vingtetunmars

[vingtetunmars]

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Sekar (Kar) | she/they | 21-03-04 (21) | Indonesian | bisexual

fandoms i'm in — marvel, stranger things, star wars, the last of us, attack on titan, haikyu, jjk, smosh.

faves — spider-man/peter parker, eddie munson, din djarin

who i write for — mainly joseph quinn characters and pedro pascal characters. (may write for misc. characters)

masterlist ● fic recs ● music

request open !!

[vingtetunmars]

A New Heartbeat

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel Miller never thought he'd get another chance at building a family—especially not at his age, especially not after everything.

Tags: Fluff, pregnancy fic, domestic fluff, birthday surprise, emotional feels, warm, age gap (reader is early 30s, Joel is 58-59), set between season 1 and 2, jackson!Joel Miller, soft joel miller. No physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Thank you @dedicatedfangirl2001 for inspiring me! So this is technically a continuation of this fic, but it can also be read as a stand alone. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3.3k

masterlist

You didn’t think much of it at first.

Between the early mornings at the stables and the evenings spent passed out on the couch beside Joel, days had started to blur into each other. Your body always felt tired this time of year—mud season clinging to your boots, cold air snapping at your fingertips even under gloves. You’d chalked the nausea up to bad stew from the dining hall. But when your headache lingered past the usual, when the scent of hay and leather turned sour in your nose, it hit you.

You hadn’t had your period.

You stood in the feed room, half-empty bucket of oats dangling from your hand, the realization sitting heavy in your stomach. The math rolled around in your head, tumbling over itself. It had been… what? Over a month? Maybe more. You weren’t exactly counting days when every morning looked the same—Joel sipping black coffee, Ellie stealing bits of toast, and you rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you layered up for work.

But now, standing there, the silence of the stable around you, something clicked. You set the bucket down on the ground a little too quickly, pressing your palm to your stomach. No pain. No bloat. Just… a quiet sort of stillness.

The horses shuffled in their stalls. One of the younger colts let out a soft snort. You leaned your back against the wall, heart hammering in your chest.

You weren’t sure. But something deep in your bones told you—you already knew.

You didn’t tell anyone where you were going that morning.

Said you had errands to run—needed new gloves, maybe stop by the library. Joel didn’t press. He’d kissed your cheek, grumbled something about checking in with Tommy about a busted water heater, and told you he’d see you for dinner.

You walked to the clinic with your hands jammed deep into your jacket pockets. The cold bit at your cheeks, and every step felt heavier than the last. Not from dread exactly, but from the weight of maybe.

The clinic wasn’t much to look at. Two rooms, patched-together equipment, and a nurse named Carla who used to be a vet before the world ended. She was kind, though, and knew how to keep her mouth shut. You told her you wanted to rule something out. She just nodded, handed you a cup, and pointed toward the bathroom.

You stared at the strip of plastic on the counter like it held your whole future.

Five minutes. That’s all it took.

Carla didn’t say anything right away. She just looked down at the test in her hand, then back up at you, her expression soft.

“Well,” she said, “you’re pregnant.”

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t crash down on you, either. Instead, everything went still—like the moment before a horse takes off into a gallop. Heart pounding, lungs full of something sharp and sweet.

You were going to have a baby.

Joel’s baby.

Carla asked if you were okay. You nodded before you really even felt it, voice rough when you said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

The walk back home was slower. Like you were afraid to jostle the news loose, or maybe afraid it still wasn’t real. But your hand drifted down to your stomach more than once, resting there in quiet awe.

Now, all that was left was telling him.

And with his birthday just a few days away, you couldn’t help but wonder how in the world you were going to tell him.

Joel didn’t like birthdays.

He never made a big deal out of them before the world ended, and now… well, now they just felt like reminders. Reminders of what he’d lost. Of how much older he was getting. Of how goddamn long he’d been carrying around all this weight.

He’d never forget waking up on that birthday—the one that split his life into a before and after. Many years later, the world had changed, but the ache hadn’t. Not really.

Still, this morning started like any other. The early light crept in through the crack in the curtains, soft and gray-blue. Beside him, you were curled under the blanket, one arm slung across his stomach, your face tucked against his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Home.

He didn’t move at first. Just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the quiet. The muffled sound of someone in the street. A rooster off in the distance. You breathing slow and steady beside him.

You made it better—this day, this life. You had a way of pulling him back from the edge without even trying. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that, to deserve you, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to take it for granted.

Your fingers twitched slightly against his chest. You were starting to stir.

He turned his head just enough to watch you, that soft haze of sleep still in your features. He found himself smiling, just a little. The lines in his face stayed, though. The ones that came from time and sorrow and holding it all in for too long.

You blinked up at him.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

“Happy birthday,” you whispered back, eyes warm and knowing.

He groaned, turning his face away slightly. “Don’t remind me.”

You gave a quiet laugh, but didn’t tease him for it. You never did. You just leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, fingers brushing along his ribs, gentle and grounding.

“I’m makin’ you pancakes,” you added softly. “Don’t fight me on it.”

He huffed, but it wasn’t real. “‘Course you are.”

He didn’t need gifts. Didn’t want anyone making a fuss. But if the day started like this—your warmth, your voice, your lips on his skin—then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Even if he still carried the ghosts, this morning... it felt different. Like maybe something was waiting on the horizon, and he wasn’t sure what—but he trusted you’d tell him when the time was right.

You flipped the last pancake onto the plate, steam rising as you added a handful of thawed berries—ones you’d carefully saved from the last supply run. They weren’t exactly fresh, but they were sweet enough, and they made the stack look a little more festive.

Birthday pancakes.

Joel would pretend to grumble about it, but you knew he appreciated it. The small gestures. The quiet kind of love. You’d learned early on not to make a big deal of his birthday. Not out loud, anyway. But that didn’t mean you’d let it pass by like any other morning.

“Damn, something smells good,” Ellie mumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in five different directions, sleeves too long for her arms. She plopped down at the table, blinking slowly. “Is it somebody’s birthday or somethin’?”

You smirked as you slid a plate in front of her. “Could be.”

Joel followed behind her a second later, moving slower, like his body hadn’t quite forgiven him for being nearly sixty.

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he sat down across from her, eyes drifting to the plate you set in front of him.

Pancakes. Berries. A little dab of honey. No candles, no singing—just the kind of breakfast you didn’t make unless the day meant something.

He glanced at you, brow raised.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I wanted to,” you replied, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t argue with me on your birthday, Miller.”

Ellie shoveled a bite into her mouth. “Holy shit,” she mumbled. “Are these the blueberries?”

Joel chuckled under his breath, fork already in hand. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he took his first bite. You saw the tension ease in his shoulders, just a little. Maybe the day still carried shadows for him, but right now? With a warm plate in front of him and people who loved him on either side?

He was okay.

You sat down beside him, resting your hand on your lap, feeling the thrum of nerves underneath your skin.

A knock on the door broke through the calm.

Joel looked up, chewing his last bite with a quiet grunt. You stood up to answer it, already guessing who it was. Sure enough, when you opened the door, Tommy stood there with a crooked grin and two hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Mornin’, birthday boy,” he called past you, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “You look real good for a hundred.”

Joel let out a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “You had to come by, didn’t you?”

“You think I’m missin’ the one day a year I get to remind you I’m younger and prettier?” Tommy grinned, clapping his brother on the back as he passed by.

“Debatable,” Ellie chimed in, still chewing. “And you missed the berries.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Berries?”

“Yup,” you said with an apologetic shrug, walking back to the stove. “Saved 'em for Joel. There’s still pancakes, though.”

Tommy sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “You spoil this man.”

“Someone has to,” you quipped, already grabbing another plate.

You served him a healthy stack—no berries this time, just a bit of honey and some leftover butter—and slid into your seat again. Joel was watching you, his eyes soft beneath the usual weight. He hadn’t said much, but you could feel it in the way his hand drifted to your knee under the table. Just a gentle touch. A quiet thanks.

Tommy shoveled in a bite and made a loud, satisfied sound. “Hot damn. You better marry her before someone else do.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You wanna lose a tooth today?”

You laughed, elbow resting on the table, chin in your hand. The teasing, the warmth, the way Ellie rolled her eyes and asked if she could have seconds—it all made the house feel full in a way you never took for granted.

Still, under it all, the secret sat in your chest like a fluttering heartbeat.

You’d give it a moment. Let them finish breakfast. Let Joel have this calm before you turned his world upside down.

In a good way, you hoped.

The house felt quieter once the door shut behind Ellie and Tommy. The laughter lingered in the walls for a moment, then faded, replaced by the gentle creak of wood and the soft clink of dishes as you rinsed them off.

Joel was still finishing the last of his coffee, sitting back in his chair, watching you. He looked more relaxed now—shoulders looser, lines around his mouth softened. Birthdays were hard for him, but this one… it hadn’t been bad.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, heart thudding steady but loud. You knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

His brow knit slightly, but he nodded, setting the mug down. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” you breathed, sitting down across from him, your hands resting in your lap. “Not wrong. Just… big.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table. You reached for his hand without thinking, grounding yourself in the warmth of his calloused fingers.

“I didn’t know how to bring this up earlier. Didn’t wanna spring it on you in front of everyone,” you started, voice quiet. “But I’ve been feelin’… off. The past few weeks.”

His expression shifted—concern flickering behind his eyes, guarded like always. “You sick?”

You shook your head, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. “No. I went to the clinic yesterday. Ran a test.” You swallowed, heart climbing to your throat. “Joel… I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight.

Joel blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t say anything—just stared at you, eyes wide, unreadable. Then slowly, without a word, he stood up from the table and took a step back, hand resting on the edge of the counter like he needed something to hold onto.

“You’re… you’re sure sure?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I mean—are they sure?”

You gave a soft laugh, heart aching with affection. “Yeah. They’re sure. I’m late, the test was positive, and… I feel it. I know it.”

Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. His shoulders dropped as he sat back down, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I just—I didn’t think—I mean, hell, at my age?” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes wide and almost dazed. “I didn’t think that was even possible anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, thumb brushing the top of his knuckles. “Well… apparently it is.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. And something shifted in his face. Like the ground underneath him had tilted, but he was choosing to stay standing anyway.

“You’re… you’re okay with this?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “I wouldn’t have told you today if I wasn’t. I know it’s gonna be a lot, but… yeah. I’m okay with it. More than okay.”

Joel’s eyes started to glisten, and he cleared his throat hard, blinking fast as he turned his face away for a second. When he looked back at you, his voice was thick.

“Thank you,” he said.

It broke something open in you.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“For this. For you. For givin’ me a reason to think there’s still more life out there for me than just survivin’.”

He reached out, cupped your cheek with a rough hand, his thumb brushing just under your eye.

“I didn’t think I’d get a second chance,” he murmured. “Not with someone like you. Not like this.”

You leaned into his palm, smiling through the tears that started to slip down your cheeks.

“Well… surprise,” you whispered.

Joel gave a breath of a laugh, then leaned in and kissed you—slow, steady, reverent. The kind of kiss that said everything his words couldn’t. The kind of kiss that promised he would be here for all of it.

For you.

For the baby.

For the life you were building together, one quiet moment at a time.

Sunday dinner was loud in the best way.

Tommy and Joel had spent the afternoon repairing one of the water lines near the edge of town, and both were still rubbing their lower backs like old men. Maria was bouncing little Benji on her knee, spoon-feeding him mashed carrots between exaggerated airplane noises, while Ellie recounted an incident involving a runaway chicken and a pitchfork.

You’d always loved these nights—long tables, shared food, laughter that made the walls feel smaller in the best way. But tonight, your hands kept drifting to your lap, nerves curling in your stomach even though you’d done this a dozen times in your head.

Joel’s knee brushed yours beneath the table.

He glanced at you, gave a small nod.

It was time.

You reached for your glass and gently tapped your spoon against it. “Uh… can I say something real quick?”

The table quieted. Benji let out a soft squeak and tried to grab a carrot off Maria’s plate.

Joel cleared his throat. “We’ve got some news.”

Maria looked up first, brows raised. Ellie paused mid-chew.

You smiled nervously, heart thumping. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one said a word. Then—

“What?” Ellie blurted, voice cracking halfway through the word.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, his hand slipping onto your thigh, grounding. Ellie set her fork down slowly, blinking like she hadn’t quite heard you right.

“You mean like… an actual baby?” she asked, eyes wide. “Your baby?”

You nodded, leaning closer to Joel's side. “Yeah. Our baby.”

Ellie opened her mouth, closed it, then reached for her water like her brain needed a reboot. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” Joel murmured.

“I’m gonna be a big sister?” she asked softly, blinking hard. And then her face cracked into a smile—wide and kind of watery. “I’m gonna be a big sister.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle, grinning ear to ear. “Joel, buddy. You still got swimmers at your age?”

Joel groaned loudly. “Tommy, I swear—”

“I mean, damn! You’re nearly sixty and still makin’ babies? What’s in the water over at your place?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. Joel muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling, too, shaking his head as Tommy clapped him on the back.

Maria just laughed and leaned her cheek against Benji’s soft hair. “Honestly, I had a feeling.”

Joel looked at her sideways. “You did?”

“You turned down a glass of wine at dinner last week,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You. You never turn down wine.”

You shrugged with a grin. “Was trying to be subtle.”

“Well, I’m glad you told us now,” she said, smiling warmly. “Benji’s gonna need a little buddy to boss around.”

Benji cooed like he somehow approved.

Then Maria stood and crossed the space to pull you into a hug, tight and full of warmth. Ellie joined a second later, throwing her arms around both of you, mumbling something like “I’m not crying” even though she very much was.

Tommy wrapped an arm around Joel with a playful shake and muttered, “Old man,” while Joel just rolled his eyes and let it happen.

In the middle of it all—arms tangled, laughter echoing, and that familiar scent of home-cooked food still hanging in the air—you felt it.

Family.

Not perfect. Not always easy. But real. Rooted. Growing.

And you were bringing another piece into it.

Dinner had long passed. The dishes were done, the laughter faded into memory, and Ellie had gone back to her room with a final hug that lingered just a little longer than usual.

Now, the two of you were tucked beneath the soft quilt, the chill of Jackson’s night air kept at bay by Joel’s familiar warmth beside you. The house creaked gently, like it was settling in for the night too.

You lay on your side, facing him, his arm already around you. The bedside lamp was off, but the moonlight spilling through the window was enough to catch the faint lines on his face—the quiet, thoughtful ones that only ever appeared when he let his guard down.

He hadn’t said much since the others left. Not out of hesitation, but the way he always got when something mattered so much it felt sacred.

His fingers brushed your stomach lightly under your shirt. Slow. Careful.

There wasn’t much of a bump yet—just the slightest swell, barely there—but his touch was reverent, like he was afraid to miss even a second of it.

“That’s really ours in there,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Whole little person. Just... growin’.”

Your hand covered his. “Yeah. They’re in there.”

He shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then just above your temple.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up,” he murmured. “That this is some dream I’m gonna lose. But then I touch you, and it’s real.”

You turned your face to kiss the underside of his jaw, voice soft. “It’s real, Joel. You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

He nodded, throat tight. His palm stayed resting on your belly, like it anchored him.

“I ever tell you how much I love you?” he asked, voice thick with quiet emotion.

You smiled. “You show me every day.”

“Gonna say it anyway,” he whispered, kissing you again. “I love you, darlin’. More than I got words for.”

The two of you fell asleep like that—his hand over the life you were building together, your fingers laced with his, hearts beating steady in the dark.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Joel Miller didn’t feel haunted by his past.

He felt ready for the future.

[vingtetunmars]

Uncharted Territory

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: During a study session that turns into something more, a simple kiss on the forehead unexpectedly leaves Eddie completely hot and bothered.

Tags: fluff, humor, teasing, implied praise kink, new couple, established relationship, first time, reader is sunshine incarnate, tender intimacy, virgin!Eddie Munson. No description of Reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: This fic is inspired by this post by @sheneedsrocknroll92 , I thought it was funny and probably something that would happen to Eddie. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 1.8k

masterlist

You weren’t supposed to notice him.

Not in the way that mattered.

Eddie Munson knew his place at Hawkins High. Resident freak. Satanic panic poster boy. The kid teachers gave up on and parents warned their kids about. People stared, sure—but only long enough to whisper, then look away.

But you never looked away.

You smiled.

The first time was in the cafeteria. You were sitting with your friends, those pastel, soft-voiced types with glitter pens and locker decorations. You didn’t look like someone who would know his name, let alone say it. But when he passed your table, you lifted your head and smiled straight at him. Bright. Simple. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He almost dropped his tray.

The next day, you waved in the hallway. He looked behind him just to make sure it was actually for him. You laughed. Said, “Hi, Eddie!” like you’d done it a thousand times.

He spent the rest of the week convinced someone put you up to it.

Except… you kept doing it.

You showed up near his locker. Lingered near Hellfire with a soda and a snack in hand. Laughed at his dumb jokes even when no one else did. It was like you orbiting around his life was normal, like he didn’t have to prove he was worthy of it.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because you were sunshine in a person. The kind of girl people opened up to without meaning to. The kind who said things like “you look handsome today” with complete sincerity, not even knowing the chaos it would cause in someone like him. Eddie was used to being mocked, dismissed, at best tolerated. You were different.

The scary part was how fast he got used to it.

He started looking forward to you. Every hallway run-in. Every shared lunch on the bleachers. Every time you curled your fingers around his wrist like it was no big deal. And then, the moment that flipped his world upside down—you kissed his cheek and said:

“I like you, Eddie. Just putting that out there.”

Then you smiled and walked off like you didn’t just detonate a bomb in his chest.

It took him a week to build the courage. A week of sweaty palms and bad dreams and practicing in the mirror. Then he found you after school, heart in his throat, and said something completely idiotic like, “I also like. You. Like-you. You, I like.”

You just grinned, slid your fingers into his, and said, “Cool. Because I think we look good together.”

Like it was that simple.

And, god, maybe it was.

You made it easy.

Eddie had no idea what the hell he was doing. You were his first everything. First kiss. First girlfriend. First person to call him “baby” like it belonged to him. He thought he’d mess it up. He still thinks that, sometimes. But you’ve never once made him feel like he was falling behind.

You make him feel… like he could be good at this.

You play with his hair when he’s sprawled out on your couch. You cheer for him when he wins boss fights in Hellfire, even though you barely understand what’s going on. You bring him peanut butter M&M’s and wear his Hellfire shirt, even though it’s baggy on you and smells like his cologne. And you hold his hand like it’s just what people do.

He doesn’t always know how to respond. He’s still learning. Sometimes his brain fries when you lean into his side or call him “pretty boy.” But he loves the way you look at him when you do.

Like he’s something precious.

Like he’s not some loser hiding behind loud clothes and louder words.

And two months in, Eddie Munson is still stunned every single day that he gets to have you.

That someone like you wanted someone like him.

That maybe—just maybe—he’s not entirely unlovable after all.

It’s late afternoon and the sun is doing that lazy golden thing through Eddie’s window, casting long, warm streaks across his bed. The two of you are sitting cross-legged on the mattress, notebooks and worksheets spread in a hopeless mess between you. Eddie’s handwriting is still a disaster, half the math problems are half-finished, and somehow there’s a doodle of a dragon in the corner of the page.

You should be annoyed.

But instead, you’re beaming.

“Okay,” you say, tapping your pencil against your knee. “You didn’t totally flunk that one. That’s, like, a B-minus effort. Maybe even a solid B. I’m proud of you.”

Eddie groans, flopping back dramatically on the bed. “I got five out of twelve, sweetheart.”

You raise an eyebrow, grinning. “You got two right last week. That’s progress.”

He peeks at you through his hair. “Baby steps, huh?”

“Exactly.” You crawl closer, lifting a hand to brush the bangs from his forehead. He freezes beneath your touch, a familiar stiffness he still hasn’t grown out of. It’s not discomfort—it’s reverence. Like he still doesn’t understand how you touch him so gently, like you don’t think twice about it.

You lean in and press a soft kiss to his forehead.

Simple. Sweet. Warm.

And that’s when it happens.

You pull back like nothing’s changed. But Eddie is suddenly dead quiet. His body tenses, his arms shoot around his torso like he’s guarding something, and before you can even blink, he’s curling up into himself like a human shield.

“Eddie?”

He lets out a strained noise. High-pitched. Embarrassed. “Yeah, no—I’m good. Just. Just need a minute. Maybe a few minutes. Don’t look at me.”

You blink. “Wait… are you—?”

“Don’t say it.”

“…Did a forehead kiss really just—?”

“Don’t say it,” he groans, pulling a pillow into his lap like it’s a weapon, dragging one of his old Metallica hoodies across himself in record time. His ears are bright red. His hair’s a mess from how fast he moved. He looks like he’s about to combust.

And you… start laughing.

Not cruel, not mean. Just startled, delighted giggles spilling out before you can stop them. Because this boy—this five-ten, metal-loving, D&D-obsessed chaos gremlin—just got hot and bothered over a forehead kiss.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes. “You poor thing.”

He groans again, flopping backward like he’s dying. “You don’t understand. It was too sweet. Too nice. My brain short-circuited. I didn’t even know that could happen.”

You slide closer, biting your lip to suppress another laugh. “Eddie, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay! You just kissed my head and now I’m having a hormonal crisis. That’s not normal. People don’t just do that.”

“Actually,” you say gently, brushing your fingers through his curls, “they do. It’s just that most people don’t feel everything all at once like you do.”

You duck your head until your forehead rests against his. “It’s okay, Eddie. I love that about you.”

He stares at you. Flustered. Overwhelmed. And still very much refusing to move his pillow.

“…Okay, but like, next time maybe warn me before doing something that affectionate.”

You didn’t stop smiling.

Even after his dramatics. Even after he tried hiding under the pillow like it was a shield from the embarrassment of having a boner caused by a forehead kiss. You just kept looking at him like he was the cutest thing in the world.

Which, unfortunately, did not help his current situation.

You leaned over him, voice light and teasing. “Y’know… this is kinda flattering.”

He peeked up. “You’re flattered?”

“Yeah,” you giggled, poking his ribs gently. “It’s nice to know I can wreck you that easily.”

Eddie let out a low, half-strangled groan. “You are so unfair.”

“I’m very fair,” you said, tilting your head. “I just didn’t expect forehead kisses to be your weakness.”

“It’s not,” he muttered. “It wasn’t. It—god, I don’t know, it felt like you were taking care of me.”

You stilled a little at that. Your voice softened. “Well… I was.”

He looked up at you.

You bit your lip thoughtfully, then reached down, brushing your fingers through his curls. “You know… I could keep doing that. Taking care of you.”

Eddie blinked. “Wh—what, like… now?”

You nodded. Your voice was calm, careful. “If you want. We don’t have to. But if you do want… I’ll be gentle. I’ll go slow. I just want you to feel good.”

Eddie swallowed hard, pupils blown, breath catching in his chest. He was pretty sure his brain had left his body a few minutes ago. You were so soft, so sweet, so stupidly beautiful, and you were looking at him like he was the precious one.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Yeah. I… want you to.”

You smiled at him like that was the best answer he could’ve given.

“Alright, baby,” you whispered, removing the pillow and climbed into his lap with slow, careful movements.

Eddie’s hands found your waist instinctively, holding you like you might vanish if he let go. You brushed your nose against his, pressing a light kiss to his lips first—then another, and another, deeper each time.

It started slow. Gentle.

Then his fingers tightened.

Then your hips rolled.

And by the time his head tipped back against the pillow, both of you breathless and warm, you were rocking slowly together, hips bumping in a soft rhythm, mouths never parting for long.

Your hands cupped his face.

His arms circled your waist.

And the world outside his bedroom melted away as you kissed him deeper—teaching him, guiding him, loving him like no one ever had.

Eddie was still staring at the ceiling when you flopped beside him with a satisfied sigh, your limbs brushing his.

There was a long pause.

Then, in a dazed voice, he mumbled, “I think I saw God.”

You burst out laughing, burying your face into his shoulder.

He turned to you, blinking slowly, curls a mess, skin flushed pink across the cheeks and down his chest. “Like. I’m serious. She looked just like you. But like—glowier.”

You nudged his side with a grin. “Are you trying to flirt with me after we had sex?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Because now I really don’t want you to leave me.”

You laughed again, kissing the tip of his nose. “Baby, I’ve been your girlfriend for two months.”

“Yeah, but now I feel like I need to propose. Or like, write a ballad. Or get your name tattooed on my—”

“Eddie.”

“I’m kidding. Mostly. Unless you think the tattoo thing is hot. I’ll do it.”

You rolled your eyes, cuddling into his chest. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

He let out a breathy chuckle and pulled the blanket over both of you, his arms curling around your shoulders. “Ridiculous and lucky.”

You smiled into his skin, fingers drawing slow shapes across his ribs. “You did great, baby.”

There was a pause.

Then, a groan. “Don’t say that again right now.”

“Why not?” you asked innocently, already giggling.

“Because last time you said that, I got bodily betrayed, and I don’t know if I’ve got the energy to recover twice in one night.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Okay, okay. I’ll let you rest… for now.”

“Threat noted,” he muttered, but he was smiling—broad and crooked and deeply in love.

And so were you.

[vingtetunmars]

Permission to Land

Pairing: Frankie "Catfish" Morales X F!Reader

Summary: After the dust of combat settles and life slows down, Frankie Morales is faced with a different kind of battlefield: meeting your parents.

Tags: Fluff, post-canon (with some changes), meeting the parents, family dinner, reader's dad is also a military man, intimidation, nervous frankie, reader's mom is a sweetheart, implied age gap. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Triple Frontier is such a mid movie but it has oscar isaac and pedro pascal 😩. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3.9k

masterlist

The car hummed softly beneath you, tires spinning down the long stretch of rural road you hadn’t driven in years. Trees lined the horizon like an old painting you used to stare at from the backseat as a kid, everything still where you left it—except now, you were returning with a man in the driver’s seat, not just any man. Frankie Morales sat behind the wheel, one hand steady on the leather, the other tapping restlessly against his thigh.

He hadn’t spoken in a few minutes. That alone told you just how nervous he was.

“You okay?” you asked, peeking over at him. He wore a button-up you picked out, one he called too clean for his taste, and jeans that didn’t have oil stains on them for once.

He gave a sharp exhale, barely a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Just… going over what rank your dad was again.”

“Colonel,” you said with a smirk. “Retired. Don’t worry, he’s not gonna ask you to do drills on the front lawn.”

Frankie shot you a look. “You say that like it hasn’t happened.”

You snorted. It had happened once. You’d warned him about the discipline, the polished boots outside the door, the proud flag on the porch. Your father wasn’t the kind of man who missed details, and Frankie—well, Frankie had his fair share of those. War behind his eyes. Scars you traced on quiet nights.

He shifted in his seat. “You sure this is a good idea?”

You leaned your head against the window, smile softening. “Frankie, I wouldn’t bring just anyone home. My mom’s making her famous casserole. That means she already likes you and doesn’t even know it yet.”

He chuckled low at that, eyes briefly flicking your way before returning to the road. The tension eased in his shoulders just a little, like your words were the first time he could breathe in miles.

“But your dad,” he muttered.

“My dad will be fine. He might go full interrogation mode, but he’ll be fine.”

Frankie rubbed the back of his neck. “I can handle interrogations. I just— I don’t want to mess this up. You’re… important to me.”

The words came out soft, honest. His voice dipped the way it always did when he was vulnerable—when it wasn’t the soldier speaking, but the man underneath.

You reached over and took his hand, fingers curling into his rough palm. “Then don’t. Just be yourself.”

He gave you a side glance and muttered, “That’s what I’m worried about.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. The house was coming up in the distance now, white shutters and a front porch swing, just like you remembered. Only this time, you weren’t coming home alone.

The car rolled to a stop in the gravel driveway, crunching beneath the tires like brittle shells. The porch light was already on, even though the sun still clung to the horizon. It cast a warm glow over the steps and onto the familiar swing swaying in the evening breeze. You sat still for a second, heart suddenly thudding with a mixture of nerves and nostalgia.

Frankie turned off the engine, his fingers gripping the keys for a beat too long.

You glanced at him. “Ready?”

He gave you a look that was half grimace, half smirk. “Absolutely not.”

You laughed, nudged his arm, and opened the door.

The front door opened before you even reached the porch. Your mom stood there in her apron, wiping her hands on a dish towel, a bright grin spreading across her face. She still had flour on her cheek, and your chest tugged at the sight—like time hadn’t moved forward since you left.

“There’s my girl!” she beamed, arms already outstretched. You stepped up into the hug, and she pulled you in like you’d never left, murmuring something about your hair and how thin you looked.

Then she turned her attention to Frankie.

“Oh,” she said, smile widening, eyes twinkling. “You must be Frankie.”

He offered a nervous but polite smile and extended a hand. “Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”

She ignored the handshake and wrapped him in a hug before he could process what was happening. “We don’t do ‘ma’am’ in this house. I’m not the military one.”

Frankie blinked but smiled, a little more relaxed now. “Yes, ma’—uh, sorry.”

She stepped back and waved you both inside. “Come in, come in. Dinner’s almost done. Your dad’s just—”

The sentence was cut off by the sound of slow, measured footsteps on the hardwood.

There he was.

Your father entered from the hallway, still broad-shouldered, still in his signature dark polo tucked neatly into pressed jeans. His face was unreadable, the same expression he wore when watching intel footage—neutral, bordering on sharp.

His gaze flicked to you first, a brief nod. Then it settled on Frankie.

You felt the air tighten.

Frankie straightened, shoulders pulling back instinctively. It wasn’t a conscious thing—you could tell by the way he did it, the way he stood like he had something to prove. Like he was reporting to someone who used to outrank him.

“Sir,” Frankie said, extending his hand.

Your father looked at it.

Then, after a second too long, he took it.

The handshake wasn’t aggressive, but it wasn’t warm either. Your father studied him like he could see straight through the skin, into muscle, into bone. The silence stretched for what felt like a year.

“Francisco Morales,” your dad said, voice calm, low. “Army?”

“Delta Force. Retired.”

Your father’s brow ticked—barely. “Pilot?”

“Yes, sir.”

More silence.

Frankie didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Eventually, your dad gave a slow nod. “Hm.”

And then he walked past both of you, muttering something about checking on the grill.

You exhaled, didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Frankie turned toward you, eyebrows raised.

“Was that… good?” he whispered.

You shook your head, fighting a grin. “That was excellent. He didn’t ask you your kill count or how you feel about discipline. Yet.”

Frankie gave you a tired, slightly terrified look as your mom called from the kitchen.

“Come on,” you said, nudging his arm. “It only gets slightly worse from here.”

He followed you in, muttering under his breath, “Great. Can’t wait.”

But his hand brushed yours as you walked in together—and he held on.

Dinner smelled like your childhood—rosemary roasted potatoes, something buttery in the oven, and the faint char of meat from the grill outside. Your mom moved around the kitchen like it was her own personal battlefield, humming and checking on the casserole while sliding plates into your hands for setting the table.

You were halfway through pouring drinks when your dad took his seat at the head of the table, like always. Frankie hesitated before sitting across from him, hands neatly folded in his lap, his back just a little too straight.

You sat beside him, gave his knee a light nudge under the table.

“Relax,” you whispered.

“I am relaxed,” he muttered back.

He was not.

The first few minutes passed with pleasant, surface-level conversation. Your mom talked about her garden, you told her about the awful highway traffic coming in, and Frankie nodded and made polite noises while barely touching his water.

Then the shift came. You saw it in the way your dad put his fork down—not harshly, just… deliberately. Like he was ready to get to the part that mattered.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes fixed on Frankie. “So,” he said. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”

Just like that.

You choked a little on your drink.

Frankie, to his credit, didn’t flinch. But you saw the tick in his jaw, the way he braced.

“I care about her, sir,” he said steadily. “That’s my intention. I care about her a lot.”

Your dad’s gaze didn’t waver. “You have a history of disappearing, Morales?”

Frankie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been in this world long enough to know men like us don’t always stay put. Some don’t know how to.” He picked up his fork again, poked at a slice of meat. “You in that camp?”

You opened your mouth, but Frankie answered first.

“No, sir. I’ve had my time running from things. I don’t want to anymore.”

A pause.

Your dad set the fork down again. “How old are you?”

You winced.

Frankie didn’t hesitate. “Forty-three.”

“Hm.” Another nod. “And my daughter’s not.”

“No, sir. She’s not.”

Another pause. Tense. Heavy.

You felt heat crawl up your neck, but Frankie didn’t look away. He sat steady, voice even. Honest.

Your dad tilted his head. “You ever been married?”

“No.”

“Kids?”

“No, sir.”

“And you’re just now figuring out what you want?”

Frankie exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t think I deserved something good for a long time.”

That one landed.

Your dad didn’t respond right away. He looked down at his plate, then back up. You saw something shift behind his eyes—just slightly.

“Being with someone younger,” he said, quieter now, but still firm, “means you don’t get to be tired all the time. You don’t get to pull the ‘I’ve been through too much’ card and leave someone else to carry it.”

“I know,” Frankie said.

“You don’t get to be reckless with her.”

“I won’t be.”

Your dad studied him another second, then—without looking at you—he cut into his steak and said, “Then you’d better keep up. She’s a lot.”

He continued asking, “You drink?”

Frankie blinked, a little thrown. “I… used to. Not anymore.”

Your father nodded again, slower this time. “Good. Nothing honorable about a man who can’t control his vices.”

You felt your jaw clench. You started to speak, but Frankie just said, quietly, “I learned that the hard way.”

That silenced even your dad for a moment.

Then your mom let out a breath and stood to clear the plates. “Well, I think it’s time for dessert. Who wants pie?”

Frankie exhaled like he’d just come back from a battlefield. You reached under the table and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, not letting go even as your dad excused himself to “check the locks.”

Frankie looked at you and murmured, “Still excellent?”

You smiled, proud of him. “He only drills people he respects.”

Frankie gave you a look. “That was respect?”

“Believe it or not… yeah.”

And as your mom cut the pie and Frankie rubbed the back of his neck like he’d just run a marathon, you realized he hadn’t run. Not once. Not even when it got uncomfortable. He stayed.

That had to count for something.

You slipped your fingers around Frankie’s wrist as your mom cleared plates and your dad reached for the bottle of wine, clearly settling in for a long, post-dinner silence filled with judgment and subtle scrutiny. Frankie looked like he’d just passed a surprise psych eval.

“Come with me,” you murmured, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. You tugged him away from the dining room, down the familiar hallway, past the pictures that had hung in the same crooked spots since you were twelve. Your old bedroom door still had the small sticker you slapped on it in high school—Keep Out (Unless You Have Snacks).

You opened it gently.

Time hadn’t touched it much.

There were faded band posters peeling at the corners, photos tacked up with mismatched pushpins—some of them blurry with movement, others staged with the awkwardness of teenage self-awareness. Your bed was smaller than you remembered, your shelves crammed with books and little trinkets from years past. The soft smell of dust and vanilla lingered in the air, mixed with something impossibly nostalgic.

Frankie stepped in slowly, eyes scanning the room. His shoulders slumped a little as the door closed behind him, the tension finally bleeding from his spine

“Wow,” he said, smiling faintly. “This is… a lot of Paramore.”

You grinned, flopping onto the bed like you used to. “You should’ve seen me at fifteen. I was unbearable.”

He chuckled, running a hand along the old dresser where a row of photo booth strips lived, half-faded from sun exposure. “You still are.”

“Rude.”

But he wasn’t looking at the photos anymore. He was staring into the mirror above your vanity, catching a glimpse of himself standing in the middle of your childhood, like he wasn’t sure he belonged.

You sat up and watched him, the way he tucked his hands into his pockets, always unsure of what to do with them when he wasn’t holding a weapon or a wrench.

“You’re doing fine, Frankie,” you said softly.

His eyes met yours in the mirror.

“You’re doing perfectly fine.”

He turned to face you, slow and a little wary, like he wasn’t sure he could believe it.

“You really think so?” he asked. “Because I feel like I just got grilled by someone who could kill me with a glance.”

You stood and crossed the room, sliding your hands up his arms until they rested on his shoulders.

“That's just his face,” you teased gently. “But yeah. I think you're handling it better than anyone else would. He respects you. He just doesn’t know how to say that.”

Frankie exhaled, leaning into your touch.

“You make it look easy,” he said.

You shook your head. “No. You just make it worth it.”

Then you leaned up and kissed him—soft, sure, grounding. Like you needed him to feel it, to understand that all the nerves, all the silent judgments at dinner, didn’t undo what this was.

He kissed you back, one hand settling on your waist, the other cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing your hairline.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

“I used to sit in this room and dream about the person I’d bring home someday,” you whispered. “I didn’t know it’d be someone like you. But I’m glad it is.”

He smiled—really smiled this time, that quiet kind that reached his eyes and made your chest ache.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You and Frankie made your way back to the living room once he looked like he could breathe again. Your mom was curled up on the couch with a mug of tea, the scent of peppermint drifting in the air, and your dad was standing by the window, one hand resting on his hip like he was still surveying a perimeter.

The moment your dad looked over, Frankie straightened again. Like a soldier out of instinct.

Your dad didn’t say much—just gave you a glance and then nodded toward the back door.

“Morales. Walk with me.”

Frankie’s eyes darted toward you, like he was checking if this was a trap. You gave him a reassuring nod and a tiny smile, even if your heart clenched. He followed your dad out the sliding glass door without another word.

You watched them disappear into the backyard, the screen door shutting softly behind them, your heart doing that tight twist again. Not out of worry, not exactly. Just that familiar ache of hoping the people you love would find a way to understand each other.

You hadn’t realized your mom was watching you until she spoke.

“He’s handsome.”

You turned, eyebrows raised, and she was already smiling into her tea like she hadn’t just said something bold out of nowhere.

“I mean it,” she said, patting the cushion next to her. “Come sit with me. I want to hear all about him.”

You curled up on the couch beside her, the same spot you used to sit in after long days at school, or after heartbreaks that didn’t make sense back then. It still smelled faintly of lavender and detergent—home.

Your mom looked at you, really looked at you, her gaze soft and searching.

“He seems quiet,” she said.

You nodded. “He is. But he listens.”

She tilted her head. “And how did you find a man like that?”

You laughed, running your hand through your hair. “Long story. Not the kind I can tell without... a few drinks.”

That made her laugh.

She sipped her tea again, but you could see the questions dancing behind her eyes, the ones she hadn’t asked yet.

“He’s older,” she said gently—not a judgment, just an observation.

You nodded again. “Yeah. I know.”

“Does that scare you?”

You thought about that for a second, staring at the mug in your hands. “Sometimes. Not because of the age. Just... how much he’s lived through. There are things he won’t say. Scars I’ve seen but haven’t asked about. It’s like... he’s already lived three different lives before he got to me.”

Your mom was quiet, letting that settle.

Then she said, “You’ve always had an old soul. Even as a little girl, you never liked fluff. You liked depth. Realness. Honesty. Even when it hurt.”

You smiled faintly.

She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “That man out there? He looks at you like you’re the first calm he’s ever known.”

Your throat tightened a little at that.

“He’s good to you?” she asked.

You nodded, firmly this time. “Yeah. He’s so good to me.”

She gave your hand a soft squeeze. “Then we’ll love him because you do.”

You leaned into her shoulder, resting your head there like you used to. She smelled like the same perfume she wore when you were a kid—clean and floral, something that made you feel small and safe all at once.

Outside, you heard the faint sound of your dad laughing.

Your mom raised her eyebrows and whispered, “That’s either very good… or very, very bad.”

You both broke into quiet laughter.

And for a moment, everything felt still. Easy. Like all the parts of your life were finally meeting in the same room, and no one was running.

The air outside was cooler now, quiet except for the faint rustle of wind in the trees and the chirping of night bugs. Your dad walked a few paces ahead, arms behind his back, not speaking right away. Frankie followed, hands in his pockets, the gravel crunching beneath his boots.

They stopped near the edge of the yard, under the faint light spilling from the porch.

Your dad turned.

“You don’t scare easy,” he said, his voice low, even.

Frankie shook his head once. “I’ve been through worse than dinner, sir.”

A flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of your father’s mouth. Then it vanished.

“You know she’s younger than you,” he said. “Still got a lot of life left to figure out. She ever decides you’re not part of that picture, you don’t get to make it messy. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Frankie said without hesitation.

“You don’t pull away. You don’t disappear. If you’re in, you stay in. No half measures.”

Frankie swallowed. “I don’t do half measures anymore.”

Your dad took a step forward, just enough to get in his space. His eyes locked with Frankie’s.

“You don’t get to break her.”

Frankie didn’t flinch. “I won’t.”

A beat passed.

Then suddenly—too suddenly—your dad huffed out a laugh, a full-bodied chuckle like someone cracked a code. He clapped Frankie hard on the shoulder, nearly knocking him back a step.

“Christ,” he said, grinning now. “You look like I was about to bury you in the shed.”

Frankie blinked.

Your dad shook his head, still chuckling. “Relax, Morales. If I really didn’t like you, I’d be cleaning a gun right now.”

Frankie let out a short breath of a laugh, somewhere between relief and disbelief.

Your dad’s tone softened just slightly. “You held your ground. That’s what matters. And more importantly—she trusts you. That’s rare with her.”

Frankie looked toward the house, toward the soft glow behind the curtains.

“She’s… something else.”

“She always has been,” your dad said, then added, “You’re not what I pictured for her. But you’re what she picked. And I trust her judgment more than mine these days.”

Another firm clap to the shoulder.

“Come on, let’s not keep her waiting.”

Frankie followed him back toward the porch, the weight in his chest lighter now, though his pulse was still recovering.

He stepped inside, met your eyes across the room—and you could tell by the way he smiled that he’d survived.

Barely.

But survived nonetheless.

The sun had long dipped beneath the hills by the time you and Frankie made it to the front door, shoes on, jackets in hand, and the comforting heaviness of a full meal still lingering in your limbs. Your mom was bustling around the kitchen with the determination of someone not letting you leave empty-handed.

“You’ll eat these tomorrow,” she insisted, already wrapping up a glass container with what looked like half the casserole. “And this is the potato salad he liked. He said he liked it, didn’t he?”

“Mom…” you called back.

Frankie stood by the door with the patience of a man used to being packed like a soldier going on deployment. He held a paper bag your mom had stuffed with bread rolls and a small container of sauce she swore would go bad if you didn’t “do something with it by tomorrow night at the latest.”

You came back into the foyer just as she handed him another box.

“Thank you, Mrs.—”

“Stop,” she said, waving a hand. “Call me by my name next time or I’ll start calling you ‘Mr. Morales’ like we’re in a courtroom.”

He chuckled, cheeks a little pink, balancing his small tower of food with surprising grace.

Your dad appeared in the hallway then, phone in one hand, now dressed in a casual zip-up jacket. His expression was still firm, but the air around him had shifted. Softer somehow. Measured. Like his mind had done its evaluation and the verdict had finally settled.

He stopped in front of Frankie.

No words at first.

Just a look—sharp, direct—but no longer searching for weaknesses. Then he extended his hand.

Frankie adjusted the food under one arm and shook it.

Your dad’s grip was strong, steady. No games this time. Just respect.

“Drive safe,” he said. Then gave him a single nod. “You’re welcome back.”

Frankie blinked, just once. “Thank you, sir.”

That was it. Brief, but it landed heavier than any speech. You knew your dad didn’t give out approval lightly—especially not to the kind of man who’d been through wars and still walked like he carried them.

You stepped outside with Frankie, the cool air brushing your skin as you made your way down the porch steps. Once you were out of earshot, you leaned over and bumped your shoulder against his.

“Well,” you said. “You’re officially not dead. That’s something.”

He let out a breathy laugh, eyes still a little wide. “I think that handshake added five years to my life.”

You glanced back toward the warm glow of the house behind you. “It took a lot for him to offer that. Believe me.”

Frankie looked at you, soft and grateful.

“You make it easy to try,” he said quietly.

You smiled, slid your hand into his free one. “Good. Because I plan on dragging you back here for every major holiday until my mom gets tired of feeding you.”

He squeezed your hand, eyes still on yours. “She’s never going to get tired of that.”

“Nope,” you grinned. “So you better start prepping your stomach now.”

As the car door clicked shut and the engine hummed to life, you leaned back in your seat, watching your childhood home get smaller in the rearview.

This time, it wasn’t just a place you were leaving behind.

It was a new part of your life folding into the old—and somehow, it felt exactly right.

[vingtetunmars]

Teenage Dirtbags

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: Childhood friends turned rebellious teens, you and Eddie Munson have always been thick as thieves — sneaking out, breaking into abandoned diners, and laughing at the world that doesn’t get them. Her parents disapprove, the school calls him a freak, but none of it matters when they’re together.

Tags: NSFW, smut (18+), fluff, friends to lovers, childhood friends, coming of age, mutual pining, rebellious teenagers, "us against the world", parents disapproval, impulsive getaways, eddie munson is a sweetheart, p-in-v, confessionnal sex. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Save to say most of my fic inspiration for Eddie is from songs. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 9.4k (oh wow)

masterlist

1979

You were going to snap.

The plastic spork bounced off your tray and skidded across the table. You didn’t even need to look to know who threw it—same kid who’d been messing with you all week. Earlier, it was a balled-up napkin. Yesterday, it was a grape. Today, it was everything short of a full-on food fight.

You kept your head down, picking at the sad excuse for macaroni on your tray, hoping he’d get bored. He didn’t.

“Hey,” the boy behind you whispered, yanking a lock of your hair just hard enough to make your eyes sting. “You put glue in it or something? Why’s it so crunchy?”

Your jaw clenched. You bit your cheek to keep from turning around and launching your milk carton at his face. The din of the lunchroom made it easy for teachers to ignore—unless someone got loud.

Which someone did.

“Cease your torment, cretin! Or I shall summon the Lord of the Underworld himself!”

Your head whipped up. The boy behind you froze.

