it.

Someone stepping into your space.

At first you think it’s just the crowd tightening, but then a hand lifts—hesitant, hovering near your waist without quite touching. You glance up.

He’s cute. In that familiar way.

Dark hair, leather jacket despite the heat. A band tee you recognize. Boots scuffed like they’ve seen some things. The resemblance hits you softly, unfairly.

Oh.

He leans in just enough for you to hear him. “Hey,” he says, voice easy, respectful. “You dancing with anyone?”

Marlyn notices immediately. Her eyebrows shoot up, then she looks at you, waiting. Giving you the choice.

You hesitate for half a second—just long enough to feel the ghost of something tug at your chest.

Then you nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s fine.”

The guy smiles, relieved, and steps closer—not crowd-close, but intentional. He keeps his hands visible at first, moving to the beat, matching your rhythm instead of overtaking it. You appreciate that more than you expect to.

You dance together easily. Nothing rushed. Nothing heavy. Just movement and music and shared space.

His hand settles at your hip, light, tentative. You don’t pull away.

Marlyn grins and takes a step back, lifting her drink like she’s toasting you from a distance. You laugh, rolling your eyes, and let yourself relax into the moment.

The stranger leans in again. He says his name, but it doesn’t stick.

The stranger keeps pace with you, respectful, smooth. His hand stays light at your hip, never demanding more than you give.You nod when he leans in to say something you only half-hear.

He leans closer, voice warm against your ear. “You come here a lot?”

“Sometimes,” you answer automatically.

You take a sip of your drink, even though it’s nearly empty, just to give your hands something to do.

You should feel flattered. Comfortable. Present.

The stranger’s fingers curl a little more securely at your hip, testing. You don’t stop him.

Still, your body doesn’t lean in the way it should. Your gaze flicks to Marlyn across the floor. She’s watching you carefully now—not interrupting, not hovering. Just checking in. You give her a small smile that says I’m okay even though you’re not entirely sure that’s true.

Across the bar, Eddie watches.

At first he tells himself not to. Tells himself to look away, to finish his drink, to pretend he doesn’t feel every movement like it’s happening under his own skin. But then the guy’s hand settles on your waist and something sharp snaps loose in his chest.

Eddie’s jaw clenches. His fingers curl tight around his glass. He watches the way you hesitate—not enough to stop it, just enough to feel wrong—and it guts him. You don’t look happy. You look… detached. Like you’re trying to convince yourself.

The stranger leans in again. Eddie sees his mouth move, sees you answer.

The song changes again—something slower, dirtier—and the stranger shifts closer without asking, guided by the music. His hand slides more firmly to your waist, thumb brushing your side.

You tense, just barely.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling back a fraction. “Tell me if I’m crowding you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “No—it’s fine.”

That’s when Eddie moves.

He doesn’t think it through. His body acts before his brain can catch up, pushing off the bar, cutting through the crowd with purpose written all over his face. Every step feels reckless, desperate.

Marlyn notices immediately.

She’s been watching you just as closely—your forced smile, the way you’re not really there. Then she follows your line of sight, just for a second, and sees Eddie moving.

Fast.

Determined.

Oh no.

She steps out of the crowd and intercepts him cleanly, planting herself directly in his path.

“Oh, no you don’t munson,” Marlyn says, pointing a finger straight into his chest.

Eddie stops short, nearly colliding with her.

He looks down at her—towering, tense, eyes wild. “Move.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You don’t get to do this,” he snaps, trying to step around her.

Marlyn shifts with him, blocking him again. “Do what? Suddenly care?”

That lands.

Eddie exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “She looks uncomfortable.”

“She looks confused,” Marlyn corrects. “Big difference.”

The guy studies your face for a moment, like he’s trying to read something you’re not saying.

“You okay?” he asks. “You kinda look like you’re… somewhere else.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’m good.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Yeah. I get that look too.”

You glance up at him. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “When you want something but don’t think you’re supposed to have it.”

Your stomach tightens.

He looks away, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry—that sounded heavier than I meant.”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “Sometimes I think I’m bad news. Like—if someone’s too good, I should stay the hell away.”

There it is.

Your breath catches—not because of him, but because you’ve heard those words before. Not exactly like that, but close enough to sting. Too close.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “You’re not bad news.”

He snorts. “You don’t know me.”

You think of Eddie. The way he jokes instead of confessing. The way he pulls away when he wants to stay.

“Maybe,” you say. “But people aren’t usually as broken as they think.”

The stranger watches you for a second, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He steps back, giving you space again, like he senses something’s shifted.

And you realize, with a strange clarity, that it was never about finding someone like Eddie.

It was about wanting him.

Eddie glares past Marlyn, eyes flicking toward you again. The stranger’s hand is still at your waist, but you’re stiff now, smile fading.

“I can’t just stand there,” Eddie says, voice low, cracking. “I can’t watch that.”

