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blueywrites · 2 years

Text

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, mutual pining

chapter six: hey girl (18k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the song for this chapter is #17-#23. All songs are mentioned by name with the exception of the last song, which is Gato de Noche. The Spanish lyrics mentioned in the text may hold some significance.

Wrapped up in her again

I was starting to spin

A record I can't pause

Hey Girl — Stephen Sanchez

You click in your lap belt, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the screen of your Switch balanced on your thighs. Your villager is seated on a mushroom log, her little head bobbing as she waits for you. She has many choices for how she can occupy her day. Perhaps you'll have her fish in the pond near her log cabin. Or maybe she'll start by checking out Tom Nook's shop for the daily selection of new furniture. You know for sure she'll be visiting her neighbors to see what new recipe she can learn to craft today.

Yes, your little Animal Crossing girl is waiting for you, and you try to focus on only that as the rumble beneath you intensifies, and the engine's roar turns nearly deafening. You don't look around the cabin, and you don't look out the tiny window to your right. But you do look at the girl to your left when her powdery-soft hand covers yours. You peer nervously into bright blue eyes and a megawatt smile that reveals slightly crooked teeth which only serve to make her look more charming.

"It's okay," Chrissy whispers, working her fingers between yours and squeezing comfortingly. "I'm right here."

You squeeze her back as the plane taxis on the runway. A hazel eye suddenly peeks at you from between the seats, concerned beneath a tousled head of brown hair. "You okay, baby?" Steve asks, and you nod, head bobbing extra hard as if to convince yourself. "It's only three hours. We'll be there before you know it. Want me to switch with Chris and sit with you?"

Chrissy, looks at you encouragingly. "Whatever you want," she says.

"...No," you reply, voice small. "It's okay. I'll be fine."

You feel the nerves intensify as the plane starts to rumble forward, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. Your breath begins to quicken as the acceleration pushes you back against the plasticky cushions—

Suddenly, a head of wild curls pops above the seat in front of you, brown eyes gleaming over a wide grin as Eddie plants his chin against the seatback. Anatomically, that would be impossible if he was following proper safety protocol; he must be breaking at least three rules of etiquette during takeoff.

"Eddie!" You hiss, gaze darting around the cabin to see if anyone has noticed. "Sit down!" You glance at Chrissy, but she's eyeing her boyfriend with a flat, resigned stare, clearly used to being unable to control him.

"I am sitting down," he replies with a cheeky tilt to those full lips. His arms join his chin as he folds them casually against the seatback. "Well, I'm half-sitting, half-kneeling, but still—"

"It's not safe!"

Eddie scoffs lightly, expression rife with mischief. "I'm perfectly safe, sweetheart. Car accidents kill far more people every year than plane crashes. I'm safer here than I would be driving my van."

"Truer words have never been spoken," Chrissy mutters to herself. Eddie merely smiles widely.

"See that? Chris agrees with me."

The force of your outraged glare only makes him chuckle. You sputter, "Eddie… if we get kicked off this flight because you don't know how to sit still for three hours—"

"Oh, I can sit still." Eddie cuts you off, glancing toward the nearby cabin wall before his eyes return to you, expression smug. "And you may want to look out the window."

You realize the scenery outside now looks like a circuit board— darkness cut by hundreds of tiny glittering lights in hues of white, red, and yellow, arranged in lines and grids far beneath you now.

You let out a slow breath, hand unclenching from Chrissy's. Eddie smiles again, pleased this time. "Ya see? The worst is over." His head disappears as he flops back into his seat; you exchange a pointed glance with Chrissy as you hear him say, "Don't worry. I'll be back for the landing."

After Chrissy and Eddie had left the night of the rule break back in early May, you'd fully expected things to be awkward between you despite Steve's assurances that he wasn't angry. You'd figured that, at the very least, Steve would be distant or cold to you or Eddie, or that he might decide he wants to pause your arrangement. But it seems that Steve has made every effort to convince everyone things are entirely normal. In doing so, somehow, they are.

At home, Steve is attentive and cheerful. He began a new habit of making dinner for you both on Thursday nights. He texts you whenever he's going to be home late, as well as throughout the day when you’re apart— sending you pictures that remind him of you, checking in on your work day, responding to your Tiktoks, or sometimes just leaving you cute little messages that make you giggle in the staff room while you eat your lunch. And when Steve’s hazel eyes shine as he holds you close and kisses your forehead, you feel a low flutter in your belly. You nuzzle into his chest, inhaling citrus and sea salt as he tells you he loves you.

He says it all the time.

Group play still occurs at least once a week, and you can't detect any tension between Steve and Eddie. You figure they must have spoken privately soon after what happened, and you're relieved that Steve is full of broad grins, affectionate back claps, and friendly banter whenever they're together. You know that must put Eddie at ease. Though he hadn't breathed a word about it since you'd texted that night, you're sure he'd been upset to have angered his friend.

When your phone had buzzed the morning after the incident, your first instinct was confusion, thinking that Eddie was texting you again; he never texts you during the day. But you'd been even more confused— even nervous— to see it wasn’t Eddie. Your heart hammered at the sight of Chrissy’s name, and you'd swipe open her message before even turning your alarm off. You were expecting the worst— accusations, bitterness, anger, something— but you were left floored at what she'd actually said.

'Hey, hon! Just wanted to check in and see how you're doing today. I hope you're not still upset and that Steve's okay, too. Just know I'm here for you.' She'd followed it up with a few sparkly pink hearts.

Chrissy's thoughtfulness struck you hard, and you found your eyes pricking with the sting of guilty tears at the utter lack of sourness in her message. 'I'm okay,' you'd replied. 'Steve and I talked last night, and he's okay, too. I really appreciate you texting.' You pause, lips twisting with remorse, shame sinking in your chest until you add, 'I feel like I owe you an apology. If I'd moved faster, this all could've been avoided. I'm sorry.'

You bite your thumbnail as you wait for Chrissy's response, but it comes quickly enough to stop your doubt from spiraling. 'Oh, babes, don't apologize!! It totally happens, and I'm not mad at all! Maybe next time, try squatting instead, so you have more leverage to push off when you need to. With more practice, you'll get used to it. You'll be a pro in no time." She'd sent a few kissy faces and heart emojis, enough that the guilt inside settled quickly, quelled with the force of her bubbly kindness.

'Thanks, Chrissy.' You'd sent her a heart too.

And, by some act of fortune, that had been that. You hadn't spoken of the rule break since, nor had you noticed any lasting repercussions on your group dynamic. Chrissy is still insistent on constant attention, but not any more so than she had been before. Eddie is still attentive but happy to go with the flow, as usual. And even Steve has continued to behave exactly the same. He isn't possessive when you go to Eddie, and Eddie goes to you. And, in fact, Steve shocks you even more when he suggests you all take a mini-vacation together: a weekend getaway to Miami in early June.

It's a much-needed respite from the drollness of your weekly routine working at the pediatrician's office; a lovely way to kick off the start of warm weather. You've never been to Miami, and you're eager to share in the new experience with Steve and your friends.

You're half-expecting the other shoe to drop when Steve sits you down at the kitchen table a couple of days later, regarding you seriously. But the conversation isn't a rehashing of the rule-break you'd feared it would be. Instead, Steve calmly and quietly explains that he wants to pay for Eddie and Chrissy's half of the shared hotel room and their plane tickets. You think of the text message Chrissy received from her mother, sympathy churning as the understanding passes between you— that you both have some knowledge of your friends' financial troubles but won't discuss it. You take Steve's hand, squeezing it tight as you tell him you admire his generosity, that it's one of the things you love most about him. Though he protests, you insist on paying for your share of the trip, wanting to do something to contribute. Steve's hazel eyes shine as he kisses your hand, and the way you move together that night, just the two of you, is more tender than it's been in quite some time.

Ahead of your trip, you and Chrissy spend an afternoon at the mall, and it's just as delightful as your first girls' trip had been. The mini-vacation is short— just a weekend— and because Eddie can't take off from work, you’ll be flying on Friday night after his shift. This means you only have two days and one night to plan for, and you decide to purchase a new bathing suit and an outfit for Saturday evening. Chrissy doesn't want anything, though you offer to pay; she insists that she has plenty in her closet she still hasn't worn from last year, and it would be wasteful to get something new. You suspect it's an excuse, but you kindly let her hide behind it anyway. Just like last time, Chrissy encourages you to step out of your comfort zone, and you end up leaving the mall giddy with your daring new purchases.

Soon enough, the first week of June arrives. The days zip to Friday, you zip to the airport, and now here you are, Switch balanced on the armrest between you and Chrissy as she coos and squeals over how cute Animal Crossing is. She's adorably attentive, and you find yourself both grateful and endeared as she lets you show her every inch of your island: all the fish and bugs you've caught, now displayed in the museum; all the rooms of your heavily-decorated log cabin; all the flowers and landscaping around your villagers' houses. Between playing and explaining to Chrissy what you're doing as you do it, the three hours pass by almost absurdly quickly.

True to his word, Eddie pops back around for the landing once the flight attendants have strapped in out of sight, grinning down at you from above the seatback like the Cheshire cat as you eye him flatly.

"Does he never listen?" You ask Chrissy, and you share a long-suffering glance, crossing your arms in a nearly synchronized show of exasperation.

"No," Chrissy replies flatly at the same time that Eddie protests,

"Yes!" He pouts, gaze darting between you both. "I listen—"

"When it suits you," Chrissy interjects, and you roll your eyes at the wolfish grin that splits Eddie's face.

