All I Wanted
prologue to Demolition Lovers , click here for series masterlist
pairing: Eddie x you (female! reader)
summary: you were thirteen when you first moved to Hawkins, which was just supposed to be another pitstop in a long line of schemes your father wrangles himself into. first, you met Ronnie, and then came Eddie. somewhere in between, he became your first everything, and the one thing you never learned how to leave behind.
tags: first love, childhood friends to lovers, matching tattoos, record deals, songwriting, the one that got away, Paige meddling, Ronnie being Ronnie, slow-ish burn, Lovers Lake.
WC: 11.2k
A/N: hi friends! i love this story so much. so, you don't need to read demolition lovers first for this. it's just shedding some light on the history of Eddie & you, plus i loved Ronnie's character in Flight of Icarus so i wanted to get her into a fic. reblogs are always appreciated <3 enjoy!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
You’ve done this before.
New school, new town, new version of yourself that isn’t really new at all, just rearranged enough to make it easier for people to swallow. Hawkins doesn’t look much different from the last place, or the one before that: same washed-out hallways, same buzzing fluorescent lights, same feeling that everyone already belongs to something you haven’t been invited into yet. You move through it anyway, like you always do, head down just enough to avoid attention but not enough to look like you’re trying too hard.
You’re gone before anyone ever really learns you.
By third period, you’re sitting in a science classroom that smells faintly like chemicals and old paper, flipping through a textbook you’re not reading, already halfway checked out of a place you haven’t even settled into yet. You don’t expect to stay. You never do. That’s just how it works when your dad keeps finding new ways to make old problems follow you.
“Group project,” the teacher says, clapping once, sharp enough to cut through the room. “Pairs.”
You don’t bother looking up right away. It always ends the same way: someone sighs, someone gets stuck, both pretending it doesn’t matter.
A sharp jab hits your arm. You blink, turning your head just slightly to the side. The girl next to you is already looking at you, brows raised like you’re the one behind.
“You good, or you planning on failing this before we even start?” she mutters, elbow nudging you again, lighter this time but just as intentional.
You glance around briefly, realizing no one’s coming over, no one’s claiming you, and then back at her.
“Guess we’re partners,” she adds, already flipping her notebook open like the decision’s been made and there’s no point arguing it.
You nod once, shifting your things slightly toward her side of the table. “Guess so.”
She scribbles something down, and you catch her name at the top of the page: Ronnie, written fast and messy like she didn’t care how it looked as long as it was there.
“You gonna help, or just sit there and look confused?” she asks without glancing up.
You lean back slightly, arms crossing. “Depends. You good at this?”
She snorts, finally looking over at you, something amused flickering across her face. “Better than you.”
There’s no real insult in it, just blind confidence. And something about that sticks.
Later that day, she shows up like she’s already been there before.
You don’t even hear a proper knock, just the handle rattling once before she bangs on the door hard enough to echo through the house, sharp and impatient. By the time you get there, she’s already shifting her weight like she expects you to be slow about it, like she’s used to waiting on people who don’t move fast enough.
“You always take this long?” she asks the second you open the door, not even giving you a chance to answer before she steps past you, dragging the outside in with her, like she belongs there more than you do.
You close the door behind her, watching as she glances around without making it obvious she’s doing it, eyes catching on things for just a second longer than they should. It’s not a big place. It never is. Your mom’s things are tucked into corners that make sense for someone who’s barely there, your dad’s presence more implied than visible, like he exists in the space without actually living in it.
“Wow,” she mutters under her breath, dropping her bag onto the table with a dull thud. “Dead quiet in here.”
You shrug, pulling out a chair. “Yeah.”
She doesn’t ask right away. She just sits, flips her notebook open, and starts talking through the assignment like it’s the only reason she’s there, like she didn’t just clock something about you the second she walked in.
“Alright, so if we split it, we can get it done faster,” she says, tapping her pencil against the page. “You take this part, I’ll do the rest, and we’ll just—”
She stops mid-sentence. Not because of you, but because of something behind you.
“You play?” she asks, nodding toward the corner of the room.
You follow her gaze.
The guitar leans against the wall, slightly out of place in a house that doesn’t really belong to anyone long enough to fill it with things like that. You hesitate for half a second, then nod.
“Yeah.”
She leans back in her chair slightly, studying you now like she’s seeing something different, like she’s reassessing whatever she decided about you earlier.
“Huh,” she says, like she wasn’t expecting that.
Then, just as quickly, she moves on.
“Alright, whatever. Finish that,” she adds, pushing the paper toward you again like nothing changed, even though something clearly did.
The rest of the afternoon goes by faster after that. You work, she talks, and somewhere in between, it starts to feel a little less like you’re stuck with someone and more like you’re just… there, doing something together without having to think about it too much.
At some point, she glances up again.
“Your parents ever home?” she asks, casual, like it’s an afterthought.
You don’t look up from the page. “Sometimes.”
She hums softly, like that answers enough, like she doesn’t need the details to understand the situation. She doesn’t press.
The next day, the house is quiet again when you get back. It always is.
You drop your bag by the door, the sound echoing a little too much in the empty space, and for a second, you just stand there, listening to it settle. It’s the kind of quiet you’re used to, the kind that doesn’t feel lonely so much as expected, like it’s just part of how things work.
There’s a knock at the door. You don’t bother asking who it is, because you kind of already know. Ronnie’s standing there when you open it, like she didn’t even consider the possibility that you wouldn’t be home.
“C’mon,” she says, like she’s picking up a conversation you didn’t realize you were having.
You blink at her. “What?”
She rolls her eyes slightly, shifting her weight. “You play, right?”
You hesitate, then nod.
“Good,” she says, already turning back down the steps. “Then you’re coming with me.”
You frown slightly, stepping out onto the porch. “Where?”
She glances over her shoulder, something almost amused flickering across her face. “My place,” she says. “Unless you’d rather sit here and rot.”
You don’t answer right away, you don’t even really think about it either. You just grab your jacket and follow her.
Her trailer is louder than your house before you even step inside.
Not loud in the way of music or shouting, just full. The kind of place that feels lived in, like things actually happen here instead of passing through. The air is warmer, heavier, carrying the smell of something cooking, making you pause for half a second before following Ronnie further in.
“Granny,” she calls out, already kicking her shoes off like she’s done this a thousand times. “We’ve got company.”
“In here,” a voice answers, softer, older, steady in a way that settles something in your chest without you really understanding why.
Ronnie jerks her head for you to follow, and you do, stepping into a small kitchen where an older woman stands over the stove, moving like she knows exactly where everything is without having to look. She glances up when you enter, eyes warm, curious but not prying.
“Well,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel, “you must be new.”
