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pertenebris-adastra · 2 years ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶Eddie's month began with a rough start, but as the days passed, and your time together grew, his mood improved. He opened up to you, and you listened. Then things escalated. Slow dancing in the garage? Openly flirting while hanging Christmas decorations? This wasn't what he was supposed to be doing with his coworker who was leaving in a few months. And to make matters worse..

"I swear I didn't hang that," he promised while Adrie held both your hands, giggling under the mistletoe.✶

NSFW — slow burn, fluff, flirting, mutual pining, mild sexual tension, light angst, depictions of poverty, mention of blood, reader wears eddie's work jacket, 18+ overall for eventual smut, drug/alcohol mention/use

chapter: 6/? [wc: 16k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06

AO3

Chapter 6: May I Have This Dance?

Eddie opened the cabinet above the coffee machine in the breakroom, and took out his mug to replace it with a themed one of Garfield attempting to coax Nermal under a sprig of mistletoe for a kiss. He stepped back, admired the change in seasons, and clung onto the giddy elation before the impending stress wove knots into his muscles.

He’d be getting a lot of use out of that mug in the coming days..

————

Eddie disguised his crisis well.

He knocked on your desk while keeping the glass door open with his foot, “Hey, can you make me another pot of coffee?”

It was a favor you were happy to oblige. Pausing from thumbing through the filing cabinet, you smiled at him over your shoulder. “Sure!”

And later, he came to you again–diverting the stress from entering his eyes by focusing on the kindness in yours.

“Do you mind if I eat alone today?” he asked, flopping his black notebook back and forth for you to frown at.

“Fine, but you owe me.” And of course, he made it up to you the next afternoon, eating his sandwich made with the scraggy ends of the loaf, and no side container of leftovers, and downing it with a mug of coffee.

Adding onto that, Eddie concealed his problems through other means. Blocking out his suffering, disallowing it from bothering others, but to you, it was no bother.

You leaned over your desk to look into the garage, and asked Mr. Moore when he was passing by on the way to his office, “Did Eddie leave somewhere?”

“Awh, he’s probably out on a smoke break,” he said, rubbing his knuckles along his grayed beard.

“Another one?”

“Yeah, guess so.” He shrugged, inadvertently confirming your fears. “Been takin’ alottavem the past couple’a days.”

You had an inkling of what was going on when you caught Eddie eating his lunch earlier. Alone, scribbling in his notebook for the third time that week, dipping a knife into an unbranded metal can labeled PEANUT BUTTER and slathering the Government supplied commodity on a plain saltine cracker.

Sustenance to live, and hardly at that. You weren’t about to let him hide his misery behind excuses meant to keep you ignorant.

After closing, when everyone went home but you and Eddie, he poured himself the last of the coffee to stave off his hunger, and you shot up from your desk.

“Hey! I’m going out for a sec. I’ll be right back, ‘kay?”

He backed his lips off the mug mid-sip in order to remind you to be safe because it was dark out, and you really should wear brighter colors for cars to see you, and to slow down before the sharp turns because there could ice on the road and you could get hurt, and, and–

“Bye!” You cut off his worrying by riding past the doors with your eyes on him, not where you were going, narrowly missing a street pole by centimeters.

~~~

Back in record time–beating the previous record by default because you’d never had this idea before–you hopped off your bike, loaded your hands with the two paper bags sitting in the handlebar basket, and ripped the stapled receipt off them. You finagled your way into the garage.

“Eddie!” you shouted his name as you entered. And louder again as you approached him from behind. Tempting as it was, you didn’t want to scare him, but part of you hated raising your voice, as well. It felt blasphemous to disturb the scene which captured your heart time and time again.

He was at the workbench in the back corner, sat on a stool with his heavy boots on footrests, knees angled out, bouncing his legs in a rhythm offset from one another–most likely parroting the drumbeat of the tinny music funneling from his headphones so loud he’d surely lose his hearing one day.

The smooth expanse of his shoulder shifted and flowed under his coveralls as he worked, hunched over a set of parts he was cleaning. He settled his forearms on the edge of the creaky wood and swirled an old toothbrush into a bowl of cleaning solution, and scrubbed at the hunk of metal in his hands, setting it aside on the stained towel when he was finished to let it dry. A diligent worker, through and through. Tendons in his tired hands straining to hold the next slippery piece as he circled the bristles over the grooves craggy with grease. Muscles in his jaw tensing from the way he clenched his teeth in between mouthing the lyrics to the music vibrating his brain.

Concentration bundled itself between his eyebrows and above his scrunched nose.

It was endearing to watch him work; watch the menial things he was good at for no other reason than to familiarize yourself with all assets of him.

But good things must come to an end, for you had a better one in store.

You caught him right as he was dropping into a reserved headbang on a chord progression you could hear wailing from where you stood. “Hey there, handsome.”

He panicked, and knocked the headphones around the back of his neck. “Shit, I didn’t hear you come in.” He paused the cassette player clipped to his pocket with a sharp click, and after fixating on your sly grin for a second longer, he dropped his gaze to the oil-soaked paper bag in your hand. “Food?”

“The burger place down the street messed up my order,” you replied in soft amusement. “Do you want the extra?”

He didn’t need convincing.

~~~

The sounds of your togetherness filled the open room–wheels rolling on concrete, crinkly wrappers in your hands, and the grateful noises of him devouring his dinner. Sitting parallel to one another on the creepers, you rolled back and forth, brushing shoulders with Eddie on each pass, stuffing your faces until your taste buds dulled with french fry oil, and sparked with blooms of tangy ketchup.

Wordlessly, he told you he was ready to talk by coming to a stop past the point of your shoulders touching, and resting his arms atop his wide-spread knees, holding the last bites of his burger in front of his face.

You twisted around to observe the width of his back rise with a deep breath.

“Child support is late again. Happens every December, but it’ll come a day or two before it’s officially considered late in January.” Deepening his voice, he put an edge of distaste when speaking about Adrie’s mom, “She has the money–her and her husband have good jobs–so it’s just to be petty and get back at me, or whatever. Like being tied to me years later should affect our kid when I don’t even speak to her.”

“Eddie..”

He shook his head to dismiss the pointless pity imbued in your tender whisper of his name. “Doesn’t matter. Money’s tight, but we get paid tomorrow, so that’ll help.. I figured you knew something was up when I stopped eating with you, but anywhere I can save helps. I want to make sure Adrie has a good Christmas this year.”

Realizing something, he raised his hand to ward off any criticism you were about to give him, having been trained to expect it from others since his daughter was an infant. “I want to make it clear.. Adrie always has food,” he stated slowly, and from a place of loathsome apprehension in his chest.

“It never crossed my mind she wouldn’t.” You pushed yourself backwards on the rolly board, and leaned into him, bicep to bicep, gazes met. “I know you’re a good dad” –He glanced away– “You are, Eddie, and I know how well you take care of Adrie, even when shit like this happens. And Christmas will always be special because of how much you love her, not because of what you buy her.”

“But I want her to keep up with her friends, and bond over whatever they’re into.”

“I know you do..”

Even to his detriment, through the sacrifices he made, he’d make sure his daughter had whatever she wanted.

You ran a purposeful knuckle along his tensed tricep. It didn’t earn his eye contact, but he did relax his hand, dropping it to peel down the rest of the wrapper and finish his burger while you spoke. “Maybe they’ll mess up my order again tomorrow, and we can eat lunch together.. And maybe Robin’s mom will make an extra casserole for dinner tonight, and I can leave it in the breakroom, if that’s okay?”

“I’d appreciate it.” No malicious pride. No toxic masculinity. No senseless denial. Eddie accepted your offer with gratitude, and packed his trash into the paper bag while you still ate, settling in with his arms hugged around his knees, ensuring some part of your bodies remained touching–in this case, it was your shoulders again.

The sweet, trusting pressure of yourselves melding into each other’s comfort.

Then, while the candidness was raw, it was your turn to point your attention elsewhere as you asked something you were shy to voice out loud, “Uhm, when we were at Adrie’s school, her teacher kept saying something about, like, you not carrying her, and babying her, or whatever.” You gestured vaguely as if you weren’t eavesdropping the entire time. “And I’d been meaning to ask if I’m–uh?–too affectionate with her? Like if it’s weird, or something I shouldn’t be doing? You’re the parent and I never really asked if it was okay before picking her up, and hugging her, and–”

He cut you off.

“No, no, no.” His assurance was delivered swift, and earnest. “How you are with Adrie is fine by me. More than fine. It’s–It’s–Seriously, it’s great having her look up to someone who isn’t me.”

“What about what her teacher said?”

“I don’t care,” he scoffed. “I know she means well, but it’s not like Adrie’s going to be a kid forever, and if I want to coddle her, who gives a shit. Now, her teacher is great, and I don’t want to diminish what my uncle, and people like Steve and Nancy have done for my family, but for most of Adrie’s life, it’s just been me and her, and even if she annoys the living fuck out of me sometimes, she’s all I have, and if I want to carry her around, I will.”

“You have me now, too.”

You heard yourself say it.

You heard yourself say it aloud, after he said his daughter was all he had, and now you had to follow it up with a tongue-tied spew of clarifications.

“Just, you know, it’s not only you, Adrie, your uncle, Steve and Nancy, and her teacher. You have me now, too, as your friend.. I mean, we are friends, aren’t we?”

Warmth spread through your body. From your ribs, outward, where he jabbed his elbow into your side. Thrumming where his weight pressed into you, sending his hip into yours. Pleasure–blooming–from his silly grin to your romantic heart, to your platonic fingers snagging the fabric of his coveralls around his thigh to stop him from shoving your board away. Yearning. Sprung from the grease dirtying your skin being the same as the black streak above his eyebrow where he wiped his bangs off his forehead.

