Archive of Our Own

Steam unspooled from the bathroom in lazy tendrils, carrying the ghost of lavender and the lingering scent of something deeper and woodsy like sandalwood. The air in the apartment was cooler, raising goosebumps along your arms and legs as you padded barefoot, across the worn oak floorboards. A single towel, tucked precariously beneath your arms, was all that stood between you and the chill. You scrubbed at your wet hair with a second smaller towel, the terrycloth muffling the world, until a flicker of crimson light in the periphery snagged your attention.

On the machine beside the clunky rotary phone, the message light pulsed. A steady, insistent rhythm. Blink. Blink. Blink.

Your breath plumed out in a warm soft white cloud. You let the towel fall from your hair to drape around your neck, the ends dripping onto your shoulders. One slow step after another, you moved toward the bed then past it, drawn by that red blink. A drop of water fell from your elbow, marking the dark wood with a perfect, solitary bead.

The machine, an old answering device with big, clunky buttons, gave a familiar whir. The sound of the tape rewinding, then engaging. A hiss of blank tape, a sharp click, and then, his laugh rang out in the silence. It was low, a little self-conscious.

“Uh, hey. It’s Eddie.” A pause, and you could hear the smile in his voice, “The bard.” He slipped into a mock-formal lilt, playing a part even for a machine. “Sorry if I called at a bad time, I’ll just let you—”

You were moving before the sentence finished, a startled lunge into motion that sent you rushing toward the kitchen, your bare feet slipping on the damp trail you’d left. The towel loosened, threatening to pool at your feet, and you clutched at it with one hand while the other reached for the receiver on the counter.

The spiral cord, a tangled yellow snake, leapt from its hook and nearly dragged the whole apparatus to the floor. Your fumbling fingers finally closed around the hard plastic, the receiver skittering across the counter and teetering on the edge before you hauled it back, pressing it to your ear.

“Hello!” you gasped, breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs. You were damp and disheveled, clutching the phone like a lifeline thrown from a ship you thought had sailed.

“I’m here—” you breathed out, the words soft and rushed. One hand white-knuckled the towel at your chest, the other rubbed your temple, trying to press the dizzying feeling of the rush away.

A relieved exhale flooded your ear, you could almost see it, the way his shoulders would have dropped, the tension draining from his frame just as it had in that quiet alley behind the venue when the last of the crowd noise faded. He laughed, a soft rumble under his breath.

“Hey, trouble. Made it home, okay?” his voice seemed to radiate heat through the plastic, warming your cheek. You stepped backward until your hips found the edge of the counter, leaning into it.

“Barely,” you joked, a slight, breathy laugh escaping you. A slow smile spread across your face, a flush of warmth following in its wake, creeping up your neck. “but yeah.” You swallowed, a nervous clump in your throat. “Home, safe. You?”

“Alive, un-incarcerated, marginally less sweaty,” he reported, his tone dry, like he was delivering a post-mission briefing. A clink sounded in the background, followed by the muffled thunk of something soft bumping against the phone’s plastic housing.

“I’m actually at a payphone outside the 7-Eleven on Maple. I was eyeing a display of suspiciously pink hot dogs when I thought I might try giving you a call, and now I’m being eyed by some kid in a Def Leppard shirt, like I owe him money.” He pulled the phone away, voice going distant.

“Don’t you got a bedtime, kid!” he shouted at the kid. A muffled argument followed. Indignant teenager vs. unapologetic Eddie, something about “first come first served, junior.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed, the sound bubbling up at the crystal-clear image forming in your mind. Him leaning against the greasy metal of the phone box, his dark curls damp with sweat or maybe a recent splash of water from a sink, the kohl around his eyes smeared into a soft, smoky shadow. One hand braced on the scuffed receiver, the other probably shoved in the pocket of his ripped jeans, a boot hooked on the cracked concrete.

The peeling “CALL YOUR MOM” sticker on the booth’s scratched Plexiglas. You could almost hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead, see the reflection of the 7-Eleven sign bleeding green across the scratched Plexiglas. A bard indeed, lit by neon instead of torchlight.

“Sorry about that,” he laughed into the receiver, breath still a little husky from the argument.

“It sounded like a very serious territorial dispute,” you said, still smiling,“You handled it with real maturity.”

“Hey,” he protested, mock offended, “I'll have you know I was very restrained. Didn’t even invoke my seniority as an elder metalhead.”

“Sounds very glamorous,” you jokingly said, your voice laced with fond amusement.

“Oh, it’s rock and roll, sweetheart.” He said it so gently, the same low intimate tone he’d used when he nudged your chin up to look at him after you’d almost got lost in the crowd. 

“hopefully the rest of you night is going better then mine.” he said.

You twisted the coiled receiver cord around your index finger, the plastic groaning softly. You were trying to push down the tingling sensation climbing your spine. 

“Yeah…just getting ready for bed, I was in the shower,” you confessed, your voice dropping, becoming softer. “ Almost took out the entire phone trying to get to it when I heard your voice.” The moment the words left your mouth, you squeezed your eyes shut, regret running down your chest in a cold wash and settling in your stomach. you sounded too eager.

There was a short pause, just a beat of silence where your regret built, coiling tight in your stomach. You rolled your lips together, pressing them tight to stifle the slightly embarrassed sound you felt rising in your throat. You let your head fall back against the cabinet behind you with a soft thump, smacking against it quietly a few times. A flush rising from your chest, painting your throat and cheeks a tell-tale pink. 

For a long moment, he didn’t make a sound, and somehow the absence of his voice was louder than anything, a weighted silence that stretched between you, before he laughed.

"Damn,” he said, the word layered with surprise and a deep, palpable pleasure. “You sure know how to make a guy feel wanted.” And he went silent again, the quiet settling back, thick and slightly awkward, but charged.

The distinct clatter of coins followed, quarters being fed one by one into the hungry slot. “Sorry had to jam more change in before the phone lady cut me off. She’s ruthless.”

He cleared his throat, “full disclosure? I stared at this payphone for like fifteen minutes before I worked up the guts to dial. Just stood here listening to the dial tone.” he joked, and it was so charming that you chuckled with him.

 “I was about to leave the smoothest message of your life and I uh… I started overthinking, like what if I dialed the wrong number, or you were asleep, or you’d already decided I was a deranged maniac, and I panicked.”

You covered your laugh with the back of your hand, pacing a few steps on the cool tile floor. The towel was cool against your skin, raising fresh goosebumps along your arms. You slid open a drawer by your hip, the wood sticking for a second before giving way, and fished out a rubber band.

“Eddie the great bard panicked?” you said, leaning your hip against the counter, a gentle smile breaking through. “Should I be worried?”

Cradling the receiver between your shoulder and ear, you gathered your wet hair, the scent of lavender and sandalwood rising as you twisted it into a messy, damp knot at the nape of your neck. The cord creaked in protest as you began to pace a short, restless line between the kitchen counter and the small table stacked with flyers and old receipts.

“Bards only panic when they think the girl who made them laugh like an idiot at a concert might not pick up the phone.” Your mouth tipped into a goofy smile, the last of your anxiety melting away, replaced by giddy reassurance that he had been just as eager, just as tied in knots over this call as you were. 

You balanced the phone on your cheekbone and let your free hand find the light switch on the wall. A soft, yellow glow from the overhead lamp pooled over the crumpled receipt with his name on it, his number scrawled in his script beneath.

You breathed, then admitted, embarrassed but smiling, “For the record? I panicked too. Didn’t even get the chance to put clothes on. I’m freezing in a towel over here.”

Eddie barked a laugh, delighted in his mischievous way. “Oh good, so we’re both disasters,” he said, sounding way too pleased about it.

“Mutually embarrassing,” you agreed, wrapping your free arm around yourself for warmth.

There was a brief pause, then his voice came through softer, a little hesitant. “Did you… want me to call you back? When you’re, you know…?”

“No!” you jumped at the volume of your own voice, a reflexive, panicked response. “No,” you corrected, softer now, forcing a calm you didn’t feel. “It’s okay. Really.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, and you could hear the genuine concern knitting his brows together. “I wouldn’t want you catching a cold on my account. That’s a shitty end to the concert.”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you reassured him, your pacing slowing. You traced the edge of your rug with your toe. “Unless you are trying to get rid of me,” you teased.

It was his turn to react with force.