You nod slightly, unsure what else to say, suddenly aware of how out of place you should feel here and how little you actually do.
“This is—” Ronnie starts, then pauses, realizing she doesn’t actually know your name.
You fill it in for her.
Granny smiles, like that’s enough, like she doesn’t need anything else from you to decide you’re welcome. “Sit,” she says, nodding toward the table. “You look like you could use something to eat.”
“I’m okay,” you start.
“You’re not,” Ronnie cuts in, already pulling out a chair for herself. “Sit.”
You do. It’s easier than arguing.
The chair creaks slightly under your weight, the table worn in a way that suggests it’s seen years of the same people sitting in the same spots, and for a second, you just… exist in it. Ronnie starts talking about something you half-listen to, Granny moving around the kitchen like she’s done this her whole life, and it all feels strangely normal.
You’re not used to normal. The front door opens. No knock. Just the sound of it swinging in and shutting again, footsteps following, heavier than Ronnie’s, more deliberate.
“Ronnie, you—” a voice starts, trailing off slightly as it gets closer to the kitchen.
You don’t look up right away. You don’t think you need to. But then the room shifts. Just enough. And when you do glance up, he’s already there.
Standing just inside the doorway, like he stopped mid-step when he saw you, like he wasn’t expecting anything different and got it anyway. He’s taller than you thought he’d be, thinner, hair falling into his face in a way that looks careless but isn’t. There’s something guarded in the way he holds himself, something that feels like he’s used to walking into rooms and not liking what’s waiting for him.
His eyes flick to Ronnie first. Then back to you. And stay there.
“Who’s this?” he asks, not unfriendly, not sharp, just cautious in a way that feels practiced.
Ronnie doesn’t even look up from where she’s digging through something on the table. “Science project,” she says, like that explains everything. “She plays.”
That? That gets his attention. You can see it happen, subtle but real, the shift in his expression as he looks at you again, this time a little more focused, a little more curious.
“Yeah?” he says, leaning slightly against the doorframe now, like he’s settling in instead of leaving. “What do you play?”
You hesitate, just for a second. Then—“Guitar.”
He nods once, slow, like he’s filing that away, like it matters more than he’s letting on.
“Alright,” he says, almost to himself. And for a moment, it feels like something just started.
There’s no big moment where everything shifts, no single day where you suddenly belong there instead of just passing through. It happens slowly, in pieces, in afternoons that turn into evenings, in the way Ronnie starts showing up without knocking, and you stop asking where you’re supposed to be instead.
A couple of months in, it starts to feel like something you don’t question. Like you’ve always been there.
You fall into it easily: into Ronnie’s chaos, into the warmth of her trailer, into the way Granny always makes enough food without asking, like she expects you to be there whether you say you are or not. And somewhere in between all of that, there’s him, always hovering just slightly to the side of it, not distant, not closed off, just watching, like he’s still figuring you out.
Or maybe deciding if you’re worth it. That part’s harder to read.
By the time it’s late enough that the air cools down and the streets quiet out, the three of you are walking back from nowhere in particular, Ronnie a few steps ahead like she always is, kicking at rocks, talking about something that doesn’t really matter, her voice carrying back to you in pieces you don’t bother trying to put together.
You hang back without really meaning to. He does too. It’s not planned, it just happens.
There’s a stretch of silence that settles between you, not uncomfortable, just… there, filled with the sound of your footsteps and Ronnie’s voice drifting further ahead as she speeds up without noticing. You glance at her, then back at him.
Then—“You guys dating?”
It comes out more casual than you expect, like it’s been sitting there longer than you realized, like you just decided to say it out loud without thinking too hard about it first.
He reacts immediately. “No.” Too fast. Too certain.
It almost makes you laugh.
He runs a hand through his hair right after, like he knows how that sounded, like he’s trying to walk it back just enough to make it less obvious.
“No,” he repeats, slower this time, glancing ahead at Ronnie before looking back at you. “We’re not—” he huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. “We tried that. Didn’t… stick.”
You tilt your head a little, curious now despite yourself. “Tried?”
He lets out something between a laugh and a groan, dragging his hand down the back of his neck like he’s not sure he wants to admit this. “Yeah,” he says. “Once.”
That gets your attention. “Once?”
He nods, a little sheepish now, like the memory’s not exactly his favorite. “I kissed her,” he admits, like it’s no big deal, even though it clearly is, “or, tried to.”
You glance ahead at Ronnie, who’s now a good distance in front of you, completely unaware of the conversation happening behind her. “And?” you ask.
He snorts quietly.
“She shoved me,” he says. “Like, immediately. Didn’t even hesitate. Just—” he gestures vaguely with his hands, like he’s replaying it, “—nope. Shut it down real fast.”
You can’t help it. You smile. “And that was it?” you ask.
“Pretty much,” he shrugs, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth now like he’s made peace with it. “We’re better like this anyway. Always have been.” There’s no bitterness in it. No regret. Just a fact.
You nod slowly, letting that settle, something about it easing a tension you didn’t realize was there in the first place. Ronnie turns back then, walking backward for a few steps as she calls something out to you, impatient and loud in a way that feels normal now, like it always has.
A year later, it feels different.
Not new, not fragile, not like something you’re waiting to lose the second you get used to it. It settles in instead, roots itself in ways you don’t question anymore, in routines you didn’t realize you were building until they’re already there. Hawkins stops feeling temporary. Ronnie stops feeling like someone you were just paired with. And Eddie—Eddie becomes something you don’t quite have a word for yet.
You spend more time in your room now, not because it’s better than the trailer, but because it’s quieter in a way that lets things stretch out, lets the three of you exist without interruption for a little while. The window’s cracked open just enough to let the night air in, the faint sound of something distant drifting through, and you’re sprawled out on the floor with a notebook between you, pages filled with half-finished lyrics and crossed-out lines that Ronnie keeps insisting are “not that bad” even when you know they are.
Eddie’s got your guitar in his hands, sitting back against the edge of your bed like he belongs there, like he always has. He plays something absentminded, fingers moving without thinking, piecing together chords while you and Ronnie argue over a line that doesn’t quite fit.
“It’s too soft,” Ronnie says, grabbing the cigarette from between your fingers and taking a drag like she owns it. “You sound like you’re writing a love song.”
You roll your eyes, reaching to take it back. “Maybe I am.”
She snorts, handing it over. “Yeah, well, don’t. It’s gross.”
Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh at that, not looking up from the guitar as he shifts into something a little cleaner, a little more intentional. “Ignore her,” he mutters. “It’s fine.”
You glance over at him, something in your chest tightening just slightly at the way he says it, like it matters more than he’s letting on. “Yeah?” you ask.
He shrugs, still not meeting your eyes. “Yeah.”