Marlyn tilts her head up at him, unimpressed. “You watched her walk away for a week.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It is exactly the same.”

Eddie swallows. His throat feels tight, burning. “I miss her.”

Marlyn’s expression softens—but only for a second. “Then stop punishing her for your own self-loathing.”

He flinches.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Marlyn continues. “And you didnt either.”

Marlyn steps closer, lowering her voice. “If she wants you, she’ll look for you. But you don’t get to swoop in now like you didn’t push her away first.”

Eddie exhales, heavy and shaky.

Across the dance floor, you pull back slightly from the stranger, discomfort finally winning out. Eddie sees it—and it nearly breaks him.

Marlyn follows his gaze. “See? She’s already choosing herself.”

Eddie closes his eyes for a beat, jaw tight, chest aching. When he opens them again, he doesn’t move.

Your body has gone still, the rhythm slipping out of sync, your smile softening into something polite instead of real. He eases back first, hands lifting in a quiet, respectful surrender.

“Hey,” he says gently, eyes dropping to yours for a brief moment. There’s no bitterness there—just understanding. “It was nice dancing with you.”

You smile, small but genuine. “Yeah. It was.”

He nods once, steps back into the crowd, and disappears just as easily as he arrived.

You turn away before you can overthink it.

As you start toward the edge of the dance floor, you spot Marlyn—standing directly in front of Eddie.

Your steps falter for half a second.

Eddie looks… wrecked. Shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Marlyn like she’s the only thing keeping him from doing something stupid. And then his gaze lifts.

He sees you.

Your heart stutters—but you don’t stop.

“I’m gonna go get another drink,” you say casually as you reach them, voice light, almost breezy.

You don’t look at Eddie when you say it. You don’t slow down. You don’t give him a chance to respond.

Marlyn glances between the two of you, then nods immediately. “Yeah. Me too.”

She falls into step beside you without hesitation.

Eddie stays where he is.

You feel his eyes on your back as you walk away, but he doesn’t follow. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t touch you.

The bar feels quieter than the dance floor, the music muffled just enough to let your thoughts creep back in. You lean against the counter, exhaling slowly.

Marlyn orders first, then turns to you. “So?”

You shrug, resting your elbows on the bar. “It was good,” you say honestly. “I just… wasn’t feeling it.”

She hums, unsurprised.

“I mean,” you continue, rolling the glass between your fingers, “I came here with you. We should be dancing together. Having fun together. That’s kinda the point.”

Marlyn smiles softly at that. “I like that answer.”

You smile back, a little tired, a little relieved.

Behind you, somewhere in the noise and lights and missed chances, Eddie stays exactly where you left him—watching, wanting, and finally understanding that this time, you’re not waiting for him to catch up.

You lean forward slightly, lifting your hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Hey—can I get a—”

Movement in the corner of your eye pulls your focus away. You glance over your shoulder without really thinking.

And you see him.

Eddie is pushing through the crowd toward the exit, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing against something heavier than the noise. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t hesitate.

He just leaves.

The door swings open, letting in a wash of humid night air and streetlight before it closes behind him.

Gone.

Your words trail off, unfinished.

The bartender waits, eyebrows raised. “You still want that?” You blink, throat tightening. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Marlyn follows your line of sight just in time to see the door settle shut. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say anything—not yet.

You face forward again, fixing your eyes on the bar like it’s the most important thing in the room. Like your chest isn’t suddenly hollow. Like you didn’t just watch someone you care about walk away without a word.

You hadn’t expected that. You’d braced yourself for awkwardness. For tension. Maybe even a conversation you weren’t ready to have.

But not this.

The bartender slides your drink across the counter. You take it automatically, fingers curling around the glass.

Behind you, the music swells again. Laughter rises. Life continues. You take a sip, the alcohol burning sharper than before, and stare straight ahead—trying not to wonder if this was Eddie choosing distance all over again.

Trying not to wonder why it hurts more now that you saw it happen. And trying, unsuccessfully, not to hope that he’ll come back through that door.

LATER THAT NIGHT

The music dies the second you step outside.

The night air hits you heavy and damp, wrapping around your skin like it’s trying to slow you down. The bass still thuds faintly through the walls behind you, but out here it’s quieter—too quiet.

You’re halfway across the sidewalk when you see him.

Eddie’s by his bike, not sitting on it—just leaning there like he’s forgotten what it’s for. Both feet planted on the ground, ankles crossed loosely, cigarette glowing between his fingers. His shoulders are slumped, head tilted down like he’s staring at nothing.

Then he looks up and your eyes lock.

The world narrows to that single moment—streetlight glare, the ember of his cigarette, the way his face tightens like he wasn’t prepared to see you again. Neither of you move.

You can feel your pulse in your throat. Marlyn slows beside you, senses it immediately, but she doesn’t interrupt. She just watches.

“Get home safe,” he says.

That’s it.

No name.

No apology.

No explanation.