"Precisely," he says, sounding utterly pleased with himself as you feel the skid-thunk of the plane landing on the tarmac.

Between your long night of packing on Thursday, your half day at the pediatrician's office, the long lines at the TSA, and the long-ish flight, you're now left thoroughly exhausted, swaying on your feet in front of the hotel check-in desk. Eddie is the only person who looks more tired than you— there are deep, dark circles under his squinty eyes as he leans his hands against the counter, elbows locked to keep himself upright. When you get your room, it's with silent agreement that you all prepare for bed. The guys strip down to underwear, you change into your pajamas, and Chrissy sheds all her layers to sleep nude. You don't even take a moment to examine your surroundings before you collapse into the bed furthest from the door, legs stretching against the luxurious sheets as Steve cuddles up behind you. He wraps you in warmth and the familiar scent of citrus and sea salt cologne that still clings to his skin.

You're asleep within seconds, and the pleased smile that kisses your lips lingers the entire night you spend in Steve's arms.

–

You wake to a balmy breeze and luminous sunshine flowing through the gauzy curtains. It's much earlier than you'd normally rise on a Saturday— early for everyone, you figure, especially Eddie, who looks like the walking dead with that nest of tangled curls around his head as he shuffles off to the bathroom.

As tired as you were last night, you have yet to examine your hotel room. You know the sheets are crisp and smell pleasantly like fresh laundry, and the tile floor is pleasantly cool under your bare toes, but that’s about it. Now, you can see that the room isn't too big, but it has two full beds, a closet and a dresser, and a fairly sizeable bathroom. You’re glad Steve decided to spend up for the location as opposed to the size of the room— it’s clean and seems to have high-quality linens, which, in your opinion, is all that really matters, especially since you’re only staying here for two nights. There is also a balcony facing the ocean, only a block away. You catch peeks of the water from the sliding glass door when the long curtains billow, and you smile when you consider how nice it'll be to sit out there with a glass of wine or, perhaps, with a coffee on Sunday morning.

It's morning now, but you don't have time to indulge in a lazy morning coffee. You'd all decided to make the most of your two days by jamming as much as possible into this one and then leaving tomorrow open to relax a little after an expected late night tonight. First order of business: get to the beach soon to snag a good spot.

You glance towards the other bed to see Chrissy still nude as she riffles in her suitcase. You do the same, digging for your bathing suit: a bikini the deep yellow-orange of a ripe sunflower, bottoms cut high on your waist to show off your wide hips, and top constructed of simple, delicate triangles that reveal more than they conceal. It's much skimpier than you're used to, and you feel a flash of doubt now that you're actually here, thinking about wearing it in public. That self-consciousness had been quelled by Chrissy's eager enthusiasm when you'd picked it out together, but it resurges now. You quickly retrieve your coverup: a long flowy dress, loose but cinched with a dainty tie at the waist. It drapes over you sumptuously, reminding you a little of a Grecian goddess— light, cool, something you can both feel comfortable and half-hide in. Your compromise to yourself when you'd packed, which you're intensely grateful for now.

You'd gotten used to these people seeing your body— Steve, who's donning navy swim shorts with little sailboats on them, messing with his hair in the full-length mirror; Chrissy, who's laid her even skimpier white string bikini out on the bed, ready for her once she finishes applying her suntan oil; and Eddie, who's rubbing sunscreen into his inky tattoos with care that seems out of place coming from him, pink tongue peeking between his lips in concentration. You may be used to them seeing you, but with that discomfort now wriggling in your belly, you don't follow Chrissy's lead; you duck instead into the bathroom to get changed.

Steve pokes his head past the half-closed door to find you with your foot up on the tub's rim, rubbing the white of your sunscreen away. You see him in the mirror, and he returns your smile.

"Want me to do your back?"

"Yes, please," you reply. He moves close behind you, fingers warm as he thoroughly rubs the lotion into your back, careful not to miss any spots. When he's done, you offer to reciprocate.

"Nah, I'm fine," Steve says, grinning at you. "I'm trying to work on my tan."

You eye him with fond exasperation. "You know you can still get tan with sunscreen," you point out, careful to avoid getting sunscreen on your dress as you lift it over your head.

You can hear the smile in Steve's voice behind you while you watch yourself tie the string beneath your breasts, adjusting the fabric til it drapes how you want it to. "It's not as good, though," he says lightly, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

"If you say so," you say dryly, emerging to find Chrissy with her hair now in a springy ponytail, sunglasses perched on her head, beach bag slung over her shoulder.

"Ready?" she asks brightly, and you notice she isn't really wearing a coverup— just an entirely sheer skirt slung low on her hips, meant to entice more than anything else. She must be serious about her tan, you think, watching as she drops the bottle of suntan oil into her oversized bag. You grab your own tote and slip on your sandals, glancing at Eddie as he says, still sleep-hoarse,

"As I'll ever be at this godforsaken hour." He's facing away from you, hair pulled into a low messy bun at the nape of his neck, and your face crumples in amusement as you notice that, despite how fastidious he'd been about his tattoos, the sunscreen applied to the rest of his body seemed to be slapped on haphazardly— streaky, still white on his shoulders and the backs of his calves. You suspect that if you were to touch the middle of his back where he can't reach, it would be completely dry.

"Hold on," you sigh. Eddie half-turns, eyeing you curiously as you approach him determinedly.

"What're you doin'?" He mumbles, brown eyes still hazy with sleep. You press your fingers to his shoulders to straighten them again, so he's facing away from you.

Brisky, you squeeze sunscreen into your hands, replying with amusement, "How could you be so careful with your tattoos and so sloppy with the rest of you? Unacceptable."

Eddie huffs but holds still as you rub sunscreen into his shoulders, using the back of your hand to push up his bun so you can get his neck too. "D'you know how much pain I endured to get these bad boys? No way am I lettin' 'em fade."

"Well, you should pay the rest of your skin the same respect. With how pale you are, you would absolutely burn to a crisp out there." You work quickly and clinically, smoothing your hands over Eddie's sides and the small of his back before kneeling so you can get his knees and calves where they're exposed beneath the black trunks slung low on his hips. When your cold fingers sneak up under the hem to cover the bottom inch or so of his thighs, Eddie yelps, leg twitching away from your touch.

You twist your lips against a smile as he grumbles, "Your fingers are cold."

"Oh, don't be a baby," you retort lightly, patting him on the back of his calf when you're done. "There. Now you won't get skin cancer." He huffs again, brown eyes flashing as he twists to regard you flatly when you straighten. You beam at him. "Thank you, y/n," you prompt him, exaggeratedly cheeky.

Despite himself, a corner of Eddie's lips quirks then. "Thanks, I guess," he says, as you don your tote again. Steve slings his arm around your shoulders, and you smile up at him as he tugs you close.

"Now we're ready," you announce— and with that, you all set off for the gleaming sands of Miami's beaches.

–

The nearby lifeguard stand— which is more a full structure with a spiraling staircase than a stand— is bright pink, orange, and green, the gaudiest you've ever seen as you all traipse over the sand onto South Beach. Despite the early hour, it’s already teeming with people setting up their chairs and umbrellas and towels, preparing for a day rife with the promise of summer fun. You all settle on a spot not too far from that flashy landmark, and you gaze out at the water as the breeze ruffles your dress and hair. Your eyes are fixed on the clear turquoise of the water, the line where it meets the periwinkle of the sky dusted with fluffy clouds. A perfect beach day.

Despite the alluring color of the water, you sink into one of the two folding beach chairs Steve sets up, supplied by the hotel. In front of you, Eddie flops stomach-down onto the towel he's laid haphazardly against the sand; beside him, Chrissy sits much more gracefully, leaning back on her palms as she stretches her bare legs, sheer skirt abandoned as soon as you'd chosen your spot. "Oh, this is so nice!" she exclaims, and you can't help but wholeheartedly agree as you reach into your tote bag for your beach essentials: a new book and your AirPods.

The sea breeze is balmy, and the sun plays between the shifting clouds, bathing you in relaxing warmth as you dig your toes contentedly into the sand. Despite the many strangers around you, the beach is not yet too loud. Everything feels subdued, dream-like almost, so you keep your earbuds out and instead listen to the chorus of the rhythmic waves and the distant cries of seagulls, letting them become your soundtrack for now. Steve's broad hand rests comfortably upon your knee, nearly hot through the light fabric of your dress, and his thumb traces a random pattern. Your head tilts as you sigh, a smile playing on your lips, eyes heavy with the peace of this moment as you glance at each of your companions: Chrissy stretched out to soak up the rays, skin glistening with suntan oil; Eddie with his curly head pillowed face-down on his arms, body so slack you suspect he's probably fallen back asleep; and Steve at your side, hazel eyes affectionate as you smile wider at him. His expression softens as he regards you before murmuring, "Are you happy?"

"Yes," you answer quietly. Sincerely. "I'm very happy."

Steve seems pleased at your answer, and when you brush his hair back out of his eye, he catches your hand gently to press a tender kiss to your wrist. "Good," he murmurs against your skin, another kiss lingering until he releases your hand. Fondness bubbling up inside, you lean over towards your boyfriend; when you kiss him, Steve tastes salty from the breeze on his lips.

This is how you spend the first couple of hours or so: absorbed in your book as Steve alternates between scrolling on his phone, resting with heavy, contented sighs, and occasionally pressing kisses to your fingers as you keep reading, ensuring that you feel steadily more full with hazy contentment as he pays you unobtrusive attention. At one point, he decides to dip into the water after asking if any of you want to join him. But Eddie is asleep, Chrissy is sunbathing, and the book has just gotten good, so he goes by himself without complaint. He wanders back soon enough, noting that the water is too cold for him to venture in past his ankles.