“Yeah.. Yeah, I think after this, you’re my friend,” he agreed, accidentally kicking over the takeout bag in his teasing. “No qualifier of reluctancy, or addendums, or prefaces. We’re friends.”

Yeah, definitely friends.

Friends who could calculate the exact degree of the arc of the other’s smile through memory alone, having stared at their lips for longer than friends ought.

————

And you played the part of companion quite well, you thought, when Eddie cursed as he came in from the garage with his hand cradled to his chest.

He ducked into the bathroom, and before the door closed, he was pushing it open on his way to the breakroom sink. “Shit. Don’t we have a first aid kit?” he asked.

“Oh! I left it in the women’s restroom after I got a paper cut.” You pushed yourself away from your desk, and found it in the cabinetry, bringing it to him as he scrubbed Dawn soap over his left hand, from upper wrist to fingertips. “Is it bad?” you asked cautiously. Blood was.. fine. But anything needing stitches was more than your red zipper pouch could help with.

“I’m okay,” he grunted, voice deep with the resonance of an inconvenience, more so than true pain. “Just one of those shitty surface cuts that doesn’t stop bleeding.”

The moment Eddie’s hands were dripping with diluted red water instead of blackened motor oil droplets, you tore a paper towel from the roll, cupped his palm, and folded it over his pinky and outermost knuckles. You bent over to keep his hand over the sink, and accepted the sharp jut of his elbow tucked into the softness of your waist.

The scrapes were shallow, as he said. You pressed your thumbs over the superficial wounds until the white paper dotted bright crimson–same color as his cheeks–and he remained silent. He didn’t deny your doting. Didn’t disrupt the gesture, nor break the spell.

It was a nice moment. Until you opened an alcohol wipe and swabbed it over the afflicted area. His mouth twitched at the stinging liquid cooling on his skin. As it dried, you made brief eye contact and shied away from his suspicious squint, like you had a secret to tell him sealed behind your lips all morning.

“What’s that look for?”

While pulling out two beige bandages for his knuckles, you answered in feigned indifference, “Oh, nothing. Just.. y’know.. Mr. Moore promoted me to Office Administrator, and maybe it came with a little raise, and who knows, an extra sick day or two.”

“Nice!” He angled his hand so it was easier for you to wrap the Band-aid around to the side of his palm where there was a wet, angry cut. He was trembling from the rush of adrenaline, endorphins, and relief he didn’t get more injured from his strained muscles giving out while wielding a power tool without protective gloves on.

“So now I have the confusing job of being both the person who cleans the toilets, and also organizes payroll.” You drew your eyebrows in. “Whatever organizing payroll means.”

Eddie watched you turn over the pouch to shake out the slots where the more grown up, adult bandages usually resided, and came up empty. Instead, a metal tin with Sesame Street characters clattered on the countertop. You popped it open.

“Hope you don’t mind,” you said.

Cookie Monster and Big Bird were gingerly wrapped around his pinky, protecting him from further harm.

Bright, cheery colors in contrast to the grime nestled into the crevices of his skin, and the dark blue coveralls he wore today. Your delicate touch. And his rough calluses. Your soft, chapstick-slick lips. And his cold-weathered mouth lifted at the corner. Your obedient body turning with his. And his face drawing near. Your tender, weak grip on his injured hand. And his sneaky fingers reaching past you.

He took three extra Band-aids and put them in the pocket below his embroidered name patch.

Eyelashes fluttering at the sensation of your forearm resting against his stomach, you chided him in the faintest exhale, “That’s stealing from the company, you know. I could write you up.”

Pleading with you amidst a persuasive smile, he begged, “If Adrie sees I have a cool Band-aid, and she doesn’t get one too, she’ll be upset.”

“That’s not fair.” Not like you cared if he took things from work, but if the Band-aids were for Adrie, you’d give him the entire tin, and he knew it. “You play a mean game, Eddie, using my greatest weakness against me.”

He took another Bert and Ernie, and slipped them in with the others, patting his pocket flat.

In a defeated sigh, you crumbled under the smug display of his proud chest, gaze trained on the cursive lettering composing his name, the motor oil blackening his cuticles, and the grease stain on his coveralls from the french fry he dropped earlier.

“Who’s the pushover now?”

“Considering you’re robbing me of Sesame Street Band-aids to bribe your daughter out of a tantrum?” You looked him up and down, from his half-closed eyes to the ketchup stain. “Still you.”

He hummed a warm reply, and twitched his other hand closed, curling his fingers over yours for a split second. A movement stunted by the bandages. Likewise, you drummed your fingertips on the heel of his palm, and let go.

“Wear your gloves next time, idiot.”

“Yes, dear.”

————

Taking on the role of Office Administrator meant one thing to the both of you: less time together.

The interactions were fleeting; sneaking a glance at each other when Eddie made an unnecessary trip to the breakroom to get his jacket for an equally unnecessary smoke break. But it meant he’d pass by Mr. Moore’s office twice while you were being taught how to fill out ledgers and spreadsheets. Two possibilities for you to become enamored with his hair flowing from underneath his bandana, and two chances for him to capture your interest with his charm–his larger than life presence stomping past the door with his chin held high and his hands in his back pockets, looking at you out the corner of his eye, and giving you that tight, knowing grin.

It was lonely working in the mornings, having a short lunch at your desk while scheduling business meetings with salesmen for Mr. Moore, and clocking out at 4PM to help take care of things at home while Robin was managing the night shift, and her dad was on bed rest.

You missed Eddie.

Eddie missed you.

————

It was a cold, bleak mid-December night after a dreary day of clouds and wind. The service bay doors were closed, except for one to allow the draft to carry out lingering exhaust fumes. Darkness smothered the world beyond the auto shop, interrupted intermittently by the odd car stopping at the streetlight. Turn signals blinked. Headlights peered into the warehouse, shining light on the single truck in the empty garage.

Blissful, tranquil winter. Crisp, throat-aching air. Bites of frost sinking into flesh. Numbed fingers. Frozen teeth nipping at the bone. Undisturbed. Quiet. No music.

“Man, it’s freezing in the lobby,” you complained loudly upon entering Eddie’s domain and crouching in front of the space heater next to the workbench.

The pair of legs sticking out from under the truck shifted.

Surprised by your sudden appearance, and grumpy about the loss of hot air directed at him, Eddie beat his wrench on the wheel axle to show his annoyance when you giggled and refused to move. In fact, you hunkered down, rubbing your palms together, hogging all the warmth while having the audacity to wear his tan work jacket.

He tapped the heel of his heavy work boot at you. “I thought you left for the day.”

“Did you really not notice me at my desk for the past hour?”

After waving the tool at the underside of the truck he’d been staring at for the better part of the evening, he then tucked his chin to make a snide remark, “Do you think I keep track of your whereabouts at all times?”

“Yes.”

No response except for a sour expression. Predictable. It was in his best interest to roll his head to the side, and pretend to be working by muttering mathematics to himself. You, however, stood up, and sidestepped the heater to read the buttons on the stereo radio, and dug for the cassette you slipped into the jacket’s pocket before coming out here.

Snap. Click. Whirr.

The black tape spun on the wheels, and from the speakers strung at the back corners of the garage, music began.

Eddie’s groan rose above the plucky piano keys. “Oh, please don’t tell me you’re subjecting me to Christmas music.”

You shushed him, “It’s just jazz.”

Ella Fitzgerald’s warbling hum filled the concrete walls. Her stunning voice and evocative, blunt lyrics soothed your eyes closed. Face-burning words you weren’t ashamed of. You let them take you. Dipping and swaying your shoulders side to side as the piano lulled you into its drunken blitheness. Guiding you two steps to the left, the right. A lazy turn. Paused on the cusp of anticipation. You stopped. Blinked lovingly at the boots beneath you.

“May I have this dance?”

Metal clinked to the ground. Eddie gripped the edge of the car, and pulled himself out. Pushed himself into a sitting position on the creeper, focusing on your hand extended to him, and climbing his gaze upwards. To the smudges of pencil lead and blue pen ink on the inside of your fingers from where you gripped the writing utensils, to the coffee stain on the cuff of his jacket, the name patch, the roundness of your cheeks from your hopeful smile.

“My hands are dirty,” he said.

“I don’t care.” You urged in all gentleness, “Don’t turn me down because you’re shy. I’ll teach you.”

Teach me, he mouthed.

A delicious secret emerged.

Excitement, charismatic boisterousness, unhesitating–eager–sincere excessive vulnerability, bursting to be the shameless youth he used to be and oh so endearing–Eddie sprang into action at the upkick in tempo. The namesake of the song vibrated under his ribs–I’ve Got a Crush On You–and the garage blurred in your dizzy eyes.

Eddie, Eddie, eddie eddie eddie, eddieeddieeddie. Hawkins’ reject, the town’s outcast, Eddie, in all his awkward, standoffish exterior built to protect his sensitive heart, swept your right hand into his left. Raised them. Compelled you into a fast, tight spin under his arm, and at the rotation’s completion, you sank into each other’s embrace like a released breath.

You used the solid curve of his shoulder as leverage, and fit your other hand in the space between his thumb and index.

Eddie didn’t lead.

He demanded you follow.

His muscles were braced with ego as he ushered you backwards. Large advances towards you, forcing you away from the truck, and half-turns to the side with an appropriate pressure at your waist to follow him to the unoccupied center of the garage. But his modest hand grew longing in the distance as you struggled to keep up in the short chase. The thick jacket meant for durability kept him wanting more, and he used it to reel you in. Draw you near. Bodies untouching, but radiating heat in the hushed sigh of winter rolling in from the service door.

Not once had you managed to sound the question on your parted lips, but he understood it, and answered.