He flicks the cigarette to the pavement and crushes it out with his boot, jaw clenched like that alone took effort. Then he swings onto the bike, helmet already in his hand, movements sharp and decisive—like if he hesitates even one more second, he’ll break.

The engine roars to life and then something in you snaps.

You huff out a breath so sharp it burns your throat and start marching toward your car, keys rattling wildly in your hand. “What the fuck is wrong with him?” you snap, voice already climbing.

Marlyn hurries after you. “Hey—hey, slow down—”

“No,” you cut in, yanking the car door open. “Absolutely not. He doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to look at me like that and say get home safe like that’s enough.”

You slam the door harder than necessary and start the engine, hands shaking as you peel out of the lot.

Marlyn turns in her seat to face you. “I know you’re upset, but—”

“I’m not upset, I’m pissed,” you snap, “There’s a difference.”

Streetlights blur past as your words come faster, messier. “I hate him,” you say flatly. “I fucking hate him.”

Marlyn winces. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do!” you shout, slamming the wheel. “I hate that he thinks he can just disappear and come back whenever it suits him. I hate that he acts like he’s doing me some kind of favor by staying away.”

“You’re just angry,” Marlyn insists gently. “You’re hurt.”

“I don’t care,” you fire back, breath shallow. “He’s such a self-sabotaging asshole. Everything’s always about how broken he is. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

Marlyn reaches out like she might touch your arm, then thinks better of it. “Okay, but—”

You grip the steering wheel too tight, knuckles white, jaw aching from how hard you’re clenching it. The words keep coming—unchecked, unfiltered, spiraling faster the longer you’re alone with them.

“I hate that stupid bike. I hate his dumb fucking hair—why is it even long? He thinks he’s so cool, doesn’t he? Like—oh, look at me, tortured artist bullshit.”

You laugh bitterly, breath hitching. “And he’s not even that good at tattooing. Everyone acts like he’s a god, but I’ve seen his line work. Crooked as hell.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, then smack the steering wheel again. “Okay, that’s definitely not true,” Marlyn says, trying to keep her voice calm.

Your breathing turns ragged, words tumbling over each other. “He makes me feel insane. Like I’m too much for wanting answers. Like I’m crazy for expecting him to just—just try.”

“Why did I ever meet him? Why did I let him into my life? He ruins everything and then just—just leaves like it’s nothing.”

Your chest feels tight. Too tight. Your thoughts crash into each other, overlapping, contradicting. “I don’t care,” you insist out loud, voice cracking with effort. “I don’t care. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.”

The words come faster now, louder. “He thinks he’s so fucking broken, like that gives him a free pass to hurt people. Newsflash—everyone’s broken. He’s not special.”

Marlyn lets out a startled laugh despite herself. “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care if it’s fair,” you snap.

Your breathing turns shallow. Too fast. Like you can’t quite get enough air no matter how hard you try. You slam your palm into the steering wheel—once, twice—each hit echoing too loudly in the quiet car, frustration burning through your arms, through your chest, through your bones.

Something snaps.

“FUUUUUUUUUCK—!”

It rips out of you, loud and raw and unfiltered, bouncing off the windshield, the dashboard, the closed windows. The sound shakes your chest on the way out, leaves your throat burning in its wake.

You don’t stop when your voice cracks.

You scream again, dragging it out until your lungs ache, until the sound dissolves into something hoarse and broken and ugly—and honest.

Marlyn flinches but doesn’t interrupt. She just sits there, hands folded in her lap, letting you get it out. The car slows as you pull into your driveway and the scream finally dies, the engine cuts off and you’re left panting,

Silence floods in.

You slump back against the seat, chest heaving, Your ears ring. Your chest rises and falls hard, uneven.anger still buzzing under your skin—but now there’s something else too. Something quieter. Heavier.

The kind of hurt anger can’t drown out forever.

You squeeze your eyes shut, jaw trembling, and mutter one last time, softer now—

“Fuck him.”

For a moment, you feel empty. Hollowed out. Like you’ve wrung yourself dry.

Then the ache creeps back in—quieter now, but heavier. Marlyn reaches over slowly and rests her hand on your arm.“That had to come out,” she says softly.

You swallow hard, eyes burning, and nod once.

Marlyn turns fully toward you now. “You don’t mean half of what you just said, do you?.”

You stare straight ahead, chest heaving, anger still buzzing under your skin like exposed wires.

“Maybe,” you mutter. Then, bitterly, “But it feels good to say it.”

Silence stretches.

Morning doesn’t fix anything.

It just dulls the sharpest edges.

Sunlight slips through the blinds in thin, pale lines, striping the kitchen floor and the counter like it’s unsure whether it belongs there. The apartment smells faintly like coffee and last night’s aftermath—stale, quiet, unresolved.

You stand at the counter, stirring your coffee long after the sugar’s dissolved. Marlyn’s beside you, hair pulled into a messy knot, already half in work mode even though her eyes are tired. Neither of you says much.

