normie | eddie munson
pairing: eddie munson x reader summary: steve harrington's sister falls for eddie "the freak" munson -- and he falls harder. themes & warnings: harrington!reader, fluff, slow burn somewhat, i love eddie munson and i miss him so much </3 we are gonna pretend my husband is alive and well, shy!harrington reader, experienced older guy eddie, he loves a shy girl, teasing, flirting, protective!steve
Eddie wasn't even sure why he was here. Truly and honestly.
To him, these things were pointless. It was the worst possible place for a Munson man to be -- he didn't fit in. He didn't cheer. He didn't so much as smile for the first half of this torture.
Yes, he was being dramatic. A basketball game wasn't really torture. But it definitely wasn't his scene.
In truth, Dustin had dragged him there in hopes that he'd somewhat enjoy himself (that and Dustin didn't want to be alone with Mike and Lucas, who would just sit there and drool over multiple girls on the team, and Will who was silent). Steve sat across the gym, occasionally exchanging looks with Dustin about how the game was going. Dustin didn't really like sports either -- none of them did. But they all compromised with Steve, who wanted his best friends in the stands.
Plus, Steve's sister was on the court. That in itself had its own list of demands from Steve, who adored her.
"She needs more fans!" He'd exclaimed to the party.
Dustin hadn't been given much of a choice, not that he minded. He liked you anyways. That didn't mean that the rest of the party, however, had the chance to miss out on it either.
It was the Hawkins High Tigers versus the visiting team from Clint, and the energy in the gym was a thick, humid soup of popcorn grease, teenage sweat, and deafening squeaks of sneakers on polished wood. Eddie Munson felt like a black-clad inkblot on a page of beige and orange. He slumped in the bleachers, his denim vest adorned with patches of bands no one here had heard of, his expression one of profound, theatrical suffering.
Dustin, to his left, was explaining the finer points of a zone defense, which to Eddie sounded about as interesting as watching paint dry, but with more sweating. Mike and Lucas, a few rows down, were indeed engaged in their whispered, critical analysis of the cheerleading squad’s “aerodynamics.” Will just looked politely trapped.
Across the court, on the home team’s bench, sat Steve Harrington. King Steve. Former King Steve. Whatever. He was the assistant coach.. sort of.. More like after his game, he refused to leave the court because you'd be on it. Plus, the sports department loved him. He was out of his letterman jacket now, but he wore the posture of a captain still, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes laser-focused on the court. Not on the game, exactly, but on one player in particular.
Number 11. His twin sister.
The relationship between Steve and Y/N Harrington was Hawkins legend, a quieter, sweeter counterpart to the drama of Steve’s romantic escapades. Their parents were the classic ‘80s absentee type --successful, traveling, leaving their kids in a big, empty house with a pool and a stocked fridge. That emptiness had forged a bond between brother and sister that was unshakeable.
Steve, for all his past douchebaggery, had always been fiercely protective of you. He’d taught you to swim, to drive, to throw a punch (“Aim for the nose, it makes their eyes water, then you run like hell to me”). He’d scared off your first would-be boyfriend in seventh grade with nothing more than a slow, silent stare from across the cafeteria. He was your first call, your best friend, your unwavering defender.
And you, in turn, were his anchor. You’d seen through the “King” facade to the surprisingly dorky, deeply loyal guy underneath. You were the one who’d handed him ice packs after his fights with Jonathan Byers, who’d listened without judgment when he cried over Nancy, who’d helped him study for tests he was doomed to fail. You were smart, sharp-tongued in a way that could flay people but chose not to, and possessed a calm, steady kindness that was the exact opposite of Steve’s loud, performative charm.
On the court, you were a study in controlled motion. Basketball wasn't your passion, not like it had been Steve's, but you had a natural, fluid talent for it. Where Steve had played with a grinning, hair-flipping bravado, you played with a quiet, unsettling efficiency. You were the point guard, the team's strategist on the floor. You didn't waste energy on flashy crossovers or trash talk. You saw the play three steps ahead, your passes crisp and timely, your shots a high-arching, almost serene swish through the net. You led not by shouting, but by a sharp glance, a pointed finger, a nod that your teammates instinctively followed.
Steve didn't cheer. He observed. His jaw was tight, his body coiled as if he were on the court with you. When you got fouled hard by a Clint player a good foot taller, Steve was halfway out of his seat before the whistle even blew, a shout of "Hey!" escaping him. You just picked yourself up, brushed off your shorts, shot your brother a look that clearly said I'm fine, sit down, and calmly sank both free throws. Steve sank back, running a hand through his hair, the tension easing only slightly.