Around eleven, you crack open the tiny cooler Steve had packed, pulling out water bottles and cans of High Noon and Corona, then snacking on chips, salsa, and orange slices. You sit with Chrissy on her blanket as she peels the flesh from her orange rinds, and Steve nudges Eddie's leg out of the way so he can join in too. Eddie wakes up then, crossing his legs as he leans forward eagerly to peer into the container. "No strawberries?" he asks, pouting lightly, and you feel affection well up as you pass him the chip you'd just loaded with salsa in recompense. He seems adequately satisfied with the substitute, and you continue to indulge in salty chips, savory salsa, and sweet fruit until you're content.

Not long after you've returned to reading, a flurry of activity some distance away draws your attention. By the green edge at the top of the beach, some men and women around your age are mingling in a clump near a portable volleyball net.

You notice Steve eyeing the activity with interest; you smile as you see his enthusiasm. "I think I'm gonna go over there," he says, neck craning to see better. "Doesn't look like they have enough people yet."

"What's— ooh!" Chrissy's blue eyes brighten as she twists to look. "I love volleyball!"

"Wanna get in on it with me?"

"Oh, hell yes!" Chrissy exclaims, popping up without hesitation. Steve glances at you again, brows perked behind his bangs as if he's checking for your approval.

"Go for it," you say, chuckling as he scrambles up immediately, brushing the sand from his legs as he and Chrissy jog over toward the group. You watch them exchange words with one of them, pleased when Steve's face lights up with a broad grin, and he claps the guy on the shoulder.

You feel your left side suddenly dip as the sand shifts when Eddie tumbles into the chair beside you, drawing your attention from Steve as you flash a smile at him. You go back to watching as Steve and Chrissy choose their spots around the net, book forgotten as you follow Steve's movements with interest— the broad muscles on his back, his tanned arms stretching as he volleys the ball easily before falling into a slight crouch, coiled and poised to move wherever he needs to. When he sets up a teammate and they score the first point, you can hear Chrissy's delighted shriek from across the sand. Steve and Chrissy exchange an enthusiastic double high-five before he glances back, hand dragging through his hair as his eyes dart. And when you wave your hand high in the air, so Steve knows that you saw his set-up, the broadness of his brilliant smile warms you inside.

Beside you, that smoke voice curls against your ear. "You make him really happy, you know." You glance at Eddie to see him looking past you, brown eyes still fixed on the makeshift volleyball court, gleaming with fondness. "He'd dated around a bit since Nancy, but you're the first girl he was ever really serious about. He's been much happier these last few years since you came around."

Though the sentiment settles comfortably behind your sternum, you can't help but also feel confused. "Thanks, I'm really glad he's happy," you say sincerely before adding, "Who's Nancy?"

Eddie's eyes had drifted back toward the game, but they snap to you then, suddenly wide. "Steve never mentioned…?" Eddie's voice is a little weak before he trails off, and when you shake your head, you watch his expression go a little panicked and sheepish. "Ah… shit," he finally says, face contorting in a wince. "I guess I shouldn't have said anything."

You frown. Eddie’s behavior reveals that not only had he expected you to know about this— which means it's something Steve is keeping from you— but that he considers it to be touchy enough that he regrets mentioning it. As your book slides on your lap when you lean toward him, you close it without looking, dropping it impatiently to the sand. "Well, now you have to tell me, Eddie." You stare at him as his eyes narrow hesitantly, but your expression is unwavering. "You can't just leave me hanging after saying something like that."

Eddie sighs heavily, hands rubbing against his thighs as he looks out at the ocean. He tugs absently on a lock of his hair as he talks. "Steve dated this girl, Nancy, for almost all of high school. She's the same age as you and Chris." Your eyes are rapt to Eddie's face as he glances at you. "They got together when she was a freshman. They became really close." He shifts, facing you more directly. "You know, a lot of couples break up when they graduate, especially if one person is still in high school and one is going on to college. But Steve was committed despite things being long-distance. He even got close with her family. Went on vacations with them, shared holidays, that kind of thing."

Eddie's eyes soften with sympathy for his friend as they dart between yours, and he adds quietly, "You know what things are like with his parents, so..." You nod, somber as you remember Steve confiding in you the broken state of his relationship with his mother and father. He tries to pretend it doesn't bother him, but you know it's still a wound, especially around the holidays. It's why you always make sure those times are busy for him and full of cheer. It helps that your parents and older sister love Steve, and he fits in seamlessly with your family.

Eddie's voice snaps you out of your musing. "Nancy's younger brother was in D&D club with me in school, so that's how Steve and I got better acquainted. And, uh… that's kind of the basics." He pauses, and you feel your stomach sink with the expression on his face. Eddie speaks slowly, carefully, as if he's treading lightly for the first time in his recounting of this story. "And then they broke up. 'Cause she… well, she cheated on him." You glance at your lap, weighed down with the seriousness apparent in Eddie's voice, how he lapses into somber silence. Clearly, this event was defining in Steve's life. Quietly, Eddie adds, "He was upset about it for… a long time." He shrugs a little helplessly, contrite. "And that's probably about as much as I should say. You could ask him about it if you wanna know more."

You nod slowly, chest heavy with sympathetic sorrow for your boyfriend. But your mind is swirling with all you've learned, all you'd never known. "Yeah," you say, unsure whether you will. Because even though you'd told Steve everything— about the two boyfriends you'd had before him; about how you'd done stuff with them but hadn’t gone all the way before him; about how he'd been the first guy you'd ever said 'I love you' to— even though you'd told him all of that, not once had Steve ever mentioned anything about Nancy. And you feel foreboding pang deep in the pit of your stomach, mixing with the weight of your sorrow until you're too uncomfortable to dwell anymore.

You ask quickly, "Did you and Chrissy start dating in high school?"

Eddie is clearly relieved that you've dropped the subject and won't press him for more. "Yep," he replies, "she almost got away— we started dating when she was a senior."

Desperate for the distraction of a story told with typical Eddie-level theatrics, you lean your elbow on the arm of the chair and plant your chin there, tilting towards him as you ask eagerly, "How'd you get together? Don't spare the details; I wanna hear it all."

"All right," he grins, flashing eye teeth as his eyes brighten at the promise of weaving his tale. Short curls sway around his pale quartz face as he gestures dramatically. "So, picture this: Chrissy Cunningham, head cheerleader, cute as a button. The sweetest, most popular girl in school; the queen—" Eddie's voice goes all breathy with dramatic awe, "—of Hawkins High." When you giggle at his antics, his expression falls into a broad grin. "And she's dating this bible thumpin' golden boy, head of the basketball team, personal torturer of nerds and outcasts everywhere. He's the king to Chrissy's queen, the supreme douche himself... Jason Carver."

You stifle your amused smile in an effort to say seriously, "I take it you and he didn't get along."

"Oh," Eddie says easily, "hated each other's fuckin' guts. Anyway…" he plants his elbow on his own chair arm to mirror your posture, leaning in and affecting his voice like you're two girlfriends gossiping. "So what had happened was, Chrissy was getting a little sick and tired of all the pressure to be perfect all the time. Perfect looks, perfect grades, perfect boyfriend, perfect future. So she started lookin' for ways to, ah… take the edge off. Let loose a little bit." He eyes you cautiously, letting his voice trail into implication. "You know…"

You assume Eddie is probably talking about drugs, though he seems to be reluctant to acknowledge it outright. "I get it," you say dryly, though not unkindly, and his lips tilt in a little smile before he continues.

"So that's how we started talking. And what began as a little bit of business turned to some steamy meetings at the picnic bench in the woods outside school, and, ya know… this lead to that, and the rest is history." He smiles broadly. "So the queen of Hawkins High left the king and started dating the freak."

Eddie says the word 'freak' with the utmost lightness, but the word strikes you immediately. You frown, nose wrinkling as you repeat him incredulously. "Freak?"

"Yeah," he replies casually, lounging back, stretching his lanky legs comfortably. "That's what they called me."

You blink rapidly as you're left reeling with the absurdity of it— that someone could look at the gorgeous man sitting beside you and call him a freak. You scoff, mouth working soundlessly until you can finally speak, unable to keep from sounding appalled. "What, 'cause you… you were into heavy metal and, like, had your ears pierced?"

Eddie chuckles a little weakly, brown eyes darting from your stare, which is fierce with offense for him. "Well, I mean, it wasn't just that," he replies, shifting in his seat.

You swallow, leaning back and reigning in the vehemence of your reaction when you see how you're making Eddie uncomfortable. You want to question him more, to force him to tell you what else there could be to justify them calling him something like that. But Eddie's brown eyes are clouded, a little frown creasing between his dark brows as he taps his fingers against his thigh. You decide not to pry. "That just seems so… bizarre," you say. "That people would still think like that."

Eddie chuckles again, a little wry but not as weak this time. "Small-town Indiana, you know? It's like they're stuck in the fifties. Everybody's gotta be a certain way, or else."

"Well," you reply, smiling gently as he looks at you again when you say sincerely, "I'm glad Chrissy didn't fall into that stupid trap. You guys seem really good together." Fondness blooms in your chest when Eddie smiles back.

"It's been five years now. Moved in together near the end of last year, actually. It was a bit of an adjustment at first, but it's been good."

