Eddie Munson, who looks feral enough some days that you’d believe he chomps down on rare beef without chewing, is actually only still alive because of sweet potatoes.
When he'd first arrived on his doorstep, three foster families in and nearly silent, Wayne had been pretty focused on just keeping him alive. There wasn’t a lot of extra cash floating around most weeks, but what he had, he spent on random treats he assumed kids liked. Colourful packages of cookies, cereal boxes with insanely dressed cartoons on them, and pastries that somehow tasted decent from the toaster.
Eddie wouldn’t eat any of them.
Wayne was at a loss. He’d thought, at 40, that he was never gonna be a father. Hadn’t prepared his life for the care and feeding of another living being. He didn’t even have a cat. There were things that people…like him. Well, they just weren’t meant to have families of their own. It was fine. He’d filled his life differently. But it meant that when his idiot kid brother fucked up once again, and his son had started floating around the universe, well. It didn't matter that he wasn't really ready. Wayne was hardly going to let that stand.
And Eddie wasn’t weak. He was hilarious and caring, a little firecracker of a kid who knew what he liked and wasn’t afraid to tell you. Wayne was enamoured; every day with an eight-year-old was an adventure he’d never anticipated having.
But he could not get the kid to eat.
He’d pick at anything Wayne handed him, politely taking bites every now and again. He was obviously eating enough to stay alive, but there was no excitement about food. None of the kid staples seemed to work.
Finally, in desperation, he just sets Eddie loose in the grocery store and tells him to pick whatever he wants. He anticipates regretting this choice. But Eddie, who is never shy, comes back with a single produce bag of lumpy, small sweet potatoes.
“These are my favourites,” he says quietly, placing them in Wayne’s basket. “Orange taters. Don’t know how to make ‘em, though.”
“No problem, kid,” Wayne says, baffled. “I’ll show you. We can make them together. Want anything else?”
“Nah, you cook good. Just missed orange taters.”
This is how Wayne discovers that his sister-in-law had never cooked anything that wasn’t frozen or from a box. A tiny detail, but it explained so much about Eddie’s relationship with food.
“Orange taters it is,” Wayne said, grabbing a few more.
That night, Wayne sliced up the sweet potatoes, tossed them with a little oil and salt, and roasted them until the edges caramelized. Eddie’s eyes lit up when Wayne set the plate in front of him. The kid devoured them, asking for seconds before Wayne had even sat down with his own portion.
After that, sweet potatoes became a staple. Wayne learned every possible way to prepare them; mashed with a little cinnamon, cut into fries, baked whole with butter melting into their centers. Eddie would eat anything if sweet potatoes were involved. Wayne started sneaking other vegetables alongside them, watching as Eddie’s hollow cheeks filled. Watching as Eddie opened up, taught Wayne how to freely be exactly who you were. Watching as Eddie took over cooking, preparing more vegetables than Wayne had ever known were available, like a five-star chef, dragging home library books of new information.
Seventeen years later, he can’t help but remember that little boy in the grocery store as he watches Eddie nervously fly around the kitchen of their little townhouse. It’s home now; now that his son had come back to him, now that he knew life was even more complicated than he’d thought. It was nice. Big enough for a family of two.
“You know he already likes you, right?” he teases, grabbing a second mug of coffee as Eddie flourishes a towel.
“Unc. Please. Not now. This is the most important meal I have ever cooked.”
“Sure,” he snorts. “Cuz that kid ain’t gonna say yes if he doesn’t like the pot roast. He already lives here.”
“Wayne,” Eddie says seriously, freezing.
Wayne raises his hands. “Sweet potatoes are burning.”
He dips out of the kitchen before the tea towel hits him in the back. He knows that everything will be fine. He’s excited, actually, to have both his kids in the same place. Cuz Steve Harrington, who’d never had much of a family of his own either? Yeah.
No fucking joke, I was offered 4 days of film-set marshalling and I told him I was unavailable for one of the days but I could cancel. And he told me he’d potentially found someone else.
I reblogged this.
And not 20 mins later, he came back to me and said if I really want it, let him know now. So fuck. Wow.
Author’s Note: Thanks for stopping by my Master List! I hope you enjoy and as always, feel free to leave a note, comment or ask! I posted my first story in September of 2019 and really love how this blog has grown! Thank you all for the incredible support and love!!
My character list has grown from one single dark haired villianized rascal to several! Apparently, I have a type!!