You carry your mugs to the couch and sit, curling slightly inward. The warmth of the ceramic seeps into your palms, grounding in a way nothing else has been since last night.

Marlyn studies you for a moment. “Are you okay?”

You nod.

It’s reflexive. Easier than finding the words for the hollow feeling pressing behind your ribs.

She exhales and leans back. “You know… you wouldn’t care this much if you didn’t care.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You care about Eddie,” she says gently. “And you wouldn’t be this upset about how he’s been acting if you didn’t.”

You stare down at your coffee, watching the surface ripple when your hands shift.

“When did he start acting weird?” Marlyn asks. “Like—really weird.”

“After his birthday,” you say. “I think.”

Marlyn blinks. “His birthday?” She frowns, genuinely confused. “But that night went so well. Everyone had fun. He seemed happy.”

You nod again. “Yeah That’s what makes it confusing, “It wasn’t obvious at first,” you continue. “Just… little things. He still answered my calls, but he was dry. Like he was only half there. Small talk instead of… us.”

Marlyn nods slowly.

“He stopped joking the same way,” you say. “Stopped asking about my day. Conversations would just… end. Like he was waiting for an excuse to hang up.”

“And then I went to the shop,” you add. “The third day after his birthday. He told me to come by.”

Marlyn’s eyes flick up. “Yeah, I remember.”

“He wasn’t there,” you say. “He’d left early. You said you didn’t know why.”

Marlyn frowns. “Yeah… I didn’t.”

“I stayed,” you continue. “Thought maybe he’d come back. He didn’t. And even after that, I still didn’t think anything of it.”

You laugh softly, bitter. “I kept telling myself I was overthinking.”

Marlyn doesn’t interrupt.

“And when I did see him the next day,” you say, voice quieter now, “he was different. With everyone else he was normal—laughing, joking, leaning in. But with me? Short answers.” You glance up briefly. “He wouldn’t even hug me”

Marlyn’s expression tightens.

“then when I left the shop,” you add, “I told him I was heading out all he said was ‘alright.’”

Silence settles between you.

Marlyn exhales slowly. “Okay,” she murmurs. “Yeah. That’s… not nothing.”

She pauses, then laughs softly, like she’s trying to puzzle it out. “What could have possibly happened that night? I mean—we all left around the same time. Nothing weird happened.”

The room goes very still.

Something stirs in your chest—not sharp, not loud. Just… present. A memory rising slowly to the surface, uninvited.

The apartment is quieter than it’s been all night.

The music is still playing—low now, muffled, like it’s embarrassed to still be there after everyone’s gone. Empty cups sit abandoned on the coffee table. The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer lingers in the air, mixed with something warmer—something familiar.

You sink back into Eddie’s couch with a tired laugh, the cushions dipping beneath your weight.

Eddie drops down beside you a second later. Too close.

You notice it immediately—the way your thigh presses against his, the heat of him bleeding through denim and cotton. You should scoot over. Say something. Joke about it.

Neither of you do.

Eddie says something stupid then—something sarcastic, half-slurred, just funny enough to pull a laugh out of you. You throw your head back, laughing freely, the sound ringing a little louder in the quiet apartment.

When you look back at him— You’re already facing each other.

The laughter dies between you, fading into something heavier. Your smile lingers a moment too long before slipping away entirely as you register the space—or lack of it—between you.

His knee is pressed to yours. His arm is stretched along the back of the couch, close enough that if you leaned back even an inch, you’d touch him.

You don’t, Your eyes drop without permission to his mouth.

Eddie notices.

You feel it the second his expression changes—something shifts behind his eyes, something careful and restrained finally cracking. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t joke it off.

He just watches you.

Your gaze flickers back up, caught, breath stuttering just slightly. The room feels warmer suddenly. Smaller. Like the walls have leaned in to witness whatever this is becoming.

“Hey,” Eddie murmurs, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

You don’t answer.

He lifts his hand, his fingers brush your cheek—warm, tentative. His thumb rests just below your ear while his palm curves along your jaw, his fingers slipping lightly against the side of your neck.

It’s grounding, intimate and dangerous. Your breath catches. Eddie swallows, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up again. You lean in just enough for him to feel it and that’s all it takes.

He closes the distance, his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s soft at first, unsure, tasting faintly of alcohol and smoke and something achingly familiar.

The world tilts.

His hand tightens slightly against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as if to make sure you’re real. You kiss him back without thinking, without planning, like this has been waiting quietly between you for far longer than either of you want to admit.

The kiss deepens—rushed, desperate—and full. Loaded. Heavy with everything neither of you have ever said out loud enough that you feel it settle low in your stomach, a slow burn spreading through your chest, your skin suddenly too warm for the room you’re in. Eddie feels it too; you know he does by the way his breath stutters, by the subtle shift of his hand at your cheek, fingers flexing like he’s grounding himself.