Your eyes glint with mischievousness then, and you can't help but tease, "Wait, let me guess: you're a roll-under instead of a roll-over toilet paper guy, aren't you?"

Eddie feigns a gasp, pressing a hand to his inked chest. "How dare you accuse me of such wretchedness."

You giggle, and he breaks the affronted act quickly, the husky sound of his genuine laughter warming you inside, fluttering low in your belly. You eye Eddie for a moment, realizing that this is the longest and most open conversation you've probably ever had with him. And there's something that's been nagging at you, especially since Chrissy had checked in so kindly with you after that night Steve got mad. It's something you were never going to bring up to Chrissy, but considering how forthcoming Eddie's been this morning, maybe he'll be receptive to you asking. "So, when we went to see Avatar back in May, I accidentally saw this text from her mom. Is Chrissy, like… okay?"

Eddie sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his hair as his expression falls slightly. "Yeah, she's… she's okay." He glances away again. "She has a rough relationship with her parents, especially with her mom. 'Member how I said she had all that pressure, and that's why we started talking?" He glances briefly at you to see you nod. "They had all these expectations for what they wanted her to do with her life— go to church every Sunday, train hard for cheer while also getting perfect grades, go to the best college, marry Jason, all so she can become just like them. Look this way, say that thing. Be their perfect little… robot. And she just got sick of it. She didn't wanna do it anymore."

After a brief pause, Eddie slumps a little lower in the chair, rubbing at his knuckles. And his voice, when he says this, is so casual— but the way it affects you is anything but. "You know, sometimes, I think Chris wanted to stick it to her parents, and that's why she started dating me: Mr. Bad Reputation. But it's been five years, and she hasn't left me yet," he jokes, lips stretching with a grin even as you frown, retorting immediately,

"I don't see why she would ever leave you, Eddie. I mean, what's not to like?"

For a long moment, Eddie is quiet. Those brown eyes, normally so bright and lively, stay stuck on his hands as he fidgets with his fingers and ruddy knuckles. You figure he must be missing his typical rings, left back in the room to remain untarnished by salt water. He doesn't look at you, but your eyes are riveted on Eddie's downturned face, pale quartz framed by dark ink curls.

And then Eddie finally meets your gaze, face a mask of bland indifference. "I sold drugs all throughout high school. I failed senior year three times and only passed by the skin of my teeth. Obviously, I never went to college." You blink, almost wanting to look away at the baldness, the flatness of his words. The utter lack of feeling that feels so wrong coming from Eddie. "I grew up in a trailer park. I lived in low-income housing 'til I was twenty-three. And now, I'm a mechanic who can't afford to take one day off for a vacation." He huffs a humorless chuckle, quirking a sardonic brow as he stares at you. "Need I go on?"

Speaking can often be difficult for you. You usually fight to find the right words to say.

But looking into Eddie's eyes, the most beautiful shade of brown you've ever seen, you don't need to fight now. Not with these words. These words surge straight up from the bottom of you, from that hidden place grown lush with deep roots and slowly blooming greenery that now strains from the soil, leaves quivering, bending toward the man at your side. They burst from your mouth, and you don't even have to think about them. "Eddie. First of all, you're ridiculously talented and so passionate. It's like… electric to watch you perform. And you're funny. When we went to get ice cream that first time we met, I was nervous it would be awkward 'cause I usually don't know what to say around people I don't know. But you just have this way of making people laugh and feel at ease. You pretend you're all mean and scary because you listen to metal, but you're actually so incredibly kind. Plus, you're probably the realest person I know. Totally authentic and unapologetically an absolute weirdo." And your eyes, which once had darted from the intensity of this man beside you, from the light that shines within him— they don't flit away, not even once. Fiercely, determinedly, you finish your speech. "So. Like I said. What's not to like?"

There is another long pause as Eddie stares back at you, expression unreadable, blank aside from a little crease between his brows. You regard him calmly, patiently; you refrain from pressing him for a response, letting Eddie take his time to consider what you said. And you think, as the moment lingers, that perhaps you'll see it again: that pink on Eddie's black and white, the gentleness blooming out from his eyes, maybe now beginning to soften his features. Tentative hope builds as he holds your gaze, eyes darting between yours. And when Eddie's eyes dart to your lips, your heart thumps hard, moths fluttering; you scarcely dare to breathe.

But when Eddie's eyes meet yours again, he just shrugs one shoulder, letting it fall sharply as he looks away. When Eddie turns from you, he leans his chin in his palm, hunching forward; your stomach swoops with disappointment at his lackluster response, brow crumpling until you notice his knee bouncing erratically, hand fisted against his leg, knuckles white with the force of his grip. Your disappointment transforms to empathy as you watch him— tense, nostrils flared, brow tugged low over his brown eyes.

You realize that Eddie just doesn't know what to do with what you said about him. He doesn't know how to react to you hearing all the negative things he revealed about himself and excusing them entirely, focusing plainly on his good qualities. The ones you suspect that, maybe, Eddie has trouble seeing in himself. And you think about all the times Eddie has helped you through your own hesitance and anxiety, reassuring you in that calm way that almost seems like it would be unnatural coming from Eddie Munson, but has always felt right, just felt like a part of him.

Here is an opportunity for you to return Eddie's consistent kindness.

You move to stand in front of him, blocking Eddie's view of the ocean with your body. His brow crinkles as he looks up at you, fingers still curled over his mouth. "All right, you," you say brightly. "We're going for a walk on the beach. Maybe if you're lucky, we can get your pasty ass a tan."

Eddie's frown softens fractionally when you grin at him, but he doesn't move, expression a little skeptical. You hold out your hands expectantly, wiggling your fingers until Eddie, rather reluctantly, puts his hands in yours. "Come on, then—" your voice goes tight as you haul him up. "Holy— you're heavier than I thought you'd be," you pant, shaking out your arms dramatically as Eddie finds his footing. Those brown eyes are no longer as flat now, instead twinkling with slight amusement as you grab your phone and your AirPods case, presenting one earbud to him with a flourish. When Eddie doesn't reach out to take your offering, you snatch his hand, pressing it into his palm.

"What's this for?" he asks, staring down at the white bud.

You navigate to the Spotify app on your phone. "Have you never gone on a beach walk listening to music like you're in an indie teen movie?"

"Uh—" Eddie huffs a chuckle. "Can't say I have."

"Oh, you're missing out." When you see him eyeing you with skepticism, you roll your eyes exaggeratedly. "Look, I'll put my Spotify on shuffle. It'll be, like, seventy percent me, thirty percent you."

Eddie's laugh is genuine again, and you bask in the sound. "Somehow, I doubt that percentage," he retorts, though he gamely acquiesces, fitting the bud into his ear.

"Oh, ye of little faith!" You drop the case and your phone into your deep dress pocket and lead the way; they bounce against your thigh as Eddie falls into step with you. The first song begins with an eerie tinkling of bells before the guitar comes in, harsh and aggressive. You tilt your head as you eye him, saying smugly, "See?"

Eddie raises his hands, a grin tugging at his full lips. "I eat my words, sweetheart," he concedes, and your heads bob in time to the beat as you walk along the beach listening to The Summoning by Sleep Token. It strikes you as exceedingly amusing that, while everyone around you is casually lounging around on the beach in sunny Florida, you and Eddie are listening to eerie wailing and a heavy-metal singer husking, 'You've got my body, flesh and bone…' You giggle as Eddie gets really into it while he walks, strumming his invisible guitar and tossing his head until some more curls fall loose from his bun.

You walk in silence, soaking in the instrumentals until the dreamy soundscape interlude subsides into a funk breakdown, and the singer croons, 'Oh, and my love, did I mistake you for a sign from God?' "This is my favorite part!" You tell Eddie, eyes bright with enthusiasm as you turn to him.

You read his expression as both amused and impressed. "Okay, y/n. I see you. This part is sexy."

Eddie grins wolfishly as you flush, cheeks heating as you purse your lips; you walk a little faster, so he has to lope with longer steps to keep up. You hear him chuckling to himself but choose to ignore it.

The next song is Slow Mover by Angie McMahon, and within the first ten seconds of hearing her drawling voice, Eddie remarks, "Now I feel like I'm in an indie teen movie." You aren't sure whether he's being critical, but his expression is only slightly wry as he twists to walk backward in front of you instead of by your side. "Feel like I'm the main girl who's recklessly hitched a ride on a train, runnin' away from home towards the inevitable homelessness waiting for me in the city."

It takes considerable effort to keep your expression neutral while you say this, but by some miracle, you manage it. "Well, you certainly have the hair for it."

Eddie's eyes widen in delight even as his mouth falls open in outrage. "You sayin' I have hobo hair?" He makes to grab your waist, but you dodge him with a shrill shout, giggling. "Might have to rescind your nickname if you keep criticizing me. You'll be sweet girl no longer."

"No!" You whine softly, pouting up at him as you let him snatch you around the middle. "Anything but that." You're joking, but you're also not, though you giggle again as Eddie shimmies you playfully back and forth.

"Then be nice," he says warningly, and you nod your obedience quickly, eyes wide and beseeching. "'Kay then. I'll trust you," he says, releasing you so you can continue your wandering path along the beach.

As Angie sings, 'Friend, oh friend, I am a slow, slow girl,' you catch Eddie's brown eyes twinkling. "You are a slow girl," he says cheekily. "You're walking slow."

You pout, protesting his unfair assessment. "It's hard to walk on dry sand!"