“You’re not the only theater kid,” he said softly. “It was the only elective I liked. Had to learn to dance for a few parts over the years, and if I may judge by your reaction, I’m not half-bad.”

You laughed, “Wh-Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

The smug grin he wore waned to something more humble in nature. “Mm-nn. I never wanted to interrupt your stories. It’s more interesting listening to you talk about how you played a witch in a slutty Off-Off-Broadway rendition of Macbeth where you managed to snap both your stilettos in the first Act, than it is for me to go on about how I played background character #4 in my second senior year of high school and mostly used the class as an excuse to make props and shit.”

“Eddie,” you whined. Once upon a time, during your first days working here, he told you to leave him alone for jabbering on about the theater works you and Robin were a part of, and now he reveals this? “I didn’t even think you were listening when I told you those stories. And again! Why–didn’t–you–tell me?” Your words were minced from you shaking his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it’d be relevant,” he explained, speaking in that shy mumble of his.

“We could’ve been dancing this whole time.”

Eddie hung his head back, and bounced his brows upward. “Mmm. You make it sound like you’ve been wanting to do this since we met.” His hum, his words sent his Adam’s apple crawling up the deep shadows his jaw cast on his throat. Vibrating from within his alluring chest, and coming from the plump lips which appeared less blemished since the last time you were blessed with studying them up close.

The tube of Carmex you found in his pocket was doing wonders.

Basking in the overhead lights as flowers did in the sun, he listened to the end of the song fade. He willed his eyes half-open as it switched, dropped his face to lock onto your gaze, and obeyed the slower rhythm. Languid lurches into your compliant hips to the smooth saxophone. Step, step– With a pivot, guiding you around the floor in an unpredictable routine. One which kept you guessing. Had the rolled cuff of his pants brushing against your ankle, and his body coaxing you into a quick reverse turn at the piping trumpets on the following track. Broached the intimacy of his scent in your nose. Of course he didn’t smell great after a long day of working, but.. By your racing heart rushing blood in your ears, you had to admit, you didn’t find it as gross as you should, either.

Breaking you from your trance of staring at the frizzy baby curls sticking to the dried sweat on his neck, he suggested, “Dip?”

Your surprised shriek bubbled into a scathing yelp of Mother Fu–.

Impatient, ineloquent, and forgetful of manners. It was by the grace of your muscle memory you grappled for his upper body before your eyes could adjust to the upside down car cruising by the shop, puttering to a stop at the intersection. The arch he put in your back was wicked. Sinful, even. Supported by his strong arms.

Merciful, he righted your world. And in reconciliation, he observed you with the same obsessive interest he showed when he made you laugh. Watching for your reaction, and when it was adoring, he relaxed the apology from his features.

He hooked a finger around the lock of hair stuck at the corner of his mouth, and pulled it free; clasped your hand again–the other was slipped under the back of the jacket, and he settled his forearm around your waist, hot palm on your spine.

You took the cue. You climbed the scope of his shoulder to wager your dignity on the tight muscle at the crook of his neck. When he didn’t object, and his easy grin remained, you ventured under his unruly mane and found the back of his neck. You slipped your thumb into his collar, and rested it along the naked skin of his nape.

He shivered.

A car passed by.

The gossipers of Hawkins watched a mechanic and his boss’ receptionist-turned-Office-Administrator stare into each other’s eyes, and sway.

The distance between you two was unassuming, except for the tastes of more when the music encouraged, twirling yourself under his lifted arm as two separate beings, and rejoining as a pair, rocking back and forth, side to side, smiling from the exploration into something new.

The drum beats ebbed to a drowsy cadence.

Minutes passed. The embrace became familiar. Your held hands were sticky with shared dust and nervous sweat. His exhale mingled with your inhale. The steady sway was a polite shuffle in either direction, any direction. It didn’t matter. The embrace was the point.

“As Office Administrator,” you started, “I wanted to throw a party next week, the day before our holiday off. It’d be right after work, if you wanted to hang out, eat, and maybe bring Adrie?”

Before he could answer, you lowered your voice to an all-too-candid beg, “Please? I promise it won’t be boring. Mr. Moore said no one’s thrown a work party before, and I’m terrified no one but Kevin and his three dogs will show up.” You put a compassionate squeeze on the back of his neck. “Please don’t let it just be me, Kevin, and his three dogs.”

The bottom of Eddie’s two front teeth showed as he spoke on the verge of a grin, “I thought he only had two.”

You whispered dramatically, “It’s three now.”

He pretended to think over the offer, shifting from foot to foot.

“Eddie.”

As if he could keep up the act when you craved his name like that. “I’ll go,” he placated you, but not before inclining his head, viewing you through his messy bangs and long lashes. “And of course I’ll bring Adrie.”

You celebrated by punching up your linked hands–yours smelling of pencil shavings, and his of burnt brake pads. Eddie used it to maneuver you into another turn. Smooth, suave. A true gentleman.

“Would you help me decorate too?” you dared ask. His answer was an apathetic grumble. “And maybe bring any non-denominational wintry decorations you have because all I could find in town were very red and green, and very Christmas-leaning.”

“You’re not sweetening the deal.”

“But it’s a ‘yes,’ isn’t it?”

Another dissuasive grumble.

Whimsy, breathless lyrics about fresh love trilled from the speakers. The cassette was on its last song before needing to be flipped.

“Do you really listen to jazz?” he asked, skirting into the territory of curiosity as his frame rocked you to the left.

“I listen to a little bit of everything,” you answered honestly, engaging in a fluid stride to the right. “Are you asking because of the music you listen to?” At once, your expression went wry, and his widened to barely constrained intrigue, like you were two steps ahead of him, reading his private thoughts. “The kinda stuff you blast when you think I’m not around.”

“You’ve heard that?”

Not helping the pink hue stemming from the hot base of his neck beneath your palm, you were quick to tease him, “Well, I’m not exactly competing in the Tour de France, y’know. You don’t wait for me to ride away before starting up your little concerts in here when you tell me to leave early. Bet you play air-guitar ‘nd everything when I’m gone, like a dork.”

Visibly curbing his habit to lick his lips, not desiring the swipe of dust it’d come with, Eddie narrowed his eyes, and cocked his head back to regard you down the slope of his nose. “Yeah? And what do you think of the music I listen to?”

“Unsurprising. Suits your image.” Engaging in a bit of intentionality, you worked your hand from his nape and introduced your fingertips to his other shoulder, wrapping your arm tighter around him, and you were enveloped by his warmth doing the same. The waistband of his coveralls rubbed against the metal zipper of his bulky jacket you wore as you moved in unison. “I recognize the big stuff. Metallica, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest..” You shrugged. “Accept?”

The tip of Eddie’s nose came into focus, then his big eyes searching yours as he turned his face side to side, examining you up close. “I wasn’t even playing Balls to the Wall. No one just casually names Accept like that. You like them!”

“Okay, okay, slow down, don’t get too excited,” you calmed him before he strained a tendon in the very finger he pointed at you. “I’ve couch surfed with a lot of weirdos, and lived with six roommates at one point. I’ve listened to my fair share of music through thin walls whether I liked it or not.. But yeah, I like metal enough, I guess.”

Though he unlinked your waltzing hands in his rush to assert himself in your personal space, his arm around your waist persisted–and if he were wary of crossing boundaries, he showed no heed when he employed his strength to press your chests together through the layers of clothes in a sense of spontaneity.

Your view was eclipsed by the thrill in his boyish grin, and then, his hair was slipping from your curious fingers.

“Wait here–!”

And he was gone. His body heat bounded away and out the back door. You were stunned with your hands still posed as if he were there.

You dropped your arms to your sides, and clutched the rugged canvas jacket around you, waiting, listening to the gravel crunch and a car door slam, peering out into the dark to see what became so important he left his dancing partner in the middle of the warehouse in utter confusion.

“Got it,” he said in his stride to the stereo.

“Got what?” It was rude enough to abandon you, and now he was ignoring you in his frenzy. You followed him to the workbench, and turned to the side to rest your hip on it. The heater thawed your shins while Eddie pried open a cassette, but you couldn’t read the front from how he held it in his palms.

Snap. Click. Whirr.

He leaned his ass on the table top and folded his arms over his chest, instilling a narrow distance between you two. His gaze was on the floor. Eyes falling closed. For once, he did not want to see your reaction.

The speakers crackled with static.

You startled.

It was a hard left turn from the somber jazz from before.

Drumsticks crashed on cymbals, setting the aggressive pace for a piercing guitar to enter on a screeching note, quickly devolving into thrashy chords sure to make the fingers sore, along with a bass and rhythm guitar that were getting lost in your pounding head.

Though he wasn’t watching, you schooled the surprise from your features, and relaxed your shoulders. The music wasn’t offensive in the least, but it was loud.

After the initial assault, and a quick bass solo, you were nodding along, enjoying the overwhelming beat pulsing in your throat making it difficult to breathe.

The shredding guitar wept to a softer bridge, and the vocals began.

The vocals began.

The vocals..

The lyrics were spoken–sung–with the last word being dragged into a melodic ballad as the instruments went silent. A rich note held by a man whose voice was neither deep, nor falsetto. Perfectly in the middle. Perfectly fitting your preference. Perfectly matching the one you heard most days, and thought about at night, when your bed was lonely and your body was flushed with heat.

Perfectly matching..

You snapped your attention to Eddie’s face. His eyelids twitched with movement. Individual curls of his hair swung in time to his head dipping to the tempo. His cheek jumped at the start of the next verse, and he dug his fingernails into his sleeve until they turned white.

“This is you,” you expelled in pure infatuation. “Eddie!” You clasped his bicep, and leaned in to him, excelling at matching his enthusiasm from earlier, and surpassing it. “Eddie, this is you!” He opened his eyes and slouched away from your efforts in a laugh, angling his face into his hair to hide his shy grin.