“No!” he blurted, so loud you had to jerk the receiver an inch from your ear. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “God, no, don’t hang up. I just—”

He inhaled sharply, the sound crackling through the line like he was dragging a hand down his face.

“I just wouldn’t want to be the reason you get sick,” he finished, softer now. “I hate getting sick. Makes it hard to teach guitar when I can’t talk without sounding like a dying frog.”

You laughed, body warm despite the cooling water across your skin. You shifted your grip on the phone, tucking it more securely against your cheek as you crossed the kitchen and nudged your heater dial up a few notches. The radiator in the corner coughed awake, rattling like it needed convincing.

“Really, Eddie,” you said gently. “I’m okay.”

There was a soft exhale on his end, relief loosening the edges of his voice.

“Good,” he murmured. “’Cause I…I know it hasn’t been that long but…I really wanted to talk to you.”

Your chest tightened, warm and fuzzy. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “Me too.”

He was quiet for a second, then his voice came back, playful. “But if you do get sick, just so you know, I know how to make a mean chicken soup that will cure you in no time. Secret family recipe.”

“Oh really?” you leaned your forehead against the wall, the cool plaster a relief against your flushed giddy face. “Well, maybe now I want to get sick so I can have some of this miracle chicken soup.”

“Well, hold on, I didn’t say it was a miracle,” he corrected, and you could hear his grin, wide and unchecked. “But it’s definitely the best chicken soup you’ll ever have.” 

There was a small shuffle, the sound of denim or leather jacket shifting against the receiver, like he was leaning his weight more fully against the phone booth.

“Hey, uh...before I do something that could fuck everything up, like run out of coins or say something stupid … would you wanna…” He let the question trail off, rolling the words between his teeth like he was tasting them, judging their flavor.

“I’m thinking coffee and pie tomorrow? There’s a diner on Ninth in town with the broken jukebox that only plays three songs. I could meet you…but I mean only if you would like that?”

You knew which dinner instantly. You’d stopped there more times than you could count, ducking in after late shifts for a slice of pie as a reward, or stumbling through the door at two in the morning with friends, laughing and starved. The chrome-edged counter worn dull by years of elbows, the pie case fogged with condensation so the lemon meringue sagged under the heat lamps, the ketchup bottles on every table somehow always more air than ketchup.

Suddenly the image shifted, to Eddie sliding into a cracked vinyl booth across from you, knees knocking yours under the narrow table, close enough to feel his body heat again. The thought collided with the memory of his comforting hands braced on the barricade as he held back the crush of bodies was more than enough motivation for you to agree. Not that you would have said no in the first place. You smiled into the phone, warmth pooling low in your chest.

“That sounds great!” you said, perhaps a little too quickly, and your voice was miraculously steadier than your frantic heart. “One o’clock, tomorrow? Maybe if the jukebox is feeling merciful, it’ll play more than three songs for us.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” he grinned, utterly delighted. “That jukebox is in a very committed relationship with only three songs, and one of them is ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’ 

You laughed, your voice cracking a little on the way out, your throat still raw from screaming along with the music hours before. On his end, he breathed in, a deep slow inhale, as if he could finally catch his breath.

“Okay,” he said, “One o’clock. I’ll be the guy pretending to drink coffee like an adult.”

“You don’t drink coffee?” you asked, sliding into a chair at your kitchen table. The seat sighed under your weight.

“I do,” he said, feigning offense. “Just… with so much sugar and cream it basically becomes a liquid dessert. Don’t tell anyone or it ruins my dangerous image.” He paused, his voice turning into a tone slightly more tentative. “Also, I might bring you something.”

Your brain tripped over the statement, stumbling into a dozen possibilities. “Oh?”

“Don’t make it weird,” he rushed out, the words clacking together in his haste, and it made you grin into the silent kitchen. “It’s not... look! I just have something I think you would like. I’ll give you a hint. it’s perfect for…a Mixtape” He trailed off, trying to be mysterious.

Your gaze fell to the phone cord wrapped around your wrist, and the idea of him, Eddie Munson, thinking of you, finding or making something specifically for you, made your chest burn.

“That’s very…” You hunted for words that were hard to find. “Gallant of you, bard.”

“I happen to be known for my generosity,” he said loftily, the performance back in full force.

You lay your free hand over the crumpled receipt, tracing the indented letters of his name with your idle fingers. The question rose before you could stop it, casual in tone but ruinous to any pretense of nonchalance. “speaking of mixtapes what would you put on a mixtape,” you asked, “like, if you were going to make one for… me.”

He drew a breath. “Oh, so we’re playing the dangerous game, huh? Asking a bard to compose? Okay.” His voice was a low rumble, laced with a current of amusement that made your stomach do a slow, lazy flip. “You really wanna know?” he asked.

“I’m hanging on your every word, Bard,” you said, lowering your cheek to the cool wooden surface of the kitchen table. With your eyes closed, the crackly phone line and Eddie’s voice filled the space behind your eyelids, giving you a clearer picture of him in that grimy payphone booth than any photograph could.

“Alright, alright,” he said, the smile audible in the static. His voice dropped into a worshipful tone. “Dio. ‘Rainbow in the Dark.’ Because obviously.”

You blinked, smiling. “Let me guess, your personal gospel?”

“Correct,” he answered without hesitation. “It’s dramatic, it’s powerful, it’s about feeling lost but having something in the darkness.” He coughed lightly, slightly embarrassed. “Plus, y’know, the riff rips.”

Your heart thumped as you smiled. He cleared his throat and kept going, the words tumbling out, you could hear the his confidence build, enthusiasm taking the reins. You leaned your cheek fully into the receiver, listening to the cadence of his voice more than the specifics of his song choices. He laughed at himself once or twice, deflecting with humor when the song choice was a little to sincere or mushy.

Every so often there was that sharp metallic clink, spare change dropped into the payphone, each one like a tiny countdown. You found yourself tensing at the sound, counting them without meaning to, hoping he’d brought more than he thought he’d need. You shifted where you sat, tugging the phone cord closer, as if proximity could somehow stretch the line longer.

Eddie voice softened, you jolted out of whatever trance you had been placed in by his voice as if you could sense the shift in the conversation. “And closing out Side A…”

A beat of silence stretched between you and you could practically hear him rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I would never,” you murmured, smiling into the receiver.

“Scorpions. ‘No One Like You...” He rushed the words, like saying them fast made them less revealing. “It’s… good. Classic. And, yeah. Whatever. Don’t analyze it too hard.”

But you did, of course you did, because that track wasn’t subtle at all, actually none of his picks for this hypothetical mix tape were.

“It sounds perfect,” you whispered, afraid a louder voice might break the spell you both seemed to be under. His breath hitched just barely.

A car door slammed in the distance, a hollow thump that traveled through the phone line, making it warble for a second. Your eyes drifted upward, tracing the fine, china-crack fissure in the ceiling plaster you’d been meaning to ignore for months. It always looked like a frozen lightning bolt, especially when you lay on the floor with a book, your head pillowed on your arms, getting lost in other worlds. The car door seemed to knock you out of the bliss filled bubble that you had created.

“Hey Eddie, I should probably go…” you said, and the words felt heavy, you felt the weight of the end of the call coming. “but I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“That's okay! I don't blame you it's getting late...see you tomorrow,” he replied, and you could hear the smile, a tangible tease in his tone. “Also, question.”

“Mm?” You leaned your head in your hand on the counter.

“How tall are you, exactly?” His tone was all feigned innocence. “I need to know how many phone books to steal from the 7-Eleven so you can see over the table tomorrow. Gotta be prepared.”

You gasped, a theatrically scandalized sound. “I will climb through this phone to hit you, don’t test me.”

He laughed then, a full-bodied, a familiar unreserved sound, the same in the way it had rumbled through you when he’d lifted you high above the crowd and whooped with joy, his body a solid presence beneath yours in the surging crowd. The laugh softened, dwindling into a contented hum that was almost a purr. 

“God,” he breathed out, the word laced with a wonder that made your throat feel tight. “I’m glad you picked up.”

“Me too,” you said, the confession escaping, making you feel slightly vulnerable. The plastic blinds at your window ticked softly as a night breeze nudged against the glass.

In the quiet that followed, you thought of tomorrow, of him leaning in the diner’s doorway tomorrow, the afternoon sun picking out the copper and chestnut strands in his riotous curls, which would be behaving just as badly in the daylight as they had under the frantic strobes. You imagined his fingers, restless and adorned with silver, fussing with a sugar packet or tearing a napkin into confetti because his hands simply didn’t rest.