"Then let's walk down there," Eddie offers, and you dip down to the water's edge, sand wet and pliant between your toes as you squish along much more easily. As a wave recedes, you see a sudden small object scuttling away from you.

"Look! A crab!" You exclaim, grabbing Eddie's forearm. Excitement surges as you trace its frantic path with your eyes until it disappears into the surf. You turn to Eddie, eyes shiny with innocent delight. His arm is warm under your fingers, and the breadth of his answering smile— the way it dimples his cheek and crinkles his brown eyes like the sun itself is shining in them— makes those wings flutter low in your stomach again.

You suddenly realize that you've wandered far enough that the pink and green and orange lifeguard structure is no longer visible; you and Eddie are alone, surrounded only by strangers. The only other time you've ever been truly alone was when you'd gone to get ice cream the first time you'd met him. The flutters surge a little harder at the realization, but you don't have any time to process as Eddie says suddenly, "Let's go in the water."

Your hand falls from his arm, eyes darting to take in just how many strangers surround you. The answer is very many; the beach, by this time, is quite crowded. And while you aren't afraid of Eddie seeing you in your new bathing suit, that self-consciousness from the hotel room resurges at the idea of baring yourself to the possibility of stares and flickering expressions.

Your hesitance softens as Eddie moves closer, and suddenly all you see is that face you treasure: strong jaw, soft nose, full lips, wide brown eyes framed by long lashes. Dark curls that tumble around his shoulders when he pulls the band from his hair, slipping it onto his wrist instead. "Come in the water with me," he coaxes you, smoke voice quiet and gentle. And as you breathe it in, it soothes the discomfort, settling full and rich in your belly.

You nod, retrieving your phone and AirPod case from your deep dress pocket and putting away your earbuds. You let Eddie's nimble fingers pull the bow from the tie at your waist, and carefully, he gathers the flowy fabric, lifting it until your sunflower-yellow bikini is revealed. The bathing suit is more daring than anything you've worn in public before, and you feel like every inch of your softness is exposed, each vulnerable part of you on display. You take the dress quickly from Eddie's hands, folding it to give you something to occupy yourself with. You drop it to the sand beside you, gritting your teeth as you bend to tuck your phone and AirPods beneath the fabric, trying not to think about how crunching over probably makes your body look unattractive.

But when you straighten, your eyes widen to see how Eddie's looking at you. His gaze is milder, more controlled than usual, but you still respond to the heat behind his dark eyes as they caress your body silently. He swallows thickly when your breathing quickens, eyes drawn to your breasts as they rise and fall visibly. Though the way Eddie is looking at you has dispelled your discomfort about strangers' judgments, this moment is quickly becoming tense and loaded. You feel a stirring of conflicting emotions: attraction, trepidation, and excitement mixing into a jumbled mess behind your sternum, underpinned with sluggish guilt oozing anew in your gut.

Because you're alone with Eddie. And though a thrill races through you at the thought, you know you should not be thinking about kissing him right now.

Rule number one, you remind yourself, shifting subtly backward and speaking in an attempt to break the tension between you. "I don't wanna go in all the way," you tell him.

Eddie blinks as if he's suddenly just come back to himself. "And why is that?" he asks, sounding elaborately casual.

You eye him cautiously, alarmed by the sudden twinkle in his eye, the growing tilt to his wide mouth. "Because Steve said it's cold—"

He moves so fast you have no time to react, and you yelp as you find yourself suddenly hoisted into Eddie's arms. "Eddie!" You squeak, face flaming and stomach swooping in intense embarrassment as he holds you bridal-style. "You can't carry me!"

There's a reason why you've never asked any of your boyfriends to carry you, why Steve has never even attempted to pick you up beyond a quick lift a couple of inches from the ground. The words I'm too heavy hang unsaid on your lips, and your brow crinkles pleadingly; you're silently begging Eddie not to make you say it.

"Can't I?" He challenges, and your arms wrap desperately around his neck as you scrunch your eyes shut, prepared for Eddie to concede or to halt halfway or for his arms to simply give out due to his sheer stubbornness. But when you hear splashing, you peek to see him already calf-deep in the water. "Shit," he huffs, and you feel his chuckles rumbling in his chest where you're pressed against it. "All right, I'll admit it's kinda cold."

Eddie doesn't even seem to struggle as he carries you into the ocean, and you can't pretend you aren't surprised. I guess he's stronger than he looks, you acknowledge, shoulders relaxing fractionally as he eases into the water. "Told you it was cold," you mumble sourly, and you feel him laugh again, flutters stirring as you realize suddenly how Eddie's arms are wrapped around you, supporting you solidly; how warm his sun-kissed skin is against yours; how your nose is nearly pressed to the base of his throat—

"Fuck—!"

Your yelp is cut off as Eddie stumbles on a sandbar; together, you collapse into the water.

The shock of cold nearly steals your breath until, almost as quickly, Eddie hauls you up out of the water. "Holy shit," he gasps, hands tight against your upper arms as you sputter, trying to find your footing. The sand dips down right past the bar, nearly too far to stand, but Eddie steadies you before his palms find your face, messily pushing your wet hair back where it's covering your eyes. Eddie sounds so upset as he stammers, "Shit, y/n, I am so sorry—"

But you're laughing, head tilting back as Eddie tries desperately to fix your hair, though his attempts are clumsy at best. You take over for him, dipping into the water so you can slick the length of your hair back. "It's fine," you say through leftover chuckles, eyes widening suddenly in alarm as you register the wave heading straight for you behind Eddie's back.

He registers your reaction a second before you're hit, and you both somehow manage to duck in time for the wave to pass without jostling you too much. Still, Eddie's body drifts toward yours with its force, and when you pop from the water, his arms close around your middle, holding you up higher than you could reach yourself. Almost automatically, your arms wrap around his shoulders, and your legs do the same around his hips. You cling to him, buoyant, letting him hold you in the waves.

Eddie seems relieved that you aren't mad and, even more so, delighted that you'd laughed off getting unexpectedly dunked under the cold water. "Don't worry, sweet girl," he says, playfully tightening his arms. "I've got you. I'll fight off every rip current and seagull that tries to snatch you with my bare hands."

You giggle, matching his energy with your reply. "Thank you, oh mighty bard, for keeping me safe from the terrors of the sea."

"Any time." Eddie smiles broadly again, looking utterly pleased that you'd played along.

And as your gaze runs over Eddie's dark hair plastered to his cheeks and neck, his long lashes beaded with saltwater, his lips so full and pink and his brown eyes so utterly alive, longing strikes you, swift and potent. Longing that begs you to bury your fingers in those wet curls. To taste the salt on Eddie's mouth. To hold him close, bury your nose in the crook of his neck, and never let him go.

It's so powerful, the impulse, that it zips straight down to pulse hard in your pussy, fluttering the moth wings wildly on the way. You feel your face sway instinctually toward him, your eyes dipping beyond your control to his lips. And as you register the dawning realization in Eddie’s eyes when your gaze darts back to beautiful brown, you remember, suddenly, Steve's anger and sadness, the distress he'd felt at the first rule you and Eddie had broken.

And that had been an accident. What you want to do is entirely intentional.

Trepidation and guilt win out.

As you loosen your arms and legs, Eddie releases his grip immediately to let you put some distance between you. His brow is a little pinched, eyes almost worried until you splash him lightly, lips quirking with a small playful smile. When he smiles back, splashing you boldly, you internally sag with relief.

You and Eddie spend some time playing around in the waves, but it doesn't take long for the appeal of the sun's warm rays to draw you out of the sea. You squeeze the water from your hair as Eddie shakes his like a dog; you're half-amused and half-exasperated as he sprays you with droplets. You'd neglected to bring any towels, so you slick the water off your skin with your hands as best you can; you dry your ears with the hem of your dress, offering it to Eddie so you can both listen to music on the walk back. After, you drop your phone and your AirPod case into your dress pocket without wearing it. You figure you can just carry it for now, and by the time you return to your belongings, your body will be dry enough to put it back on.

The first song on your walk back starts strong.

'You say I want to be your girlfriend—'

The playful affectation and cheery pop beat of Hemlock Springs' Girlfriend conjure opposing reactions in you and Eddie. While your mouth falls open in a delighted smile, Eddie's nose crinkles, head shaking as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, gesturing sharply. "No. Nope. No way," he says firmly, brow crooked in dismay as you skip ahead of him, entirely unbothered by his vehement rejection of the song.

"It's really catchy!" You protest, head bopping as the synths drop in. "Give it a chance."

Eddie grumbles as he catches up to you, eyeing your swaying shoulders begrudgingly. You walk together briefly before he falls behind, and when you notice he's no longer by your side, you turn, already frowning in anticipation of more complaints about the music. But Eddie's just bending to pick something up in the sand, hand wagging in the water before he straightens and jogs to you. He shows you that he's found a small scallop shell, banded bright red and white. He offers it to you, and you take it from him delicately, happiness blooming along with your brilliant smile. "Thanks, Eddie!" you say, shoulders back to swaying as you start to dance as you walk. You stare down at your scallop shell for another moment before slipping it carefully into the other pocket of your dress.

When the song's bridge hits, you spin to face Eddie, shoulders shaking jauntily, hips wiggling as you sing along: 'Secretly, I'm aiming for a rhythm that exceeds my expectations. Am I ever gonna get it?' You affect an attitude for the second line, rubbing your shoulder against his arm as you pretend to pout before smiling widely, dancing away.