Warnings: The following stories are all for adults, include smut and are tagged on their individual story pages. Please use that as your guideline!
Steve was listening to Will talk and with each word the lump that started growing in his throat grew, and grew. It's not like he wasn't proud and happy for Will. He was. God, he was so proud and happy for him. Seeing everyone be so supportive and loving him unconditionally, it made Steve jealous. Jealous of what he didn't have. And never will have. His parents disowned him the second they caught him fooling around with a guy. That was 5 years ago and they have not been back to Hawkins or talked to him since. It hurt, it hurt so god damn much.
He felt the tears in his eyes and his vision getting blurry as he watched everyone hug Will. And Steve just stood there, frozen, unmoving. His eyes burned as he tried to hold back the tears, the sadness and anger. Why couldn't that be him right now? Why did his parents have to hate him? Shouldn't they love him unconditionally as well? He's their son for fucks sake. But no. They don't love him, and he's not sure they ever did.
Silently Steve slipped through the door and made his way down to the basement where he could cry in peace. He was gonna talk to Will later, tell him he's proud of him. But right now, he can't.
He sat down on the ground, tucking himself into the corner and making himself as small as possible, hugging his knees to his chest as he finally let the tears fall. And once he let them, the dam broke and there was nothing he could do to stop them. He quietly sobbed into his knees, his entire body shaking.
He startled when he felt a body sitting next to him, going tense at being caught. But he only got scooped up by strong arms and depositited on the persons lap. A hand came to rest at the back of his head, tucking him against the persons neck. Steve immediately calmed down as the unruly curls tickled his nose and he inhaled the smell of leather and cigarettes. Eddie. He pressed closer, wrapping his arm around Eddie's shoulder as he let the last few tears silently roll down his cheeks and onto Eddies shirt.
WC: 645 | Pre-Steddie | Post S5 V1, AU: Eddie Munson Lives
Steve knows there’s no point in this.
In pulling the various vinyls from their shelves when Rob’s on break. In queuing the songs with no explanation. In letting the loud music interrupt their regular mix of pop and oldies.
It’s a jarring disruption- one that no doubt upsets the majority of their listeners. Not only that, it probably draws more attention to the Squawk than it should. Specifically military attention, the very thing that Steve is desperate to avoid day-in and day-out during Robin’s morning update on the state of things in Hawkins.
Logically, then, there should be no reason for him to take the metal records off the shelves and give them the air time they wouldn’t otherwise have.
Hope, however, has a funny way of overcoming logic.
Steve logically knows that Eddie Munson died in the Upside Down almost a year and a half ago. But Steve also hopes.
He hopes that Eddie actually lived and somehow made it out of the Upside Down between their first shot at killing Vecna and the next time they were able to safely travel to the otherworld’s version of Eddie’s trailer, only to find his body missing. Hopes that, somehow, Eddie pulled his mangled, broken body somewhere safe, and is now in hiding as he recovers.
Even if that were true- if Eddie had actually escaped and has been hiding out somewhere undisclosed in Hawkins, or better yet, if Eddie had split town while he had the chance- there’s no reason for Steve to think that Eddie would be listening to the Squawk.
Still, Steve routinely puts on a song from their sparse metal collection. Ozzy, Metallica, Dio, W.A.S.P., and similar artists with thrumming bass lines and screaming vocals grace the sound waves of the radio station once a day, from approximately one o’clock to one-oh-five.
Steve supposes that, to him, he uses the song as a sort of message or a beacon. At one point, in the early days of running the station, he’d looked out the windows of the station doors while the song played, hoping that Eddie would pull up in his old van or his uncle’s truck and return to their lives. That his presence would calm the ocean of anger and grief that Dustin had been drowning in since March of ‘86. That he’d come with some sort of insight or wild idea on how to defeat Vecna once and for all. That, miraculously, he would act as a sort of bandaid over the countless wounds that their little group had suffered over the last four years.
Steve stopped looking out the window about a year ago. Now, he’d spend the time pulling sound effects or sorting their played songs of the day back into their rightful place.
Today’s choice was Rainbow in the Dark by Dio. It was one of Steve’s favorites now, and made a monthly appearance nowadays. Steve hummed along to the melody as he shelved their daily plays- Tears for Fears, Tiffany, and Kate Bush had all made their regular appearances in ‘Rockin’ Robin’s Daily Roundup’ (an admittedly silly name for the songs that Robin deemed as the ‘top 10 hits’ of the day, but he agreed that they needed to embrace a bit of kitsch in their jobs to keep the peace in Hawkins).