Standing at the end of your lunch table was a skinny kid with a buzz cut, a tattered Black Sabbath patch safety-pinned to his denim vest, and a tray of untouched lunch balanced on one hand like a waiter. His other hand pointed accusingly, finger straight and eyes wide like a televangelist on TV.

“What the hell, Munson?” the boy behind you asked.

The new kid didn’t answer. Instead, he dropped to one knee in the middle of the cafeteria floor and raised both hands to the ceiling.

“Dominos. Ravioli. Infernum-malarkey!” he bellowed, deepening his voice into a theatrical growl. “Oh great horned one, curse this mortal with itchy skin and uncontrollable gas!”

Laughter burst out from nearby tables.

You blinked.

Then—you laughed too.

It started as a confused giggle and turned into a real, actual laugh. Loud enough to startle the kid behind you into silence. He slunk away without a word, disappearing into the crowd.

When you turned back around, the buzz cut boy had taken a dramatic bow.

“Eddie Munson,” he announced. “At your service.”

You stared at him for a beat, then smiled, “You’re weird.”

He beamed like you’d just handed him a trophy.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”

And just like that, the empty seat across from you wasn’t empty anymore.

1984

The hallway erupted like someone had hit “play” on a fast-forward button—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices rising as students flooded toward freedom. But right in the middle of the chaos, you took your time.

Your locker was stuck again. You wiggled the handle with practiced irritation, muttering a quiet curse under your breath.

And then—

Slam!

A hand hit the locker next to yours with dramatic flair.

“Need a spell, m’lady?”

You didn’t even have to look. The smug tone, the scent of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke—it was unmistakable.

“You’re gonna bruise the metal if you keep doing that,” you said, lips tugging into a smile despite yourself.

Eddie Munson leaned against the lockers like he owned the hallway, grinning at you through his mess of curls. His denim vest was half-unbuttoned over his Hellfire Club tee, and he had a binder stuffed with loose papers under one arm. Somehow, he made chaos look cool.

“Maybe it’ll bruise back,” he quipped, giving your locker a gentle kick. It creaked open instantly. “See? You just have to speak its language.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping back so you could grab your books, “you keep me around. Which says so much more about you than it does about me.”

You bumped his shoulder as you closed your locker, and he didn’t move an inch.

“Plans tonight?” he asked, falling into step beside you like he always did.

“Not unless you’re planning something.”

He grinned wider. “I may or may not have found a way into the old diner by the train tracks.”

You arched a brow. “Eddie.”

“It’s abandoned! Kinda. Mostly. Anyway, I hear the power still works.”

You stopped walking and turned to him, arms crossed. “If we get caught again—”

“We won’t.” He leaned in with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “We’re ghosts, remember? Shadows. Teenage legends.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a quiet laugh. “You’re full of shit.”

“And yet,” he echoed with a smirk, “you keep me around.”

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no hiding the fondness in it. You always rolled your eyes around Eddie. And he always stayed close anyway.

Like he had since the cafeteria, five years ago.

Later that night, the lock was rusted, the side door warped just enough to slip a crowbar through. Eddie grunted as he wedged it in, muscles tense, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. With one good shove and a metallic clank, the door creaked open.

“After you, partner in crime,” he whispered, bowing with a flourish.

You stepped inside, the soles of your sneakers crunching on old tile dust. The air smelled like mildew and grease that had long since congealed into memory.

A few rays of moonlight filtered through cracked windows, casting long, silvery shadows across the booths and checkered floor. The whole place looked like someone had locked up in ’64 and never came back. A half-burned “Daily Special” board still hung above the counter. A stack of chipped coffee cups waited behind the bar like someone might show up to pour a round.

“Holy shit,” you breathed. “This is so cool.”

“Told you.” Eddie’s voice was soft, reverent even. “Place is like a time capsule. All it needs is a jukebox and someone to roll by on skates.”

You wandered past the booths, running your fingers over the cracked vinyl cushions. The red had faded to dull maroon. He followed a few steps behind, glancing around with wide eyes like a kid in a haunted house—excited, cautious, thrilled.

“Bet there’s still silverware somewhere,” he said, hopping over the counter with a thud. He pulled open a drawer, rattling around. “Bingo.”

He held up a rusted spoon like it was buried treasure.

You chuckled, ducking behind the counter with him. “I’m stealing a salt shaker. This is too good not to commemorate.”

“Here,” he said, digging deeper into the drawer. “Comet-brand bottle opener. Still shiny.”

You pocketed it with a grin. “We should open a museum.”

Eddie stood up on the counter, arms spread wide. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Hall of Bad Decisions. Featuring cigarette burns, petty theft, and a distinct lack of adult supervision.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound echoing off the walls.

The truth was, no matter how dusty or broken the place, it always felt electric with Eddie around. Every forgotten building was a playground. Every half-dumb idea felt like genius. With him, even rusted cutlery felt like gold.

You leaned against the counter, smiling up at him.

“This place is gonna be ours for a while, huh?”

He looked down at you and nodded, his grin softening.

“Yeah,” he said. “Until the next one.”

Eddie’s van purred softly in the driveway, headlights off. The glow from the porch light was enough to see the curve of his grin as he leaned across the driver’s seat to look at you.

“You sure you don’t want me to summon Satan again?” he teased, voice low. “Might scare your mom into going easy on you.”

You laughed quietly, hand already on the door handle. “Pretty sure she’s more terrifying than Satan.”

He tilted his head, mock serious. “Valid.”

A beat of silence passed. You looked at him. He looked at you.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said. “That diner was… weirdly magical.”

He smirked. “Like I said—teenage legends.”

You leaned over and bumped his shoulder gently. “Call me when you get home.”

Eddie saluted you, then added, “I’ll keep an eye out for demon cops. You never know.”

You rolled your eyes, but it made you smile as you slipped out of the van and jogged up the front steps. You gave him one last wave before unlocking the door and slipping inside.

The smile dropped as soon as the door clicked shut.

The hallway was dim, the only light coming from the kitchen. Your mom was sitting at the table, elbows resting on a half-folded newspaper, her fingers pressed against her temple. She didn’t even look up when she spoke.

“You know what time it is?”

Her voice wasn’t angry—just tired. Drained in that way that made your chest twist a little.

“Yeah,” you said softly, stepping out of your shoes. “I lost track.”

Your mom finally looked up. Her eyes flicked to your jacket, your tangled hair, the faint whiff of dust and old grease you carried back from the diner.

“You were with him again.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

She sighed and sat back in her chair, eyes heavy. “You can’t keep doing this, sweetheart.”

You stayed by the doorway, hands in your pockets, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” you mumbled.

“Not yet,” she said. “But trouble follows that boy like a shadow.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but you thought it anyway.

Good. So do I.

Without another word, you walked down the hall and shut your bedroom door behind you.

The only light in your room came from the moon outside your window. You crossed the floor, dropped your jacket on the bed, and fished into your pocket.

The bottle opener from the diner caught the moonlight just right as you turned it over in your hand.

You smiled again—just a little this time.

The smell of questionable pizza and overcooked green beans lingered thick in the air, but it didn’t matter. You were already weaving through the tables with your tray in hand, heading toward your table—the one where noise, weirdness, and near-constant laughter were part of the deal.

“Okay, but we cannot open with ‘War Pigs’ again,” Gareth was saying, waving half a sandwich like it was a conductor’s baton. “We’re becoming predictable.”

Jeff leaned across the table, chewing thoughtfully. “People like predictable. It’s crowd control.”

Doug piped up with a mouthful of tater tots. “Predictable gets you heckled.”

“And heckled means notoriety,” Eddie added from the center of the chaos, his boots kicked up on an empty chair, half a Twinkie in hand. “Notoriety builds legacy.”

You dropped your tray across from him and plopped into your seat, arching an eyebrow. “You guys planning a set list or starting a revolution?”

Eddie pointed the Twinkie at you like a preacher. “Both, sweetheart. Both.”

“You’re late,” Doug said, nudging his tray your way. “We almost gave your seat to a freshman.”

“You touch my seat, I take your soul,” you deadpanned, snatching a tater tot off his tray.

He shrugged. “Fair.”

“Anyway,” Eddie said, pulling a notebook from beneath his jacket like it was classified intel, “we’re down to two opening tracks—‘The Trooper’ or ‘Symptom of the Universe.’”

You bit into your apple. “You’re seriously debating this like it’s the damn Super Bowl.”

“Because it is,” Gareth said, dead serious. “Thursday night. The Hideout. Four people in the audience max. Maybe five if Jeff’s mom shows up.”

Jeff raised his soda can. “She always does.”

“I’m just saying,” you said, setting your apple down, “no one in that bar cares what song you start with. They just want something loud, something angry, and maybe to get a free beer if they flirt with the bartender.”

Eddie beamed at you. “And that’s why you’re an honorary member of this band of degenerates.”

“Honorary?” Doug asked. “She literally helped us roll for loot two weeks ago.”

“I fell asleep halfway through,” you reminded him.

“And still somehow survived the ogre ambush,” Gareth muttered.

“Yeah, ‘cause Eddie kept rerolling behind the screen.”

Eddie gasped, hand on his chest. “Are you accusing your fearless Dungeon Master of cheating?”

You grinned. “Not accusing. Just observing.”

He tossed a crust of bread at you. You ducked. The others laughed.

The table was loud, obnoxious, and borderline unbearable to anyone sitting within a ten-foot radius. But to you? It was home. You didn’t care about the campaign schedule or the band drama half as much as they did, but it didn’t matter. You were part of it anyway.

Here, no one tried to change you. Or warn you away from being yourself. Or away from Eddie.

Which, judging by the way he was still looking at you over the rim of his soda can—with that crooked smile that always spelled trouble—you’d have to deal with later.

But for now, you kicked your feet up beside his, stole another tot from Doug’s tray, and settled into the noise.

Later that day, you were walking toward Eddie’s locker, planning to meet up before heading to the parking lot. But you knew something was wrong before you even saw it.

The crowd gave it away.

A couple of underclassmen lingered nearby, whispering and pretending not to look. A few seniors passed, snickering behind their hands. That knot in your stomach twisted tighter with every step.

And then you saw it.

FREAK

Spray-painted in jagged red letters across Eddie’s locker door. The paint still dripped, fresh and bold and proud.

Eddie was already there, standing in front of it like it wasn’t even his. He had one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the strap of his bag, eyes scanning the word like it was graffiti on a bathroom wall and not a personal attack.

You approached slowly. “Jesus…”

He looked over at you, then back at the locker. “Creative, huh?”

“Are you okay?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

But you didn’t buy it. Not from the way his mouth pressed into a thin line. Not from the way he wouldn’t touch the door.

“It’s bullshit,” you said, voice low, sharp. “We should tell—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “It’s not worth it.”

“Eddie—”

“It’s just a word.” He finally reached forward and popped the locker open like the paint wasn’t even there. “I’ve been called worse. Hell, I am worse. Freak’s kind of a promotion.”

You stared at him. He looked tired. Not angry. Not even hurt. Just used to it—like he’d seen this coming the day he first wore a Dio shirt to school and never looked back.

He pulled out a book, slammed the locker shut, and slung his arm around your shoulder like nothing happened.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go do something illegal.”

You tried to smile. Tried to match his energy.

But you kept glancing back at that word. And the way he didn’t even flinch.

You weren’t even in a bad mood until you heard the voice.

“…yeah, I did it. Told you I would,” some guy was bragging just outside the door. “Spray-painted it right on his locker. FREAK—like billboard size.”

A snort of laughter followed. “No way.”

“Swear to God. My cousin had that red paint in his garage. Took like three seconds. Guy’s a loser anyway—no one’s gonna do shit.”

Your jaw clenched. You peeked out through the cracked door just enough to see who was talking.

Ryan Garrison.

Smug. Stupid. Already walking away with two other guys, all of them laughing like they’d just pulled off a harmless prank and not openly vandalized someone else’s property.

Your hands curled into fists inside your sleeves.

You didn’t say anything then. Not yet.

But you had a name now.

And something about the way Eddie had looked at his locker yesterday—like it was a fact of life, not something he deserved to fight back against—stuck to your ribs like ash.

This wasn’t going to slide.

Not this time.

Behind the bleachers, Eddie was sitting on the concrete, knees pulled up, lazily plucking at the strings of his guitar. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the air. He didn’t look up when you approached—he never had to.

You dropped beside him, legs stretched out, pulling your sleeves over your hands.

“I know who did it.”

He paused, just long enough to let the words settle. “Did what?”

You gave him a look.

He sighed through his nose, set the guitar down gently beside him. “Doesn’t matter. I already told you—”

“It was Ryan Garrison.”

Now he looked at you.

You could see it then—how his jaw tensed for just a second. Not surprised. Just… disappointed in the predictability of it all.

“He was bragging about it in the hallway,” you went on. “Didn’t even bother to whisper. Just loud and proud with his dumbass buddies like it was a joke.”

Eddie leaned back against the wall, looking up at the sky. “God, I’d love to be that stupid. You think life’s easier when you’re that full of yourself?”

“Probably,” you muttered, then nudged his knee with yours. “But also… I have an idea.”

Eddie turned to you slowly, brow arched, curiosity piqued. “Oh no.”

You grinned. “Oh yes.”

“What level of felony are we talking here?”

“No felonies,” you said sweetly. “Just… maybe some light vandalism. Minor property damage, at worst.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I say we skip last period,” you continued, “grab a carton of eggs from the corner store, and redecorate Ryan Garrison’s shiny little Camaro.”

Eddie blinked. “You want to egg his car?”

“Don’t you?”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I do love performance art.”

You bumped shoulders. “Thought so.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like he was trying to be the voice of reason, but couldn’t quite resist. “You’re gonna get detention.”

“You’ll be right there with me.”

“Oh, I’m definitely not letting you do it alone,” he said. “If you go down, I’m going down with you.”

“Us against the world,” you said, holding out a pinky.

Eddie linked his pinky with yours. “Always.”

The lot was mostly empty, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the faded lines and scattered cigarette butts. Ryan Garrison’s Camaro—sleek, waxed, obnoxiously red—sat like a trophy near the back row.

You crouched behind a scraggly bush with Eddie, both of you gripping your smuggled plastic bag of ammo: a dozen slightly-warm eggs from the corner store fridge. You could barely contain your grin as you peered around the shrub like war criminals on a covert op.

Eddie whispered, “Okay, listen. We do this fast, like guerrilla warfare. You take the driver’s side, I’ll take the back. We launch, we leg it. Got it?”

“Got it,” you said, cracking your knuckles dramatically.

“One… two… go!”

You darted out from cover, pulling an egg from the carton mid-run. The first one hit the windshield with a glorious splat. The second one smacked the driver’s side door, dripping yolk down the shiny paint.

Eddie whooped from the rear bumper. “Eat poultry, you shiny bastard!”

He chucked two in rapid fire—one hitting the trunk, the other bouncing off the rearview mirror with a satisfying crack.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, breathless with laughter. “We’re going to hell.”

“We were already going to hell!” he shouted gleefully, winding up and letting one rip straight at the hood.

Then, “HEY! WHAT THE HELL?!”

You didn’t even turn around to confirm. You knew that voice.

“Run!” you yelled, grabbing Eddie by the sleeve.

You both took off, legs pumping, laughter bubbling out of your chests as Ryan’s furious footsteps pounded behind you.

Eddie tossed the empty bag over his shoulder as you rounded the edge of the lot, diving into the passenger seat of his van while he jumped behind the wheel.

He jammed the key into the ignition. “Come on, come on, come on—YES!”

The engine roared to life just as Ryan came into view, red-faced and livid, streaks of yolk still dripping down his car in the distance.

Eddie peeled out of the lot with a screech of tires, flipping him the bird out the open window. You slammed the door shut just in time and nearly doubled over with laughter.

“Holy shit!” you gasped, clutching your stomach. “We’re actually gonna die!”

Eddie was howling, one hand pounding the steering wheel. “Did you see his face?! He looked like his soul left his body!”

You were breathless, wild with adrenaline and glee, wind whipping through the open window as the town blurred past you.

“That felt so good.”

Eddie glanced at you as the wind whipped through the cracked windows, hair tousled, eyes gleaming.

And in that moment—in Eddie’s van, hair messy, heart racing—you felt more alive than you had in weeks.

Just two teenage dirtbags with egg-stained hands and nowhere else to be.

The van was parked at the edge of the woods, a spot you both stumbled on years ago—your unofficial hideout from everything. The trees opened into a clearing that caught the last light just right, turning everything gold and soft and quiet.

You and Eddie were lying side by side on the grass, backs pressed into the earth, heads tilted to the sky where the clouds burned orange and pink.

The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving a slow, syrupy warmth in your chest. One of your shoes was off. Eddie’s jacket was draped over both of you like a shared blanket.

He was playing with a blade of grass between his fingers, eyes half-lidded. “Do you think the eggs did any actual damage? Like, cosmetic damage. Paint-eating level.”

“I hope so,” you said softly.

He chuckled. “You’re terrifying.”

You turned your head toward him. “You’re just now realizing that?”

He gave you a lazy grin, and the world shifted just a little.

It was quiet for a moment. Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then Eddie spoke again, voice lower. “You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?”

You blinked. “Breaking and entering? Vandalism? Petty crimes in general?”

He snorted. “No—well, yes—but I meant… this. You and me.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He plucked another blade of grass. “It’s weird, right? Everyone else seems to… grow out of their people. Switch friends like seasons. But you stuck.”

You smiled, looking up at the sky again. “Maybe I just like weirdos.”

“Lucky for me,” he muttered.

You didn’t say anything for a moment. You were too busy trying to memorize this version of Eddie: eyes soft, voice gentle, golden light kissing his cheekbones.

You could feel it again—that fluttery thing in your chest that always showed up when he got quiet like this. You’d buried it for years under jokes and reckless nights and pretending you were just partners in crime.

But it never really left.

And now, lying beside him like this, it itched behind your ribs.

You turned your head slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know… if you ever decide to grow out of me, I’m locking you in that abandoned diner.”

He tilted his head toward you, smirking. “You’d have to catch me first.”

“Oh, I’d catch you.”

He chuckled, and the sound felt like home. Then, more seriously, “Not gonna happen. You’re stuck with me.”

Your chest ached in that soft, good way.

“Good,” you said, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t really want anyone else.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was full of something unspoken.

And you let it hang there, golden and quiet, in the space between your shoulders and his.

You should’ve known something was off the second you walked through the door.

Your mom was in the kitchen, humming. Humming. She hadn’t done that since... since she took your journal and called it "worrisome." And your dad was pretending to read the paper, though he hadn’t turned a page in five minutes.

Your stomach dropped.

“Sweetheart,” your mom called, too brightly. “We’re having dinner with the Darrows tonight. Come change, would you? Put on something… nicer.”

You blinked at her, halfway out of your shoes. “The Darrows?”

She smiled, the kind that never reached her eyes. “You remember their son, Nathan? He goes to the youth group at Trinity.”

There it was.

“You invited someone from church?” you asked flatly, incredulous. “Why?”

Your dad folded the paper like he’d been waiting to jump in. “He’s a good kid. Polite. Plays varsity basketball.”

“He wore loafers to gym class,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly. “He said Dungeons & Dragons was ‘satanic.’”

Your mom’s smile faltered just slightly. “Maybe it’s time you spent time with people who could be a good influence on you.”

You stared at her, chest slowly filling with heat. “This is about Eddie.”

“No,” your dad said—too quickly. “This is about your future.”

You laughed. A cold, stunned little sound. “You think I’m gonna marry Nathan Darrow?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“You’re trying to fix me,” you snapped. “Like I’m broken. Like Eddie broke me.”

“He’s not—” Your mom stepped forward, her voice soft but sharp, “—the kind of person you should be around.”

That did it.

You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. You just turned around, walked calmly to your room, grabbed your bag, and climbed out the window like you had a hundred times before.

You didn’t knock.

You didn’t have to.

Eddie opened the door the second you reached the top step, like he already knew it was you.

He took one look at your face and stepped aside, wordless.

You dropped your bag on the floor with a dull thud, toeing off your shoes.

Then you just stood there, in the soft yellow light of his living room, swallowing back the lump in your throat.

Eddie watched you quietly. “They tried again, huh?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “Tried to sell me off to a Bible boy.”

He didn’t laugh. He just opened his arms.

You stepped into them without hesitation.

He held you tightly, chin resting on the crown of your head.

The trailer was quiet now. Wayne was working the night shift, and the TV buzzed low in the background, playing some late-night rerun no one was really watching.

You were both at the tiny kitchen table, a half-eaten bowl of cereal between you, cold by now. Eddie was lazily flipping through a tattered Hit Parader magazine while you stared at your hands, still a little wrung out from earlier.

Then, suddenly:

“Let’s get outta here.”

You blinked. “What?”

Eddie looked up, grinning like a spark had just caught in his brain. “Like—out. Just for a night. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

He shrugged, leaned back in his chair. “Chicago. Why not? It’s what, three, four hours from here?”

You stared at him.

He was serious. And maybe a little sleep-deprived. But also serious.

“You want to drive to Chicago tonight?”

He grinned. “Yeah.”

“Eddie, we don’t have money.”

“I have ten bucks and half a tank of gas.”

“I have eight,” you said slowly. “And a granola bar.”

“See? That’s a feast,” he said, mock offended. “We’ll live like kings.”

You snorted. “What would we even do there?”

He shrugged again, that boyish, chaotic light in his eyes. “Get lost. Walk around the city. Maybe sneak into a punk show. Or sit on a rooftop and scream at the skyline. Doesn’t matter.”

And the thing was… it didn’t.

Because he was looking at you like you were the point of it all. Not Chicago. Not the getaway. Just the idea of being free with you.

You looked at him for a long moment, then said softly, “Okay.”

His smile grew, slow and wide. “Yeah?”

“Let’s be stupid.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You threw your bag into the back. He brought a couple of tapes, a hoodie, a few crumpled bills, and his lucky lighter. You didn’t even ask why.

As the van pulled out of the trailer park, the town faded behind you like static. Streetlights blurring. The stars overhead flickering faintly, and the open road stretching out in front of you like a promise.

“Freedom tastes like exhaust fumes and bad decisions,” Eddie declared, one hand out the window like he could catch the wind.

You laughed, head resting on the seat. “We’re gonna regret this.”

“Maybe,” he said, glancing at you with a crooked smile. “But not tonight.”

And for once, it felt like you could breathe.

Like running wasn’t running away—it was just running toward something.

Something that looked a lot like him.

They didn’t even check IDs.

Maybe it was the smeared eyeliner and scuffed boots. Maybe it was Eddie’s jacket with all the safety pins or the way you both walked in like you belonged.

Either way, you were in—bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the ceiling dripping with condensation, someone screaming into a mic like the world was ending and it needed to be loud.

You and Eddie lost yourselves in it. No one from Hawkins here. No judgmental stares. Just noise and lights and sweat and freedom.

He grabbed your hand during a guitar solo and spun you in the crowd, his hair sticking to his forehead, laughing like he was seventeen and unstoppable. You grinned wide, your voice raw from yelling, from singing along even when you didn’t know the words.

Later, after the band finished their set and you’d slipped out a side door that led into an alleyway full of graffiti and old posters peeling off the bricks, Eddie fished out a joint from his pocket like it was treasure.

“You carried that through state lines?” you asked, eyes wide.

He just smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You both leaned against the alley wall, the buzz of leftover adrenaline in your chest, sharing slow, quiet puffs between bursts of laughter.

The world softened.

The city was asleep, or pretending to be. Traffic lights blinked for no one. Steam rose from the grates in the sidewalk. You and Eddie walked side by side, dazed and giddy, your fingertips tangled together without thinking about it too hard.

You were both too high to be cold, too happy to care.

You kicked a stray can down the street. He tried to hop on a newspaper box and nearly fell off. Everything was hilarious.

And then, in a lull between laughs, he said, “Y’know, this feels like a movie.”

You glanced at him, lips parted in a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Like… the part right before the world gets all complicated again.”

You were quiet for a moment. The good kind of quiet.

Your hand tightened around his.

“I don’t care if it gets complicated,” you said softly, watching your steps on the sidewalk. “As long as you’re in it.”

He looked over at you—really looked—and for once, didn’t deflect with a joke.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. No dramatic tone, no grand promise. Just fact.

You nodded, a little dizzy. From the weed. From the night. From the boy beside you who made this whole goddamn city feel like home.

“I’m glad I have you,” you murmured, barely audible.

He squeezed your hand.

“Right back at you, trouble.”

The world was pale and still when you woke up.

Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing gently rocking you awake. One of his arms was curled around you, his other hand half-asleep against your hip. The old blanket he kept in the back was tangled around your legs, and the van windows were fogged from the inside.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

There were no words.

Just the soft hum of morning settling in, the birds starting their songs, the ache in your limbs from a night lived hard and full.

Eventually, Eddie blinked awake, eyes squinting at the light filtering through the windshield. His gaze flicked down at you. He didn’t look surprised. Just… calm.

You gave him a sleepy smile.

He smiled back.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Eddie parked a few houses down from yours like usual. The sun had fully risen now, casting golden light over the familiar neighborhood. Lawn sprinklers clicked on. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Everything felt painfully normal.

You sat in the passenger seat for a moment, your bag in your lap, neither of you ready to break the spell completely.

“Well,” you sighed, hand on the door handle. “Back to pretending.”

Eddie leaned forward, resting his arms on the steering wheel. “We’ll make it out again. Next time—maybe even with money.”

You smiled, heart pinched in the best way.

You opened the door, swung one leg out—then paused.

Leaning back in, you reached across the console and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks for running away with me,” you whispered.

His eyes widened just a little—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. He just smiled, slow and warm.

“Anytime, trouble.”

And with that, you slipped out of the van, hugging your bag close, and vanished up the side of your house just before the neighborhood fully woke up.

Eddie watched the spot you disappeared into for a few seconds longer, his fingers brushing the spot on his cheek where your lips had been.

School was out, and the Hellfire boys were all grouped near the back of the lot like always. Gareth leaned against Jeff’s car, drumsticks tapping lightly against his thigh. Doug was halfway through a story about a kid who fell asleep in math and drooled on his own worksheet. You were only half-listening, the zipper of your backpack clenched between your fingers.

Eddie was off to the side, scrawling something into his well-worn campaign binder, crouched on the curb. The sun caught in his hair. His chain hung loose. He looked ridiculous and perfect.

You smiled without meaning to.

“Alright, nerds, same time Thursday?” Eddie called out, shutting the binder with a dramatic snap.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jeff grinned, already sliding into the front seat.

The group started peeling away, shouting jokes and farewells, backpacks slung over shoulders.

You waved at Doug and Jeff as they piled into the car. “Later, losers.”

“Bye, honorary loser,” Doug called.

You turned back just in time to catch Eddie’s eyes. He grinned, and you shot him a mock salute.

“Drive safe, Munson.”

“I always do,” he lied, winking as he slid into the van.

You didn’t look away immediately.

And he didn’t either.

Then, with a little wave, he backed out and rolled off toward the main road.

You were still watching the van disappear when Gareth stepped up beside you, arms crossed.

“So,” he said casually. “When are you gonna tell him?”

You blinked. “Tell who what?”

He gave you a knowing side-eye. “C’mon.”

You tried to laugh it off. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure,” he said, drawing the word out. “Totally. You just happened to stare at him like he personally invented sunlight.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

Gareth just smirked. “I’m just saying. The rest of us already know. It’s just you and Eddie who haven’t figured it out yet.”

You turned away before he could see the color rising to your cheeks.

“See you Thursday, Gareth.”

“You owe me five bucks when you finally kiss,” he called after you.

You flipped him off over your shoulder—but you were smiling.

His room was a mess of posters, records, and the distinct scent of weed curling through the air. The window was cracked just enough to let the smoke drift lazily outside, and the two of you were stretched out on the floor, backs propped against the edge of his bed.

Eddie held the joint between his fingers, gesturing with it as he recounted the latest Hellfire session like he was reading from a holy text.

“And then—this is the best part—Doug’s bard tries to seduce the necromancer’s skeleton minion, like full-on charisma roll, flowers, everything—”

You choked on a laugh, nearly dropping the soda can in your hand. “What did you do?”

“I made him roll with disadvantage for being a creep,” Eddie said proudly, eyes alight with glee. “And the skeleton punched him in the face.”

You snorted, nudging your socked foot against his leg. “God, you’re so mean to them.”

“I’m fair,” he corrected, passing you the joint with a grin. “It’s not my fault their stupidity knows no bounds.”

You took a hit and leaned your head back against the mattress, exhaling toward the ceiling, warm and light and a little dizzy in the best way.

Eddie kept talking, something about a cursed dagger and Jeff accidentally summoning a demonic goat, but you weren’t really listening anymore. Not fully.

You were watching him.

The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way he moved his hands too much when he got excited. The little scratch in his voice when he’d smoked just enough.

Something in your face must’ve changed—softened, maybe—because he stopped mid-sentence and tilted his head at you.

“…Am I that interesting,” he asked, smirking slightly, “for you to stare at me like that?”

You blinked, startled.

Heat crept up your neck.

“Maybe,” you said, too slow, too honest.

He blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second—then he looked away with a quiet chuckle, scratching the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with the silence that followed.

You passed the joint back to him, your fingers brushing his. Neither of you commented on how long that touch lingered.

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking toward the window.

“You’re weird,” he said finally, voice a little softer now.

“You’re weirder,” you murmured back, your cheek tilted toward your shoulder as you watched him.

Then, after a beat, you blinked and looked away.

“…Sorry,” you said softly, the word slipping out like it was pulled from somewhere deeper than you expected. “For staring.”

Eddie didn’t answer right away.

You figured maybe he was trying to think of something funny to deflect with, like he always did. But then you heard the creak of the mattress as he shifted closer, and when you glanced back at him, he was already looking at you again.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. No smirk. No teasing.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Eddie leaned in just slightly, one elbow resting on the floor, hand curling near your knee but not touching.

“I like it,” he added, voice low.

Your breath caught.

“Like what?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“The way you look at me,” he said. “Like I’m… something.”

You blinked. The joint burned slowly between his fingers. You didn’t even notice the smoke anymore.

“You are,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You’ve always been something.”

Eddie let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh, like he didn’t know what to do with the truth of that. “You’re really gonna kill me, aren’t you.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you, his eyes tracing yours like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when you were this close. When the light was soft and low and you weren’t looking away.

“Because I’ve wanted to kiss you for, like, ever, and if you keep looking at me like that…”

You didn’t give him a chance to finish.

You leaned forward, slow but sure, giving him time to stop it—he didn’t.

Your lips brushed his in the softest, smallest movement, and then again, fuller this time, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt to hold onto.

Eddie let the joint fall into the ashtray. He kissed you back with both hands cradling your face, warm and a little clumsy like every nerve in him was firing at once. His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he pulled you closer, tasting like weed and soda and every shared laugh you’d ever had.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate.

It just was.

Something about kissing Eddie felt inevitable now — like you’d already been halfway doing it for years in every shared secret, every getaway, every “you okay?” and “come with me.”

The weed buzzed warm through your limbs, making everything feel hazy at the edges. Soft. Slower.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed against your lips, eyes flickering over your face like he wasn’t sure you were real. “You’re really doing this to me, huh?”

You smiled, fingertips tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Just shut up and keep kissing me, Munson.”

That got a breathless laugh from him, the kind that disappeared into your mouth as you pulled him into another kiss. Deeper this time. Messier. Less careful. His hands slid up under your hoodie, thumbs tracing the skin of your waist like he couldn’t believe you were letting him.

You rocked into him just slightly — enough to make his breath catch, enough to let him feel you weren’t playing around.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then under your ear. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You’ve been ruining me since seventh grade,” you whispered back, tilting your head to let him in.

You felt him smile against your neck, his hands tightening on your hips like he couldn’t help himself.

“Take me to your bed.”

Eddie’s eyes widened — pupils already blown out from the joint you shared earlier, but now they were all you could see. “You sure?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”

For a second, he didn’t move — just looked at you like he was trying to etch this moment into his soul. Then, carefully, he lifted you off his lap and helped you to your feet, tugging you gently by the hand toward the bed.

Once you were sitting at the edge, Eddie stepped between your knees, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Still with me?”

You answered by kissing him again, pulling him down with you until your back hit the mattress and he was leaning over you. You could feel him — his cock, hard and pressing into you through layers of clothes — and your cunt clenched in response.

Hands fumbled with zippers and fabric, laughter slipping between kisses as you both struggled with nerves and anticipation. You helped him pull off your hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, followed by your shorts. His shirt went next, then your bra, then your underwear — and suddenly you were bare beneath him, flushed and glowing.

Eddie’s eyes roamed every inch of you like he’d never seen anything so sacred.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Like… shit, I don’t even have words for you.”

Your face flushed deeper. “Then maybe just kiss me.”

And he did — from your lips to your neck, down your collarbone, teeth grazing gently as his hands explored you. When his fingers found your folds, he paused at how soaked you were.

“You’re really like this for me?” he murmured, running soft, slow circles that made your thighs twitch. “Goddamn…”

Your back arched, head falling back with a gasp. “Eddie…”

He took his time, working you open with gentle touches, one finger inside you, then two, curling and coaxing until you were clinging to his arm.

Only when you were writhing, panting, nearly coming undone from just his fingers, did he reach for a condom from the drawer.

You watched as he pulled his pants and boxers down, revealing his cock — flushed, thick, and hard. You swallowed at the sight, nerves and need colliding in your gut.

Eddie noticed. “Hey,” he whispered, leaning over you again. “We go slow, alright? You say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You nodded, hands trembling slightly as he rolled on the condom and settled between your legs, guiding himself to your entrance.

The stretch was slow — deeper than anything you’d felt, and you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. Eddie stilled, brushing your hair from your face.

“You okay?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah… just full.”

He kissed your temple. “I got you, sweetheart.”

When he started moving, it was careful — slow thrusts, each one deeper than the last, his hands bracing on either side of your head. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting more.

Every drag of his cock against the walls of your cunt made heat bloom low in your belly. His name left your lips like a chant, and in return he whispered yours with quiet reverence.

“Feels so good… you’re so perfect,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as his thrusts got a little faster, a little harder. “I’ve wanted this—God, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Your fingers clawed into his back as the tension built in your core — a tight, spiraling burn. And when his hand slid down to circle your clit just right, it tipped you over.

You came with a cry, clenching around him, and that was all it took.

Eddie moaned your name as he buried himself deep one last time, spilling into the condom with a quiet, shuddering gasp. His body collapsed over yours, forehead pressed to your shoulder as your breaths mingled in the thick silence.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Just breathing.

Just there.

Eventually, Eddie rolled to the side and pulled you with him, your limbs tangling as you lay together in the warmth of it all.

You stared at each other in the dim light, faces flushed, lips swollen. Then, shyly, you leaned in and kissed him — soft and slow.

“Still high?” he murmured.

You smiled. “Maybe. But also just… happy.”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek and grinned. “Me too.”

Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart as your fingers absentmindedly traced circles on his skin. The room had gone quiet except for the hum of the amp in the corner and the soft rustling of sheets every time either of you shifted.

His arm was wrapped around your shoulders, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“You good?” he asked eventually, voice a little raspy from smoke and breathless moans.

You nodded against his skin. “Yeah. Really good.”

A beat.

Then his voice dropped quieter, more uncertain. “So… that wasn’t just a high thing, right?”

You tilted your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, softer than you'd ever seen them. There was no teasing in his face, no cocky smirk. Just Eddie — wide-eyed, open, vulnerable.

You shook your head. “No. It wasn’t.”

A long breath left him, like he’d been holding it since the second your lips first touched. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve had feelings for you since, like… forever. And if I just ruined everything by being a horny idiot, I’d probably walk into traffic.”

You laughed quietly, scooting up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t ruin anything. I like you too. You know I do.”

He let that sink in, blinking up at the ceiling for a second. Then he turned back to you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “So what does that mean for us?”

You hesitated — not out of doubt, but the weight of saying it out loud.

Then you smiled, heart full. “I think it means you’re my boyfriend now.”

He blinked, a beat of silence… then lit up like someone plugged him straight into the power grid.

“Yeah?” he grinned. “Like officially? I get to tell people you’re mine and everything?”

You smirked, tucking your face into his neck. “Only if I get to tell people you’re mine too.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you impossibly closer. “You’ve always had me.”

There wasn’t a formal declaration, no big gesture. Just the two of you tangled up in each other, whispering and laughing and exchanging quiet kisses until you both dozed off.

And when Eddie drifted to sleep with his arms still around you, he had the softest, dumbest smile on his face — like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

The cafeteria buzzed with noise, same as any other day — clattering trays, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, the occasional yell from the jocks’ table. But none of that mattered as you made your way toward your usual spot.

You slid onto the chair beside Eddie with a lazy grin, and without saying a word, you reached into your pocket and handed Gareth a crumpled five-dollar bill.

He blinked, then slowly smirked as he took it. “Knew it. Knew it.”

Eddie glanced between the two of you, confused. “Wait, what the hell is this?”

“She owed me five bucks,” Gareth said casually, tucking the bill into his jacket. “Told her the day you two finally kissed, she’d owe me.”

Eddie’s brows shot up. “There was a bet?”

You shrugged innocently, picking at your lunch. “It wasn’t a bet. It was a prediction.”

Gareth snorted. “Same difference.”

Doug leaned forward, frowning. “Wait, kissed?”

Jeff narrowed his eyes. “Are you two—?”

Gareth grinned smugly. “Oh yeah. They’re a thing now.”

Doug blinked. “Since when?!”

You leaned back with a smile. “Since Friday.”

Then, just to twist the knife, you added casually, “Might’ve been more than just a kiss.”

There was a beat of silence before all three of them — Gareth included — let out overlapping groans of “Ew!” and “Dude!” and “We did not need to know that!”

Eddie was laughing, head thrown back, clearly loving every second of it. “God, I love this table.”

Doug covered his ears. “There are things you keep to yourself, man!”

“I did!” you said through laughter. “I was just being honest!”

Jeff shook his head. “There’s honest, and then there’s traumatizing your friends at lunch.”

Eddie leaned in, dropping his arm behind you on the chair. “They’ll live. Let them suffer.”

You grinned and rested your head against his shoulder for a second, completely unbothered by the dramatic reactions surrounding you.

Gareth muttered, “If you guys start making out at the table, I swear I’m transferring schools.”

You winked at him. “Noted.”

In the weeks since that night, everything had shifted — but in the best way. You and Eddie were still you — still sneaking off, still laughing until your stomachs hurt, still thick as thieves — but now there were kisses between conversations and fingers laced under the lunch table. He left scribbled notes in your locker. You stole his flannels. Everyone in school knew, and honestly, neither of you cared.

Being with Eddie was easy, loud, chaotic, and soft in all the right places.

But even with how bold you both were, one line remained uncrossed: your parents.

Until one afternoon, completely unannounced, Eddie Munson showed up at your front door.

You were in your room when the knock came. Then the second knock. Then your mom calling your name, a note of confusion in her voice.

When you came down and rounded the corner into the living room, you nearly choked on your own breath.

Eddie was standing in front of your parents, hands folded politely in front of him, hair surprisingly tamed, black jeans swapped for clean, hole-free ones, and his usual graphic tee replaced with a collared shirt. A button-up, no less.

He looked like someone had dressed him for a church bake sale.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am. Sir," he said, with the most forced, dramatic smile you'd ever seen. “I hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to formally introduce myself.”

Your mom was too stunned to speak. Your dad just blinked.

You, on the other hand, stood frozen behind them, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You could practically see the effort Eddie was putting into this performance — the polite tone, the slightly bowed head, the complete absence of any skull rings or visible chains.

He even brought a Tupperware of cookies. Store-bought. But he tried.

Your mom finally said, “Well… that’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, I do my best,” Eddie replied with a small chuckle, glancing briefly at you behind their backs — and the look he gave you was pure mischief.

You were going to lose it.

Your dad finally broke the silence with a gruff, “Well, we weren’t expecting visitors.”

Eddie nodded solemnly. “Understandable, sir. I wouldn’t want to barge in, but I figured—” he held up the Tupperware like it was an offering to a god, “—it’d be rude not to say hello properly. Y’know, now that I’m… dating your daughter.”

Your mom gave you a sharp look. You stared back, eyes wide like I didn’t know he was coming either! And then you looked at Eddie, who just stood there, proudly holding his plastic box of cookies like it was a peace treaty.

“Anyway,” he continued, his voice syrupy sweet, “I just wanted to assure you both that I have the utmost respect for your daughter. She’s brilliant. And funny. And kind. Also, she's terrifying when she’s mad, so I know better than to screw it up.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow. Your mom tried to hide a smirk.

You were going to explode.

“I cleaned out my van this morning,” Eddie added helpfully. “Even vacuumed.”

Your mom blinked. “…Oh?”

“Just thought it might help my case,” he grinned.

And somehow, some way, it did.

Your parents weren’t charmed exactly — not yet — but Eddie’s sincerity was hard to deny. He wasn’t pretending to be someone else. He was just turning the volume down. Being presentable. Being brave.

After a few more awkward exchanges and a polite invitation to sit (which he accepted with way too much formality), you ended up next to him on the couch while your parents asked him safe, small-talk questions.

He answered everything — enthusiastically, but just shy of theatrical — and even managed to win a chuckle out of your dad with a well-timed joke about shop class.

When your mom stood to go grab drinks, Eddie leaned toward you slightly and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “I feel like I’m in an episode of Leave It to Beaver.”

You snorted.

“Don’t laugh, you’ll blow my cover.”

You stifled your smile behind your hand.

And when your mom returned with a tray of iced tea and Eddie accepted his glass with a “thank you kindly, ma’am,” you realized just how far he was willing to go — not to change who he was, but to show the people you lived with that he cared. That he wasn’t just your bad influence. That he was something steadier, something that could be good for you.

He caught your gaze while sipping politely from his glass, and his pinky stuck out just a little — just for you. Just to make you laugh.

God, you were in trouble.

You walked him out with the front door clicking shut behind you, silence stretching over the porch like a blanket. The evening air was warm, a slow breeze rustling the trees above as you both stepped down the driveway toward his van.

Eddie was quiet for once, hands in his pockets, still wearing that ridiculous button-up. His curls had started to frizz a little from the heat, and the edges of his nerves were just starting to show again.

You didn’t say anything until you reached the passenger side.

“That was stupid,” you said, arms crossed, but your mouth was tugging into a smile.

Eddie turned to you, playing innocent. “Define stupid.”

“Showing up like that. The shirt, the cookies, the ‘yes ma’am, no sir’ routine—”

“Hey, that was sincere performance art,” he shot back with mock pride. “Do you know how hard it was not to swear for twenty minutes straight?”

You laughed, stepping closer until you were right in front of him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his cleaned-up façade. “It was so stupid.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “But did it work?”

You looked up at him, letting your eyes soften just enough to let the truth slip through. “Yeah.”

Eddie exhaled, just a little. “Good.”

You leaned in, pressing a hand to his chest, fingers curling against the collar of his shirt. “You didn’t have to prove anything to them.”

“I know,” he said softly, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “Wasn’t for them.”

Your heart fluttered.

You let that hang between you for a second before pulling back, smirking. “Still stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “But you like stupid.”

You nodded. “I like you.”

He kissed you gently — not rushed, not greedy, just warm and sure and a little amused. When he pulled back, he whispered, “Same.”

Then he opened the driver’s door with a dramatic bow. “Until our next ridiculous adventure, m’lady.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed him lightly toward the seat. “Go before my dad changes his mind.”

He blew you a kiss and climbed in. As the van rumbled to life and pulled away, you stood there barefoot on the driveway, grinning like an idiot.

Yeah, you liked stupid.

Especially when stupid came with a heart like his.

Things didn’t change overnight.

Your parents didn’t suddenly love Eddie — they weren’t inviting him over for Sunday dinners or quoting Iron Maiden lyrics at the table — but they were trying. The edge in their voice softened when they said his name. The disapproving glances turned into skeptical ones. Your mom even smiled at him once, unprompted.

That was a big day.

Eddie kept being Eddie. He didn’t start tucking in his shirts or going to church — he just showed up with a little more patience and a lot less noise when it came to your parents. He didn’t mock the rules anymore (at least not out loud), and you made sure not to push every boundary just to prove a point.

You were figuring it out. Together.

And as for the two of you?

It was good. Stupidly good.

The dynamic hadn’t shifted much — you were still sneaking off in his van, still laughing until they wheezed, still lying side by side under open skies talking about nothing and everything — but the label gave it something extra. Something real.

Calling each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” didn’t change who you were. It just put a word to what you'd already been feeling for a long time. Like a puzzle that had been finished for months but was missing that one last piece.

Now, it was all there. In place. Whole.

Sometimes, you’d look over at him while he ranted about guitar solos or rolled a joint with theatrical flair and think — God, how did I ever live without this?

And sometimes, he’d catch you staring and smirk. “You’re doing it again,” he’d tease.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

You'd smile, lean in, and say, “That’s because you are.”

And Eddie — blushing, grinning, stupid, hopeless Eddie — would mumble something like “Damn right,” and kiss you like he meant it.

Because he did.

And you never stopped letting him know you meant it, too.

[vingtetunmars]

uh oh my cover has been made 👀 glad you enjoyed my fic though!!

Out of Step, In Sync

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: After a disappointing prom night, you stumble into an unexpected conversation behind the gym with Eddie Munson—Hawkins’ favorite scapegoat and misunderstood metalhead. What starts as a casual talk over a shared escape turns into something else unexpected.

Tags: Fluff, pure fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, honestly yall will need a dentist, SFW, mutual pining, developing relationship, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, prom, dancing, 80s sci-fi references, no upside-down. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N

A/N: Yeah, you know me, I love a good 'ol fluff, I needed to feel something. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 8.4k

masterlist

You didn’t even bother glancing back.

