Chapter Text
The dawn at the cabin showed no mercy. Light always found a way to slip through the cracks of the old blinds, slicing the room into golden blades. It wasn’t the muted brightness of Hawkins, broken by factory smoke and dead neon signs; here it was sharper, cleaner, as if it demanded everything it touched to wake, whether it wanted to or not.
Steve had been awake for a while. His body was stretched out, but his mind was elsewhere. Sleep had become a lost habit—Hawkins had never offered enough calm for it, and since the hospital, what little remained had vanished. Now the silence of the cabin kept him alert in a different way. Every creak of the wood, every gust of wind rattling the roof, every early bird was a warning. His head was still trained to expect the worst.
He rubbed his face with both hands, eyes burning with exhaustion. He knew he should try to rest, but there was another reason keeping him up, something that pulled him out of bed before the sun was fully risen. Eddie.
The name alone was enough to make his chest ache.
He sat at the edge of the bed, bare feet on the cold floorboards. The creak was faint, but Steve held his breath out of reflex. Walking quietly was something he’d learned as a kid, and now it served him as he crossed the hall unnoticed. The door to the next room was ajar. He pushed it just enough to peek inside.
Eddie was there, tangled in the mess of sheets.
The contrast was brutal. This wasn’t the Eddie of Hawkins, the one who climbed tables with a shameless grin, swung his guitar like a weapon, filled every space with noise and laughter. That Eddie had been made of excess, of restless movement. The one lying in the bed now was something else.
His hair, once unruly and bright, fell in damp strands across his forehead. His cheekbones stood out too sharply, carved by the weight he’d lost. His skin had a pale undertone in the filtered light, bluish shadows beneath his closed eyes. Even his hands, half-exposed from under the blanket, looked different: bony, the rings loose on fingers that had grown too thin.
His breathing was uneven. Each rise of his chest seemed to cost him more than he’d ever admit.
Steve leaned his forehead against the doorframe, trying to hold back the tide rising in him. Eddie looked fragile, like he was made of glass. There was nothing of the hard, noisy armor he’d once shown the world; only an exhausted body, half-trying to repair itself from something that should have destroyed him.
A memory hit him: Eddie standing on a cafeteria table, mocking everyone with a loud voice, shaking those same hands that now trembled even in sleep. Steve felt his throat tighten. There was something obscene about seeing someone so full of life reduced to this broken stillness.
He stood there for a long time, as if the mere act of watching him could guarantee he’d keep breathing. He’d spent weeks terrified of losing him, and even now, with Eddie just a few feet away, the fear wouldn’t let go. Every time he saw him sleep, he had the same uneasy thought: if he looked away, even for a second, Eddie might be gone.
He seemed smaller than Steve remembered. And still, all Steve wanted was to move closer, to touch him, to make sure this fragility was real, tangible, his.
He forced himself into the room. The door let out a low groan, and the smell wrapped around him: a mix of stale sweat, disinfectant, and old wood. But underneath was Eddie’s trace, faint but unmistakable—cigarettes and cheap soap. Unbearable and addictive all at once. Eddie shifted slightly, a rough sound escaping him, somewhere between protest and greeting.
“It’s morning,” Steve murmured, and the words sounded absurd the moment they left his mouth.
Eddie cracked an eye open, dull brown in the dim light, and twisted his mouth into a tired expression.
“Don’t start.”
Steve let out a nervous laugh, the one he used like armor.
“Come on. Let’s get you outside. The sun’s good for you.”
Eddie huffed, rolling to his side with effort. He tried to sit up on his own, propping a bony elbow against the mattress, but the tremor in his arm gave him away. Steve didn’t think—he was already there, one arm steady around Eddie’s back, the other under his elbow.
The contact hit him like a wave. Eddie was so light he hardly seemed real. The shirt hung loose on him, collarbones sharp; ribs hinted beneath the fabric. Steve, by contrast, felt too solid, as if every muscle he carried only made the difference crueler. His big hands could cover half of Eddie’s back, and that filled him with a strange kind of hunger: the need to protect him at any cost.