Eddie watched this whole exchange from his slouched position, his theatrical boredom momentarily forgotten. The protective ferocity from the brother was one thing -- predictable, almost primal. But your reaction… that was fascinating. The calm. The silent communication. The utter lack of fear or frustration. You’d taken the hit, assessed the situation, and converted it into points. It was… metal, in a weird, normie-sports kind of way. A silent, efficient vengeance.
Halftime buzzed. The teams filed off. Steve was instantly on his feet, maneuvering down the bleachers like a man on a mission. He met you at the sideline, handing you a water bottle. He was talking fast, gesturing at the Clint player who’d fouled you, his face animated with protective anger.
You listened, taking a long drink. Then you said something short. Steve paused, his bluster deflating. He scrubbed a hand over his face, nodded, and then -- in a gesture so brotherly it made something in Eddie’s chest twinge -- he reached out and carefully adjusted the sweaty, wayward strands of hair stuck to your temple. You offered him a small, tired smile and punched his arm lightly before turning back to your team.
“See?” Dustin said, as if this little drama proved his point. “He’s like a mother hen. It’s kinda sweet, in a terrifying way.”
“Hmm,” Eddie hummed noncommittally, his eyes tracking you as you walked away. He’d expected a Harrington through and through: polished, popular, probably a little bit vapid. But you… you had your brother’s fire, but it was banked, controlled. You had a stillness to you amidst the storm of the game and Steve’s hovering. It was compelling in a way Eddie couldn't explain, mostly because he was actively trying not to find a normie jock compelling.
It helped, at least, that you didn't look exactly like Steve. You had his eyes and his hair color, but you were gorgeous on your own. Put together, hair curled into ringlets that were pulled back into a neat ponytail. Your body had gentle curves and he could see how smooth your skin was from the bleachers. He felt like a creep. But he wasn't oogling. Just.. observing.
"Steve will kill you." Dustin snorted, eyeing Eddie's quiet staring.
Eddie jerked his gaze away, a scowl snapping onto his face to cover the heat he felt creeping up his neck. "Shut up, Henderson. I'm observing the socio-cultural rituals of the normie herd. It's anthropology."
"Right," Dustin drawled, not buying it for a second. "You're 'observing' her sweat patterns. Very scientific."
"I'm observing the fact that your babysitter has the emotional regulation of a startled badger," Eddie shot back, gesturing to where Steve was now pacing the sidelines, glaring at the Clint players as they warmed up for the second half. "One wrong move and he's gonna storm the court."
"Protective," Dustin corrected, but he was grinning. He’d seen the way Eddie’s eyes had followed you. This was more interesting than any zone defense.
"Pig-headed." Eddie muttered to himself.
The second half was unremarkable (besides your performance, of course). Your team swiftly and efficiently buried Clint in the dust, establishing a 30 point lead by the end of the game. As the final buzzer rang, Eddie grabbed his discarded jacket and started for the exit.
He felt his sleeve being pulled.
"Where the hell are you going? We have to tell her good game." Dustin said, as if it was completely obvious.
Eddie froze, a deer in the headlights of Dustin’s relentless social obligation. “No. No, we absolutely do not have to do that. The social contract states that we attended, we observed, we suffered. The obligation is fulfilled. Good game sentiments are for… for people in the same tax bracket.”
Dustin rolled his eyes so hard Eddie feared they’d get stuck. “It’s called being nice, Eddie. She’s Steve’s sister. She’s cool. It’s two words. ‘Good’ and ‘game’. You can manage it. I’ve heard you form more complex sentences when describing a gelatinous cube.”
“That’s different! That’s art!” Eddie protested, but he was already being towed through the thinning crowd by the determined fourteen-year-old, a human shield/liability.
They arrived at the edge of the court just as Steve was finishing his proud-brother recap. Eddie hovered awkwardly behind Dustin, wishing fervently that he was anywhere else -- preferably somewhere with more darkness and fewer fluorescent lights.
He saw you wipe your face with a towel, your expression one of amused tolerance for Steve’s theatrics. Then your eyes shifted. Past Steve. Past Dustin. They landed on him.
It was like being struck by a soft, quiet lightning bolt. Your gaze was so direct, so utterly lacking in the pretense or pity he was used to. It was just… acknowledgement. Soft, humane, and strangely calming.
"You were awesome! And I don't even like sports that much, but still." Dustin grinned, his face full of child-like excitement. He clearly looked up to you, just as he did Steve. It was clear for anyone to see.