The bass from the gym echoed down the corridor, muffled and distant, like a heartbeat you weren’t part of. Glitter clung to your dress and your shoes pinched with every step, but you didn’t care. The heels were coming off soon anyway. The air back here was cooler, quieter, less drenched in Aqua Net and teenage desperation. You welcomed it like an old friend.

You weren’t angry. Not even a little heartbroken. Just… done. Your so-called prom date was slow dancing with some girl from his chem class—too close, too familiar—but honestly? It was a relief. The two of you had nothing in common, and you’d spent most of the evening counting down the songs until you could leave without it being “a thing.”

Now, finally, you were alone.

You pushed the heavy double doors open and stepped out into the cool night. The gym’s back lot was empty, save for a few leftover streamers fluttering from a fence post. You sighed, breathing in the crisp air. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada buzzed lazily.

Then you caught it—the scent of smoke.

Cigarette smoke.

You turned your head and there he was, half-shadowed by the building’s edge, denim jacket draped over a worn prom tee, black slacks like he hadn’t tried at all—and still somehow made it work. Eddie Munson, leaning against the brick wall like the whole world bored him to tears.

He raised an eyebrow when he noticed you, but didn’t say anything at first. Just took another drag and watched you with a crooked smile.

“Well, well,” he said finally, voice low and amused. “Didn’t peg you for a backdoor escape artist.”

You crossed your arms, smirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d show up at prom.”

He shrugged. “Had to see it to believe it. The glitter. The heartbreak. The emotional meltdowns. It’s like a zoo in there.”

You laughed, the first real one of the night. It caught you off guard.

He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and nodded toward the gym. “So. Who do I have to thank for you gracing the back alley with your presence?”

You tilted your head. “My date’s dancing with someone else.”

Eddie winced dramatically. “Oof. Harsh.”

“Nah,” you said, leaning against the wall beside him. “We had the chemistry of a wet sponge. I’m just glad he realized it before I had to fake a bathroom emergency.”

He chuckled, and it sounded honest. Warm.

“Well,” he said, holding the cigarette out like an offering, “welcome to the land of misfit prom-goers.”

You eyed the cigarette, then shook your head. “I’ll pass. But thanks, ambassador of the misfits.”

Eddie grinned, sliding it back between his lips. “Suit yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt kind of… easy. The thump of music behind you became background noise, like it belonged to another world. You looked out across the empty lot, then back at him.

“So what about you?” you asked. “Didn’t have a date either?”

Eddie snorted. “Please. Can you imagine me at a formal dinner with someone’s mom taking pictures? Nah. I’m just here for the chaos. Thought I’d maybe sneak in, spike the punch, throw a few firecrackers—y’know, the classics—but someone already beat me to it. So now I’m stuck lurking like a gremlin in the shadows.”

You laughed again, easier this time. “Well, you wear the gremlin look well.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “High praise.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Peaceful. Like the noise of the gym didn’t even exist out here.

You twirled the cigarette in your fingers. “I used to think you were all noise, y’know,” you said without really thinking. “Like, loud music and heavy boots and wild hair.”

“I mean, I am all of those things,” he said, raising a brow.

“Sure,” you said. “But I don’t know… I think there’s more to it.”

He looked at you for a second, like he was trying to read your mind. Then he smiled. “Alright. Your turn. Tell me something about you that’d surprise me.”

You thought about it. Then, what the hell.

“I like science fiction. Books. Comics, too.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not something I talk about. People think it’s weird.”

“Okay, hold on.” He straightened up, suddenly animated. “What kind of sci-fi? Like, classic stuff or weird future dystopia stuff?”

“Both,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov. And there’s this one graphic novel series I’ve been obsessed with—The Long Tomorrow. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

Eddie’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? Moebius is a god. That gritty noir-future vibe? That’s, like, the blueprint for half my D&D campaigns.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you like Moebius?”

“Like him? I worship him. I have The Airtight Garage under my mattress so my uncle doesn’t ‘accidentally’ throw it out during one of his cleaning sprees.”

You couldn’t stop smiling now. “That’s ridiculous.”

He pointed at you with his cigarette. “You’re ridiculous. All this time I thought you were just another prom queen in disguise and now you’re telling me you’re secretly a sci-fi nerd?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not a prom queen.”

“No,” he said, grinning. “You’re way cooler.”

The compliment caught you off guard. There was no smirk behind it, no teasing edge—just honesty. His eyes lingered on yours, and for the first time all night, you felt seen. Not dressed up, not performing, just you.

“Guess we both had the wrong idea,” you said quietly.

He nodded. “Guess so.”

And just like that, the space between you didn’t feel so distant anymore.

You both stood there for a while, trading stories—about favorite books, childhood cartoons, and how utterly overrated prom was. You were surprised how much you had in common. Maybe not in how you moved through the world, but in the way you looked at it. Like both of you were on the outside looking in, only now you had company.

Through the slightly cracked door, a new song filtered out. Faint but unmistakable.

“I wanna know what love is…”

You glanced back toward the gym. The colored lights flickered just beyond the windows, a blur of red and blue. The music carried more clearly now, bleeding into the cool night air like some kind of cosmic joke.

Eddie took another drag, then stubbed out the cigarette under his boot. “You should go back in,” he said after a moment, flicking ash from his fingertips. “It’s prom. Go dance with someone. Someone who doesn’t hang out behind dumpsters and make fun of the decorations.”

You tilted your head at him. “You mean someone boring?”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Someone who won’t get you judged by, like, the entire social hierarchy of Hawkins High.”

You shrugged. “I already got ditched by my date. What’s the worst they can do? Gasp?”

Eddie smiled, but his eyes drifted back toward the glowing gym windows. “Still… I’m not exactly prom royalty.”

“Well, neither am I,” you said. “So maybe that’s the point.”

He didn’t answer. Just rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking unsure of himself for the first time that night.

You tilted your head again, studying him. “You know,” you said slowly, “you could go dance too.”

Eddie barked a short laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He held up his hands, surrender-style. “I can’t dance. I mean it. Like, at all. I’ve got rhythm when I’m playing guitar, but put me on a dance floor and I look like I’m dodging bees.”

You stared at him for a moment. Then something wild and impulsive bubbled up inside you.

You stepped forward, just close enough to be a little dangerous.

“Okay,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “So don’t go on the dance floor.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Stay right here. Dance with me.”

Eddie straightened slightly, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. “Are you… serious?”

You nodded, smiling now. “I’ll guide you. You don’t have to know how. Just follow me.”

He hesitated. And for a second, you thought he’d say no. But then, slowly, like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast, he took your hand.

His fingers were warm. Calloused. A little shaky.

You placed his other hand at your waist, your free hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

The music swelled behind you, soft and sweet and full of yearning.

“…and I want you to show me…”

You started to sway, just a little. Nothing fancy. Just moving to the rhythm, simple and easy.

“Okay,” you said, voice low. “Just match me. That’s it.”

Eddie watched your feet like they held all the answers in the universe, but he followed. Awkwardly at first. Then with a little more confidence. Then a little more.

He looked up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re really doing this.”

“So are you.”

And under the stars, with music bleeding out from a world that didn’t quite fit either of you, Eddie Munson danced.

With you.

You didn’t let go.

And for the life of him, Eddie couldn’t understand why.

Your dress swaying slightly in the night breeze, and you were holding his hand. Guiding him like this was just some normal thing people did — like you weren’t the kind of girl who was supposed to laugh behind your locker with friends in matching dresses. Like you weren’t way too pretty, too bright, too out-of-his-league to be caught slow dancing with the town freak behind a gym full of people who’d never get it.

But there you were. Smiling at him like he wasn’t a joke. Like he wasn’t just a rumor in black denim.

And all Eddie could do was follow your lead.

You moved gently, no pressure. Just a simple sway. His hand was on your waist, and he could feel your heartbeat through the fabric, could feel the way your fingers gripped his just enough to ground him. Like you knew he was seconds away from spinning off the planet.

How was this real?

For once, Eddie Munson wasn’t putting on a show or throwing up middle fingers at the world. He wasn’t posturing or mocking or performing.

He was just here.

Dancing with you under the stars, to a song he didn’t even like, and somehow? It felt like the most honest thing he’d ever done.

The ride home was quiet, but not the awkward kind. The good kind. The kind that settled between the two of you like a blanket, warm and easy.

Eddie’s van rumbled softly down the back roads, headlights cutting through the dark. Your heels were in your lap, your feet bare and curled up on the seat, glitter still dusting your legs. The leftover makeup smudged slightly beneath your eyes, but you didn’t care. Neither did he.

He kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed, but you didn’t say anything.

The radio played something soft—some late-night ballad that felt a little too on the nose—but neither of you reached out to change the station. It kind of fit.

When he finally pulled up in front of your house, the engine idled low, casting the porch in pale yellow light. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

You turned to him, your voice softer than it had been all night. “Thanks for the ride.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and gave a small, genuine nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

You opened the door, about to step out, then hesitated.

“And… thanks for earlier,” you added, eyes meeting his. “I actually had fun tonight.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Like… more than I’ve had in a while.”

Eddie’s fingers drummed once on the steering wheel. “That’s kinda sad,” he teased. “But I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes darker in the dim light. “You’re not what I expected,” he said, quietly.

You tilted your head. “Good unexpected?”

He shrugged, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you now. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You nodded slowly, then stepped down from the van. The door thunked shut behind you, but you lingered at the curb, turning back one last time.

“See you Monday?”

He grinned. “I’ll be the one getting detention.”

You laughed, backing toward your porch.

And he stayed there, parked under the streetlight, watching you go—wondering what the hell just happened, and why he kind of, maybe, really wanted it to happen again.

Monday’s cafeteria buzzed with leftover prom talk—who wore what, who threw up in the parking lot, and who was already regretting their choice of date. You sat with your usual group, a tray of barely-touched food in front of you, picking at a soggy fry as your friends swapped stories.

“I swear, if I hear more stories of Lisa and Charlie slow dancing, I’ll puke,” one of them groaned.

“I heard Jeff cried during I Wanna Know What Love Is,” another snorted.

You chuckled under your breath, but you were only half-listening. Your thoughts were still stuck somewhere in the quiet part of Friday night—lit by stars, wrapped in soft music and Eddie Munson’s uncertain hands.

“Okay,” said Courtney, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “tell us. What happened with you? You disappeared after ten.”

Your stomach did a small flip. “I, uh… went outside for some air.”

“That long?” someone chimed in. “Didn’t your date ditch you?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. But it was mutual, kinda. No chemistry.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “So what, you just wandered off?”

You hesitated, then decided to own it.

“I ran into Eddie Munson. We talked for a while.”

The table quieted. You didn’t miss the way someone blinked. Or the small, uncomfortable scoff.

“Wait—Eddie Munson?” said one of the girls, drawing out his name like it tasted wrong. “As in… Hellfire Club, Eddie?”

You looked up, steady. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” another said under her breath. “Isn’t he like… failing half his classes?”

“I heard he might repeat senior year again,” someone else added. “That’s like—what, his third time?”

You set down your fry and leaned back a little. “So what?”

That shut them up for a beat.

You looked around the table. “He was nice. We talked. We danced. It was actually… fun.”

Courtney blinked at you, like she couldn’t quite process it. “You danced with Eddie Munson?”

You smiled. “Yeah. He’s different than people think.”

They exchanged a few glances, probably trying to figure out if you were serious, but you didn’t give them room to argue. You just went back to your tray, casual but firm.

You didn’t owe them anything else.

And when they finally moved on to a different story, you let your mind drift again—back to Eddie’s hands, awkward and warm in yours, and the way he’d smiled like no one had ever looked at him the way you had.

The final bell rang and the halls of Hawkins High exploded with noise—slamming lockers, shouted goodbyes, the usual stampede toward the exit. You were pulling out your books, ready to head home, when a familiar mop of messy curls came into view.

Eddie.

He almost walked past, arms full of binders and that damn lunchbox of his, but then he spotted you. His grin bloomed instantly.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite prom partner,” he said, walking backward in front of you with dramatic flair.

You snorted. “I’m your only prom partner.”

“Details,” he waved off, turning to walk beside you. “Still the best.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile too wide, but it was hard. He kept cracking jokes—half of them dumb, some surprisingly clever, all of them weirdly charming. By the time you reached the front doors, you were laughing hard enough to forget about the weight of your backpack or the way people stared.

Outside, the sun was still high, casting golden light over the parking lot. You lingered near the bike racks, and Eddie rocked back on his heels, suddenly looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

He scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You doing anything right now?”

You blinked. “Not really. Why?”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Wanna get milkshakes or something?”

You tilted your head, amused. “Are you asking me out?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, eyes wide. “I mean—not that you’re not—ugh.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Not like a date date, just, y’know. A post-school, ice-cream-adjacent hangout. Very casual. Extremely non-threatening.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You’re doing a terrible job of making it sound casual.”

He groaned. “God, I know.”

You paused for a second. Then smiled.

“Yeah. Let’s get milkshakes.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Really,” you said, starting to walk again, this time toward his van. You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Do I get to pick the music in your van?”

He placed a hand over his heart, mock wounded. “Absolutely not. But you can control the windows.”

Lunchtime in the cafeteria. Same old gray plastic trays, same mystery meat, same half-hearted arguments about campaign rules. Eddie was halfway through explaining, for the third time, why rolling a nat 1 on perception doesn’t mean you automatically get eaten by a mimic, when something—or rather, someone—stepped into his line of vision.

You.

He blinked up at you, startled. You were holding something. A piece of paper, no—thicker than that. Watercolor paper.

You thrust it out toward him before he could even say hi.

“I, um… I made this.”

Eddie looked down.

It was a watercolor painting. Bold, messy brush strokes in warm and murky tones. And there, standing like some strange cosmic king, was Major Grubert from The Airtight Garage. Rendered with this dreamy, layered energy—loose and vivid, with little gold details that shimmered when they caught the light.

“You painted this?” he asked, dumbfounded.

You nodded quickly, already looking like you regretted everything. “I don’t know. It’s dumb. I just— You said you liked the comic, and I was painting for art club, and I thought maybe you’d—”

He stared at you.

You stared at the floor.

“Anyway,” you rushed, already backing up. “You don’t have to keep it or anything. I just—yeah, okay, bye.”

And then you turned on your heel and disappeared between the tables, like a mirage, gone as fast as you came.

For a second, Eddie didn’t move. His tray sat forgotten, and the painting was still in his hands.

“What the hell was that?” said Gareth.

Jeff leaned over, squinting. “Is that… art?”

“Holy crap,” said one of the freshmen, eyes wide. “Did she just give you that? Like, a gift?”

“I think she did,” Eddie murmured.

He was still staring at it. Still stunned.

Because it wasn’t just the painting—though that alone was cool as hell—it was the fact that you made it for him. That you remembered that offhand comment about The Airtight Garage from days ago. That you painted this weird little sci-fi character, and thought of him while doing it.

It was… a lot.

Eddie cleared his throat, trying to shake the dazed look off his face. “Shut up,” he mumbled, carefully sliding the painting into his binder like it was made of glass. “None of you get it. It’s called being interesting, you cretins.”

They didn’t stop staring.

Gareth leaned over the table. “Dude. Seriously. What was that?”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “Did you hex her or something?”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered, still guarding the painting like it was top-secret government property. He shoved it deeper into his binder, then clapped it shut with a loud snap.

“You’ve been weird all week,” Jeff pointed out.

“Yeah, man,” Gareth said, gesturing wildly. “You’ve been, like… smiley. It’s freaky.”

Eddie sighed like a man defeated, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fine,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low. “If I tell you, will you shut up and let me eat my damn lunch?”

They all nodded in rapid, eager unison.

Eddie leaned forward slightly. “We danced at prom.”

The table went silent.

“What?” Gareth blinked. “Who did?”

“Me and her,” Eddie said, voice a little more defensive now. “It just kind of… happened. She came outside. We talked. She offered. I didn’t step on her feet. Miracle of the decade.”

“She asked you to dance?” Jeff repeated, stunned.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jeff. It’s not that hard to believe.”

“It’s just—she’s, like… art club. Social. Normal,” said Doug.

“And I’m a freak,” Eddie finished, not angrily—just matter-of-fact. “Yeah, yeah. I know. That’s the whole thing, right?”

They all exchanged awkward glances.

Eddie softened a little. “We’ve just been talking since then. That’s all. She’s cool. Funny. Into sci-fi stuff. And apparently, she paints really badass cosmic generals in her spare time.”

The group went quiet again, but this time with a slightly different energy.

Jeff nodded slowly. “Huh.”

“Damn,” Gareth muttered. “Did not see that coming.”

Eddie shrugged, leaning back in his seat and finally stabbing at his lunch. “Neither did I.”

But under the table, his fingers tapped quietly on his knee—restless in that weird, hopeful way.

Because yeah… he didn’t see it coming.

Your room looked like a clothing explosion.

Jeans on the bed. A skirt on the floor. Three different tops draped over your chair. You stared into the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your favorite shirt for what had to be the fourth time, then gave up and let out a groan.

It wasn’t a date.

Not officially.

But still.

Eddie had asked you yesterday—Eddie Munson, king of chains, dice, and anti-establishment rants—if you wanted to go to the new Starcourt Mall. He’d said it kind of awkwardly, like the words felt weird in his mouth. Then he’d doubled down with, “I mean, I hate malls, they’re corporate brain rot, but if you’re there too, I guess I won’t spontaneously combust.”

Which, translated from Eddie-speak, meant: I want to spend time with you, and I’m doing something completely out of character because it might make you smile.

So yeah. Maybe it was a date.

You adjusted your hair again, spritzed the tiniest bit of perfume, and gave yourself one last once-over. Just polished enough to show you cared—but not so much it looked like you were trying. Hopefully.

A soft knock on your door pulled you back to Earth.

Your mom peeked in, eyes twinkling.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

She pushed the door open with a hand on her hip and an expression halfway between curiosity and polite judgment. “There’s a young man waiting downstairs for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “He’s early?”

She shrugged. “Five minutes. Maybe he was excited.”

You tried to hide your smile as you turned back to the mirror, smoothing down the hem of your nicest top. Not fancy fancy — just enough to look like you put in effort. It wasn’t every day Eddie Munson asked someone to hang out somewhere as un-Eddie as the Starcourt Mall.

You were flattered. And a little impressed. He was trying.

Your mom lingered by the doorway, arms crossed loosely now.

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

You paused, lip gloss wand hovering in the air. “I’m not. We’re just… hanging out.”

She arched a brow. “Uh-huh.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “I mean it.”

“Well,” she said, pushing off the doorframe. “He’s… not what I expected.”

You turned slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Leather jacket. Messy hair. Rings on every finger. He’s got a… rough-around-the-edges thing.” She shrugged. “I didn’t peg him as your type.”

You hesitated. “Is that a problem?”

She raised her hands. “Not for me. Just... interesting choice.”

Then, softening, she added, “But he stood up when I walked in. Called me ma’am. And he didn’t look at the family photos weird, so… he’s alright in my book.”

You blinked. “Wow. High praise.”

“I’m just saying,” she smiled. “You could’ve warned me you brought home a James Dean type.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time you were grinning. “He’s not like that.”

“If you say so.”

With that, she turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t leave him waiting too long—he keeps checking his watch.”

Your heart fluttered.

You gave yourself one last look in the mirror—quick swipe of gloss, tuck of hair behind your ear—and grabbed your bag.

You didn’t expect Eddie Munson to know his way around a shopping mall.

And to be fair… he didn’t.

From the moment you stepped into Starcourt’s fluorescent glow, he looked like a vampire in daylight—eyes squinting, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, muttering about “late-stage capitalism” like the air itself offended him.

“This place smells like fabric softener and broken dreams,” he declared as you passed an Orange Julius stand.

You grinned. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d have already burst into flames.”

But despite all his grumbling, he stuck close. Arm brushing yours. Slowing down when you lingered in shop windows. Letting you tug him toward places you knew he’d secretly like—like the comic shop tucked near the food court, where he perked up at the sight of a rare Swamp Thing issue and ended up ranting, passionately, about horror art for ten straight minutes.

After that, it all got easier.

He let you drag him through a novelty store, where he made you try on glittery heart-shaped sunglasses and nearly bought a lava lamp “just because.” At Sam Goody, you flipped through cassette tapes while he made dramatic gagging noises at pop albums and then—when he thought you weren’t looking—quietly bought a Bowie tape because you mentioned liking one song.

Somewhere between Cinnabon and Spencer’s, your arms brushed again.

And this time, he didn’t move away.

Instead, he offered his elbow in that silly, exaggerated way, like some knight escorting royalty through battle. You rolled your eyes but linked arms anyway.

You didn’t unlink for a while.

When you passed the photobooth, it was your idea.

“C’mon,” you said, already tugging at his sleeve. “We have to. It’s practically a law.”

“I hate pictures,” he protested.

“Too bad.”

He grumbled, but followed.

The booth curtain smelled like static and old gum, and the light inside was way too bright. But Eddie slid in beside you anyway, pressing his knee against yours in the cramped space.

The timer beeped.

First photo, a blur of you both, too late to pose.

Second photo, you were smiling, he was sticking his tongue out.

Third, he turned his head and said something just as the flash went off, so his mouth was frozen mid-word and you were laughing.

Fourth, he looked at you. Really looked. And you looked back, cheeks warm. And for that one second, neither of you made a face.

That last one made your stomach flutter.

The strip slid out a few seconds later, still warm from the machine. You both leaned over it, smiling like idiots.

“I’m keeping this one,” you said, pointing to the last shot.

“No way. That’s the best one.” He mock-whined. “It’s mine now.”

“Split it,” you said, already reaching for it. “Even trade.”

So you carefully tore it down the middle, each of you keeping two little squares. You tucked yours into your wallet. He stuffed his into the pocket of his jacket like it was something worth keeping safe.

After that, you shared a cherry slushie and browsed the record store. You ended up on one of the benches near the fountain, your shoulders bumping gently as you sat.

Eddie kicked at the tile with the toe of his boot. “Okay, confession,” he said, not looking at you. “This was kinda fun.”

You smiled. “Even though it’s a capitalist wasteland?”

He grinned. “Especially because of that. I got to rant and be dramatic and walk around with a pretty girl on my arm. All the core Eddie Munson needs.”

You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder.

And you didn’t say it out loud, but in your pocket, the photo strip pressed between your wallet like proof:

Something was happening between you.

And it felt really, really good.

The smell of acrylic paint alingered in the air, windows cracked just enough to let in the late afternoon breeze. You sat cross-legged on a stool, paintbrush in hand, blotting a soft gradient of pink across the corner of your sketchbook while your friends chatted around you.

“So then Brad says he didn’t cheat, he just ‘accidentally’ kissed her,” Courtney said, rolling her eyes as she rinsed a brush in a cloudy jar of water. “Like that’s a thing.”

“Classic,” Angela muttered. “Men are such a disease.”

You hummed in vague agreement, still focused on blending your colors. It wasn’t until Courtney nudged your foot under the table that you looked up.

“Okay, but you had that smug little look on your face when you walked in,” she said. “So. Tells us. What did you do this weekend?”

You paused.

Then smiled. Just a little. “I went to the mall.”

“Ugh, I live there,” Angela said. “With who?”

“…Eddie.”

Courtney blinked. “Eddie Munson?”

Angela dropped her pencil. “Seriously?”

You shifted in your seat, brushing a spot of paint from your thumb. “Yeah.”

They exchanged a glance, the kind that was just a little too loaded. “Are you—like—serious with him?” Courtney asked, a bit cautiously.

You looked down at your sketchbook.

The memory hit you fast and warm—Eddie, leaning back on a food court bench, drumming his fingers against his knee and grinning every time your hand brushed his. The way his face softened when he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. The photobooth picture in your wallet, folded so carefully it was starting to wear at the edges.

You swallowed, eyes flicking back up.

“I don’t know yet,” you said honestly. “But… maybe.”

Courtney raised a brow. “I mean, he’s kind of—”

“Different,” Angela finished for her. “Like, not who we thought you’d be into.”

You let out a breath, not defensive—just tired of that tone.

“He’s actually really sweet,” you said. “He listens when I talk. He cares about stuff. He remembered I liked a random song and went back for the tape the next day. He’s not what you think he is.”

The girls went quiet for a second.

Then Courtney shrugged. “Okay. I mean, if you like him.”

“I do,” you said quietly, adding a final brushstroke to your page. “More than I thought I would.”

Angela cracked a smile. “Well… if he breaks your heart, we’re egging his van.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

The library was louder than usual—not in noise, but in energy. Stress hung thick in the air, like a storm cloud hovering over every student hunched at their tables. Pages flipped, pencils scratched, the occasional frustrated sigh echoed off the stone walls. It was exam season.

Eddie Munson was in hell.

His science textbook lay open in front of him, untouched for the last ten minutes. His notebook was empty, save for a rough sketch of a dragon flipping off a periodic table. He tapped his pencil against his lip, eyes unfocused, legs jittering under the table.

This wasn’t his place. He hated the cold lighting, the itchy silence, the way it all felt like it was judging him for every gap in his knowledge.

And then you walked in.

Like sunlight in a storm.

You made your way across the room, dodging backpacks and tangled limbs, carrying your bag against your hip and a calm expression that made it look like you weren’t drowning in deadlines and formulas. You spotted him, gave a little wave, and sat down across from him.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. “Hey.”

You glanced at the disaster zone of his table—crumpled notes, half-drawn doodles, an empty soda cup with a chewed straw—and smiled.

“Rough day?”

Eddie dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m about five minutes away from faking my own death and starting a new life as a gas station poet in Ohio.”

You laughed, but it softened quickly as you reached into your bag and pulled something out: a clean, colorful folder. It had your name written neatly on the corner, and sticky notes poking from the sides like a rainbow spine.

You slid it across the table toward him. “These are my notes. For science. And history. And… okay, maybe I got carried away.”

He blinked. “You—”

“They’re color-coded. Definitions are in blue. Equations are pink. Anything our teachers stressed in class is highlighted. I even made flashcards, they’re in the back pocket.”

Eddie just stared at it.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because something about it felt… personal. Intimate.

No one had ever done something like this for him before.

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know, maybe it’s dumb. But they helped me. I figured maybe they’d help you too.”

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cover. Then, reverently, he opened it.

It was like walking into your mind. Your handwriting curled neatly over page after page. You’d drawn little diagrams. Circled key dates. There was even a little cartoon mitochondrion wearing sunglasses on one page.

He swallowed.

“This is…” he said quietly, still flipping pages. “This is incredible.”

You shrugged, trying not to blush. “Just thought you could use a little help.”

Eddie didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, running his thumb along the edge of one of the pages like it might disappear if he let go.

Then he looked up at you. Not with the usual teasing smile or lazy smirk.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I swear to god,” he said, voice low and serious, “if you keep being this perfect, I’m gonna have to make you mine.”

Your heart stuttered.

You blinked, stunned—but not in a bad way. Just… surprised by the weight of those words, how much they didn’t sound like a joke.

You recovered with a half-smile. “You should probably focus on passing chemistry first.”

“Baby, I’m failing chemistry because you walk into the room and all the atoms in my brain rearrange.”

You laughed, covering your face for a second. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s emotional science,” he insisted. “Way more complicated.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth wouldn’t leave your cheeks.

He closed it gently, like he was sealing up treasure.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

“Of course,” you replied, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve been helping me too. Just in a different way.”

Eddie tilted his head. “Oh yeah? How?”

You looked at him, and this time, didn’t hesitate. “You make me feel like I don’t have to hide the weird parts of myself.”

Eddie’s eyes softened.

“I’d riot if you did.”

You were digging through your locker for your pencil pouch when you heard it—footsteps, pounding fast down the hallway, like someone was being chased. You didn’t even look up until a voice you knew all too well shouted your name like it was a fire alarm.

“Hey!”

You turned just in time to see Eddie Munson nearly skid on the polished floor as he sprinted toward you, hair wild, jacket flapping behind him like a cape.

He nearly collided with the locker beside yours, bracing himself with one hand, breath coming in quick bursts.

“Eddie—what—?”

“I passed,” he said, eyes bright and disbelieving. “I passed.”

It took you a second to register what he meant. “Wait—like... everything?”

He nodded, grinning so hard his face looked like it might split open. “Everything. Math, English, science—Mrs. Miller gave me a D-minus, but that’s still a D! That’s still passing!”

You dropped your books onto the floor without even caring.

“Eddie, that’s amazing!”

And before you knew what you were doing, you threw your arms around him.

He laughed into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor for a second, spinning once with the wildness of it all.

“I had to tell you first,” he said, voice muffled in your hair. “I ran here.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, eyes shining with something that looked way more intense than just pride.

He looked at you like you were the sun after months of rain.

“Seriously, I never would’ve made it without you,” he said. “Those notes? Those flash cards? The dumb acronyms you made up so I could remember physics formulas—”

“They weren’t dumb,” you said, laughing.

“They were adorable,” he corrected, like it was obvious. “And apparently effective.”

His hands were still on your waist. Yours were curled into his jacket without you noticing. Your faces were close—closer than usual. And you saw it flicker across his face—something unspoken, something about to break through.

And then it did.

He kissed you.

No hesitation, no stammering this time. Just a sharp inhale, and then his lips were on yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t polished or practiced—it was a kiss powered by sheer joy, by the rush of success and the comfort of you, by everything he’d been holding back. His hands slid from your waist up to your jaw, cradling your face like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And the thing was—you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back, arms looping around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him in the middle of this ridiculous, beautiful rush.

When he finally pulled away, your faces still close, you could feel his breath fanning your lips, still uneven.

You stared at him, slightly dazed, your pulse thundering in your ears.

“…You didn’t plan that, did you?” you asked, voice half-breathless, half-amused.

Eddie gave the softest little laugh, head leaning against yours for a second as he caught his breath.

“Not even a little,” he said. “I think I blacked out after I said ‘I passed.’”

You shook your head, cheeks burning in the best way.

He grinned, wild and flushed and completely Eddie. “You’re gonna be so sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

And you didn’t even have to think about it.

Because if this—this chaotic, sweet, completely unfiltered boy—was the reward at the end of every academic achievement?

You’d tutor him forever.

“Eddie’s here,” your mom called from the hallway, her voice light and knowing.

You looked up from the mirror, heart skipping just a little.

Your dad’s voice followed a beat later from the living room. “Tell him to keep it under 60 this time.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately as you grabbed your bag. “He only sped once, and that was because we were late for grad practice.”

“He was going eighty,” your dad replied.

“It was downhill,” you said, already headed for the door.

You passed your mom in the hall, and she gave you a soft smile. “He brought flowers. Again.”

You couldn’t help the way your smile grew.

When you stepped outside, the warm air wrapped around you like a blanket. The sun was still high, the cicadas buzzing lazily in the trees, and there he was—leaning against his van like he belonged there, a bouquet of mismatched wildflowers in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his worn jeans.

He looked up the second he heard the screen door creak.

And you swear, even now, after everything, he still looked at you like it was the first time.

“There she is,” he said, grinning wide.

You walked up to him, arms crossing just to keep yourself from doing something embarrassing, like swooning. “What’s the occasion?”

Eddie held out the flowers. “Just celebrating the fact that I somehow tricked the universe into giving me a girlfriend this amazing.”

You rolled your eyes, taking them anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned closer, voice low and smug. “And yet… here you are.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours, but your smile gave you away.

He opened the passenger door for you with an exaggerated bow. “M’lady.”

“Such a gentleman,” you muttered, climbing in.

As he circled the van to the driver’s side, your dad stepped out onto the porch with a glass of coffee and a suspicious glare.

Eddie gave a little wave and a crooked smile. “Sir. Swear I’ll have her back by ten. Eleven max. No stunt driving this time.”

Your dad just raised an eyebrow.

Eddie slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and pulling on his seatbelt. “He loves me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you said as he started the engine.

“So,” he said, flicking the stereo on low, “this theater just started showing Back to the Future. Two days early, somehow. I figured a little time travel with you sounded better than melting in my room watching The Evil Dead for the twelfth time.”

You laughed and gave him a look. “You just want to see the DeLorean.”

“…Okay, also that.”

He reached over and laced your fingers with his, resting your joined hands on the bench seat between you.

The van rumbled down the sunlit road, windows cracked open, the summer air carrying in the scent of grass and gasoline. Your hair danced in the breeze. Eddie hummed along to whatever cassette was playing—a little out of tune, but you didn’t mind.

Not when his thumb kept tracing slow circles over the back of your hand.

Not when the entire summer felt like it was unfolding in front of you like something sacred.

And as he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning like you were the best part of the world—

You thought maybe you were right where you were supposed to be.

The mall was alive with its usual symphony—chatter, synth-pop from overhead speakers, the distant ding of arcade machines, and the occasional whir of the fountain in the food court. You and Eddie split off the moment you stepped into the theater’s cool, air-conditioned lobby.

“I’m getting the tickets,” he said, already headed toward the box office.

“And I’m getting snacks,” you said before he could argue, already turning for the concession stand. “Don’t fight me on this, Munson.”

He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

When you met back up, he handed you a single stub—he’d already torn them and given the other to the usher. You handed him a large bucket of popcorn and a cherry Icee with two straws.

Eddie blinked. “You got two straws in my Coke?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s our Coke now.”

His heart may have done a ridiculous little flip at that, but he just grinned and led the way inside.

The theater was dark and cool, the trailers already rolling as you found seats near the middle—close enough to feel immersed but far enough that you weren’t cranking your neck. Eddie set the popcorn between you, but you curled into his side instead, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm and resting your head gently on his shoulder.

He stilled for half a second, surprised by the contact—he never quite got used to the way you just… leaned into him like that. Like it was easy. Like it was safe.

“You comfortable?” he whispered, glancing down.

You nodded without looking up, your voice soft. “Perfect.”

When the movie began, the glow of the screen lit your faces in blues and oranges and whites. You quietly giggled at the opening scene, nudging Eddie every time something ridiculous happened—he whispered a sarcastic comment back each time, just enough to make you cover your mouth to stifle laughter.

At one point, he reached into the popcorn bucket and accidentally brushed your hand. You didn’t move away. Neither did he.

When Marty McFly first hit 1955, you leaned closer, eyes wide with wonder. Eddie didn’t say anything—just smiled a little to himself, letting you rest there, your head warm on his shoulder, your heartbeat syncing quietly with the slow, steady thrum of his.

And in the dark, surrounded by strangers and movie magic, Eddie Munson let himself imagine—just for a moment—what it might be like to have this forever.

The van rolled to a quiet stop in front of your house, headlights casting soft beams across the porch. The movie was long over and the cassette in the stereo had looped twice already.

Neither of you moved.

You glanced at Eddie with a small smile, fingers nervously picking at the edge of your sleeve. “Thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

He turned toward you, his hand resting on the steering wheel. “Yeah? Me too. That was…” He looked at you like he was still a little surprised this was real. “That was a good night.”

You both laughed at how underwhelming that sounded.

“I mean—great night,” he amended, mock-dramatic. “One for the ages.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. “Come on, rockstar. Walk me to the door?”

Eddie hopped out first and came around the van, opening your door like he always did—even when you rolled your eyes at him for it. The night air was warm but quieter now, the street still and bathed in porchlight glow. You walked side by side up the driveway, close enough that your arms brushed.

At the bottom step, you turned to face him.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet like he wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words. “I, uh… hope this wasn’t too boring. You know the mall and a movie isn’t exactly my usual scene.”

You shook your head. “I loved it. And… I like seeing different sides of you.”

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Small, warm, a little shy.

You stood there for another beat, the silence stretching out but never uncomfortable. Just full—like both of you were hoping time would slow down.

“Well…” you started, tilting your head toward the door.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess this is—”

You kissed him.

Soft and certain. You leaned in first, lips brushing his with the kind of ease that only came with practice and care. He melted into it instantly, one hand slipping to your waist, the other steadying him against the railing like the whole world had narrowed down to just this.

When you finally pulled away, your noses were still almost touching.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” you whispered.

He blinked, dazed. “Goodnight.”

You stepped inside with a smile still tugging at your lips, and the second you closed the door behind you—

“That was quite the kiss.”

You jumped. Your mom was standing in the kitchen, sipping tea with your dad, both of them clearly having witnessed the entire thing from the window.

“Did he trip over the step again?” your dad asked casually. “He always does that when he’s nervous.”

You groaned. “You two seriously have nothing better to do?”

Your mom just smirked, eyes twinkling. “We like seeing you happy.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t stop the grin from breaking through.

Because yeah… you were happy.

Dating Eddie Munson is nothing like you expected—and everything you didn’t know you needed.

It’s loud music in his van, the kind that rattles the floorboards and makes you laugh when he drums on the steering wheel like the world’s watching. It’s his leather jacket slung over your shoulders when the air turns cold, his rings cool against your skin when he reaches for your hand. It’s messy hair, wild ideas, and the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, like it means something.

It’s learning to love the chaos, and realizing that under all that noise and bravado, Eddie’s just… gentle. Thoughtful. Unbelievably loyal.

Dating Eddie is getting a cassette made just for you—your name scribbled on the label, each song chosen because it reminds him of you. It’s him sitting beside you while you paint, trying not to move too much even though he’s definitely itching to fidget. It’s him reading the comics you lend him, even the weird ones, just so he can talk to you about them later.

It’s milkshakes and movie nights and the kind of laughter that makes your chest hurt. It’s long drives with no destination, arms dangling out the window, his voice carrying through the breeze as he sings along—terribly—to some over-the-top power ballad.

It feels like a plot twist Eddie Munson never saw coming.

He thought he knew how his story would go—misunderstood metalhead, high school dropout, maybe famous one day if he got lucky. But then you happened. And now every chapter feels rewritten.

It’s surreal, honestly.

You—who used to feel so out of reach—actually laugh at his stupid impressions and roll your eyes in that way that kills him, but never walk away. You sit next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You hold his hand like you mean it. That alone blows his mind.

It’s the way you look at him like he's not some town freak. Like he’s not a rumor or a punchline or a lost cause.

Like he’s enough.

He'll go to every goddamn mall just to see you smile under neon lights, taking photos in a booth he secretly keeps in his wallet, and pretending not to blush when your head rests on his shoulder during a movie.

Dating you, to Eddie, feels like finding out the world isn’t as cruel as he thought it was.

It’s not always easy. He still worries he’s not good enough for you, that you’ll wake up one day and see what everyone else says they see. But you never flinch. You just keep showing up. Keep choosing him.

And he’d burn down the whole world just to deserve you a little more.

Yeah. Dating you?

It’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

[vingtetunmars]

In the Dark

Pairing: Joel Miller X F!Reader

Summary: You've known Joel Miller your whole life — as your dad’s best friend, as Sarah’s father, and now, quietly, as yours. In a world that still thinks of you as the babysitter he once trusted, the two of you navigate love in the margins.

Tags: NSFW, smut(18+), dbf!Joel, Austin!Joel, no outbreak, no Ellie (sorry), Sarah is Alive, modern au, established relationship, secret relationship, age gap (mid 20s/late 40s), oral sex f receiving, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it yall), p-in-v. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: I said I'm gonna write dbf!joel, and I've come to deliver. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 8.7k

masterlist

The phone rang just as you were sliding your leftovers into the fridge, still dressed in the same slacks you'd been wearing since nine that morning. You didn’t even check the caller ID. Only one person still called you instead of texting—your dad.

You tucked the phone between your shoulder and ear, closing the fridge with your hip.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm with that familiar Southern rasp. “You busy this weekend?”

You paused, leaning against the counter. “I wasn’t planning on it. Why?”

“Thinkin’ of throwing a little barbecue Saturday. Nothin’ big, just the usual crew. Figured you could come by, see your old man, eat some actual food instead of that fancy city stuff.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Barbecue doesn’t sound too bad.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he chuckled. “Joel’ll be there too. Said he might bring ribs.”

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your voice level. “Cool. Sounds good.”

“You can bring someone if you want,” he added, casual but with that hopeful tone he always used when fishing for information. “A date. Or… you know. A friend.”

You laughed, deflecting. “If I can find someone who’s not terrified of you and your smoker, I’ll let you know.”

“That’s fair,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “Alright. Don’t be late, alright? I’m puttin’ you in charge of the potato salad.”

You groaned. “Why do I always get stuck with the most boring side?”

“Because I trust you not to screw it up.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thanks, Dad.”

“See you Saturday, kiddo.”

The call ended, and you set your phone down gently. The apartment was quiet again, the soft hum of the city filtering in through the windows. Outside, the downtown lights blinked against the early summer haze, and traffic rumbled lazily over the bridge nearby.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the produce section was packed with tired people in business casual, all moving like zombies on autopilot. You weaved through them with a half-full basket, already regretting your decision not to order delivery.

A tub of mayonnaise, a bag of red potatoes, mustard, celery. You mentally checked them off one by one, grabbing them with robotic precision. All that was left was the wine, and maybe something sweet for yourself, because you survived another week without quitting your job or snapping at a VP. Barely.

You turned down the wine aisle and reached for your usual bottle of red when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Joel

You going tomorrow?

Your hand froze on the bottle neck.

You blinked at the screen, warmth blooming low in your stomach like it always did when his name lit up your phone. A short, simple message, and still—it hit different.

You typed back quickly, glancing around like someone might be reading over your shoulder.

You

Yeah, just grabbing stuff now. You?

A pause.

You picked up the wine and added it to your basket, chewing your lip.

Then your phone buzzed again.

Joel

Wouldn’t miss it. Even if your dad makes me haul that damn smoker across the yard again.

You smiled, thumb hovering over the screen for a second longer than necessary before responding.

You

Sounds like free labor to me.

Joel

Only for you.

Your breath hitched just a little. You glanced around the aisle again, but no one paid you any mind. Just strangers, scanning labels and tapping their credit cards against machines. The whole world, going about its business. Like this was nothing.

You

See you tomorrow ♡

You hit send before you could second-guess it.

Joel

See you ♡

Then you tucked your phone back into your coat pocket, cheeks warm, heart a little lighter than it had been all day.

Saturday afternoon in the suburbs felt like a different planet compared to downtown Austin.

You turned off the main road and into your dad’s neighborhood, windows down, letting the warm breeze roll through your car. Lawns were freshly cut, kids zipped by on bikes, and someone a few houses down was already grilling—smoke curling into the sky and mixing with the smell of charcoal and sun.

Your childhood home looked exactly the same. A little more faded around the edges, maybe, but still steady. Still lived-in. You parked behind Joel’s old pickup, the same one he’d driven since you were sixteen, and grabbed the grocery bag from your passenger seat.

Your dad was already in the backyard, you could hear the low hum of country music and the occasional pop of laughter. You let yourself in through the front door and made a beeline for the kitchen to drop off the wine and potato salad.

"About time," your dad called from the back. “Joel’s already got the grill going!”

You rolled your eyes and slipped through the sliding door, stepping into a wall of heat, smoke, and familiar voices. Your dad was by the smoker, drink in hand, and a couple of neighbors you half-recognized from years ago waved lazily from lawn chairs.

And then there was Joel.

He stood near the patio table, tongs in hand, dressed in a dark tee and jeans, boots dusty like always. His salt-and-pepper hair curled slightly from the heat. He looked up the moment you stepped out—and for a second, just a second—you saw it.

The flicker.

But it was gone just as fast.

"Hey, there she is," Joel said, smiling like it was any other Saturday.

You walked over, setting the grocery bag on the table. “You start grilling without me?”

"Would’ve waited, but someone was late.” His tone was teasing, casual. "Got your dad all riled up, thought he’d have to make the potato salad himself.”

You smirked. “Yeah, I’d pay to see that.”

He chuckled, reaching into the bag to peek at what you brought. His fingers brushed yours—just briefly—but the touch was so quick, so natural, it didn’t even register to anyone else.

You both had this down to a science.

“Wine’s a good pick,” he said, turning the bottle to glance at the label. “Still got good taste.”

Your dad called for him then, something about the coals being too hot, and Joel gave you a final glance—one you could only read because you knew him.

See you later.

Be careful.

I missed you.

All folded into one half-second look.

And then he was gone, back to tending the fire and cracking jokes like nothing in the world was different.

But you knew better.

Laughter floated through the open windows, mixed with the hiss of meat on the grill and the clink of beer bottles. You’d made the rounds, hugged neighbors, helped your dad carry out an extra chair, and politely dodged questions about your love life like a professional.

But the heat was getting to you now—not just the Texas summer kind. The kind that lingered in your chest every time you caught Joel’s eye. The kind that burned a little behind your ribs whenever his shoulder brushed yours too close in passing.

So when you slipped inside with an empty glass in hand, no one questioned it. Not even your dad, too distracted retelling some story at full volume.

Joel followed five minutes later.

You heard the back door creak, quiet, careful. The same rhythm you knew by heart. You were already upstairs, the old hardwood groaning under your step as you moved toward your childhood bedroom. The door was cracked open, like it always used to be.

You slipped inside.

The room hadn’t changed much. Your dad had left it mostly intact, save for the treadmill shoved in the corner and the stack of old mail on your desk. Posters from your high school days still hung on the walls, and your twin bed creaked the same way it always had when you sat down on the edge.

Joel entered without knocking.

His eyes swept over you, and the way the tension dropped from his shoulders—it did something to you. Like you were the relief he didn’t even know he needed.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he murmured, shutting the door softly behind him.

You didn’t say anything. Just stepped toward him.

He met you halfway, one hand finding your waist with practiced ease, the other cupping your jaw as your mouths found each other. You kissed him slow, greedy, like trying to make up for all the words you hadn’t said earlier. He tasted like smoke and mint, like Texas heat and memory.

His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. You tilted your head back, breath hitching as he pressed you gently against the door.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” you whispered between kisses, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded.

Joel smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching against your skin. “You say that every time.”

“And every time, I mean it.”

“But you still let me.”

You kissed him again briefly before letting your forehead rest against his chest, heart racing as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you like it was the only time he’d get to.

“I missed you,” you said softly, the words muffled against his shirt.

“Been missin’ you all week,” he replied, his voice low and rough. “Thought I was gonna lose it seein’ you out there and not bein’ able to touch you.”