He exhales against your mouth, a quiet sound that almost breaks him.

You barely register the couch cushions beneath you as he shifts, guiding you back instinctively, like his body is already reacting before his mind can catch up. His hand slides from your cheek to your waist, tentative

You stop him.

Your hands press to his chest, not to push him away but to steady yourself as you move—slowly, deliberately—swinging a leg over his lap.

Then you’re there.

Straddling him. Close enough to feel the way his breath hitches beneath you, the way his hands hover at your hips like he’s afraid to touch without permission. The space between you disappears completely, replaced by heat and closeness and the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, voice rougher now.

You don’t answer.

You lean back in, and this time the kiss is different—hungrier, deeper. Eddie responds instantly, hands settling at your waist, fingers gripping just enough to make your pulse spike. His thumbs brush along your sides like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

Your hands wander—through his hair, along his shoulders, anywhere you can reach—drawing a quiet sound from the back of his throat that makes your head spin. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this.

The couch creaks softly beneath you as you shift closer, the world narrowing down to heat and breath and the way Eddie’s hands slide over your back, grounding and reverent all at once.

You lift your mug and take another sip, even though the coffee has gone lukewarm.

“I don’t know,” you say quietly.

Marlyn watches you closely now. Something in your tone must give you away, but she doesn’t push.

Instead, she nods slowly. “Yeah,” she says. “Me neither.” You sit there together in the quiet, the past hovering unspoken between you.

And for the first time, you understand— Whatever happened that night didn’t ruin things.

It changed them.

After finishing coffee with Marlyn she gets ready for work. Marlyn leaves early, keys jingling softly as she heads out the door for her shift at the shop.

The apartment feels emptier after that.

It’s Sunday and Sundays have been too quiet for the past weeks. They stretch.They give you time to think.

The apartment feels emptier after that.

You spend the afternoon drifting. You spent the afternoon doing things around the house. You cleaned up the kitchen, even cleaned out the fridge. You put a load of clothes to wash after finishing up your chores. After that it was from the couch to the kitchen. From the kitchen back to the couch. The TV stays on for noise, but you don’t register what’s playing. Your phone sits beside you like it weighs a hundred pounds.

You know Eddie doesn’t go into the shop on Sundays.

He never has.

Sundays are his—laundry days, ride-around-with-no-destination days, days he disappears into himself a little more than usual. Normally, you’d be part of that. You’d know where he was, what he was doing. Sometimes you’d be doing nothing together, which always felt like everything.

Now, you’re left guessing.

Your mind keeps circling back to the same place. The night of his birthday after everyone had left.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. You’d woken up, left quietly, carried on like nothing had changed. You hadn’t questioned it because… why would you? It didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel like a mistake.

But maybe it did to him. The thought settles heavy in your chest.

Maybe he didn’t like it.

Maybe he regrets it.

Maybe you crossed a line he can’t uncross.

You pace the living room, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Or maybe it’s worse than that.

Maybe he thinks you’ll want more.

Maybe he thinks he ruined you somehow.

Maybe he thinks he’s the problem.

The whys stack on top of each other until you can’t tell which ones hurt the most. You check the clock. Then your phone. Then the clock again.

It’s already late afternoon.

You pick up your phone, then put it down. Pick it up again. Your thumb hovers over his name like it might burn you.

What if he doesn’t answer?

What if he does?

What do you even say?

Why are you avoiding me?

Did I do something wrong?

Do you regret it?

Your chest tightens. You sink back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. You don’t need everything to make sense. Not yet. You just need to know why.

Finally, you sit up. You inhale And before you can talk yourself out of it, you hit call.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Each second stretches, your heart pounding louder than the dial tone. You hold the phone to your ear, breath caught halfway between hope and dread.

Waiting.

The ringing stops.

No click. No voice. No hey.

Just silence.

You lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen like it might explain itself. Your name still sits there, untouched, as if nothing happened at all.

Heat crawls up your chest, up your neck, settling behind your eyes. Not embarrassment—not yet. Something closer to panic. Like your body realizes before your brain does.

You swallow and inhale through your nose.

“He’s a smart man,” you mutter, forcing out a small, humorless laugh. “Probably just busy.”

You shake your head once, like you’re clearing fog.

Then you hit call again.

You press the phone to your ear, leg bouncing, free hand digging into the couch cushion. The ring sounds louder this time, each one punching into your chest.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

It stops.

Call declined.

Your breath stutters.

For a moment, you don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. The words feel unreal, like they belong to someone else’s life.

Then it hits.

You drop the phone onto the couch like it burned you.

“What the fuck?” you gasp.

You slam your hands down into the cushions—hard. The couch jolts beneath you.

“Oh my God,” you snap, pacing half a step forward before whipping back around. “Are you serious? Are you actually fucking serious right now?”

You grab your phone again, fingers shaking, clutching it tight as if Eddie might hear you through sheer force of will.