“Okay,” he said suddenly, his voice shifting to a mock-brisk, business like tone, pivoting hard and fast, afraid you’d both tumble right off the precarious edge into more conversation. “…I should let you—” He faltered mid-sentence, something scuffed against the metal interior of the booth, the toe of his boot, maybe. “...go. Before this kid glares actual lasers into the back of my head.”

“Eddie,” you said gently, trying to catch his attention one more time before the real world reclaimed him, before the connection was severed. “Thank you. For calling.”

“Anytime,” he said, before he dropped seamlessly back into his armor of mischief so you wouldn’t see in how earnest he had just been. “Also, don’t forget to take care of yourself. I’d hate for you to cancel because you have a sore throat or you got sick.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Bossy,” you said fondly, a secret smile curving your mouth.

“Goodnight, trouble,” he sing-songed, the two notes dancing down the line.

“Goodnight, bard.”

There was a mutual second where you were both just breathing, smiling into your respective pieces of plastic, like a pair of teenagers in a movie you would swear you didn’t like if anyone ever asked. Then came the gentle, final double-click from his end, the handset being settled firmly into its cradle, the payphone’s mechanism clicking. The line hummed its empty tone in your ear for another three heartbeats before you, too, guided the receiver back into its nest.

The clunk of the plastic settling was deafening.

You stood there, damp and grinning at nothing, the towel clinging to your skin, until you started to feel distinctly chilly where a draft kissed the back of your knee.

On the table, the crumpled receipt with his name was a small, You picked it up, the paper soft and warm from your hand. You smoothed it carefully against the woodgrain, flattening the creases, then carried it to the refrigerator. You pinned it under a magnet, a chipped ceramic strawberry missing a bit of its green stem. It looked good there, right beside your mother’s recipe for potato soup and the reminder for your six-month dental cleaning and the slightly blurry Polaroid of you and your best friend pretending to heist a stop sign last summer.

The apartment was profoundly quiet now, the silence broken only by the persistent, slow drip… drip… from the kitchen faucet you kept meaning to fix, and the soft hum of noise from the concert still ringing in your bones.

You turned, opened the cupboard, and took down a glass. You twisted the cold faucet handle. The water came out with a hiss, then a splutter, then a steady clear stream. You filled the glass, watching the liquid shiver and settle. You reached into the cabinet and pulled out a Advil and took some. You took a sip, then a gulp, then tipped your head back and finished the whole thing like it was a shot.

For a long moment you just stood there, your empty glass in hand, fingers splayed over the cool counter top. You closed your eyes and for a second, you were back at the barricade again, and the room was still moving, a sea of bodies and noise, and he was there his hands on your waist.

You breathed in and then out slowly. In your kitchen, you reached over and clicked off the light. The yellow light died, leaving the room in the soft blue gloom of streetlamp glow through the blinds. You went to find dry clothes and finish getting ready for bed.

The hallway greeted you as you closed and locked the door to your apartment, a familiar symphony of other people’s lives. The rich, greasy scent of someone’s bacon two doors down wove through the air, the sputtering discordant scales of a trumpet in an apartment that seemed to share your very air vents.

Underfoot, the old carpet fibers were flattened by decades of comings and goings. Your boots made hollow thuds on the worn steps, each echo a dull thump in the enclosed space.

On the second-floor landing, your neighbor’s door was propped open with a wedge, offering a sliver of a life lived among potted plants and the faint sound of a television game show. An elderly tortoiseshell cat, sprawled regally on a faded welcome mat, watched you pass with the profound, unimpressed disdain of a monarch observing a particularly unremarkable peasant.

 “Wish me luck,” you told the cat under your breath as you pet his head, the words barely a whisper. The cat blinked once, slowly, as if it had seen kingdoms rise and fall, made a small chirping sound then tucked its nose back into its tail, getting comfortable again.

Outside, the world was washed in a sharp clear light. A lone crow perched on the dumpster behind your building let out a series of indignant squawks, arguing with the wind as a gust stole its lunch, scattering a potato chip bag.

You climbed into your car, the door groaning on its hinges with a familiar complaint. The engine turned over once, then caught on the second try.

The drive to Ninth Street was muscle memory. You paused at the familiar intersection where the traffic light had been misbehaving for years, flashing an erratic yellow for no discernible reason. You nodded at the crossing guard in the neon vest who was always there on Saturdays, despite the conspicuous lack of anything requiring guarding.

The diner’s parking lot was half-full of sensible sedans, a single pickup truck whose bed was filled with what looked like the assorted parts, and two bicycles propped neatly against the brick wall, their chrome gleaming in the sun. You guided your car into a space under the skinny, shifting slice of shade offered by a spindly birch tree, before killing the engine.

You flipped the sun visor down, the small mirror revealing your face. You checked for mascara smudges, none a small miracle, and for any rebellious flyways. Your mouth twitched into a nervous, giddy smile that looked more like a grimace so you stopped, pressing your lips into a firm line. You snapped the visor back into place with a decisive click.

Bag strap slung over your shoulder, you put your hand on the door handle and paused. From inside the diner, the jukebox was already playing, a jaunty tune seeping through the walls. Through the glass, you could see a waitress in a blue uniform you were ninety percent sure didn’t flatter anyone leaned across the counter, laughing with her whole body, her hand slapping the counter; a kid in a booth was methodically banging crayons into a paper menu; and at the far end, someone hid behind a newspaper big enough to serve as a wall, pretending not to be eavesdropping on the entire room.

You squared your shoulders, took a breath that was supposed to be calm your anxiety but didn't. Your reflection in the diner’s glass door was a person with a look on their face that said, quite clearly, that they were seconds from being sent to a padded room.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the atmosphere, a thick comforting blend of stale coffee, melted butter, and griddle heat, into the shadowy cool of red vinyl booths and polished chrome trim.

You crossed the checkered floor to the booth by the window, the one that offered a perfect vantage point of the parking lot, the street, and the door. You slid in, the vinyl releasing a soft, sighing creak under your weight. You placed your palms flat on the tabletop, just to feel it, cool, smooth, laminated. It was the absolute opposite of a sweat-slicked barricade. You placed your bag on the seat beside you.

The waitress materialized as if summoned, a coffee pot in one hand and a professional, assessing squint in her eyes. “Coffee?” she asked, in a tone that suggested she already knew the answer and was just waiting for you.

“Please,” you said, your voice thankfully even.

She poured, the dark stream splashing into the heavy ceramic mug, and the steam rose in a fragrant plume. You wrapped your hands around its warmth; the mug was sturdy enough it could probably double as a blunt-force weapon.

Just then, the bell above the diner door gave a cheerful jingle, and the hinge groaned. You held the coffee mug in both hands, your palms growing hot, your heart beating a frantic rhythm in your chest. You forced yourself not to snap your head up like a bird startled in tall grass. Instead, you took a slow sip, the coffee cheap and bitter, and pretended to study the menu stuck under the saltshaker, as if you were deliberating and not going to order what you usually have.

Then, a laugh, low, delighted, utterly unselfconscious, in response to something the waitress muttered under her breath. When you finally allowed yourself to glance up from the safe harbor of your coffee mug, there he was, Eddie in his full glory. His dark curls were plastered in some places and springing into half-wild rebellion in others, as if he’d dragged impatient fingers through them on his way over.

The denim jacket was a familiar tapestry of faded fabric and stitched-on band patches, one button clinging to its thread, the cuffs scuffed to a near-white softness.

The kohl eyeliner was gone, scrubbed away, but faint, smoky shadows lingered in the lash line, a ghost of the night before. And his grin, it hit you a full second before he did, wide, crooked, and disarmingly aimed at you like a spotlight. He picked you out instantly, his gaze snapping to your booth as if there had never been a chance in hell he’d look anywhere else.

“There she is,” he announced, his voice not subtle, not low. The words rolled across the diner, like he was presenting you to the entire Saturday breakfast crowd. The man with the newspaper lowered his fortification just enough to peer over the top with a frown. Eddie paid them no mind. He was already in motion, weaving between tables.

“You’re early,” you accused, the words leaving your mouth before you could stuff them down. Your voice, miraculously, came out steadier than you felt.

“Bards are never late,” he shot back without missing a beat, sliding into the booth across from you in one fluid motion. His rings clinked softly against the table. “Nor are they early. We arrive precisely when we mean to.” He said in a wise old man voice.