And you aren't thinking about the people around you as your feet play in the water, the breeze tickles against your bare stomach, and your ass wobbles when you sway your hips. You're not thinking about any of that. You're just in the moment— listening to a treasured song, dancing along the beach beside a treasured person.

By the song's end, you even catch a glimpse of Eddie bobbing his head, though he stops as soon as he sees you looking. Your shit-eating grin makes him huff, but it's too late for him to pretend he wasn't getting into it. You're just about to rib on him when the next song begins— the tonal shift strikes you, and your mirth fades as the acoustic guitar introduces Stephen Sanchez's Hey Girl.

This song is very different from Girlfriend. It's introspective and sentimental. You can feel the longing in his voice when he sings, 'Hey girl, with your head in the clouds: I wanna love you, I wanna love you—'

After the poignancy of earlier when Eddie held you in the waves, this song strikes you as too raw and vulnerable. Overwhelmed, you dig your phone out of your pocket to skip to the next one, but calloused fingers on your arm stop you. "Don't change it. I like this one," Eddie says quietly, voice husky like smoke; you glance to see his eyes fixed on your hand, and you're suddenly grateful he isn't looking at your face.

Hesitantly, you obey, throat thick with the sentiment of the song. And where there'd been a comfortable gap between your bodies, slowly, by degrees, you feel yourself drifting closer as Eddie does the same, drawn together like you're being pulled in by some invisible force. The longing inside you transforms, sharpening, turning wistful as Eddie's hand brushes yours lightly, light enough to be incidental. But when Eddie's calloused fingers nudge against yours tentatively, you know the brush is deliberate. And though you keep staring straight ahead, you weave your fingers together, holding Eddie's hand as you walk back down the beach together.

You suppose, to all those strangers watching from their towels and beach chairs, that you and Eddie look like an average couple holding hands. But you're not. You're not that at all— not average, and not a couple. Yet when Stephen sings, 'Oh good God, I'm tongue-tied, I'm a landslide when you move,' and you feel Eddie's fingers squeeze yours gently, deliberately, you can't help the tremble of your chin, the slight sting of your eyes as your green quivers, growing taller. The leaves fan, full and plush and soft with downy fuzz. And as small white flowers, tiny and delicate, open their petals, you squeeze Eddie's fingers back. Gently, deliberately.

A tiny smile blooms on your lips as you feel his thumb rasp slowly across your skin. And all the rest of what you feel— the trepidation, the anxiety, the guilt— it all falls away as you flutter with the tender affection of Eddie's touch.

All too soon, that gaudy lifeguard stand juts ugly into the sky, and as you spot the distant yet familiar forms now sitting in those beach chairs— a hairy man in navy trunks and a petite blonde woman in a bright white string bikini— you feel Eddie's fingers slide from yours.

The loss of Eddie's hand is acute. It pangs within you hollowly, but you school your features as you approach your boyfriend and friend, whose expressions perk as they spot you and Eddie. And just like your feet sink into the sand, you let your feelings sink down until they're concealed beneath a layer of soft, protective dirt.

"You went in the water?" Steve asks as you approach his side, dropping a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Wasn't it cold?" Chrissy adds, though she's quickly distracted as she pops up to wrap Eddie in a tight hug.

"Yup," you reply, pulling your lips into a small smile as Chrissy giggles when Eddie bonks her cheek lightly with his nose. "It was."

–

The afternoon crawls by in snapshots of moments. Chrissy hops on Eddie's back so he can carry her to the beach's exit. You eat lunch at a local Italian restaurant called Crust and split a honey-truffle pizza and some small plates. Chrissy feeds Eddie tiny bites of burrata and prosciutto; Steve leans into you, hand landing comfortably on your knee. You browse the shops at Bayside Marketplace. Steve offers to buy you whatever you want, and he doesn't question when you choose only a dainty gold chain— plain, with nothing hanging from it. Chrissy swings Eddie's hand as they walk ahead of you down the sandstone. Later, you and Steve diverge from them and find yourselves wandering toward the Ferris wheel.

And as you ride it— gazing out at Miami city, at its tall silver skyscrapers and its turquoise blue waters— you sit across from your boyfriend, Steve Harrington. He's lounging back, toes wiggling in his boat shoes, hair mussed artfully from salt and wind. He is handsome. His nose is alkaline, his brows are thick and dark, and his jaw is strong, dusted by stubble. Steve works at a bank and makes a lot of money. He is athletic, and he loves basketball. He has always been attentive and generous; he gives of himself to you and his friends alike. He has an ex-girlfriend named Nancy, whom he loved and who cheated on him. You've been dating for three years. You lost your virginity to him, and you share an apartment. He's been perfect on this trip. He's made you feel so loved. You love him.

And yet, Steve Harrington doesn't make your wings flutter like Eddie Munson does.

He never has.

And yet…

As Steve clambers over to your side, you shift on the seat to make room for him. When his arm wraps around your shoulders, you lean into his side. You drag your nails lightly over his abdomen and the fur on his chest until he sighs, humming contentedly. And when Steve ducks his head toward you, you use that hand to cup his cheek as you kiss him.

Because Steve Harrington is your boyfriend, not Eddie Munson. Eddie Munson is Chrissy Cunningham's boyfriend. And you are not Chrissy.

So it doesn't matter how Eddie makes your wings flutter.

It doesn't matter.

If you think it enough, maybe you'll start to believe it.

–

Throwing yourself into your preparations for clubbing wasn't just a welcome distraction— it was a necessary one. Thankfully, lounging on your bed with Chrissy, hair and bodies wrapped in fluffy hotel towels as you scroll Tiktok together, you'd managed to bury your emotions and revelations under a healthy mound of peat. It’s not enough to stifle them, but enough to keep them from surfacing when Eddie emerges from the bathroom in a puff of steam, curls dripping water down his chest to catch on the low-slung towel around his hips.

Thank goodness for this hotel's overabundance of linens.

About an hour and a half before you plan to leave, you and Chrissy decisively oust the men from the shared bathroom. It transforms into a battleground of razors, toner, and eyeshadow palettes as you arm yourselves for your night out, meticulously readying every inch of your body. After your hair has been texturized, styled, and set, you apply your makeup side-by-side.

It never ceases to fascinate you how Chrissy can so dramatically transform herself. Where normally she looks so young and innocent, with makeup, she becomes so fierce and sensual— almost like a different person, though you know by now that, really, it's just an extension of her inner self. Today she's opted for sharp black liner in the inner corners that extends out in a thin wing, with a swipe of metallic color on her lids and false eyelashes. Her brows are sharp, too, and she's highlighted her cheekbones to accentuate the angles and contours of her face. Bold, foxy. Totally Chrissy.

You apply more makeup than you usually do, but you prefer something a little more subtle on yourself. You've tried bold eye makeup before, and while you are trying to step outside your comfort zone lately, you just… don't feel like yourself with it. You opt instead for a slick, nearly nude hue on your lids and plenty of mascara to accentuate the length of your lashes. You spend more time on your skin— you want to achieve a dewy, healthy flush, so you focus on blush and subtle highlight and shadow to add depth, plus a mauve, lush lipgloss that's slightly darker than your natural color. You're thrilled with the final result: it still feels like you, as if you're glowing from the inside. More ethereal.

You fawn over each other's makeup, and as you drop your towels to dress, you notice that Chrissy's efforts to get tan didn't go unrealized. Her skin looks a little more golden than it did this morning, and it accentuates the color of the mini-dress she's chosen for the night. It's a bright orange, not typical for Chrissy but entirely appropriate for the tropical location. Chrissy's dress is strapless, with large triangular cutouts at the ribs that point inwards and give the illusion she has an even smaller waist. She twists to look at herself in the mirror, and you can't help but admire her. She looks gorgeous, and you tell her so.

"Aw, thank you, babes!" She cups your face lightly in her hands and gives you a butterfly kiss with her eyelashes so as not to mess up your makeup. You carefully step into your dress, and Chrissy helps you zipper it; you feel a little sheepish as you look in the mirror, especially with just a tiny, lacy pair of underwear and no bra underneath, but Chrissy squeezes your shoulders reassuringly. "You look so amazing, y/n. This dress is incredible. I'm honestly a little jealous."

"Chris!" you exclaim, spinning to face her incredulously. "Don't even. You are a stone-cold fox. I'm serious— that dress was, like, made for you."

Chrissy beams, blue eyes shining as you flatter her. She drops a quick kiss on your bare shoulder as you examine yourself in the mirror, a small smile blooming as you accept the truth of your friend's words, truly believing them.

You do look amazing.

Your dress is satin, mid-length, with a long slit high up the side to the top of your thigh, revealing a sensual glimpse of your leg. The straps are tiny and thin, and there's a cutout beneath the bust, so it doesn't look right if you wear a bra. But your breasts sit nicely in it; there's enough support to keep you from sagging, and they look plump and natural. The color is a rich cream, like indulgent milk and honey. And, best of all, the dress fits you right— it drapes across your tummy and hips, hugging without clinging. There's no mistaking the wideness of your hips or the softness of your belly in this, but you don't feel fat.

You feel like Aphrodite. You feel like a goddess.

And you feel even more like one when you and Chrissy emerge from the bathroom, and you come face-to-face with Steve as he turns, futzing with the hem of his short-sleeved blue linen shirt. He's wearing tailored khakis, and his hair is coiffed nicely, but what pleases you the most is how you see the moment his pupils dilate when he lifts his head to see your new dress for the first time.

His eyes drag over the length of your body, lingering in all the right spots, and you feel a little smug as he stutters hoarse nonsense before he can gather himself.