You ran your hand along his forearm and tugged, wheedling him out of the tight hug he had himself locked in, urging him to open up. “This is you singing, isn’t it? This is your band.” The cassette case was behind him. Corroded Coffin. Same name as what was on his sweatshirt on Halloween.

The second button on his coveralls snapped open, below the one he always kept unfastened. You didn’t know at what point you were bold enough to put your hand on his chest, nor gather the fabric into your fist while shaking some sense into him, but you did. You really did expose the tight white shirt clinging to his sticky skin. All for the sake of validating Eddie.

When he continued acting far too humble–shrinking into himself, and mumbling how it wasn’t that cool–you wasted no time embarrassing yourself by jumping on your tiptoes, telling him just how cool it was, you promised.

Reaching behind him, he slapped the volume knob down so you both could stop shouting.

“I appreciate the groupie attitude, but it’s not like we’re a big deal, or anything,” he said, awkwardly folding one of his arms on top of the workbench as he surrendered and turned to you. His other hand hesitated near the bottom of the jacket. “About once a month we get a gig in Indy. Doesn’t pay much, but it covers the cost of the trip, and we get a decent crowd, I guess. Uhm, the venue sells out.. sometimes. People know some of the lyrics. We sell a couple of shirts..” he trailed off upon making eye contact. “We only get to practice on the days I leave work early. Maybe on the weekend.. so.”

Overflowing with sincerity, you trusted your hands to behave themselves on his forearm, laying your decent fingers over the tensed muscle above his wrist where he wore his watch.

He canted his head, and gave you a cynical look. “It’s not like we’re famous or anything.”

“I think it’s so cool you’re in a band,” you stressed. “How come you never told me?”

Shrugging, he glanced elsewhere. “Being you, and being from New York, you probably know hundreds of bands who’ve made it big. I’m sure you’ve met way more impressive people.”

Is that what this was about? Not sharing his theatrical past, and now his band because he was insecure about not impressing you, of all things? Using a resentful tone when speaking about his life versus yours, as if the comparisons mattered when it took all of your willpower to not stare at his lips in this proximity.

“Who cares who I’ve met. You sound amazing. The music, your voice. Everything. It’s uniquely yours, and I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner.”

Eddie sighed.

Cozying into the position, he leaned his weight on the arm you cupped your palms over, and there was a pull at the hem of the jacket. You shifted closer. He looped his finger into the pocket and rubbed his thumb along the edge of it, seeking an absent-minded distraction as he explained, “I also didn’t want to, ah–I don’t know.. Scare you off. Like, if you didn’t like it, or thought heavy metal was Satanic, or some shit.”

“Scare me off?” At least, you intended to repeat it back to him as a question, but your laugh interrupted you. “Oh, Eddie. Light of my day, my neverending fountain of mirth, a true joy to be around,” you gushed at his exaggerated sneer. “If you didn’t scare me off the first week of meeting you, where you made it a point to glare at me for the mere act of speaking in your direction, I don’t think your very obvious music taste would.”

He looked at his boots for a moment to reflect on his behavior, but forwent an apology, and instead asked, “So, you don’t think it’s lame for me to be pushing 30-years-old, and still playing in a garage band?” There was a truncated tension at the end of his question, like he wanted to add more self-deprecation to it, but stopped himself. Good thing, too, because you were about to voice your adulations until you were rendered to a puddle of embarrassment.

Sparing no sarcasm, you furrowed your brows and screwed your mouth into a snarky grin as you rolled your eyes. “Yeah, girls find it totally lame when hot guys with long hair drive fast cars and play loud music and are in a band. It’s totally the most unattractive thing, especially when they have tattoos and are good singers. Definitely isn’t a turn-on at all.”

Too far, too much, too inappropriate–

The last sentence was over the line, and you could see it in his surprised eyebrows wrinkling his forehead, and his wide pupils boring into yours, and his cheeks reddening as your words sank in.

The garage went viscerally quiet.

He stopped fidgeting with the jacket pocket.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

“Not just the vocalist,” he said, voice cracking on the whisper. “I play lead guitar, too.”

You spat out, “Very cool,” desperate for the relief of his face cracking into a flattered grin.

But no, Eddie didn’t grant you such comfort. However, he did spare you the chance to scratch at the anxious sweat dripping down your back when he rearranged how he was standing, and spun around to the stereo. “It’s pretty late, huh? We should probably get going.” He pressed his hips to the workbench as he organized the tapes into their cases. Then, he paused.

The case yours went to was blank. Nothing written on the dotted lines on the back, nor on the front of the tape.

“I need my jacket back,” he reminded you.

“R-Right.”

You shimmied it off, and handed it to him. He draped it over his arm, and clutched the bulk to his stomach, covering his front as he turned to face you again. “Here.” Holding out the black and white cassette with a stylized logo he drew himself, he gave you his personal copy of Corroded Coffin’s first recording session. “You take mine. I’ll take yours.”

“Are you sure?”

Staring at the mixtape compiled of the cheesy love songs you made over the course of a few nights, he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.” And as he dragged his feet backwards–avoiding the space heater without looking–he said on his way to the tray where he kept his rings, “We should do this again. The whole.. dancing thing.” He gestured with the tape. “I’ll pick the music next time, too.”

With his back to you, he cleaned up his station, and let you know you could go. “I’ll lock up behind you.”

“You never answered if you were helping me hang decorations,” you found your voice. It was hiding behind a hammering heart, and shallow-filled lungs.

Outside, a car honked at a truck to take their turn at a green light.

The metal teeth on his jacket ground together as Eddie zipped it up. He sank his heavy hands into the pockets to weigh them down, and crossed his work boots at the ankle to about-face in a sort of pirouette, pinning you with his lopsided grin and mellow demeanor. “You know, I thought with all the life lessons I’ve had to learn over the past five years, I’d be able to resist a pretty girl asking me to do things for her.” He snorted and flicked his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. “But when they’re as beautiful as you, I just can’t.”

His gaze came crashing down onto you, and your tongue froze at the tip of your teeth.

“Alright, Casanova,” you let out in a shaky breath. “I’ll take that as you agreeing, and will see you bright and early, and without any complaints.” You left as fast as you could.

No, really. The Tour de France better have a spot open for you, with how fast you pedaled home to sit on your bed, cross legged, happily ruining your hearing from having the volume scrolled to the max on your Walkman, listening to Eddie’s voice, wondering at what point the endorphins would wear off and you were stuck agonizing over how blatant you were about calling your coworker hot. And how he called you beautiful in return.

————

Talking amongst the sputtering coffee machine beginning its brew:

“The fourth one–uh–Solivagant, is definitely my favorite!”

“That one’s instrumental,” Eddie pouted. “And here I was under the impression you liked my lyrics.. Mm, a little lower on your side.”

You put blu-tack on your end of the banner, and pressed it into the wall. “I do! But that one really got stuck in my head. The way all the guitars came together to play the harmony was just–Eddie! You did that on purpose.”

Stepping around to the other side of the lunch table, you threw your head back in a groan at the glittery Happy Holidays sign you wrongly assumed he would help you hang without turning it into a way to tease you.

“You’re the worst,” you grumbled on your way to fix the banner so it was even, and his side wasn’t higher by a few inches.

“Sorry,” he said weakly between his snickering. “Let me.”

There was no letting him do what he wanted. He was going to push his way into your space, regardless. Literally, shoving a chair out of his way with his hip, and standing behind you to peel the sticky tacky off the wall, and raising it from your face’s height, to slightly above your head, needlessly, infuriatingly, unhelpfully helping you. Barging in with his hand on your shoulder, and his body at your back. Closer, more intimate than the time at the grocery store.

His inhale swelled his solid chest against your shoulder blades, and his hum rumbled down your spine. “Am I supposed to dress up nice for your party?”

You twisted your head back to admire the underside of his freshly shaven jaw smelling of astringent spice. “Only if you feel like it,” you guessed. “The dress I’m wearing is pretty casual, but you don’t have to do anything special if you don’t want to.” After circling his thumb over the tacky corner of the sign, he dropped his arms, grazing them over yours, if only in passing. “I think the other guys are wearing button down shirts.”

His gaze drifted as he visualized his closet.

You stared. “Do you really not have one nice shirt?”

“I might still have the one from my job interview,” he said, tucking his chin to look at you, creating a silly amount of wrinkles along his burgeoning grin.

The front door chimed. Either Carl, Kevin, or your boss just walked in, and it was then Eddie realized the position he had you in. It struck him when his peppermint-candy-and-cigarettes breath caressed your fluttering lashes, and he could discern the bubblegum flavored chapstick on your lips, just like you could observe the balm on his.

If someone saw him trapping you alone in the breakroom against the wall with your backside pressed to him, there would be no delicate conversation about consensual workplace relationships. He’d be gone.

“Sorry!”

Eddie made his swift retreat–three, no, four steps away.

You widened your eyes at him, at his obviousness, and tried to communicate through your facial expression you knew what he was thinking, and everything was okay. You two were a bit too comfortable around each other, that’s all. It wasn’t something serious he needed to explain away. No one caught him. It was innocent, like slow dancing when no one was around. Innocent. Teasing.

“I, uhm– Y-Yeah, the shirt.” He forced his fingers to unclench into limp fists at his side. Face pale, yet hot. “It’s–I’ll wear it.”

Wringing your hand around the fridge door handle, you bent towards him, and raised your eyebrows higher, imploring him to chill. “Eddie, you can come in a t-shirt and jeans. It doesn’t matter. Adrie can wear whatever she wants, too. It’s just a casual thing.”

Totally casual. Like the body heat fading from the back of your green knit sweater where his chest became acquainted with the acrylic. Dissipating on his skin beneath his coveralls where the crown of your head met his shoulder. Very casual.