The line was a little stupid, slightly nerdy, and probably lifted straight from some dog-eared fantasy paperback, and you loved it with a fierce ache. You took another slow sip of coffee, the bitter liquid hiding the helpless smile that threatened to break across your face.

The waitress swept back over, already half-rolling her eyes in his direction as if she’d knew his entire existence from the boots up. “Coffee, dear?”

“Hit me,” Eddie said, cheerful and unrepentant, as she poured the thick, black brew.

The waitress hovered long enough to ask if you wanted pie with your coffee. You both said “yes” at the exact same time, the synchronicity hanging in the air for a minute before you grinned, a shared giddy feeling. She left with your orders, shaking her head in what might have been amusement.

And then he tore open about six sugar packets in quick succession with the dramatic flourish of a stage magician, dumping the contents into his mug without ever breaking eye contact with you. The liquid frothed and clouded as he stirred. “See? Dessert.”

You shook your head, the motion slow, feigning disapproval. “That’s not coffee. That’s diabetes in a mug.”

“Jealous?” he teased, one eyebrow arching, and then, before you could formulate a retort, he pulled something from his pocket, setting it down with a tap and nudged it closer with a single, ring-adorned finger. “Anyway. For you.”

You hesitated, because what kind of guy brought a tangible gift on what might be date one? but curiosity was a swift, decisive victor. You peeked at the table, a battered yellow Walkman, its plastic casing scratched and worn, stickers for long-defunct bands peeling at the edges. The headphone cord was coiled neatly beside it, a dark serpent waiting to be unleashed. A cassette was already slotted into the player, its label covered in his sprawling, ink-smudged scrawl: Eddie’s Mix Vol. 1.

Your throat tightened, a sudden, surprising swell of emotion making it difficult to speak. “Eddie…”

“Don’t get sentimental on me, short stack.” His grin softened around the edges as he said it, taking the sting out of the nickname. “It was gonna get trashed. I just rescued it why waste a perfectly good walkman, gave it a new home. Like… like a stray cat.”

You turned the Walkman over in your hands. It was weighty, its plastic shell marked with the history of a thousand listens. “It’s great,” you said, the words simple and true. “Thank you.”

“I know.” He took a sip of his sugar concoction with a satisfied hum. “The mixtape has some of the songs I was telling you about last night.”

Then the jukebox in the corner screeched to life, its mechanism groaning before unleashing a loud, triumphant blast. Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Eddie groaned so dramatically the waitress shot him an exasperated look from across the room.

“Not this,” he moaned, dropping his forehead to the table with a soft, defeated thunk.

You laughed a bright sound that seemed to startle both of you, and the sound made him whip his head up, his eyes shining with a new light, as if maybe that laugh was the real gift he’d come here for.

“Told you,” he said smiling. “Only three songs.”

Eddie leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, his restless hands finding the remaining sugar packets, twisting and turning them. His rings caught the faint neon glow from the pie case, throwing tiny spears of red and blue light across the table. 

“So, on to very important business” he said, chin tipping toward the Walkman in your lap, “I gave you my mixtape but if you made me a tape, what’s your Side A? What do I get?”

Your answer tangled in your throat, a dozen clever, carefully curated responses rising and falling before you could grab hold of any of them. You wanted to impress him, to prove you were just as cool, just as fluent in the right references, that you belonged here in his world.

“…probably not too different from yours,” you said, a little sheepish. “Enter Sandman. Fade to Black. Children of the Grave. Maybe some Judas Priest.” You hesitated, eyes dropping to the cassette player in your hands, thumb hovering over the rewind button like it might shield you from judgment.

Eddie blinked, pleasantly surprised, recognition lighting his face. You could practically see him slotting the tracks into place, hearing them in his head.

“And also maybe,” you added, warming a little as the words came easier, “Dark Entries. The Killing Moon. Alice. Oh—and…” You trailed off, caught on a single song that felt a little too honest, one that had lodged itself in your chest because it was one of your favorites and it's how he made you feel.

“And…?” he prompted gently, like he was leaning closer without actually moving.

You swallowed. “…and maybe some Siouxsie,” you said quietly.

His reaction was instant. “Siouxsie’s good,” he said, nodding once, decisive. “What song?”

“Spellbound,” you replied, then added quickly, almost casual, “or...um...Cities in Dust.” You lifted your coffee and took a sip, grateful for the mug to hide behind.

His fingers stopped shredding the sugar packet. The neon caught in his rings again, but this time he didn’t fidget; he just looked at you. He swallowed once, slow.

“That’s…” He cleared his throat, eyes cutting briefly away before finding you again. “That’s a pretty loaded Side A.”He dragged a hand through his hair like he needed somewhere to put hands, blinking down at the table as though the table might offer guidance.

When that failed him, he reached for his coffee, forgot it was already empty, and set it back down with a soft awkward clink. You watched the tips of his ears turn pink. He cleared his throat again, shifting in his seat, and forced his hands back into motion, twirling one of his rings, tapping the side of his coffee mug, anything to look casual.

“Okay, okay,” he said, leaning forward again, eyebrows lifting in mock challenge. He launched into a question like a man grabbing a lifeline. "Tell me, what's it like working at a bookshop? any mayhem?”

You huffed a small laugh and told him. The steady rhythm of shelving returns, the smell of old paper and new glue, the elderly man who asked you to help him find a poetry collection, the college kid who tried to shoplift and failed spectacularly. Eddie listened with his chin propped on his hand, eyes bright with amusement, like he wasn’t just letting you talk but watching you with his whole attention.

When you finished, he let out a quiet, crooked grin. You narrowed your eyes at him, amused. “what?”

He coughed into his hand, pretending sudden interest in his coffee mug. “Nothing,” he said, which was absolutely a lie.

You let him off the hook, barely. “Uh-huh. Sure. So how about you, any mishaps at the guitar shop?" He blew out a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and latched onto the pivot like it was escape rope.

“Okay, picture this,” he said, already gearing up. “I walk into the shop this morning and I think I’m gonna have a chill shift, right? Wrong. Hawkins finest came into the shop today,” he said, already animated, shoulders rising with momentum. “Not the cops. Worse. Teenagers.”

You tried not to smile too wide.

“They corner me at the counter and inform me, very gravely, that they are on a quest. Which already, I respect the hell out of, until they reveal the quest is for ‘the good metal’—”

He paused for dramatic effect. You were already braced.

“—and then they say Kansas.” His voice pitched upward in wounded disbelief. “KANSAS. I mean, hey, ‘carry on my wayward son,’ sure, fine, spiritual awakening, whatever, but I nearly burst into flames.”

You were already laughing into your coffee mug, the sound muffled by the ceramic, the heat of the liquid biting your lips as you tried not to choke on your own joy.

The waitress chose that moment to return, bearing two formidable slabs of pie. The plates clattered down between you. Steam rose in a plume from the pecan he’d clearly ordered, its surface a glossy, caramelized mosaic under the fluorescent lights, yours was a perfect wedge of apple crumble. Eddie attacked his with the fervor of a man who hadn’t eaten in three days, his fork scraping a tinny rhythm against the porcelain, his eyes closing in a pantomime of ecstatic bliss.

“God, this is criminal,” he groaned around a mouthful. “Lock me up, throw away the key. I’d go willingly.”

“You’re crazy,” you muttered, though your own fork was already halfway to your mouth.

“Thank you,” he said, swallowing and immediately wagging his fork at you like a conductor’s baton. 

The first cinnamon-sweet crunch hit your tongue and you let out a quiet, unguarded sound before you could stop yourself, a soft hum of approval that made your shoulders relax like something had finally gone right.

Eddie’s eyes snapped to you instantly.

“Oh?” he said, delighted.

You cleared your throat, cheeks warming. “Shut up.”

You traded bites after that—reluctantly at first, a polite want to try?—then with an ease that felt startlingly natural. His fork stole a shameless amount of spiced apples from your plate while you dipped yours into a syrupy hunk of pecans, the exchange effortless. When he licked a smear of glaze off his thumb without a second thought, you had to look away, a wave of heat flushing up your neck and painting your cheeks.

“Gross,” you retorted jokingly, pushing your plate a symbolic inch away to save yourself from further culinary seduction.

“Waste not, want not,” he countered, unrepentant. “No crumb left behind.”

The conversation continued, which had been skipping like a needle over the scratches of a well-loved record, Eddie listened as if each anecdote was an encore, his laugh bursting out at all the right beats, never mocking, always with you.