“You’re touching me now.”

“Not nearly enough.”

A moment passed. Then another.

And then you both sighed—because you knew the clock was ticking.

He kissed your temple, a gentle press of lips that made your chest ache. “Come on,” he murmured. “Before your dad starts wonderin’ why we both disappeared.”

You nodded, fixing your shirt, smoothing your hair in the mirror as Joel opened the door like he hadn’t just backed you up against it five minutes ago.

He walked out first. You followed a minute later, empty glass in hand again like nothing had happened.

Just another summer evening.

Just another barbecue.

Just another secret, tucked between the walls of the house you used to call home.

The backyard had settled into that perfect golden-hour rhythm—half-eaten plates on paper napkins, someone’s Bluetooth speaker playing Tom Petty, and a few neighborhood kids trying to catch fireflies under the trees. Your dad was deep in conversation with Joel by the grill, both of them gesturing with tongs like they were debating something deeply important. You smiled to yourself, sipping your wine and letting the humid air cling to your skin.

You hadn’t seen Sarah in a while. She’d grown so much since the last time you babysat her—taller now, more confident, with that same mischief in her eyes Joel always carried in his smirk.

She flopped into the chair beside you, a can of sparkling water in hand.

"Hey, stranger," she said, nudging your knee with hers. “You still too cool for the suburbs?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Always. But you’re making a strong case for coming back.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine. “You missed some good stuff. I won the school art show last month. You would’ve been proud. It was this chaotic collage thing—I called it ‘burnout but pretty.’”

“That sounds amazing. You gotta show me later.”

“I will.” She leaned back in the chair, legs stretched out in front of her. “Dad wouldn’t shut up about you coming today, by the way. Acted like you were the main attraction.”

Your stomach twisted—just a little. You hid it with a smile.

“Yeah, he still treats me like I’m the mayor of Austin or something.”

“He’s always liked you,” she said, casually. “Like, even when I was a kid, he always said you were the only babysitter who didn’t just put me in front of the TV and text boys.”

You laughed, but the guilt pressed just a bit heavier now.

Because you’d kissed her dad. Not just kissed. You knew every line of his hands. You knew the exact sound he made when you touched the side of his neck. And here Sarah was, still seeing you the way she always had—someone safe. Someone good.

You glanced toward the grill, where Joel was laughing at something your dad said, his whole face lit up in the kind of smile you rarely got to see in public. Your heart ached.

Sarah leaned forward, elbow on her knee. “You good?”

“Huh?”

“You spaced out for a sec.”

You shook your head quickly. “Yeah, yeah. Just... tired. Long week.”

She gave you a look. “Corporate life killing your soul again?”

“Every damn day,” you said, grateful for the shift. “If you ever sell that ‘burnout but pretty’ collage, I’ll hang it in my office to remind me to quit.”

“I’ll send you a print,” she said, nudging you again.

You smiled, and this time, it wasn’t so forced.

The guilt hadn’t gone away. But maybe for now, you could pretend things were still simple. That you weren’t balancing between who you used to be to this family, and who you were now—when no one was looking.

It was just past six when your phone buzzed.

Joel

Almost there. You leave the door unlocked?

You smiled to yourself, already padding barefoot across your apartment floor to make sure the deadbolt was undone. The evening light poured in through your living room windows, casting long amber stripes across the couch, the throw blanket, the half-finished glass of wine on the coffee table.

You

Door’s open. Hurry up, old man.

You set your phone down and smoothed your palms over your top, suddenly a little more aware of how you looked. Not that you were dressed up—just cotton shorts and a loose t-shirt—but with Joel, comfort was kind of the point.

He hadn’t been to your place since the barbecue a week ago. Things had been busy—life, work, the usual distractions. But the quiet ache in your chest hadn’t let up since you last saw him.

A few minutes later, the door clicked open. His footsteps were familiar, slow and steady across your hardwood floor.

“Hey,” you said, leaning against the kitchen island.

Joel shut the door behind him, that slow smile pulling at his lips the second he saw you. “Hey, yourself.”

He looked good—black t-shirt, jeans slung low on his hips, his hair a little messy like he’d run his hand through it too many times on the drive over. The kind of casually disheveled that made your stomach flutter.

You walked over, meaning to hug him, maybe kiss his cheek—but Joel didn’t stop at polite. His arms wrapped around you with something deeper, something full of relief and want. He held you close, lips brushing the side of your neck.

“Missed you,” he murmured.

You melted a little. “I missed you, too.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss you, slow and lingering, his thumb resting at your jaw like he didn’t want to let go. And god, you’d forgotten how grounded you felt with him—how quiet the world became when he was close.

“Barbecue wasn’t enough time,” he said quietly, brushing his nose against yours.

“Nope,” you replied, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “Didn’t even get to finish a conversation with you without someone yelling about grill tools.”

He laughed against your mouth, and you felt it all the way down your spine.

“Good thing I’m here now.”

You nodded. “You staying a while?”

His eyes met yours—deep, unreadable, but warm. “That depend on if I’m wanted.”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed him again—slow, unhurried, letting it build.

Because you had the night.

And maybe the conversation would last this time.

Or maybe it wouldn’t.

Because when Joel’s hands slid under the back of your thighs and lifted you onto the counter with practiced ease, conversation was the last thing on your mind.

Joel didn’t rush.

His hands were steady, warm against your skin as he guided you back onto the kitchen counter, lips never straying far from your neck. The loose hem of your t-shirt rose higher with each soft press of his fingers along your thighs.

“You always greet me like this?” he murmured against your jaw. “Or am I just lucky?”

You smiled, breath hitching as his hands gripped behind your knees and pulled you forward, hips flush with the edge of the counter. “You’re not lucky,” you whispered, curling your fingers into his hair. “You’re mine.”

That did something to him—you could feel it in the way his hands tightened slightly, the way he breathed in deep, like he was trying not to unravel all at once.

He kissed you again, deeper now, slow and searching. One hand held the small of your back while the other slid beneath your shirt, fingers grazing your side until they reached the curve of your breast. He circled your nipple softly, until you arched into him with a quiet gasp.

“Always so responsive,” he said lowly, watching your face. “Drives me crazy.”

And then, without warning, he dropped to his knees.

Right there in the middle of your kitchen, his shoulders pressing between your legs as he gently hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sleep shorts. You lifted your hips automatically, your heart thudding as he slid them down with a kiss to your inner thigh.

The moment was quiet, thick with anticipation—until he looked up at you with that dark, focused stare, and then lowered his mouth to your pussy.

His tongue was patient, slow as he explored you, dragging deliberately between your folds until your hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. He moaned against you softly—like you were something to be savored, worshipped.

You whimpered, tilting your hips toward his mouth, chasing the warmth of his tongue as he flicked it over your sensitive clit.

“Joel—”

He glanced up again, lips shining, eyes heavy-lidded. “Right here, baby. I got you.”

He returned his mouth to you, hands tightening on your hips to keep you steady. His tongue moved with more purpose now—circling, stroking, coaxing. You could feel your breath stuttering, heat coiling low in your belly with every pass of his tongue through your entrance, every soft press of his lips.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

“Let go,” he murmured against your rose, voice rough. “Let me take care of you.”

And you did.

You came with a quiet cry, hips bucking against his mouth as he held you firm, licking you through it with unrelenting devotion. He stayed there even as your breathing slowed, as your muscles relaxed, until your hand finally found his hair and tugged gently.

He rose slowly, face flushed and damp, looking more undone than you’d ever seen him. And the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the room that mattered—made your heart stutter all over again.

Joel carried you to the bedroom like he always did—steady, careful, as if you were something delicate he couldn’t risk breaking. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, still warm from everything he’d just done to you.

The bedroom light was off, but the city glow leaked in through the window blinds, casting faint lines of gold and shadow across the sheets. He laid you down with a soft exhale, his eyes drinking you in as he hovered above you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough, but tender.

You nodded, one hand slipping under the hem of his shirt to press against his stomach. “More than okay.”

Joel leaned down and kissed you again—slow, lingering, and full of quiet hunger. His shirt joined yours on the floor a moment later, and your hands were all over him. You knew this body. The slope of his shoulders, the map of old scars and sun-warmed skin. But tonight he felt different—more intent. Like he missed you in a way that wasn’t just physical.

You ran your fingers down his chest, pausing to brush lightly over his buttons. He groaned softly at the contact, duck already twitching in his jeans, straining against the fabric.

“Take these off,” you whispered, tugging at the waistband.

He smiled against your mouth. “Bossy tonight.”

You only gave him a look, and he gave in with a laugh, pushing his jeans and boxers down with a practiced ease. His cock sprang free, already thick and hard, and your thighs instinctively parted beneath him.

Joel kissed a path down your neck, across your collarbone, pausing to take one of your nipples into his mouth. His tongue circled it slowly, teasing, until your back arched and your fingers tangled in his hair.

“Need you,” you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You got me.”

You reached between your bodies and guided him to your entrance, his cock nudging against your folds, slick with anticipation. The stretch was slow and steady, and you both let out breathless sounds as he sank into you.

“Jesus,” he muttered, forehead dropping to yours. “Still so damn tight.”

You clung to him, gasping softly as he filled you, inch by inch, until he was fully seated. The way he moved—it wasn’t rushed. It was measured, almost reverent. Like he needed to feel every inch of you around him. Like he needed to remind himself you were real.

His thrusts started slow, deep, rocking into you with the kind of patience only he had. You met each one with soft moans, your body rising to meet his rhythm, your pussy aching around him as he hit all the right angles.

“Look at me,” he whispered, brushing your hair from your face. “Wanna see you.”

You obeyed, eyes locking with his. And what you saw there—affection, want, something dangerously close to love—it made your chest ache in the best way.

He kissed you through it. Again and again. Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, heels digging into his lower back to keep him closer, deeper.

Joel’s pace quickened just slightly, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room. His name left your lips over and over, a soft, breathy chant that only made him move harder, rougher, until the tension began to coil in your belly again.

“I’m close,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, his voice ragged. “Come on, baby. Come for me.”

You fell apart with him still buried deep inside you, your whole body shaking as he followed soon after—grunting your name as he spilled into you, hips stuttering, head buried in the crook of your neck.

He didn’t pull away immediately.

Just held you there, chest heaving, lips pressed against your skin.

You lay tangled in the sheets, skin still humming, Joel’s weight half on top of you, his head resting just below your collarbone. His hand was splayed low on your stomach, thumb stroking mindless patterns into your skin like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

Outside, the city buzzed faintly. Inside, all you could hear was his breathing—slowing, settling—and the ticking of your wall clock.

You ran your fingers through his hair, combing gently at the roots. “You gonna fall asleep on me?”

He grunted, not moving. “Think I earned a nap.”

You smiled. “You gotta be home by ten, old man.”

“Mmm. Don’t remind me.”

But he shifted, pressing a kiss just above your breast before rolling onto his side. He pulled you with him, wrapping his arms around you until your cheek was tucked against his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

You stayed there for a while. No words. Just warmth. Safety. Familiarity.

Eventually, he sighed. “Sarah’s got school in the morning. I told her I was runnin’ errands tonight.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t get cold or weird. You just nodded against him. “She still sleeping over at Kayla’s this weekend?”

“Yeah. Friday night.”

You traced a little line over the faint scar near his shoulder. “Then I’ll keep Friday open.”

He kissed your hair in response.

This was how it always was—quiet goodbyes, softened by shared warmth and trust. You never made him feel guilty. You never needed more than what he could give. And he never treated you like a secret to be ashamed of—just a quiet part of his world no one else knew about.

“I’ll clean up in the kitchen before I head out,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

You leaned back enough to look at him, still smiling. “You’re really domestic after sex, you know that?”

He smirked, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb. “I like takin’ care of you.”

That made your heart squeeze a little.

You leaned up and kissed him—slow and sweet. “Then go be a dad, Joel. I’ll be here.”

He nodded, reluctantly untangling himself from your arms. He always moved slower when it was time to leave, like he wanted to drag it out just a few more seconds.

And you let him.

Because time with Joel wasn’t just stolen.

It was sacred.

He hadn’t expected to see you there.

It was some bar downtown, nothing special—brick walls, decent live music, too many guys in jeans trying to look like cowboys. Joel had just come in for a drink and maybe some quiet. Then he caught a flash of you out of the corner of his eye—walking past with that confident sway in your step, a soft smile tucked into your lips, like you knew exactly who you were.

It knocked the wind out of him a little.

You hadn’t seen him yet, but he watched you talk to someone at the bar, then laugh—head tilted back, eyes bright. You looked older. More sure of yourself. Not the kid who used to babysit Sarah, who sat on the back porch eating popsicles and trying not to look too bored when the grown-ups talked.

You spotted him a few minutes later. Gave him a wave and made your way over.

“Joel,” you’d said, sliding into the booth across from him. “I didn’t expect meeting you here?”

He huffed. “Just tryin’ somethin’ new.”

It started casual. Friendly. A few drinks. Jokes. Updates on life and work. You told him about your new job downtown. He told you about Sarah’s soccer team and how bad he was at parallel parking. It felt easy. Familiar. But something was different. There was something in your eyes tonight—something bold.

And when your knee brushed his under the table, you didn’t pull away.

Joel ignored it. He had to.

You leaned in a little more when you laughed. You licked the rim of your glass slow. You twirled a strand of hair around your finger like it was nothing.

And then your foot slid up his calf.

He blinked at you. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

You tilted your head, that grin getting just a little more dangerous. “Just talking.”

“That ain’t just talkin’.”

You shrugged, playing innocent. “Maybe I like you, Miller.”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand across his mouth. “You’ve been drinkin’.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I’m old enough to be your—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cut clean through the booth. “Don’t say dad. You’re not. You’re my dad’s friend. That’s not the same.”

He stared at you, shaking his head. “Still ain’t right.”

“Why?” you challenged, voice lower now. “Because it makes you feel something? Because I’m not a kid anymore, and you can’t look away?”

Joel looked down at the table, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t let this happen. But damn it, you weren’t wrong. You weren’t a kid. And you looked at him like he was wanted—like he was more than some aging contractor with baggage and a quiet house.

“You keep pushin’,” he muttered. “I’m gonna give in.”

You smiled. “Good.”

That did it.

He threw down a few bills for the drinks and grabbed your hand without another word. You followed without hesitation, matching his pace through the back door and out into the quiet alley where his truck was parked. The second the door closed behind you both, the tension snapped.

Joel backed you against the side of his truck, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding back for years. Your fingers fisted in his shirt. His hands were already sliding under yours. You moaned into his mouth, and he drank it in like he’d been starving.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your lips. “One word and I will.”

But you didn’t.

You pulled him closer.

And just like that, the boundary shattered.

Right there in the dark, behind that downtown bar, he stopped being your dad’s best friend.

And you stopped being off-limits.

It was one of those rare slow days—no meetings, no client calls, no deadline breathing down your neck. The sun was high, Austin heat thick but bearable, and your fridge was nearly empty. So you figured you’d kill two birds with one stone: stop by the grocery store and then pay your dad a visit in the suburbs.

You pulled into the familiar driveway just past noon, a paper bag of croissants and fresh strawberries in your arms. His truck was in the garage, the front door already swinging open before you even rang the bell.

“Well, look who decided to grace me with her presence,” your dad called, stepping back to let you in.

“Be grateful,” you said, lifting the bag. “I brought baked goods.”

He smirked. “Then I take it all back. Come in.”

The house still smelled the same. A mix of old wood, coffee, and that citrus cleaner he swore by. You dropped your keys and bag on the kitchen counter before plopping onto the couch.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out and your thumb instinctively danced over the screen.

Joel

How’s your day off, sweetheart?

You bit back a smile and typed quickly.

You

Relaxing. At my dad’s. You?

Joel

Just finished a job. Might swing by if you’re home later.

You

Please do. I’ll keep the couch warm.

“Alright, who’s got you grinnin’ like a teenager?”

You startled, looking up to find your dad standing with two mugs of coffee—one already halfway to you.

“What?” you said, probably too fast.

“That smile. That,” he gestured vaguely at your face, “stupid grin you get when someone texts you something sweet.”

You laughed, taking the coffee, hoping it masked the heat rushing to your cheeks. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, settling beside you. “You dating someone?”

You hesitated, forcing your face to neutral. “Sort of.”

He looked over at you, eyebrows raised. “Sort of?”

“It’s… something.”

“Anyone I know?”

Your stomach twisted just slightly. You sipped your coffee slowly and gave a small, measured shrug. “Doubt it.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded, eyes returning to the TV he’d left on. “Well, as long as they treat you right.”

Your phone buzzed again.

Joel

Missed you this week.

You smiled again, but this time you kept your face hidden behind your mug.

“Yeah,” you said softly, mostly to yourself. “He does.”

Friday came. It was raining lightly outside, the kind of soft Austin drizzle that made the city glow just a little more in the evening. From your kitchen window, the skyline blurred behind the droplets, streetlights flickering on one by one. You had your apartment lights dimmed low, a candle burning on the counter, and your favorite oversized tee on — the one Joel always teased you for but secretly liked seeing you in.

Joel was sitting at the small kitchen table, a glass of red wine in one hand, watching you move around like it was his favorite show on TV.

“You don’t have to just sit there, you know,” you called over your shoulder as you stirred the creamy garlic sauce on the stove.

“I offered to help,” he drawled, stretching out in the chair, legs wide, completely relaxed. “You told me to sit down and stay outta the way.”

“You offered after I already chopped the onions and started the sauce.”

Joel grinned. “Timing is everything, baby.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, the sound of him calling you that — casual, warm, like it belonged — sending that stupid flutter straight to your chest. You checked the pan again and moved to grab the grated parmesan from the fridge. Behind you, Joel’s chair scraped softly against the floor.

He came up behind you, hands resting gently on your hips as he looked over your shoulder.

“Mmm,” he said, voice low and close, “smells good.”

You tried to ignore how your body leaned into his automatically, how your muscles just... let go when he touched you. “You say that every time I cook.”

“’Cause it’s true every time.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the side of his face. “You're not just saying that to get lucky later, are you?”

Joel chuckled, lips brushing your temple. “I don’t need to sweet-talk you for that, do I?”

You gasped, swatted at him with the wooden spoon, and he dodged it with a laugh.

“I’m trying to make dinner here!”

“You’re doin’ a damn fine job,” he said, backing off with hands raised, still smirking. “I’ll just go sit down and sip my wine like the good house guest I am.”

“You’re not a guest,” you murmured, mostly to yourself, as you turned back to the stove. Not anymore. Not when his toothbrush was in your bathroom. Not when he knew where the tea towels went. Not when he fell asleep on your couch more often than not.

Joel heard you anyway.

“I’m not?” he asked, soft now.

You looked over your shoulder again, met his eyes.

You shook your head. “No. You’re... here. That’s different.”

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just walked back to his chair, sat down slowly, and let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I guess I am.”

You plated the pasta in two bowls and brought them over to the table, the air between you buzzing gently with everything unspoken.

You were brushing your teeth when Joel stepped into the bathroom, already in the faded gray T-shirt and boxers he always brought when he stayed over. His hair was damp from a quick shower, curls still clinging to his forehead a little. He caught your eye in the mirror, then leaned down to kiss the top of your shoulder before reaching for his toothbrush.

The small bathroom was quiet except for the soft buzz of your electric toothbrushes and the occasional sound of water running. It should’ve felt cramped, but it didn’t. It felt normal. Like this was just another night, and this was just what you did — shared a sink, bumped elbows, rinsed side by side.

You finished first and stepped aside, wiping your face with a towel and watching him in the mirror. Joel caught you staring and smirked, foam still in his mouth.

“What?” he mumbled around his toothbrush.

You shrugged, smiling. “Nothing. You’re just…cute.”

He raised an eyebrow, spit, then rinsed. “Cute, huh?”

“You know what I mean.”

Eventually, you turned off the bathroom light and padded back into the bedroom. Joel pulled back the sheets while you turned off the lamp, and when you climbed into bed, he followed right after, the mattress dipping under his weight.

He laid on his side, arm draped across your waist like it belonged there. And maybe it did.

“Got any plans tomorrow?” he asked, voice low in the dark.

“Just errands. Grocery run. Might clean out the closet.”

“Need help?”

You smiled, eyes already heavy. “You offering?”

“If it means I get to stick around another night? Yeah.”

You rolled over to face him, your leg hooking lightly around his. “I want you to stay.”

Joel reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. “Then I’ll stay.”

With that, you leaned forward and kissed him softly, then settled back into his chest, the warmth of his body already lulling you toward sleep. Outside, the rain still fell against the windows, steady and soft. Inside, everything was still.

And for the first time all week, you felt completely at peace.

Joel squinted down at his phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard as dust from the job site clung to his jeans. The mid-day sun beat down on the back of his neck, and the air smelled like hot concrete and sweat. Still, the small smile tugging at his mouth made the heat more tolerable.

You

You better actually eat and not just coffee and beef jerky again

He chuckled.

Joel

Real food. I swear. Miss you.

He hit send, then slipped the phone into his pocket just as Tommy called out from a few feet away.

“Joel! Lunch or what? Before Carl eats everything again.?”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Comin’, smartass.”

Joel grabbed his thermos and fell in step with his brother, heading toward the shaded area where the rest of the crew had gathered around a folding table someone had dragged out. A few of the guys were already halfway through their sandwiches, talking and laughing over the hum of a portable fan.

“…and I swear to God, she couldn’t have been more than twenty-two,” Mark said, shaking his head at Miguel, who was mid-bite into a burrito.

Miguel shrugged, unbothered. “She came up to me. What was I supposed to do, say no?”

Tommy snorted. “Yeah, maybe when you realized she looked like she just aged outta college orientation.”

Joel chuckled, biting into his sandwich, trying to stay out of it. But the topic lingered.

“You serious though?” Mark asked. “She wasn’t too young for you?”

“She could legally drink. That’s good enough for me,” Miguel said, grinning wide. “Age is just a number, man.”

Joel kept chewing, slower now.

That phrase — age is just a number — bounced around in his head, souring a little.

He wasn’t like Miguel. Wasn’t at bars chasing women who looked like they might card him for fun. But still, the words got under his skin, poking at that quiet part of him that knew if any of them found out about you — your age, your history with Sarah, with him — they’d talk. They’d laugh. Maybe worse.

You were in your mid-twenties, college degree, a good job downtown, a whole future unspooling in front of you like a straight road. Meanwhile, Joel was here, knees sore from years of construction, grease still under his nails, soon turning 50, pretending that waking up in your bed didn’t feel like the best and worst decision he made every week.

He took another bite of his sandwich and kept his eyes on the wrapper.

Tommy elbowed him. “You good?”

Joel blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Old man like you? Must be tough,” Tommy teased, but his voice was easy, familiar.

Joel smirked. “Watch it. I still bench more than you.”

The others laughed and kept going, arguing over who bought lunch last week, the moment passing.

But Joel stayed a little quiet, his mind somewhere else — somewhere warmer.

And if none of them knew about it — if this stayed his little secret — maybe that was the only way it could work.

You knocked harder than you meant to.

Joel’s porch light flickered on as you stepped back, arms crossed tightly over your chest. It had been days — days — of distant texts, half-hearted responses, and Joel always finding some excuse not to come over. "Long day," "Tommy needed help," "Gonna crash early." You tried to give him space. But tonight? You couldn’t take the quiet anymore.

The door opened.

Joel stood there in a worn flannel and jeans, his hair a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His eyes widened when he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, quiet. Like he hadn’t been avoiding you for nearly a week.

“Can I come in?”

He hesitated, then stepped aside, letting you pass into the familiar warmth of his living room. The TV was on, muted, casting soft blue light over the furniture. You turned to face him, arms still crossed.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?”

Joel sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, already avoiding your eyes. “Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on.”

“Bullshit.” Your voice was sharper than usual, but you didn’t care. “You’ve been distant. You’ve barely looked me in the eye since last weekend. I’m not stupid, Joel.”

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve just been... thinkin’. That’s all.”

You turned to face him fully, heart pounding. “About what?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He moved past you and into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard like he could hide in the mundane routine of pouring himself some water.

You followed. “Joel.”

He glanced up. And there it was — the thing he hadn’t said. Sitting right behind his eyes.

“I’m startin’ to wonder if this is fair,” he muttered.

You blinked. “Fair? What does that mean?”

He looked at you, jaw tight. “You’re in your twenties, sweetheart. You’ve got a whole life ahead of you. People to meet. Shit to figure out. And I’m... me. I’ve got a grown kid, a busted back, and more regrets than I can count. Your dad—he’s my best friend. If he knew... if Sarah knew—”

“You think I haven’t thought about all that?” you said sharply, stepping closer. “You think I don’t know how it looks from the outside?”

“I just don’t wanna be somethin’ you regret later,” he said quietly.

That stopped you. You stared at him, heart clenched tight.

“Joel... I don’t regret you. Not for a second. And I’m not gonna wake up one day and pretend this never happened, because it means something to me.”

He looked down, hands braced on the counter, fingers curled white-knuckled over the edge. You moved to stand in front of him, placing your hands gently over his.

“You don’t get to decide what’s good for me. That’s not your job. You’re not protecting me by shutting me out — you’re just hurting both of us.”

Joel’s shoulders dropped a little. “I know.”

“Then stop pulling away,” you said, softer now. “If you need to talk, talk. But don’t make me wonder if I did something wrong just because you’re scared.”

He finally met your eyes, something broken and relieved swimming behind them. His hand turned, fingers weaving through yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t want you. God knows that ain’t the truth.”

You stepped in closer, resting your forehead against his chest. “Then let me stay. Let’s just be together. No overthinking. No self-sabotage.”

He exhaled, arms wrapping around you, grounding you both.

“Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “Alright, darlin’. I’ll try.”

You and Joel were still holding each other when footsteps padded in across the hardwood stairs, light and casual.

Both your heads turned at the same time, and Joel froze.

“Hey, Dad? Have you seen my charger—”

Sarah’s voice cut off the second she stepped around the corner and saw the two of you.

Joel stiffened, arms still around your waist. You stepped back quickly, heart stopping somewhere between your chest and your throat.

Sarah blinked. Then blinked again.

You could see the calculation happening in real time — eyes darting between you, Joel, the way your hands had just been touching.

“Oh.”

Her voice was flat. A beat passed.

Then, with a slow raise of her eyebrows: “Okay. Um. Did not expect that.”

“Sarah,” Joel started, voice strained, already reaching for some version of damage control.

“No, no, I mean—it’s fine,” she said, raising both hands like she needed to physically push back the tension in the room. “I just—wow, okay. Needed a second to… process.”

You felt your cheeks burning. “Sarah, I’m so sorry—”

“Were you—have you guys been…?” she motioned vaguely between the two of you, face scrunched in disbelief. “This has been happening? For how long?”

Joel cleared his throat. “A while.”

Sarah stared at him. Then you. Then looked vaguely toward the ceiling like she was trying to recalibrate her entire worldview.

“Well… that explains why you’ve been suspiciously unavailable on the weekends,” she muttered. “I just thought you were dating someone lowkey. Not, like, your dad’s best friend.”

Joel winced. “You okay?”

“I mean, I’m not traumatized or anything, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sarah said dryly. “But yeah. Bit of a jump scare, not gonna lie.”

You tried to smile, a little sheepish. “We weren’t hiding it from you. We just… weren’t ready.”

“No, I get it. If I were you, I’d be terrified of telling me too,” Sarah deadpanned, then gave you a teasing smirk. “But hey. At least it’s not, like, Mr. Carter from next door. That guy smells like cat food.”

You laughed — a little shocked, a little relieved — and Joel let out a quiet breath.

“Look,” Sarah continued, dropping her backpack onto the couch, “I love you both. And you’re grown adults, so… do what makes you happy. Just, y’know, please keep the PDA to a minimum when I’m in the house.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Deal.”

Sarah turned toward the kitchen like nothing happened. “Now, where the hell is that charger…”

Joel looked at you as the tension finally eased from his shoulders, eyes wide with disbelief.

“That went… better than expected,” you whispered.

“She’s too smart for her own good,” he murmured back, dazed.

You smiled and nudged his arm. “Wonder where she gets it from.”

You were just slipping your shoes back on near the door when Sarah appeared in the hallway, arms crossed over her chest, a charger cable now slung around her wrist.

“Hey,” she said casually, but her tone held something heavier beneath it. “Can I talk to you for a sec? Without, uh… my dad hovering?”

You straightened, already nervous but nodding. “Yeah, of course.”

Joel, who was watching from the living room with a brow raised, started to get up, but Sarah waved him off. “Relax, it’s not an interrogation.”

He grunted and sank back into the couch, though his eyes lingered as the two of you stepped out onto the porch.

The evening air was cool, humming with the sound of crickets and faraway tires against pavement. You leaned against the porch railing, arms folded. Sarah stood across from you, looking thoughtful.

“So,” she started, glancing at you, “you and my dad.”

You offered a small smile. “Yeah.”

“How long has this been going on?”

You hesitated. “About 10 months.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? You’ve been together that long?”

You nodded. “It wasn’t supposed to happen, Sarah. I didn’t plan it. He didn’t either. We just… found each other again, I guess.”

Sarah was quiet for a moment, chewing on that. Then, to your surprise, she sighed and sat on the porch step.

“I mean… I always thought something was up,” she admitted. “The way he smiled if you’re mentioned, or how he got all weirdly cleaned up on weekends. I just didn’t think this was it.”

You laughed softly, sinking down beside her.

She looked at you, more serious now. “I’m not mad. It’s weird, yeah. But I’m not mad. I’ve known you forever. You used to make me mac and cheese and help me sneak extra popsicles when Dad said no.”

You smiled, a little nostalgic. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“But this,” she said, motioning between you, “it’s real, right? You’re not… messing with him?”

The question wasn’t cruel — it was protective. Earnest. And entirely fair.

“I’m not,” you said softly. “I love him. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t.”

Sarah stared at you for a beat, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You exhaled. “Okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ll probably still have an existential crisis about it later,” she teased, “but if it makes him happy—and you’re being real about it—I can deal.”

You bumped her shoulder lightly. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

“Obviously.” She stood and gave you a smirk. “But if I ever hear anything through that paper-thin wall when I come home unexpectedly—”

“Sarah.”

“Just saying,” she called over her shoulder, heading back inside, “my tuition includes the right to emotional peace.”

You grinned, watching her go, your chest lighter than it had been in days. Joel met your eyes through the window from where he sat inside, and you gave him a small, reassuring nod.

Somehow, the secret didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

In the months that followed, their lives moved forward — quietly, carefully — just like before. But now, it carried a different weight. A steady, unspoken hum beneath the surface.

You and Joel didn’t announce anything. There was no dramatic reveal, no sudden shift in how the world saw you. That wasn’t your pace — and it definitely wasn’t his. Instead, you built your relationship in the spaces between, tucked away in the kind of moments no one else paid attention to.

If you visited him in the suburbs, you’d still park a few blocks down like you always had, strolling up the sidewalk as if you were just dropping by to say hello to Sarah, or to return a borrowed dish. You’d knock twice out of habit, even though you knew he was waiting just beyond the door. And Joel would answer with that half-smile, already stepping aside to let you in, hand brushing against your back in the brief moment of privacy the hallway offered.

Sometimes he’d cook for you, just something simple — eggs, grilled cheese, leftovers he claimed were “better the second time anyway.” And sometimes you’d just sit together on the couch, your legs tossed over his lap, the TV low and mostly ignored. Sarah wouldn’t be home those nights — maybe at a sleepover, a football game, a late movie with friends — and the house would feel quieter. Yours.

When the roles reversed, and Joel made the trip to your downtown apartment, it was always late. He’d wait until Sarah was staying over at her best friend’s house, send you a text like you still up? and show up twenty minutes later with a bag of takeout or a six-pack from that little gas station he liked.

He never stayed over unless he was sure Sarah wouldn’t be home the next morning. If she would, he'd never stay the night, and you were okay with that.

When the world was watching — when your dad invited Joel over for Sunday barbecue, or when the three of you found yourselves at the same neighborhood party — it was all easy smiles and normal chatter. The same Joel. The same you. Just two familiar faces in a crowd that never looked twice.

Your dad remained entirely unsuspecting. Maybe he just trusted you both too much to imagine it. Maybe the idea was so out of left field it never even crossed his mind. Either way, it gave you a strange kind of comfort… and a lingering guilt.

That conversation — telling him — still sat somewhere in the distance, a thing you circled around quietly. Joel would mention it sometimes, in the quietest part of the night. “We’ll have to tell him eventually.” he’d murmur into your hair, thumb brushing your side. You’d nod, half-asleep, neither of you pushing further.

And Sarah — well, she was still the only one who knew. Her knowing looks hadn’t faded. Sometimes she’d shoot Joel a sideways glance when he casually mentioned you in conversation, or nudge your foot under the table. But she kept it to herself. Always respectful. Always steady. She hadn’t made it weird — if anything, she’d helped it feel more real. Like you weren’t just imagining this little world you’d built together.

Your relationship with Joel was something quiet. Sacred. Protected not out of shame, but out of a shared knowing — a trust that it was too precious to rush, too personal to hand over to the noise of everyone else’s opinions.

It wasn’t traditional. It wasn’t easy.

But it was yours.

And in every hidden smile, every late night drive, every look across the room when no one else was watching — you knew, without question, that it was worth it.

taglist: @started-with-f-ends-with-uck @fangirlcentral1 @whimsicalangel111 @saturnyo

[vingtetunmars]

Take a Hint

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: You were only supposed to help Din Djarin with one bounty. But after the mission, you stuck around — teasing, flirting, testing the waters. He never reacted the way you hoped, always hiding behind practical words and stoic silence.

Or five times you thought Din was dense and one time you realized you were wrong.

Tags: Fluff, 5+1 things, miscommunication, SFW, Din Djarin is oblivious, he's trying his best, one sided, or is it???, idiots in love, protective Din Djarin, Din Djarin being soft (in his own way). No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: I know it's a lot shorter than my other Din fanfic, but I hope you'll enjoy this one as well. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 2.7k

masterlist

1.

You stretched your arms above your head, letting out a sharp sigh as the bounty’s unconscious body thudded to the floor of the Razor Crest’s cargo hold.

“That’s one way to say job well done,” you muttered, brushing space dust from your jacket sleeve before slinking into the co-pilot’s chair.

Behind you, Din Djarin closed the ramp and began checking the carbonite chamber, ensuring the target was fully frozen and secure. He hadn’t spoken much since you reached the ship — not that he was ever particularly chatty — but you chalked that up to the Mando brand of "taciturn charm."

“Well, that was fun,” you said brightly, spinning halfway in the chair to face him. “You always do jobs this entertaining, or was this just to impress me?”

His helmet tilted slightly toward you. “It wasn’t supposed to be fun.”

“No? Shame. You looked pretty good out there.” You gave him a teasing grin and leaned back, resting your boots on the edge of the control panel.

He turned fully toward you now, helmet glinting in the light of hyperspace pre-jump. “You almost got shot.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t let that happen.” You pointed a finger at him, lazily. “Knight in shiny beskar and all that.”

“…I hired you for your recon work. That’s all.”

You shrugged. “Sure, Mando. I’m just saying, you throw a girl against a wall to shield her from a blaster bolt, she might start thinking you care.”

He walked past you to the cockpit, flicking switches like nothing had happened. “We leave in ten.”

You laughed under your breath and leaned back further, hands behind your head. “You’re cute when you pretend I don’t fluster you.”

No response. Just the cold silence of a man fully immersed in his pre-flight check.

Not even a head tilt this time.

You pursed your lips, then smirked.

Alright. That one might have been too subtle…for him.

But you weren’t going anywhere just yet.

2.

You leaned against a stack of fuel canisters, watching Din as he crouched next to the hull of the Razor Crest, speaking low and serious with Peli Motto. Something about coolant lines or hyperdrive relays—you weren’t listening. Mostly because he’d taken off his gloves again, and there was something about watching his fingers flex against a piece of machinery that scrambled your thoughts like eggs on a Tatooine skillet.

Grogu was toddling near your feet, cooing up at you. You bent down and gave his ear a little scratch. “He’s lucky he’s got you, kid,” you said. “Shame you’re the only one in this partnership with any emotional intelligence.”

Grogu blinked at you slowly, then burbled in agreement. Or maybe hunger.

“Mando!” you called out, hopping off the crates and sauntering toward the ship. “Since we’re stuck in Mos Eisley for a bit… how about I buy you a drink?”

He didn’t even look up from where he was tightening something under the ship’s belly.

“No.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You sure? Could be a bonding moment.”

“No.”

You sighed, pushing your tongue against your cheek to hide the smile. “Are you afraid I’ll drink you under the table? Or that you’ll have fun?”

“I don’t drink on the job.”

“We’re not on a job,” you replied smoothly. “We’re in between. There’s a difference.”

He finally looked up at you, visor catching the Tatooine twin suns. “We don’t need to bond.”

You opened your mouth, but then shut it.

Instead, you gave a mock salute and walked off muttering, “Alright, Casanova, loud and clear.”

Later, you were helping Peli hook up a new motivator coil when she snorted and said, “You’re wasting your time, sweetheart.”

You turned your head. “Excuse me?”

“With him,” she nodded toward Din, who was now sitting on the ramp with Grogu in his lap, feeding him a little packet of something green and mushy. “You’ve been laying it on thicker than Bantha butter, and he’s just… nothing.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the sand beside her. “Is he dense, or just emotionally stunted?”

“Both,” Peli replied cheerfully. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve seen rancors with better romantic instincts.”

You covered your face with your hands. “Hopeless.”

“Yep.”

You peeked through your fingers, catching sight of Grogu now waddling toward you with food smeared across his mouth.

“Well,” you murmured, sitting up and letting him crawl into your lap, “at least one of them likes me.”

Peli patted your shoulder, greasy handprint and all. “That’s a start.”

3.

The alley was narrow, the kind of cramped, shadowed crevice that smelled like rust and desperation. You ducked in first, tugging Din’s arm behind you just as blaster fire cracked against the duracrete wall.

“I told you that guy looked too twitchy to be a clean drop,” you hissed.

“You waited until we were already inside to tell me that,” Din replied, voice flat but calm as ever. You could practically hear the slight raise of his brow under the helmet.

“Call it a hunch,” you muttered.

Another volley of shots whizzed past, and Din shoved you further into the shadows. He followed in right after, pinning you both against the wall as the enemy patrol ran past. There was barely a breath between you. His arm was braced next to your head, his chest pressed fully against yours, armor cold even through your clothes.

You tilted your head up slowly, voice low. “You know, if you wanted me pressed up against you, Mando, you could’ve just asked.”

His helmet was angled so close you could see your own smirk reflected in the beskar.

“Stay quiet,” he said.

“That’s all you’re gonna say? Really?” You leaned in just a little, voice all honey and trouble. “No comment on the close quarters? The dim lighting? The way your knee is pressed against my—?”

“I said quiet.”

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh, head thudding back against the wall. “I’m just saying, most people would at least acknowledge the tension here.”

Din shifted his weight slightly, and you thought maybe—maybe—that you’d finally gotten through.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to glance outside the alley. “They’re gone. Let’s move.”

And then, just like that, the warmth of his body was gone, his cape brushing your arm as he slipped back into the light.

You stood there for a second longer, staring after him.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, jogging to catch up. “I was practically breathing pick-up lines in your face, and you gave me nothing. Not even a grunt.”

4.

It had been a long day. The kind that sank into your bones and made even the air feel heavy.

The bounty had fought harder than expected, and Din had taken the brunt of it — bruised ribs, a split lip under the helmet, and a noticeable limp that he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.

Now, inside the dim hull of the Razor Crest, the silence between the two of you felt comfortable. Grogu was already asleep in his hammock, snoring softly like some tiny, ancient gremlin.

Din was sitting on the edge of the cot, working one-handed to undo a section of his chest plate. You noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he winced every time he shifted his weight.

“Here,” you said gently, crossing the space to kneel in front of him. “Let me help.”

He started to protest, of course. “I’ve got it.”

You gave him a look, one you knew he could feel even if he couldn’t see your face. “I didn’t ask if you could. I said let me.”

He hesitated… and then let his hands drop.

Your fingers moved carefully, familiar now with the clasps and locks of his beskar. You worked slowly, undoing the armor piece by piece — chest plate, gauntlets, pauldrons — setting each one down beside you with reverence, like they mattered. Like he mattered.

His undershirt was dark with sweat and streaked with grime. You resisted the urge to reach for a cloth and clean him up. Instead, your hands hovered near the edge of his vambrace.

“You always take care of everyone else,” you said softly. “Let someone take care of you, just this once.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” You smiled faintly, not looking up. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

You unlatched the vambrace slowly. His forearm tensed beneath your fingers, the bare skin warm.

He didn’t say anything to that. But he didn’t stop you, either.

When you finally looked up, you found his visor fixed squarely on you. The silence stretched between you like a held breath.

If he felt anything—warmth, tension, the way your fingers lingered against the edge of his wrist—he didn’t say.

Just a small nod.

And then: “Thank you.”

You nodded back, lips curled in the barest smile. “Anytime.”

You stood and walked past Grogu’s hammock, brushing a hand over his ears as you went.

From behind you, you could feel the weight of Din’s stare following you the whole way.

5.

The Razor Crest creaked under the weight of frost, a low groan echoing through the hull as wind battered the exterior.

You were both grounded — a storm too thick to fly through and a bounty who was likely just as frozen as the damn planet. The heating system, true to its usual charm, had sputtered out three hours ago.

You were curled into yourself on the floor of the ship, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. Your jacket was decent, but nothing short of a portable sun was going to fight the kind of chill creeping into your bones.

Grogu was warm in his little insulated pod, snuggled deep in his blanket nest, occasionally letting out a snore.

Across the room, Din sat on a crate, sharpening one of his vibroblades like it was just any other night. No sign of discomfort. No sign he was feeling the same way your teeth were chattering.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure if it was pride or exhaustion, but the silence stretched.

Until finally, without looking up, he spoke.

“You’re cold.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, breath puffing visibly in front of your face. “What gave it away? The blue lips or the full-body shiver?”

He didn’t rise to the sarcasm. Instead, he reached into the compartment behind him and pulled out a heavy, worn blanket.

“Come here,” he said, scooting to the edge of the crate and patting the space beside him.

You blinked at him. “You’re inviting me to share body heat?”

“Purely practical.”

You snorted as you stood, dragging yourself over. “Right. Not because you enjoy my company or anything ridiculous like that.”

He didn’t answer, just opened the blanket as you sat down beside him.

It was warmer than you expected. His armor had retained some heat, and beneath it, his body was a furnace. The blanket went around both of you, his arm loosely draped behind your shoulders to keep it up.

The silence settled again.

Then, a little softer: “Better?”

You tilted your head toward him. “If I said no, would you let me shove my hands under your shirt?”

He didn’t so much as flinch. “No.”

You laughed, but it was quiet. Tired. The kind of laugh that cracked into something tender. You leaned your head against his shoulder, your voice dropping low.

“...Thanks, Din.”

He didn’t say anything. But you felt it — the shift. A subtle lean into you. The way his fingers adjusted the blanket more tightly around you both.

And then Grogu stirred in his pod, peeking out, blinking at the sight of you nestled together. He blinked once. Twice. And let out a soft, amused coo.

You met his gaze with a smirk.

+1

You stopped calling him Din.

Not on purpose. It just… slipped away.

It had started subtly: the teasing softened, the smiles dimmed. You kept your hands to yourself more, kept your jokes to Grogu instead. You still worked with Din, still followed him into the fire and out again, but the space between you felt wider than it ever had.

And maybe it was for the best.

Maybe you'd crossed a line, misread something. Maybe your flirting had made him uncomfortable, and he was too kind—or too stoic—to say it outright.

You hadn’t realized how much it hurt to pull away until you were halfway across a frozen plain, following behind him in silence, and he didn’t say a word about the wind biting at your skin.

He always offered the blanket before. Always stood just a little closer.

Now?

Nothing.

You tried to tell yourself it was fine. You were fine. You weren’t here to fall in love with a man who never showed his face. You were here because you wanted to be.

You didn’t expect him to care.

Then one night, as the ship drifted through hyperspace and Grogu was snoring softly in his hammock, Din stood in the middle of the hull, hands loose at his sides. Watching you.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked.

You blinked from where you sat on your bunk, caught mid-polishing your blaster. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

You looked down. “I just figured maybe I was… pushing too much. Saying things I shouldn’t have. Being… flirty.” The word stung coming out of your mouth. “Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

There was a long pause. You expected silence. Maybe a brush-off. But instead:

“You weren’t.”

You glanced up. He stepped closer, the quiet clink of his armor unusually loud in the quiet. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

He hesitated, then said carefully, “I was flirting back.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He tilted his head. “You remember the first job? When we caught that bounty together, and I told you to leave right after?”

You nodded slowly.

“I made sure you got a full share. Paid for your passage off-world. Protected you during the shootout. I don’t do that for strangers.”

You swallowed. “That’s not—”

“And on Tatooine,” he cut in, voice quiet but firm. “You asked me to bond over a drink. I told you we didn’t need to bond.”

You furrowed your brow. “Exactly. You turned me down.”

“No,” he said. “I said, ‘We don’t need to bond.’ What I meant was—we already do. I didn’t think I needed more than what we had.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

“In the alley,” he continued, stepping even closer, “when I had you pinned against the wall… You think I didn’t want that? That I wasn’t aware of how close we were?”

You felt your pulse jump.

“I wanted it,” he said simply. “I just couldn’t say it then. Couldn’t risk you thinking it was anything less than mutual.”

You sat up straighter, the air tight in your lungs.

He took another step, now close enough that you could feel the shift of his weight. “When you helped me take off my armor… I don’t let anyone do that. No one touches it. No one touches me.”

“Din—”

“And the blanket? On the ice planet?” His voice gentled. “That wasn’t practical. That was me finding the only excuse I had to hold you. To make sure you were okay.”