The crooning of Ronnie James Dio was loud enough that he couldn’t hear the telltale sound of the creaking front door. The bass vibrated the room to the degree that he didn’t register the heavy footsteps as they approached, finally coming to a stop just outside the booth.
There was no mistaking, however, the familiar teasing tone that he hadn’t heard in 18 months, now gravely with disuse. “Goddamn Harrington, who knew a little distance would finally get you a decent taste in music?”
Eddie.
Maybe his hope wasn’t such a pointless thing after all.
I love that the modern-day tumblr post equivalent of chain emails only requires me to reblog a relatively pleasant image instead of forward an email to a bunch of my friends and family members to quell my raging anxiety.
"Friend" is an AI wearable device designed to provide "companionship + emotional support"— i.e replace human friendships. Its literally an AI chatbot that you wear around your neck. "Friend" just paid for the largest ad campaign in NYC subway history
And Every. Single. Poster was vandalised, it literally looks like some of the most beautiful art you have ever seen
Kylie Robison and Boone Ashworth of WIRED both wore these stupid things for a couple weeks and reported the kind of experiences one might expect to have with an interactive AI device invented by a 22-year-old techbro:
The chatbot-enabled Friend necklace eavesdrops on your life and provides a running commentary that’s snarky and unhelpful. Worse, it can als
Written for the September 2025 round of @steddiemicrofic
Prompt: dream, 434 words
Rated: T
Tags: Nightmares; Dreams; Blood and gore (brief); Eddie Munson loves Steve Harrington; Eddie Munson needs a hug
Blood.
In his mouth, his nose, his lungs. He claws at his throat, but there’s blood on his hands and blood on his face and blood on the ground, and he can’t escape the shrieking vortex of wings and fangs and pain that tears him apart, he’s drowning in his own blood, and-
Air.
Eddie lies, gasping and shaking. The moon paints a silver stripe over the wall with the wedding photos, like it always does just after midnight.
“Eddie?” Steve pokes his head from the pillows. “Dreams again?”
Eddie nods, hand finding his own throat - smooth skin, not torn flesh and muscles and blood. Steve shifts closer.
“You should see someone about'em,” he yawns. “‘s not normal, dreaming about concerts in hell and demon bats 'n …. stuff.”
Eddie, who hasn’t told him how the dream always inevitably ends, kisses his temple.
“Probably just the stress of the new album. It’ll be fine.”
Steve grumbles drowsily and reaches for him when he disentangles himself from the sheets. Eddie kisses the golden band on his finger and tells him to stay in bed. He's wide awake now, so he might as well work on his music. Casting one last look at his sleeping husband, he opens the bedroom door-
-and steps into the void.
Everything is silent and black. When he looks down, the ground is covered in water.
“You can’t stay here.”
He doesn’t startle at the voice. Some part of him must’ve been expecting this. The same part, probably, that makes him look up and calmly meet the gaze of the girl who has appeared before him.
“You’re her. The girl with the superpowers?”
He doesn’t know what that means, but he knows it’s true.
She holds out a hand. A drop of blood falls from her nose.
“I’ve been looking for you for a while. They switched off the machines. There isn’t much time.”
Eddie looks over his shoulder. In the blackness of the void, the silver rectangle of the bedroom door is bright and inviting.
“He’s waiting for you,” the girl says. “They all are.”
Something heavy and dark settles in Eddie’s chest.
“He won’t love me, though. He never will."
"I don't know about that," she says. "But I know that you need to come back in order to find out."
Eddie thinks he'll never want anything as much as he wants to step through the door. He doesn't know why he takes the girl's hand instead.
Maybe it's because he doesn't want to run ever again.
He doesn't know what that means, but he knows it's important.
The data does not support the assumption that all burned out people can “recover.” And when we fully appreciate what burnout signals in the body, and where it comes from on a social, economic, and psychological level, it should become clear to us that there’s nothing beneficial in returning to an unsustainable status quo.
The term “burned out” is sometimes used to simply mean “stressed” or “tired,” and many organizations benefit from framing the condition in such light terms. Short-term, casual burnout (like you might get after one particularly stressful work deadline, or following final exams) has a positive prognosis: within three months of enjoying a reduced workload and increased time for rest and leisure, 80% of mildly burned-out workers are able to make a full return to their jobs.