He talked with his whole body, his fork forgotten, his ringed hands and intricate fingerings in the air between you, and you realized he was a creature fundamentally incapable of being still unless he was channeling that relentless energy into six strings and a fretboard.

By the time the pie plates were scraped down, the jukebox had completed its cycle and looped back around to the opening piano notes of “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Eddie let out another theatrical groan, this time burying his face in the crook of his arm as if physically wounded by the auditory assault. You reached into your bag, your fingers finding the cool, stamped metal of the change settled at the bottom of your bag. You opened your palm across the table, a silent challenge.

He peeked at you through the dark curtain of his curls, one eye visible, and a slow wicked grin spread across his face. You stood, your boots giving a soft squeak against the worn diner tile, the coins heavy and promising in your clenched fist.

The jukebox stood waiting in its corner, its neon guts glowing, its chrome ribs streaked with the fingerprints of a thousand previous requests. You slotted the coins into the slot one by one, then punched in the code, a song you knew would cut straight through his groaning dramatics.

The speakers erupted. Not Journey. A song snarled to life, the guitar raw and jagged, a sledgehammer of sound.

The reaction was instant and visceral. Eddie threw his head back and laughed, a sound so big and unrestrained it seemed to momentarily drown out the diner’s constant background hum. 

“I love this song,” he declared, his eyes wide and shining, leaning so far forward over the table that the silver chain around his neck swung free, glinting in the dull light. Still laughing, he launched into an air-guitar performance right there in the booth, his body contorting with the rhythm, his fingers flying across an invisible fretboard, making a glorious unapologetic scene. People turned to stare. You were laughing too, pausing by the jukebox to watch him, your heart feeling too large for your chest as he mimicked the lyrics, his head banging to the furious guitar solo.

“Oh, come on!” he yelled over the noise, his eyes wild with delight as you slid into the booth across from him smiling but still. “This doesn’t make you wanna dance??!”

He egged you on, his energy infectious, until you were both headbanging in your limited space, shoulders shimmying, heads nodding in unison, lost in the glorious noise and laughter.

When the song crashed to its explosive end, the jukebox sighed back into a mechanical silence, and the diner’s mundane soundtrack gradually reclaimed the air, the sizzle of the griddle, the clink of dishes from the bus tub. You and Eddie collapsed back into the vinyl embrace of the booth, breathless and flushed, grinning at each other like a pair of fools who had just successfully pulled off a heist.

He leaned across the table again, closing the distance until he was close enough that you could smell the sugar on his breath and the faint, comforting scent of cigarette smoke and leather that clung to his jacket. His grin faded into something quieter and intense, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a heartbeat before meeting your eyes again.

The bell over the door rang once more, pulling both your gazes toward the entrance, but you barely registered who walked in. The moment had already been carved out of time, preserved in amber: the cooling dregs of coffee in your mugs, the weight of the Walkman safe in your bag, a warmth that still lingered on your skin. The rest of the day could dissolve into nothing, but this you knew this part would stay permanently inside your heart.

The waitress slid the check onto the table between you without a word, her eyes holding a warmth as she smiled at the pair of you. Eddie didn’t even glance at the total before pulling a crumpled bill from his pocket and shoving it under the saucer, enough to cover both pies, the coffee, and a generous tip.

He jerked his chin toward the door, his curls bouncing with the movement. “What do you say, trouble? Wanna go put that Walkman to the test? See if my mixtape lives up to the hype?”

You nodded smiling, sliding out of the booth to follow him, the door swung wide, the bell clanging a single note of farewell, and you both spilled out into the sunlight. The air outside hit sharper, clearer, carried the smell of frying oil from the diner’s roof vent, the smell of asphalt warming under the tentative early autumn sun, a brisk wind that plucked at the loose threads on your jacket and tugged the ends of your hair.

“Alright,” he announces, the grin already firmly in place, his voice filled with a theatrical formality that didn’t quite hide the genuine excitement thrumming beneath.

“Demo time. The court is now in session.” He gestured grandly with one ringed hand. “We’ve got Exhibit A.” He pointed directly at your bag where the yellow Walkman rode like prized contraband. “And Exhibit B.” He tapped two fingers against his own chest, the denim jacket rustling softly. “Your humble, yet highly qualified, tour guide through the spiritual journey that is Side A.”

You snorted, tugging the worn leather strap higher on your shoulder, the weight of the player comforting. “You talk a big game, bard. I hope it lives up to it.”

You fell into step beside him, the rhythm of your strides syncing naturally as the parking lot emptied into a stretch of cracked sidewalk. He tore open a gum pack with his teeth, popped a stick into his mouth, then held the rest of the pack out to you without a word. When you took one, your fingers brushed against his, a quick spark of contact that jolted you both into a too-long silence, the only sound the crunch of your footsteps and the distant traffic.

You found yourselves at the edge of a park, a sprawling patch of green where kids shrieked with abandon on the swings and a terrier barked furiously at a perfectly innocent squirrel. Eddie flopped onto the grass with a dramatic sigh, claiming the land and patted the spot right beside him. You sat, tugging the headphones down to rest around your neck like a collar. The late afternoon sunlight knifed through the canopy of oak trees, striping him in bands of molten gold and deep velvety shadow.

You slipped the large, foam-padded headphones over your ears and pressed play. The world immediately narrowed, the outside sounds muffled into dull background noise.

Eddie was watching your face intently, his expression a mixture of pride and anxiety, like he was waiting for a verdict. You couldn’t help it; your mouth curved into a smile so wide it felt like it could split you clean open.

“Well?” he demanded, impatient, leaning in so close you could feel the heat radiating from him even through the layers of denim.

“It’s… loud,” you said, fighting a bubble of laughter. “In the very, very best way.”

“Damn right.” He bumped your shoulder with his, a solid, companionable nudge.

As the tape spooled on, you watched him. He was plucking blades of grass now, tearing them into tiny shreds, stealing glances at you every few seconds to gauge your reaction. When a particularly heavy drum fill kicked in, he couldn't help himself; like he could hear the music himself his hands started moving, air-drumming with a ferocious energy, his hair falling into his face as he banged his head just a little to the beat.

You reached out, almost without thinking, and tapped his knee. He froze mid-cymbal crash, looking at you.

"What's this one?" you asked, shouting a little over the volume in your ears.

He leaned in, invading your personal space, making your heart hammer a rhythm faster than the song. He gently pried one side of the headphone away from your ear so he could speak directly to you, his breath warm against your cheek.

"That's, uh… that's Dio," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, suddenly shy. "I thought… I don't know. The lyrics made me think of you. 'Rainbow in the Dark'. I almost cut it."

"I'm glad you didn't," you said quickly, too quickly. You turned your head, and suddenly your noses were brushing, the world narrowing down to the dark pools of his eyes and the scent of denim, stale cigarette smoke, and that cologne he drowned himself in. "It's my favorite so far."

Eddie’s gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back up to your eyes, panic and hope warring in his expression. "Yeah?" he breathed, his voice cracking. "Your favorite?"

"Yeah."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Good." He let out a shaky laugh, his hand coming up to nervously tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, his rings flashing in the dappled sunlight. Then, emboldened, he shifted closer, his thigh pressing firmly against yours in the grass.

"Just wait until track six. That’s the real test. If you like track six, I might just have to marry you." he said before falling back into the grass, like he didn't say something that made your heart thunder.

The chaotic whirl of the mosh pit, the pie-sticky warmth of the diner table, the raw static of the Walkman, all of it seemed to condense and settle into this single, quiet point: the grass damp and cool under your palms, the distant happy noises of the park, and Eddie Munson sprawled on the earth beside you like a star that had fallen sideways.

You laughed, the sound easy and light as you leaned back on your hands, and for the first time in a long time, the noise inside you didn’t feel like a warning siren. It felt like a chorus, like the perfect background music to the thing that was actually happening right here, just you and him, and the thrilling promise that there would be more.

Eddie turned side ways, propping his head on his hand, his curls collecting stray blades of grass, and tilted his head toward you. The sunlight hit him at an angle, rendering one side of his face bright and open, the other cast in a shadow, as if he’d been painted in two distinct halves, one of pure untamed chaos, the other of unexpected quiet. His grin had faded into something smaller, more tentative.