You smiled back at him, a genuine, warm smile that transformed your face, making something in Eddie's stomach flip without his permission. You acknowledged Mike, Lucas, Will with a kindness that seemed effortless. Then, you turned back to respond to Dustin.
"It's just ball. But.. thank you." You said humbly, patting Dustin's shoulder.
"It's not just ball. You're the best on the team. Easily." Steve, ever your biggest fan, continued to gas you up just as he had before the other boys arrived.
You rolled your eyes, but the fondness was undeniable. “You’re biased.”
“I’m objective!” Steve insisted, slinging an arm around your sweaty shoulders, ignoring your half-hearted squawk of protest. “It’s a scientific fact. Anyone with eyes can see it.”
It was then, with Steve’s arm around you, that your gaze drifted back past his shoulder to Eddie. You were still smiling, that warm, post-game glow softening your features, but your eyes held a different question now. They flickered between Steve’s proud, oblivious face and Eddie’s carefully neutral one, as if you were observing a fascinating, unspoken dynamic.
And then you spoke. Not to deflect, not to dismiss. You saw him. “Iron Maiden. Nice.”
Three words. That was all it took. Three words, and the carefully constructed wall between Eddie Munson and the world of Steve Harrington developed a hairline crack. He stared, his clever retorts dying on his tongue. You knew the band. You’d not only seen the patch, you’d recognized it. It was a tiny, inconsequential thing, but in the social ecosystem of Hawkins High, it felt like a secret handshake.
He managed to recover, his voice dropping into a tone of mock-appraisal. “You know your metal, Harrington?”
You smiled, a small blush dusting your cheeks. You were shy too. How fun.
"Sometimes." A simple, humble word that left everything open to interpretation. Sometimes I listen. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I notice things.
His hand came up to rub the bottom of his chin, a small smirk curving onto his lips. He couldn't help it. The smirk was automatic, a way to channel the sudden, disorienting rush of triumph and vulnerability into something he knew how to wear.
"Sometimes," he repeated, letting the word roll around in his mouth like a new flavor. "Dangerous word, 'sometimes.' Leaves a guy guessing."
His eyes held yours, the playful challenge in them belying the frantic beat of his heart. He saw your blush deepen, just a shade, and it was the most thrilling thing he'd witnessed all night -- more than any three-pointer, more than any victory buzzer. He'd made the unflappable Y/N Harrington blush.
Steve, whose radar for any interaction involving his sister was finely tuned to a paranoid frequency, immediately picked up on the shift. The easy, proud-brother vibe hardened into something more alert. He stepped forward, his body subtly inserting itself into the space between your line of sight and Eddie.
"Alright," Steve said, his tone light but with a steel underneath. He put a guiding hand on your back. "You're still sweaty. Let's move out."
You allowed yourself to be steered, but not before you shot one last look over your shoulder. It wasn't the smile from before. It was a quick, bright glance, your eyes meeting Eddie's with a spark of curiosity, shyness, and interest. And then you were gone, swallowed by the hallway leading to the locker rooms.
He'd never felt so satisfied.
He'd expected you to have the same cocky bravado that your brother did, maybe even some of his goofy inability to shut up. But you were so different. You were quiet, humble, shy. A Harrington? Shy? Was it even possible for that to happen? It was the shyness that got him. That was the hook, sunk deep past his defenses. Steve Harrington was a lighthouse -- loud, obvious, impossible to miss. You were a carefully banked fire, warmth you had to get close to feel.
The following Monday, he saw you in the hallway. You were at your locker, head down as you swapped out books. Eddie, leaning against the lockers a dozen feet away with Gareth, pretended to be engrossed in a debate about the merits of a new dice set. But his eyes were on you.
He saw a guy from the basketball team -- a junior, broad-shouldered and grinning -- approach you. “Great game Friday, Harrington. You really showed ‘em.” The guy’s tone was friendly, but his posture was all swagger, leaning into your space.
You looked up, offered a small, polite smile that didn't reach your eyes. “Thanks, Mark.” Your voice was quiet. You turned back to your locker, a clear dismissal.
The guy, Mark, either didn't get the hint or chose to ignore it. He leaned closer. “A bunch of us are going to get pizza after practice tomorrow. You should come. Be nice to have the star player there.”
You stiffened, just a fraction. Your fingers tightened on the spine of your history book. Eddie saw it -- the subtle discomfort, the way you shrank ever so slightly. You weren't afraid; you were just… unwilling. And you didn't seem to have Steve’s loud, easy way of brushing people off.