Your heart thundered in your chest.

“I thought I was being clear,” he said, finally. “But I guess I’m not great at… this.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to catch up. “You… you’ve been flirting this whole time?”

“As much as I know how to.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, softly—warmly—he added, “So. You gonna keep pulling away? Or are we finally gonna admit we’ve been on the same page since the beginning?”

You stood, moving toward him until you were close enough to touch his chestplate.

“You could’ve said something.”

“I just did.”

You smiled, helpless and stunned. “Guess we’re both kind of hopeless.”

His hand brushed your arm, hesitant but deliberate. “Maybe. But not anymore.”

And just like that, all the quiet tension between you—weeks of half-meant jokes and unspoken affection—finally settled into something real. Something shared.

And just like that, all the quiet tension between you—weeks of half-meant jokes and unspoken affection—finally settled into something real. Something shared.

Not lost in translation anymore.

[vingtetunmars]

yall remember when I asked should I write a dbf!joel fic???? yeah...It's on its way.

comment if you wanna be tagged !!

[vingtetunmars]

Thank you for reading 🥺 and YES !! that's what I thought as well, eddie honestly deserve some sunshine and rainbows

Out of Step, In Sync

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: After a disappointing prom night, you stumble into an unexpected conversation behind the gym with Eddie Munson—Hawkins’ favorite scapegoat and misunderstood metalhead. What starts as a casual talk over a shared escape turns into something else unexpected.

Tags: Fluff, pure fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, honestly yall need a dentist, SFW, mutual pining, developing relationship, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, prom, dancing, 80s sci-fi references, no upside-down. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N

A/N: Yeah, you know me, I love a good 'ol fluff, I needed to feel something. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 8.4k

masterlist

You didn’t even bother glancing back.

The bass from the gym echoed down the corridor, muffled and distant, like a heartbeat you weren’t part of. Glitter clung to your dress and your shoes pinched with every step, but you didn’t care. The heels were coming off soon anyway. The air back here was cooler, quieter, less drenched in Aqua Net and teenage desperation. You welcomed it like an old friend.

You weren’t angry. Not even a little heartbroken. Just… done. Your so-called prom date was slow dancing with some girl from his chem class—too close, too familiar—but honestly? It was a relief. The two of you had nothing in common, and you’d spent most of the evening counting down the songs until you could leave without it being “a thing.”

Now, finally, you were alone.

You pushed the heavy double doors open and stepped out into the cool night. The gym’s back lot was empty, save for a few leftover streamers fluttering from a fence post. You sighed, breathing in the crisp air. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada buzzed lazily.

Then you caught it—the scent of smoke.

Cigarette smoke.

You turned your head and there he was, half-shadowed by the building’s edge, denim jacket draped over a worn prom tee, black slacks like he hadn’t tried at all—and still somehow made it work. Eddie Munson, leaning against the brick wall like the whole world bored him to tears.

He raised an eyebrow when he noticed you, but didn’t say anything at first. Just took another drag and watched you with a crooked smile.

“Well, well,” he said finally, voice low and amused. “Didn’t peg you for a backdoor escape artist.”

You crossed your arms, smirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d show up at prom.”

He shrugged. “Had to see it to believe it. The glitter. The heartbreak. The emotional meltdowns. It’s like a zoo in there.”

You laughed, the first real one of the night. It caught you off guard.

He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and nodded toward the gym. “So. Who do I have to thank for you gracing the back alley with your presence?”

You tilted your head. “My date’s dancing with someone else.”

Eddie winced dramatically. “Oof. Harsh.”

“Nah,” you said, leaning against the wall beside him. “We had the chemistry of a wet sponge. I’m just glad he realized it before I had to fake a bathroom emergency.”

He chuckled, and it sounded honest. Warm.

“Well,” he said, holding the cigarette out like an offering, “welcome to the land of misfit prom-goers.”

You eyed the cigarette, then shook your head. “I’ll pass. But thanks, ambassador of the misfits.”

Eddie grinned, sliding it back between his lips. “Suit yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt kind of… easy. The thump of music behind you became background noise, like it belonged to another world. You looked out across the empty lot, then back at him.

“So what about you?” you asked. “Didn’t have a date either?”

Eddie snorted. “Please. Can you imagine me at a formal dinner with someone’s mom taking pictures? Nah. I’m just here for the chaos. Thought I’d maybe sneak in, spike the punch, throw a few firecrackers—y’know, the classics—but someone already beat me to it. So now I’m stuck lurking like a gremlin in the shadows.”

You laughed again, easier this time. “Well, you wear the gremlin look well.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “High praise.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Peaceful. Like the noise of the gym didn’t even exist out here.

You twirled the cigarette in your fingers. “I used to think you were all noise, y’know,” you said without really thinking. “Like, loud music and heavy boots and wild hair.”

“I mean, I am all of those things,” he said, raising a brow.

“Sure,” you said. “But I don’t know… I think there’s more to it.”

He looked at you for a second, like he was trying to read your mind. Then he smiled. “Alright. Your turn. Tell me something about you that’d surprise me.”

You thought about it. Then, what the hell.

“I like science fiction. Books. Comics, too.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not something I talk about. People think it’s weird.”

“Okay, hold on.” He straightened up, suddenly animated. “What kind of sci-fi? Like, classic stuff or weird future dystopia stuff?”

“Both,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov. And there’s this one graphic novel series I’ve been obsessed with—The Long Tomorrow. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

Eddie’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? Moebius is a god. That gritty noir-future vibe? That’s, like, the blueprint for half my D&D campaigns.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you like Moebius?”

“Like him? I worship him. I have The Airtight Garage under my mattress so my uncle doesn’t ‘accidentally’ throw it out during one of his cleaning sprees.”

You couldn’t stop smiling now. “That’s ridiculous.”

He pointed at you with his cigarette. “You’re ridiculous. All this time I thought you were just another prom queen in disguise and now you’re telling me you’re secretly a sci-fi nerd?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not a prom queen.”

“No,” he said, grinning. “You’re way cooler.”

The compliment caught you off guard. There was no smirk behind it, no teasing edge—just honesty. His eyes lingered on yours, and for the first time all night, you felt seen. Not dressed up, not performing, just you.

“Guess we both had the wrong idea,” you said quietly.

He nodded. “Guess so.”

And just like that, the space between you didn’t feel so distant anymore.

You both stood there for a while, trading stories—about favorite books, childhood cartoons, and how utterly overrated prom was. You were surprised how much you had in common. Maybe not in how you moved through the world, but in the way you looked at it. Like both of you were on the outside looking in, only now you had company.

Through the slightly cracked door, a new song filtered out. Faint but unmistakable.

“I wanna know what love is…”

You glanced back toward the gym. The colored lights flickered just beyond the windows, a blur of red and blue. The music carried more clearly now, bleeding into the cool night air like some kind of cosmic joke.

Eddie took another drag, then stubbed out the cigarette under his boot. “You should go back in,” he said after a moment, flicking ash from his fingertips. “It’s prom. Go dance with someone. Someone who doesn’t hang out behind dumpsters and make fun of the decorations.”

You tilted your head at him. “You mean someone boring?”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Someone who won’t get you judged by, like, the entire social hierarchy of Hawkins High.”

You shrugged. “I already got ditched by my date. What’s the worst they can do? Gasp?”

Eddie smiled, but his eyes drifted back toward the glowing gym windows. “Still… I’m not exactly prom royalty.”

“Well, neither am I,” you said. “So maybe that’s the point.”

He didn’t answer. Just rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking unsure of himself for the first time that night.

You tilted your head again, studying him. “You know,” you said slowly, “you could go dance too.”

Eddie barked a short laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He held up his hands, surrender-style. “I can’t dance. I mean it. Like, at all. I’ve got rhythm when I’m playing guitar, but put me on a dance floor and I look like I’m dodging bees.”

You stared at him for a moment. Then something wild and impulsive bubbled up inside you.

You stepped forward, just close enough to be a little dangerous.

“Okay,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “So don’t go on the dance floor.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Stay right here. Dance with me.”

Eddie straightened slightly, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. “Are you… serious?”

You nodded, smiling now. “I’ll guide you. You don’t have to know how. Just follow me.”

He hesitated. And for a second, you thought he’d say no. But then, slowly, like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast, he took your hand.

His fingers were warm. Calloused. A little shaky.

You placed his other hand at your waist, your free hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

The music swelled behind you, soft and sweet and full of yearning.

“…and I want you to show me…”

You started to sway, just a little. Nothing fancy. Just moving to the rhythm, simple and easy.

“Okay,” you said, voice low. “Just match me. That’s it.”

Eddie watched your feet like they held all the answers in the universe, but he followed. Awkwardly at first. Then with a little more confidence. Then a little more.

He looked up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re really doing this.”

“So are you.”

And under the stars, with music bleeding out from a world that didn’t quite fit either of you, Eddie Munson danced.

With you.

You didn’t let go.

And for the life of him, Eddie couldn’t understand why.

Your dress swaying slightly in the night breeze, and you were holding his hand. Guiding him like this was just some normal thing people did — like you weren’t the kind of girl who was supposed to laugh behind your locker with friends in matching dresses. Like you weren’t way too pretty, too bright, too out-of-his-league to be caught slow dancing with the town freak behind a gym full of people who’d never get it.

But there you were. Smiling at him like he wasn’t a joke. Like he wasn’t just a rumor in black denim.

And all Eddie could do was follow your lead.

You moved gently, no pressure. Just a simple sway. His hand was on your waist, and he could feel your heartbeat through the fabric, could feel the way your fingers gripped his just enough to ground him. Like you knew he was seconds away from spinning off the planet.

How was this real?

For once, Eddie Munson wasn’t putting on a show or throwing up middle fingers at the world. He wasn’t posturing or mocking or performing.

He was just here.

Dancing with you under the stars, to a song he didn’t even like, and somehow? It felt like the most honest thing he’d ever done.

The ride home was quiet, but not the awkward kind. The good kind. The kind that settled between the two of you like a blanket, warm and easy.

Eddie’s van rumbled softly down the back roads, headlights cutting through the dark. Your heels were in your lap, your feet bare and curled up on the seat, glitter still dusting your legs. The leftover makeup smudged slightly beneath your eyes, but you didn’t care. Neither did he.

He kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed, but you didn’t say anything.

The radio played something soft—some late-night ballad that felt a little too on the nose—but neither of you reached out to change the station. It kind of fit.

When he finally pulled up in front of your house, the engine idled low, casting the porch in pale yellow light. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

You turned to him, your voice softer than it had been all night. “Thanks for the ride.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and gave a small, genuine nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

You opened the door, about to step out, then hesitated.

“And… thanks for earlier,” you added, eyes meeting his. “I actually had fun tonight.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Like… more than I’ve had in a while.”

Eddie’s fingers drummed once on the steering wheel. “That’s kinda sad,” he teased. “But I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes darker in the dim light. “You’re not what I expected,” he said, quietly.

You tilted your head. “Good unexpected?”

He shrugged, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you now. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You nodded slowly, then stepped down from the van. The door thunked shut behind you, but you lingered at the curb, turning back one last time.

“See you Monday?”

He grinned. “I’ll be the one getting detention.”

You laughed, backing toward your porch.

And he stayed there, parked under the streetlight, watching you go—wondering what the hell just happened, and why he kind of, maybe, really wanted it to happen again.

Monday’s cafeteria buzzed with leftover prom talk—who wore what, who threw up in the parking lot, and who was already regretting their choice of date. You sat with your usual group, a tray of barely-touched food in front of you, picking at a soggy fry as your friends swapped stories.

“I swear, if I hear more stories of Lisa and Charlie slow dancing, I’ll puke,” one of them groaned.

“I heard Jeff cried during I Wanna Know What Love Is,” another snorted.

You chuckled under your breath, but you were only half-listening. Your thoughts were still stuck somewhere in the quiet part of Friday night—lit by stars, wrapped in soft music and Eddie Munson’s uncertain hands.

“Okay,” said Courtney, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “tell us. What happened with you? You disappeared after ten.”

Your stomach did a small flip. “I, uh… went outside for some air.”

“That long?” someone chimed in. “Didn’t your date ditch you?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. But it was mutual, kinda. No chemistry.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “So what, you just wandered off?”

You hesitated, then decided to own it.

“I ran into Eddie Munson. We talked for a while.”

The table quieted. You didn’t miss the way someone blinked. Or the small, uncomfortable scoff.

“Wait—Eddie Munson?” said one of the girls, drawing out his name like it tasted wrong. “As in… Hellfire Club, Eddie?”

You looked up, steady. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” another said under her breath. “Isn’t he like… failing half his classes?”

“I heard he might repeat senior year again,” someone else added. “That’s like—what, his third time?”

You set down your fry and leaned back a little. “So what?”

That shut them up for a beat.

You looked around the table. “He was nice. We talked. We danced. It was actually… fun.”

Courtney blinked at you, like she couldn’t quite process it. “You danced with Eddie Munson?”

You smiled. “Yeah. He’s different than people think.”

They exchanged a few glances, probably trying to figure out if you were serious, but you didn’t give them room to argue. You just went back to your tray, casual but firm.

You didn’t owe them anything else.

And when they finally moved on to a different story, you let your mind drift again—back to Eddie’s hands, awkward and warm in yours, and the way he’d smiled like no one had ever looked at him the way you had.

The final bell rang and the halls of Hawkins High exploded with noise—slamming lockers, shouted goodbyes, the usual stampede toward the exit. You were pulling out your books, ready to head home, when a familiar mop of messy curls came into view.

Eddie.

He almost walked past, arms full of binders and that damn lunchbox of his, but then he spotted you. His grin bloomed instantly.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite prom partner,” he said, walking backward in front of you with dramatic flair.

You snorted. “I’m your only prom partner.”

“Details,” he waved off, turning to walk beside you. “Still the best.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile too wide, but it was hard. He kept cracking jokes—half of them dumb, some surprisingly clever, all of them weirdly charming. By the time you reached the front doors, you were laughing hard enough to forget about the weight of your backpack or the way people stared.

Outside, the sun was still high, casting golden light over the parking lot. You lingered near the bike racks, and Eddie rocked back on his heels, suddenly looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

He scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You doing anything right now?”

You blinked. “Not really. Why?”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Wanna get milkshakes or something?”

You tilted your head, amused. “Are you asking me out?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, eyes wide. “I mean—not that you’re not—ugh.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Not like a date date, just, y’know. A post-school, ice-cream-adjacent hangout. Very casual. Extremely non-threatening.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You’re doing a terrible job of making it sound casual.”

He groaned. “God, I know.”

You paused for a second. Then smiled.

“Yeah. Let’s get milkshakes.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Really,” you said, starting to walk again, this time toward his van. You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Do I get to pick the music in your van?”

He placed a hand over his heart, mock wounded. “Absolutely not. But you can control the windows.”

Lunchtime in the cafeteria. Same old gray plastic trays, same mystery meat, same half-hearted arguments about campaign rules. Eddie was halfway through explaining, for the third time, why rolling a nat 1 on perception doesn’t mean you automatically get eaten by a mimic, when something—or rather, someone—stepped into his line of vision.

You.

He blinked up at you, startled. You were holding something. A piece of paper, no—thicker than that. Watercolor paper.

You thrust it out toward him before he could even say hi.

“I, um… I made this.”

Eddie looked down.

It was a watercolor painting. Bold, messy brush strokes in warm and murky tones. And there, standing like some strange cosmic king, was Major Grubert from The Airtight Garage. Rendered with this dreamy, layered energy—loose and vivid, with little gold details that shimmered when they caught the light.

“You painted this?” he asked, dumbfounded.

You nodded quickly, already looking like you regretted everything. “I don’t know. It’s dumb. I just— You said you liked the comic, and I was painting for art club, and I thought maybe you’d—”

He stared at you.

You stared at the floor.

“Anyway,” you rushed, already backing up. “You don’t have to keep it or anything. I just—yeah, okay, bye.”

And then you turned on your heel and disappeared between the tables, like a mirage, gone as fast as you came.

For a second, Eddie didn’t move. His tray sat forgotten, and the painting was still in his hands.

“What the hell was that?” said Gareth.

Jeff leaned over, squinting. “Is that… art?”

“Holy crap,” said one of the freshmen, eyes wide. “Did she just give you that? Like, a gift?”

“I think she did,” Eddie murmured.

He was still staring at it. Still stunned.

Because it wasn’t just the painting—though that alone was cool as hell—it was the fact that you made it for him. That you remembered that offhand comment about The Airtight Garage from days ago. That you painted this weird little sci-fi character, and thought of him while doing it.

It was… a lot.

Eddie cleared his throat, trying to shake the dazed look off his face. “Shut up,” he mumbled, carefully sliding the painting into his binder like it was made of glass. “None of you get it. It’s called being interesting, you cretins.”

They didn’t stop staring.

Gareth leaned over the table. “Dude. Seriously. What was that?”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “Did you hex her or something?”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered, still guarding the painting like it was top-secret government property. He shoved it deeper into his binder, then clapped it shut with a loud snap.

“You’ve been weird all week,” Jeff pointed out.

“Yeah, man,” Gareth said, gesturing wildly. “You’ve been, like… smiley. It’s freaky.”

Eddie sighed like a man defeated, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fine,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low. “If I tell you, will you shut up and let me eat my damn lunch?”

They all nodded in rapid, eager unison.

Eddie leaned forward slightly. “We danced at prom.”

The table went silent.

“What?” Gareth blinked. “Who did?”

“Me and her,” Eddie said, voice a little more defensive now. “It just kind of… happened. She came outside. We talked. She offered. I didn’t step on her feet. Miracle of the decade.”

“She asked you to dance?” Jeff repeated, stunned.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jeff. It’s not that hard to believe.”

“It’s just—she’s, like… art club. Social. Normal,” said Doug.

“And I’m a freak,” Eddie finished, not angrily—just matter-of-fact. “Yeah, yeah. I know. That’s the whole thing, right?”

They all exchanged awkward glances.

Eddie softened a little. “We’ve just been talking since then. That’s all. She’s cool. Funny. Into sci-fi stuff. And apparently, she paints really badass cosmic generals in her spare time.”

The group went quiet again, but this time with a slightly different energy.

Jeff nodded slowly. “Huh.”

“Damn,” Gareth muttered. “Did not see that coming.”

Eddie shrugged, leaning back in his seat and finally stabbing at his lunch. “Neither did I.”

But under the table, his fingers tapped quietly on his knee—restless in that weird, hopeful way.

Because yeah… he didn’t see it coming.

Your room looked like a clothing explosion.

Jeans on the bed. A skirt on the floor. Three different tops draped over your chair. You stared into the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your favorite shirt for what had to be the fourth time, then gave up and let out a groan.

It wasn’t a date.

Not officially.

But still.

Eddie had asked you yesterday—Eddie Munson, king of chains, dice, and anti-establishment rants—if you wanted to go to the new Starcourt Mall. He’d said it kind of awkwardly, like the words felt weird in his mouth. Then he’d doubled down with, “I mean, I hate malls, they’re corporate brain rot, but if you’re there too, I guess I won’t spontaneously combust.”

Which, translated from Eddie-speak, meant: I want to spend time with you, and I’m doing something completely out of character because it might make you smile.

So yeah. Maybe it was a date.

You adjusted your hair again, spritzed the tiniest bit of perfume, and gave yourself one last once-over. Just polished enough to show you cared—but not so much it looked like you were trying. Hopefully.

A soft knock on your door pulled you back to Earth.

Your mom peeked in, eyes twinkling.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

She pushed the door open with a hand on her hip and an expression halfway between curiosity and polite judgment. “There’s a young man waiting downstairs for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “He’s early?”

She shrugged. “Five minutes. Maybe he was excited.”

You tried to hide your smile as you turned back to the mirror, smoothing down the hem of your nicest top. Not fancy fancy — just enough to look like you put in effort. It wasn’t every day Eddie Munson asked someone to hang out somewhere as un-Eddie as the Starcourt Mall.

You were flattered. And a little impressed. He was trying.

Your mom lingered by the doorway, arms crossed loosely now.

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

You paused, lip gloss wand hovering in the air. “I’m not. We’re just… hanging out.”

She arched a brow. “Uh-huh.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “I mean it.”

“Well,” she said, pushing off the doorframe. “He’s… not what I expected.”

You turned slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Leather jacket. Messy hair. Rings on every finger. He’s got a… rough-around-the-edges thing.” She shrugged. “I didn’t peg him as your type.”

You hesitated. “Is that a problem?”

She raised her hands. “Not for me. Just... interesting choice.”

Then, softening, she added, “But he stood up when I walked in. Called me ma’am. And he didn’t look at the family photos weird, so… he’s alright in my book.”

You blinked. “Wow. High praise.”

“I’m just saying,” she smiled. “You could’ve warned me you brought home a James Dean type.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time you were grinning. “He’s not like that.”

“If you say so.”

With that, she turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t leave him waiting too long—he keeps checking his watch.”

Your heart fluttered.

You gave yourself one last look in the mirror—quick swipe of gloss, tuck of hair behind your ear—and grabbed your bag.

You didn’t expect Eddie Munson to know his way around a shopping mall.

And to be fair… he didn’t.

From the moment you stepped into Starcourt’s fluorescent glow, he looked like a vampire in daylight—eyes squinting, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, muttering about “late-stage capitalism” like the air itself offended him.

“This place smells like fabric softener and broken dreams,” he declared as you passed an Orange Julius stand.

You grinned. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d have already burst into flames.”

But despite all his grumbling, he stuck close. Arm brushing yours. Slowing down when you lingered in shop windows. Letting you tug him toward places you knew he’d secretly like—like the comic shop tucked near the food court, where he perked up at the sight of a rare Swamp Thing issue and ended up ranting, passionately, about horror art for ten straight minutes.

After that, it all got easier.

He let you drag him through a novelty store, where he made you try on glittery heart-shaped sunglasses and nearly bought a lava lamp “just because.” At Sam Goody, you flipped through cassette tapes while he made dramatic gagging noises at pop albums and then—when he thought you weren’t looking—quietly bought a Bowie tape because you mentioned liking one song.

Somewhere between Cinnabon and Spencer’s, your arms brushed again.

And this time, he didn’t move away.

Instead, he offered his elbow in that silly, exaggerated way, like some knight escorting royalty through battle. You rolled your eyes but linked arms anyway.

You didn’t unlink for a while.

When you passed the photobooth, it was your idea.

“C’mon,” you said, already tugging at his sleeve. “We have to. It’s practically a law.”

“I hate pictures,” he protested.

“Too bad.”

He grumbled, but followed.

The booth curtain smelled like static and old gum, and the light inside was way too bright. But Eddie slid in beside you anyway, pressing his knee against yours in the cramped space.

The timer beeped.

First photo, a blur of you both, too late to pose.

Second photo, you were smiling, he was sticking his tongue out.

Third, he turned his head and said something just as the flash went off, so his mouth was frozen mid-word and you were laughing.

Fourth, he looked at you. Really looked. And you looked back, cheeks warm. And for that one second, neither of you made a face.

That last one made your stomach flutter.

The strip slid out a few seconds later, still warm from the machine. You both leaned over it, smiling like idiots.

“I’m keeping this one,” you said, pointing to the last shot.

“No way. That’s the best one.” He mock-whined. “It’s mine now.”

“Split it,” you said, already reaching for it. “Even trade.”

So you carefully tore it down the middle, each of you keeping two little squares. You tucked yours into your wallet. He stuffed his into the pocket of his jacket like it was something worth keeping safe.

After that, you shared a cherry slushie and browsed the record store. You ended up on one of the benches near the fountain, your shoulders bumping gently as you sat.

Eddie kicked at the tile with the toe of his boot. “Okay, confession,” he said, not looking at you. “This was kinda fun.”

You smiled. “Even though it’s a capitalist wasteland?”

He grinned. “Especially because of that. I got to rant and be dramatic and walk around with a pretty girl on my arm. All the core Eddie Munson needs.”

You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder.

And you didn’t say it out loud, but in your pocket, the photo strip pressed between your wallet like proof:

Something was happening between you.

And it felt really, really good.

The smell of acrylic paint alingered in the air, windows cracked just enough to let in the late afternoon breeze. You sat cross-legged on a stool, paintbrush in hand, blotting a soft gradient of pink across the corner of your sketchbook while your friends chatted around you.

“So then Brad says he didn’t cheat, he just ‘accidentally’ kissed her,” Courtney said, rolling her eyes as she rinsed a brush in a cloudy jar of water. “Like that’s a thing.”

“Classic,” Angela muttered. “Men are such a disease.”

You hummed in vague agreement, still focused on blending your colors. It wasn’t until Courtney nudged your foot under the table that you looked up.

“Okay, but you had that smug little look on your face when you walked in,” she said. “So. Tells us. What did you do this weekend?”

You paused.

Then smiled. Just a little. “I went to the mall.”

“Ugh, I live there,” Angela said. “With who?”

“…Eddie.”

Courtney blinked. “Eddie Munson?”

Angela dropped her pencil. “Seriously?”

You shifted in your seat, brushing a spot of paint from your thumb. “Yeah.”

They exchanged a glance, the kind that was just a little too loaded. “Are you—like—serious with him?” Courtney asked, a bit cautiously.

You looked down at your sketchbook.

The memory hit you fast and warm—Eddie, leaning back on a food court bench, drumming his fingers against his knee and grinning every time your hand brushed his. The way his face softened when he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. The photobooth picture in your wallet, folded so carefully it was starting to wear at the edges.

You swallowed, eyes flicking back up.

“I don’t know yet,” you said honestly. “But… maybe.”

Courtney raised a brow. “I mean, he’s kind of—”

“Different,” Angela finished for her. “Like, not who we thought you’d be into.”

You let out a breath, not defensive—just tired of that tone.

“He’s actually really sweet,” you said. “He listens when I talk. He cares about stuff. He remembered I liked a random song and went back for the tape the next day. He’s not what you think he is.”

The girls went quiet for a second.

Then Courtney shrugged. “Okay. I mean, if you like him.”

“I do,” you said quietly, adding a final brushstroke to your page. “More than I thought I would.”

Angela cracked a smile. “Well… if he breaks your heart, we’re egging his van.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

The library was louder than usual—not in noise, but in energy. Stress hung thick in the air, like a storm cloud hovering over every student hunched at their tables. Pages flipped, pencils scratched, the occasional frustrated sigh echoed off the stone walls. It was exam season.

Eddie Munson was in hell.

His science textbook lay open in front of him, untouched for the last ten minutes. His notebook was empty, save for a rough sketch of a dragon flipping off a periodic table. He tapped his pencil against his lip, eyes unfocused, legs jittering under the table.

This wasn’t his place. He hated the cold lighting, the itchy silence, the way it all felt like it was judging him for every gap in his knowledge.

And then you walked in.

Like sunlight in a storm.

You made your way across the room, dodging backpacks and tangled limbs, carrying your bag against your hip and a calm expression that made it look like you weren’t drowning in deadlines and formulas. You spotted him, gave a little wave, and sat down across from him.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. “Hey.”

You glanced at the disaster zone of his table—crumpled notes, half-drawn doodles, an empty soda cup with a chewed straw—and smiled.

“Rough day?”

Eddie dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m about five minutes away from faking my own death and starting a new life as a gas station poet in Ohio.”

You laughed, but it softened quickly as you reached into your bag and pulled something out: a clean, colorful folder. It had your name written neatly on the corner, and sticky notes poking from the sides like a rainbow spine.

You slid it across the table toward him. “These are my notes. For science. And history. And… okay, maybe I got carried away.”

He blinked. “You—”

“They’re color-coded. Definitions are in blue. Equations are pink. Anything our teachers stressed in class is highlighted. I even made flashcards, they’re in the back pocket.”

Eddie just stared at it.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because something about it felt… personal. Intimate.

No one had ever done something like this for him before.

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know, maybe it’s dumb. But they helped me. I figured maybe they’d help you too.”

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cover. Then, reverently, he opened it.

It was like walking into your mind. Your handwriting curled neatly over page after page. You’d drawn little diagrams. Circled key dates. There was even a little cartoon mitochondrion wearing sunglasses on one page.

He swallowed.

“This is…” he said quietly, still flipping pages. “This is incredible.”

You shrugged, trying not to blush. “Just thought you could use a little help.”

Eddie didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, running his thumb along the edge of one of the pages like it might disappear if he let go.

Then he looked up at you. Not with the usual teasing smile or lazy smirk.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I swear to god,” he said, voice low and serious, “if you keep being this perfect, I’m gonna have to make you mine.”

Your heart stuttered.

You blinked, stunned—but not in a bad way. Just… surprised by the weight of those words, how much they didn’t sound like a joke.

You recovered with a half-smile. “You should probably focus on passing chemistry first.”

“Baby, I’m failing chemistry because you walk into the room and all the atoms in my brain rearrange.”

You laughed, covering your face for a second. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s emotional science,” he insisted. “Way more complicated.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth wouldn’t leave your cheeks.

He closed it gently, like he was sealing up treasure.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

“Of course,” you replied, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve been helping me too. Just in a different way.”

Eddie tilted his head. “Oh yeah? How?”

You looked at him, and this time, didn’t hesitate. “You make me feel like I don’t have to hide the weird parts of myself.”

Eddie’s eyes softened.

“I’d riot if you did.”

You were digging through your locker for your pencil pouch when you heard it—footsteps, pounding fast down the hallway, like someone was being chased. You didn’t even look up until a voice you knew all too well shouted your name like it was a fire alarm.

“Hey!”

You turned just in time to see Eddie Munson nearly skid on the polished floor as he sprinted toward you, hair wild, jacket flapping behind him like a cape.

He nearly collided with the locker beside yours, bracing himself with one hand, breath coming in quick bursts.

“Eddie—what—?”

“I passed,” he said, eyes bright and disbelieving. “I passed.”

It took you a second to register what he meant. “Wait—like... everything?”

He nodded, grinning so hard his face looked like it might split open. “Everything. Math, English, science—Mrs. Miller gave me a D-minus, but that’s still a D! That’s still passing!”

You dropped your books onto the floor without even caring.

“Eddie, that’s amazing!”

And before you knew what you were doing, you threw your arms around him.

He laughed into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor for a second, spinning once with the wildness of it all.

“I had to tell you first,” he said, voice muffled in your hair. “I ran here.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, eyes shining with something that looked way more intense than just pride.

He looked at you like you were the sun after months of rain.

“Seriously, I never would’ve made it without you,” he said. “Those notes? Those flash cards? The dumb acronyms you made up so I could remember physics formulas—”

“They weren’t dumb,” you said, laughing.

“They were adorable,” he corrected, like it was obvious. “And apparently effective.”

His hands were still on your waist. Yours were curled into his jacket without you noticing. Your faces were close—closer than usual. And you saw it flicker across his face—something unspoken, something about to break through.

And then it did.

He kissed you.

No hesitation, no stammering this time. Just a sharp inhale, and then his lips were on yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t polished or practiced—it was a kiss powered by sheer joy, by the rush of success and the comfort of you, by everything he’d been holding back. His hands slid from your waist up to your jaw, cradling your face like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And the thing was—you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back, arms looping around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him in the middle of this ridiculous, beautiful rush.

When he finally pulled away, your faces still close, you could feel his breath fanning your lips, still uneven.

You stared at him, slightly dazed, your pulse thundering in your ears.

“…You didn’t plan that, did you?” you asked, voice half-breathless, half-amused.

Eddie gave the softest little laugh, head leaning against yours for a second as he caught his breath.

“Not even a little,” he said. “I think I blacked out after I said ‘I passed.’”

You shook your head, cheeks burning in the best way.

He grinned, wild and flushed and completely Eddie. “You’re gonna be so sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

And you didn’t even have to think about it.

Because if this—this chaotic, sweet, completely unfiltered boy—was the reward at the end of every academic achievement?

You’d tutor him forever.

“Eddie’s here,” your mom called from the hallway, her voice light and knowing.

You looked up from the mirror, heart skipping just a little.

Your dad’s voice followed a beat later from the living room. “Tell him to keep it under 60 this time.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately as you grabbed your bag. “He only sped once, and that was because we were late for grad practice.”

“He was going eighty,” your dad replied.

“It was downhill,” you said, already headed for the door.

You passed your mom in the hall, and she gave you a soft smile. “He brought flowers. Again.”

You couldn’t help the way your smile grew.

When you stepped outside, the warm air wrapped around you like a blanket. The sun was still high, the cicadas buzzing lazily in the trees, and there he was—leaning against his van like he belonged there, a bouquet of mismatched wildflowers in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his worn jeans.

He looked up the second he heard the screen door creak.

And you swear, even now, after everything, he still looked at you like it was the first time.

“There she is,” he said, grinning wide.

You walked up to him, arms crossing just to keep yourself from doing something embarrassing, like swooning. “What’s the occasion?”

Eddie held out the flowers. “Just celebrating the fact that I somehow tricked the universe into giving me a girlfriend this amazing.”

You rolled your eyes, taking them anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned closer, voice low and smug. “And yet… here you are.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours, but your smile gave you away.

He opened the passenger door for you with an exaggerated bow. “M’lady.”

“Such a gentleman,” you muttered, climbing in.

As he circled the van to the driver’s side, your dad stepped out onto the porch with a glass of coffee and a suspicious glare.

Eddie gave a little wave and a crooked smile. “Sir. Swear I’ll have her back by ten. Eleven max. No stunt driving this time.”

Your dad just raised an eyebrow.

Eddie slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and pulling on his seatbelt. “He loves me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you said as he started the engine.

“So,” he said, flicking the stereo on low, “this theater just started showing Back to the Future. Two days early, somehow. I figured a little time travel with you sounded better than melting in my room watching The Evil Dead for the twelfth time.”

You laughed and gave him a look. “You just want to see the DeLorean.”

“…Okay, also that.”

He reached over and laced your fingers with his, resting your joined hands on the bench seat between you.

The van rumbled down the sunlit road, windows cracked open, the summer air carrying in the scent of grass and gasoline. Your hair danced in the breeze. Eddie hummed along to whatever cassette was playing—a little out of tune, but you didn’t mind.

Not when his thumb kept tracing slow circles over the back of your hand.

Not when the entire summer felt like it was unfolding in front of you like something sacred.

And as he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning like you were the best part of the world—

You thought maybe you were right where you were supposed to be.

The mall was alive with its usual symphony—chatter, synth-pop from overhead speakers, the distant ding of arcade machines, and the occasional whir of the fountain in the food court. You and Eddie split off the moment you stepped into the theater’s cool, air-conditioned lobby.

“I’m getting the tickets,” he said, already headed toward the box office.

“And I’m getting snacks,” you said before he could argue, already turning for the concession stand. “Don’t fight me on this, Munson.”

He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

When you met back up, he handed you a single stub—he’d already torn them and given the other to the usher. You handed him a large bucket of popcorn and a cherry Icee with two straws.

Eddie blinked. “You got two straws in my Coke?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s our Coke now.”

His heart may have done a ridiculous little flip at that, but he just grinned and led the way inside.

The theater was dark and cool, the trailers already rolling as you found seats near the middle—close enough to feel immersed but far enough that you weren’t cranking your neck. Eddie set the popcorn between you, but you curled into his side instead, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm and resting your head gently on his shoulder.

He stilled for half a second, surprised by the contact—he never quite got used to the way you just… leaned into him like that. Like it was easy. Like it was safe.

“You comfortable?” he whispered, glancing down.

You nodded without looking up, your voice soft. “Perfect.”

When the movie began, the glow of the screen lit your faces in blues and oranges and whites. You quietly giggled at the opening scene, nudging Eddie every time something ridiculous happened—he whispered a sarcastic comment back each time, just enough to make you cover your mouth to stifle laughter.

At one point, he reached into the popcorn bucket and accidentally brushed your hand. You didn’t move away. Neither did he.

When Marty McFly first hit 1955, you leaned closer, eyes wide with wonder. Eddie didn’t say anything—just smiled a little to himself, letting you rest there, your head warm on his shoulder, your heartbeat syncing quietly with the slow, steady thrum of his.

And in the dark, surrounded by strangers and movie magic, Eddie Munson let himself imagine—just for a moment—what it might be like to have this forever.

The van rolled to a quiet stop in front of your house, headlights casting soft beams across the porch. The movie was long over and the cassette in the stereo had looped twice already.

Neither of you moved.

You glanced at Eddie with a small smile, fingers nervously picking at the edge of your sleeve. “Thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

He turned toward you, his hand resting on the steering wheel. “Yeah? Me too. That was…” He looked at you like he was still a little surprised this was real. “That was a good night.”

You both laughed at how underwhelming that sounded.

“I mean—great night,” he amended, mock-dramatic. “One for the ages.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. “Come on, rockstar. Walk me to the door?”

Eddie hopped out first and came around the van, opening your door like he always did—even when you rolled your eyes at him for it. The night air was warm but quieter now, the street still and bathed in porchlight glow. You walked side by side up the driveway, close enough that your arms brushed.

At the bottom step, you turned to face him.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet like he wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words. “I, uh… hope this wasn’t too boring. You know the mall and a movie isn’t exactly my usual scene.”

You shook your head. “I loved it. And… I like seeing different sides of you.”

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Small, warm, a little shy.

You stood there for another beat, the silence stretching out but never uncomfortable. Just full—like both of you were hoping time would slow down.

“Well…” you started, tilting your head toward the door.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess this is—”

You kissed him.

Soft and certain. You leaned in first, lips brushing his with the kind of ease that only came with practice and care. He melted into it instantly, one hand slipping to your waist, the other steadying him against the railing like the whole world had narrowed down to just this.

When you finally pulled away, your noses were still almost touching.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” you whispered.

He blinked, dazed. “Goodnight.”

You stepped inside with a smile still tugging at your lips, and the second you closed the door behind you—

“That was quite the kiss.”

You jumped. Your mom was standing in the kitchen, sipping tea with your dad, both of them clearly having witnessed the entire thing from the window.

“Did he trip over the step again?” your dad asked casually. “He always does that when he’s nervous.”

You groaned. “You two seriously have nothing better to do?”

Your mom just smirked, eyes twinkling. “We like seeing you happy.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t stop the grin from breaking through.

Because yeah… you were happy.

Dating Eddie Munson is nothing like you expected—and everything you didn’t know you needed.

It’s loud music in his van, the kind that rattles the floorboards and makes you laugh when he drums on the steering wheel like the world’s watching. It’s his leather jacket slung over your shoulders when the air turns cold, his rings cool against your skin when he reaches for your hand. It’s messy hair, wild ideas, and the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, like it means something.

It’s learning to love the chaos, and realizing that under all that noise and bravado, Eddie’s just… gentle. Thoughtful. Unbelievably loyal.

Dating Eddie is getting a cassette made just for you—your name scribbled on the label, each song chosen because it reminds him of you. It’s him sitting beside you while you paint, trying not to move too much even though he’s definitely itching to fidget. It’s him reading the comics you lend him, even the weird ones, just so he can talk to you about them later.

It’s milkshakes and movie nights and the kind of laughter that makes your chest hurt. It’s long drives with no destination, arms dangling out the window, his voice carrying through the breeze as he sings along—terribly—to some over-the-top power ballad.

It feels like a plot twist Eddie Munson never saw coming.

He thought he knew how his story would go—misunderstood metalhead, high school dropout, maybe famous one day if he got lucky. But then you happened. And now every chapter feels rewritten.

It’s surreal, honestly.

You—who used to feel so out of reach—actually laugh at his stupid impressions and roll your eyes in that way that kills him, but never walk away. You sit next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You hold his hand like you mean it. That alone blows his mind.

It’s the way you look at him like he's not some town freak. Like he’s not a rumor or a punchline or a lost cause.

Like he’s enough.

He'll go to every goddamn mall just to see you smile under neon lights, taking photos in a booth he secretly keeps in his wallet, and pretending not to blush when your head rests on his shoulder during a movie.

Dating you, to Eddie, feels like finding out the world isn’t as cruel as he thought it was.

It’s not always easy. He still worries he’s not good enough for you, that you’ll wake up one day and see what everyone else says they see. But you never flinch. You just keep showing up. Keep choosing him.

And he’d burn down the whole world just to deserve you a little more.

Yeah. Dating you?

It’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

[vingtetunmars]

honestly becoming a fanfic writer wasn't on my 2025 bingo card

[vingtetunmars]

Out of Step, In Sync

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: After a disappointing prom night, you stumble into an unexpected conversation behind the gym with Eddie Munson—Hawkins’ favorite scapegoat and misunderstood metalhead. What starts as a casual talk over a shared escape turns into something else unexpected.

Tags: Fluff, pure fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, honestly yall will need a dentist, SFW, mutual pining, developing relationship, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, prom, dancing, 80s sci-fi references, no upside-down. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N

A/N: Yeah, you know me, I love a good 'ol fluff, I needed to feel something. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 8.4k

masterlist

You didn’t even bother glancing back.

The bass from the gym echoed down the corridor, muffled and distant, like a heartbeat you weren’t part of. Glitter clung to your dress and your shoes pinched with every step, but you didn’t care. The heels were coming off soon anyway. The air back here was cooler, quieter, less drenched in Aqua Net and teenage desperation. You welcomed it like an old friend.

You weren’t angry. Not even a little heartbroken. Just… done. Your so-called prom date was slow dancing with some girl from his chem class—too close, too familiar—but honestly? It was a relief. The two of you had nothing in common, and you’d spent most of the evening counting down the songs until you could leave without it being “a thing.”

Now, finally, you were alone.

You pushed the heavy double doors open and stepped out into the cool night. The gym’s back lot was empty, save for a few leftover streamers fluttering from a fence post. You sighed, breathing in the crisp air. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada buzzed lazily.

Then you caught it—the scent of smoke.

Cigarette smoke.

You turned your head and there he was, half-shadowed by the building’s edge, denim jacket draped over a worn prom tee, black slacks like he hadn’t tried at all—and still somehow made it work. Eddie Munson, leaning against the brick wall like the whole world bored him to tears.

He raised an eyebrow when he noticed you, but didn’t say anything at first. Just took another drag and watched you with a crooked smile.

“Well, well,” he said finally, voice low and amused. “Didn’t peg you for a backdoor escape artist.”

You crossed your arms, smirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d show up at prom.”

He shrugged. “Had to see it to believe it. The glitter. The heartbreak. The emotional meltdowns. It’s like a zoo in there.”

You laughed, the first real one of the night. It caught you off guard.

He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and nodded toward the gym. “So. Who do I have to thank for you gracing the back alley with your presence?”

You tilted your head. “My date’s dancing with someone else.”

Eddie winced dramatically. “Oof. Harsh.”

“Nah,” you said, leaning against the wall beside him. “We had the chemistry of a wet sponge. I’m just glad he realized it before I had to fake a bathroom emergency.”

He chuckled, and it sounded honest. Warm.

“Well,” he said, holding the cigarette out like an offering, “welcome to the land of misfit prom-goers.”

You eyed the cigarette, then shook your head. “I’ll pass. But thanks, ambassador of the misfits.”

Eddie grinned, sliding it back between his lips. “Suit yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt kind of… easy. The thump of music behind you became background noise, like it belonged to another world. You looked out across the empty lot, then back at him.

“So what about you?” you asked. “Didn’t have a date either?”

Eddie snorted. “Please. Can you imagine me at a formal dinner with someone’s mom taking pictures? Nah. I’m just here for the chaos. Thought I’d maybe sneak in, spike the punch, throw a few firecrackers—y’know, the classics—but someone already beat me to it. So now I’m stuck lurking like a gremlin in the shadows.”

You laughed again, easier this time. “Well, you wear the gremlin look well.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “High praise.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Peaceful. Like the noise of the gym didn’t even exist out here.

You twirled the cigarette in your fingers. “I used to think you were all noise, y’know,” you said without really thinking. “Like, loud music and heavy boots and wild hair.”

“I mean, I am all of those things,” he said, raising a brow.

“Sure,” you said. “But I don’t know… I think there’s more to it.”

He looked at you for a second, like he was trying to read your mind. Then he smiled. “Alright. Your turn. Tell me something about you that’d surprise me.”

You thought about it. Then, what the hell.

“I like science fiction. Books. Comics, too.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not something I talk about. People think it’s weird.”

“Okay, hold on.” He straightened up, suddenly animated. “What kind of sci-fi? Like, classic stuff or weird future dystopia stuff?”

“Both,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov. And there’s this one graphic novel series I’ve been obsessed with—The Long Tomorrow. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

Eddie’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? Moebius is a god. That gritty noir-future vibe? That’s, like, the blueprint for half my D&D campaigns.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you like Moebius?”

“Like him? I worship him. I have The Airtight Garage under my mattress so my uncle doesn’t ‘accidentally’ throw it out during one of his cleaning sprees.”

You couldn’t stop smiling now. “That’s ridiculous.”

He pointed at you with his cigarette. “You’re ridiculous. All this time I thought you were just another prom queen in disguise and now you’re telling me you’re secretly a sci-fi nerd?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not a prom queen.”

“No,” he said, grinning. “You’re way cooler.”

The compliment caught you off guard. There was no smirk behind it, no teasing edge—just honesty. His eyes lingered on yours, and for the first time all night, you felt seen. Not dressed up, not performing, just you.

“Guess we both had the wrong idea,” you said quietly.

He nodded. “Guess so.”

And just like that, the space between you didn’t feel so distant anymore.

You both stood there for a while, trading stories—about favorite books, childhood cartoons, and how utterly overrated prom was. You were surprised how much you had in common. Maybe not in how you moved through the world, but in the way you looked at it. Like both of you were on the outside looking in, only now you had company.

Through the slightly cracked door, a new song filtered out. Faint but unmistakable.

“I wanna know what love is…”

You glanced back toward the gym. The colored lights flickered just beyond the windows, a blur of red and blue. The music carried more clearly now, bleeding into the cool night air like some kind of cosmic joke.