“You know,” he said, dragging the words out, as you lifted the foam away to hear him. “yesterday, I thought the best part of the whole night was when the band hit that breakdown in the third song. You remember? The floor just… dropped out. The pit went absolutely feral. Everyone was losing their minds, screaming, just pure chaos.” His gaze flicked to yours, held for a second, then skittered away to land somewhere on the distant treeline. “But it wasn’t. The best part… was finding you in the middle of it all.”

Your chest tightened, a sharp pull as if someone had tuned a guitar string inside you to tight. You knew you should deflect, toss back a joke about the perils of crowd-surfing, but the grass was too soft beneath you and the air between you was too sweet.

“You didn’t just find me,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. “You saved me.”

That got him to look back at you. Really look. His eyes were dark and intent, his lashes, still faintly clumped from the previous night’s humidity or leftover mascara, making them seem even deeper. He studied your face for a long moment, the sounds of the park fading into a distant hum.

“Yeah,” he said finally, the word a soft exhalation. “Guess I did.”

The two of you just existed, the distant squeak of swing chains and the sporadic bark of a dog the only punctuation. Your shoulder was pressed firmly against his and neither of you made any move to pull away.

Then as if he were physically allergic to prolonged silence, Eddie flopped onto his back again with an exaggerated groan, arms flung out wide like he was making a grass angel, his gaze fixed on the patchwork sky. “Alright, before this gets too sentimental and I spontaneously combust,” he declared, his voice pitched loud enough to startle a pigeon cooing on a nearby bench. “...we are skipping straight to the advanced curriculum. No more soft stuff. If you’re gonna hang with the freaks, you gotta prove you can handle the noise.”

He reached out, his ringed fingers hovering over the Walkman resting against your chest. He didn't ask for permission; he just carefully pressed the Fast Forward button. The high-pitched squeal of the tape spooling filled your ears, a frantic, chipmunk-speed blur of sound.

Eddie watched the little window on the player like a hawk, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. “Wait for it… wait for it…” he muttered, more to himself than you. Then, click. He jammed the Stop button, then Play.

“Okay,” he said, flopping back down but turning his head to lock eyes with you, a challenge dancing in his gaze. “This is it. The litmus test. If you don't air guitar to this, I’m afraid I’ll have to revoke your listening privileges.”

The silence in the headphones was shattered by a drum intro so aggressive it felt like someone was kicking the inside of your skull, in a good way. It was fast, furious, a wall of sound that demanded attention, It was Iron Maiden, unmistakable.

You couldn't help it. The rhythm hooked you instantly. You tapped your foot, then your hand against your thigh, and finally, you gave in to the grin spreading across his face and let your head bob to the beat.

Eddie’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. He didn't just watch; he participated. Launched into a full-body lip-sync performance. He mouthed the screaming vocals with exaggerated passion, scrunching up his face, one hand clutching an invisible microphone, the other shredding on an invisible fretboard in the air above his chest. He was ridiculous. He was magnificent.

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up on your hand, just to watch him. His hands flying through the air, his voice climbed to passionate heights and dipped into conspiratorial lows, his whole body a live wire of enthusiasm. The way he loved music, so loudly and shamelessly, with his entire being, made something warm and tender bloom inside you.

He noticed you staring halfway through a particularly transcendent guitar solo. His words faltered, stumbled over a syllable, then crashed to an abrupt halt. He slowly reached out, his hand trembling just slightly, and hooked a finger under the foam pad of the headphone on your left ear, lifting it away. The tinny scream of the guitar solo faded into the background, replaced by the rush of your own pulse and the soft rustle of the wind in the trees.

“What?” he asked, a wary, self-conscious grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks. You looked away, focusing on a dandelion stubbornly growing through a crack in the sidewalk nearby.

“Just... you’re really…” The right word stuck in your throat, feeling too heavy, too revealing. You shook your head, bailing out with a safer, weaker substitute. “Animated.”

“Animated,” he repeated flatly. Then he snorted, rolling onto his side to face you fully, his head now level with yours. His curls fell forward, the ends almost brushing your cheek. “That’s what you’re going with? Not ‘incredibly handsome,’ not ‘rock god in training,’ not even ‘weirdly charming’… just… animated?”

“you’re a lot. you know that.” you said with a exasperated smile creeping up your face.

“A lot?” He blinked, feigning hurt, though his lips twitched. “A lot of trouble? A lot of noise?”

“A lot of everything,” you admitted, the honesty slipping out before you could check it. You reached out, your fingers ghosting over the denim of his sleeve, tracing the frayed edge of a patch. “Loud, chaotic… and yeah, maybe a little bit charming. In a weird way. Weirdly charming.”

“ ‘weirdly charming,’” he whispered, his face so close now that you could see the flecks of honey in his dark irises. “I can work with that.”His voice dropped, becoming low and private, meant only for the space between you. “You’re not so bad yourself, short stack.”

He didn’t pull back. Instead, his gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there with a hunger that made your breath hitch, before flickering back up to your eyes, asking a silent question. The air between you felt heavy, the "marry you" joke from earlier suddenly feeling less like a joke and more like a prophecy.

“You know,” he said, his voice husky, “track six is almost over.”

“It is,” you agreed, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You were close enough to see the faint shadow of his lashes across his cheeks, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin.

His eyes flickered, a quick glance down to your mouth, back up to your eyes, then down again, and you knew, with a dizzying certainty, that he was thinking the exact same thing you were.

A child’s piercing shriek of joy from the swing set shattered the delicate silence, breaking the spell. Eddie cleared his throat, and flopped back onto the grass with a loud, performative groan. “Alright, alright, we’re not doing a full-blown rom-com slow-mo kiss scene in front of the jungle gym.”

You laughed, the sound a little shaky, your pulse was still stumbling, your blood still humming with what had almost happened. You let yourself sink back onto the grass beside him, both of you staring up at the vast, blue expanse of sky, the tape over.

Eddie tucked his hands behind his head, his dark curls fanning out around him like a messy halo and shot you a sidelong smirk. “So. Hypothetical question. Would you maybe want to come see my band’s gig this Friday? At The Hideout? Can I… bribe you with the promise of more good music?”

You turned your head on the grass to look at him, a grin tugging irresistibly at your lips despite the lingering tremor in your hands. “good music,” you stated, “is a historically strong motivator.”

“Good,” he said, sounding immensely satisfied. “Because I’ll have you know my band is pretty great, not to brag or anything.”

You laughed, a unforced laugh that made you cough and sputter. He joined in immediately, the two of you lying there in the grass, shoulders shaking, the sound of your combined joy ringing out under the open sky until you couldn’t tell where your laughter ended and his begin. For the first time in a long, long time, you found you didn’t mind if the noise never, ever stopped.

The Hideout sat on the industrial edge of town, a squat building whose neon sign was half burned out, flickering fitfully. The parking lot was a mosaic of cracked asphalt and stubborn weeds. You could hear it before you saw it, the visceral thump of the kick drum vibrating up through the soles of your boots, the shriek of a guitar being tuned, waves of laughter and shouting that spilled out into the night every time the heavy door swung open. Inside, the air was a solid wall of heat and noise.

The space was hazy with stage fog and cigarette smoke, half the crowd clustered around wobbly tables nursing cheap pitchers of beer, the other half already pressed up against the low stage, a rickety construction of painted plywood and heroic amounts of duct tape. You hovered at the edge of the crowd for a second, the nerves tugging at your insides, the instinct to find a safe corner.

“Short stack!”

His voice cut through the din, he was on stage already, his guitar slung low across his hips, his curls damp and sticking to his temples, and the grin that split his face the second his eyes landed on you was wide enough to feel like its own light source. He threw up a hand, a big, shameless wave that drew the attention of everyone near him. A hot flush crept up your neck, but you were grinning back, helplessly, before you could even think to stop it.

He leaned into the mic, his voice a low, theatrical growl. “We are Corroded Coffin, so get ready to headbang your goddamn heads off!” The room erupted in a mix of cheers and laughter. His bandmates, a lanky bassist and a drummer who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, rolled their eyes in practiced synchrony, but none of them argued.

The set detonated around you, so loud it felt like the sound was physically shaking your body. The air in the venue was a heavy soup of cheap beer and teenage sweat, but you barely felt the heat. You were too busy drowning in the spectacle of him.