Before Eddie could even think about moving, a voice cut through the hall.
“She’s got plans.”
Steve materialized from the crowd, his presence like a thunderclap. He didn't shove Mark, but he stepped smoothly between him and you, his smile wide and utterly devoid of warmth. “Family thing. Sorry, man.”
Mark backed off immediately, hands up in a ‘no problem’ gesture, his confidence evaporating under Steve’s pointed stare. “No worries, Harrington. Another time.”
Steve waited until Mark was gone before turning to you. His expression softened. “You okay?”
You nodded, that small, private smile returning. “I had plans?” you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.
“You do now,” Steve said firmly, but he was smiling too. “My treat. I’m thinking… waffles.”
You laughed softly, and the tension left your shoulders. “Steve. I get out of practice at six. Waffles?”
“So? Waffles are a state of mind.” He slung an arm around you and steered you down the hall, throwing one last, sweeping glare around as if daring anyone else to try.
Eddie watched the whole scene, his blood humming. He’d been right. The shyness wasn't weakness. It was a preference for quiet. And you had a dragon for a brother, ready to breathe fire at the slightest hint of a threat. But you’d also handled it yourself, in your own quiet way, before Steve had even arrived. You’d been about to shut it down. Politely, firmly.
He wanted to hear you do it. He wanted to be the one you didn’t shut down. But he knew he couldn't do it the way Mark did. He had to sneak up on you, make you comfortable with his presence. Fond of him. Nudge you into a conversation rather than a full on push. And preferably without Steve punching him in the nose.
That afternoon, he skipped his usual haunt behind the bleachers. He went to the library. He found you at a corner table, head bent over a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a highlighter in your hand. You were alone.
He slid into the chair across from you without a word.
You looked up, startled. Your eyes widened, and the blush -- god, that blush -- spread across your cheeks instantly. You glanced around, as if checking for Steve, then back at him.
“This is a study zone,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
“I’m studying,” Eddie whispered back, leaning forward. He plucked the book from your hands, ignoring your gasp of protest. He glanced at the page. “Holden Caulfield. Phony-hating, melancholic rich kid. Overrated.”
You stared at him, shocked into silence for a moment. Then, a spark ignited in your eyes. Interest. “You’ve read it?”
“Everyone’s read it,” he said, handing it back. “It’s a rite of passage for disaffected youth. But if you want a real story about alienation and screaming into the void, you read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Or listen to Ride the Lightning.”
A soft smile that you tried to push down formed onto your face as you refocused onto the book.
"Maybe." Your attempt at dismissal was clear. A closed-ended response, intending to cut the conversation short.
Eddie didn't push. He saw the dismissal for what it was: not a rejection, but a test. A shy person’s wall, erected to see if he’d try to climb it clumsily or respect its boundaries. He chose the latter.
“Maybe,” he echoed, his tone thoughtful, as if considering the word itself. He leaned back in his chair, putting a little more space between them, a gesture of non-threat. “The patron saint of ‘maybe.’ That’s you, Harrington.” He tapped his own temple. “Keeps a guy on his toes, just like 'sometimes'. I respect it.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his canvas bag and pulled out a battered, dog-eared paperback. He slid it across the table toward you. The cover was a psychedelic explosion of colors, the title in loud, drippy letters: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson.
“A counter-offer,” he said, his voice still low. “No pressure. No due date. Consider it… supplementary material. A different perspective on the great American freak-out.”
You stared at the book, then at him, your earlier attempt at closure clearly thrown. Your fingers hovered over the cover, not touching it. “I…"
You didn't know what to say. Usually, boys didn't get this far with you. He could see it. The slight widening of your eyes, the way your breath hitched just a fraction. You were thrown. Off-balance. Most guys, he guessed, either backed off at your quiet maybe or tried to bulldoze through it with louder compliments, bigger gestures. He’d done neither. He’d offered a book. A piece of his own weird, wonderful chaos, handed over without demand.
It was the perfect move.
He gave you a lazy, knowing smile, the kind that said I see you, and it's okay. "It's not gonna bite," he said, nodding at the book. "Well. The prose might. It's a little rabid. But in a fun way."
He pushed his chair back and stood up, the movement slow and deliberate. He didn't loom over you. He just gathered his bag, letting the moment stretch, letting you sit with the choice he'd laid in front of you.
"I'll be seeing you, Harrington," he said, his voice a low murmur meant just for you. He didn't say around. It was a promise, or a prediction, or maybe both. Then he turned and ambled out of the library, the chains on his boots making the softest chink-chink sound against the quiet.