Eddie took another drag, then stubbed out the cigarette under his boot. “You should go back in,” he said after a moment, flicking ash from his fingertips. “It’s prom. Go dance with someone. Someone who doesn’t hang out behind dumpsters and make fun of the decorations.”

You tilted your head at him. “You mean someone boring?”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Someone who won’t get you judged by, like, the entire social hierarchy of Hawkins High.”

You shrugged. “I already got ditched by my date. What’s the worst they can do? Gasp?”

Eddie smiled, but his eyes drifted back toward the glowing gym windows. “Still… I’m not exactly prom royalty.”

“Well, neither am I,” you said. “So maybe that’s the point.”

He didn’t answer. Just rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking unsure of himself for the first time that night.

You tilted your head again, studying him. “You know,” you said slowly, “you could go dance too.”

Eddie barked a short laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He held up his hands, surrender-style. “I can’t dance. I mean it. Like, at all. I’ve got rhythm when I’m playing guitar, but put me on a dance floor and I look like I’m dodging bees.”

You stared at him for a moment. Then something wild and impulsive bubbled up inside you.

You stepped forward, just close enough to be a little dangerous.

“Okay,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “So don’t go on the dance floor.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Stay right here. Dance with me.”

Eddie straightened slightly, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. “Are you… serious?”

You nodded, smiling now. “I’ll guide you. You don’t have to know how. Just follow me.”

He hesitated. And for a second, you thought he’d say no. But then, slowly, like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast, he took your hand.

His fingers were warm. Calloused. A little shaky.

You placed his other hand at your waist, your free hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

The music swelled behind you, soft and sweet and full of yearning.

“…and I want you to show me…”

You started to sway, just a little. Nothing fancy. Just moving to the rhythm, simple and easy.

“Okay,” you said, voice low. “Just match me. That’s it.”

Eddie watched your feet like they held all the answers in the universe, but he followed. Awkwardly at first. Then with a little more confidence. Then a little more.

He looked up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re really doing this.”

“So are you.”

And under the stars, with music bleeding out from a world that didn’t quite fit either of you, Eddie Munson danced.

With you.

You didn’t let go.

And for the life of him, Eddie couldn’t understand why.

Your dress swaying slightly in the night breeze, and you were holding his hand. Guiding him like this was just some normal thing people did — like you weren’t the kind of girl who was supposed to laugh behind your locker with friends in matching dresses. Like you weren’t way too pretty, too bright, too out-of-his-league to be caught slow dancing with the town freak behind a gym full of people who’d never get it.

But there you were. Smiling at him like he wasn’t a joke. Like he wasn’t just a rumor in black denim.

And all Eddie could do was follow your lead.

You moved gently, no pressure. Just a simple sway. His hand was on your waist, and he could feel your heartbeat through the fabric, could feel the way your fingers gripped his just enough to ground him. Like you knew he was seconds away from spinning off the planet.

How was this real?

For once, Eddie Munson wasn’t putting on a show or throwing up middle fingers at the world. He wasn’t posturing or mocking or performing.

He was just here.

Dancing with you under the stars, to a song he didn’t even like, and somehow? It felt like the most honest thing he’d ever done.

The ride home was quiet, but not the awkward kind. The good kind. The kind that settled between the two of you like a blanket, warm and easy.

Eddie’s van rumbled softly down the back roads, headlights cutting through the dark. Your heels were in your lap, your feet bare and curled up on the seat, glitter still dusting your legs. The leftover makeup smudged slightly beneath your eyes, but you didn’t care. Neither did he.

He kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed, but you didn’t say anything.

The radio played something soft—some late-night ballad that felt a little too on the nose—but neither of you reached out to change the station. It kind of fit.

When he finally pulled up in front of your house, the engine idled low, casting the porch in pale yellow light. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

You turned to him, your voice softer than it had been all night. “Thanks for the ride.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and gave a small, genuine nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

You opened the door, about to step out, then hesitated.

“And… thanks for earlier,” you added, eyes meeting his. “I actually had fun tonight.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Like… more than I’ve had in a while.”

Eddie’s fingers drummed once on the steering wheel. “That’s kinda sad,” he teased. “But I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes darker in the dim light. “You’re not what I expected,” he said, quietly.

You tilted your head. “Good unexpected?”

He shrugged, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you now. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You nodded slowly, then stepped down from the van. The door thunked shut behind you, but you lingered at the curb, turning back one last time.

“See you Monday?”

He grinned. “I’ll be the one getting detention.”

You laughed, backing toward your porch.

And he stayed there, parked under the streetlight, watching you go—wondering what the hell just happened, and why he kind of, maybe, really wanted it to happen again.

Monday’s cafeteria buzzed with leftover prom talk—who wore what, who threw up in the parking lot, and who was already regretting their choice of date. You sat with your usual group, a tray of barely-touched food in front of you, picking at a soggy fry as your friends swapped stories.

“I swear, if I hear more stories of Lisa and Charlie slow dancing, I’ll puke,” one of them groaned.

“I heard Jeff cried during I Wanna Know What Love Is,” another snorted.

You chuckled under your breath, but you were only half-listening. Your thoughts were still stuck somewhere in the quiet part of Friday night—lit by stars, wrapped in soft music and Eddie Munson’s uncertain hands.

“Okay,” said Courtney, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “tell us. What happened with you? You disappeared after ten.”

Your stomach did a small flip. “I, uh… went outside for some air.”

“That long?” someone chimed in. “Didn’t your date ditch you?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. But it was mutual, kinda. No chemistry.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “So what, you just wandered off?”

You hesitated, then decided to own it.

“I ran into Eddie Munson. We talked for a while.”

The table quieted. You didn’t miss the way someone blinked. Or the small, uncomfortable scoff.

“Wait—Eddie Munson?” said one of the girls, drawing out his name like it tasted wrong. “As in… Hellfire Club, Eddie?”

You looked up, steady. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” another said under her breath. “Isn’t he like… failing half his classes?”

“I heard he might repeat senior year again,” someone else added. “That’s like—what, his third time?”

You set down your fry and leaned back a little. “So what?”

That shut them up for a beat.

You looked around the table. “He was nice. We talked. We danced. It was actually… fun.”

Courtney blinked at you, like she couldn’t quite process it. “You danced with Eddie Munson?”

You smiled. “Yeah. He’s different than people think.”

They exchanged a few glances, probably trying to figure out if you were serious, but you didn’t give them room to argue. You just went back to your tray, casual but firm.

You didn’t owe them anything else.

And when they finally moved on to a different story, you let your mind drift again—back to Eddie’s hands, awkward and warm in yours, and the way he’d smiled like no one had ever looked at him the way you had.

The final bell rang and the halls of Hawkins High exploded with noise—slamming lockers, shouted goodbyes, the usual stampede toward the exit. You were pulling out your books, ready to head home, when a familiar mop of messy curls came into view.

Eddie.

He almost walked past, arms full of binders and that damn lunchbox of his, but then he spotted you. His grin bloomed instantly.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite prom partner,” he said, walking backward in front of you with dramatic flair.

You snorted. “I’m your only prom partner.”

“Details,” he waved off, turning to walk beside you. “Still the best.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile too wide, but it was hard. He kept cracking jokes—half of them dumb, some surprisingly clever, all of them weirdly charming. By the time you reached the front doors, you were laughing hard enough to forget about the weight of your backpack or the way people stared.

Outside, the sun was still high, casting golden light over the parking lot. You lingered near the bike racks, and Eddie rocked back on his heels, suddenly looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

He scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You doing anything right now?”

You blinked. “Not really. Why?”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Wanna get milkshakes or something?”

You tilted your head, amused. “Are you asking me out?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, eyes wide. “I mean—not that you’re not—ugh.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Not like a date date, just, y’know. A post-school, ice-cream-adjacent hangout. Very casual. Extremely non-threatening.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You’re doing a terrible job of making it sound casual.”

He groaned. “God, I know.”

You paused for a second. Then smiled.

“Yeah. Let’s get milkshakes.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Really,” you said, starting to walk again, this time toward his van. You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Do I get to pick the music in your van?”

He placed a hand over his heart, mock wounded. “Absolutely not. But you can control the windows.”

Lunchtime in the cafeteria. Same old gray plastic trays, same mystery meat, same half-hearted arguments about campaign rules. Eddie was halfway through explaining, for the third time, why rolling a nat 1 on perception doesn’t mean you automatically get eaten by a mimic, when something—or rather, someone—stepped into his line of vision.

You.

He blinked up at you, startled. You were holding something. A piece of paper, no—thicker than that. Watercolor paper.

You thrust it out toward him before he could even say hi.

“I, um… I made this.”

Eddie looked down.

It was a watercolor painting. Bold, messy brush strokes in warm and murky tones. And there, standing like some strange cosmic king, was Major Grubert from The Airtight Garage. Rendered with this dreamy, layered energy—loose and vivid, with little gold details that shimmered when they caught the light.

“You painted this?” he asked, dumbfounded.

You nodded quickly, already looking like you regretted everything. “I don’t know. It’s dumb. I just— You said you liked the comic, and I was painting for art club, and I thought maybe you’d—”

He stared at you.

You stared at the floor.

“Anyway,” you rushed, already backing up. “You don’t have to keep it or anything. I just—yeah, okay, bye.”

And then you turned on your heel and disappeared between the tables, like a mirage, gone as fast as you came.

For a second, Eddie didn’t move. His tray sat forgotten, and the painting was still in his hands.

“What the hell was that?” said Gareth.

Jeff leaned over, squinting. “Is that… art?”

“Holy crap,” said one of the freshmen, eyes wide. “Did she just give you that? Like, a gift?”

“I think she did,” Eddie murmured.

He was still staring at it. Still stunned.

Because it wasn’t just the painting—though that alone was cool as hell—it was the fact that you made it for him. That you remembered that offhand comment about The Airtight Garage from days ago. That you painted this weird little sci-fi character, and thought of him while doing it.

It was… a lot.

Eddie cleared his throat, trying to shake the dazed look off his face. “Shut up,” he mumbled, carefully sliding the painting into his binder like it was made of glass. “None of you get it. It’s called being interesting, you cretins.”

They didn’t stop staring.

Gareth leaned over the table. “Dude. Seriously. What was that?”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “Did you hex her or something?”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered, still guarding the painting like it was top-secret government property. He shoved it deeper into his binder, then clapped it shut with a loud snap.

“You’ve been weird all week,” Jeff pointed out.

“Yeah, man,” Gareth said, gesturing wildly. “You’ve been, like… smiley. It’s freaky.”

Eddie sighed like a man defeated, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fine,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low. “If I tell you, will you shut up and let me eat my damn lunch?”

They all nodded in rapid, eager unison.

Eddie leaned forward slightly. “We danced at prom.”

The table went silent.

“What?” Gareth blinked. “Who did?”

“Me and her,” Eddie said, voice a little more defensive now. “It just kind of… happened. She came outside. We talked. She offered. I didn’t step on her feet. Miracle of the decade.”

“She asked you to dance?” Jeff repeated, stunned.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jeff. It’s not that hard to believe.”

“It’s just—she’s, like… art club. Social. Normal,” said Doug.

“And I’m a freak,” Eddie finished, not angrily—just matter-of-fact. “Yeah, yeah. I know. That’s the whole thing, right?”

They all exchanged awkward glances.

Eddie softened a little. “We’ve just been talking since then. That’s all. She’s cool. Funny. Into sci-fi stuff. And apparently, she paints really badass cosmic generals in her spare time.”

The group went quiet again, but this time with a slightly different energy.

Jeff nodded slowly. “Huh.”

“Damn,” Gareth muttered. “Did not see that coming.”

Eddie shrugged, leaning back in his seat and finally stabbing at his lunch. “Neither did I.”

But under the table, his fingers tapped quietly on his knee—restless in that weird, hopeful way.

Because yeah… he didn’t see it coming.

Your room looked like a clothing explosion.

Jeans on the bed. A skirt on the floor. Three different tops draped over your chair. You stared into the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your favorite shirt for what had to be the fourth time, then gave up and let out a groan.

It wasn’t a date.

Not officially.

But still.

Eddie had asked you yesterday—Eddie Munson, king of chains, dice, and anti-establishment rants—if you wanted to go to the new Starcourt Mall. He’d said it kind of awkwardly, like the words felt weird in his mouth. Then he’d doubled down with, “I mean, I hate malls, they’re corporate brain rot, but if you’re there too, I guess I won’t spontaneously combust.”

Which, translated from Eddie-speak, meant: I want to spend time with you, and I’m doing something completely out of character because it might make you smile.

So yeah. Maybe it was a date.

You adjusted your hair again, spritzed the tiniest bit of perfume, and gave yourself one last once-over. Just polished enough to show you cared—but not so much it looked like you were trying. Hopefully.

A soft knock on your door pulled you back to Earth.

Your mom peeked in, eyes twinkling.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

She pushed the door open with a hand on her hip and an expression halfway between curiosity and polite judgment. “There’s a young man waiting downstairs for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “He’s early?”

She shrugged. “Five minutes. Maybe he was excited.”

You tried to hide your smile as you turned back to the mirror, smoothing down the hem of your nicest top. Not fancy fancy — just enough to look like you put in effort. It wasn’t every day Eddie Munson asked someone to hang out somewhere as un-Eddie as the Starcourt Mall.

You were flattered. And a little impressed. He was trying.

Your mom lingered by the doorway, arms crossed loosely now.

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

You paused, lip gloss wand hovering in the air. “I’m not. We’re just… hanging out.”

She arched a brow. “Uh-huh.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “I mean it.”

“Well,” she said, pushing off the doorframe. “He’s… not what I expected.”

You turned slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Leather jacket. Messy hair. Rings on every finger. He’s got a… rough-around-the-edges thing.” She shrugged. “I didn’t peg him as your type.”

You hesitated. “Is that a problem?”

She raised her hands. “Not for me. Just... interesting choice.”

Then, softening, she added, “But he stood up when I walked in. Called me ma’am. And he didn’t look at the family photos weird, so… he’s alright in my book.”

You blinked. “Wow. High praise.”

“I’m just saying,” she smiled. “You could’ve warned me you brought home a James Dean type.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time you were grinning. “He’s not like that.”

“If you say so.”

With that, she turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t leave him waiting too long—he keeps checking his watch.”

Your heart fluttered.

You gave yourself one last look in the mirror—quick swipe of gloss, tuck of hair behind your ear—and grabbed your bag.

You didn’t expect Eddie Munson to know his way around a shopping mall.

And to be fair… he didn’t.

From the moment you stepped into Starcourt’s fluorescent glow, he looked like a vampire in daylight—eyes squinting, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, muttering about “late-stage capitalism” like the air itself offended him.

“This place smells like fabric softener and broken dreams,” he declared as you passed an Orange Julius stand.

You grinned. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d have already burst into flames.”

But despite all his grumbling, he stuck close. Arm brushing yours. Slowing down when you lingered in shop windows. Letting you tug him toward places you knew he’d secretly like—like the comic shop tucked near the food court, where he perked up at the sight of a rare Swamp Thing issue and ended up ranting, passionately, about horror art for ten straight minutes.

After that, it all got easier.

He let you drag him through a novelty store, where he made you try on glittery heart-shaped sunglasses and nearly bought a lava lamp “just because.” At Sam Goody, you flipped through cassette tapes while he made dramatic gagging noises at pop albums and then—when he thought you weren’t looking—quietly bought a Bowie tape because you mentioned liking one song.

Somewhere between Cinnabon and Spencer’s, your arms brushed again.

And this time, he didn’t move away.

Instead, he offered his elbow in that silly, exaggerated way, like some knight escorting royalty through battle. You rolled your eyes but linked arms anyway.

You didn’t unlink for a while.

When you passed the photobooth, it was your idea.

“C’mon,” you said, already tugging at his sleeve. “We have to. It’s practically a law.”

“I hate pictures,” he protested.

“Too bad.”

He grumbled, but followed.

The booth curtain smelled like static and old gum, and the light inside was way too bright. But Eddie slid in beside you anyway, pressing his knee against yours in the cramped space.

The timer beeped.

First photo, a blur of you both, too late to pose.

Second photo, you were smiling, he was sticking his tongue out.

Third, he turned his head and said something just as the flash went off, so his mouth was frozen mid-word and you were laughing.

Fourth, he looked at you. Really looked. And you looked back, cheeks warm. And for that one second, neither of you made a face.

That last one made your stomach flutter.

The strip slid out a few seconds later, still warm from the machine. You both leaned over it, smiling like idiots.

“I’m keeping this one,” you said, pointing to the last shot.

“No way. That’s the best one.” He mock-whined. “It’s mine now.”

“Split it,” you said, already reaching for it. “Even trade.”

So you carefully tore it down the middle, each of you keeping two little squares. You tucked yours into your wallet. He stuffed his into the pocket of his jacket like it was something worth keeping safe.

After that, you shared a cherry slushie and browsed the record store. You ended up on one of the benches near the fountain, your shoulders bumping gently as you sat.

Eddie kicked at the tile with the toe of his boot. “Okay, confession,” he said, not looking at you. “This was kinda fun.”

You smiled. “Even though it’s a capitalist wasteland?”

He grinned. “Especially because of that. I got to rant and be dramatic and walk around with a pretty girl on my arm. All the core Eddie Munson needs.”

You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder.

And you didn’t say it out loud, but in your pocket, the photo strip pressed between your wallet like proof:

Something was happening between you.

And it felt really, really good.

The smell of acrylic paint alingered in the air, windows cracked just enough to let in the late afternoon breeze. You sat cross-legged on a stool, paintbrush in hand, blotting a soft gradient of pink across the corner of your sketchbook while your friends chatted around you.

“So then Brad says he didn’t cheat, he just ‘accidentally’ kissed her,” Courtney said, rolling her eyes as she rinsed a brush in a cloudy jar of water. “Like that’s a thing.”

“Classic,” Angela muttered. “Men are such a disease.”

You hummed in vague agreement, still focused on blending your colors. It wasn’t until Courtney nudged your foot under the table that you looked up.

“Okay, but you had that smug little look on your face when you walked in,” she said. “So. Tells us. What did you do this weekend?”

You paused.

Then smiled. Just a little. “I went to the mall.”

“Ugh, I live there,” Angela said. “With who?”

“…Eddie.”

Courtney blinked. “Eddie Munson?”

Angela dropped her pencil. “Seriously?”

You shifted in your seat, brushing a spot of paint from your thumb. “Yeah.”

They exchanged a glance, the kind that was just a little too loaded. “Are you—like—serious with him?” Courtney asked, a bit cautiously.

You looked down at your sketchbook.

The memory hit you fast and warm—Eddie, leaning back on a food court bench, drumming his fingers against his knee and grinning every time your hand brushed his. The way his face softened when he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. The photobooth picture in your wallet, folded so carefully it was starting to wear at the edges.

You swallowed, eyes flicking back up.

“I don’t know yet,” you said honestly. “But… maybe.”

Courtney raised a brow. “I mean, he’s kind of—”

“Different,” Angela finished for her. “Like, not who we thought you’d be into.”

You let out a breath, not defensive—just tired of that tone.

“He’s actually really sweet,” you said. “He listens when I talk. He cares about stuff. He remembered I liked a random song and went back for the tape the next day. He’s not what you think he is.”

The girls went quiet for a second.

Then Courtney shrugged. “Okay. I mean, if you like him.”

“I do,” you said quietly, adding a final brushstroke to your page. “More than I thought I would.”

Angela cracked a smile. “Well… if he breaks your heart, we’re egging his van.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

The library was louder than usual—not in noise, but in energy. Stress hung thick in the air, like a storm cloud hovering over every student hunched at their tables. Pages flipped, pencils scratched, the occasional frustrated sigh echoed off the stone walls. It was exam season.

Eddie Munson was in hell.

His science textbook lay open in front of him, untouched for the last ten minutes. His notebook was empty, save for a rough sketch of a dragon flipping off a periodic table. He tapped his pencil against his lip, eyes unfocused, legs jittering under the table.

This wasn’t his place. He hated the cold lighting, the itchy silence, the way it all felt like it was judging him for every gap in his knowledge.

And then you walked in.

Like sunlight in a storm.

You made your way across the room, dodging backpacks and tangled limbs, carrying your bag against your hip and a calm expression that made it look like you weren’t drowning in deadlines and formulas. You spotted him, gave a little wave, and sat down across from him.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. “Hey.”

You glanced at the disaster zone of his table—crumpled notes, half-drawn doodles, an empty soda cup with a chewed straw—and smiled.

“Rough day?”

Eddie dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m about five minutes away from faking my own death and starting a new life as a gas station poet in Ohio.”

You laughed, but it softened quickly as you reached into your bag and pulled something out: a clean, colorful folder. It had your name written neatly on the corner, and sticky notes poking from the sides like a rainbow spine.

You slid it across the table toward him. “These are my notes. For science. And history. And… okay, maybe I got carried away.”

He blinked. “You—”

“They’re color-coded. Definitions are in blue. Equations are pink. Anything our teachers stressed in class is highlighted. I even made flashcards, they’re in the back pocket.”

Eddie just stared at it.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because something about it felt… personal. Intimate.

No one had ever done something like this for him before.

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know, maybe it’s dumb. But they helped me. I figured maybe they’d help you too.”

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cover. Then, reverently, he opened it.

It was like walking into your mind. Your handwriting curled neatly over page after page. You’d drawn little diagrams. Circled key dates. There was even a little cartoon mitochondrion wearing sunglasses on one page.

He swallowed.

“This is…” he said quietly, still flipping pages. “This is incredible.”

You shrugged, trying not to blush. “Just thought you could use a little help.”

Eddie didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, running his thumb along the edge of one of the pages like it might disappear if he let go.

Then he looked up at you. Not with the usual teasing smile or lazy smirk.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I swear to god,” he said, voice low and serious, “if you keep being this perfect, I’m gonna have to make you mine.”

Your heart stuttered.

You blinked, stunned—but not in a bad way. Just… surprised by the weight of those words, how much they didn’t sound like a joke.

You recovered with a half-smile. “You should probably focus on passing chemistry first.”

“Baby, I’m failing chemistry because you walk into the room and all the atoms in my brain rearrange.”

You laughed, covering your face for a second. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s emotional science,” he insisted. “Way more complicated.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth wouldn’t leave your cheeks.

He closed it gently, like he was sealing up treasure.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

“Of course,” you replied, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve been helping me too. Just in a different way.”

Eddie tilted his head. “Oh yeah? How?”

You looked at him, and this time, didn’t hesitate. “You make me feel like I don’t have to hide the weird parts of myself.”

Eddie’s eyes softened.

“I’d riot if you did.”

You were digging through your locker for your pencil pouch when you heard it—footsteps, pounding fast down the hallway, like someone was being chased. You didn’t even look up until a voice you knew all too well shouted your name like it was a fire alarm.

“Hey!”

You turned just in time to see Eddie Munson nearly skid on the polished floor as he sprinted toward you, hair wild, jacket flapping behind him like a cape.

He nearly collided with the locker beside yours, bracing himself with one hand, breath coming in quick bursts.

“Eddie—what—?”

“I passed,” he said, eyes bright and disbelieving. “I passed.”

It took you a second to register what he meant. “Wait—like... everything?”

He nodded, grinning so hard his face looked like it might split open. “Everything. Math, English, science—Mrs. Miller gave me a D-minus, but that’s still a D! That’s still passing!”

You dropped your books onto the floor without even caring.

“Eddie, that’s amazing!”

And before you knew what you were doing, you threw your arms around him.

He laughed into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor for a second, spinning once with the wildness of it all.

“I had to tell you first,” he said, voice muffled in your hair. “I ran here.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, eyes shining with something that looked way more intense than just pride.

He looked at you like you were the sun after months of rain.

“Seriously, I never would’ve made it without you,” he said. “Those notes? Those flash cards? The dumb acronyms you made up so I could remember physics formulas—”

“They weren’t dumb,” you said, laughing.

“They were adorable,” he corrected, like it was obvious. “And apparently effective.”

His hands were still on your waist. Yours were curled into his jacket without you noticing. Your faces were close—closer than usual. And you saw it flicker across his face—something unspoken, something about to break through.

And then it did.

He kissed you.

No hesitation, no stammering this time. Just a sharp inhale, and then his lips were on yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t polished or practiced—it was a kiss powered by sheer joy, by the rush of success and the comfort of you, by everything he’d been holding back. His hands slid from your waist up to your jaw, cradling your face like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And the thing was—you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back, arms looping around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him in the middle of this ridiculous, beautiful rush.

When he finally pulled away, your faces still close, you could feel his breath fanning your lips, still uneven.

You stared at him, slightly dazed, your pulse thundering in your ears.

“…You didn’t plan that, did you?” you asked, voice half-breathless, half-amused.

Eddie gave the softest little laugh, head leaning against yours for a second as he caught his breath.

“Not even a little,” he said. “I think I blacked out after I said ‘I passed.’”

You shook your head, cheeks burning in the best way.

He grinned, wild and flushed and completely Eddie. “You’re gonna be so sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

And you didn’t even have to think about it.

Because if this—this chaotic, sweet, completely unfiltered boy—was the reward at the end of every academic achievement?

You’d tutor him forever.

“Eddie’s here,” your mom called from the hallway, her voice light and knowing.

You looked up from the mirror, heart skipping just a little.

Your dad’s voice followed a beat later from the living room. “Tell him to keep it under 60 this time.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately as you grabbed your bag. “He only sped once, and that was because we were late for grad practice.”

“He was going eighty,” your dad replied.

“It was downhill,” you said, already headed for the door.

You passed your mom in the hall, and she gave you a soft smile. “He brought flowers. Again.”

You couldn’t help the way your smile grew.

When you stepped outside, the warm air wrapped around you like a blanket. The sun was still high, the cicadas buzzing lazily in the trees, and there he was—leaning against his van like he belonged there, a bouquet of mismatched wildflowers in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his worn jeans.

He looked up the second he heard the screen door creak.

And you swear, even now, after everything, he still looked at you like it was the first time.

“There she is,” he said, grinning wide.

You walked up to him, arms crossing just to keep yourself from doing something embarrassing, like swooning. “What’s the occasion?”

Eddie held out the flowers. “Just celebrating the fact that I somehow tricked the universe into giving me a girlfriend this amazing.”

You rolled your eyes, taking them anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned closer, voice low and smug. “And yet… here you are.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours, but your smile gave you away.

He opened the passenger door for you with an exaggerated bow. “M’lady.”

“Such a gentleman,” you muttered, climbing in.

As he circled the van to the driver’s side, your dad stepped out onto the porch with a glass of coffee and a suspicious glare.

Eddie gave a little wave and a crooked smile. “Sir. Swear I’ll have her back by ten. Eleven max. No stunt driving this time.”

Your dad just raised an eyebrow.

Eddie slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and pulling on his seatbelt. “He loves me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you said as he started the engine.

“So,” he said, flicking the stereo on low, “this theater just started showing Back to the Future. Two days early, somehow. I figured a little time travel with you sounded better than melting in my room watching The Evil Dead for the twelfth time.”

You laughed and gave him a look. “You just want to see the DeLorean.”

“…Okay, also that.”

He reached over and laced your fingers with his, resting your joined hands on the bench seat between you.

The van rumbled down the sunlit road, windows cracked open, the summer air carrying in the scent of grass and gasoline. Your hair danced in the breeze. Eddie hummed along to whatever cassette was playing—a little out of tune, but you didn’t mind.

Not when his thumb kept tracing slow circles over the back of your hand.

Not when the entire summer felt like it was unfolding in front of you like something sacred.

And as he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning like you were the best part of the world—

You thought maybe you were right where you were supposed to be.

The mall was alive with its usual symphony—chatter, synth-pop from overhead speakers, the distant ding of arcade machines, and the occasional whir of the fountain in the food court. You and Eddie split off the moment you stepped into the theater’s cool, air-conditioned lobby.

“I’m getting the tickets,” he said, already headed toward the box office.

“And I’m getting snacks,” you said before he could argue, already turning for the concession stand. “Don’t fight me on this, Munson.”

He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

When you met back up, he handed you a single stub—he’d already torn them and given the other to the usher. You handed him a large bucket of popcorn and a cherry Icee with two straws.

Eddie blinked. “You got two straws in my Coke?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s our Coke now.”

His heart may have done a ridiculous little flip at that, but he just grinned and led the way inside.

The theater was dark and cool, the trailers already rolling as you found seats near the middle—close enough to feel immersed but far enough that you weren’t cranking your neck. Eddie set the popcorn between you, but you curled into his side instead, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm and resting your head gently on his shoulder.

He stilled for half a second, surprised by the contact—he never quite got used to the way you just… leaned into him like that. Like it was easy. Like it was safe.

“You comfortable?” he whispered, glancing down.

You nodded without looking up, your voice soft. “Perfect.”

When the movie began, the glow of the screen lit your faces in blues and oranges and whites. You quietly giggled at the opening scene, nudging Eddie every time something ridiculous happened—he whispered a sarcastic comment back each time, just enough to make you cover your mouth to stifle laughter.

At one point, he reached into the popcorn bucket and accidentally brushed your hand. You didn’t move away. Neither did he.

When Marty McFly first hit 1955, you leaned closer, eyes wide with wonder. Eddie didn’t say anything—just smiled a little to himself, letting you rest there, your head warm on his shoulder, your heartbeat syncing quietly with the slow, steady thrum of his.

And in the dark, surrounded by strangers and movie magic, Eddie Munson let himself imagine—just for a moment—what it might be like to have this forever.

The van rolled to a quiet stop in front of your house, headlights casting soft beams across the porch. The movie was long over and the cassette in the stereo had looped twice already.

Neither of you moved.

You glanced at Eddie with a small smile, fingers nervously picking at the edge of your sleeve. “Thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

He turned toward you, his hand resting on the steering wheel. “Yeah? Me too. That was…” He looked at you like he was still a little surprised this was real. “That was a good night.”

You both laughed at how underwhelming that sounded.

“I mean—great night,” he amended, mock-dramatic. “One for the ages.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. “Come on, rockstar. Walk me to the door?”

Eddie hopped out first and came around the van, opening your door like he always did—even when you rolled your eyes at him for it. The night air was warm but quieter now, the street still and bathed in porchlight glow. You walked side by side up the driveway, close enough that your arms brushed.

At the bottom step, you turned to face him.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet like he wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words. “I, uh… hope this wasn’t too boring. You know the mall and a movie isn’t exactly my usual scene.”

You shook your head. “I loved it. And… I like seeing different sides of you.”

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Small, warm, a little shy.

You stood there for another beat, the silence stretching out but never uncomfortable. Just full—like both of you were hoping time would slow down.

“Well…” you started, tilting your head toward the door.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess this is—”

You kissed him.

Soft and certain. You leaned in first, lips brushing his with the kind of ease that only came with practice and care. He melted into it instantly, one hand slipping to your waist, the other steadying him against the railing like the whole world had narrowed down to just this.

When you finally pulled away, your noses were still almost touching.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” you whispered.

He blinked, dazed. “Goodnight.”

You stepped inside with a smile still tugging at your lips, and the second you closed the door behind you—

“That was quite the kiss.”

You jumped. Your mom was standing in the kitchen, sipping tea with your dad, both of them clearly having witnessed the entire thing from the window.

“Did he trip over the step again?” your dad asked casually. “He always does that when he’s nervous.”

You groaned. “You two seriously have nothing better to do?”

Your mom just smirked, eyes twinkling. “We like seeing you happy.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t stop the grin from breaking through.

Because yeah… you were happy.

Dating Eddie Munson is nothing like you expected—and everything you didn’t know you needed.

It’s loud music in his van, the kind that rattles the floorboards and makes you laugh when he drums on the steering wheel like the world’s watching. It’s his leather jacket slung over your shoulders when the air turns cold, his rings cool against your skin when he reaches for your hand. It’s messy hair, wild ideas, and the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, like it means something.

It’s learning to love the chaos, and realizing that under all that noise and bravado, Eddie’s just… gentle. Thoughtful. Unbelievably loyal.

Dating Eddie is getting a cassette made just for you—your name scribbled on the label, each song chosen because it reminds him of you. It’s him sitting beside you while you paint, trying not to move too much even though he’s definitely itching to fidget. It’s him reading the comics you lend him, even the weird ones, just so he can talk to you about them later.

It’s milkshakes and movie nights and the kind of laughter that makes your chest hurt. It’s long drives with no destination, arms dangling out the window, his voice carrying through the breeze as he sings along—terribly—to some over-the-top power ballad.

It feels like a plot twist Eddie Munson never saw coming.

He thought he knew how his story would go—misunderstood metalhead, high school dropout, maybe famous one day if he got lucky. But then you happened. And now every chapter feels rewritten.

It’s surreal, honestly.

You—who used to feel so out of reach—actually laugh at his stupid impressions and roll your eyes in that way that kills him, but never walk away. You sit next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You hold his hand like you mean it. That alone blows his mind.

It’s the way you look at him like he's not some town freak. Like he’s not a rumor or a punchline or a lost cause.

Like he’s enough.

He'll go to every goddamn mall just to see you smile under neon lights, taking photos in a booth he secretly keeps in his wallet, and pretending not to blush when your head rests on his shoulder during a movie.

Dating you, to Eddie, feels like finding out the world isn’t as cruel as he thought it was.

It’s not always easy. He still worries he’s not good enough for you, that you’ll wake up one day and see what everyone else says they see. But you never flinch. You just keep showing up. Keep choosing him.

And he’d burn down the whole world just to deserve you a little more.

Yeah. Dating you?

It’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

[vingtetunmars]

i am thinking of dbf!joel 🤤

should I write?

[vingtetunmars]

aawww thank you that is such a compliment 🥺 I'm glad you enjoyed the fic 🫶

Steady Now...

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: What started as quiet rendez-vous and stolen nights soon grew into something neither of you could deny. Joel Miller wasn’t a man of words, but in the way he touched you, in the way he kept coming back, you knew.

Part 1

Tags: NSFW, smut(18+), mutual pining, hesitant Joel, age differences (reader is in late 20s, Joel is 56-57), set between season 1 and 2, Jackson!Joel Miller, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it yall), oral sex f receiving, casual sex, secret relationship, "i'm old." "i dont care.", no physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: I need that senior citizen bad 😩 If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 6.624

masterlist

It became a rhythm neither of you spoke about.

No promises.

No labels.

No staying till morning.

Just knocks at your door after dark, quiet and familiar. Some nights he’d mumble something about checking your pipes again, or that he couldn’t sleep. But most nights, he didn’t say anything at all — just showed up, kissed you without a word, and the rest would follow like a routine rehearsed too many times to forget.

You stopped pretending he wasn’t going to come. Sometimes you left the porch light on. Sometimes you didn’t bother changing out of your soft shirt until well after midnight.

It was always the same — fingers tangled in your sheets, his mouth on yours, his name a whisper against his neck. You knew the places on his back that made him shudder. He knew how you sounded when you were close.

He always stayed until your breaths evened out. Until his hand stilled over your ribs. Until your legs stopped shaking.

And then —

He’d pull his shirt back over his head.

Sit on the edge of your bed like he was fighting some invisible hand tugging at his spine.

Then leave. Every single time.

You never stopped him. Not once.

But tonight — something shifted.

You watched him silently as he buttoned his jeans again, his shoulders curved inward like guilt sat heavy between his blades.

And when he reached for his flannel and stepped into his boots — you spoke.

“You act like the world’s gonna end if you stay.”

Joel stilled.

Didn’t turn around.

Just ran a hand through his hair and exhaled hard through his nose.

“I’m just tryin’ to do the right thing,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

You sat up in bed, tugging the sheet higher around you. “By leaving me here alone? After every single night we spend like this?”

He turned then. Eyes unreadable in the low light.

“If this is such a mistake like you keep saying, then why do you keep coming back?”

Joel didn’t answer.

You stood. Crossed the floor and stopped just a breath away from him, his shirt loose in your hand. “Because I don’t think you believe that. I think it scares you that this might not be a mistake at all.”

His jaw worked, but no sound came out. Just that clenched silence, that thundercloud in his eyes.

“I don’t want to be a secret you feel guilty for,” you said, softer now. “I’m not asking you to shout it through Jackson. I just— I want to know if this means something. Or if I’m just some comfort you can walk away from before sunrise.”

Joel’s eyes finally met yours.

And for once — he didn’t look away.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t lie.

“I ain’t proud of it,” he said quietly. “But this... I can’t seem to stop. And that scares the hell outta me.”

You took a breath. Then reached for his hand.

“Then stop pretending like it’s nothing.”

He didn’t speak again.

“Stay.”

This time —

Joel didn’t leave.

He woke before the sun.

That wasn’t unusual — old habits like that never died. His body knew how to stir before the world turned gold outside, how to blink back sleep and remember where he was before full consciousness settled in.

But what was unusual… was the warmth curled against his chest.

Your leg was draped across his hip. Your hand rested palm-down over his heart. His chin had ended up on top of your head sometime in the night. You were breathing soft, steady, your face tucked into the crook of his neck like it was home.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t want to move.

For a long time, he just lay there, eyes half-lidded, staring at the soft light slipping through your curtains. You shifted slightly in your sleep, and your nose brushed his collarbone. A sound, small and pleased, left your lips.

Goddamn.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this. Not the sex — though that had damn near wrecked him in all the best ways — but this.

The quiet. The warmth. The comfort of waking up next to someone who didn’t flinch from him.

The feeling of not being alone.

And when you stirred — blinked your way into awareness and tilted your head back to look at him with the kind of sleepy-eyed smile that could undo entire armies — Joel’s heart clenched so hard he almost winced.

“Mornin’,” you whispered, voice rough from sleep.

“Mornin’,” he rumbled back, arms still folded around you.

You stretched slowly, reluctantly pulling back to sit up, the sheet slipping just low enough to make him look away with a mumbled Jesus. You grinned and tugged it higher with a mock-scolding glance.

“I was gonna make breakfast,” you said, fingers carding through your hair. “You want some?”

Joel sat up, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Only if you’re makin’ coffee too.”

You smirked. “Deal.”

The morning passed like something stolen from a life he never thought he’d have.

He helped you fry up some eggs and potatoes — chopping, mostly, since you didn’t quite trust him near the stove yet. You teased him about it. He grumbled half-heartedly and kissed your temple when you weren’t expecting it.

You ate together at your tiny kitchen table. No one rushed. No one talked about last night like it was something shameful.

You poured him a second cup of coffee just because he looked like he’d ask. And when you leaned over to hand it to him, you pressed a kiss to his shoulder without a word.

Joel watched you as you moved around your little kitchen, in your worn T-shirt and loose flannel pants, humming to yourself while you scraped the plates clean.

It didn’t feel like a mistake.

It didn’t feel heavy.

It just felt... right.

And for once — Joel didn’t argue with that.

Tommy wasn’t the nosiest man in Jackson — but he was observant. Had to be, as a leader, a husband, a brother. And it didn’t take a genius to notice something had shifted in Joel lately.

It was in the little things.

The sharp edge to him had dulled, not gone completely, but rounded enough that it didn’t cut like it used to. He was still gruff, still guarded, but… he wasn’t walking around like the whole goddamn world was about to turn on him every second.

He stood taller now. Looser in the shoulders. His voice didn’t snap as quick.

Even his silences had changed.

So, one afternoon, when they were fixing up fencing on the edge of town — just the two of them — Tommy finally said it out loud.

"You’ve been... different lately."

Joel didn’t look up from the wire he was tying off. "That right?"

"Yeah." Tommy squinted at him. "Less grumpy. Less ‘end-of-the-world.’ You even said ‘good morning’ to Jackson's baker the other day. Scared the hell out of her."

Joel huffed a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.

Tommy leaned on the post. “I’m just sayin’. You’ve been lighter. Happier. And I know you ain’t just suddenly become a morning person.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Something changed?”

Joel twisted the wire tighter, buying himself a moment. Then: “Nothin’ to make a fuss about.”

That answer came a little too quick, too smooth.

Tommy raised a brow, but he didn’t press. “Alright. If that’s how you want it.”

They worked in silence again, but it wasn’t heavy.

And Tommy let it go.

But as Joel stood, wiping his hands and stretching his back, he caught the faintest smile flicker across his brother’s face.

Not smug. Just… satisfied.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he was just glad Joel had something, someone, to be soft for.

Winter had passed.

Jackson was thawing out, snow giving way to mud, and the air held the first breath of spring — not warm, exactly, but softer. Lighter. Life crept back in through the cracks, quiet and slow, and so did Joel.

The stables smelled of damp hay and fresh soil. You were elbow-deep in a bridle strap when the barn doors creaked open, cold air rushing in behind a broad, familiar frame.

You looked up, brows lifted. “Didn’t expect you out this way today.”

Joel shrugged one shoulder. “Had time.”

He leaned against the stall, arms crossed, watching you work with that low, unreadable look he wore so well. But there was something different about it today — less guarded. Less weighed down.

You smirked, half-teasing. “If you came here to loiter, you better grab a brush.”

He gave you a look that said he might, but didn’t move. Instead, he stepped into your space — slow, sure — and you paused, confused but curious, as he reached for your wrist.

And then he kissed you.

Right there in the aisle, between the soft snorts of horses and the rustle of straw.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t feverish like so many nights had been. It was something else entirely — calm, deliberate, and a little daring.

You blinked when he pulled back, mouth parted slightly. “What was that for?”

Joel just shrugged again. But there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Felt like it,” he said simply, voice gravel and warmth.

You laughed under your breath, shaken in the best way. “And what if someone saw?”

He leaned closer, spoke against your ear, low and unapologetic. “Then they’ll know.”

And just like that, he walked off toward the pasture gate like nothing had happened.

You stood there, heart thudding like a drum in your chest, hand brushing your lips — not complaining. Not even close.

Because for once, he was the one stealing glances.

And you liked the view.

It started with a grunt.

Joel had bent down to tie his boot and froze halfway up, muttering a colorful string of curses under his breath. He pressed a hand to his lower back like it’d betrayed him, slowly straightening with all the grace of a man twice his age.

You looked up from the pot you were stirring, wooden spoon still in hand. “That your back, or did the spirit of an 80-year-old just possess you?”

Joel shot you a look, jaw tight. “Ain’t funny.”

You crossed the room to him without skipping a beat, placing your hands gently on his sides. “It’s a little funny.”

He groaned again as he sat on the couch, clearly trying to hide the wince behind a scowl. You weren’t buying it.

Without asking, you slid behind him, your hands firm but careful as they worked into his shoulders and spine. He exhaled through his nose, tense under your touch until your fingers found just the right spot. He let out something between a grunt and a sigh.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Spent a lotta years with a lotta sore horses,” you teased. “You’re just taller. Hairier. Grumblier.”

He didn’t respond — which either meant you were right or he was trying not to enjoy it too much.

You leaned forward a little, your breath ghosting over the back of his neck. “Maybe we should take it easy on sex for a bit,” you said innocently. “Can’t have you pulling something important.”

Joel stiffened — not from pain this time.

He turned his head slightly toward you, eyes narrowing. “That a joke?”

“Of course it is.” You circled to the front, crouching so you were eye level with him. “But even if it wasn’t, you think I’m gonna be less into you just ‘cause your back’s being an asshole?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze dropped for a second.

You softened. “Joel,” you said, voice low. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

“I just…” he exhaled, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. “I’m not blind. You’re young. I ain’t. And I know I’ve got baggage. Hell, I am baggage. And now this,” he gestured vaguely at his back, “just feels like another reminder.”

You reached up, cupped his jaw gently with both hands, thumbs brushing the bristle of his scruff.

“Shut up,” you said softly. “I like your age. You really think I’d let just anybody wear me out and make me breakfast in the same week?”

He gave you a look, uncertain, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“You’re strong, and you’re steady, and you’ve lived through more than anyone I know. So what if your bones creak a little? You still got it, Joel.”

Now he was definitely fighting a smile.

“Besides,” you added with a wink, “I happen to think older men are sexy.”

That did it. He shook his head, grumbling something under his breath — but you saw the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his hand found yours without a second thought.

You leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered: “Now let me finish the stew before you pull something else.”

He didn’t argue.

The days were getting longer again — soft, golden spring light stretching past the windows as you rinsed out a bucket by the stable door. It had been a long day: the twins who’d been learning to ride were in a rare kind of chaos, and one of the mares had thrown a shoe. You were tired. Achy. Hair mussed and hands raw from reins and rope.

You didn’t hear Joel coming until his shadow passed over yours.

You glanced up, about to greet him, but stopped short when you noticed what he was holding behind his back — a mess of clumsy wildflowers. Nothing fancy. Mostly purple, with tiny white buds still clinging to their stems.

“…Did you pick those?” you asked, blinking.

He looked like he wanted the ground to eat him. “Don’t make a thing of it.”

“I’m not,” you said, fighting back a smile as he finally handed them over.

“They grow outside the old fence line,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured they might… look nice in a jar or somethin’.”

You stepped closer, flowers in hand. “They’ll look great in the mug you gave me.”

That made him glance over.

“You still usin’ that thing?”

“Every morning,” you said. “Kinda hard not to. You carved a horse on it.”

He didn’t respond, but his ears turned red — the only betrayal of how much it meant. The mug had shown up on your porch a few weeks ago, tucked in a wool sock for protection. Heavy ceramic, obviously made by hand, and bearing the unmistakable rough sketch of a horse’s head scratched into the glaze. The shape was uneven, one side thicker than the other, but it kept your coffee warm and fit in your palms just right.

You hadn’t asked about it. He hadn’t explained it. That’s how most things with Joel were.

He wasn’t a man of grand speeches. He didn’t shower you with compliments or drown you in attention. But he made sure your porch light worked. He sanded down the splintering corner of your workbench. He refilled your woodpile when you weren’t looking. And when he touched you, it was with purpose — with reverence, like every brush of his fingers meant something.

You stepped up to him now, flowers tucked against your chest, and kissed his cheek.

Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes softening. “Ain’t nothin’, darlin’.”