“Just answer the phone!” you yell at the screen. “I’m not asking for your soul, Eddie—I’m asking for one FUCKING conversation!”

Your voice cracks on the last word, anger tearing straight through your chest. You hit the couch again with the side of your fist. “You don’t get to do this,” you shout. “You don’t get to decide everything for me and then shut me out like I don’t exist!”

Your breathing turns wild, uneven. You drag a hand through your hair, pacing in a tight circle before dropping back onto the couch hard enough to bounce.

“Declining my call?” you laugh sharply, the sound breaking halfway through. “Wow. Okay. That’s—yeah. That’s real fucking mature.”

You stare at the phone like it betrayed you. “Just say you regret it,” you mutter, voice cracking now. “Just say you didn’t want me. That would be easier than this.”

Silence answers you.

The apartment feels too small. Too quiet. Like it’s pressing in, watching you unravel. You sink into the cushions, chest heaving, phone resting uselessly in your palm.And the thought that hurts the most isn’t that he didn’t answer.

It’s that he saw your name—

—and chose not to.

The anger doesn’t disappear all at once.

It just… gives up.

It drains out of you slowly, leaving your body heavy and hollow, like something vital leaked out while you weren’t paying attention. Your hands unclench. Your shoulders slump. The heat in your chest fades into a dull, aching pressure.

You stare at the phone in your lap. Your throat tightens.“I don’t want to lose him,” you whisper, the words barely making it past your lips.

Your voice sounds small. Too small.

You shake your head quickly, like you can undo the thought before it settles. “I can’t,” you murmur. “I can’t lose him.”

The room feels different now—too quiet, too empty. You suddenly notice all the spaces Eddie used to fill. The couch where he’d sprawl out like he belonged there. The kitchen counter he leaned against while talking too much. The way your life bent around his presence without you ever realizing it.

“He’s the only thing I have,” you say out loud, panic creeping into your voice.

The words scare you the second you say them. “No—no, that’s not true,” you rush to correct yourself, breath hitching. “That’s not true. I don’t need him. I don’t.”

But your chest tightens anyway. What would your life look like without Eddie?

No random calls at night.

No showing up at the shop just to sit with him.

No Sundays that feel like something instead of nothing.

Your breathing starts to speed up.

“I hate him,” you say suddenly, voice wavering. “I hate him so much. I’ll hate him forever.”

The sentence collapses in on itself before it’s finished. Your eyes burn. Your chest aches like it’s caving inward. “I don’t want to fucking hate him,” you choke. “I just—I don’t fucking want him gone.”

Your foot bounces uncontrollably against the floor. Your fingers dig into the fabric of the couch like it might steady you.

What if this is it?

What if this is how it ends—no explanation, no conversation, just distance until there’s nothing left to reach for?

Your heart starts racing. “No,” you whisper. “No, no, no.”

You grab your phone again, hands trembling now, thumb hovering over his name. “He’ll answer,” you tell yourself quickly, desperately. “He will. He wouldn’t do me like this. He wouldn’t.”

You hit call before you can think.

The phone rings.

Once.

Your knee bounces faster.

“He’s just busy,” you mutter. “He probably didn’t hear it. That’s all.”

Twice.

“He’s gonna answer,” you insist. “He always answers.”

Three times.

Then—

Silence.

The call drops.

No voicemail. No decline this time. Just unanswered.Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale that turns into something broken halfway through.

You stare at the screen, waiting for it to light back up. Waiting for anything.

Nothing happens.

Your shoulders start to shake before you even realize you’re crying. Not loud sobs—just quiet, panicked breaths that come out wrong. “I can’t do this,” you murmur. You curl in on yourself on the couch, phone clutched tight to your chest like it might still connect you to him if you hold it hard enough.

The apartment stays silent.

And for the first time since this all started, the fear sinks in fully—

What if he’s already gone?

THAT Night settles in quietly.

The apartment is dark except for the glow of a lamp in the corner and the blue light from your phone. You’re curled on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing when your phone finally rings.

Marlyn’s name.

You answer on the first ring. “Hey,” you say, voice rough.

“Hey,” Marlyn replies softly. “I just got home.”

There’s a pause. You can hear her shifting, probably kicking off her shoes, probably already tired. You don’t ask. She doesn’t either. Then she exhales. “I saw Eddie today.”

Your stomach drops. “At the shop?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“Yeah,” she says. “He wasn’t tattooing. He just… sat there. Cleaned. Smoked. Left. Came back. Stayed all day.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the phone.

“All day?” you repeat. “All day,” Marlyn confirms. “Didn’t really talk. Didn’t joke. Just stared at nothing most of the time.”

Something inside you shifts.

He was there.

Present. Awake. Existing.

Just not answering you.

Your chest tightens, heat blooming behind your ribs. “So he can sit there all day,” you say slowly, “but he can’t pick up the phone.”

Marlyn hesitates. “I don’t think it’s like that.”