Up there, bathed in the sickly red stage light, Eddie wasn't just the young man who nervously shared his headphones in the park. He was a creature entirely unleashed. Sweat slicked his chest, making his shirt cling to him like a second skin, and his hair was a dark halo of frizz and fury, whipping around his face as he headbanged through the bridge. His fingers, those same calloused fingers that had been so gentle brushing against your own, were a blur of violence on the fretboard, wringing screams out of the guitar that vibrated deep in your marrow.

It was mesmerizing and probably the hottest thing you had ever seen.

You watched the tendons in his neck strain as he belted out a chorus, his mouth wide, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. He was pouring every ounce of himself into the noise, bleeding out on stage for a room full of strangers.

The crowd surged again, a sudden, violent heave to the left as a group of guys in denim vests started shoving each other near the center. The ripple effect slammed a body into your side hard, knocking the breath out of you. Panic flared, in your chest, like you were back in that pit sans Eddie who was busy shredding on stage. The wall behind you was unyielding, and for a second, the crushing weight of the bodies felt like it was going to swallow you whole again. You shrank back, shoulders hunching, eyes darting for an exit that didn't exist.

Then, a screech of feedback cut through the din like a knife.

Eddie had stepped right to the edge of the stage, looming over the pit. He didn't stop playing, his left hand was still hammering out a trill high on the neck, but his body language had shifted. He wasn't looking at his guitar. He was glaring directly at the guy who had slammed into you, a silent snarl fixed on his face.

With a fluid, almost casual motion, he took his right hand off the strings for a split second to point a ring-heavy finger straight at the offender, then jerked his thumb sharply away from you, commanding space. It was a wordless order. Back. Off.

The guy froze, looking up at the wild-eyed guitarist towering above him, and actually took a step back cowed by the sheer intensity of the stare. The pressure around you eased instantly.

He held the glare for one second longer, then whipped his head back to you. His expression softened instantly, the snarl melting into a quick, reassuring wink that said, I got you. Then he spun around, diving back into the music with a power slide that sent him skidding across the stage, dragging the chaos of the room with him, away from you, leaving you slightly breathless but safe.

Your throat was raw from shouting along to words you didn’t know ten minutes ago, your pulse still drumming in time with the setlist. Eddie was drenched now, his t-shirt dark with sweat, his curls plastered to his forehead and cheeks. He didn't seem to care; if anything, he thrived on the grime, feeding off the sticky heat of the room.

During the final song, he abandoned the mic stand, dragging it down with him as he dropped to his knees at the edge of the stage, right in front of you. He shredded through the outro, his head thrown back. Then with a final, crashing symbol that rang out like a gunshot, it was over.

The feedback screamed, as Eddie let his guitar hang loose against his hip. He stood there for a second, chest heaving, staring out at the sweaty, cheering crowd with a look of dazed triumph.

"Thank you!" he rasped into the mic, his voice wrecked. "We are Corroded Coffin! Goodnight!"

The crowd immediately broke, spilling toward the bar and the flickering arcade games lining the back wall. But Eddie was already moving, hopping down from the stage before his bandmates had even set their instruments down, his chest heaving, curls plastered to his forehead, his grin was wild, slightly exhausted and beautiful.

"So," he croaked, his voice rougher than sandpaper. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Did I pass the audition? Or was the solo a little too… indulgent?"

You walked right up to him, ignoring the grime, ignoring the smell, and stepped into his space. The adrenaline of the show was buzzing under your skin, mirroring his.

"You were…" You shook your head, unable to find the words. "You were insane, Eddie."

He let out a breathy laugh, watching you through half-lidded eyes.

“Correct,” he said, his eyes blazing with post-performance fire. “Buuut you liked it, right?” You opened your mouth to offer a teasing denial, but he leaned in closing the distance until you could feel the heat radiating from his skin and smell the sweat and leather. His grin softened, the performance melting away to reveal something earnest and vulnerable beneath.

“C’mon, trouble,” he murmured his voice low enough that only you could hear it over the ringing in your ears. “Tell me the truth.”

You rolled your eyes, a feeble defense, but the tell-tale flush creeping up your neck betrayed you completely. He noticed, of course he did, and his grin sharpened, triumphant. “You were amazing…so the humble brag yesterday was warranted.”

Suddenly a group of younger looking adults in artfully ripped band tees descended, clapping him on the shoulder yelling praise about the solo. He beamed at them, accepted the accolades with excitement that mirrored theirs, but the second they moved on his attention snapped back to you. Like a compass needle finding true north. Always back to you.

“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head toward the far darker end of the building. “Let’s find a quieter spot.”

You followed him past a row of buzzing, flickering arcade machines, The sound of the departing crowd dulled with every step until you reached a heavy metal exit door, propped open with a crumbling cinderblock, offering a sliver of the cool night.

Outside, the air was a shock of cool clarity, the pavement slick with an earlier rain. A single streetlight hummed overhead, its orange glow attracting a frantic constellation of moths drunk on the light. Eddie dropped onto the curb with a tired sigh, patting the concrete beside him in a silent invitation. When you sat, your knees almost but not quite touched.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. He tipped his head back eyes closed, breathing in deep gulps of the night air like he was resurfacing from the depths of the ocean. You stole a glance at his profile, the dark fringe of his lashes against his cheek, the line of his jaw, his mouth softened from its usual impish grin, and something warm and heavy caught low in your stomach, a feeling both thrilling and terrifying.

He cracked one eye open, caught you in the act of staring, and that familiar grin spread across his face, slow and sweet as molasses. “Staring again, trouble. What now?”

“Nothing,” you said, too quickly.

“Uh-huh.” He leaned closer, bracing his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to a low rumble that seemed to cancel out the hum of the streetlight. “You’ve got that look again.”

Your throat went tight. “What look?”

“The one that makes me think you’re about to argue with me,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “but really you’re just trying not to smile.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “You really are insufferable sometimes.”

“Weirdly charming,” he corrected, throwing your own words from the park back at you, his grin slipping into a gentler curve. “And maybe a little insufferable, but you like it.” It wasn’t a question, and you couldn't argue.

His hand which had been resting on his knee, slid down to the rough concrete of the curb between you, coming to rest so close that the side of your pinky finger brushed against his. It wasn’t an accident; you were certain of it.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice gone quiet and still rough post show, “I was gonna end the set with a big finale. Thought maybe a stage dive. Classic Munson move.” His grin tilted, softer than you’d ever seen it, stripped bare of all his bard bravado. “But… I figured I’d save the real finale for right now.”

You could have laughed it off, could have shoved him playfully and retreated back into the safe familiar territory of your back and forth banter. But your heart was already lodged in your throat, a frantic beat, every nerve in your body straining toward him. Closer, closer, your body screamed, like the moths pulled helplessly toward the streetlight, aware of the danger and drawn to it anyway.

He leaned in slowly, deliberately, closing the distance inch by inch, giving you every possible chance to pull away.

The world folded in around you, the distant low buzz of the streetlamp fading into a muffled backdrop. Eddie hovered a breath away, his curls casting shadows over his brow. You could feel the cool metal of his rings, his hand shifting infinitesimally closer until his pinky hooked over yours.

You tilted toward him before your mind could form the thought, Icarus flying straight for the sun, you felt yourself melt warmth blooming and unraveling all at once. Eddie exhaled a shuddering breath, the last of his hesitation burning away.

“Trouble,” he murmurs, “Could I kiss you right now?”

The corner of your mouth tips up, warmth and excitement flushing through your veins. “Yes.”

His grin falters before it softens and then he’s closing the space between you. His hand lifts calloused fingers brushing your jaw, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s not the wild crashing chaos you were braced for, it’s careful and tentative.

Your eyes flutter shut. The kiss is a soft exploration, his lips were slightly chapped, and tasted faintly of the mint gum he’d probably been chewing before the show. His thumb strokes once, against the curve of your cheekbone, a coaxing swipe. You sighed into the kiss, your hands coming up to tangle in the rough denim of his jacket, and the gentleness shattered.

Eddie made a low, guttural noise in his throat and his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair to hold you steady. The angle of his head shifted, deepening the contact, his mouth moving against yours with a more desperate devouring rhythm.

You could feel the cold metal of his rings pressing against the sensitive skin of your nape. He pulled you closer, eliminating the last sliver of space, his other hand coming around to grip your waist his thumb digging in through your shirt. His tongue swept against your bottom lip, seeking entrance.

You opened to him and the kiss turned molten, a clash of tongues and breath that left you dizzy, spinning in the dark safe orbit of his embrace. All the pent-up wanting of the past week pouring out in the slide of his lips, the faint thrilling graze of his teeth, the hot sigh of his breath mingling with yours.