Ronnie groans loudly, throwing herself back onto the bed like she’s already over it. “God, you two are annoying.”
You almost smile. It feels easy. Too easy. The kind of moment you don’t realize is important until it’s already gone.
The front door slams. Hard.
The sound cuts through everything, sharp and sudden, pulling all three of you out of it at once. Ronnie sits up immediately, expression shifting in a way you’ve only seen a couple of times before, something wary sliding in under everything else. Voices follow. Loud. Unsteady.
Familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist before you even process it.
“Well, I’m just sayin’, Al, you should’ve seen his face—”
“Yeah, yeah, you say that every time, man—”
Your dad, Rus. Eddie’s already moving before you say anything, setting the guitar down carefully like he doesn’t want to make more noise than necessary. Ronnie’s off the bed a second later, already heading for the door.
“Stay,” she mutters, not looking back at you, like it’s a habit, like she’s said it before. You don’t. You follow anyway.
The hallway feels smaller with them in it, filled up in a way that makes everything tighter, harder to breathe through. Your dad’s leaning against the wall, already halfway gone, words slurring together as he laughs at something that isn’t funny, and next to him—Al Munson.
He’s louder. Bigger in a way that doesn’t come from size, just presence, like he takes up space because he expects to. His eyes flick up when he notices movement, landing first on Ronnie, then Eddie—and then you.
“Well, well,” he says, straightening just slightly, like he’s found something new to focus on. “Who’s this, huh?”
Your dad glances over, squinting like he’s trying to place you for a second before recognition clicks in too late. “Oh—” he waves a hand vaguely in your direction. “That’s— that’s my kid.”
Al’s attention doesn’t shift. If anything, it sharpens.
“Your kid?” he repeats, then looks back at you with something that passes for a grin but doesn’t quite land right. “Didn’t know you had one that looked like that.”
You stiffen slightly. Eddie notices. You can tell. Because he steps forward just enough to put himself between you and them without making it obvious, like it’s instinct, like he’s done it before without thinking about it.
“Al,” he says, tone flat, warning sitting just under the surface.
Al glances at him, then back at you, amused now. “What?” he shrugs. “Just saying. She’s pretty.”
Your dad laughs like that’s the best thing he’s heard all night. “Yeah, she gets that from her mother.”
Ronnie rolls her eyes, stepping in now, shoving lightly at Al’s shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough,” she mutters. “Go sit down before you fall over.”
Al lets her push him, not resisting, still watching you over her shoulder like he hasn’t quite lost interest yet.
“Careful with that one,” he calls out to Eddie, something teasing and sharp in his voice. “Looks like trouble.”
Eddie doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t respond. Just stands there, jaw tight, shoulders squared in a way that feels a little too controlled for someone his age. And for a second, you feel it, the shift. The difference between what this is now and what it could become.
A couple of months pass before it shifts again.
Not in a big way, not in anything you could point to and say this is where it started, just in the small things that build without you noticing: how often Eddie’s name comes up when he’s not there, how you start listening a little closer when Ronnie talks about him, how your time at the trailer feels just slightly different when it’s only the two of you.
It happens on an afternoon that doesn’t feel important.
You’re sprawled across Ronnie’s bed, flipping through one of her old notebooks while she’s pacing the room, talking like she always does, jumping from one thought to the next without warning. The window’s open, letting in air that’s warmer now, carrying the kind of quiet that only shows up when the day’s starting to wind down.
“Eddie was saying—” she starts, halfway across the room, before stopping to dig through something on her dresser. “—something about that riff you were messing with last week. Said you were doing it wrong.”
You look up immediately. “Wrong?” you repeat, sitting up a little straighter.
She glances over her shoulder, catching it right away. A slow grin starts to pull at her mouth, something sharp and knowing settling into her expression as she turns to face you fully now, arms crossing like she’s just found something interesting.
“Oh my god,” she says, dragging it out just enough to make your stomach drop. “Are you serious right now?”
You frown slightly, trying to play it off, even though you can feel the heat creeping up your neck. “What?”
She lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head like she can’t believe she didn’t see it sooner. “You care,” she says, pointing at you like she’s proving a point. “That’s insane.”
“I don’t—” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, because you don’t actually have a defense ready.
She watches you for a second longer, grin widening just slightly as you look away, suddenly very interested in the page in your hands that you haven’t been reading for the last minute.
“You’re blushing,” she adds, like that’s the final nail in it.
“I am not.”
“You are,” she counters immediately, stepping closer now, crouching slightly in front of you so you can’t avoid her without making it obvious. “Oh my god, you totally are.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s weak, and she knows it.
Of course she does.
She leans back onto her heels, studying you for another second before something in her expression shifts again, less teasing now, more certain.
“He likes you, you know.” That throws you.
You look up at her again, brows pulling together slightly. “What?”
She shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like you’re the only one who didn’t already know.
“Eddie,” she says. “He likes you.”
You shake your head a little too quickly. “No, he doesn’t.”
She snorts, pushing herself back up to her feet. “Yeah, okay,” she mutters, like she’s not even going to argue it. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
You sit there for a second, watching her move around the room like she didn’t just say something that’s now stuck in your head in a way you can’t shake.
“He doesn’t,” you repeat, quieter this time, like if you say it again it’ll land differently.
She glances back at you, one brow raised. “Right,” she says, not unkind, just unconvinced. Then, after a beat, she adds, “You should probably figure that out before he does something stupid about it.”
That sounds like him. You hate that it does.
You look back down at the notebook in your hands, but the words don’t really register anymore, your mind already somewhere else, replaying things you hadn’t thought twice about before, moments that suddenly feel a little more important than they did yesterday.
Ronnie watches you for another second. Then she shakes her head, amused. “God,” she mutters under her breath. “You’re both so screwed.”
You don’t think about it too hard the next day.
If you do, you’ll talk yourself out of it, and you’re starting to realize that’s something you don’t want to keep doing: not with him, not with anything that feels even remotely close to staying. So instead, you just go, bottle tucked into your jacket like it’s not the only reason you worked up the nerve in the first place.
His house isn’t hard to find. Ronnie’s dragged you there enough times for dinner, for music, for nothing at all, and by now you don’t hesitate when you step up onto the porch. The place looks like it always does, quiet in a way that doesn’t mean peaceful.
You knock once. No answer. You try again, louder this time. Still nothing.
After a second, you push the door open just slightly, enough to let your voice carry inside. “Hello?”
The house smells faintly like stale smoke and something stronger underneath it, something that settles heavy in your chest if you think about it too long. You step in anyway, careful but not cautious enough to turn around, your eyes adjusting to the dim light as you take in the living room. Al Munson is slumped on the couch.