But there’s a lot of unanswered questions lurking behind this happy statistic. For instance, how many workers in this economy actually have the ability to take three months off work to focus on burnout recovery? What happens if a mildly burnt-out person does not get that rest, and has to keep toiling away as more deadlines pile up? And what is the point of returning to work if the job is going to remain as grueling and uncontrollable as it was when it first burned the worker out?
Burnout that is not treated swiftly can become far more severe. Clinical psychologist and burnout expert Arno van Dam writes that when left unattended (or forcibly pushed through), mild burnout can metastasize into clinical burnout, which the International Classification of Diseases defines as feelings of energy depletion, increased mental distance, and a reduced sense of personal agency. Clinically burned-out people are not only tired, they also feel detached from other people and no longer in control of their lives, in other words.
Unfortunately, clinical burnout has quite a dismal trajectory. Multiple studies by van Dam and others have found that clinical burnout sufferers may require a year or more of rest following treatment before they can feel better, and that some of burnout’s lingering effects don’t go away easily, if at all.
In one study conducted by Anita Eskildsen, for example, burnout sufferers continued to show memory and processing speed declines one year after burnout. Their cognitive processing skills improved slightly since seeking treatment, but the experience of having been burnt out had still left them operating significantly below their non-burned-out peers or their prior self, with no signs of bouncing back.
It took two years for subjects in one of van Dam’s studies to return to “normal” levels of involvement and competence at work. following an incident of clinical burnout. However, even after a multi-year recovery period they still performed worse than the non-burned-out control group on a cognitive task designed to test their planning and preparation abilities. Though they no longer qualified as clinically burned out, former burnout sufferers still reported greater exhaustion, fatigue, depression, and distress than controls.
In his review of the scientific literature, van Dam reports that anywhere from 25% to 50% of clinical burnout sufferers do not make a full recovery even four years after their illness. Studies generally find that burnout sufferers make most of their mental and physical health gains in the first year after treatment, but continue to underperform on neuropsychological tests for many years afterward, compared to control subjects who were never burned out.
People who have experienced burnout report worse memories, slower reaction times, less attentiveness, lower motivation, greater exhaustion, reduced work capability, and more negative health symptoms, long after their period of overwork has stopped. It’s as if burnout sufferers have fallen off their previous life trajectory, and cannot ever climb fully back up.
And that’s just among the people who receive some kind of treatment for their burnout and have the opportunity to rest. I found one study that followed burned-out teachers for seven years and reported over 14% of them remained highly burnt-out the entire time. These teachers continued feeling depersonalized, emotionally drained, ineffective, dizzy, sick to their stomachs, and desperate to leave their jobs for the better part of a decade. But they kept working in spite of it (or more likely, from a lack of other options), lowering their odds of ever healing all the while.
Van Dam observes that clinical burnout patients tend to suffer from an excess of perseverance, rather than the opposite: “Patients with clinical burnout…report that they ignored stress symptoms for several years,” he writes. “Living a stressful life was a normal condition for them. Some were not even aware of the stressfulness of their lives, until they collapsed.”
Instead of seeking help for workplace problems or reducing their workload, as most people do, clinical burnout sufferers typically push themselves through unpleasant circumstances and avoid asking for help. They’re also less likely to give up when placed under frustrating circumstances, instead throttling the gas in hopes that their problems can be fixed with extra effort. They become hyperactive, unable to rest or enjoy holidays, their bodies wired to treat work as the solution to every problem. It is only after living at this unrelenting pace for years that they tumble into severe burnout.
Among both masked Autistics and overworked employees, the people most likely to reach catastrophic, body-breaking levels of burnout are the people most primed to ignore their own physical boundaries for as long as possible. Clinical burnout sufferers work far past the point that virtually anyone else would ask for help, take a break, or stop caring about their work.
And when viewed from this perspective, we can see burnout as the saving grace of the compulsive workaholic — and the path to liberation for the masked disabled person who has nearly killed themselves trying to pass as a diligent worker bee.