“It is,” you said. “But I won’t make a thing of it.”

He lingered a little longer, helping you walk the fence, not saying much. You didn’t need him to.

He was a southern gentleman — rough around the edges, quiet in his ways — but he loved loud in the silence.

It was early.

The kind of early where the sky was still gray and sleepy, fog clinging to windowpanes, and Jackson hadn’t quite woken up yet. Inside your house, however, things were very awake.

Joel stood between your legs, your back gently pressed against the kitchen counter, his hands planted firm on either side of you. The goodbye kiss had gone on a little longer than intended — nothing scandalous, but definitely not rated for public viewing. Your fingers idly hooked in the loops of his jeans, voice low and warm.

“Sure you don’t wanna stay for breakfast?”

He smirked, pressing his forehead against yours. “You tryin’ to keep me here forever?”

“I mean,” you shrugged with a grin, “could be worse.”

And then — the door opened.

No knock. No warning.

“Hey, you home? You left the stable keys in—oh my god.”

You and Joel both jerked apart like guilty teenagers. Dina stood in the doorway with a wide-eyed expression, keys dangling from her fingers, mouth half-open in sheer horror and glee.

Joel, to his credit, backed up and cleared his throat like nothing happened. “Mornin’,” he said, already pulling on his jacket like he could escape through the walls.

“I got this,” you whispered to him, brushing your fingers over his arm. “Go home. I’ll handle this one.”

He gave you a look that said good luck, then offered Dina an almost apologetic nod on his way out.

Dina didn’t even blink until the door closed behind him. Then she slowly, dramatically turned to face you.

“You—” she pointed accusingly. “You were—that was Joel Miller.”

You rubbed a hand over your face, already bracing. “Dina—”

“Him?! Out of all the people in Jackson?” she whisper-shouted, eyes wide with gleeful horror. “You’re hooking up with Ellie’s dad?”

“He’s not—” You paused. “Okay, he kind of is, but still. It’s not like I planned it.”

Dina paced a circle in your kitchen like she needed to physically walk through the realization. “You were pressed against the counter. That was not a casual goodbye. That was a pressed-up-I’ll-miss-you goodbye.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You done?”

“No. No, I’m not done,” she said, spinning on her heel. “How long has this been happening? You’ve been holding out on me.”

You exhaled and leaned against the counter, suddenly very aware that your shirt was rumpled. “A few months. Since winter.”

“Months?!”

“I wanted to keep it quiet,” you said. “And he… he did too.”

Dina stared at you for a beat, then crossed her arms. “Okay. I’m judging you a little bit. But I’m also not, because, I mean—good for you. Grumpy old man still got it.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”

“But seriously,” she said, finally relaxing, “does Ellie know?”

“No. And we’re not exactly rushing to tell her. It’s not… official. Yet.”

Dina stepped closer, suddenly soft. “Hey. I’m giving you shit, but I’m happy for you. He treats you okay?”

You smiled, quiet and genuine. “Better than okay.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Alright. You’re lucky I love you. ‘Cause if I caught anyone else kissing Joel Miller, I’d have to bleach my eyeballs.”

“Noted,” you deadpanned.

“Oh, and—next time? Lock your damn door.”

“How about next time you knock?”

Meanwhile,

Joel stepped through the door to his place, running a hand through his hair, still a little flushed from the rushed goodbye — your scent still faint on his shirt.

The door creaked shut behind him. He kicked his boots off with a sigh.

Then—

“I know you’ve been sneaking out.”

His head snapped up.

Ellie was sitting at the table, arms crossed, brow raised. Her backpack was slung over the back of the chair, her legs swinging like she’d been there a while. She looked equal parts annoyed and deeply smug.

Joel blinked. “The hell are you doin’ here?”

“I live here.”

She grinned. “And I know you’ve been leaving in the middle of the night and coming back at the butt crack of dawn.”

Joel sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “You followin’ me?”

“Nope. I got eyes, old man.” She leaned forward. “So, come on. Who is she?”

Joel grunted and made his way toward the coffee pot. “Ain’t none of your business.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned. “It is someone. Holy shit. This is so weird. You’re like—dating?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You totally are.”

Joel muttered something into his coffee mug that sounded a lot like a curse.

Ellie leaned her chin on her hand, unrelenting. “Okay, serious question. Are you like… actually into her? Or is this some ‘I’m old and sad and the world sucks’ kind of hookup?”

He paused.

That long, quiet pause said everything.

“…It’s not a hookup,” he said finally. Voice low. Truthful.

Ellie studied him for a moment — the stiff posture, the quiet conflict behind his eyes. Then, with less teasing, she asked, “Does she make you happy?”

Joel hesitated. Then he nodded once, slow. “Yeah. She does.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, letting it creak beneath her. “Well, shit,” she muttered. “Guess I can’t give you too much shit then.”

“Would be nice if you didn’t give me any.”

“Can’t promise that,” she grinned. Then her eyes narrowed. “Wait—do I know her?”

Joel froze.

Ellie squinted like a bloodhound sniffing out a lead. “Oh my god. It’s her, isn’t it? The horse lady? The one who’s been teachin’ me how to ride?”

Joel groaned. “Don’t call her that.”

“I knew it!” Ellie practically shouted, banging a fist on the table. “You’ve been all weird and soft lately, and she keeps smiling every time your name comes up. This is so messed up. My riding instructor is banging my dad.”

Joel gave her a look. “Jesus, Ellie.”

“I’m not wrong!”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, we were keepin’ it quiet for a reason.”

“Because of me?”

“…Yeah.”

Ellie’s face softened, if only a little. She stood, walking over to him. “You’re allowed to be happy, y’know.”

Joel glanced at her, surprised.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she added quickly. “I’m still gonna mess with you about it. But seriously… it’s okay. Just maybe don’t make out in the stables or whatever.”

Joel laughed, low and reluctant. “We’ll try our best.”

The fire in the hearth flickered low, casting soft shadows across the wooden walls of her bedroom. The wind outside had muffled the world to a hush, as if time itself had paused to grant them this quiet.

You were already breathless when Joel's hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt, his calloused palms warm against your skin. His kisses were slower tonight, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to learn every inch of you again.

He sank to his knees beside the bed, those dark eyes trailing up your legs like they belonged to him.

“You gonna let me take my time tonight?” he rasped, voice low and rough.

You huffed a laugh, the kind that melted right into a sigh. “You always do.”

His grin was short-lived, swallowed as he coaxed your thighs apart, guiding one leg over his shoulder, then the other. His mouth hovered close to your folds, the heat of his breath making your already hazy.

And then—no hesitation.

His mouth was reverent. Worshipful.

You gasped, hand flying to grip the sheets as his tongue dragged along your pussy, slow and purposeful. He kissed you there like he meant it—like it mattered.

“Joel—” Your voice cracked.

He didn’t stop, didn’t flinch. Just groaned low in his throat, the sound sending shivers through you. His beard scraped lightly against your inner thighs, and you could feel the strength in his grip as he pinned your hips, holding you exactly where he wanted her.

He found your clit with practiced ease, lips wrapping around it with gentle insistence, sucking softly until your spine arched and your fingers curled hard into his hair.

Your thighs trembled against his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

He didn’t. He couldn’t have if he tried.

When you finally broke apart—shaking, gasping, your hand in his hair—he only slowed to kiss your thighs, your belly, pressing his face against you like he was anchoring himself there.

You were flushed, dazed, still panting when he finally looked up.

“You good?” he asked, voice wrecked with heat.

You blinked, then managed a shaky laugh. “You ask that like you didn’t just ruin me.”

Joel just chuckled, lips glistening, dragging a hand down your side as he stood up.

“You ain't seen ruined yet, darlin’.”

The room was quiet again, save for the gentle creak of old wood and the muted hum of the wind brushing past the window. The fire had settled to soft embers, casting a lazy orange glow across the room. You were lying beside him now, tucked against Joel’s chest, your fingers lazily tracing circles over the bare skin above his heart.

His arm was heavy around your waist, hand idly brushing the curve of your hip beneath the blanket. Neither of them said anything for a long while.

Until you broke the silence.

“So…” you murmured, voice still a little rough around the edges. “Are we gonna talk about this, or just keep pretending it's nothing?”

Joel stared at the ceiling for a moment before he looked down at you, his jaw tense.

“I don’t think this has been nothin’ for a while now.”

Your lips quirked. “Glad you noticed.”

He huffed a breath, not quite a laugh, and let his hand rest still against your side. “You sure this is what you want?”

“You ask me that every time.”

“’Cause it don’t stop bein’ a fair question,” he said, eyes dark, voice low. “I’m older. I’ve got my baggage. A lot of it. You could be with someone else—someone who doesn’t come with a lifetime of bad decisions followin’ behind him.”

You pushed herself up slightly, resting your chin against his chest to look him in the eye. “I don’t want someone else.”

Joel’s brows furrowed.

“I want you,” you said plainly. “And I’m not asking for forever. I’m not expecting you to be someone you’re not. But I’m not a kid, Joel. I’m not some wide-eyed girl with a crush.”

His jaw flexed, that muscle ticking the way it did when he was chewing something over he didn’t want to admit was true.

“And if I am in this?” he asked, voice quiet. “If I start... actually lettin’ this happen?”

“Then we figure it out,” you said, reaching up to brush a curl of graying hair from his forehead. “Together.”

The wind outside rattled the windowpanes softly. Spring had settled into Jackson with slow mornings and thawing rivers, and something in Joel—something guarded and weary—began to ease.

He exhaled, long and low, and pulled you tighter into him.

“Alright,” he said after a beat, almost like a sigh. “Alright.”

You smiled into his skin.

He didn’t say the word relationship. Neither did you. But it was in the way he didn’t leave that morning. In the way he lingered while you made coffee. In the way he kissed your shoulder and let you steal another one before breakfast.

Spring had a way of thawing even the most frozen things.

Even Joel Miller.

You hadn’t planned on walking into anything unusual. It was just a casserole. A warm, cheesy one with real chunks of meat — the kind of thing you knew Joel appreciated after a long day. You’d even let it brown a little extra on top, just how he liked it. You figured you'd both share it, maybe pour two glasses of whatever dusty wine bottle was still sitting in his kitchen, maybe eat with your knees brushing under the table like you had the last few times.

But you froze the second Joel opened the door.

Tommy was there.

He was leaned back in one of the kitchen chairs like he lived there, a half-drunk glass of whiskey already sweating on the table. He looked up and grinned.

“Well, hey now.”

You smiled, too wide, trying to keep it casual. “Hi. I, uh… brought dinner.”

Joel, to his credit, didn’t flinch. But you could tell he wasn’t expecting his brother either. His eyes did a fast dart between you and Tommy, and then back to the casserole like it was a ticking bomb.

“Oh,” Tommy said brightly. “Dinner? For the both of you?”

“Figured he might be hungry,” you said, clearing your throat and stepping inside. “This thing’s big enough for three.”

Joel gave you a quiet look — grateful, but also slightly panicked. He took the casserole from your hands like it was the one thing grounding him to the earth.

Tommy didn’t bat an eye. At first.

You all sat around the table. You served the casserole while Joel poured drinks, his movements a little too careful. Tommy made conversation, oblivious and easy, about the new gate repairs and how Ellie had accidentally let one of the goats out again.

You tried not to look too fondly at Joel.

You failed.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy glanced between the two of you and said, “You know, I been meanin’ to bring this up.”

Joel stiffened beside you. You kept your fork halfway to your mouth.

“I swear, my brother’s been... lighter, lately. Walkin’ around here with a spring in his damn step.”

Joel grunted. “Don’t start.”

Tommy smirked. “I’m just sayin’. Somethin’s got you all chipper and secretive. I told Maria—he’s gotta be seein’ someone.”

You choked a little on your food.

Joel’s hand paused as he brought his cup to his lips.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You smiled awkwardly. “That’s… wow. That’s an assumption.”

“Is it?” Tommy leaned forward, the glint in his eye sharpened now. “I don’t see him stayin’ out late for fun. Or smilin’ at nothin’ in the middle of the day.”

Joel cleared his throat. “Tommy…”

Tommy blinked. And then it clicked. You saw it. The exact second his gaze bounced from Joel to you and back again — how Joel didn’t deny it, didn’t even try, and how you suddenly couldn’t meet either of their eyes.

“No shit,” Tommy breathed, blinking in slow disbelief. “You?”

You tried to say something. Anything. Joel just stared down at his plate.

Tommy burst into laughter, loud and full and unkind only in that sibling kind of way. “Oh my god. You’ve been sneakin’ around?”

Joel groaned. “Can we not—”

“With her?” Tommy said, like he was pointing at the sun in the sky. “Jesus, Joel, I thought she was just being sweet, bringin’ you food. I didn’t know she was into old men.”

“Tommy,” Joel snapped, but it was no use.

You pressed your fingers to your mouth, trying not to laugh. It was too ridiculous. Joel looked like he wanted to dig a hole through the floor and crawl into it.

“She’s what, late twenties?” Tommy said with full-on glee. “You robbin’ cradles now?”

You finally spoke, trying to help. “I’ll be thirty soon.”

“Thirty,” Tommy echoed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “That’s still two decades under your belt, big brother.”

Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like Jesus Christ.

Tommy was already pointing at him across the table. “You know what? Good for you. Still got it. Damn.”

Joel finally looked at you, a long, resigned glance. You smiled, just a little.

He reached for your hand under the table. You let him take it.

Tommy caught the motion and whistled. “I’m tellin’ Maria everything.”

“No, you’re not,” Joel grunted.

But you could tell — for all the embarrassment and Tommy’s unrelenting teasing — Joel wasn’t really upset. He just looked like a man who’d gotten caught smiling. Like the secret wasn’t a secret anymore, and maybe that wasn’t the worst thing.

By the time the casserole dish was scraped clean and the plates stacked, Tommy had taken his teasing down a notch — not that he didn’t squeeze in a few more zingers between bites.

You and Joel shared quiet glances as you gathered the dishes, trying not to laugh while Tommy ribbed Joel about "old bones and young backs." Joel just shook his head, grumbled something inaudible, but didn’t let go of your hand under the table until he had to.

You were wiping down the counter when Tommy finally leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful sigh, watching Joel with an expression that no longer held mischief.

“You serious about her?”

The question cut through the room, soft but heavy. You stilled, hands resting on the dish towel. Joel blinked, then looked at his brother, the humor fading from his face.

Tommy went on, quieter now. “I mean it. I’m just—look, you know I’m all for you bein’ happy. God knows you deserve it. But you serious?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes finding yours before dropping to the table.

“I didn’t expect it,” Joel said eventually. “Didn’t plan it. But… yeah. I think I am.”

You swallowed, warmth rising in your chest. It wasn’t the most romantic admission in the world, but it was Joel — which meant it carried weight. Truth.

Tommy nodded, lips pressed together in thought. “She makes you better.”

Joel gave a small huff. “She makes me somethin’, that’s for damn sure.”

Tommy looked over at you then, his tone shifting again. “You in this, too?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you said honestly.

Tommy exhaled, nodding slowly. Then his voice dropped a little. “You got… room for that kinda thing? After everything?”

You could tell it wasn’t judgment. It was a real question — a brother checking in on a man who’d lost too much, asking if his heart had room left without reopening scars.

Joel looked tired for a moment. Then he looked at you.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’, Tommy. But I know it feels good. Right. And I ain’t had a whole lotta that in a long time.”

Tommy gave a quiet hum and pushed up from his chair. “Then that’s good enough for me.”

He clapped Joel’s shoulder on the way out, gave you a parting wink, and didn’t say another word.

When the door closed, Joel looked at you, slower this time. You stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his middle, letting your forehead rest against his chest.

“Didn’t go as bad as you thought, huh?” you murmured.

He kissed your hair. “You don’t know Tommy like I do. He’s gonna drag this out for weeks.”

You grinned into his shirt. “Good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Winter settled into Jackson again — soft, quiet, and silver-edged. Snow clung to rooftops, curled along fences, and gathered on the tips of pine branches like icing. The air bit at your cheeks when you walked outside, but it didn’t bother you much. You had good boots, a decent coat, and Joel Miller’s hand in yours.

Things were different now.

Open.

You didn’t flinch when you reached for him in front of others anymore, and while Joel still hesitated now and then — rough fingers twitching before settling against the small of your back — he didn’t stop you. Not like he used to. Not when everyone already knew.

There were still stares. Here and there. Quick glances over shoulders in the market. A pause too long when you two walked past the bar together. You’d hear them sometimes, quiet comments exchanged behind a mug of beer, half-whispers about how “he’s old enough to be her—”

And that’s usually where you’d stop listening.

You took it with a stride and a smirk. Joel, though — he still had his days.

Sometimes it hit him in the silence between dinner and bed. When he was standing in your bathroom brushing his teeth and caught his reflection, lines deeper in the winter lighting. Sometimes it came after sex, when you were curled into him, skin warm, heart steady, and he’d murmur something like “You could’ve had someone easier.”

Every time, you reminded him.

You’d tell him you didn’t want easy. That the things worth holding onto in this world never were. That you loved his age. His scars. His quiet way of loving, built slow and solid. You’d press your lips to the crinkles beside his eyes, the gray in his beard, and remind him how lucky you felt — not the other way around.

And when you said it enough, he started believing you. Even if just a little.

You had support, too. The kind that mattered.

Ellie gave him shit from time to time — mostly out of love. Mostly. Tommy still wouldn’t shut up about it, ribbing Joel any chance he got. Even Maria had taken to calling you Mrs. Miller in passing, though always with a wink. Dina had become your favorite menace, constantly elbowing you during chores or sharing a look when Joel walked by.

But you knew it came from affection. From being seen. Being accepted.

One evening, walking back from the stables after a long shift — Joel at your side, both your breaths puffing in the cold — he reached over, fingers lacing with yours. You squeezed once, just to check he was really there.

He looked at you then, cheeks pink from the wind, expression soft in a way only you ever got to see.

You were bundled in layers, cheeks pink from the cold, as you walked hand-in-hand with Joel toward Tommy and Maria’s house. Ellie trailed just ahead of you, muttering about how snow always found a way to get into her boots no matter how tight she tied them. Joel grunted in sympathy, squeezing your hand as the house came into view — golden light spilling through the windows, smoke curling gently from the chimney.

Tommy was hosting dinner.

“In the name of the Millers,” he’d said with a grin when he invited you. “Figured it’s about time we all sit down like an actual family.”

The house smelled like roasted meat, fresh bread, and something sweet cooling by the window. Maria opened the door before you could knock, ushering you inside with a warmth that went beyond the fireplace.

“Coats off, boots by the wall,” she instructed, already pulling Ellie into a side-hug. “You’re tracking snow all over my floors.”

You were halfway through unwrapping your scarf when Tommy came up behind Joel and clapped him on the back.

“Look at this,” he teased, eyes crinkling. “My big brother cleaned up for once. You do that for her?”

Joel didn’t answer. Just shot him a look and muttered something under his breath, making you laugh.

Dinner was loud. Messy. Full of passing plates and teasing comments and stories retold for the hundredth time. Ellie argued with Tommy over the right way to gut a fish. Maria scolded them both for talking about guts at the table. You found yourself tucked beside Joel, knees bumping beneath the tablecloth, his hand occasionally brushing yours between bites.

At one point, Tommy raised his glass — water, not wine — and looked around the table.

“Well,” he said, voice softer now. “It ain’t perfect out there. And it’s never gonna be. But in here — this? This is good. This is real good.”

Joel shifted beside you, and when you looked over, his gaze was already on you. Something unspoken passed between you — a quiet, steady understanding. You squeezed his knee beneath the table.

Ellie caught the motion and snorted. “Gross,” she said with a grin, stabbing her fork into her potatoes.

“You’ll live,” you shot back.

Later, with bellies full and cheeks flushed from laughter, you helped clear the table. Joel lingered beside you in the kitchen, drying dishes you handed him one by one. His fingers brushed yours more than necessary, and each time, neither of you said a word.

As you left into the night, Ellie walking a few steps ahead again, Joel’s arm looped around your waist.

It was cold. Snow was falling. But the warmth from that dinner — from them — followed you home.

And this time, you knew it wasn’t going anywhere.

Part 1

taglist: @started-with-f-ends-with-uck @havensucks @amyispxnk

[vingtetunmars]

Steady Now...

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: What started as quiet rendez-vous and stolen nights soon grew into something neither of you could deny. Joel Miller wasn’t a man of words, but in the way he touched you, in the way he kept coming back, you knew.

Part 1

Tags: NSFW, smut(18+), mutual pining, hesitant Joel, age differences (reader is in late 20s, Joel is 56-57), set between season 1 and 2, Jackson!Joel Miller, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it yall), oral sex f receiving, casual sex, secret relationship, "i'm old." "i dont care.", no physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: I need that senior citizen bad 😩 If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 6k

masterlist

It became a rhythm neither of you spoke about.

No promises.

No labels.

No staying till morning.

Just knocks at your door after dark, quiet and familiar. Some nights he’d mumble something about checking your pipes again, or that he couldn’t sleep. But most nights, he didn’t say anything at all — just showed up, kissed you without a word, and the rest would follow like a routine rehearsed too many times to forget.

You stopped pretending he wasn’t going to come. Sometimes you left the porch light on. Sometimes you didn’t bother changing out of your soft shirt until well after midnight.

It was always the same — fingers tangled in your sheets, his mouth on yours, his name a whisper against his neck. You knew the places on his back that made him shudder. He knew how you sounded when you were close.

He always stayed until your breaths evened out. Until his hand stilled over your ribs. Until your legs stopped shaking.

And then —

He’d pull his shirt back over his head.

Sit on the edge of your bed like he was fighting some invisible hand tugging at his spine.

Then leave. Every single time.

You never stopped him. Not once.

But tonight — something shifted.

You watched him silently as he buttoned his jeans again, his shoulders curved inward like guilt sat heavy between his blades.

And when he reached for his flannel and stepped into his boots — you spoke.

“You act like the world’s gonna end if you stay.”

Joel stilled.

Didn’t turn around.

Just ran a hand through his hair and exhaled hard through his nose.

“I’m just tryin’ to do the right thing,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

You sat up in bed, tugging the sheet higher around you. “By leaving me here alone? After every single night we spend like this?”

He turned then. Eyes unreadable in the low light.

“If this is such a mistake like you keep saying, then why do you keep coming back?”

Joel didn’t answer.

You stood. Crossed the floor and stopped just a breath away from him, his shirt loose in your hand. “Because I don’t think you believe that. I think it scares you that this might not be a mistake at all.”

His jaw worked, but no sound came out. Just that clenched silence, that thundercloud in his eyes.

“I don’t want to be a secret you feel guilty for,” you said, softer now. “I’m not asking you to shout it through Jackson. I just— I want to know if this means something. Or if I’m just some comfort you can walk away from before sunrise.”

Joel’s eyes finally met yours.

And for once — he didn’t look away.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t lie.

“I ain’t proud of it,” he said quietly. “But this... I can’t seem to stop. And that scares the hell outta me.”

You took a breath. Then reached for his hand.

“Then stop pretending like it’s nothing.”

He didn’t speak again.

“Stay.”

This time —

Joel didn’t leave.

He woke before the sun.

That wasn’t unusual — old habits like that never died. His body knew how to stir before the world turned gold outside, how to blink back sleep and remember where he was before full consciousness settled in.

But what was unusual… was the warmth curled against his chest.

Your leg was draped across his hip. Your hand rested palm-down over his heart. His chin had ended up on top of your head sometime in the night. You were breathing soft, steady, your face tucked into the crook of his neck like it was home.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t want to move.

For a long time, he just lay there, eyes half-lidded, staring at the soft light slipping through your curtains. You shifted slightly in your sleep, and your nose brushed his collarbone. A sound, small and pleased, left your lips.

Goddamn.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this. Not the sex — though that had damn near wrecked him in all the best ways — but this.

The quiet. The warmth. The comfort of waking up next to someone who didn’t flinch from him.

The feeling of not being alone.

And when you stirred — blinked your way into awareness and tilted your head back to look at him with the kind of sleepy-eyed smile that could undo entire armies — Joel’s heart clenched so hard he almost winced.

“Mornin’,” you whispered, voice rough from sleep.

“Mornin’,” he rumbled back, arms still folded around you.

You stretched slowly, reluctantly pulling back to sit up, the sheet slipping just low enough to make him look away with a mumbled Jesus. You grinned and tugged it higher with a mock-scolding glance.

“I was gonna make breakfast,” you said, fingers carding through your hair. “You want some?”

Joel sat up, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Only if you’re makin’ coffee too.”

You smirked. “Deal.”

The morning passed like something stolen from a life he never thought he’d have.

He helped you fry up some eggs and potatoes — chopping, mostly, since you didn’t quite trust him near the stove yet. You teased him about it. He grumbled half-heartedly and kissed your temple when you weren’t expecting it.

You ate together at your tiny kitchen table. No one rushed. No one talked about last night like it was something shameful.

You poured him a second cup of coffee just because he looked like he’d ask. And when you leaned over to hand it to him, you pressed a kiss to his shoulder without a word.

Joel watched you as you moved around your little kitchen, in your worn T-shirt and loose flannel pants, humming to yourself while you scraped the plates clean.

It didn’t feel like a mistake.

It didn’t feel heavy.

It just felt... right.

And for once — Joel didn’t argue with that.

Tommy wasn’t the nosiest man in Jackson — but he was observant. Had to be, as a leader, a husband, a brother. And it didn’t take a genius to notice something had shifted in Joel lately.

It was in the little things.

The sharp edge to him had dulled, not gone completely, but rounded enough that it didn’t cut like it used to. He was still gruff, still guarded, but… he wasn’t walking around like the whole goddamn world was about to turn on him every second.

He stood taller now. Looser in the shoulders. His voice didn’t snap as quick.

Even his silences had changed.

So, one afternoon, when they were fixing up fencing on the edge of town — just the two of them — Tommy finally said it out loud.

"You’ve been... different lately."

Joel didn’t look up from the wire he was tying off. "That right?"

"Yeah." Tommy squinted at him. "Less grumpy. Less ‘end-of-the-world.’ You even said ‘good morning’ to Jackson's baker the other day. Scared the hell out of her."

Joel huffed a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.

Tommy leaned on the post. “I’m just sayin’. You’ve been lighter. Happier. And I know you ain’t just suddenly become a morning person.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Something changed?”

Joel twisted the wire tighter, buying himself a moment. Then: “Nothin’ to make a fuss about.”

That answer came a little too quick, too smooth.

Tommy raised a brow, but he didn’t press. “Alright. If that’s how you want it.”

They worked in silence again, but it wasn’t heavy.

And Tommy let it go.

But as Joel stood, wiping his hands and stretching his back, he caught the faintest smile flicker across his brother’s face.

Not smug. Just… satisfied.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he was just glad Joel had something, someone, to be soft for.

Winter had passed.

Jackson was thawing out, snow giving way to mud, and the air held the first breath of spring — not warm, exactly, but softer. Lighter. Life crept back in through the cracks, quiet and slow, and so did Joel.

The stables smelled of damp hay and fresh soil. You were elbow-deep in a bridle strap when the barn doors creaked open, cold air rushing in behind a broad, familiar frame.

You looked up, brows lifted. “Didn’t expect you out this way today.”

Joel shrugged one shoulder. “Had time.”

He leaned against the stall, arms crossed, watching you work with that low, unreadable look he wore so well. But there was something different about it today — less guarded. Less weighed down.

You smirked, half-teasing. “If you came here to loiter, you better grab a brush.”

He gave you a look that said he might, but didn’t move. Instead, he stepped into your space — slow, sure — and you paused, confused but curious, as he reached for your wrist.

And then he kissed you.

Right there in the aisle, between the soft snorts of horses and the rustle of straw.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t feverish like so many nights had been. It was something else entirely — calm, deliberate, and a little daring.

You blinked when he pulled back, mouth parted slightly. “What was that for?”

Joel just shrugged again. But there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Felt like it,” he said simply, voice gravel and warmth.

You laughed under your breath, shaken in the best way. “And what if someone saw?”

He leaned closer, spoke against your ear, low and unapologetic. “Then they’ll know.”

And just like that, he walked off toward the pasture gate like nothing had happened.

You stood there, heart thudding like a drum in your chest, hand brushing your lips — not complaining. Not even close.

Because for once, he was the one stealing glances.

And you liked the view.

It started with a grunt.

Joel had bent down to tie his boot and froze halfway up, muttering a colorful string of curses under his breath. He pressed a hand to his lower back like it’d betrayed him, slowly straightening with all the grace of a man twice his age.

You looked up from the pot you were stirring, wooden spoon still in hand. “That your back, or did the spirit of an 80-year-old just possess you?”

Joel shot you a look, jaw tight. “Ain’t funny.”

You crossed the room to him without skipping a beat, placing your hands gently on his sides. “It’s a little funny.”

He groaned again as he sat on the couch, clearly trying to hide the wince behind a scowl. You weren’t buying it.

Without asking, you slid behind him, your hands firm but careful as they worked into his shoulders and spine. He exhaled through his nose, tense under your touch until your fingers found just the right spot. He let out something between a grunt and a sigh.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Spent a lotta years with a lotta sore horses,” you teased. “You’re just taller. Hairier. Grumblier.”

He didn’t respond — which either meant you were right or he was trying not to enjoy it too much.

You leaned forward a little, your breath ghosting over the back of his neck. “Maybe we should take it easy on sex for a bit,” you said innocently. “Can’t have you pulling something important.”

Joel stiffened — not from pain this time.

He turned his head slightly toward you, eyes narrowing. “That a joke?”

“Of course it is.” You circled to the front, crouching so you were eye level with him. “But even if it wasn’t, you think I’m gonna be less into you just ‘cause your back’s being an asshole?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze dropped for a second.

You softened. “Joel,” you said, voice low. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

“I just…” he exhaled, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. “I’m not blind. You’re young. I ain’t. And I know I’ve got baggage. Hell, I am baggage. And now this,” he gestured vaguely at his back, “just feels like another reminder.”

You reached up, cupped his jaw gently with both hands, thumbs brushing the bristle of his scruff.

“Shut up,” you said softly. “I like your age. You really think I’d let just anybody wear me out and make me breakfast in the same week?”

He gave you a look, uncertain, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“You’re strong, and you’re steady, and you’ve lived through more than anyone I know. So what if your bones creak a little? You still got it, Joel.”

Now he was definitely fighting a smile.

“Besides,” you added with a wink, “I happen to think older men are sexy.”

That did it. He shook his head, grumbling something under his breath — but you saw the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his hand found yours without a second thought.

You leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered: “Now let me finish the stew before you pull something else.”

He didn’t argue.

The days were getting longer again — soft, golden spring light stretching past the windows as you rinsed out a bucket by the stable door. It had been a long day: the twins who’d been learning to ride were in a rare kind of chaos, and one of the mares had thrown a shoe. You were tired. Achy. Hair mussed and hands raw from reins and rope.

You didn’t hear Joel coming until his shadow passed over yours.

You glanced up, about to greet him, but stopped short when you noticed what he was holding behind his back — a mess of clumsy wildflowers. Nothing fancy. Mostly purple, with tiny white buds still clinging to their stems.

“…Did you pick those?” you asked, blinking.

He looked like he wanted the ground to eat him. “Don’t make a thing of it.”

“I’m not,” you said, fighting back a smile as he finally handed them over.

“They grow outside the old fence line,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured they might… look nice in a jar or somethin’.”

You stepped closer, flowers in hand. “They’ll look great in the mug you gave me.”

That made him glance over.

“You still usin’ that thing?”

“Every morning,” you said. “Kinda hard not to. You carved a horse on it.”

He didn’t respond, but his ears turned red — the only betrayal of how much it meant. The mug had shown up on your porch a few weeks ago, tucked in a wool sock for protection. Heavy ceramic, obviously made by hand, and bearing the unmistakable rough sketch of a horse’s head scratched into the glaze. The shape was uneven, one side thicker than the other, but it kept your coffee warm and fit in your palms just right.

You hadn’t asked about it. He hadn’t explained it. That’s how most things with Joel were.

He wasn’t a man of grand speeches. He didn’t shower you with compliments or drown you in attention. But he made sure your porch light worked. He sanded down the splintering corner of your workbench. He refilled your woodpile when you weren’t looking. And when he touched you, it was with purpose — with reverence, like every brush of his fingers meant something.

You stepped up to him now, flowers tucked against your chest, and kissed his cheek.

Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes softening. “Ain’t nothin’, darlin’.”

“It is,” you said. “But I won’t make a thing of it.”

He lingered a little longer, helping you walk the fence, not saying much. You didn’t need him to.

He was a southern gentleman — rough around the edges, quiet in his ways — but he loved loud in the silence.

It was early.

The kind of early where the sky was still gray and sleepy, fog clinging to windowpanes, and Jackson hadn’t quite woken up yet. Inside your house, however, things were very awake.

Joel stood between your legs, your back gently pressed against the kitchen counter, his hands planted firm on either side of you. The goodbye kiss had gone on a little longer than intended — nothing scandalous, but definitely not rated for public viewing. Your fingers idly hooked in the loops of his jeans, voice low and warm.

“Sure you don’t wanna stay for breakfast?”

He smirked, pressing his forehead against yours. “You tryin’ to keep me here forever?”

“I mean,” you shrugged with a grin, “could be worse.”

And then — the door opened.

No knock. No warning.

“Hey, you home? You left the stable keys in—oh my god.”

You and Joel both jerked apart like guilty teenagers. Dina stood in the doorway with a wide-eyed expression, keys dangling from her fingers, mouth half-open in sheer horror and glee.

Joel, to his credit, backed up and cleared his throat like nothing happened. “Mornin’,” he said, already pulling on his jacket like he could escape through the walls.

“I got this,” you whispered to him, brushing your fingers over his arm. “Go home. I’ll handle this one.”

He gave you a look that said good luck, then offered Dina an almost apologetic nod on his way out.

Dina didn’t even blink until the door closed behind him. Then she slowly, dramatically turned to face you.

“You—” she pointed accusingly. “You were—that was Joel Miller.”

You rubbed a hand over your face, already bracing. “Dina—”

“Him?! Out of all the people in Jackson?” she whisper-shouted, eyes wide with gleeful horror. “You’re hooking up with Ellie’s dad?”

“He’s not—” You paused. “Okay, he kind of is, but still. It’s not like I planned it.”

Dina paced a circle in your kitchen like she needed to physically walk through the realization. “You were pressed against the counter. That was not a casual goodbye. That was a pressed-up-I’ll-miss-you goodbye.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You done?”

“No. No, I’m not done,” she said, spinning on her heel. “How long has this been happening? You’ve been holding out on me.”

You exhaled and leaned against the counter, suddenly very aware that your shirt was rumpled. “A few months. Since winter.”

“Months?!”

“I wanted to keep it quiet,” you said. “And he… he did too.”

Dina stared at you for a beat, then crossed her arms. “Okay. I’m judging you a little bit. But I’m also not, because, I mean—good for you. Grumpy old man still got it.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”

“But seriously,” she said, finally relaxing, “does Ellie know?”

“No. And we’re not exactly rushing to tell her. It’s not… official. Yet.”

Dina stepped closer, suddenly soft. “Hey. I’m giving you shit, but I’m happy for you. He treats you okay?”

You smiled, quiet and genuine. “Better than okay.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Alright. You’re lucky I love you. ‘Cause if I caught anyone else kissing Joel Miller, I’d have to bleach my eyeballs.”

“Noted,” you deadpanned.

“Oh, and—next time? Lock your damn door.”

“How about next time you knock?”

Meanwhile,

Joel stepped through the door to his place, running a hand through his hair, still a little flushed from the rushed goodbye — your scent still faint on his shirt.

The door creaked shut behind him. He kicked his boots off with a sigh.

Then—

“I know you’ve been sneaking out.”

His head snapped up.

Ellie was sitting at the table, arms crossed, brow raised. Her backpack was slung over the back of the chair, her legs swinging like she’d been there a while. She looked equal parts annoyed and deeply smug.

Joel blinked. “The hell are you doin’ here?”

“I live here.”

She grinned. “And I know you’ve been leaving in the middle of the night and coming back at the butt crack of dawn.”

Joel sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “You followin’ me?”

“Nope. I got eyes, old man.” She leaned forward. “So, come on. Who is she?”

Joel grunted and made his way toward the coffee pot. “Ain’t none of your business.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned. “It is someone. Holy shit. This is so weird. You’re like—dating?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You totally are.”

Joel muttered something into his coffee mug that sounded a lot like a curse.

Ellie leaned her chin on her hand, unrelenting. “Okay, serious question. Are you like… actually into her? Or is this some ‘I’m old and sad and the world sucks’ kind of hookup?”

He paused.

That long, quiet pause said everything.

“…It’s not a hookup,” he said finally. Voice low. Truthful.

Ellie studied him for a moment — the stiff posture, the quiet conflict behind his eyes. Then, with less teasing, she asked, “Does she make you happy?”

Joel hesitated. Then he nodded once, slow. “Yeah. She does.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, letting it creak beneath her. “Well, shit,” she muttered. “Guess I can’t give you too much shit then.”

“Would be nice if you didn’t give me any.”

“Can’t promise that,” she grinned. Then her eyes narrowed. “Wait—do I know her?”

Joel froze.

Ellie squinted like a bloodhound sniffing out a lead. “Oh my god. It’s her, isn’t it? The horse lady? The one who’s been teachin’ me how to ride?”

Joel groaned. “Don’t call her that.”

“I knew it!” Ellie practically shouted, banging a fist on the table. “You’ve been all weird and soft lately, and she keeps smiling every time your name comes up. This is so messed up. My riding instructor is banging my dad.”

Joel gave her a look. “Jesus, Ellie.”

“I’m not wrong!”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, we were keepin’ it quiet for a reason.”

“Because of me?”

“…Yeah.”

Ellie’s face softened, if only a little. She stood, walking over to him. “You’re allowed to be happy, y’know.”

Joel glanced at her, surprised.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she added quickly. “I’m still gonna mess with you about it. But seriously… it’s okay. Just maybe don’t make out in the stables or whatever.”

Joel laughed, low and reluctant. “We’ll try our best.”

The fire in the hearth flickered low, casting soft shadows across the wooden walls of her bedroom. The wind outside had muffled the world to a hush, as if time itself had paused to grant them this quiet.

You were already breathless when Joel's hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt, his calloused palms warm against your skin. His kisses were slower tonight, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to learn every inch of you again.

He sank to his knees beside the bed, those dark eyes trailing up your legs like they belonged to him.

“You gonna let me take my time tonight?” he rasped, voice low and rough.

You huffed a laugh, the kind that melted right into a sigh. “You always do.”

His grin was short-lived, swallowed as he coaxed your thighs apart, guiding one leg over his shoulder, then the other. His mouth hovered close to your folds, the heat of his breath making your already hazy.

And then—no hesitation.

His mouth was reverent. Worshipful.

You gasped, hand flying to grip the sheets as his tongue dragged along your pussy, slow and purposeful. He kissed you there like he meant it—like it mattered.

“Joel—” Your voice cracked.

He didn’t stop, didn’t flinch. Just groaned low in his throat, the sound sending shivers through you. His beard scraped lightly against your inner thighs, and you could feel the strength in his grip as he pinned your hips, holding you exactly where he wanted her.

He found your clit with practiced ease, lips wrapping around it with gentle insistence, sucking softly until your spine arched and your fingers curled hard into his hair.

Your thighs trembled against his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

He didn’t. He couldn’t have if he tried.

When you finally broke apart—shaking, gasping, your hand in his hair—he only slowed to kiss your thighs, your belly, pressing his face against you like he was anchoring himself there.

You were flushed, dazed, still panting when he finally looked up.

“You good?” he asked, voice wrecked with heat.

You blinked, then managed a shaky laugh. “You ask that like you didn’t just ruin me.”

Joel just chuckled, lips glistening, dragging a hand down your side as he stood up.

“You ain't seen ruined yet, darlin’.”

The room was quiet again, save for the gentle creak of old wood and the muted hum of the wind brushing past the window. The fire had settled to soft embers, casting a lazy orange glow across the room. You were lying beside him now, tucked against Joel’s chest, your fingers lazily tracing circles over the bare skin above his heart.

His arm was heavy around your waist, hand idly brushing the curve of your hip beneath the blanket. Neither of them said anything for a long while.

Until you broke the silence.

“So…” you murmured, voice still a little rough around the edges. “Are we gonna talk about this, or just keep pretending it's nothing?”

Joel stared at the ceiling for a moment before he looked down at you, his jaw tense.

“I don’t think this has been nothin’ for a while now.”

Your lips quirked. “Glad you noticed.”

He huffed a breath, not quite a laugh, and let his hand rest still against your side. “You sure this is what you want?”

“You ask me that every time.”

“’Cause it don’t stop bein’ a fair question,” he said, eyes dark, voice low. “I’m older. I’ve got my baggage. A lot of it. You could be with someone else—someone who doesn’t come with a lifetime of bad decisions followin’ behind him.”

You pushed herself up slightly, resting your chin against his chest to look him in the eye. “I don’t want someone else.”

Joel’s brows furrowed.

“I want you,” you said plainly. “And I’m not asking for forever. I’m not expecting you to be someone you’re not. But I’m not a kid, Joel. I’m not some wide-eyed girl with a crush.”

His jaw flexed, that muscle ticking the way it did when he was chewing something over he didn’t want to admit was true.

“And if I am in this?” he asked, voice quiet. “If I start... actually lettin’ this happen?”

“Then we figure it out,” you said, reaching up to brush a curl of graying hair from his forehead. “Together.”

The wind outside rattled the windowpanes softly. Spring had settled into Jackson with slow mornings and thawing rivers, and something in Joel—something guarded and weary—began to ease.

He exhaled, long and low, and pulled you tighter into him.

“Alright,” he said after a beat, almost like a sigh. “Alright.”

You smiled into his skin.

He didn’t say the word relationship. Neither did you. But it was in the way he didn’t leave that morning. In the way he lingered while you made coffee. In the way he kissed your shoulder and let you steal another one before breakfast.

Spring had a way of thawing even the most frozen things.

Even Joel Miller.

You hadn’t planned on walking into anything unusual. It was just a casserole. A warm, cheesy one with real chunks of meat — the kind of thing you knew Joel appreciated after a long day. You’d even let it brown a little extra on top, just how he liked it. You figured you'd both share it, maybe pour two glasses of whatever dusty wine bottle was still sitting in his kitchen, maybe eat with your knees brushing under the table like you had the last few times.

But you froze the second Joel opened the door.

Tommy was there.

He was leaned back in one of the kitchen chairs like he lived there, a half-drunk glass of whiskey already sweating on the table. He looked up and grinned.

“Well, hey now.”

You smiled, too wide, trying to keep it casual. “Hi. I, uh… brought dinner.”

Joel, to his credit, didn’t flinch. But you could tell he wasn’t expecting his brother either. His eyes did a fast dart between you and Tommy, and then back to the casserole like it was a ticking bomb.

“Oh,” Tommy said brightly. “Dinner? For the both of you?”

“Figured he might be hungry,” you said, clearing your throat and stepping inside. “This thing’s big enough for three.”

Joel gave you a quiet look — grateful, but also slightly panicked. He took the casserole from your hands like it was the one thing grounding him to the earth.

Tommy didn’t bat an eye. At first.

You all sat around the table. You served the casserole while Joel poured drinks, his movements a little too careful. Tommy made conversation, oblivious and easy, about the new gate repairs and how Ellie had accidentally let one of the goats out again.

You tried not to look too fondly at Joel.

You failed.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy glanced between the two of you and said, “You know, I been meanin’ to bring this up.”

Joel stiffened beside you. You kept your fork halfway to your mouth.

“I swear, my brother’s been... lighter, lately. Walkin’ around here with a spring in his damn step.”

Joel grunted. “Don’t start.”

Tommy smirked. “I’m just sayin’. Somethin’s got you all chipper and secretive. I told Maria—he’s gotta be seein’ someone.”

You choked a little on your food.

Joel’s hand paused as he brought his cup to his lips.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You smiled awkwardly. “That’s… wow. That’s an assumption.”

“Is it?” Tommy leaned forward, the glint in his eye sharpened now. “I don’t see him stayin’ out late for fun. Or smilin’ at nothin’ in the middle of the day.”

Joel cleared his throat. “Tommy…”

Tommy blinked. And then it clicked. You saw it. The exact second his gaze bounced from Joel to you and back again — how Joel didn’t deny it, didn’t even try, and how you suddenly couldn’t meet either of their eyes.

“No shit,” Tommy breathed, blinking in slow disbelief. “You?”

You tried to say something. Anything. Joel just stared down at his plate.

Tommy burst into laughter, loud and full and unkind only in that sibling kind of way. “Oh my god. You’ve been sneakin’ around?”

Joel groaned. “Can we not—”

“With her?” Tommy said, like he was pointing at the sun in the sky. “Jesus, Joel, I thought she was just being sweet, bringin’ you food. I didn’t know she was into old men.”

“Tommy,” Joel snapped, but it was no use.

You pressed your fingers to your mouth, trying not to laugh. It was too ridiculous. Joel looked like he wanted to dig a hole through the floor and crawl into it.

“She’s what, late twenties?” Tommy said with full-on glee. “You robbin’ cradles now?”

You finally spoke, trying to help. “I’ll be thirty soon.”

“Thirty,” Tommy echoed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “That’s still two decades under your belt, big brother.”

Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like Jesus Christ.

Tommy was already pointing at him across the table. “You know what? Good for you. Still got it. Damn.”

Joel finally looked at you, a long, resigned glance. You smiled, just a little.

He reached for your hand under the table. You let him take it.

Tommy caught the motion and whistled. “I’m tellin’ Maria everything.”

“No, you’re not,” Joel grunted.

But you could tell — for all the embarrassment and Tommy’s unrelenting teasing — Joel wasn’t really upset. He just looked like a man who’d gotten caught smiling. Like the secret wasn’t a secret anymore, and maybe that wasn’t the worst thing.