One arm hangs off the side, fingers just barely brushing the floor, his head tipped back at an angle that looks uncomfortable even from across the room. There’s an empty bottle on the table, another one tipped over near his foot, and for a second, you just stand there, not startled, not unfamiliar with the sight, just aware of it in a way that feels different when it’s not your house.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even notice you. You shift your weight slightly, glancing toward the hallway, debating whether to leave before you get caught standing there like you don’t belong.
You turn just as Eddie comes into view, halfway through saying something before he sees you.
“Ron, I told you—” He stops.
The rest of it drops off as his eyes land on you, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into something quieter, something more measured, like he’s trying to understand why you’re here before asking it out loud.
“Hey,” he says after a second, voice lower now, like he’s automatically adjusting it to match the room. His eyes flick briefly toward the couch, checking, then back to you. “What’re you doing here?”
You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t have one. Because you’re suddenly aware of how it sounds. Instead, you lift your hand slightly, pulling the bottle out from your jacket, the cheap label catching the light just enough to make your point.
“Thought we could go to the lake,” you say, keeping your voice just as quiet as his without really meaning to. “Before Ronnie gets back.”
His gaze drops to the bottle. Then back to you. And there it is again, that shift. “The lake?” he repeats, like he’s making sure he heard you right.
You nod once, stepping back just slightly, like you’re giving him the option to say no even though you don’t think he will. “Yeah,” you say. “Unless you’re busy.”
He lets out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh under it, shaking his head slightly as he runs a hand through his hair. “No,” he says, already moving past you toward the door. “No, I’m not busy.”
You step aside to let him pass, catching the way he grabs his jacket off the hook without thinking, like this is already decided, like he didn’t need more than that to go with you. Behind him, Al shifts slightly on the couch, something unintelligible slipping out before he settles again, still out, still unaware. Eddie doesn’t look back. Doesn’t say anything about it. Just opens the door and jerks his head slightly for you to follow.
“C’mon,” he mutters.
The lake is quieter at night.
Not silent, not empty, just softer, like everything settles out there once the sun drops and people stop coming around. The air’s cooler, the kind that makes your skin feel sharper, more awake, and the water reflects just enough of the sky to make it look deeper than it is.
You’ve been here before. Just not like this.
Eddie walks a few steps ahead of you at first, kicking lightly at the dirt like he’s got more energy than direction, the bottle now half-empty between the two of you after a walk that felt shorter than it should’ve. He talks more when he drinks, you notice, words coming easier, faster, slipping out without the same hesitation he usually has.
“Y’know,” he says, turning slightly as he walks backward for a few steps, “this is—this is actually a solid idea. Like, top tier. Might be your best one yet.”
You roll your eyes, taking the bottle from him when he holds it out, the burn of it sharper now than it was earlier. “Relax,” you mutter. “It’s just the lake.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding like that proves his point. “Exactly. The lake. Classic.” You almost laugh.
The edge of the water comes up quicker than expected, the ground softening under your feet, the sound of it lapping quietly against the shore filling in the silence between you. Eddie slows as he gets closer, glancing out over it like he’s trying to decide something.
You don’t. You step past him, dropping your jacket onto the ground and kicking your shoes off without a second thought.
“What are you doing?” he asks, a little slower now, like he’s catching up.
You glance back at him, already pulling your shirt over your head. “What does it look like?”
He blinks. Then laughs, a little surprised, a little nervous, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually go through with it.
“You’re—seriously?” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the water like that’s the part he’s questioning.
You shrug, stepping closer to the edge. “What? You scared?”
That does it. He scoffs immediately, shaking his head like you just insulted him on principle. “No, I’m not—” he cuts himself off, already tugging his own shirt off like he’s got something to prove. “I’m not scared.”
You grin, turning back toward the water as you finish stripping down, the night air now colder against your skin, making everything feel sharper, more real.
“Then get in,” you say, glancing over your shoulder.
You don’t wait. You step into the water, the cold hitting you all at once, stealing your breath for half a second before you push further in, laughing under your breath as it settles into something you can handle.
Behind you, there’s a pause. Then—a loud splash.
“Jesus—” Eddie’s voice cuts through the quiet, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Why is it so cold?”
You turn, water rippling around you as he wades in, movements awkward, uncoordinated in a way that makes it clear he’s not used to this, not like you are. “It’s water,” you say, deadpan. “What did you expect?”
“I expected—” he stops, shivering slightly as he pushes his hair back, “—I don’t know, not this.”
You laugh then, fully this time, the sound carrying out over the lake as he glares at you like it’s your fault. “You’re the one who jumped in,” you remind him.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, moving a little closer like the proximity might make it better, “I had a reputation to uphold.”
“Of being dramatic?”
“Of being cool,” he corrects, though there’s a grin pulling at his mouth now that gives him away.
You shake your head, turning slightly, letting the water settle around you again, the two of you drifting just close enough that it feels intentional without either of you saying it is. The laughter fades. The quiet comes back. And for a second, it’s just this. Him. You.
The way the night wraps around it like it’s something worth keeping. He looks at you differently then. “You’re not like everyone else,” he says, softer now, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
You tilt your head slightly. “Yeah?”
He nods once, slow, like he’s still figuring it out himself. “Yeah.”
Something in your chest tightens, just a little. You don’t think about it. You lean in. It’s not perfect, and definitely not smooth. Just close enough that it happens.
His lips are warm despite the cold, hesitant for half a second before he leans into it, like he’s surprised but not pulling away, like he’s been thinking about it longer than he’s willing to admit.
It lasts just long enough to matter. Then you pull back slightly, just enough to look at him, both of you a little breathless, a little off-balance in a way that has nothing to do with the water.
He blinks at you. Then grins. And then—his expression drops. “Oh—oh no—”
“What?” you start, brows pulling together just as he turns abruptly, stumbling slightly toward the shore.
He doesn’t make it far. The sound of him getting sick cuts through the quiet, immediate and unmistakable, and for a second, you just stare at him, processing what just happened. Then, you laugh.
“Are you serious?” you call out, wading after him, water sloshing around you as he groans, one hand braced against his knee like that’s going to help.
“Don’t—” he starts, voice strained. “Don’t say anything.”
“You kissed me and then threw up,” you say, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. “Like, immediately after.”
“It wasn’t immediate,” he mutters weakly.
“It was pretty immediate.”
He groans again, dragging a hand over his face as he straightens slightly, still looking like he regrets every decision that led him here.
“Great,” he says. “Awesome. This is—this is exactly how I wanted that to go.”
You shake your head, still smiling as you step closer, nudging his arm lightly.
“For what it’s worth,” you say, a little softer now, “the first part was good.”