He replayed the interaction in his mind a few times before the excitement wore off.
About a week later, he caught up to you, just like he said he would. Outside Dustin's house. The party was meeting up to hang out. Usually, if it didn't involve D&D, Eddie didn't come. But.. he had new motivation. He had parked his van down the road on the curb, walking up to the front lawn. Steve's car was in the driveway, so he knew you'd both be there.
With Max and El, you sat in a lawn chair, reclined into the sun. It was a warm day in October, so your sleeves were rolled up and you wore shorts, exposing skin that hadn't yet paled from its summer tan. The sight of you stopped him in his tracks for a moment. You were bathed in the golden, late-afternoon light, looking relaxed in a way he’d never seen you at school. You were laughing at something Max said, your head thrown back slightly, the line of your throat elegant and exposed. The sun caught your hair, turning it golden brown. You looked soft. Approachable. Real.
It was dangerous.
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his vest and forced his feet to move, the gravel of the Henderson driveway crunching under his boots. Dustin, who was trying to explain the rules of some complicated board game to a bewildered Will, spotted him first.
“Munson! You made it!” Dustin crowed, as if Eddie’s presence was a personal victory. Which, in a way, it was.
The chatter on the lawn paused. Mike and Lucas looked up from where they were attempting to fix Lucas’s bike chain. Steve, who had been leaning against his car with a Coke, straightened up, his smile remaining shockingly easy. Eddie was sure it wouldn't stay that way -- the more he tried to woo the unsuspecting man's sister.
And you. You stopped laughing. Your eyes found him, and that familiar, faint blush painted its way across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose. You sat up a little straighter in the lawn chair, pulling your knees to your chest -- a subtle, self-conscious gesture that sent a bolt of pure, possessive warmth straight through Eddie’s core. He knew it was because of him.
“Figured I’d see what the plebeians do for fun when they’re not rolling for initiative,” Eddie said, his voice carrying across the lawn with practiced nonchalance. He nodded at Steve. “Harrington.”
“Munson,” Steve replied, his tone neutral. The unspoken what are you doing here? hung in the air.
Eddie ignored it. His gaze slid back to you. “Harrington,” he said again, this time softer, the word just for you.
“Eddie,” you replied, your voice quiet but steady. You didn't look away.
Max, sharp as a tack, glanced between you and Steve, a slow, knowing grin spreading across her face. El just watched with serene curiosity.
“So, are you playing or what?” Dustin demanded, holding up a fistful of colorful game money.
“In a minute, Henderson. Let a man soak in the ambience.” Eddie’s eyes stayed on you. He took a few steps closer, stopping a polite distance away, leaning against the trunk of a large oak tree. “Burning the midnight oil with Thompson again, or have you recovered?”
You smiled, a small, private thing. “I’m recovering. I think I needed the sunshine.”
“Sunshine is overrated,” Eddie said, but he was smiling too. “All that… cheer. It’s suspicious.”
You actually laughed, a soft puff of air. “Suspicious?”
“Absolutely. Hides all the interesting shadows.” He let his gaze drift meaningfully around the sunny, suburban yard before bringing it back to you. “But I’ll allow it. For today.”
He was almost giddy at the genuine smile he'd managed to coax out of you. But he had to reign it in. He wasn't trying to get flattened by your brother today, especially not in front of you. It would be terribly embarrassing and detrimental to the metal brand. He saw the exact moment Steve decided to intervene. It was a subtle shift in the older Harrington’s posture -- the shoulders squaring, the easy slouch disappearing. Eddie felt the impending storm like a change in barometric pressure. He was skating on very thin ice over a lake of pure, protective, hairspray-scented rage.
Time for a tactical retreat.
“Well,” Eddie said, pushing off from the tree with a sigh that was only half-feigned. “Duty calls. Henderson’s about to bankrupt himself with poor property management, and someone’s gotta witness the carnage.” He gave you a small, conspiratorial wink. “Save the rest of the review for me, yeah? I want the director’s cut.”
When he turned around, he grinned at your brother.
"Easy, tiger. Just asking about a book. That's all. We both read."
Steve’s eyes narrowed, but the brotherly aggression bled out of his stance, replaced by skepticism. “You.. Read?”
“Shocking, I know,” Eddie said, spreading his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. “Words on pages. Sometimes they even have pictures. It’s wild.” He kept his tone light, teasing, but he made sure to meet Steve’s gaze head-on. No guilt. No backing down. Just two guys having a weird, tense standoff about literature in a backyard.
