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The passenger door of Eddie's truck slams shut with a bit more force than you intended, the sound echoing down the quiet street. Your face burns, not from exertion but frustration, as you grapple with your crutches, the metal cold and unyielding against your grasp.
"Another one?" Eddie's voice is already laced with sympathy as he rounds the front of the truck, his steps quick and sure. He reaches out, steady and strong, to take the crutches from you.
"Another one," you confirm with a sigh that does little to ease the tightness in your chest. You let him guide you, supporting your weight as you shift from the seat to standing. "He couldn't decide whether to pity me or ignore me. And then he said he was 'proud' of me for going out in public. Like... what the hell."
Eddie's lips press into a thin line, the only outward sign of the anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. His hands tighten around the crutches just a fraction, enough to make the metal creak under his grip.
"Proud," he echoes, the word flat and bitter on his tongue.
"Maybe I should start a collection—worst date stories. Could probably write a book at this point." You don't mean to sound so bitter, but the night has been long and your patience thin. It's tiring, feeling like you're just a task on someone's to-do list, not a person.
He waits until you're settled before closing the door behind you. When Eddie climbs back into the driver's seat, he doesn't start the car right away. Instead, he turns toward you, his eyes soft even in the low light.
"You know," he begins, his voice thoughtful, "if we were dating, I'd take you to all the best places."
You let out a dry chuckle, staring out of the window. "Yeah?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, rough with fatigue and an emotion you dare not name. "Then what's stopping you?"
The question hangs in the air, heavier than you intended. You hadn't meant to ask it, not really, and you certainly didn't expect the way Eddie stiffens beside you.
"Excuse me?"
The thud of your heart is almost audible. "You heard me," you say, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, searching the depths of those earnest eyes. "What's stopping you?"
Silence stretches between you, a tangible thread connecting two souls on the precipice of something momentous. Eddie exhales slowly, as though the weight of his next words could shatter the fragile peace surrounding you.
"You," he says quietly, "you've been through so much already. The last thing I wanted was to be another man who lets you down. You deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like you're constantly battling for visibility."
Your vision blurs as unshed tears threaten to fall. "But you do see me," you whisper, your voice barely above a breath.
Eddie's hand reaches across the distance, finding yours clenched in your lap. His thumb traces over your knuckles in a soothing rhythm that anchors you to this moment, to him, before taking your hand in his.
"I do," he agrees, his voice low and reverent. "Better than anyone else ever has."
The silence is palpable, a living thing that breathes between you. Yet it doesn't feel oppressive; instead, it's a testament to the intensity of this moment—two souls connecting in an unlikely setting.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, matching the rhythm of Eddie's pulse where your fingers are entwined. You squeeze his hand, not out of fear but to anchor yourself in this sea of uncertainty.
"So," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, "take me out."
His brow furrows, and for a moment, you think he might pull away. But then his grip tightens, a silent reassurance that he's still there, still willing to guide you through the darkness.
"Really?"
You nod, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. "But maybe start with breakfast tomorrow? I've had enough of lousy dinners for now."
A slow smile spreads across Eddie's face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He leans in, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off his body, and his forehead comes to rest against yours, a gesture so intimate it sends shivers down your spine.
"Breakfast," he murmurs, the word hanging in the air like a promise. "It's a date."