He glances at you then, something embarrassed and hopeful flickering across his face at the same time. “Yeah?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
You start dating not long after that night.
There isn’t a big conversation about it, no clear moment where either of you decides it out loud. It just happens. You show up, he shows up, and somewhere in between late nights and long walks and hours spent sitting on the floor with guitars in your hands, it becomes something that doesn’t need to be explained to anyone else.
Ronnie rolls her eyes about it. A lot. “Disgusting,” she mutters more than once, watching the two of you from across the room like she regrets introducing you in the first place, even though she never actually tries to stop it.
You don’t care. Neither does he. Because it feels right in a way you don’t question.
You fall into a rhythm with him quickly, one that builds on itself without you realizing it’s happening. Most nights blur together in the same way: your room, his house, the trailer, wherever you can end up without someone interrupting. There’s always a guitar between you, always a notebook nearby, always something half-finished that the two of you keep circling back to like you’re trying to get it just right.
You write together without meaning to.
It starts small, just lines here and there, Eddie messing with chords while you throw out lyrics that don’t quite fit until they suddenly do. He hums things under his breath before he plays them, like he needs to hear it in his head first, and you start picking up on it, start anticipating where he’s going before he even gets there.
“Wait,” you say once, sitting up a little straighter as he plays through something for the third time. “Do that again.”
He does. You reach for the notebook without thinking. And just like that, it’s yours. Not his. Not yours. You don’t even realize how much of yourself ends up in those pages until later, until you look back and recognize things you didn’t know you were trying to say at the time.
He notices before you do.
“People are gonna hear this one day,” he tells you once, not joking, not brushing it off the way he usually does when he talks about his own band. “And they’re gonna lose their minds.”
You laugh it off. You always do. But you don’t stop writing.
The tattoo happens on a night that feels like everything else and nothing at all.
You’re sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, music playing too low to matter, and Ronnie is passed out on the bed behind you like she always is when things get quiet. The idea comes out of nowhere, or maybe it’s been sitting there for a while, and neither of you said it out loud until now.
“You ever think about getting one?” he asks, not looking at you, just tracing the edge of the notebook with his finger like it’s not a big deal.
You glance up at him. “A tattoo?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. Something small. Something that means something.”
You don’t hesitate as long as you probably should. “Yeah,” you say. “I have.” That’s all it takes.
A few days later, you’re both sitting in a place that smells like antiseptic and ink, your leg bouncing slightly as you watch the artist set everything up, the reality of it settling in just enough to make your stomach twist.
“Too late to back out,” Eddie mutters from beside you, a grin tugging at his mouth like he’s trying to distract you from it.
You shoot him a look. “You’re not helping.”
He laughs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You’ll be fine.” You are.
It hurts. More than you expected. But not enough to stop.
By the time it’s done, the skin is red and irritated, the lines still fresh, but it’s there, permanent in a way that everything else in your life hasn’t been. A wyvern. Matching. You don’t say anything about what it means. You don’t have to.
When you turn seventeen, things start to shift again.
Not in the way they did before, not suddenly, not sharply, just expanding, like your life is getting bigger without asking permission first. You pick up a job at the local music store, mostly because it gives you an excuse to be around something you already spend all your time thinking about anyway.
You began teaching guitar lessons.
It becomes routine quickly: kids who don’t want to be there, teenagers who think they’re better than they are, the occasional person who actually listens when you show them something. You start staying longer than your shifts, messing around with instruments, talking to people who come in for the same reasons you would.
That’s where you meet them. Not all at once. One at a time. A drummer who won’t stop talking, a bassist who pretends not to care but always shows up anyway, someone who hears you playing one night after close and doesn’t leave until you finish.
It builds slowly. Familiar. Like everything else did. And before you really mean for it to, you have something of your own. A band. Not his. Not tied to anything except you. Eddie has his. You have yours. And for a while, that’s enough.
The first real show happens a town over.
Not Hawkins, not somewhere familiar, just far enough that it feels like something bigger than it is, like it matters more because it didn’t start here. The bar is packed in that uneven way; too many people near the stage, not enough space anywhere else, the air thick with heat and noise and something restless underneath it.
You don’t think about it too much before you go on. If you do, you’ll freeze. So instead, you step up, adjust your guitar, and let it happen the way it always does, everything else falling away the second you start playing, the room narrowing until it’s just sound and movement and the way people start to pay attention without you asking them to. It feels right.
By the time your set ends, the crowd is louder than you expected, voices overlapping, someone near the front shouting something you don’t quite catch, and you don’t linger on it, just nod once, stepping back, handing your guitar off before you can sit in the feeling for too long.
You find them after.
Eddie and Ronnie are off to the side near the bar, like they didn’t move the entire set, like they’ve been exactly where you left them. Ronnie’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that way that means she noticed everything. Eddie’s next to her, quieter, but his eyes are on you the second you walk over.
“You didn’t suck,” Ronnie says, which, coming from her, is about as close to praise as it gets.
You huff out a breath, rolling your eyes. “Wow. High standards.”
“I’m serious,” she adds, nudging your shoulder as you stop next to them. “You were actually good.”
You glance at Eddie. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at you, something steadier there, something that feels heavier than the noise of the room around you.
“Told you,” he says finally, a small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “People are gonna hear you.” You shrug like it doesn’t matter. It does.
“Yeah, well,” you mutter, glancing away for a second, “it’s just one show.”
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “For now.”
That sits there for a second, quieter than everything else. Then—someone steps into it.
“You the one up there?”
You turn, already knowing it’s not someone from your band, not someone you recognize. He’s a little older, dressed like he’s trying to blend in without actually belonging, the kind of person who watches more than he talks. “Yeah,” you say.
He nods once, like that confirms something. “You’ve got something,” he says, casual, but not dismissive. “Not a lot of people do.”
Ronnie shifts slightly beside you. You feel it.
“So?” she cuts in, sharper now. “What’s your point?”
He doesn’t look at her. Just you.
“My point,” he continues, like she didn’t speak at all, “is I’ve got connections. Chicago, New York—places that actually do something with talent like that.” He gestures vaguely toward the stage behind you. “You stay here, you’re playing rooms like this forever.”
Eddie goes still. You don’t look at him. Not yet.
“You don’t even know us,” you say instead, voice even but edged in something tighter now.
The guy shrugs. “I know what I heard.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ronnie adds, pushing off the wall now, stepping forward just slightly.
“It means enough,” he replies, still calm, still focused entirely on you. “I’m not saying tomorrow. I’m saying there’s something bigger if you want it.”
Bigger. That word sticks. You glance at Eddie then. He’s not looking at the guy anymore. He’s looking at you. And there’s something there—something quiet, something tense, like he already knows where this is going and doesn’t want to say it out loud.