"See?" Chrissy says sweetly, and you glance to see her stepping into her stilettos, leaning on Eddie's shoulder for support. "Told you you look hot."

You don't let your eyes linger on black and white, but a flash is all you need to have your heart thumping. Because, even in Miami, Eddie just can't help himself: he's dressed in another white shirt, though this one is looser and thinner, unbuttoned halfway down his torso to reveal his guitar pick necklace and the dark ink of his chest. His black jeans are tight, his dark boots are chunky, and his rings, bracelet, and chains are the same as they always are. But his hair is, again, pulled into that ponytail. The one you'd told him you found sexy.

Considering whether Eddie had styled his hair this way because of you— or even for you— threatens to disturb the peat you'd so carefully mounded around your growth to protect it, so you pointedly avoid the thought.

Steve's hands find your waist, and you look up into his hazel eyes as he murmurs, "Baby, you look so fucking hot right now. Like…" he chuckles almost incredulously. "Holy fuck. Are you sure we have to go out tonight? Can't I just keep you here and fuck you senseless instead?"

"Steve!" you whisper, slapping his arm and flushing as your eyes dart to the couple beside you. Steve isn't talking very loudly, but for some reason, the idea of them overhearing his lascivious commentary makes you feel squirmy. But Chrissy just chuckles, hooking her thumb through the belt loop on Eddie's black jeans.

"I mean," she says lowly, eyebrow tugging up suggestively. "We don't have to—"

"No," you interrupt firmly, though your expression is more entreating than commanding. "This is our one night in Miami. We're going."

"All right, all right," Steve chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. "We'll go." He grins at you.

"I was promised dancing," you remind him, not quite pouting.

Eddie chimes in then, for the first time this evening. "Then dancing you will have," he says, and when your eyes dart to his and his mouth tilts in a little crooked grin, you smile back.

And if some of the dirt shifts to reveal a bit of green or a peek of white flowers, well, could it really be helped?

The club Steve and Chrissy chose— picked while they were waiting for you and Eddie to return from your beach walk— seems to provide all the best Miami offers. It's saturated with fractal lighting in modern shapes and colors, deep purples, mauves, and bright golds that crisscross the floors. The effect is nearly dizzying but also entirely stunning, like you've been transported into a cocaine-laden dream. You see that the dance floor is teeming with motion as you shuffle past the bouncers, daisy-chained by your hands to carve a path to the bar. Steve hands you a vodka soda before you've even asked, and you and Chrissy start to suck your drinks down while Eddie and Steve retrieve theirs, eyes scanning the writhing crowd. The bass is pumping, and even without any alcohol yet to hit your bloodstream, you're feeling amped up by the atmosphere of the place. You and Chrissy half-shout your conversation into each others' ears as you wait for the guys to get their drinks.

When Steve's hand finds its place on your hip, you and Chrissy enact your plan: you drag the men to the edge of the dance floor, hips wiggling to a mix of standard club beats interspersed with some hip hop and Urbano. The place is packed, but you form a little four-square together, holding your own against the crowds as you dance and drink. Well, that is, you and Chrissy dance, and Steve does some approximation of dancing, and Eddie mostly stands still, head bobbing as he sips his bourbon.

Chrissy seems used to Eddie's lack of movement; she dances around him, wiggling her ass against him or drawing her hand across his shoulder as she struts in the tiny square you've formed between you. You are perfectly content to dance alone or with your other two partners; you throw your hands up, sway together with Steve, or dance closely with Chrissy when she saunters your way. You feel buoyant and gleeful as you and Chrissy squeal, joining hands during Maneater by Nelly Furtado, singing it to each other as your men watch you with affection and amusement. This moment— surrounded by your close friends and your boyfriend, loose from drinks, effusive from dancing, comfortable in the knowledge that you look amazing— is what you'd been looking for when you first thought about taking this vacation.

It feels just as good as you'd hoped it would be.

It doesn't take long for you to feel both a little drunk and a little hot; though the club is indoors, it's humid from the climate and the press of bodies around you, and you feel yourself growing dewy with sweat. When Steve notices you fanning your neck, he offers to take you back to the bar. Chrissy and Eddie follow, too, happy for the respite and a chance for another drink.

As you sip on a small cup of water, Chrissy's sudden exclamation nearly startles you. "Oh, my God! I can't believe I almost forgot— see that spot over there? Kind of close to the staircase, where the rope is?" You all crane your necks to see where she's pointing. When you look back, she's nearly vibrating with excitement. "I saw on Instagram that if you hang over there, the club promoters may invite you to dance on the stage behind the DJ! And then we could end up in their photos or videos! Can you imagine?!"

You glance over to the spot she's indicated again as Steve replies. "That is pretty sick, Chris. Are you saying you wanna go over there?"

She shrugs, blue eyes wide and shiny. "I mean, it couldn't hurt, right?" She looks around the group, and when her eyes catch yours, you nod your agreement. The idea of dancing on stage does intimidate you a little. But if you're surrounded by Steve, Chrissy, and Eddie, then that might be fun. It would certainly be an experience you've never had before, and then you could say you danced on stage at a Miami nightclub. You catch some of Chrissy's excitement as she beams widely, clutching Eddie and Steve's forearms in eagerness as she taps her stilettos on the ground. "Ah! Okay! Let's go!"

Chrissy's dainty fingers close around your wrist, pulling you forward. You reach back blindly for the next person in the chain, fingers stretching until they make contact with a broad palm. But where you expect softness, you instead encounter roughness, and a quick wide-eyed glance back has you realizing that the hand you've grabbed is pale, wrist adorned with a silver chain bracelet.

You suppress the flutters that threaten to burst when you realize that you're again holding Eddie's hand. His fingers tighten around yours, gripping a little harder as Chrissy carves a determined path through the crowd on the dancefloor, heading in a diagonal for the spot near the stairs. You remind yourself that his grip is tight to ensure you don't get separated— and, plus, his girlfriend, your friend, has your other wrist in her grasp. Get ahold of yourself. You suppress a sigh of relief when you finally reach the stairs and you can pull gently from both of their grips.

You can't deny that despite being somewhat excited about the prospect of dancing on the DJ stage, you are skeptical that it will actually happen. Yet Chrissy is gorgeous, eye-catching in her sharp eyeliner and her bright orange dress; Steve is handsome, broad and tan with artfully-tousled hair and a charming smile; and Eddie is captivating, statuesque with his pale quartz skin, alluring with those dark eyes, the roguish ponytail, and his inky body armor.

So, really, you should have known better.

You've only been dancing in Chrissy's chosen spot for about twenty minutes when a man with a shaved head, wearing a black blazer fitted with a leopard-print pocket square, approaches your group. He's quite a bit shorter than Steve and Eddie, but he exudes top-dog energy as he smirks at Chrissy. "Hey," he says smoothly, eyes darting around the group, landing briefly on all of you. Well, almost all of you. Your stomach swoops slightly as that familiar feeling creeps up your neck, prickling hot along your skin. Because you can't help but notice that the promoter's eyes skip you over, almost as if you aren't even standing there.

His gaze lands, somewhat unsurprisingly, on Chrissy. He nods his chin toward the staircase, smirking slightly. "You interested in dancing on stage?"

Despite the squirmy feeling building low in your belly, you can't help but smile at the radiant enthusiasm that fills Chrissy's face, shining in her bright blue eyes. "Oh, my gosh! Really?" Her voice is powdery-soft, and the way she beams when he nods is so sweet that you feel genuinely happy for her. Her eager eyes dart to Eddie next, and the promoter's gaze follows.

"How about you, guy?" He asks, but Eddie shakes his head, falling back onto one hip.

"Nah, man," he replies, lips quirked in a small sardonic grin. "I don't dance." He glances at Chrissy. "You should go, though, Chris."

You see Chrissy pout for the briefest second, but she gets over it quickly, too excited to dwell on Eddie's denial. The promoter unhooks and lifts the velvet rope at the base of the staircase, holding out a hand so Chrissy can climb up onto the bottom step.

That prickling heat, that low squirm of self-consciousness in your belly, is nearly gone as you anticipate the moment being over. But the promoter doesn't replace the rope. Instead, for the first time, you watch his eyes quickly flick you up and down.

You try to suppress the self-consciousness that rises automatically— try to keep yourself from reading the promoter's face to quickly assess his reaction. But you can't help it; you read it anyway. You always do.

And there is no reaction that you can discern— no twitch of a brow or a lip, no change to the glint of his eyes. But what this man does is almost worse than if he'd made a face. After glancing you up and down, the promoter turns immediately to Steve on your left, asking, "You wanna join her?"

His utter dismissal couldn't be any more obvious to you than if he'd spit in your face.

Entirely oblivious to the subtext of the promoter's interaction— or lack thereof— with you, Steve grins broadly, running a hand through the length of his tousled brown hair. "Yeah, sure," he says smoothly, beginning to join Chrissy on the stairs. On the second step, Steve glances back, frowning as he notices you aren't following. "Wait—"

You cut him off quickly, desperate to avoid any risk of Steve asking why you aren't coming with him. Though the promoter utterly ignoring you is bad enough, forcing a conversation about it would be unbearable. "No, it's okay, Steve. I'll stay with Eddie." You're firm but not tense; you smile brightly to show you're not upset.

And Steve, God love him… in this moment, you're grateful that your boyfriend is such an uncomplicated man. "Are you sure?" Steve's hazel eyes are still hesitant, but you can tell he's on the cusp of conceding. You just need to sell it— that you're not in any way sore about him going to dance on the DJ stage without you.