Steve glanced past him to where you were sitting with a mixture of apprehension and what looked like… salty amusement.
“Just keeping the intellectual currents flowing in this town, Harrington,” Eddie continued, slinging his thumbs through his belt loops. “Someone’s gotta do it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with Monopoly-induced despair.”
He gave Steve a final, easy nod -- a peace offering that was also a declaration of I’m not scared of you -- and sauntered over to the game board. He threw himself down on the grass next to Dustin, immediately launching into a dramatic critique of Mike’s decision to buy Baltic Avenue.
“A bold strategy, Wheeler! Let’s see how it plays out for you when I park a hotel on Boardwalk!”
For the rest of the afternoon, he was the loud, chaotic, perfectly normal Eddie Munson. But his awareness was split. One part was on the game, harassing the kids. The other part was a high-frequency sensor tuned exclusively to you. He noted when you sat back down with Max and El, when you got up to get a drink, the soft sound of your voice when you spoke. He didn't look over often, but he didn't need to. He could feel your presence like a low, warm hum in the background of everything.
When the gathering broke up, he walked back to his van, the cool October air doing nothing to dampen the fire in his chest. He was so close. So close to breaking completely into your walls. He got closer every time. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he finally let the full, triumphant grin break free. He cranked the engine and slammed in a tape. The opening riff of “Run to the Hills” exploded through the speakers, a perfect, pounding anthem for his victory.
But.. not everything proved to be so peachy.
That next Tuesday night, as he did every Tuesday night, he sauntered into the local diner to secure his favorite. A beer he wasn't ID'd for and a slice of blackberry pie. The familiar scent of grease, french fries, and pastries flooded into his nose as he pushed the door open. It was usually empty around this time. During the day, the jocks were there for their after-practice pizza or cheeseburger, which is why he only came at night. But the surprise he felt when he came upon you sitting in a booth, alone and all dolled up, could've caved his chest in.
Your hair was curled, gorgeous as usual. You wore a light but unfamiliar dusting of makeup (that your naturally lovely face didn't need), with a thin layer of pink gloss on your lips. You were clearly dressed for a date -- a cute little skirt, a floral top, and pretty buckled up shoes. What really alarmed him, though, was the fact that mascara blackened tears steadily traveled down your cheeks.
It was bad enough that you'd come here for a date that wasn't with him. But it was even worse that, clearly and evidently, you'd been stood up. How or why someone would stand you up, he wasn't sure. But it had happened.
Every instinct in Eddie’s body screamed to march over to that booth, to slide in across from you, to demand a name so he could go find the guy and introduce his face to the business end of a wrench. But the raw, vulnerable devastation on your face -- the kind that came from a quiet, private humiliation -- stopped him cold. This wasn't a scene for his usual brand of chaotic intervention.
He stood frozen just inside the door, the bell above it giving a final, pathetic ting. You didn't look up. You were staring into a milkshake you hadn't touched, a single, fat tear plopping into the whipped cream.
Eddie’s heart did a painful, complicated twist. It wasn't just jealousy, though that was a hot, green coil in his gut. It was a fierce, protective rage on your behalf, mixed with a crushing wave of empathy. He knew what it was like to be the one left waiting. To be deemed not good enough, too much, too other. But for you? For you to be treated like this? It was an obscenity. He was sure Steve was probably out plotting a murder, even though the explanation for you being stood up may have been that he'd already committed one.
He took a slow, deep breath. The Eddie who would make a scene, who would crack a joke to deflect, who would play the loud, uncaring freak, retreated. Someone else stepped forward.
He walked to the counter, not to his usual stool, but to where Marge, the perpetually tired waitress, was refilling the ketchup bottles. “Hey, Marge,” he said, his voice low. “Two slices of the blackberry pie. Two forks. And two coffees. Put it on my tab.”
Marge gave him a knowing look, her eyes flicking to your hunched form in the booth, then back to him. She nodded once. “Comin’ up, hon.”
Eddie didn't go straight to your booth. He went to the jukebox in the corner, fed it a few quarters, and made a selection. Not Iron Maiden. Not something loud. He chose something slow, something old -- a melancholy, bluesy track that wouldn't intrude, just sit in the background like a sympathetic hum.
Then, carrying the two plates of pie and two mugs of coffee balanced precariously, he approached. He didn't ask if he could sit. He just slid into the booth opposite you, setting the desserts and coffee down with a soft clink.