I wrote about the latest data on burnout "recovery," and the similarities and differences between Autistic burnout and conventional clinical burnout. The full piece is free to read or have narrated to you in the Substack app at drdevonprice.substack.com
#I can sense I'm not at full capacity and I don't think I ever will be again#when things start to get even a bit too stressful these days I start getting insane psychosomatic symptoms#I get migraines my nose bleeds my ears ring I can't eat I can't sleep I get dizzy and asthmatic and depressed#my therapist and I like to talk about it as if I was poisoned by stress and now my body has an out of control instinctive reaction to it#but also I just accept that the good part of burning out was that I can just never push myself that hard anymore#I will never again what I was but also being that sucked ass. so. these days I'm just taking it easy but taking it
#i clinically burned out in high school#i lost the ability for adrenaline/stress to motivate me to do anything#i had to relearn how to do EVERYTHING#i do sort of have a stress response back now#but it definitely does not work as well as pre-burnout#not that i’m testing that. lol#but the few years after burnout were actually very peaceful. i simply could not be stressed out i was incapable of it#i’m forever greatful i hit this point in high school because otherwise i would have inevitably hit it in college#where it would have had way worse consequences
Two sets of responses on this post that I think are so illuminating of what happens behind the scenes during a burnout. The body becomes so stress reactive that the cocktail of urgency/overwhelm/guilt/etc that you were running on previously no longer works, and strikes you as threatening, which means you become a lot more sensitive to smaller signs of stress in your life, which forces you to take things easier for a very long time. which given adequate supports can be great.
Inspired by this fanart by @paradimeshifts7
Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson | Rating: T | Word count: 986 | Tags: High School AU, established relationship, classroom shenanigans, fluff, Steve POV
Steve was supposed to be paying attention. Really, he was. Mr. Callahan’s droning about quadratic equations was the kind of thing that usually made his brain shut down on its own, but he’d promised himself — again — that this semester he’d at least try. At least pretend he cared. College applications were still a sore spot, and his dad’s voice lingered in the back of his head like an unwelcome echo.
But then there was Eddie.
Of course there was Eddie.
One second, Steve was tapping his pencil against the corner of his notebook, half-tuned to the lecture, and the next there was movement beside him, a sly grin shot in his direction, and then Eddie just… dropped. Like gravity gave up on him.
“Jesus, Ed—” Steve hissed, barely moving his lips.
Because Eddie Munson, master of dramatics, had folded himself sideways in the narrow space of their shared desk, ducked under the table, and laid his head right in Steve Harrington’s lap like that was a normal thing to do in the middle of second period math.
His heart did a ridiculous jump.
Steve froze, hands hovering like he’d forgotten what they were for. He glanced toward the front — Mr. Callahan hadn’t noticed. Nobody had. Yet. The room was filled with the scratching of pencils, an occasional cough, the squeak of chalk. All perfectly ordinary, except for the absolute insanity happening below his desk.
“Are you insane?” Steve muttered, not daring to look down too much.
Eddie tilted his head just enough that Steve caught a flash of his grin before the mess of curls fell across his face again. “Comfiest seat in the house, Harrington. Don’t fight it.” His voice was low, muffled, teasing.
Steve swallowed hard, every nerve in his body suddenly on high alert. He should tell him to move. He should shove him back into his chair, tell him they’d get caught, tell him this was crazy. But Eddie was closing his eyes now, letting out this soft, content sigh, like he was actually planning on napping there.
And Steve’s hand—it just… acted on its own. Slid into Eddie’s hair, brushing through the curls like it had been waiting all day for the chance. His fingers traced down to Eddie’s cheek, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his jaw.
God. He was done for.
Steve tried to look normal. Tried to nod at the chalkboard like he was following along, even while his chest felt too warm and his brain was nothing but static. He’d always thought high school classrooms were suffocating, all that fluorescent lighting and the buzz of bad air conditioning. But right now? With Eddie curled up like he belonged there, trusting him enough to just exist like this, Steve kind of never wanted the bell to ring.
He felt Eddie shift, a lazy nudge of his nose against Steve’s thigh, like he was staking a claim. Steve’s pulse went wild.
“Unbelievable,” Steve whispered, barely audible. “You’re unbelievable.”
Eddie hummed in reply, smug even half-asleep.
The minutes stretched.
Steve tried writing something down — anything — just to look occupied. His notebook ended up with a page of absolute nonsense: doodles, loops, the start of a sentence that trailed off into a crooked line when Eddie’s hair tickled his wrist.
He risked a glance around the room. The girl two rows ahead was passing notes with her friend. Some guy in the back was slumped over his desk, probably drooling. Nobody cared what Steve Harrington was doing. Still, it felt like a spotlight was aimed right at him.
“Munson,” he whispered through his teeth, “you’re gonna get me killed.”