You close your eyes, swallowing hard. “I’m going to his apartment,” you say suddenly.

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “Is that what you want to do?” Marlyn asks carefully.

“Yes,” you answer immediately. No hesitation. No second-guessing. “I need to talk to him.”

“You don’t have to do this tonight,” she says gently. “You can wait.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “If I wait, I won’t go. And I need answers.”

Another pause.

“Okay,” Marlyn says finally. “Then go. But… be honest. With him. And with yourself.”

You nod, even though she can’t see it. “I will.”

You grab your keys, standing up so fast the room sways slightly. Your heart pounds harder with every step toward the door. “Call me after,” Marlyn adds. “No matter what happens.”

“I will,” you promise.

You hang up and step out into the night. The air is warm and heavy, wrapping around you as you walk to your car. Your hands shake as you unlock it, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.

You slide into the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead for a moment. You start the engine and as you pull onto the road toward Eddie’s apartment, one thought repeats over and over in your head— He doesn’t get to disappear without telling me why.

The parking lot feels too open, too exposed.

You kill the engine and practically jump out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you. Your keys jingle loudly in your hand as you rush toward the building, pulse thudding in your ears.

The elevator takes forever.

You mash the button again, foot tapping, chest rising too fast. When the doors finally slide open, you step inside and immediately stab at his floor, arms folded tight around yourself like you’re trying to keep everything in.

The ride up feels endless.

Your thoughts race ahead of you—everything you want to say, everything you’re afraid to hear. By the time the doors open, your palms are slick with sweat.

You don’t slow down.

You speed-walk down the hallway, sneakers scuffing against the carpet, breath uneven. His door is at the end, familiar in a way that twists something deep in your chest.

You don’t knock. You bang.

Your fist hits the wood once. Twice. Three times—hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Eddie,” you call. “Open the door.”

Nothing.

Your heart pounds louder. Anger flares, sharp and sudden. You knock again, harder this time, palm stinging.

There’s movement inside. Footsteps. A pause that feels deliberate.

Then the door opens—just a crack.

The chain is still latched.

Eddie stands there on the other side, His gaze flicks over your face, your clenched fists, your wild breathing. Guilt flashes across his expression before he schools it into something flatter.

“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly.

The words hit harder than if he’d shouted. You stare at him through the gap in the door, chest tight, emotions colliding all at once—relief, fury, fear, longing.

You let out a short, breathy laugh.

“You’re not gonna let me in?” you ask, voice light in a way that doesn’t match your eyes.

The chuckle that follows is brittle. Dangerous.

Eddie stiffens. He knows that sound.

He’s heard it before—heard it right before everything spills over. He can practically feel the moment ticking closer, the point where you stop trying to hold yourself together and start breaking loudly instead.

His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t—”

“Eddie,” you cut in, still smiling faintly, still shaking. “Is this a joke?” You gesture vaguely at the door, the chain. The space between you.

“Because if it is, I’m not laughing.” The hallway feels too small. Too exposed. Your voice carries, even when you don’t raise it.

He exhales, long and heavy, eyes closing for just a second like he’s surrendering to something he’s been fighting all week. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

The chain slides free with a soft metallic sound. He opens the door.

You step inside immediately, brushing past him before he can second-guess himself. The air in his apartment hits you all at once—cigarettes, ink, something familiar that twists your chest.

As the door shuts behind you, you turn on him, arms folding tight across your chest. “So what?” you say, tone sharp, edged with sarcasm. “Now it’s a pain for you to let me in?”

Eddie rubs a hand down his face, already exhausted. “That’s not—”

“Because it kind of feels like it,” you continue, words tumbling out faster now. “Like everything involving me is just… inconvenient.”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and something in his expression breaks. “This isn’t about that,” he says quietly.

“Then what is it about?” you fire back.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He turns instead, walking deeper into the apartment like he needs the space to breathe. You follow him automatically, footsteps softer now, the adrenaline ebbing just enough to let the ache creep back in.

The living room is dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner. Everything looks the same—and completely different.

Eddie stops near the middle of the room, hands flexing at his sides. He doesn’t sit. He can’t. He paces a few short steps, back and forth, like he’s measuring the floor or counting down something invisible.

You sink onto the couch.

The cushions dip beneath you, familiar. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers lacing together tightly as you tilt your head up, eyes fixed on him. Waiting.

He drags a hand through his hair, lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for days.

He stops pacing and stands right in front of you.

For the first time since this all started, you really look at each other. You take him in—the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders are tense like he’s bracing for impact, the familiar shape of his mouth pulled into something closer to pain than anger.

And he takes you in too.

Really sees you.

Not just a passing glance at the shop. Not the ghost of you across a bar. You, sitting right there, eyes searching his face, heart still open despite everything.

Something in his expression flickers. Softens. Hurts. Eddie exhales slowly and closes his eyes. “We shouldn’t have done it,” he says.

Your chest tightens.