“You serious?” you ask, softer now.
You hesitate. Just for a second. Because you know what this is. You know what it means. You also know how it feels—to be seen like that. To be told there’s something more. And you’ve spent your whole life leaving before anything could stick. This—this feels like choosing it.
“Yeah,” you say.It comes out quieter than you expect. But it’s enough.
The guy nods, like he knew you would, like this was always the answer. “Good,” he says. “I’ll find you.”
He walks away just as easily as he came, disappearing back into the noise like he didn’t just shift something that can’t be unshifted.
Ronnie exhales sharply beside you. “That was weird.”
You don’t answer. Eddie still hasn’t looked away. “Chicago?” he asks after a second. You nod. Slow.
“Yeah.” And just like that, everything starts to change.
Eddie goes with you.
Not because you ask him to, not directly, but because he doesn’t really give you the option of going alone. The second it becomes real, Chicago, a studio, a demo that might actually mean something—he’s already figuring out how to make it happen, already talking about the drive like it’s just another thing the two of you are doing together.
It feels normal. That’s the part that gets you. The city is louder than anything you’re used to, bigger in a way that makes Hawkins feel like something small and contained, something you could fit in your pocket and forget about if you tried hard enough. The studio smells like dust and wires and something metallic underneath it all, and for the first time, it feels like the things you’ve been writing actually belong somewhere.
Eddie stays the whole time. He leans against the back wall while you record, arms crossed, watching in that quiet way he does, like he’s not just hearing it, but taking it in, memorizing it. Every once in a while, your eyes flick toward him without meaning to, just to check, just to make sure he’s still there. He always is.
“You sound insane,” he tells you after, a grin pulling at his mouth like he can’t quite contain it. “Like—actually insane. In a good way.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s not a real compliment.”
“It is,” he insists. “It’s mine.” And somehow—that’s enough.
The drive back feels shorter than it should. Or maybe you just don’t want to think about what happens after it.
For a while, things are good.
Not just good, easy, in a way that feels almost dangerous, like you’ve slipped into something that doesn’t require effort, doesn’t need to be questioned. You fall back into Hawkins like nothing changed, like the city didn’t exist, like the demo wasn’t sitting somewhere out there waiting to become something bigger.
You spend your nights the same way you always did: your room, his house, the trailer, guitars and notebooks, and Ronnie’s constant commentary in the background. The songs get better, sharper, more intentional, like something shifted while you were gone and didn’t fully settle back into place.
Eddie starts writing more, too. Not just for his band. For you. With you. Sometimes it feels like you’re chasing the same thing. Sometimes it feels like you’re not. You don’t talk about that part. You don’t talk about Chicago much either. It lingers anyway.
In the way people start recognizing you when you walk into places, in the way your band starts getting asked to play more, in the way your name comes up in conversations you’re not part of. It builds quietly, steadily, like something that doesn’t need your permission to grow.
Eddie notices. You see it in small ways at first—the way he watches you a little longer when you’re playing, the way his jokes hit a little sharper when someone else compliments you, the way he goes quiet when conversations turn toward what comes next.
He never says anything. But it’s there. Something just under the surface, waiting.
It happens about six months later. You don’t realize it’s going to matter at first. She just shows up. Paige.
She’s not from here, not really, but she walks into Hawkins like she owns the space anyway, like she’s already decided what it is and where she fits into it. You hear about her before you meet her, bits and pieces through people who talk too much, through Ronnie, who mentions her once and then immediately acts like it doesn’t matter.
“Met her at a show,” she says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “She’s… whatever.”
It’s not nothing. You can tell by the way she says it. You see her a few days later. Not by accident. Eddie’s the one who points her out, subtle, like he doesn’t want to make it a big deal.
“That’s her,” he says, nodding slightly toward the other side of the room. You follow his gaze, and there she is. Confident. Easy. The kind of person who doesn’t wait to be noticed. You look at her. Then at him. And something shifts again. Not all at once. Not loud. Just enough. Just the beginning.
It doesn’t happen all at once. If it did, it would be easier to name, easier to call out, easier to stop before it gets too far ahead of you. Instead, it builds slowly, in pieces you don’t notice until they start stacking up in ways you can’t ignore anymore. At first, it’s just time.
Eddie’s gone more. Not completely, not in a way that feels like he’s avoiding you, just elsewhere, more often than he used to be. He still shows up, still sits with you, still plays like nothing’s changed, but there are gaps now, spaces where he used to be that you don’t quite know how to fill.
Then it becomes her. Paige.
Her name slips into things too easily, like it belongs there, like it’s always been part of the conversation even when you know it hasn’t. You don’t say anything. You just notice.
It’s late when you end up at Ronnie’s, the two of you stretched out across her room the way you always are, music playing low enough to fade into the background. She’s flipping through something on the floor, muttering to herself about a line she doesn’t like, and you’re staring at the ceiling, not really listening, not really anywhere.
You don’t realize how quiet you’ve gone until she stops talking. “…okay, what’s wrong with you?”
You blink, turning your head slightly. “What?”
She’s already looking at you, brows pulled together, something sharper than usual in her expression. “You’ve been weird all night,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Don’t act like you haven’t.”
You shrug, too quick, too automatic. “I’m fine.”
She snorts. “Yeah, alright,” she mutters, tossing her notebook aside and pushing herself up so she’s facing you now. “Try that again.”
You look away, jaw tightening slightly as you focus on a spot on the wall like it might give you something else to think about. “Nothing’s wrong,” you say, quieter this time.
Ronnie doesn’t move. Doesn’t let it go. She just watches you for a second longer, like she’s deciding how far to push it, like she already knows she’s not going to drop it either way.
“Is it Eddie?” she asks.
You sit up a little, more out of instinct than anything else, like the question physically pulls you forward before you can stop it.
“No,” you say, too fast.
Her expression doesn’t change. If anything, it settles. “Right,” she replies, flat, like she doesn’t believe you for a second.
You let out a breath, running a hand through your hair as you shake your head, trying to brush it off, trying to make it smaller than it feels. “It’s just—” you start, then stop, because you don’t actually know how to say it without making it real.
“He’s just been… gone,” you say finally, like that’s enough, like that explains it in a way that doesn’t need more.
“Gone?” she repeats, tilting her head slightly.
“Not gone,” you correct quickly. “Just—not here.”
Ronnie’s eyes flick over your face, picking it apart in that way she does, like she’s reading everything you’re not saying as much as what you are. “You mean with her,” she says.
It’s not a question. You swallow. “Yeah.” The word sits there for a second, heavier than it should be.
Ronnie exhales slowly, dragging a hand down her face like she’s already tired of the conversation before it’s even finished. “They just hang out,” she says, not defensive, not dismissive, just careful.