You looked up, startled. Your eyes, red-rimmed and swimming, widened in surprise and a flicker of embarrassment. You quickly swiped at your cheeks. “Eddie. You don’t have to--”
“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupted, his voice gentle, a tone he rarely used. He nudged one of the pie plates and a fork toward you. “Blackberry. Best in town And the coffee’s fresh. Might as well not let a good outfit go to waste.”
You stared at the pie, then back at him. A fresh tear escaped, but a wobbly, incredulous smile touched your lips. “You’re not going to ask?”
“Nope,” he said, picking up his own fork. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Guy’s an idiot. That’s all the context I need. The ‘why’ is irrelevant. The facts are: you look beautiful, and he’s missing out on pie. His loss is my gain.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, with such complete, unwavering certainty, that it seemed to cut through the fog of your hurt. You let out a shaky breath, a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, and picked up your own fork.
You didn't talk about the date. He didn't let you. He talked about the pie. He talked about Marge’s mysterious, possibly mob-connected husband. He talked about the time Gareth tried to use the diner’s grease trap in a questionable science experiment. He made you smile, then actually laugh -- a small, real one -- when he described Dustin’s attempt to order “the most protein-rich item on the menu” to fuel his brain.
He made the world small and safe, contained within the cracked vinyl of the booth. The jukebox played its sad, sweet song. The coffee steamed. The pie disappeared bite by bite.
When the tears had fully dried and your smile was a little steadier, he leaned back, studying you. “Feel like getting some air that doesn’t smell like fry oil?”
You nodded, looking relieved. “Yeah.”
He paid the tab, leaving a tip that made Marge raise her eyebrows. He held the door open for you, and you stepped out into the crisp night. He didn't try to take your hand. He just walked beside you, his hands in his pockets. Your skirt swished around your thighs, Mary Jane platforms crunching the gravel. You looked up at the moon, the light casting shadows. There was still mascara stuck to your cheeks, inky black.
He halted you for a moment, the touch on your wrist causing electricity to bolt up your arm. But the touch wasn't done yet.
Before he could stop himself, his hands came up to your face. Brown eyes bored into yours, a warm liquid sensation traveling down your spine, as he gently wiped the coal-colored makeup from your cheeks. The sensation was foreign, but not unpleasant. In fact, you were sure it was the most pleasant touch you'd ever felt. Eddie's fingers were rough from guitar strings, but gentle and soft in their ministrations.
He didn't just wipe; he cradled your face, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
The world shrank to the space between his palms. The distant hum of traffic, the rustle of the autumn leaves, the chill in the air -- it all faded into a blur. All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the quiet shush of his thumbs against your skin, and the dark, bottomless pools of his eyes watching you, watching for any sign of protest or pain.
"There," he murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated in the quiet space between you. He didn't pull his hands away immediately. They lingered, his thumbs making one final, sweeping pass along your cheekbones, as if committing the clean lines of your face to memory. "No more evidence that you were even sad about that asshole."
You couldn't speak. You could only stare, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The electricity from his initial touch had settled into a deep, resonant hum, a current that seemed to connect his skin to yours, buzzing with unspoken things.
Finally, slowly, he let his hands fall away, dropping back to his sides as if the action took great effort. The night air felt ten degrees colder where his touch had been. You missed it immediately. The loss was a physical ache. You stood there on the quiet street, the imprint of his hands still burning on your skin like a brand. You wanted to reach out, to pull them back, to feel that rough gentleness again. But you were frozen, held in place by the aftermath of his touch and the raw vulnerability still humming in your veins.
He saw it -- the want, the hesitation. A slow, understanding smile touched his lips, not smug, but profoundly tender.
"Steve would break my face right now." He said quietly.
The statement hung in the air, a stark, honest truth that somehow broke the tension without shattering the moment. It wasn't a complaint. It was an acknowledgment of the dangerous, delicious line they were walking.
A surprised, watery laugh escaped you. It was a small sound, but it felt like a release. "He would," you agreed, your voice still a little thick. "He'd use that nail bat he keeps in his trunk."
Eddie’s grin widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "See? You get it. The constant, looming threat of blunt force trauma. It's the foundation of any good courtship."
Courtship. The old-fashioned word, coming from him, sent another shiver through you. It felt deliberate. Chivalrous, even.
Eddie was a vision in the moonlight. Dark curls with almost a purple hue. Warm brown eyes, features pronounced in the shadows. The rings on his decorated hands glinted silver, chain bracelets hanging from a wrist. Since you'd first seen him, you'd acknowledged that no matter how odd people seemed to find him, no one could ever call him ugly. He was easy on the eyes, very much so. And it turned out that you didn't find him odd at all.