“I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

His voice is low, steady in a way that feels practiced—like he’s been rehearsing this in his head for a week straight. “I crossed a line,” he continues quietly. “And I don’t get to pretend I didn’t.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unfinished.

And suddenly, you realize— This isn’t him saying he didn’t want you.

It’s him saying he doesn’t think he deserves you.

You stare up at him for a long moment after he speaks.

We shouldn’t have done it.

Something in you stills.

Then you stand.

The movement is sudden enough that Eddie’s eyes flicker open, but his face stays neutral—too neutral. Like he’s bracing himself behind something solid.

“You don’t get to say that like it’s a fact,” you tell him evenly. Your voice is steady. That surprises even you.

Eddie exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

There it is.

“It was just sex,” he continues, voice calm, almost dismissive. “A mistake. A drunk night that went too far.”

You let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. “Wow,” you say. “That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Why are you this worked up about it?”

The words sting—but something about them doesn’t land right.

You step closer.

“If it was just sex,” you say slowly, carefully, “then why did you disappear?”

Eddie’s eyes flick away for half a second. He recovers quickly. “I didn’t disappear.”

“You stopped talking to me for fuck sake,” you snap. “You couldn’t even hug me. You left the shop early. You cut conversations short. You declined my calls.”

He opens his mouth—closes it.

You don’t let him off the hook. “If it was nothing,” you continue, voice rising now, “then why are you treating it like it was the worst thing that ever happened to you?”

Silence.

Eddie folds his arms across his chest, defensive. “You’re reading into it.”

“No,” you say firmly. “You’re lying.”

“You don’t pull away like that over something meaningless,” you go on. “You don’t punish yourself—or me—over ‘just sex.’”

Eddie scoffs quietly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you,” you fire back. “And I know when you’re trying to talk yourself out of wanting something.”

His expression hardens. Controlled. Masked. “I didn’t want this,” he says.

The words hit—but you don’t flinch. “Then why do you look like it’s killing you?” you ask softly.

That lands.

Eddie’s jaw flexes. He looks past you, toward the wall, like meeting your eyes might crack something open he can’t afford to fix.

“I’m bad for you,” he says instead. “That’s the truth. Whatever that night was—it doesn’t change that.”

You shake your head slowly, incredulous.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I do when I’m the one who fucks things up,” he replies, voice still level. Too level.

“You’re not protecting me,” you say. “You’re protecting yourself.”

That one slips through.

Eddie goes quiet.

“You’re pushing me away because it meant something,” you continue. “And that scares the hell out of you.”

He finally looks back at you. For a split second, something raw flashes across his face.

Then it’s gone.

“You should go,” he says.

The words are calm.

You stare at him.

Really stare—like if you look hard enough, long enough, you’ll find the truth hiding behind his eyes. Something familiar. Something that still belongs to you.

But Eddie just looks tired.

Worn down. Closed off. Like he’s already halfway gone and pretending that makes this easier. Something inside you gives. You let out a small, disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head.

“Out of all people,” you say quietly, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it, “I never thought it’d be you who’d hurt me the fucking worst.”

His jaw tightens.

“I hate you Eddie.”

The words land heavy, final.

You turn and start toward the door. That’s when he reaches for you. His fingers catch your wrist—gentle, instinctive. You yank your hand away like it burns. “Don’t,” you snap, spinning back around to face him. Your chest is heaving now, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t touch me.”

He freezes.

“And it’s not just because we had sex,” you continue, voice breaking open now. “It’s everything you did after.”

Your words spill faster, sharper, like if you don’t say them now they’ll destroy you from the inside. “It’s how you ignored me. How you shut me out. How you looked right through me like I didn’t matter.”

Eddie swallows hard, but you don’t stop.

“You treated me exactly how you’ve treated every other girl that’s walked through this apartment,” you say, gesturing wildly around you. “Like I was just another one-night thing you needed to forget.”

Your voice cracks. “When I’m not that,” you choke. “I’m way more than that.” Your eyes finally spill over. Tears blur your vision, but you keep looking at him—memorizing him—because you can feel it happening. The exact moment something snaps.

It feels like a string pulling tight between your chest and his.

And then—It cuts.

The connection you didn’t even realize you were holding onto goes slack, gone in an instant. The air between you turns cold, empty.

This isn’t just a fight. It’s the end of something that used to feel unbreakable.

Eddie opens his mouth like he wants to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. His face finally betrays him then, guilt and regret bleeding through the cracks.

Too late.

You wipe at your face angrily, shaking your head.

“I hope it was worth it,” you whisper. “I hope not being able to talk to me about it was so fucking worth it”

You step back, hand reaching for the door. The words hang there, absolute. You open the door and for a moment, you think he might stop you again.

He doesn’t.

And as you step out into the hallway and let the door close behind you, you know—without a doubt—that whatever you and Eddie were…

It’s over.

And somehow, that hurts worse than losing him ever could.