You laugh. It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. “Yeah,” you say, shaking your head, pushing yourself up fully now. “I know.”
She watches you, something in her expression tightening slightly.
“But it’s not just that,” you add, quieter now, like you’re saying it more to yourself than to her. And then it spills out before you can stop it.
“He’s not here,” you say, the words catching slightly as they leave, like they’ve been sitting there too long. “He’s with her.”
The room goes still. Ronnie doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t argue. You let out a shaky breath, looking away again because you don’t want to see what her face looks like right now, don’t want to see if it confirms what you already feel.
“I don’t know,” you add, quieter now, like you’re trying to backtrack, trying to make it less than it is. “Maybe I’m just—overthinking it or something.”
Ronnie doesn’t answer right away. When you finally glance back at her, she’s already looking at you, something conflicted sitting behind her eyes, something she’s not saying out loud.
Which tells you everything anyway. “Yeah,” she says finally.
But it doesn’t sound convincing. Not to you. Not to her. And definitely not to whatever’s already started to settle in your chest.
The next day feels normal. That’s what makes it worse. The bell above the door chimes the same way it always does, the shop smells like dust and strings and something faintly metallic, and you fall into your routine without thinking about it too much: restocking, tuning a guitar someone left behind, ringing people up without really looking at them.
You don’t think about him. Not directly. Not yet. You’re leaning over the counter, flipping through a receipt book, when the bell rings again.
You glance up automatically. And there she is. Paige.
She walks in as if she belongs there, like she’s already familiar with the space, even though you know she’s not. There’s something easy about the way she moves, something practiced, like she’s used to being looked at and doesn’t mind it.
Her eyes land on you almost immediately. She smiles. “Hey,” she says, stepping up to the counter like this is casual, like this isn’t the first time she’s come looking for you specifically. “You work here, right?”
You straighten slightly, setting the receipt book aside. “Yeah.”
She nods, glancing around briefly before her attention settles back on you, like she already saw everything she needed to. “Cool,” she says. “I was hoping you would be.”
Something about that doesn’t sit right. “What do you need?” you ask, keeping your tone even.
She leans against the counter slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to make it feel like she’s settling in. “Nothing, really,” she says. “Just looking around.”
You nod once, not engaging more than you have to, reaching for something behind the counter just to give yourself something to do, something to break the way she’s looking at you like she already knows something you don’t.
“So,” she says, like she’s remembering something, “you know Eddie, right?”
Your hand stills for half a second. Just a second. Then you keep moving. “Yeah,” you say, not looking at her.
She hums softly, like that confirms something, like she’s piecing something together in real time. “He’s funny,” she adds, casual, like she’s commenting on the weather. “We’ve been hanging out.”
You nod again. “Yeah,” you repeat, because what else are you supposed to say?
There’s a pause. Longer this time, then—“Oh,” she says suddenly, like something just occurred to her. “Wait.”
You look up. Her brows lift slightly, something almost apologetic settling into her expression, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I didn’t realize he had a girlfriend,” she says. The words land. Heavy. Sharp.
You stare at her for a second, trying to process it, trying to figure out if you heard her wrong, if there’s something you missed in the way she said it. “…what?” you ask, quieter now.
She tilts her head slightly, like she’s confused by your confusion.
“Eddie,” she repeats. “I didn’t know you guys were… a thing.”
Something in your chest drops. Slow. Controlled. Like your body’s trying to keep up with something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
“He didn’t mention it,” she adds, softer now, like she’s filling in a gap that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
That’s the part that sticks. Not what she said. How she said it. Like it’s not a big deal. Like it’s just information. You don’t respond right away. You can’t. Because suddenly everything from the night before, from the last few weeks, from every small moment you tried not to look at too closely—all of it shifts. You feel it.
“You didn’t know,” you repeat, more to yourself than to her.
She shakes her head slightly, something almost sympathetic flickering across her face now. “No,” she says. “If I did, I wouldn’t have—” She stops. Just long enough. Then shrugs. “—you know.”
You do. You don’t want to. But you do.
The silence stretches between you, thicker now, heavier, like the air itself is waiting for you to say something, to react, to do anything other than stand there and take it.
Paige straightens slightly, smoothing her hands over the edge of the counter like she’s done what she came to do.
“Well,” she says, lighter now, like the moment’s already passed for her, “I guess that’s… something you guys should probably talk about.”
She smiles again. And this time—it doesn’t feel casual. “See you around,” she adds, before turning and walking out, the bell chiming softly behind her like nothing just happened.
You don’t move. Not right away. You just stand there, staring at the door long after it closes, the words replaying in your head in a way that doesn’t quite feel real yet. “He didn’t mention it.”
You swallow hard, your hand tightening slightly against the counter. And for the first time—you know. You don’t think. That’s the only way it happens.
The bell is still echoing in your ears when you move, hands already reaching for the register, for the sign, for anything that lets you get out of there faster. The motions are automatic—flip the switch, grab your keys, lock the door—and you don’t remember doing any of it by the time you’re in your car, engine turning over before you’ve even fully sat down.
Your hands are shaking. You don’t notice until you’re already driving. The roads blur together, every turn too sharp, too fast, the distance between you and his house feeling longer than it ever has before. Your mind keeps replaying it—her voice, the way she said it, the way it didn’t sound like a lie.
“He didn’t mention it.”
You grip the wheel tighter. No. No, he wouldn’t—But he did. You know he did.
By the time you pull up, you’re already out of the car before the engine fully cuts off, the door slamming behind you harder than you mean it to, feet carrying you up the steps without slowing down, without giving yourself a second to stop. You don’t knock. You shove the door open.
“Where is he?” Your voice cuts through the house, sharp, louder than you’ve ever heard it come out of you before.
Al is slumped on the couch, mid-day beer already halfway finished. He startles just slightly at the noise, blinking up at you like it takes him a second to process what he’s looking at, like you’re out of place in a way he can’t quite figure out.
“Well, damn,” he mutters, pushing himself up a little, squinting at you. “What’s the rush, sweetheart?”
“Where is he?” you repeat, stepping further into the room, not even acknowledging him beyond that.
He lets out a low chuckle, something rough and amused, like he thinks this is funny.
“Easy,” he says, holding his hands up slightly like you’re the one causing a scene. “Kid’s not here.”
Your stomach drops. “Where?” you press, sharper now.
Al tilts his head slightly, studying you like this just got interesting.
“Work,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “Why?”
You don’t answer. You don’t trust yourself to. Instead, you shake your head once, already turning back toward the door, the energy still sitting under your skin like it hasn’t decided where to go yet.