Then just as suddenly as it ignited, he pulls himself away. He doesn’t go far, just enough to break the searing contact, his forehead coming to rest heavily against yours. Both of you are breathing in shallow gasps as if you’ve just surfaced from deep water. The air between you is charged, thick with the heat of what just nearly consumed you.

His grin is slightly lopsided and dazed. “Finally,” he breathes out.

Your laugh escapes, shaky and more than a little breathless, your own pulse hammering in your throat. “Took you long enough.”

His hand slides away from your nape reluctantly, his fingers trailing down your neck for a moment before he lets them fall, still hovering near your shoulder as if he doesn’t trust himself to fully let go.

The slow burn that had been stretched taut between you since the mosh pit, since the barricade, since the first time you heard his laugh on your answering machine, snapped, This won’t be the last kiss, not by a long shot.

Eddie pulled back just enough to search your face, his forehead still resting against yours, so close that a single dark curl at his temple brushed your cheek. He looked both beautifully dazed and utterly smug, a grin tugging persistently at the corner of his mouth as if he were trying stop himself from laughing out loud or jumping up and taking a victory lap around the entire block.

“Okay,” he said, his voice still rough with emotion, his eyes shining in the yellow street light. “I was right.”

You blinked, still feeling breathless and pleasantly unmoored. “About what?”

He tapped his temple with one ringed finger as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Stage dive could never top that. Not even close.”

You shoved his shoulder, a weak playful push, but your laugh was completely helpless, spilling out into the quiet night air. He caught your hand as it fell, his fingers wrapping securely around yours and for a suspended second, neither of you moved. Eddie just squeezed your hand once, then got to his feet in one fluid motion and tugged you up with him.

“C’mon, trouble,” he said warmly, already angling you back toward the lot. “I don't want to cut this short but I gotta help pack up the van, Gareth, my drummer, gets grumpy if he’s not home by twelve. Let’s get you to your car.”

The night air was cool enough to raise goosebumps but his hand in yours was enough to keep you warm. The streetlights pooled liquid amber over the cracked sidewalks, throwing your merged shadows out ahead of you, long and tangled.

Every few steps, Eddie gave your joined hands a gentle swing, a playful, almost childlike motion of pure giddiness and unrestrained joy spilling out into his actions. When you rolled your eyes at his antics, he leaned in anyway, curls brushing your shoulder, completely unapologetic.

“What?” he said, grin lazy and bright. “We’re celebrating.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, bumping your hip into his. “And what could we possibly be celebrating?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tugged you closer, turning to you with the most dramatic, wide-eyed expression you’d ever seen, pure unfiltered puppy eyes, his lower lip pushed out just a fraction.

“Okay, okay,” you said, squeezing his hand, still smiling. “I get it.”

His grin spread, victorious and soft all at once, and he stayed close, shoulder pressed to yours like it was the most natural place in the world.

When you passed under another humming streetlight, its glow catching the silver in his chains, Eddie tilted his head toward you, his grin curling into something softer, more questioning. “So… does this… make us official?”

You arched a brow, feigning ignorance just to be difficult on purpose. “Official what?”

“Official… something,” he hedged his shoulders hunching a little under the bulk of his jacket, the usually cocky edge in his voice slipping into something endearingly shy. “I mean, there was a kiss. A pretty damn good one, if I do say so myself.”

“Modest, too,” you deadpanned, though you squeezed his hand as if you agreed. “I’d say it was… acceptable. Solid B-plus work.”

Eddie stopped dead in his tracks, forcing you to swing around to face him. He clutched his chest with his free hand, staggering back a step like he was physically wounded by your rating. “B-plus? B-plus?” His voice pitched up into an incredulous squeak. “I poured my soul into that kiss!”

You stepped closer, tugging on his hand until he stumbled back into your space, the leather of his jacket creaking. “Okay, maybe an A-minus,” you conceded, looking up at him through your lashes. “But there’s room for improvement. You might need more practice.”

His shoulders dropped, and he let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “more practice,” he murmured, stepping into you until your bodies were pressed together from chest to knee, blocking out the chill of the night. “I think I can handle the workload. I’m a very dedicated.”

He released your hand only to slide his arms around your waist, pulling you in tight, locking you against him. The playfulness in his expression dimmed, replaced by that raw hungry look that made your knees weak.

“So,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a rumble that vibrated against your chest. “Official kissing practice partners? Official… you and me?”

You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb, feeling the frantic pulse beating in his neck. There was no point in playing it cool anymore. You were just as gone for him as he was for you.

“Official you and me,” you confirmed softly. “Boyfriend and girlfriend, if you want to be all gross about it.” you said rolling your eyes.

Eddie’s face split into a grin so wide it looked like it hurt. “Boyfriend,” he repeated, testing the word, tasting it. “Yeah. Yeah, I like the sound of that. ‘This is my girlfriend. She thinks my kissing is mediocre, but she hangs around because I'm a rock god.'"

“and your so humble,” you added.

“And because I'm humble,” he agreed, his eyes shining. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours again. “But mostly she stays for the mediocre kisses.”

“Mostly mediocre kisses,” you whispered.

He hummed a content sound and then he kissed you again, softer and slower this time, less frantic but infinitely deeper. When he pulled back, he didn't let go just tucked you under his arm like you belonged there, fitting perfectly against his side.

“Come on,” he said, steering you to your car again, his stride lighter, bouncier.

As you reach your car, the night’s magic begins to curdle at the edges. The reality of parting settles like a weight in your chest, the silence waiting in your apartment, the empty space where his laughter had been. The evening is running out and with it, the warmth of his hand in yours, the solid comfort of his arm against yours. You find yourself slowing your steps almost imperceptibly, trying to stretch these last few feet into something longer, something that could hold you both until you meet again.

Eddie notices, Of course he does, but he doesn’t tease you or call you on it. He simply matches your pace, his own stride shortening until you’re moving in a slow, synchronized drift toward the driver’s side door, two planets caught in each other’s gravity.

Under the sickly yellow halo of the buzzing parking lot light, the world feels small and strangely fragile. Eddie rocks back on his heels, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket now that yours are free.

The easy confidence he wore on stage is gone, sanded away by the quiet. He looks at you the way he did just before the kiss, his expression hopeful and a little uncertain, all his performative bravado stripped back to reveal the earnest young man beneath.

There’s a breath of a pause, before you can decide to be the one to close the distance he leans forward. His dark curls tumble into his face as he dips his head, and he presses one more kiss to your mouth. It’s not like the first or the second. This one is sweeter almost shy, a delicate end to the evening. When he pulls back, his grin is goofy and wide and so utterly happy it makes your heart ache.

He lingers there, close enough that you can still feel his warmth, thumb brushing your wrist like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands yet.

“Hey,” he says softly, the word careful. “Can I… Can I call later? Just to make sure you made it, y’know. Safe.”

The concern in his voice makes something in you soften completely. You nod, smiling. “I’d like that.”

Relief flickers across his face, quick and genuine. Emboldened, you add quieter, “And maybe… we could meet again tomorrow? If you’re not sick of me already.”

He lets out a small disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Tomorrow sounds perfect,” he says, like he can’t believe his luck.

“Good night, trouble,” he murmurs.

“Good night, my bard.”

His grin spreads wider, softer, losing its sharp edges entirely. He ducks his head, curls falling forward like he’s suddenly shy then looks back up at you with eyes bright and shining.

“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. “Good night.”

You laugh quietly before leaning in just enough to look at him from beneath your lashes, mischief warming your smile. “You said that already,” you whisper, seizing the chance to tease him while you have it.

He chuckles as he takes a step backward, then another, not breaking eye contact. He offers a lazy salute, his usual theatricality, before finally turning to amble back to the venue and his abandoned band. You stand rooted to the spot, watching the shape of him grow smaller, his hands jammed deep in his pockets, his shoulders loose, you catch the faint familiar sound of him humming some riff.

When you finally slide into the driver’s seat, the memory of his lips on yours still tingling, a phantom warmth you can’t seem to shake. And you smile, It’s a wide unreserved, face-aching smile that you have no hope of containing, a silent testament to the riot of emotion he’s left behind.

Somewhere out there under the same streetlights, Eddie Munson is also driving home with the same stupid grin plastered on his face, his mind a whirlwind, already counting down the hours, the minutes, the seconds until the next time he gets to kiss you again.