Eddie cracked one eye open, looking up at him from his lap, and Steve had to fight the urge to slam his notebook shut over his face. That gaze was unfair. Dark and mischievous, like Eddie knew exactly what he was doing. Which of course he did.
“You love it,” Eddie mouthed silently, lips curling into the kind of smile that was pure trouble.
Steve’s ears burned. He shoved his hand back into Eddie’s hair, because if he kept petting him, maybe Eddie wouldn’t notice how red his face was. Maybe.
The chalk squealed against the board. Mr. Callahan turned back to the class, frowning like he was trying to spot weakness in the ranks. Steve straightened instantly, trying to look engaged. His hand stilled in Eddie’s curls.
Don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t give him a reason to—
“Harrington,” Callahan barked.
Steve’s stomach dropped.
“Yes, sir?” His voice cracked. Perfect.
“Would you mind telling us the solution to problem three?” Callahan gestured at the board, where a mass of numbers glared back at him.
Problem three looked like it was written in Greek. Steve blinked, panic spiraling. He had nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Then Eddie’s hand ghosted against his knee, fingertips tracing quick, sharp shapes. Numbers.
Four.
X equals four.
Steve’s mouth went dry. He stared at the board, then back at the teacher. “Uh... x equals four?”
A pause. Callahan narrowed his eyes, then gave a reluctant nod. “Correct. Try paying attention, Harrington.”
“Yes, sir,” Steve managed, sinking back in his chair, pulse thundering.
Below the desk, Eddie squeezed his knee.
Steve wanted to kick him. He also wanted to kiss him. Probably at the same time.
Eddie shifted, his grin lazy and unbothered, and instead of settling back down right away, he reached out blindly until his fingers found Steve’s hand on the desk. A gentle tug, a silent question.
Steve’s chest squeezed. He could’ve pulled away — should’ve, maybe — but instead he let Eddie’s fingers thread through his own, warm and sure, hidden from the rest of the class
And yeah, Steve thought as he let his fingers slide back into Eddie’s hair, maybe he was doomed. But if this was how Eddie planned on killing him, then honestly? Steve figured there were worse ways to go.
written for ‘Experiment’ | rated: teen | WC: 398 | tags: gay bar, flirting, Eddie’s handcuffs, pre-season 4
😉 😉 😉
There are certain places you expect to see certain people, and there are certain places you would never in a million years expect to see others. The Phoenix Club, hours away from Hawkins— full of queers and delightful degenerates — is that place, and Steve Harrington is the person Eddie never expected to see.
For a second, Eddie thinks he’s gone crazy, taken one-too-many-drugs one-too-many-times and is officially seeing things that aren’t there but— No.
It really is Steve Harrington, drink clutched in one hand and a cautious look on his face. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, just nervous. The way any baby queer looks their first time out.
Eddie can’t help but stare from his perch at the bar. He witnesses Steve get asked to dance a handful of times by different men, all of which Steve turns down with a polite smile. Eddie wonders if he’s looking for something specific, someone specific.
Eddie’s always been too curious for his own good. Before he can stop himself, he’s at Steve’s table, hip leaned against the sticky wood.
“Broadening your playing field, Harrington? Has the well of eligible women in Hawkins run so dry you’ve decided to experiment?”
Eddie sees the recognition dawn on Steve’s pretty face— horror first, then surprise, and then something else takes over. Eddie watches Steve’s eyes flick down, lingering at the hip Eddie has against his table, the handcuffs secured through Eddie’s belt loops. Something cooler soothes the surprise in Steve’s face, his eyes going mischievous beneath strobing lights.
“Munson,” Steve greets, head tilting to look up at him. “Hey, come here often?”
Eddie blinks, thrown by the lack of a confrontation. “Was that a line?”
Steve shrugs. “Depends.”
“On?”
A smile tugs at Steve’s mouth. “Your response.”
Eddie is painfully familiar with jokes made at his expense but there’s something about Steve’s relaxed shoulders that says this isn’t that.
“You're seriously hitting on me right now, man?” Eddie points at himself. “Me?”
“Should I not?” Steve kicks the chair across from him, silently inviting Eddie to sit.
Eddie glances between the chair and Steve, something like curiosity crawling up his spine, playful and cautiously delighted. “What if you’re not my type?”
Steve looks at Eddie’s handcuffs. “What if I am?”
Oh, Eddie thinks, mouth dry.
He drops into the offered chair. “Guess we’ll see.”
Steve's smile goes honey-sweet and knowing “Guess we will.”
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