“I’m a mess,” Eddie whispered, barely audible, as if the words slipped out without permission.
Steve looked down. Eddie wasn’t meeting his eyes; he stared at the wrinkled sheets, his lip caught between his teeth. No mockery, no sarcasm—just shame.
“You’re not a mess,” Steve said, firmer than he intended. The tone came out almost harsh, but he couldn’t afford anything less. Eddie needed to hear it, whether he believed it or not.
Eddie scoffed, short and uneasy.
“Look at me, Harrington. I can barely stand. I’m wrecked.”
Steve held him tighter, easing him up slowly.
“And yet, here you are,” he replied.
Eddie swallowed hard. The silence thickened, filling the whole room. Steve matched his breathing to Eddie’s, as if syncing with him could keep him steady in ways invisible.
Patiently, he guided him toward the door, step by step, counting each movement like a ritual.
The hallway was short, but it stretched forever. Eddie leaned heavily on him, muttering “sorry” under his breath now and then. Steve wanted to yell at him to stop apologizing, to tell him there was nothing to be ashamed of, but he held it back. Instead, he gripped him firmer, making sure he didn’t stumble on the uneven floorboards.
When they finally pushed open the back door, fresh air greeted them like a wave. The smell of damp earth, leaves, and wet wood filled Steve’s lungs, and he felt Eddie’s body relax just slightly against him, as if that change in air alone gave him relief.
“Feels like a goddamn paradise,” Eddie muttered, dropping into the iron chair beneath the tree.
The sigh he let out was long, like he’d just run miles. He sank against the backrest, eyes closed toward the sun, messy hair catching copper glints.
Steve watched in silence. The shirt hanging too loose, the pants slipping at the waist, the thin wrists swallowed by loose rings. For a moment, Eddie looked like porcelain: fragile, beautiful, made to be cared for. Though, if someone else saw him, maybe they’d think of him as an old, faded rock poster on a garage wall—worn, battered by years, but still impossible to ignore.
Eddie opened his eyes just then and caught him staring. A half-smile tugged at his mouth, but it wasn’t the usual insolent one. It was smaller, uncertain.
“What? You planning on standing there until I melt?”
Steve blinked, caught.
“I’ll get breakfast.” The words stumbled out, and he turned toward the kitchen before Eddie could read too much in his face.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the slow drip of the coffeemaker and the irregular crack of the woodstove Wayne had pieced together weeks ago. On the counter sat a battered radio, antenna bent, spitting static between the faint voice of a DJ introducing a Foreigner song.
Steve moved with almost exaggerated precision, as if every gesture carried more weight than it should. The knife slicing through bread, the dry crack of crust breaking, the clink of a plate sliding onto the table—all of it a ritual. A clumsy attempt at normalcy that, for him, meant devotion.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Eddie outside, sitting in that iron chair, the sun spilling over his pale face. He’d only left him there for a few minutes, and already there was a pull in his chest, a ridiculous urgency to go back and look at him again. It was like the absence of his presence shrank something inside him, like he needed constant proof that Eddie was still breathing, still there.
He caught himself gripping the knife harder than necessary. Shaking his head, he set the bread on the tray alongside the honey and a couple of red apples. It wasn’t anything special, but in his mind, it was everything: Eddie deserved more than stale bread and cold coffee. He deserved someone who took the time to think about every detail, no matter how small.
When he stepped back into the yard, his heart skipped. Eddie was still there, of course, head tilted back, eyelids half-shut against the sun. His hair fell like a dark, tangled curtain, and for a second Steve thought he could stand there all day just watching him.
Eddie cracked one eye open, a glint of curious brown.
“You staring, or did you bring food?”
Steve laughed, uneasy, setting the tray on the table.
“Both.”
Eddie raised a brow, amused, but didn’t push it. His thin hands wrapped around the mug Steve handed him, and the contrast struck again: pale, slender fingers against white porcelain. Steve sat across from him, unable to look away, as if every small gesture deserved to be recorded.
Eddie bit into a piece of bread and wrinkled his nose.
“It’s good. Too good. You trying to fatten me up?”