By the time the casserole dish was scraped clean and the plates stacked, Tommy had taken his teasing down a notch — not that he didn’t squeeze in a few more zingers between bites.

You and Joel shared quiet glances as you gathered the dishes, trying not to laugh while Tommy ribbed Joel about "old bones and young backs." Joel just shook his head, grumbled something inaudible, but didn’t let go of your hand under the table until he had to.

You were wiping down the counter when Tommy finally leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful sigh, watching Joel with an expression that no longer held mischief.

“You serious about her?”

The question cut through the room, soft but heavy. You stilled, hands resting on the dish towel. Joel blinked, then looked at his brother, the humor fading from his face.

Tommy went on, quieter now. “I mean it. I’m just—look, you know I’m all for you bein’ happy. God knows you deserve it. But you serious?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes finding yours before dropping to the table.

“I didn’t expect it,” Joel said eventually. “Didn’t plan it. But… yeah. I think I am.”

You swallowed, warmth rising in your chest. It wasn’t the most romantic admission in the world, but it was Joel — which meant it carried weight. Truth.

Tommy nodded, lips pressed together in thought. “She makes you better.”

Joel gave a small huff. “She makes me somethin’, that’s for damn sure.”

Tommy looked over at you then, his tone shifting again. “You in this, too?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you said honestly.

Tommy exhaled, nodding slowly. Then his voice dropped a little. “You got… room for that kinda thing? After everything?”

You could tell it wasn’t judgment. It was a real question — a brother checking in on a man who’d lost too much, asking if his heart had room left without reopening scars.

Joel looked tired for a moment. Then he looked at you.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’, Tommy. But I know it feels good. Right. And I ain’t had a whole lotta that in a long time.”

Tommy gave a quiet hum and pushed up from his chair. “Then that’s good enough for me.”

He clapped Joel’s shoulder on the way out, gave you a parting wink, and didn’t say another word.

When the door closed, Joel looked at you, slower this time. You stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his middle, letting your forehead rest against his chest.

“Didn’t go as bad as you thought, huh?” you murmured.

He kissed your hair. “You don’t know Tommy like I do. He’s gonna drag this out for weeks.”

You grinned into his shirt. “Good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Winter settled into Jackson again — soft, quiet, and silver-edged. Snow clung to rooftops, curled along fences, and gathered on the tips of pine branches like icing. The air bit at your cheeks when you walked outside, but it didn’t bother you much. You had good boots, a decent coat, and Joel Miller’s hand in yours.

Things were different now.

Open.

You didn’t flinch when you reached for him in front of others anymore, and while Joel still hesitated now and then — rough fingers twitching before settling against the small of your back — he didn’t stop you. Not like he used to. Not when everyone already knew.

There were still stares. Here and there. Quick glances over shoulders in the market. A pause too long when you two walked past the bar together. You’d hear them sometimes, quiet comments exchanged behind a mug of beer, half-whispers about how “he’s old enough to be her—”

And that’s usually where you’d stop listening.

You took it with a stride and a smirk. Joel, though — he still had his days.

Sometimes it hit him in the silence between dinner and bed. When he was standing in your bathroom brushing his teeth and caught his reflection, lines deeper in the winter lighting. Sometimes it came after sex, when you were curled into him, skin warm, heart steady, and he’d murmur something like “You could’ve had someone easier.”

Every time, you reminded him.

You’d tell him you didn’t want easy. That the things worth holding onto in this world never were. That you loved his age. His scars. His quiet way of loving, built slow and solid. You’d press your lips to the crinkles beside his eyes, the gray in his beard, and remind him how lucky you felt — not the other way around.

And when you said it enough, he started believing you. Even if just a little.

You had support, too. The kind that mattered.

Ellie gave him shit from time to time — mostly out of love. Mostly. Tommy still wouldn’t shut up about it, ribbing Joel any chance he got. Even Maria had taken to calling you Mrs. Miller in passing, though always with a wink. Dina had become your favorite menace, constantly elbowing you during chores or sharing a look when Joel walked by.

But you knew it came from affection. From being seen. Being accepted.

One evening, walking back from the stables after a long shift — Joel at your side, both your breaths puffing in the cold — he reached over, fingers lacing with yours. You squeezed once, just to check he was really there.

He looked at you then, cheeks pink from the wind, expression soft in a way only you ever got to see.

You were bundled in layers, cheeks pink from the cold, as you walked hand-in-hand with Joel toward Tommy and Maria’s house. Ellie trailed just ahead of you, muttering about how snow always found a way to get into her boots no matter how tight she tied them. Joel grunted in sympathy, squeezing your hand as the house came into view — golden light spilling through the windows, smoke curling gently from the chimney.

Tommy was hosting dinner.

“In the name of the Millers,” he’d said with a grin when he invited you. “Figured it’s about time we all sit down like an actual family.”

The house smelled like roasted meat, fresh bread, and something sweet cooling by the window. Maria opened the door before you could knock, ushering you inside with a warmth that went beyond the fireplace.

“Coats off, boots by the wall,” she instructed, already pulling Ellie into a side-hug. “You’re tracking snow all over my floors.”

You were halfway through unwrapping your scarf when Tommy came up behind Joel and clapped him on the back.

“Look at this,” he teased, eyes crinkling. “My big brother cleaned up for once. You do that for her?”

Joel didn’t answer. Just shot him a look and muttered something under his breath, making you laugh.

Dinner was loud. Messy. Full of passing plates and teasing comments and stories retold for the hundredth time. Ellie argued with Tommy over the right way to gut a fish. Maria scolded them both for talking about guts at the table. You found yourself tucked beside Joel, knees bumping beneath the tablecloth, his hand occasionally brushing yours between bites.

At one point, Tommy raised his glass — water, not wine — and looked around the table.

“Well,” he said, voice softer now. “It ain’t perfect out there. And it’s never gonna be. But in here — this? This is good. This is real good.”

Joel shifted beside you, and when you looked over, his gaze was already on you. Something unspoken passed between you — a quiet, steady understanding. You squeezed his knee beneath the table.

Ellie caught the motion and snorted. “Gross,” she said with a grin, stabbing her fork into her potatoes.

“You’ll live,” you shot back.

Later, with bellies full and cheeks flushed from laughter, you helped clear the table. Joel lingered beside you in the kitchen, drying dishes you handed him one by one. His fingers brushed yours more than necessary, and each time, neither of you said a word.

As you left into the night, Ellie walking a few steps ahead again, Joel’s arm looped around your waist.

It was cold. Snow was falling. But the warmth from that dinner — from them — followed you home.

And this time, you knew it wasn’t going anywhere.

Part 1

taglist: @started-with-f-ends-with-uck @havensucks @amyispxnk

[vingtetunmars]

Steady Now...

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: A quiet crush. A stolen glance. In the peaceful lull between seasons, you — Jackson’s gentle, sharp-witted stable handler — find yourself growing closer to Joel Miller. He’s gruff, older, and carries the weight of a broken world, but something about him pulls you in.

Part 2

Tags: NSFW, smut(18+), mutual pining, hesitant Joel, age differences (reader is in late 20s, Joel is 56-57), set between season 1 and 2, Jackson!Joel Miller, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it yall), "i'm old." "i dont care.", no physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Hey, I'm back with another one. This fic is basically just my fav tropes for joel. Hope you guys enjoy this one. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 7k

masterlist

You'd wake up before the sun most days.

There’s a comfort in the quiet, before boots start crunching on snow-packed roads and kids race down the street toward the mess hall. The stables were still, save for the soft grunts and stomps of the horses inside. You’ve always liked mornings best — when your breath fogs the air and the world feels like it’s just for you and the animals.

Jackson has its rhythm, and by now, you’ve settled into it like a hand in a well-worn glove.

You'd muck stalls first, throw feed into troughs, and check hooves. Sometimes Shimmer tries to nose into the grain early and you gently swat her away, muttering something soft under your breath. She’s a smart one. Too smart, really. Jesse said the two of you are alike — calm on the outside, chaos underneath. You’d argued that you weren’t that dramatic, and he just grinned, the cocky little shit.

Most afternoons, a few of the younger kids tumbled into the stables for their riding lessons. It’s become something of a ritual. You'd make them brush the horses first — “no shortcuts,” you always say — and they groan and roll their eyes but they do it anyway. You kept them in line with firm kindness. You weren't a pushover, and they know it. That’s why they trust you.

Dina’s got a natural seat. You told her that once, and her whole face lit up. Kat’s a little more cautious, her grip too tight, but you know she’ll grow out of it. Jesse mostly comes by to not help, but he always carries water buckets without being asked, so you let him hang around. They're good kids. In a world like this, that still feels miraculous.

Tommy stops by sometimes, checking on the horses, asking if you’ve had any trouble. He likes to walk the stalls with you, swapping stories from his patrols. You weren’t dumb — you know part of it is because Maria told him to keep an eye on things. But the other part is just Tommy being Tommy. He’s got that older brother energy, steady and protective in a way that’s comforting without smothering.

You’re one of the few people he really talks to. He’s told you things you suspect he hasn’t even told Maria. Not secrets, exactly — just things that linger in the bones. Memories. Regrets. The kind of things you’d only say aloud when your hands are busy and your heart feels safe.

Lately, though, there had been someone else lingering at the edge of your days.

Joel Miller.

He came back quiet. Grim-faced. Walked into Jackson like a man trying not to be noticed, even as the entire town noticed anyway. You know of him — everyone does. Tommy’s brother. The man who crossed the country and lived to tell about it. The one with the girl.

Ellie.

You liked her. She didn’t say much to you, not yet. There’s something sharp and watchful in her. Like she’s waiting for something to go wrong.

You understood that feeling.

As for Joel… well. You tried not to look too long. Not that it matters — he barely looks at you. Or anyone, really.

But you’d see him sometimes, walking Ellie to school, hauling lumber to help Tommy repair the walls, standing near the stables but never in them. His eyes always scan the horizon, like the fences aren’t real, like he was still out there somewhere, still waiting to be ambushed.

You thought about saying something — Hey. You like horses? Want to meet Shimmer? — but you don’t.

He was older. A lot older. And you know that’s not a crime, but it’s enough of a difference to keep your feelings folded up in your chest like a letter you’ll never send. You’ve got eyes, sure. You could admire a man who looks like he’s carved out of stone and gritted teeth, who spoke like every word has to be earned.

But admiration wasn't the same as invitation.

So you keep it to yourself. You let yourself glance when he walks by. You try not to linger.

And you get back to work.

Because horses need feeding, and kids need teaching, and life, somehow, goes on.

The wind carried a bite today. Not a storm, not yet, but the kind of chill that makes your fingers ache by noon.

You were brushing down one of the older horses, a sleepy gelding named Rusty, when the barn door creaks open. You didn’t look up right away. Not many people come this early — Tommy’s off on patrol, and the kids don’t roll in until after breakfast.

But then you heard the boots. Light. Hesitant.

“Hey,” a voice said. Dry, clipped. Still working out if it wants to stay or bolt.

You turn.

Ellie stands in the doorway with her hands shoved in her jacket pockets, shoulders tucked up like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Her eyes flick past you, scanning the stalls. She doesn’t meet your gaze right away.

“Hey, stranger,” you say, soft enough that she can ignore it if she wants. “You lost?”

Ellie snorts, barely. “Just wandering.”

You gesture with your chin. “You wander into barns often, or am I just lucky today?”

That earns a real reaction — the corner of her mouth pulls up. Brief. But it counts.

“I remember this place,” she said eventually. “From before.”

You nod. “Yeah. You came through with Joel, right? Didn’t stay long.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Didn’t think we were gonna.” Then, quieter: “Guess plans change.”

You don’t ask. You could. You’ve heard whispers — that something went wrong in Salt Lake, that Joel came back different — but you weren’t the kind of person who digs at wounds. People talk enough already.

Instead, you lean against the stall, brushing slow circles into Rusty’s shoulder. “You wanna come in?”

Ellie hesitated. Then stepped fully inside, letting the door close behind her. The barn muffled the wind. Inside, it was warm and smells like hay and leather and something sweet under the surface.

“I used to help out,” she said, voice cautious. “At the stables. Back in the QZ. Not like this — just feeding and mucking. One time a horse bit this guy named Max and he cried like a baby. I was ten. It was hilarious.”

You smiled. “Yeah, horses’ll do that. They don’t care how tough you think you are.”

Ellie drifted closer to the stall, eyes on Rusty now. You watched the tension start to bleed from her shoulders. A little. Not all the way, but enough that she doesn’t look like she’s about to bolt anymore.

“He seems nice,” she murmured.

“He’s a grumpy old man,” you said, scratching behind Rusty’s ear. “But we love him anyway.”

You glance at her then. Her brow lifted, barely — like she’s trying not to smile again.

“You like animals?” you asked.

Ellie shrugged. “Guess so.”

Another pause. Then she asked, “Does it ever get… easier?”

You blinked. “The horses?”

She shook her head. “Jackson. Staying in one place. Pretending things are normal.”

That quiets you.

You leaned against the stall door, looking past her, toward the snow-dusted trees just visible through the slats.

“I don’t know if it ever feels normal,” you admitted. “But it gets less… loud, I guess. The fear. The twitchy feeling in your chest. You learn to breathe again. Might take a while, though.”

Ellie was quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah. Sounds fake, but okay.”

You laughed. She didn't.

But she does touch Rusty’s nose when he leans close enough. Just the briefest brush of her fingers against his muzzle. You watch how gently she moves. She’s got good instincts — like she’s always waiting for something to go wrong, and still, she tries anyway.

“I could show you,” you said.

She blinked. “Show me what?”

You gestured toward the saddles hanging on the far wall. “How to ride. For real this time. Not just tossing hay and ducking out before you get spit on.”

Ellie tilted her head. Suspicious. “Why?”

“Because horses are good company,” you said simply. “And because it might help. Feeling a little more in control of something. Plus, Rusty owes me for biting me last winter. You can help me keep him in line.”

She doesn’t smile. Not really.

But she nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “Maybe.”

The porch creaked beneath his boots as he leaned back in the chair, a mug of coffee cooling slow in his hand.

It’s late morning, sun barely cutting through the clouds, and Jackson hums along in its steady rhythm — distant hammering from the north wall, dogs barking at something near the mill, Maria shouting at a runner who forgot his goddamn gloves again. It's the kind of noise that would've driven him up a wall years ago.

Now, it was almost peaceful.

Tommy sat beside him, boots kicked up on the railing, a little too relaxed for someone who was supposed to be leading patrols in two hours. Joel didn’t say anything about it. He wasn't in the mood to start a lecture, and besides — Tommy’s earned some quiet.

“You talk to Ellie this morning?” Tommy asked, squinting up at the sky.

“Briefly.”

“She seems better lately,” Tommy said. “Still got that mouth on her, but… I don’t know. Somethin’ feels lighter.”

Joel nodded, slow. “She asked me about horses.”

Tommy turned to look at him, eyebrow raised.

“Said she wants to learn how to ride,” Joel added. “Said she was at the stables talkin’ to someone.”

“Oh,” Tommy said, and something in his face relaxed. “That’d be her, then.”

Joel frowns. “Who?”

“You know. Her. The one that handles the kids. Stable hand. Been here a few years now.”

He did know. Of course he did.

Because Joel Miller wasn’t a fool.

He’d seen the way you move around Jackson — always steady, never loud. You made it a point not to cross his path directly, but he’s caught the looks. Short ones. Careful. Not flirtatious — not exactly — but... warm. Curious.

Too warm.

At first, he thought he imagined it. But it kept happening — that split-second shift in your eyes when he walked past, the way your voice dipped into something softer when you spoke to Ellie with him in earshot. Not obvious. Not inappropriate. Just... there.

He didn’t like it.

Or rather, he shouldn’t like it.

Because you were what, late twenties? Maybe? Young enough to be one of the kids he used to teach to patch drywall back in Austin. Young enough to still laugh without bitterness stitched behind it.

It wasn't right.

It was stupid, is what it is. Entertaining the thought. Entertaining any thoughts. Not when he’s still waking up every other night with his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. Not when he's still not sure what the hell kind of man he’s managed to become.

“She’d be good for it,” Tommy said, nodding like this is just logistics. “Got patience. Knows how to work with tough kids. Ellie’ll like her.”

Joel grunted.

Tommy side-eyed him. “You don’t think so?”

Joel took a slow sip of his coffee. It was bitter and lukewarm.

“She’s fine,” he said. “Just gotta make sure Ellie don’t get too distracted. That’s all.”

Tommy chuckles under his breath. “Christ, man. Let the kid learn how to ride a horse.”

Joel didn’t respond.

Because he was thinking, unwillingly, about what you’d look like helping Ellie into a saddle. About your quiet way with animals. About your voice — not just the sound of it, but the shape of it. Like you speak to be understood, not heard.

He thought about how you never push. Never linger too long.

And how sometimes, that’s worse than the ones who do.

Because it’d be so easy to say yes.

So easy to let her in.

But Joel Miller knew better.

So instead, he drained the rest of his coffee, sets the mug down, and muttered —

“I’ll walk Ellie to the stables tomorrow.”

Tommy grinned, just a little. “Sure you will.”

Joel didn’t take the bait.

The stable smelled like pine and saddle soap this morning — clean, for once — and you were brushing down Cinnamon when you heard the crunch of boots on the snow-packed earth outside.

You didn’t turn immediately. You figured it’s one of the younger kids, maybe Jesse swinging by before patrol to bum a coffee. But then the door creaks open and a voice floats in behind the cold air.

“Go on.”

It was Joel.

And Ellie.

You glanced up, already trying to make your face neutral. Calm. Friendly. Not stupid.

Ellie walked in first, already in a jacket too big for her, sleeves shoved halfway up her arms. Her expression was lighter than it was a few days ago. She looked... not quite happy, but maybe a step in that direction.

You offered her a small smile. “Look who’s back.”

She shrugged. “Guess I got bored.”

Behind her, Joel lingered in the doorway. One hand on the frame like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or not.

You didn’t say anything to him.

But your eyes flickered — once, quickly. You take in the layered flannel, the gray creeping into his beard, the set of his jaw that always looks like he’s bracing for something.

And then you’d look away.

You moved over to the saddle racks, keeping your hands busy. “You remember Rusty?” you asked Ellie. “He's been waiting for you.”

Ellie stepped closer, already reaching out to pet the stallion’s neck. She talked more than she did the first time — asked about reins and saddles and how to tell if a horse is pissed off. You answered her gently, careful to keep your voice even, your movements steady.

But sometimes — sometimes — you glanced back.

Just for a second. Just to see if he was still standing there.

He was.

Joel didn’t miss much. That’s kept him alive more times than he can count.

So he noticed.

He noticed the way your eyes lift, quick as a blink, when you think he’s not looking. The way your mouth tilted just a little when you laugh at something Ellie said — softer than usual. Like you’re letting your guard down for a second.

Like you wanted him to see it.

And he didn’t like it.

Mostly because he did.

You were too young. Too kind. Too whole in the ways he’s not. And it’s not just the age — though that’s enough on its own — it’s the life you must’ve lived. The one where you still smile with your whole face. Still wave to kids. Still talk to horses like they’re old friends.

And Joel’s not part of that world. He never will be.

Still — he watched the way your hands guide Ellie’s, slow and careful on the reins. He watched the way you move, with purpose but never sharpness. Like you’ve learned how to survive without turning to stone.

He hated how easy it would be.

To step closer.

To say something.

To want.

Ellie swung up into the saddle with a grunt, her arms flailing for balance. You steadied her gently, laughing under your breath, and Joel tore his eyes away. Looked at the snow instead. At the mountains. Anywhere but at you.

At first, he didn’t say much.

Just a nod when he dropped Ellie off. A grunt when you said good morning. Sometimes not even that. Sometimes just that tight-lipped expression like he was doing you a favor by standing there, arms crossed, watching Ellie with narrowed eyes while she tried to get Rusty to turn in a straight line.

You were fine with it.

You really were.

You had horses to feed and boots to clean, kids to teach and saddles to oil. You weren’t about to start talking to a brick wall with a Southern accent.

Still.

Every now and then, you asked a question. Small ones.

“This her first time on a horse?”

“She nervous?”

“You ever ride?”

And sometimes — not always — he answered.

“Once or twice.”

“No, she just don’t like losing.”

“Had one in Austin. Didn’t last long.”

It went like that for a few days.

Quiet.

But not cold.

And then, one morning, you were cleaning the brushes when he stepped a little closer and said, “She said you told her about that horse that bolted last winter. The one that knocked Jesse flat.”

You blinked, then grinned. “Yeah. She liked that part.”

He snorted. Not quite a laugh, but close.

After that, it kept happening. In pieces.

One day, he asked you how you kept the younger horses calm when it snowed heavy. Another, he pointed out a loosened saddle strap before you noticed it yourself. The conversations never lasted long — a minute, maybe two — but they added up. And you found yourself waiting for them. Measuring your mornings by them.

And then one afternoon, it just... happened.

Ellie was off riding slow circles in the clearing just beyond the stables. You and Joel stood near the fence, boots crunching lightly on packed snow. It was quiet — a rare, good kind of quiet. The kind you didn’t mind sitting in.

You handed him a flask of tea. Something warm for your fingers more than anything else.

He hesitated, then took it.

You didn’t watch him drink. You just looked out toward Ellie.

“She’s getting better,” you said.

He nodded. “Picks things up fast.”

“Got a stubborn streak though.”

“Yeah,” he said, and this time there was something in his voice. Something almost fond. “Wonder where she got that.”

You smiled a little.

He handed the flask back.

“I used to be more talkative, you know,” you said. “Before all this. Back when conversations didn’t feel like a negotiation.”

He glanced at you, just briefly.

“Still talk more than most,” he said.

That surprised a laugh out of you.

“Is that your way of sayin’ I talk too much?”

“Didn’t say that,” he replied.

“But you thought it.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, eyes still on Ellie. “Nah,” he said. “Don’t mind it.”

That quiet sat between you again. But it was different now. Not empty — just full of things unspoken.

You looked at him, and for once, didn’t try to hide it.

“Me neither,” you said.

And Joel didn’t look away.

Not this time.

You told yourself three times on the walk over: it’s not a big deal.

You weren’t bringing Joel dinner. You weren’t hoping for anything. You just made too much stew — which was true — and you knew Ellie didn’t love venison, and it’d be a shame to waste it. That’s all.

That’s all.

It was a crisp evening, the kind where smoke curled up from chimneys in lazy ribbons and the sky was pale with cloudlight. You carried the bowl in both hands, covered with a clean cloth, careful not to spill it.

When you reached Joel’s porch, you paused.

The window flickered with warm lamplight. You could hear faint music — one of those old folk tapes Tommy brought back from a run. Inside, someone was moving. Heavy steps.

You knocked twice.

The door opened slower than expected.

Joel looked surprised to see you. Or maybe not surprised — just tired. Like he hadn’t planned on company and wasn’t sure whether to let the moment stretch.

“Hey,” you said lightly, lifting the bowl a little. “Uh... made too much stew. Again. Thought I’d see if you and Ellie wanted some. Before it goes cold.”

You kept your tone casual. Nonchalant. Not nervous, even though your palms were sweating under the ceramic.

Joel’s eyes flicked down to the bowl, then back up to your face.

“That right?”

“Yeah. It’s good today. Won’t be tomorrow. Too much thyme.”

He looked at you like he knew exactly what you were doing — and also, maybe, like he didn’t mind.

He took the bowl.

“Thanks,” he said, after a beat.

You smiled. “No rush returning it.”

You turned to leave before he could say anything else — because staying longer would make it something it wasn’t. You didn’t need to see if he smiled back. You didn’t need a thank you from Ellie. You were just being... kind.

Just neighborly.

Right?

Still, as you walked back through the snow, you felt a little lighter. Like maybe this was your way of reaching out without falling flat on your face. And maybe — just maybe — Joel would reach back.

The stew was warm. Too warm for just leaving the house. She must’ve come straight over.

He knew what it meant. What it could mean. But he also knew how carefully she’d phrased it. Just enough plausible deniability to call it nothing.

He watched Ellie dig into it, muttering something about “finally, someone in this town who knows how to use salt.” Joel only half-listened.

His eyes were still on the empty bowl.

Clean. Sturdy. One of those old ceramic ones the town stockpiled from thrift runs. Familiar.

Too nice to just leave sitting in his kitchen.

It’d be rude not to return it.

Eventually.

He came just after sunset.

You were half-sitting on your worn couch, a book open in your lap that you hadn’t really been reading, when the knock came — three short taps.

You opened the door, and there he was: bowl in hand, snow in his hair, eyes a little cautious like he was already telling himself to keep it brief.

You smiled anyway. “That was fast.”

Joel shrugged. “Didn’t want to forget.” He held the bowl out like it was some kind of peace offering.

You took it, fingers brushing his — just barely — and stepped back from the door.

“You want some coffee?” you asked. “It’s late, but... I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He hesitated. Long enough that you nearly backtracked.

But then: “Sure.”

So you poured two mugs, set the clean bowl down on the counter, and moved back to the living room with Joel trailing behind. You sat on the far end of the couch, tucking your legs beneath you. He settled on the other end, cautious, like the cushions might betray him.

The fire cracked softly in the corner.

He held the mug with both hands. “Ellie liked the stew.”

You smiled, sipping your own. “She say that, or did she just eat like she hadn’t seen food in a week?”

Joel cracked the smallest smile. “Both.”

And just like that, the tension eased.

You talked.

About horses, mostly — Cinnamon’s sudden fear of wheelbarrows, how Jesse still held the reins too tight, how Dina was secretly a natural but pretended not to care. Joel mentioned growing up near horses in Texas, never getting attached, but remembering the sound they made in the cold. The huff of breath. The soft scrape of hooves.

He made a dry comment about one of Tommy’s failed repairs in the watchtower, and you snorted so hard you nearly spilled your coffee.

Joel laughed.

Actually laughed.

It was short. A little rusty. But real.

And it did something to you — like a warm press behind the ribs. You smiled down at your mug, trying to quiet the flutter in your chest.

For Joel, it was worse.

Because his heart was pulling in closer, just an inch. Just one easy step.

And his head — that damn part of him that always ran the numbers, always counted the years and the blood on his hands and the time he didn’t have left — it told him to stop. That this wasn’t fair. Not to you.

But then he’d glance sideways, and you’d be watching the firelight with that soft, far-off look, half-listening and completely calm, and that thought would falter.

Maybe this was harmless.

Maybe staying a little longer wouldn’t ruin anything.

Maybe.

“I missed this,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “Just... talking. Sitting with someone. Feels normal.”

Joel looked at you then.

Really looked.

And for a second, he didn’t fight it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It does.”

You didn’t start bringing him coffee.

That felt too forward.

But you did start making enough for two when you knew Joel was around the stables. Sometimes you’d “accidentally” pour too much into your thermos and offer him the rest, passing him the cup with a shrug.

“Guess I can’t measure,” you’d say, dry.

Joel would take it with that unreadable look of his. “Suppose I can help with that.”

You didn’t touch him.

But sometimes, you’d brush past — just close enough to make the air shift. A hand on the gate near his. A glance that lingered one beat longer than it used to.

“You keep showing up like this, people are gonna start talkin’,” you joked once when he brought Ellie for her lesson.

Joel grunted. “Let ‘em.”

That surprised you. And for a moment — just a flicker — you let it show.

You didn’t flirt.

Not really.

But when Joel grumbled about something — how early it was, how cold it got at night, how damn much Tommy snored — you’d smirk and say, “Careful, Miller. Keep complaining and I might start thinking you like talking to me.”

And Joel?

He never said no.

He’d glance down, a huff of breath in his chest, something quiet and half-smiling at the corner of his mouth. And he always came back.

You weren’t brave enough to ask why.

Not yet.

But he hadn’t stopped you.

And that had to mean something.

The air in the barn was sharp with sawdust and winter. Joel leaned against the post with a mug in hand, watching Tommy hammer a loose plank back into place along one of the feed storage doors. Their boots crunched in old straw.

Tommy swore quietly as a nail bent sideways.

“Need a different hammer,” he muttered, straightening up and wiping his hands on his jacket. “This one’s for shit.”

Joel grunted. “Maybe the hammer ain’t the problem.”

Tommy shot him a look. “Didn’t know you came out here to heckle me.”

“I come out here to supervise. Free of charge.”

Tommy chuckled, stepping aside to grab a better tool. “How’s Ellie doing with the riding lessons, by the way?”

Joel paused, swirling what was left of his lukewarm coffee.

“Fine,” he said. “She listens to her.��

“Really?” Tommy laughed, impressed. “Didn’t even listen to me when I tried. Thought she was gonna sock me for telling her to sit straight.”

Joel smirked, then leaned a little heavier into the post. “She’s patient with her. Surprised me.”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah, she’s good with kids. Been teaching some of the younger ones since we got her settled.”

Joel looked out toward the pasture. The snow-covered stretch of fence, the sky a dull silver.

“She ever talk about where she came from?” he asked, tone even. Casual. Or at least trying.

Tommy didn’t catch the shift — didn’t hear the edge of it. He just kept hammering.

“Not much,” he said. “Came in around three years back. Said she was with a group before, didn’t say where. Sounded rough. Guess she was the only one who made it.”

Joel’s grip on the mug tightened just slightly.

“She ever say how?”

“Nope.” Tommy gave a small shake of the head. “Didn’t have to. You can see it on some people, y’know? The way they move. The way they check corners even when they’re home.”

Joel nodded slowly.

“She’s got that.”

A pause.

“But she never acted like she wanted trouble. Said she’d help patrol if we needed it, but... asked to stay with the stables.” Tommy straightened again, stretching his back. “Said she liked the quiet. The routine. I think she just wanted something that didn’t involve losing people.”

Joel’s chest pulled tight. He kept his face neutral.

“Guess that makes sense.”

Tommy gave him a sideways glance. “Why? You curious?”

Joel shrugged. “Just... gettin’ a read.”

“She’s good people, Joel. Smart. Quiet. Can handle herself, but doesn’t try to prove it all the time. Could’ve joined the scouting team or worked up north with weapons, but she didn’t. Wanted a job that didn’t need a gun on her hip every second. I respect that.”

Joel nodded again, like that answered a question he hadn’t asked aloud.

“She’s single, by the way,” Tommy added, like it was nothing.

Joel glanced over. “Didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

Joel rolled his eyes and pushed off the post. “Hammer’s fine, by the way. You’re just gettin’ soft.”

Tommy snorted. “said the man nursing a cup of coffee like it’s a damn antique.”

Joel walked off without another word, but he wasn’t heading far. His steps slowed once he was outside, eyes drifting out toward the stable building.

It was just curiosity.

Just trying to understand the kind of person teaching his kid how to ride.

That was all.

You weren’t expecting him.

It’d been three days since you made that throwaway comment, something mumbled between talk of saddles and the shifting weather. “Pipes’ve been acting up again,” you’d said, half-laughing. “Woke me up the other night—thought someone was trying to crawl through the damn walls.”

You hadn’t meant anything by it. Not really.

But now Joel was at your door, standing there with his sleeves rolled up and a toolbox in hand.

“Pipes still makin’ noise?” he asked, voice low and steady.

You blinked. “Joel—uh. Yeah. Sometimes.” You leaned on the doorframe, brows raised. “You came all the way here to play plumber?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Got bored.”

You smirked. “Didn’t know you got bored.”

He didn’t answer that. Just looked at you, patient. Waiting.

You stepped aside. “Alright. Come in, then. Make yourself at home—just don’t start charging me for labor.”

He passed you with that slow, deliberate way of his, and you hated how your chest stirred at the sound of his boots on your floor. He went straight to the back wall, crouching where the pipework came up behind the little utility closet. You hovered in the doorway.

Joel pulled a wrench from the box. “This it?”

“Yep. That’s the one that hisses like it’s judging me.”

He huffed a breath. Might’ve been a laugh.

You leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. “Didn’t peg you for the handyman type.”

“I ain’t,” he said. “Just old.”

You let out a small laugh. “So that’s where the wisdom comes from.”

He glanced over his shoulder, catching your eye. “That what you think I am? Wise?”

“I think you’re a mystery.” You didn’t blink. “But hey—if the mystery wants to fix my pipes, who am I to stop him?”

You watched the way the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely there, but enough. He shook his head slightly and turned back to the task.

You lingered.

The tension settled into the room like a second skin — not sharp, but heavy. The kind you could pretend didn’t exist if you were careful with your words. If you didn’t look too long. If your fingers didn’t ache to fidget with something.

“I could’ve gotten Tommy to look at it,” you offered lightly. “You didn’t have to come all the way over.”

Joel didn’t turn. “Didn’t say I had to.”

Your heart skipped. Just a beat.

You shifted your weight. “Well. I owe you, then.”

“You don’t.”

“But maybe I wanna owe you.”

That made him pause.

His hand stilled on the pipe. His shoulders drew tight. Then, slowly, he straightened, turning to face you with that unreadable stare. Your breath caught in your throat — not fear. Not even nerves. Just the sense that you were toeing a line neither of you had the words for yet.

Joel looked at you.

Really looked.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Rough. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

He tilted his head. “Like you don’t mean half of what you’re sayin’.”

You didn’t look away.

“I mean it,” you said, soft. “I just know when to pull back.”

He held your gaze for a second too long.

And then—like a spell breaking—he looked away, returning to the pipes.

“I’ll finish this up,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly. Not triumphant, not smug. Just... warm. Like a spark had finally caught.

The pipe was quiet now.

The room wasn’t.

Joel stood by the door, toolbox back in hand, like he meant to leave. You stayed by the kitchen counter, arms folded loosely over your chest, not pressing him to go — but not rushing to fill the silence, either.

“Thanks for this,” you said. Your voice was warm, casual. Like everything wasn’t coiled tight between your ribs. “You want coffee before you head out?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He looked at you — long enough that your fingers started tapping against your arm.

Then he set the box down again, slow. “Yeah. Alright.”

You poured two mugs, handed one to him without brushing fingers, barely. He took it, leaned against the wall, sipped without a word.

And the quiet stretched.

And the air pressed in.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was thick — like something had been building and building and now it was just waiting for one of you to cut the cord.

You didn’t mean to say anything.

But your voice broke through anyway. “You’re quieter than usual.”

Joel looked at you.

He set his mug down.

And then he said it — simple, flat, direct:

“I noticed.”

You blinked. “...Noticed what?”

“The looks.” His tone wasn’t accusing. Wasn’t soft either. Just real. “The glances. The way you… hover sometimes. The jokes.”

You froze, heat crawling up your neck.

“I ain’t stupid,” Joel said. “Not blind either.”

Your throat went dry. “Didn’t think I was that obvious.”

“You weren’t.” He exhaled, jaw ticking. “But I still saw it. And I shouldn’t have let it go on this long.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

You opened your mouth — to say what, you didn’t know — but Joel kept going, his voice rough now. A little too fast. Like he needed to get it out before he lost his nerve.

“You don’t want this,” he muttered. “Not really.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I’m old. Got more ghosts than friends. I’ve done things — things I don’t talk about. And I’m not someone you—” he swallowed hard, like the words turned bitter in his mouth, “—should be wastin’ your time on.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“You could find someone your age,” he shot back, voice sharp. “Someone without all the shit I carry.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

Joel looked at you like you were breaking some unspoken rule. Like you’d just reached into his chest and knocked something loose.

“I’m not some kid, Joel,” you said, stepping closer, coffee abandoned on the counter. “I’m twenty-eight. I’ll be thirty soon. I’ve survived things, same as you. I’ve lost people. I’ve seen how the world works.”

You paused, searching his face. “It’s not like it’s illegal.”

His mouth twitched, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh.

You kept your voice gentle. “I wasn’t asking for forever. I wasn’t even asking—you’re the one who brought it up. But if you’re trying to push me away, Joel, don’t pretend it’s because I can’t make my own choices.”

The silence returned.

But this time, it felt earned.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, staring at the floor, shoulders tense.

And then he spoke — low, soft, quieter than before:

“I liked the glances.”

Your heart clenched.

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet. But something eased inside you.

The words hung between you like a string pulled taut.

Joel hadn’t moved. Still leaning against the wall, jaw tight, hands clenched by his sides like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

Your chest rose slow with your breath. Measured. Steady. And then you stepped closer — close enough that your knees brushed the coffee table as you lowered yourself next to him on the couch.

Close enough that your shoulder just barely touched his.

“Are you gonna push me away again?” you asked, quiet.

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours. “I should.”

“But you’re not.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

His jaw twitched, and when you looked at him — really looked — you saw it: not just the hesitation, but the wanting underneath it. The ache he tried so hard to fold behind all that worn-down steel.

You shifted again, closer, slow and careful like you might spook him.

He didn’t move away.

“If you really wanted me to stop,” you murmured, “you’d already be out the door.”

Joel exhaled like it hurt. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes searching yours like he was looking for a way out — but none came.

And then his voice, low and strained: “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I carry. It ain’t light.”

“I never said you had to be.”

He looked down at your mouth.

Then back at your eyes.

“I’m too old for you,” he said. A protest without teeth.

You leaned in, barely a breath away now. “Then don’t act your age for once.”

That broke something.

Joel surged forward.

The kiss was messy — more force than finesse, rough with restraint finally snapping. His hands were on your jaw, your waist, the back of your neck like he couldn’t decide where to hold you first, couldn’t believe he was touching you at all. You kissed him back just as hungrily, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like you could anchor him there.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered against your lips, between every breath. “This is a bad fuckin’ idea.”

You pulled back just enough to smirk. “Then stop.”

He didn’t.

You tangled again, mouths pressed hot and unyielding, fingers threading through his hair, his calloused hands firm on your hips like he’d been imagining this long before he ever admitted it.

His body was heat and solidity, but his kiss — for all the tension, the weight behind it — was careful. A man afraid of letting go completely. A man trying to memorize every second because he didn’t believe he deserved them.

You broke the kiss only when your lungs protested, forehead resting against his, breath mingling.

Joel’s hand stayed on your cheek.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

Then, finally, your voice — quiet, teasing: “Still a bad idea?”

Joel swallowed, eyes closed. “Worst one I’ve had in years.”

You smiled against him.

“Good,” you whispered.

His hands were back on you before the next breath could fall.

You didn’t stop him.

Your fingers slipped beneath his collar, tracing the scarred skin of his neck, tugging him down to kiss you again — slower this time, deliberate, not rushed. But there was heat there, hunger. A need to feel, to prove something.

Joel’s hand slid along your spine and under your shirt, calloused fingers skimming over the small of your back. You gasped into his mouth when his palm flattened over your ribs, thumb brushing dangerously close to your breast.

“Tell me to stop,” he muttered, mouth ghosting along your jaw. “Tell me now.”

But you pulled your shirt over your head instead.

That was your answer.

Joel swore under his breath, voice gravel and smoke. His lips returned to yours, then wandered — the slope of your throat, the hollow beneath your ear, the edge of your shoulder. His mouth was reverent, starved, like he was tracing something he’d dreamed of but never thought he’d earn.

You tugged at his flannel, desperate to feel him closer. He let you pull it free, and when your hands found his skin, you both froze for a beat.

So much scar tissue. So much history written across his body.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss just over his heart.

Joel breathed deep — and then lowered you back onto the couch.

Your back hit the cushions, and he followed, bracing himself above you with an arm. His other hand slid down, dragging the hem of your pants with it, fingers curling over your hips, your thighs, until you lay bare beneath him.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

And when his hand finally touched your pussy, you arched, every nerve alive. His fingers were slow at first — skilled, attentive, learning what you liked by instinct. His mouth found your nipple when you gasped, and that was it — your thoughts blurred, pulse wild.

“You’re already so—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Fuck.”

You whispered his name, breathless.

He kissed your lips again, deep and lingering. Then pulled back to undo his belt, hands trembling.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice nearly breaking. “I’ve got you.”

And when he finally eased into you — slow, careful, letting you adjust — your hands clutched his shoulders, grounding yourself in the solid weight of him, in the realness of it all.

Your pussy stretched to take his cock in fully, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

Neither of you spoke.

It was too much. And not enough.

Joel rocked into you — gentle at first, deliberate. The pace of a man who knew restraint better than most. But your fingers in his hair, the way you whispered his name, the way your legs wrapped around his waist — it all undid him.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Christ,” he rasped, driving in deeper, slower. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

His forehead pressed against yours. Your breath mingled. His hips stuttered when you clenched around him, your nails biting into his back.

“Don’t stop,” you begged.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Joel's gaze locked with yours, his expression intense and filled with desire. He increased his pace, his body moving with a sense of urgency.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke, his breath hot against your skin. "Jesus, baby. You're so tight.”

He could feel you getting closer, as desperate for release as he was, his breath ragged and uneven.

"That's it, baby. Let go. Come for me, come for me," he huskily murmured, his words a mix of guidance and command.

You came with a shudder — clinging to him, head buried in his shoulder, a strangled sound caught in your throat. And Joel — God, Joel — followed seconds later, muffling his groan in your neck as he spilled deep inside you.

You stayed tangled on the couch, limbs heavy and warm.

No words were said.

But his fingers traced lazy lines over your arm.

Part 2

—comment if you wanna be added to this fic taglist

taglist: @started-with-f-ends-with-uck @havensucks

[vingtetunmars]

i was thinking of bringing them closure, it's been in the back of my mind for days and it wouldn't let me rest, so here it is.

This is an epilogue of another fic, click here to read.

Eddie Munson and former Corroded Coffin Frontwoman Tie the Knot in Private Ceremony: ‘It Was Always Her’

By Amanda Lehan-Canto | June 7, 2008 | PEOPLE

After years of speculation, rumors, and one of rock’s most iconic slow-burn love stories, Eddie Munson and Corroded Coffin’s elusive frontwoman have officially said "I do".

A rep confirmed to PEOPLE that the couple wed in an intimate ceremony last weekend in Northern California, surrounded by close friends, bandmates, and family. “It was small, quiet, and exactly what they wanted,” a source close to the pair shares. “No press, no stage — just them.”

The news comes decades after the two first met in the early 1980s as co-founders of the now-legendary metal band 'Corroded Coffin', which rose from Midwest obscurity to global fame by the end of the decade. She served as the band’s powerhouse vocalist and lyricist, while Munson’s electrifying guitar and raw charisma helped cement their place in music history.

The duo dated throughout the '80s and were known for their magnetic chemistry — both on and off stage. But by the late '90s, creative tension and personal strain led to a highly publicized falling-out. She left the band after what would later be referred to as "the '98 performance," a blistering, emotionally-charged show that’s still talked about today. Fans recall the moment their harmony turned into something almost combative — two artists singing at each other like it was their final goodbye.

Following her departure, she embarked on a successful solo career marked by deeply personal songwriting, while Munson continued with Corroded Coffin before the group's eventual disbandment in the late '90s.

In a rare joint appearance at a music award show gala in 2004, the two were seen speaking for the first time in years, sparking rumors of a reconciliation. While they played it coy at the time, those close to them knew something had shifted. "They never stopped writing about each other, even when they stopped speaking," Gareth Emerson, Corroded Coffin’s drummer, said in a 2006 interview. "You don’t just cut off something that deep.”

Over the following years, sightings of the pair began to resurface — sparingly, and never flashy. In 2004, they were photographed leaving the same recording studio in Laurel Canyon just minutes apart. A fan spotted them at a midnight screening of The Crow in Portland in 2005. In 2006, they were reportedly seen sitting together at a dive bar in Chicago, heads tucked close, deep in conversation over a shared plate of fries.

“They were never trying to be seen,” said a source close to the band. “But they were never really hiding either. It was like… they were trying to figure it out again, privately. On their own time.”

Though they remained private, sightings of the two together in recent years had fans hopeful. Now, with news of their marriage, those hopes are confirmed.

When asked what brought them back together, Munson offered only one quote, grinning as he said: “It was always her. Even when it wasn’t.”

Fans are celebrating the couple’s long-overdue happy ending, calling it “the best rock ballad never written.”

And while there’s no word yet on new music, those close to the couple say they're collaborating again — this time, quietly, in a home studio near the coast.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The house smelled like garlic and rosemary.

You were still in the kitchen, barefoot on the cool tile, stirring something in a cast iron pan while humming under your breath — not a song, just a melody that came and went like a thought. The windows were open. It was early evening, and the golden light poured in slow and soft, casting a warm glow across the counter where fresh bread cooled beside a mess of half-chopped herbs.

Eddie leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you.

“You know,” he said, voice rough with affection, “I think you missed your calling as a chef.”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah? You planning to quit music and open a restaurant with me?”

“Only if I get to name it something stupid.”

Now you looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Like?”

“Shred & Bread,” he grinned.

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth curled. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He crossed the kitchen in a few steps, slipping behind you, arms winding around your waist as he pressed his chest to your back. You leaned into him instinctively, letting the moment wrap around you.

“We should do this more often,” he murmured, nose brushing your temple. “The dinner thing. The staying home thing. The... being disgustingly domestic thing.”

“I don’t think this counts as disgusting,” you said, smiling as you set the spoon down. “But yeah. I like it.”

He turned you around gently, fingers grazing your sides. For a second, you just stood there — facing each other, forehead to forehead. Older now. Softer, but not dimmed.

“Gareth’s bringing wine,” you said quietly, hands resting on his hips. “So act surprised when he brags about the vineyard.”

“I’ll pretend to care,” he whispered back, then kissed you.

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t fiery. Just slow, familiar, warm — like the house, like the light, like the two of you had spent decades arriving at this one perfect moment.

You pulled away first. “Okay, go set the table, rockstar. They’ll be here any minute.”

“Yes, chef,” he grinned, pecking your cheek before grabbing the stack of plates. He walked off muttering, “Shred & Bread is still a great name…”

And as laughter spilled down the hallway, garlic still in the air and something simmering on the stove, you felt it again — that quiet, steady kind of happiness.

The kind you don’t write songs about because it finally doesn’t hurt.

It just lives.