“Uhm–”

“So..”

You both started, and ended.

“Mornin’!” Mr. Moore’s gruff greeting came from the hallway.

Treating it as a warning, you each responded with an acknowledgement of your boss’ appearance as he walked into the room. “Good morning!” and “Salutations!” To which you shut your eyes in exasperation at Eddie’s unusual welcome, begging him to act normal while Mr. Moore poured sugar in his coffee.

After stirring in complete silence, he took turns smiling at you both, and meandered to his office, closing the door behind him.

Eddie shifted topics to the table where piles of garland remained coiled.

“Should we–?”

“Wanna just, uh, forget decorating for today, ‘nd do it tomorrow?” you spoke over him.

“Yeah,” he answered, nodding too enthusiastically. He tossed his hair out of his face, revealing the red tips of his ears for a split-second, and said, “Tomorrow, yeah. We can do the rest of this shit tomorrow.”

A very graceful conversation between two people who just had a very ordinary interaction without any explicit implications.

“We’re still having lunch together later, right?” you asked.

“Duh. You’ve gotta finish giving me your thoughts on the rest of our EP. The chorus for Taladasian Empire has some meta references to the other songs, I don’t know if you caught onto that, but the second verse mentions..”

Oh, he was adorable when he hyperfixated. Not only did it steer the conversation away from the previous blood-scorching incident, but it was rather nice to have a reason to stare at his lips move a mile a minute as he conjured an unprompted dissertation about his music’s lore, even as you were sitting at your desk, pointing at your ringing phone, and suggesting he should also get to work.

There were only two days left before the long holiday, and customers needed their cars before the shop was closed for the break.

————

Kevin sipped his coffee in the early morning sunlight filtering through the garage.

You garnered Eddie’s help whenever he was available, and the current task was dressing up your receptionist desk to look like a big present, complete with a gold bow flowing over the ledge where the candy bowl sat. Eddie crouched at one end holding a roll of wrapping paper while you unfurled it to the other, and measured it to the side facing the lobby.

Kevin watched the interaction through a unique lens, noting how Eddie bounced on his heels, appearing both bored and anxious to get back to work, but when he glanced over at you–at your face pinched in concentration as you fought with the tape dispenser with one hand–it was as if his worries melted away.

The boy calmed down.

Though Kevin didn’t come in often, the effect you had on the misfit was overt in the sweetest way. It reminded him of his first and last love, who had since passed.

~~~

Carl sipped his coffee as he stood in the doorway to the breakroom.

The lobby was taken over by a cheerful wonderment.

Eddie was hanging white and blue streamers from the drop ceiling tiles, while you decorated the windows with silver snowflakes. At first, Carl thought Eddie was pinning them up around the perimeter of the room because he lacked direction, but then he saw why he insisted on following you around, setting up the step ladder directly behind you.

Without discussing it, you reached out for Eddie’s arm as you stepped onto the cushiony lobby chair customers sat in when waiting for their cars, and he was at the ready. He lent his balance to you, crooking his elbow for you to slot your fingers into, and once steady, you let go.

The conversation picked up where it was left off, and the decorating continued.

Now that the glass door was unblocked, Kevin shuffled inside with his cold mug to get a refill, and stopped next to Carl on his way to the coffee machine.

“You sure those two ain’t datin’?” he asked.

Carl shrugged with his mug on the way to his mouth. “Apparently not. Ed said they’re just friends.”

At a sound in the lobby, they craned their heads to the furthest wall to witness Eddie beaming down at you. His smile was a rarity, and watching the enormous emotion take over him when you touched his arm and laughed at his joke; it was a sight worthy of remembering.

Kevin scratched at the side of his head, then straightened out the bill to his baseball cap over his wispy white hair, and squinted at the mischievous glint in Carl’s eyes.

“But David did say he walked in on them looking mighty flustered yesterday.”

“Did he, now?”

Swallowing the hot coffee with a wet smack of his lips, he emphasized a drawn out, “Yep.”

Kevin suggested, “Maybe the holiday spirit will take over, and they’ll confess their feelings under some mistletoe.”

“Uck,” he replied with a disgusted noise. “You’re always such a romantic.”

“You’re the one starin’ at them,” Kevin countered on his way to the coffee pot, shuffling from the arthritis in his knees, and focusing his energy into keeping his trembling hand still as he poured his drink. “Besides, I think his little girl would appreciate having someone like her in their lives.”

————

Four hours before the party, the auto shop was swept into a flurry of activity.

Carl and Kevin each had vehicles to work on; driving a truck out to the parking lot for a customer to pick up after you called them, and driving a car in. Working in tandem to the jolly Christmas music on the radio. Crowding the garage with discarded packaging from parts that would be gathered to be burned later.

“Guh–” You hung up the phone, and pressed a button to erase what you previously recorded after you stuttered over part of your script.

This outgoing message thing wasn’t going well.

Sighing, you picked it up and pressed the record button again. “You’ve reached David’s Auto Shop at..” you enunciated the number and address in an even tone. “We’re currently closed for the Holidays, and will open at 8AM, Mon–”

The smell of cigarettes should’ve been your first warning. The hand tipping your office chair back should’ve been the second. The general Eddie-ism of it all should’ve been the third.

Eddie blew a raspberry directly into the receiver.

“You! Why! That one was perfect. God, you are so–freaking–annoying. I swear. Obnoxious little..” Fuming, you hung up, and glared at him.

He cackled on his way to the garage. “Hey, since you’re not busy, can you help me roll this stack of tires to the Buick over there?” Before you could share the choice words you had prepared for him–before you could process the droplets of spit drying on your cheek–before the door could hit him on the way out–he spun and caught it and ducked his head back in. “Oh! Don’t forget your policy. Can’t say no to helping me, huh?” On his smooth exit, he winked and made a clicking sound with his mouth, flashing a gratuitous amount of teeth on the smirk.

“You are the absolute worst.” You grabbed your hoodie and followed him, pointedly not thanking him for holding the door open for you. “And you know what? I seriously regret ever telling you about my dumbass policy.”

“Really? I’ve only just begun to actualize the potential for making you do things for me. I’m loving it!”

~~~

Three hours before the party, you put the finishing touches on the breakroom before Robin arrived with the food you ordered from the bakery and deli at the grocery store. Some was excess that would’ve gone to waste; extra cupcakes, and cookies. Other things were ordered, like finger sandwiches, veggie trays, and an arrangement of cheese cubes with those cute toothpicks that have red and green cellophane at the top. You also gave her money for the makings of smores, bags of pretzels, and crackers, themed plates and cups to match. The works.

You cleaned the countertop free of appliances, putting them away in the cupboards to make space and give outlets to the crockpots Mr. Moore’s wife was bringing later.

Otherwise, you shoved a tall stool borrowed from the garage in the corner of the room, and placed the small TV from Mr. Moore’s office on it, intending to play Holiday programs while people funneled in and out.

~~~

Two hours before the party, the sun was setting on the horizon. Eddie moved his car to the end of the alleyway, and Carl rolled out a barrel to be stuffed with leftover cardboard boxes, and firewood he brought from home.

He and Eddie moved the workbench to the service door, and set up the bigger TV so people could watch the football game while standing around the fire.

~~~

One hour before the party, the garage was cleared of anything that a child could hurt themselves on or with, and the shop was hushed in wait. Eddie left first to get Adrie from school, and go home to change. The other guys did the same, leaving to collect what family they were bringing, while you stayed behind to stress over having enough food to feed everyone, even after Robin dropped off more snacks than you remembered listing, along with your party clothes.

————

The evening began trepidatious.

Guests filled the lobby like a sea of warmly-dressed sardines. Scarves, mittens, jackets brushed necks, hands, shoulders. Those recognizing each other hugged, while three rambunctious dogs wove through their legs. You introduced yourself to Mr. Moore’s daughter, Misty, and waved at her newborn. Carl’s teenage sons took the opportunity of their mom being busy to throw pebbles at each other outside. Mr. Moore’s wife and her brother and his eldest son were either setting up food or starting the fire. There was a moody girl of unknown origin moping in the corner. You lost track. It was hard to concentrate in the excitement.

You tugged your sleeves into your palms, and looked around the room for what must’ve been the hundredth time..

Eddie was late, and it was difficult keeping the concern off your face.

“Don’t look so worried,” Kevin said, landing a hand on your back as he shuffled by, carrying the scent of lighter fluid and smoke. “Your date’s still in his car. Probably workin’ up the nerve to come see you.”

“He’s not my date,” you corrected with a comically repulsed frown, hoping he’d buy it. “We’re friends.”

A twinkle danced in his stark blue eyes, and his open-mouthed smile peeked from beneath his thick mustache. “Look out.”

Look out?

A pair of tiny arms hugged you around your ass, and if it wasn’t for the tell-tale giggle, your stomach would be flipping with a much different emotion.

“Adrie!” You twisted and subtly scooped her arms higher on your hips before cupping the back of her head, and hugging her to your leg in the warmest greeting you could muster while your brain went to mush.

“You made it,” you said, staring, staring, staring.

Eddie pressed his lips together as he looked from his daughter to you. Happiness etched itself in every facet of his expression; in the tight smile he failed to control, to the tenderness of his half-closed eyes shining behind his lashes, his confident stance with his hands slotted into his work jacket pockets, in his washed hair falling to one side as he let his head loll from the heavy thoughts swaying his shoulders in a slow rocking motion. Everything about him was relaxed upon seeing you.

“You look beautiful,” he complimented with a magnificent amount of ease, as if he wasn’t a bundle of anxiety minutes ago. Yet, he didn’t withhold his praise. In gradual seconds–each longer than the last–he beheld your appearance in the highest regard, noting the vast departure from the jeans you usually wore.