In fact, the yearning in your chest to kiss him was physically tangible. You'd never felt that way about a boy before. You'd hated most. But since Eddie had forced himself into your attention, you'd had thoughts of close to nothing but. The only thing that stopped you was hesitancy. Not even the threat of Steve. You could keep him at bay.
You felt Eddie coming closer now. You smelled his sharp, dark cologne, leather, and cigarettes. His intense stare mingled with yours.
"You okay?" He whispered.
His whisper was a soft vibration in the scant space between you. It wasn't just a question about the tears, or the diner, or the idiot who stood you up. It was a question about this. About him being this close, about the unspoken thing crackling in the air like static before a storm. It was a check-in, a last chance to retreat.
"Eddie?" You whispered, finally utilizing your voice.
"Hm?" He hummed, towering over you.
"Can I.. Can you.." You attempted, almost unable to get the question out. Your whisper quivered.
He understood. He saw the struggle in your eyes, the way your lips parted around a question you couldn't quite form. The yearning wasn't just in your chest; it was a live wire strung taut between you, vibrating with a need so palpable he could feel it in his own bones.
He didn't make you finish. He didn't tease. He simply bowed his head, bringing his face even closer, until his breath fanned warm against your lips. His voice dropped to a husk, a raw, intimate sound meant for you alone.
"Ask me," he murmured, his eyes holding yours captive. "Just ask me, sweetheart. I'm right here."
The permission, the gentle encouragement, was your undoing. It gave you the courage to voice the soft, burning words.
"Kiss me."
It wasn't a question by the end. It was a plea. A command. A revelation.
A slow, devastatingly tender smile touched his lips -- the last thing you saw before his eyes fluttered shut. "God, yes," he breathed, the words a prayer against your mouth.
And then he did.
His kiss was everything you'd dreamed and nothing you could have imagined. It was soft, at first -- a reverent press of his lips to yours, a silent thank you for asking, for wanting. Then it deepened, as his arms slid around you, pulling you flush against him. One hand splayed wide on your back, anchoring you; the other cradled the base of your skull, his fingers tangling gently in your hair.
He kissed you like he was learning you, like you were a map to a treasure he'd spent his whole life searching for. There was hunger there, a pent-up intensity that made your head spin, but it was tempered by a breathtaking sweetness, a care that left you utterly disarmed.
You melted into him, your own hands finding purchase on his shoulders, then sliding up to cup his jaw, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin. The world ceased to exist. There was only the scent of him, the taste of coffee and night, the solid warmth of his body against yours, and the exquisite, consuming rightness of his mouth on yours.
When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, you were trembling. He was too. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged, his eyes still closed.
"Okay," he whispered again, but this time it was a dazed, wondrous sound. He opened his eyes, and the look in them -- full of awe and a fierce, blazing joy -- made your knees weak. "Yeah. Now Steve's definitely gonna kill me."
You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the quiet night. You slid your hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft curls at his nape. "Worth it," you murmured.
Then, you ran to his van with the promise of Eddie driving you home.
The drive to your house was a blur of murmured nothings and stolen glances, the silence between you now a comfortable, charged hum instead of an awkward void. Eddie’s hand found yours on the gearshift, his fingers lacing through yours, the cool metal of his rings pressing against your skin -- a tangible reminder of the ring already warming on your thumb. He didn’t let go until he had to put the van in park in front of your darkened house.
He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet felt immense. The only light came from the porch lamp and the faint glow of the dashboard, painting his profile in soft gold and deep shadow.
"Saturday," he said, his voice firm now, a vow. "It's a date. A real one. No shadows, unless they're on a movie screen. Just you and me."
"Just you and me," you echoed, the words a promise.
He kissed you once more, quick and sweet, a seal on the agreement. Then, with obvious reluctance, he took a step back, putting space between you again. The cold air rushed in, but you didn't feel it. You were burning from the inside out.
"Get inside," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Before I do something really stupid, like kiss you again and forget about your brother entirely."
You smiled, a real, full, unreserved smile that lit up your whole face. "Goodnight, Eddie."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
You turned and walked into your house, your steps light. You didn't look back, but you knew he was watching until the door closed. Leaning against it, you touched your lips, still tingling from his kiss.
The hesitation was gone.
All that was left was a scolding from your twin brother (whom you'd quickly neutralized), chapped lips from kissing, and a very, very hopeful future.