Steve leaned forward, elbows on the table, before he even thought about it.
“I want you back. I want you strong.” The words came out more intense than he meant, almost a plea.
Eddie chewed slowly, watching him. There was something in his expression that unraveled Steve: a soft mix of teasing and tenderness, as if he knew exactly what was going through Steve’s head and, instead of pulling away, let it be.
“You’re weird, Harrington,” he murmured at last, lips quirking. “Nobody gets this obsessed over breakfast.”
The word cut through him: obsession. Steve shifted in his seat but didn’t look away. Yes, it was obsession. A constant need to make sure Eddie was warm, fed, comfortable, alive. He’d never felt this with anyone else—not in the relationships that were supposed to matter, not in the fleeting hookups that had filled the gaps. With Eddie, it was different: every detail mattered, every silence weighed. And he didn’t feel guilty for it. If loving someone meant this—this fierce urgency burning through him—then so be it.
Eddie stretched out an arm and touched his hand, just a brush of fingers. Steve felt it shoot through him like electricity, knocking the air out of his lungs. Anyone else would think he was exaggerating, that a touch couldn’t carry that much weight. But for Steve, who’d learned not to expect affection freely given, these gestures were dynamite.
Eddie didn’t pull away right away. He looked at him through his lashes, smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth.
“Stop looking at me like I’m gonna vanish.”
Steve squeezed his fingers gently.
“I can’t.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick, charged, wrapping around them like a blanket. Steve savored it the way you savor a song you don’t want to end. He only let go when Eddie turned away, flushed, hiding his face behind the coffee cup.
Afternoons at the cabin had a strange rhythm, as if time stretched longer than it should. The sun slid slowly between the trees, and the crickets always started too early, like someone had pushed the clock forward. Steve had noticed it since the first day, when the smell of smoke and hospital disinfectant still clung to everything.
They’d spent weeks there, weeks pared down to the smallest routines: making breakfast, taking Eddie to the porch for sun, reading aloud when the migraines eased, throwing together dinners with whatever Wayne brought back from town. On the surface, nothing extraordinary. But for Steve, every gesture was a battlefield, every glance an earthquake.
He didn’t know when the obsession had started. Maybe it had always been there, and only now was he admitting it. Each day it became harder to look away from Eddie, harder to ignore the impulse to check that he was still breathing, that he hadn’t sunk back into the fragility of his body. Something new was between them, thick, unnamed. Not gratitude, not survivor’s camaraderie; something more intimate. Steve felt it in the long silences, in the smiles Eddie seemed to keep just for him. It felt like walking on thin ice—any wrong word might crack the spell.
And still, Steve sought those cracks. He invented excuses to touch him: adjusting the blanket, handing him water, guiding him to the couch. Every brush of skin left a warmth that lingered too long. It was ridiculous, feeling like a teenager again, heart racing just because Eddie held his gaze a second longer than necessary.
There were nights Steve watched him sleep on the pullout couch, hair messy across his eyes, and knew what he felt was dangerous: tenderness laced with hunger, the fierce desire to spend the rest of his life making sure Eddie never went hungry, never hurt, never felt alone again.
So when he saw him stumble into the kitchen, stubborn about proving he could help, Steve knew the tension had to snap soon.
Eddie shuffled in barefoot, wearing an old pair of Steve’s pajama pants tied at the waist with a string because otherwise they’d fall off. Over that, a sweatshirt hacked short with scissors, barely covering his chest and showing the bandages beneath his ribs. Steve had thought it would be practical, but seeing it now he realized his mistake—the contrast was brutal.
The fabric hung loose at the shoulders, too tight at the torso, like it didn’t know whose body it belonged to. Eddie hugged his arms against himself, rubbing them, and though summer pressed heavy outside, he was cold.
“Don’t laugh,” he muttered, not looking up.
Steve blinked, caught in the act of staring too long.
“I’m not.”
“You’re doing it with your eyes,” Eddie insisted, trying a crooked smile that broke apart immediately.