Behind you, he lets out another low laugh. “Trouble in paradise?” he calls after you, something knowing in the way he says it that makes your chest tighten even more.
You don’t slow down until you get there.
The Hideout looks the same as it always does from the outside, nothing about it giving away how much it’s about to matter. The neon sign flickers slightly, the low hum of music bleeding through the walls, and for a second, you just stand there, chest tight, trying to steady something that isn’t going to steady.
Then you push the door open. The noise hits first: voices, laughter, the clink of glasses—and then the smell, familiar in a way that almost makes you hesitate, almost makes you remember every other night you’ve walked in here without thinking.
Deb notices you immediately. She’s behind the bar, mid-conversation, but her eyes flick up the second you step inside, something in your face catching her attention before anything else. She says something quick to the person in front of her, wipes her hands on a towel, and makes her way over before you even get the chance to ask.
“Hey,” she says, softer than the room around you, brows pulling together slightly. “You okay?”
You shake your head once, quickly. “Is he here?”
She doesn’t ask who. She doesn’t need to. Her eyes flick toward the back, then back to you, something careful settling in her expression. “Yeah,” she says. “In the back.”
You nod, already moving. “Hey—” she starts, reaching out just slightly, not enough to stop you, just enough to catch your attention. You glance at her.
“Take a breath,” she says, quieter now. You don’t. You push past the door.
He’s there, standing near the back wall, talking to someone you don’t even register, something half-finished in his hand, like he’s in the middle of a normal night, like nothing’s changed. Like nothing’s about to.
“Eddie.” Your voice cuts through it. He turns immediately.
The second he sees you, something in his expression shifts, confusion first, then something sharper, something more alert as he takes in your face, the way you’re standing there like you didn’t walk in, like you burst in.
“Hey,” he says, stepping toward you slightly. “What’s—”
“Did you tell her about me?” It comes out before he can finish. Before you can stop it.
He freezes. Just for a second. That’s all it takes. “…what?” he asks, slower now.
“Paige,” you say, like the name alone should be enough. “Did you tell her about me?”
There’s a pause. Too long. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes flicking away for half a second before coming back to you. “I—” he starts. Doesn’t finish.
Your stomach drops. “You didn’t,” you say, the words quieter now, but somehow worse.
“It’s not—” he tries again, stepping closer. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” you cut in, your voice rising without meaning to, the frustration finally catching up to everything you’ve been holding back. “Because she came into my job today, Eddie. She told me she didn’t even know I existed.”
His expression shifts again. Guilt. You see it. And that—that hurts more than anything else. “I was gonna tell you,” he says quickly, like that fixes something, like that makes it better. “I just—I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think?” you repeat, letting out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You didn’t think I’d find out? Or you didn’t think it mattered?”
“That’s not fair,” he snaps, something defensive breaking through now. “You don’t know what happened.”
“Then tell me,” you fire back immediately. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty simple.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to figure out how to say it in a way that doesn’t make it worse. “I messed up,” he admits finally, quieter now. “Okay? I know I did.”
You stare at him. “That’s it?” you ask, voice dropping, something steadier settling in where the anger was before. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?” he shoots back, frustration creeping in again. “I can’t— I can’t undo it.”
“No,” you nod slowly. “You can’t.” The room feels smaller. Like everything’s closing in around you.
“I got the deal,” you say suddenly. The words cut through everything else.
He stops. “What?”
“I got it,” you repeat, holding his gaze now, not looking away this time. “Chicago. New York. They want us.”
Something flashes across his face: pride, surprise, something real, then confusion. “Okay,” he says, stepping closer again. “That’s—that’s good, right? That’s what you wanted.”
You shake your head slightly. “I wasn’t gonna take it.” That lands harder.
His brows pull together. “What?”
“I was thinking about staying,” you admit, the words coming out steadier than they feel. “About—about not going. About staying here. With you.” He goes still. Completely. And for a second, you almost hate yourself for saying it. Because now he knows. Now he understands exactly what he just broke.
But it’s too late. You see it in his face. You see it in yours. You let out a slow breath, shaking your head once like you’re clearing it, like you’re pushing something away before it can settle.
“But I’m not doing that anymore,” you say. The shift is immediate. Final.
“I’m taking it.”
“Wait—” he starts, stepping forward again. “Don’t—don’t do that. Not like this.”
“Like what?” you ask, almost calm now. “Like I finally choose something that isn’t going to leave me first?”
“That’s not what this is,” he says, shaking his head, reaching for you like he doesn’t know what else to do.
You step back. Just enough. It’s small, but it’s also everything.
“It is,” you say quietly. “I just didn’t think it would be you.”
That hits him deep; you can see it. But it doesn’t change anything. Nothing changes. You hold his gaze for one second longer. Then you turn, and you walk out.
Two years later, you’re not the same person. Not really.
Hawkins feels smaller when you come back, like something you outgrew without realizing it, the streets too familiar, the air too still. You don’t stay long when you do pass through—never more than a few days, just enough to remind yourself where you started before you leave again.
Your life exists somewhere else now. Stages instead of bedrooms. Crowds instead of the same handful of people. Songs that don’t belong to just you anymore, even when they still feel like they do. You don’t think about him the way you used to. Not constantly. Not like something you’re trying to hold onto. Just—sometimes. In passing. In lyrics, you don’t admit that they are about him. In the way, certain chords still feel like they belong to someone else’s hands.
The club is packed. Hot, loud, bodies pressed too close to the stage, the kind of place where the air sticks to your skin and everything feels just a little too intense. It’s nothing you’re not used to by now. You step into it easily, guitar settling against you like it always does, like it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.
The lights hit. The crowd reacts. And just like that, you’re in it.
The first song starts, your voice cutting through the noise, steady, controlled, practiced in a way that feels almost effortless now. You don’t think about the people watching you. You never do. That’s how you get through it. Song after song. Until—you look out. And you see him. It takes a second. Just one. For your brain to catch up to what your eyes already registered.
Eddie Munson. Standing in the crowd like he didn’t leave, like he didn’t disappear into something you tried not to think about, like he belonged here just as much as you do. Your breath stutters. Barely. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough.
He’s older, but so are you. But it’s still him. Same eyes. Same way of looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out, he already knows the answer to. And for a second—everything else fades. All of it is gone. Just him, watching you. And just like that—you remember everything. “This one’s called All I Wanted.”
this series is my favorite, but maybe I'm just a sucker for heartbreak in my own sick way. don't forget to check out Demolition Lovers if you haven't already!
i've started to add a word count on my posts because i have noticed some comments about the length, so i apologize in advance, my squirrel brain gets an idea and i just type away.
i can also start to make more shorter-form stories, one shots etc. just let me know:)
thank you all for your kind words, individual hugs for all. <3