The burgundy pinafore dress fit you snug, and the hem stopped high on your thighs. The thin white turtleneck underneath clung to your figure, and your black pantyhose matched your chunky Mary Janes.

It was one beret and a baguette short from being an outfit you wore for a skit with your comedy troupe, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Really beautiful,” he said to himself, taking you in, his whisper lost amongst the beginning strums of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree playing from the garage.

Adrie grabbed at the dress around your waist, chaining herself to you in a needy act for attention, and you stroked your thumb over her hair in return, eyes refusing to leave her father.

“And what about you, handsome?” You signaled it was his turn to show off.

So far, the formfitting gray slacks with a faint plaid pattern were doing him justice, but you wanted to see the whole thing.

Peacocking, Eddie lifted an arrogant brow on the same side of his smirk, and put some confidence in how he unzipped his jacket, savoring the anticipation. Opening it slowly to unveil, unfathomably, a button up shirt. White with blue stripes. Untucked, of course. Dropping the jacket from his shoulders, he strutted in a circle, giving you the full view of his back–no rugged coveralls, no leather, no durable canvas, no sweatshirt–just thin polycotton blend stretched over his frame alluding to his musculature.

Working the jacket back up his arms, he presented one of his legs forward. “Think I gained some weight since I last wore these. They used to fit better.”

Oh. Oh, no. They fit perfectly.

While he was busy looking at where the slacks tapered to his black boots, you were commending other areas. Like his thighs, where the pants gave a slim shadow where his boxers ended. And a little higher, to the place the fabric bunched around, and forced the zipper to curve outward. The real deal. The whole package. The big show.

Jesus..

“You look good,” you croaked out with the last of the air in your lungs. He jerked his head up, and smiled his usual way–too wide, a little askew, showing more teeth on one side than the other. “Should’ve known you’d be just as handsome dressed up as you are in a t-shirt and jeans.”

“You hear that, Adrie? It was worth it being late, because I look extra handsome.”

“I didn’t say extra–”

“Who cares,” she whined at him. After demonstrating an ounce of patience while her dad took a shower, washed his hair, shaved, spritzed on too much cologne, and stood in front of the mirror debating over wearing his nicer clothes or his usual ripped jeans for an excruciating number of minutes, she was at her limits. “My outfit is way, way, way cuter,” she argued in her kid-like way, fighting for your approval.

You crouched to her level, and she twirled in a circle, copying him. “Oh my gosh, you’re right! Your sweatshirt is way, way, way cuter than his boring clothes. What does it say?” Somewhere above you, you heard Eddie suck his teeth.

Adrie pinched the red pullover and held it out for you to read along with her.

“Santa’s.. Widdle helper.” The pronunciation wasn’t her fault. Upon closer inspection, the text did indeed spell ‘little’ as ‘wittl’.’

“And who’s that?” you asked, pointing at the character jumping out of a Christmas stocking on the front.

“Tweety Bird!”

“Alright!” You held your hand up, and she high-fived you.

Thrown back into reality at a dog’s yip, and Mr. Moore’s survey of heads, you let go of the romanticized bubble you surrounded yourself in, where it was just you, Adrie, and Eddie, and took heed of the packed room lurching towards the smell of cooked meatballs wafting in the air.

“Everyone here?” Mr. Moore asked, and when a murmur arose, he rubbed his hands together, and announced, “Let’s eat! Game starts soon.”

The sardine conglomerate moved as one, making a concentrated effort to form a line from the breakroom, down the hallway, and ending where you stood at the glass door. Adrie struggled to accept being last in line, but you prepared many distractions for her; the first of which being Eddie’s present.

“I got something for you,” you said, and reached over the ledge of your desk, patting around in search of the special item. He expressed an unreasonable amount of suspicion. “You have to promise to wear it. Or else..” You gave Adrie a look, and she had a pout at the ready if he didn’t comply.

“I don’t like it when you two gang up on me,” he mumbled, eyeing you.

“Too bad. Here.”

Eddie snorted at the red, white, fuzzy, jingly accessory in your hand. “Really?” he asked, and laughed, “Would’ve worn it anyway.”

After a pause where he held the Santa hat in strange contemplation, he humbly knelt on his knees to Adrie, and asked her to do the honors, “Wanna put it on for me?” She did so enthusiastically, jamming the hat on his head, rattling the bell at the end of the cap, and calling him Daddy Santa while roughly combing his hair. He was sure to hold your gaze as he prompted Adrie, “Not real Santa, right?”

“No, you’re Daddy Santa. Real Santa is coming in two days! And he’s bringing me lots of presents because I’ve been good.”

You understood, then, the glaze of fatigue in the look he gave you. It’d be a few more years until Adrie thanked him for the miracles in her life, the food in her belly, the roof over her head, and as a father, he only hoped he’d fix his situation before she learned the full details of his sacrifices to raise her, to give her a room, to provide her with a bed of her own while he went without.

Still, he was in the constant battle of yearning for the acknowledgement, while fearing her growing up and discovering the real world.

A complex set of emotions to parse for both him and his daughter, and he had to do it alone.

“Ow, Adrie..”

Coming to his rescue when she began pinching his cheeks to a rosy state, you got her attention, “Don’t think I forgot about you, cutie pie.” From behind the ledge, you pulled out a pair of reindeer antlers on a headband, and slid them on for her, doubling as a way to keep her bangs out of her eyes.

Glee burst across her face in a smile which rivaled the dawning rays of the rising sun. Deep-seated satisfaction erupted in your chest at her joy over the small gesture. Her immediate desire was to be picked up by you, ready to be doted on, and in that moment, you wanted nothing other than to gather her in your arms. But Eddie stole her for himself. You were left Adrie-less. And the fact it bothered you, and the fact making his daughter happy affected you in a way you’d only begun to unpack last week when you asked Robin to drive you to the toy store at the mall, was complicated.

“You can’t coerce Miss Mouse into picking you up at your command,” he told her in a playful tone. “You’re a big girl now, and only Daddy’s strong enough to hold you.”

“Oh, puh-lease.” As if your tongue wasn’t already stuck out in disgust, it certainly was when he made a show of flexing his biceps. Under his jacket. Like that would prove anything.

Now, if he were wearing less..

You latched onto the change of subject in your mind, and moved on with the night, away from the poignant feelings of longing for something you hadn’t quite figured out yet.

For now, you made a sardine family. You, Adrie, and Eddie. Your hand in hers, she on his hip, and his kiss to her forehead, fond of one another. Huddled in shared conversation–the type where everything faded away. No one else. Just you, Adrie, and Eddie.

You volunteered to make their dinner. With Adrie clinging to his side, she was able to boss you into putting whatever she wanted on her plate, and you checked Eddie’s amused face every time she added another carrot or ham pinwheel, knowing he’d be the one to eat it when she was full. After hers, you made his, and after his, you made yours. Balancing them all on your palms and forearm, and bringing them to your desk, assuring Eddie he could have the office chair while you took the black stool.

Poor him, though. He sat with Adrie in his lap, desperate to maneuver around her antlers to get a mini cupcake in his mouth while you freely ate your sandwiches, and answered her questions about if reindeer were real, and if they could fly. (Yes, and yes.)

Other guests were present in the lobby, you knew, but at the impact of your knee prodding Eddie’s thigh, and his sly grin over Adrie’s head, they faded away once more.

Until a flash startled you both from your ga-ga gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Just saving memories!” Kevin exclaimed, scrolling his thumb over the disposable camera’s film cog.

And before you could blink away the spot invading your vision, he was gone. “Hope we looked good, at least,” you said to Eddie, not having a candid picture taken since you moved to Hawkins.

He snorted, and leaned around Adrie to see the meatball he was quartering for her with a plastic fork. “I don’t think you have to worry about that, sweetheart.”

Your heart fluttered at the endearment. He said it in a casual manner, not like when he was trying to fluster you. And the compliment was sincere, not teasing. It was sweet, with his arm around his daughter to keep her from squirming away, and the warm comfort of his leg against yours, body heat transferring from his slacks through your thin pantyhose.

A moment you’d like to remember. Including..

“Here,” you giggled.

He looked at the napkin you held out to him, and where you tapped at the corner of your mouth. “Oh.”