Steve crossed the kitchen in two strides and flicked on the battered radio on the shelf. It spat a burst of static before catching a local station. A soft Fleetwood Mac track filled the room, warm and a little wistful, like the whole house was suspended on that chord.
“I worry you’re cold,” Steve said, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed.
Eddie raised a brow.
“I always liked androgynous fashion.” His voice tried for mocking, but lacked the edge.
Steve didn’t argue. Instead, he set a pot on the stove and filled it with water. Eddie stepped closer, like he had something to prove.
“Let me help. I can chop the veggies.”
“You sure?” Steve asked, skeptical.
“I’m not an invalid,” Eddie scoffed.
Without arguing, Steve handed him a cutting board and a worn knife. Eddie gripped it firmly, but the tremor in his hands was obvious. Each time he reached out, the sweatshirt lifted just enough to show pale skin beneath the bandages. Steve forced himself to breathe deep.
“Quit staring,” Eddie growled, hacking clumsily at a carrot.
Steve only smiled faintly, not bothering to defend himself. Eddie always caught him in the middle of that look he couldn’t control.
He moved behind him and covered his hand with his own to guide the cut. Eddie tensed, a tremor running through his arm, but he didn’t pull away. The motion turned slow, controlled, almost like a clumsy dance between knife and cutting board.
The smell of fresh vegetables filled the kitchen, blending with the music and the heavy summer heat drifting in through the windows. Steve lowered his gaze: the nape of Eddie’s neck gleamed in the light, strands of dark hair clinging to his skin with sweat. His skin was raised in goosebumps despite the warmth.
“You’re still cold,” Steve whispered.
Eddie swallowed hard, keeping his eyes fixed on the board.
“Let me cook, Harrington.”
Steve obeyed, though he stayed close, his shadow wrapping around Eddie like a blanket. He watched him frown, fight with the knife, curse under his breath. And all the while, the fire inside kept growing: tenderness and hunger, care and desire, tangled into a fierce impulse that threatened to consume them both.
The cabin’s kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and old wood warmed by the sun. Outside, summer roared with stifling humidity; yet Eddie sat at the table with his arms crossed over his chest, as if he were shivering. The contrast was almost absurd. Steve had to improvise clothes for him: pajama pants that used to be loose and now slipped off his hips unless tied with a cord, and an old sweater Steve had cut so the bandages would be visible. Eddie looked like he was wearing the proof of how much his body had changed—and still, Steve couldn’t look away. Vulnerable, yes, but perfect.
It was impossible not to notice the details. The way the sweater’s neckline hung at a strange angle, exposing a shoulder far too thin. The way Eddie’s fingers clung weakly to the edge of the table, as if that alone kept him from sinking. The way he brushed his hair from his eyes every few seconds, an old habit Steve had seen a thousand times back in high school—and one that still killed him now. All of it trapped him, like someone had rewound the tape of his life and left him staring at the same scene on repeat.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Eddie muttered without raising his head, a crooked smile failing to hide his unease.
Steve pretended to focus on stirring the coffee, but it was useless. His eyes always found their way back. There was something about seeing him there, alive, dressed in clothes that smelled like Steve himself, that made it impossible to turn away. As if every stolen second was a reminder that Eddie was here—and that Steve could lose him again at any moment.
“I’m just… making sure you don’t fall off the chair,” he said, though his voice came out lower than he intended.
Eddie snorted, but didn’t protest when Steve leaned down to tighten the cord of his pants, making sure they wouldn’t slip. It was a practical gesture, but the slight brush of his knuckles against fabric, against a sliver of warm skin, hit Steve like a blow to the chest. Everything in him screamed at once: protect him, touch him, stay here forever. He swallowed hard and pulled back before it showed.
The radio on the shelf crackled before settling on a station. Stevie Nicks’s raspy voice floated into the room with Landslide, wrapping the space in an intimate melancholy, like Wayne had just lit a cigarette at the table and started humming along. Eddie lifted his head and arched a brow.
“This is depressing.” But he didn’t move. In fact, his bare foot shifted against the floor until it brushed Steve’s, anchoring him there like he couldn’t help it.
