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    Summary

    So, you know. Eddie.

    Eddie. Eddie with his big doe eyes and slender hands adorned with the chunkiest rings Steve’s ever seen. Eddie, who winks at him and leans in too close but not close enough. Eddie, who when Steve says he’s going to shower pouts and says without me? Eddie, who, when it comes right down to it is just fucking pretty. Eddie, who smells like weed and forest air and musk and a million other things that shouldn’t turn him on but do, scents Steve knows from Eddie’s vest around his shoulders, a vest he never gave back, a vest he keeps in the corner of his closet and only lets himself take out on the nights he can’t fucking stand being in the same house as him and has to find relief in anything, chasing his own hand and fucking into himself until his bottom lip bleeds, the taste of denim thick on his tongue.

    or

    On a Thursday afternoon, Steve gets home early.

    Language:
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    Words:
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