In true Eddie fashion, he used his tongue to edge at the green icing, following it with his thumb to get whatever he missed and sucking the rest from his fingers while still managing to entertain Adrie with questions about what she did in preschool today, and dipping a carrot in ranch, dropping some of it too onto his pinky and licking that off without hesitation too. A chaotic mess of a man.

~~~

As predicted, it didn’t take long for Adrie to get bored, and she wandered off to play with Kevin’s dogs. Eddie took it upon himself to finish the monumental task of eating the assortment of leftovers she surrendered on her plate. A real hero of the times, scarfing down the butter ring cookies she wore on her fingers, and downing the sip of juice she didn’t want.

The conversation between you two was the easy kind. Simple, flowing. He slouched to the side with his elbow on the desk, cheek to his fist, legs spread, listening to you talk about nothing.

“And as you can see” –You pulled open the second drawer to the short filing cabinet under your desk– “I’m all organized for the new year. Got my Post-it notes, a new set of highlighters, some of those fancy pens that make my handwriting look nicer. Living a life of luxury over here.”

“Very cool,” he replied in a hollow tone, implying it was in a mocking ‘you’re adorable’ kind of way, and not a ‘wow, you bought the Bugs Bunny themed sticky notes, that’s very cool of you’ kind of way.

You pushed the drawer closed with your foot, and rocked on your stool, grinning.

Beyond the circle of touching knees, fluorescent lights, and brave glances, there was an abrupt cheer at a scored touchdown. In the lobby, the mothers grouped the chairs together to adore the hiccuping newborn. In the parking lot, the teenage boys drove a remote control car around. The moody girl brought a skewer and marshmallows out to the fire. A Jack Russell terrier panted at your calf. Kevin patted Adrie’s head, and stooped to whisper a secret in her ear as they passed each other outside the glass door.

Eddie took the pom pom end of his Santa hat between two fingers and rattled the bell at you. He looked like he was about to speak, but someone special interrupted him.

“I’ve been sent on a mission. You have to come with me!”

You both turned to Adrie.

When neither of you did anything besides raise your eyebrows expectantly, and she didn’t give more context, nor information, she got impatient. “Come on!” she pleaded with a stomp, and grabbed your hand, and you grabbed Eddie’s sleeve on instinct, practically tripping him over your stool while she dragged you into the hallway.

After several feet, she stopped. You stopped, Eddie stopped.

“What’s the mission?” he played along, linking his hand in hers so you were one big circle. A sardine family.

She didn’t speak. Only grinned, and giggled.

Not catching on, you exchanged a confused shrug with Eddie, and asked her, “Is it a riddle?”

More laughter. Harder, more persistent tugs around your pinky and ring finger where she snared you. And a direct, focused smile aimed above your heads.

Slowly–slowly–slowly–

You straightened up from how you were bent over, and listened to Eddie’s clothes shift as he did the same. You followed the invisible line to where she was looking, tipping your head back in curiosity to see what was taped to the doorway exactly between you, and her beloved dad.

There was silence all around.

From the sharp leaves and red berries of the mistletoe, your gaze began its slow descent to Eddie’s. Passing over the red hat, the wrinkled forehead with messy bangs flattened onto it, the worried eyebrows. His sickly pale cheeks, flushed red lips. Suspended in time. Heart in your tight throat, pounding pulse, stomach twisting.

You searched the frightened sheen in his eyes.

“I didn’t hang that, I swear,” he whispered.

“I didn’t either,” you promised just as quickly.

It didn’t matter who did.

There was noise all around. The football game turned to a commercial, and heavy feet announced people entering the garage, and approaching the glass door, coming inside to refresh their drinks and nibble at the cheese cubes.

Quickly–quickly–quickly–

“She.. We’ve been watching a lot of Christmas movies, and she must’ve seen it in one of them.” Lowering his voice, he brought his hand up in a sympathetic gesture, trying to explain her behavior. You let go of his sleeve. “She doesn’t understand.. The meaning, and everything.” He paused. “Us.” Another pause, a tic in his lower lip like a tremble. “Working together, and stuff.” Voice almost mute. “That w-we can’t..”

As much as you wanted to smash your lips on his to stop him from overexplaining the multitude of reasons you two couldn’t, or shouldn’t kiss, (you’re at work, this place smells like meatballs, his daughter is right there, Mr. Moore’s shadow breached the lobby, the fact Eddie chose listing coworkers as his rationale for not kissing you and not because you two were friends, but then again, what if he was about to say that, that he only saw you as a friend, and maybe being coworkers was an easier excuse than saying he wasn’t into you like that, oh god–), you had to get out of this situation with grace.

“No, yeah, I get it. Uhm.” Think fast, think fast, think fast. “You know who else is under the mistletoe, hmm?” you drew out the hum to build tension, setting your sights on your target.

Adrie squealed when you snatched her up and spun in a circle, attacking her cheeks with an unrelenting amount of kisses; the type that were quick pecks with lots of kissy noises, so saccharine and fawning and annoying to listen to. Tender and pure and tempting to the man who made a conscious effort to release the pinch of frustration from his face, and remorse from his discontent sigh before answering your question.

“Can she have one of these chocolate snowmen?”

“Only if you’re willing to tire her out before we leave,” Eddie said, taking intentional steps towards you and Adrie on your hip, leaving the mistletoe and its implications behind. He placed a friendly hand along your shoulder blade. His other hand was more menacing on her back, as indicated by her eyes growing large.

He warned her in a stern tone, “If you have too much sugar and keep me up all night, you’ll never have another dessert again.”

She called him out, point blank, nose turned up in triumph. “You’ve already said that before, and I got cookies anyway.”

Your cookies, he said in a quick glance and eyebrow wag at you, before speaking to her again, “You got me there. However.. I would hate for Santa to find out you stayed up past your bedtime.” He sucked his teeth with a pitying shrug. “The consequences are steep. He’s very strict, you know.”

Adrie’s frown was serious.

Eddie was having too much fun using his one seasonal threat to get her to behave.

“Aw, don’t listen to him,” you soothed her. You lifted your chin so she could burrow her head against your neck, and amended, “Well, do listen to your dad, but I have something special planned for us, Adrie.” She roused out of her heart-wrenching pout, and hugged you harder, kicking her feet around your waist in excitement.

You smiled at him, but your gaze fell elsewhere, passing over the men in the hallway, and taking a last, long look at the mistletoe, seeing it for the confusing event it created, not the romantic scene it was known for. “I’ll take her for the night. You go watch the game, or something. Hang out with the adults. I’ve got her.”

The tiny room became overcrowded. Someone whispered, “Oh, aren’t they cute together,” and Eddie chewed on his inner cheek. He removed his hand from you, fingertips slipping over the back of your dress, catching the strap, then your side, below your ribs, above Adrie’s leg. Measured, methodical touches. Not accidents.

While his face lacked strong emotions, there were words in his eyes. Maybe they were an apology for the weirdness you now found yourselves in, or a thank you for taking her off his hands for a bit, or they were something else entirely. He didn’t say.

“You two have fun,” he expressed in his soft voice, and grabbed a cold soda on his way out.

~~~

A cold soda did not unwind him like a beer.

Eddie warmed himself by the barrel fire while the game played. Though any opportunity to talk with his peers rarely expanded past the usual topics of work and raising his daughter, and were frequently shadowed by what was happening on the screen, he didn’t mind the interruption. He knew the rules of the game enough to feel a sense of camaraderie when they celebrated. And really, he just wanted the time to think. Or not think. Definitely not think about how he reacted earlier, stumbling over his words to assure you he wasn’t some creep who hung mistletoe as a way to trick you into kissing him. Absolutely not agonize over his inability to articulate himself, and provide you with an out while also reminding himself why he shouldn’t listen to his impulse clawing to be released, and kiss you on the spot. And certainly not consider your mild response to the whole thing, and how your gaze lingered–for a millisecond–on his lips before you scooped Adrie into your arms.

Eddie ran the heel of palm along his jaw, back and forth, and worked it to the back of his neck, wringing his nape in tight squeezes to release the tension.

A beer was definitely better than soda, but so be it. He downed the rest of it, and justified going inside for another. Of course, his motives for going through the lobby weren’t to quench his thirst, but as he almost ran face-first into the glass door, his mouth went dry.

Your ass in the curve-hugging dress was the first thing he noticed. Noticed it because you were curled into the fetal position on the floor, pretending to die a dramatic death. Oh, and you were wearing a black cape adorned in shiny gold stars, and your mouse ears from Halloween, along with a crown.

The loud crunch of him crushing his soda can got your attention.

“You don’t always have to dress like a mouse for her; she knows who you are,” he said in cool nonchalance on his way to the fridge.

You pointed a pirate’s cutlass at him, regarding him down the plastic blade. “I’m the Rat King.”

The music on the portable radio changed moods from a battle march to a victorious, slow piece.

Ditching the mouse ears by throwing them aside into a small pile of other props, you instructed Adrie to exchange her rapier for a flower crown. “Ooh, ooh! And this is where Clara and the Nutcracker Prince dance. Yeah, hold my hand, lift your leg in arabesque. Just like that.” You walked around her, spinning her in a circle while she posed with her leg behind her, and when you let go, you granted her the stage to improv what ballet moves she knew through pop culture osmosis, clapping and gasping and cheering her on, both of you panting from the exertion of playing an entire cast of characters.

There was a pang in Eddie’s stomach. The usual stuff: wanting to watch, wanting to join, wanting to stop it. The jealousy of being left out of the intimate moment, the yearn to add a third to his and Adrie’s life, the grief of when things don’t work out and this was a mistake. Decisions, daydreams, the reality of you maybe moving away, maybe not. Maybe dating him, maybe not. Maybe making work a place he dreaded coming to again if he tried something and it ended in disaster.

He had no other job options.

And yet..

“Hey.” Eddie traced the rim of the chilled soda in his hand, collecting condensation. “Ah, the TV in there is playing those old claymation Christmas movies in a marathon. D’you guys wanna watch them with me?”

Teaching her to put her toe to her knee in the passé position, you asked, “Don’t you want to hang out and watch the game?” When he didn’t respond, you looked up at him. Immediately, your focus honed in on his shy habit of chewing on his bottom lip.