Steve said nothing. He couldn’t. The touch was minimal, but it felt like a live wire. He forced himself to turn back toward the pot on the stove, as if the rising steam could distract him. It didn’t. He felt every breath Eddie took behind him, every small movement of his hands against the table—and it was a sweet kind of torture.
“You could sit down too,” Eddie said, his voice rough in that way it always got when he tried to sound stronger than he was. “You’re making me nervous, standing there like some security guard.”
Steve let out a short laugh and obeyed. He sat across from him, close enough to notice the frayed edges of the sweater, the pale skin peeking through underneath. Eddie bit his lip and lowered his gaze. Steve knew him well enough to recognize that bite for what it was: a shield, a don’t look at me so much—but also a stay.
It was a contradiction that drove him mad. Eddie was fragile, cold in the middle of summer, with scars that told the story of everything they’d lost. But the spark was still there: the stubbornness in every joke, the defiance in every clumsy move. And Steve… Steve felt like his heart was going to break through his chest.
“What?” Eddie asked, one eyebrow raised, though he didn’t quite lift his head.
Steve hadn’t realized he was staring until Eddie pointed it out. He wanted to invent an excuse, but the truth slipped out instead, raw and dangerous:
“I like seeing you like this.” His throat closed. “Alive. With me.”
Eddie blinked, startled. For a second he looked like he wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. His lips curved slightly, then softened, as if the words had struck deeper than expected.
The silence thickened. Outside, cicadas sang, Stevie still played softly on the radio, and yet the only sound Steve heard was his own heart. Eddie reached out across the table, clumsy, brushing Steve’s fingers with his own. And it was enough. Steve leaned in without thinking, as if his whole body had been waiting for that signal.
The kiss was slow, careful, as if Eddie might break under his mouth. His lips were cool, but they tasted like warm coffee and something that could only be Eddie—a blend of defiance and sweetness Steve recognized as his own. He cupped his jaw, trembling between the fear of hurting him and the hunger to never let him go.
When they finally pulled apart, Eddie rested his forehead against his and let out a weak, incredulous laugh.
“You were right,” he whispered, voice frayed. “I like being alive.”
And Steve thought, yes—if this was what being alive meant, then he never wanted to step away again.
Eddie’s first thought when he opened his eyes wasn’t his own.
It was Steve.
It was ridiculous—he knew it was—but ever since they had pulled him out of the hospital and brought him to that lost cabin in Virginia, the very first thing that greeted him every morning was warmth. And not warmth on his skin—because Eddie’s body kept betraying him, shivering even in the middle of summer—but that other kind of warmth, steady, patient, that seemed to follow him everywhere. Steve.
The world hadn’t made it easy for him: scars that still pulled when he tried to breathe deep, bones that felt like glass, exhaustion anchored in his marrow. Eddie Munson had survived, sure, but barely. Sometimes, when he caught sight of himself in the small bathroom mirror, he didn’t even recognize the thin, pale shadow staring back. And yet, there was Steve, looking at him as if what he saw wasn’t broken skin and bones but something else. Something Eddie didn’t dare name.
When his eyelids grew too heavy to stay open, he gave in to the new habit of letting himself be watched. Steve always looked at him. Sometimes from the chair beside the bed, other times from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, as if he needed to make sure Eddie was still breathing. At first, it had been uncomfortable, suffocating even, but after a while Eddie began to accept it. To seek it out, even. Because there was something strangely comforting in knowing someone cared enough to notice whether his chest rose or not.
That morning was no different. Eddie blinked slowly, fighting the weight of his eyelids, and the first thing he made out was Steve’s shape in the dim light of the room. Sunlight filtered through the frayed curtains, wrapping Steve in a glow so warm it felt designed for him. “The sun,” Eddie thought with a small, private smile. Steve was the sun. Not just because he shone—with that hair that caught every stray ray of light, with that golden skin that didn’t seem to know fatigue—but because Eddie was convinced Steve didn’t know how to be anything but constant, vital, essential.
And him… he was the opposite. Eddie felt more like the moon: cold, distant, always reflecting light that wasn’t his own. Though, in recent days, the image haunting him most was different: that of a bent sunflower, stem broken, still twisting desperately toward its sun. Steve offered warmth, and Eddie absorbed it with the same urgency of a parched plant. It was addictive.
“You’re awake,” Steve said softly, as if afraid to break something fragile.
Eddie arched a brow and shifted against the pillow, though the movement was clumsier than he meant it to be. His fingers toyed with the edge of the sheet, as if that could distract from the heat rising up his neck.
“I am. Congratulations, Harrington. Your watch was a success.”
Steve smiled, brief but never quite hiding the worry in his eyes. Eddie knew that smile well. He’d seen it enough over the past weeks to start finding a new kind of beauty in it. It was the smile of someone willing to stay, no matter what it cost.
“It’s not a watch,” Steve replied, leaning down to straighten the sheets Eddie had messed up. “It’s… making sure you’re okay.”
Eddie let out a snort, more to disguise himself than to argue. The truth was that constant attention left him exposed. As if Steve could see past the façade he had spent years perfecting—the noise, the jokes, the distorted guitars. Here, in this bed, marked skin and borrowed clothes hanging loose from his shoulders, none of that could hide him. He was just Eddie. And Steve looked at him as if that “just Eddie” was enough.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, full of things neither dared to say aloud. Eddie felt he had to break it before it swallowed him whole.
“If you keep staring like that, I’m gonna start thinking I’m a painting.”
Steve laughed, soft, and Eddie let himself enjoy the sound. It was like opening a window in a smoke-filled room.
“Not a painting,” Steve said. “A reminder.”
Eddie frowned.
“A reminder of what?”
Steve didn’t answer right away. He leaned in, bracing one firm hand on the mattress, and Eddie felt the warmth radiating off him even at that small distance. That warmth he sought, and that terrified him.
“That you’re still here. And that I want you to stay here.”
Eddie turned his gaze toward the window, unable to withstand the intensity of those words. He swallowed, clumsy, nails scraping at the seam of the sheet. Heat climbed up his neck, tangled with the cold that hadn’t left his bones since the cave. He wanted to say something sarcastic, to deflect, but nothing came. All he could do was stay quiet and let that truth settle over him like balm.
Because, deep down, he understood. Steve was the sun. And he was a broken sunflower still searching for where to turn.
Getting out of bed was an odyssey. Eddie would never admit it out loud, but every time Steve offered an arm, the real battle was in his head, not his bruised ribs. Because taking that help meant admitting he couldn’t do it alone. And he hated that thought almost as much as he loved the safety of leaning on him.
Steve moved with the ease of someone who had memorized the routine: one hand firm on his back, the other steady on his forearm, as if he knew exactly how much strength to use to lift him without hurting him. Eddie always noticed the same thing—the contrast between his own body, light, trembling, painted with bruises that refused to fade, and Steve’s solidity. And though he told himself he hated it, the truth was he needed it more than he would ever dare confess.
It was the middle of summer, and still Eddie shivered under borrowed clothes. The old sweater Steve had cut open to leave his bandages uncovered, the pants tied with an improvised cord—they made him feel like a kid playing dress-up, too small for a stage this big. Ridiculous, vulnerable. And yet, Steve treated him like nothing was out of place.
The damp air clung to his skin, suffocating, but the cold lingered in his bones. Steve would drape a blanket over his shoulders every time he slipped, as if afraid he’d fall apart if left exposed for even a second. Eddie rolled his eyes, trying to mask the knot tightening in his throat.
“You’re gonna turn me into your favorite grandma if you keep tucking me in like that.”
Steve smirked.
“I’d rather that than lose you,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The laugh Eddie tried to let out broke halfway, tangled with the creak of the wooden chair as he sat on the porch. There was no irony in Steve’s eyes, only that intensity that made him feel naked even beneath layers of fabric and bandages. A breeze brushed against his collarbone, right where the blanket slipped, and Steve adjusted it again before he could catch his breath. The touch was so light it felt like static. Eddie turned his gaze toward the garden, unable to face the vertigo in his stomach.