“Nah. Not really. I’d rather be in here.”

~~~

The breakroom lights were off, save for the dim set on either side of the sink lighting the buffet, and the air was humid from steam curling off the crockpots. On the table were three marshmallow snowmen held together by melted chocolate and pretzel stick arms; remnants of an impromptu competition of which he lost.

It was a warm and cozy affair, made more so by the three of you squished together to watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on the small TV in the corner.

Adrie nestled deeper into her baby blanket. She had the quilt cocooned around her, running her fingertips over her mouth while she watched. Beside her, you sat with your hands laced in your lap, and at the end, Eddie slumped diagonally in his seat, propping his elbow on the back of your chair. Half paying attention to the stop motion film, half congratulating himself on getting this far. It took all of Jack Frost to work up the courage to daintily set his elbow at the very corner of your chair, almost making contact with your shoulder without worrying if he sweated through his deodorant or cologne yet..

But what if his breath smelled bad from the weird combination of food he ate?

Fuck–

The golden retriever lounging on the floor behind Adrie wagged his tail. Kevin’s distinct shuffle came down the hallway. “Well here’s where you three gone off to,” he said. His dog lifted his head, and licked his lips in anticipation for a pet. “Don’t mind me, just came in for another pepperoni slice, isn’t that right, Coop?”

Cooper panted at his name.

Adrie mumbled around her fingers, “I love your puppy. He’s the best.”

“Yeah, she adores him,” you added.

“Aw, you’re a good boy, aren’t ya?” Kevin bent down to praise his dog with a couple of pets under the chin. And when he was finished, he made a fuss about his old knees, and the cold weather affecting them, and the–whatever else he said.

Upon struggling to stand, Kevin sought a place to put his hand for assistance–and wouldn’t you know, the perfect spot was right in front of him. He clutched Eddie’s forearm for purchase, which incidentally took him off guard before he could brace his muscles, and pinned it to the back of your chair. Once the move was complete, Kevin stood and patted the spot he held until Eddie’s arm curved flush against your shoulders. Then he winked and walked off, no longer shuffling. Eddie stared open-mouthed at the determination.

His insides clenched with unreleased tension. The holly hung in the doorway. Things he wasn’t supposed to do. Anxiety, nerves heightened with the sensation of your solid body breathing beneath the weight of him.

Adrie mumbled something about what was happening on screen, and you said something back, nodding.

It’s not like this was the first time he put his arm around a girl. But it was the first time he did so with the burden of pessimism warning him not to.

He scrutinized the side of your face for any sign of acknowledgement that his arm was around you, but if you cared, you didn’t show it. You remained poised as ever.

You didn’t mind, outwardly.

So he didn’t either.

It was only in front of his boss that he lifted his arm to comb the hair off his neck when Mr. Moore entered. And as soon as he was gone, Eddie strung it casually across the back of your chair again, twirling a curl of Adrie’s hair around his finger.

And when Carl came in, you sat forward for the entire duration of his stay, eating a marshmallow while he was in the room. And when he left, you sank back into your seat.

The third time someone came in, neither of you moved. You followed each other’s lead and did nothing. Subconsciously–or consciously–finding the courage to fit your bodies together in a purposeful way, relaxing towards one another, and slotting into the cushiony space his arm allowed against his bulky jacket.

Time went on like that.

The conversation between you two was the easy kind. Wordless, intuitive. Exchanged in the permanent grin affixed to his face, and your tender hums of affection when you looked at him or Adrie. Somewhere in the silent conversation, he summoned the balls to stroke his thumb–only once–over the soft slope of your bicep, and coped with the aftermath of studying the profile of your lips tugging up at the corners.

~~~

The party came to its natural conclusion when the game ended. Eddie scooped what was left in the crockpots into mismatched tupperware he brought from home, filling up an old butter container with chili, and rinsing out the cookware to give back to its original owner. He placed cupcakes in their plastic clamshell packaging, and downsized the veggie tray into a manageable load. You played the part of an amiable host, and wished everyone a happy holiday on their way out, insisting you’d take care of cleaning up. Really, it was no problem. You had Eddie with you, and Adrie was helping by falling asleep with a crayon in her hand.

Eddie listened to you usher them out the door, and lock it behind them once they drove away.

In truth, he preferred them gone when you both made trips to his car, loading the backseat with the leftovers. Didn’t matter if they were room temperature carrots, or the mangled overcooked meatballs from the bottom of the crockpot, he accepted them.

He took inventory of the last containers on the breakroom table while you woke up Adrie, and for once, he felt okay.

Normally stress chewed holes in his stomach this time of year, but knowing the panic of not paying the electric bill before incurring another late fee would be eliminated by the generous bonus Moore gave him in the white envelope tucked away in his inner jacket pocket, Eddie felt.. alright. Like things would be alright. He put enough aside for his daughter to have one big present this year, and things would be alright.

“Ready?” you asked, holding Adrie’s hand in the doorway.

“Yeah, it’s just these two containers, and we’re good. Were we doing anything about the decorations?”

“Nah.” You waved him off. “We can take them down after the break.”

More than happy to get home and reap the reward of a full night’s sleep, he picked her up mid-yawn, and you carried the last of the containers to the car for him. While you found available space to shove the tupperware without it spilling, Eddie swayed with Adrie. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, and closed his eyes, feeling himself meld into the drowsy moment, comforted by her weight in his arms.

He heard the gravel crunch from your movement, and your shivered exhale beneath your jacket. It was his turn to put Adrie in her carseat, but when he caught the dewy glimmer in your eye, he thought he might hold onto her for the next eternity if it meant he could earn that soft awe from you again.

However, it was cold out, and he should hurry up.

“Uh, there’s uh,” you started, standing back while he buckled Adrie in. “There’s actually one more thing inside.”

“There is?” he questioned dumbly. He glanced at your incessant finger guns pointed towards the back entrance door, and tried to picture what he left behind.

“Yeah, if you could just help me real quick.”

He shrugged and tucked the quilt tight around Adrie. “I’ll be right back, okay?” She nodded, and covered the lower half of her face with the blanket.

Still cool, calm, and collected, Eddie followed you into the garage, through the glass door, into the lobby, down the hallway, and stopped when you stopped. In the breakroom doorway. Under the..

He struggled to swallow around the lump in his throat.

Adrenaline raced to his nerves, to his brain, to his heart jumping in confusion. The addictive buzz enabled him to remember each detail of your lips parting, the sound of your shallow inhale, and the sting of doubt on his cheeks when you spun around and pried out the noisy keyring from your pocket, shaking them until you found the one to the storage closet.

You turned the key in the door opposite him in the hallway, and reached inside, into the dark. “I, uhm.. I got a present for Adrie, if that’s okay..”

“You..?” He went silent at the large gift bag you held out to him, with the giant portrait of jolly Saint Nick on the front bulging from what was inside.

Second guessing if you were overstepping boundaries with the gesture, you faltered, “If it’s not okay, I can, I guess–?”

“No, no,” he finally said, screwing his eyes shut at realizing he just stood there like a moron. “No, that’s, that’s so nice of you. I-I don’t even know what to say. Just, yeah.. You didn’t have to do something like that.” He accepted the bag, and hugged it to him, crushing the decorative tissue paper sticking out the top.

“I signed it as being from Santa. I figured that was appropriate.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect. Uhm.. wow.”

He was doing his favorite trait–where his smile evolved into an open laugh; a little obnoxious, and a lot flirty–and he could tell when you beamed up at him and your cheesy grin overflowed into a giggle, it was your favorite trait too.

And you kept the presents rolling.

“As Office Administrator,” you said with a spry loveliness in your sidling up to him, “I have some insider knowledge that someone put in a good word for you, and uh, it looks like you’re getting a pretty nice raise at the beginning of the new year.” There was no mistaking who. “And I heard through the grapevine that Mr. Moore is going to start pulling from his retirement in June, and Misty isn’t interested in running the family business, so he’s seeking out a new owner,” you put more than a hint of inflection on the end of the sentence, and gave him a look.

You shrugged your shoulder to your chin. “Anyway, do with that information what you will.”

Eddie stayed stupefied, speechless, staring down at the bag. Because you were you, you ended the conversation with a weak punch to his arm when a car drove into the parking lot.

“That’s Robin,” you said.

He watched you walk away. Down the hall, into the lobby. Putting distance between him and the doorway to the breakroom, where his regrets taunted him.

The sharp leaves and red berries were lost amongst the shadows, but their warning rang true. The reasons he shouldn’t kiss you. The talk he never had with Adrie, the potential expiration date even if things did work out between you two, the issue of seeing each other every day and knowing he couldn’t handle the habitual rejection of ignoring the other’s existence if things went bad.

New year, same old coward.

Except.

An idea.

An impulse.

A vicious desire.

He rejected the rejection. “Wait!”

You turned, and jumped at his sudden appearance. Eyebrows raised in surprise, a fresh smile lighting up your face in the gentle moonlight.

Eddie stopped you by grabbing your hand, wielding you closer with his rough fingers pressed into your sweaty palm until your arms entwined, and your jackets rubbed. He dropped his head to the side with a shameful shake, and ran the tip of his tongue along his teeth, building to an apologetic admission. “I’m doing that thing again where I forget to thank you,” he said, not needing to speak above a whisper as he gazed down at you, unafraid.

“Then thank me,” you replied, curling your fingers around his.

His wavering voice went deeper in his chest, “Words don’t feel good enough anymore.” The bag under his arm crinkled as he lifted a finger at Robin who had come to peer inside the window, and very quickly made herself scarce after witnessing the moment she was intruding on. “You’re too sweet, and I don’t even get to drive you home.”

You encouraged him in a laugh. “Then think of another way to thank me that’s not transportation based.”

A bad thought bloomed warmth across his cheeks. “I will,” he promised, nodding. “I’ll find a better way to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and Adrie. Something good.”

“Looking forward to it.”

You lingered for a second, waiting, and when you both remained kissless, you rocked your body into him, cozying your sides together with your joined arms squeezed between in a sort of goodbye hug. “Speaking of Adrie, you might want to get back to her before she becomes a popsicle.”

He inhaled sharply and snapped his head up. “Yeah, I should probably go start the car.”

“Have a good holiday, Eddie. Get lots of rest over the break, okay?”

“I will, I will.”

With an absolutely astounding amount of memories made today, you were both content to step away from each other and go home to begin the tossing and turning, sickly sweet, cold-side-of-the-pillow reminiscing about the brave glances, and daring touches.

You reached for the door handle.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You stalled with your back facing him. Thinking you were sly, you checked the reflection to see what part of you his gaze was admiring, and you laughed.

Finally. He was making eye contact with you through the glass.

“Goodnight, handsome,” you answered, and left with your smile ducked into your collar.

The evening ended spectacularly.

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