Because that was the problem: Steve looked at him too much. And not like the others, heavy with pity or doubt, but like someone memorizing a map before it was lost forever. Suffocating, yes. But also the only thing that kept the fear of breaking apart at bay.
Eddie tried to distract himself with details: the fresh coffee steaming on the iron table, the drone of a bee over the flowers, the sunlight cutting through the branches and painting his skin in flecks of gold. Everything screamed life. And him, wrapped in a blanket with bones drawn sharp, felt like a ghost. Until Steve leaned his elbow on the back of the chair and looked at him as if none of that mattered.
Eddie’s heart lurched uncomfortably. Gratitude didn’t make your cheeks burn or force you to look away in a rush. And Steve didn’t back off.
“Does it hurt?” Steve asked, almost a whisper.
Eddie swallowed.
“Not more than usual.”
Half a lie. Everything hurt: ribs, muscles, memories. But the real ache was that hollow in his stomach every time Steve came too close. He lifted a hand to push a strand of hair from his forehead, but Steve was quicker. His fingers brushed Eddie’s temple with a delicacy impossible to ignore. Eddie held his breath. For the first time since waking up in that cabin, he didn’t feel fragile. He felt seen.
The walk to the kitchen was slow, longer than he’d ever admit. Steve helped him with the same disarming patience, and Eddie only managed to grumble something about feeling like an invalid king.
“You’re missing the crown,” Steve joked, handing him the hot coffee.
“And the court of maidens,” Eddie shot back, wrapping both hands around the cup, grateful for the warmth.
The smile he got in return was dangerous, tickling places that had nothing to do with physical pain. Maybe that’s why, when the blanket slipped off his shoulders again, he didn’t bother fixing it. Steve did, his fingers steady, sure.
“I’m gonna put velcro on you,” Steve said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Eddie let out a real laugh this time, one that scratched his throat but filled his lungs. And the strangest part was that he felt like himself. Like the old Eddie, the one who filled silences with invisible guitar riffs or lines stolen from cheap comics. The one who could throw out a dumb joke and have someone listen without rolling their eyes in annoyance.
“If you wanna turn me into your pet, you just have to say it,” he teased, stretching his arm out to tap Steve’s forearm lightly with his knuckles.
The touch was brief, insignificant on the surface. But Eddie noticed how Steve tensed, like any touch from him was enough to shake him. And instead of pulling back, Eddie allowed himself something he hadn’t in weeks: repeating the gesture. This time with more intent, dragging his knuckles along Steve’s skin, soft, almost like a caress disguised as a joke.
Steve said nothing, but the muscle in his jaw shifted. A spark of electricity ran up Eddie’s arm. He distracted himself by fussing with a piece of toast, fumbling with the butter knife, and noticed Steve watching him again. Steve always had that habit: staring until the air grew thick between them.
“What?” Eddie asked, raising a brow.
“Nothing.” Steve dropped his gaze to his plate, but Eddie caught the color rising to his cheeks.
That small detail gave Eddie an odd sense of triumph. Like he’d found a crack in Steve Harrington’s perfect armor. And for the first time since leaving Hawkins, he didn’t feel like a burden. He felt… needed. Able to stir something in Steve.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. There was coffee, toast, sunlight pouring into the kitchen painting the table yellow, and that soft tension tickling under his skin. Eddie took a sip and thought maybe it was possible. That maybe, after all, he could be himself again. Not entirely, not yet, but enough. Enough to make Steve laugh. Enough to want to keep trying.
The afternoon crept in slowly, as if the heavy heat wanted to stick to the cabin walls and never let go. Somewhere, an old cassette played, paused mid–eighties ballad, its faint static filling the empty spaces. Eddie was tired of feeling cold when the world outside was burning. He wore Steve’s clothes again—the pants tied with an improvised cord and that cropped shirt cut open to show the bandages—and still he tugged at the blanket, trying to cover himself more.
Tea steamed on the low table in the living room, giving off a sweet smell Steve insisted on brewing “because it helps.” Eddie dropped into the couch with his usual clumsy weight, and when Steve sat beside him, too close, the blanket slipped again.
“You’re gonna end up hating me,” Eddie said, half-joking, when Steve reached to fix it once more.
“Impossible,” Steve answered, with that certainty that left Eddie cornered.
Eddie bit his tongue to keep quiet. Because that was what was killing him: Steve said it like there was no alternative, like there wasn’t a world where he could ever get tired of him.
He lifted the cup with both hands, and when he brought it to his lips, he noticed Steve watching him again. This time, Eddie decided he wouldn’t look away. Not now.
The silence stretched, heavy, thick as the steam rising from the tea. Eddie’s heart hammered against his ribs, too fast, too loud, as if Steve could hear it.
“If you keep staring like that, I’m gonna think you’re waiting for a magic trick,” he muttered, with a nervous smile.
Steve didn’t smile. And that was worse. Because he didn’t look uneasy or surprised; he looked decided.
“I don’t need a trick,” he said quietly, voice low. “I just need this.”
Eddie blinked, thrown off.
“This?”
Steve set his cup down and, before Eddie could move, reached for his face. Fingers brushed along his jaw with a gentleness that froze him in place. Eddie caught the slight tremor in those fingertips, like Steve was holding himself back. For a second, he thought he’d pull away—that all he wanted was to check for fever. But no.
Steve’s lips touched his in a way Eddie hadn’t expected. Not a rush, not desperate. Slow, careful, almost reverent. As if Steve were afraid of breaking him even in something as simple as a kiss.
Eddie froze. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he’d spent too long imagining it would never happen. Because his body was still at war with the idea that anyone could see him as anything more than a battered survivor.
The warmth of the kiss was unlike the blanket, unlike the tea. It was something that bloomed in his chest and spread to his skin, melting the ice lodged there for weeks. Eddie closed his eyes and let himself respond, just a brush, the faintest pressure. But it was enough to make the air around them change density.
When they pulled apart, just inches, Eddie looked at him like he’d stumbled on a secret too big to keep.
“Steve…” he began, not knowing what word could possibly come next.
But Steve didn’t let him go on. He just pressed his forehead against Eddie’s, breathing slow and steady, as if trying to convince him that right there, in that room bathed in the warm afternoon light, everything was safe.
Eddie wanted to believe him. Because even though the fear was still there, buried deep in his stomach, so was that spark—the one that had flickered back to life in the kitchen. A spark that now burned a little brighter, fueled by the certainty that Steve saw all of him, not just the broken pieces.
What he couldn’t shake was the darker thought, the one that whispered Steve would eventually notice how little of him was left. How much he’d lost: strength, confidence, even the ease of moving in his own body. Eddie had once been chaos and laughter and life too loud for the room. Now he struggled to hold a mug of tea without his hands trembling.
And still, Steve had kissed him. As if none of that mattered. As if he was enough—exactly as he was now.
Eddie closed his eyes, desperate to catch the feeling before it slipped away: the heat lingering on his lips, the soft pressure at his jaw, the rhythm of their shared breath. He had wished for so many impossible things in his life that he didn’t know what to do when one of them came true.
The fear didn’t vanish. Fear that Steve was only protecting him out of pity. Fear that this kiss was just a promise he couldn’t keep. But stronger than all of that was the single, reckless truth pulsing in his chest: Steve had chosen him. Not despite the scars, the bandages, the tremors. But with all of it.
When Eddie opened his eyes, Steve was still looking at him like he’d just stumbled on something rare, something precious. And Eddie—against all logic—decided to believe him.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he whispered, barely audible.
Steve raised a brow, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
“I think I do.”
Eddie didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because if he opened his mouth, the truth would spill out raw: that he had never needed someone this much, never wanted so badly to stay in one place, never felt so terrified of losing it all again.
So instead, he leaned his head against Steve’s shoulder, drew in a long breath, and let the warmth of the sun, the tea, and that first kiss melt together. And as the silence stretched, with the cicadas singing outside and the golden light wrapping around them, Eddie understood with a clarity that cut through him.
Steve was the sun. And no matter how much he shook, he couldn’t help but turn toward that light.
And for the first time, burning didn’t scare him.