"Yes!" you exclaim, smile widening, voice earnest. "Go have fun!"

"Okay, babe." Steve smiles back— lopsided, relieved. He walks back down to the two steps so he can say goodbye. "See you in, like, an hour?"

"Sounds perfect," you say decisively, leaning in so Steve can kiss you briefly. You hear the click of the fastener and feel the brush of the velvet against your belly as the promoter replaces the rope then, separating you and Steve.

You wave as you watch him and Chrissy ascend the stairs, eyes deliberately avoiding the promoter as he settles into the corner against the wall. But once they disappear, there's nothing to distract you from the reminder of his dismissal. And you feel it threatening again— that prickling self-consciousness, the low squirm of something approaching shame.

Quickly, you turn to Eddie. "Can we get another drink?" you ask him, and as he nods mutely, you lead the way back to the bar.

You skirt along the edge of the dance floor rather than cutting through the middle as Chrissy had, trusting Eddie to keep up with you. When you hover at the corner of the floor closest to the bar, unwilling to elbow your way to the counter, you look for Eddie then. His features are even more intense than usual in the dramatic lighting; his shoulders are set, and so is his jaw as he stops a short distance from you, staring down into your face. As the lighting shifts, you realize Eddie's brow is lightly furrowed, and his dark eyes are unreadable, not warm like they usually are.

Something is off with Eddie. He hadn't been overjoyed when you were all dancing together, but he'd seemed content. Nothing like he is now— coiled tight as if he's reigning something in. It makes you worried.

When your eyes dart away and return to see his stare hasn't wavered, you ask quietly, "Hey, are you… are you mad or something?"

"No, I'm not mad." There is no hesitation in Eddie's quiet answer, and some of your worry eases. But when he glances away and you see a muscle in his jaw twitching, you realize he isn't done speaking. It takes him a moment, but Eddie eventually looks back at you, voice carefully neutral. "He should have stayed with you."

You frown. "I told him to go," you point out, more puzzled as Eddie's expression doesn't change.

"I know," Eddie says quietly. And the way his intense gaze is piercing you… for the first time in a long time, you have to look away from him.

You hear him sigh as you distract yourself by watching people dance, eyes running over writhing bodies. "You want a drink, right?"

You glance back to find the intensity in Eddie's stare has softened now. "Yeah," you reply, grateful for the change of subject.

"What do you want me to get you?"

You consider another vodka soda, but find you're in the mood for something different. "Um… Sex on the Beach?" you ask, blinking innocently as you watch a smirk curl at the edges of Eddie's full lips.

His smoke voice is smooth and exaggeratedly sensual as Eddie sways toward you, eyes locked on yours. "I mean, sure, sweet girl. But what do you want to drink?"

"Eddie!" Your face flushes bright red, heat prickling in your cheeks as he laughs huskily. You slap his chest lightly before crossing your arms under your breasts; you're squirming from his teasing, but you can't help the low flutters that awaken at the thought of having sex with Eddie on the beach. Or even in the ocean, in that position he'd held you in this morning— arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs wrapped around his narrow hips, no swim trunks or bikini bottoms separating his warm skin from yours…

Stop it! You chastise yourself, huffing, glaring until Eddie stops laughing. "Sorry," he says wolfishly, not looking the least bit sorry about it. "Couldn't resist."

"Hmph." You level him with one last unimpressed look before he gently takes your wrist.

"Come on," he says, lips tilting fondly. "Stay close to me."

You follow Eddie closer to the bar, hovering near his back as he orders you the drink you'd requested and another bourbon for himself. You carry your drinks to the edge of the dance floor, standing near one another as you sip the fruity alcohol. After just the first sip, it's already so much better than your typical vodka sodas that you question why you'd never tried it before. In fact, you may never go back to vodka sodas now that you've tasted the allure of orange and cranberry with your vodka.

When your drink is half-gone, and your head is starting to get a little fuzzy, and the sight of bodies dancing is no longer an adequate distraction, you find your thoughts drifting back to what Eddie had said. But… you made Steve go without you. You'd basically forced him to. Right? You find yourself lightly chewing on your lower lip, thumb rubbing absently against the cold glass cradled in your hands. Eddie was there. He'd heard the whole conversation, and when you pointed out that you'd told Steve to go, he'd just said, 'I know.' What was he implying? That you should've asked Steve to stay with you, to give up his fun just because you weren't going with him?

Is that really fair of you to expect Steve to sacrifice his chance on stage for you? The idea that you could have forced the issue— pouted or begged Steve to stay— makes you feel selfish.

But maybe that's not Eddie's point. He hadn't said, 'You should have asked him to stay with you;' he'd said, "He should have stayed with you." You suddenly realize what Eddie was really trying to communicate: that Steve should have chosen to stay with you. A crease forms between your brows as that realization settles heavily upon you. It begins to coil around your ribcage, squeezing you tight as you find yourself considering a dangerous question.

Would Eddie have stayed with me?

And you find, as the thought pops into your head, that you already know the answer.

You haven't quite noticed the tension overtaking your body until Eddie's hand brushes lightly against your upper back; you flinch, wide eyes darting to his face. "Sorry," he says, withdrawing his hand immediately, and you reassure him quickly.

"No, it's fine. I was just…" you don't have an adequate explanation for what you were doing, so you just trail off, eyes darting back to your drink.

"Do you wanna go dance?"

You purse your lips as you look out at the undulating crowd, the crush of unfamiliar bodies. "Um…" you hedge, but finally admit, "Not really. I don't really wanna dance by myself."

Your eyes flash to Eddie's face as he replies, "I'll dance with you."

"Really?" you blurt. "I thought you said you don't dance."

Eddie chuckles lightly. "I don't. Not usually. But the Latin stuff is pretty good."

You assess his pleasantly neutral expression, the warmth that has returned to his brown eyes. And you read something there— in the way his gaze flicks away and back to yours, brows tugging up, mouth tilting a little further. You could be wrong, but you get the impression that despite Eddie's reasoning, he's only offering to dance because he'd noticed you were in your head.

He's only doing it for you.

Your smile is genuine, blooming tiny on your face. "Okay," you say softly, and Eddie grins in earnest, leading the way into the crowd.

Luckily for Eddie, the set seems to be leaning more Urbano now, and the quick mambo beat of Rosalia's Despacha is the perfect remedy for that heaviness shrouding you. You face Eddie, swaying your shoulders and hips, dancing in some approximation of a mambo as you step forward and back to the beat. Eddie gamely starts to sway, too, and you beam as you watch him make an attempt. A little self-conscious flush blooms high on his cheeks as you watch him.

"What?" he questions you defiantly, though it's softened by the self-deprecating grin tugging at his lips. "Didn't you promise to be nice? Remember, your nickname is on the line—"

"I am being nice!" you protest, voice high and giddy with mirth and excitement that Eddie is actually dancing with you. "I'm just happy. Am I not allowed to be happy?" you add plainly.

Eddie's wide grin transforms. "Of course you are," he replies, and the gentle smoke of his voice has you taking a deep, bracing breath to ward off the flutters.

"Good," you huff teasingly, trying to keep the mood between you light. "Then let me watch you dance."

He laughs, husky and full. "All right," he concedes.

And you do— you watch Eddie dance for a while, secretly delighted as he starts to move his shoulders and hips, a little tentatively at first, and then more boldly once his bourbon and your Sex on the Beach are gone. Briefly, you leave your spot to discard them on a nearby table before heading back to the dance floor together.

But when you resume your positions— facing each other with a respectful distance in between— you feel a sudden presence behind you, different from the slight brush of other dancing people. This person is facing you directly; pants rasp against your ass as his broad warmth presses boldly to you, and you're washed by the unfamiliar scent of cheap cologne as hands grasp at your body, one landing high on your waist and the other low on your hip.

You freeze immediately, heart racing, wide eyes darting helplessly to Eddie's face as his gaze flickers between you and whoever this stranger is behind you. In a split second, he's closing the gap between you, face contorted in a frown as you tug from the stranger's grasp to meet him. Eddie's arm wraps around your waist as he pulls you against him, and your instant panic eases. You breathe in smoke and apples, letting Eddie’s scent comfort you, distract you from the unexpected violation of a stranger's unwanted hands on your body. Eddie is clearly uneasy, muscles corded and taut as he stands still, holding you against him for a tense moment until you feel him start to relax.

"Is he gone?" you ask timidly, nose skimming Eddie's throat as you peek at his face.

"Yeah, he's gone." His chest rumbles against yours, and you sigh, relief flooding you as you relax into Eddie's grip. "Um…" You can see him swallow, eyes locked on the pale column of his throat as he pauses before saying haltingly, "Maybe I should, like, stay closer to you. I don't want that to happen to you again."

You shudder a breath, wings fluttering at the thought of dancing— really dancing— with Eddie. "Yeah," you say, voice small. "Yeah, I agree."

His arm loosens so you can turn. The warmth of Eddie's body radiates against your back, brushing just slightly as you start to dance again. As the club beat eases into another Latin hip-hop song, and the relaxed fuzz from the alcohol settles again in your limbs, you sway your hips, feeling Eddie move against you with little teasing brushes of his rough jeans and his loose white shirt. You shift a little closer, pressing lightly back to feel more of him— not too much, just enough to keep constant contact between you. It grounds you, offering comfort in the form of his presence. And he seems to be adapting much better like this— without your eyes on him, he moves more fluidly, and he seems to have more rhythm with these Latin songs than he did with his striptease to Pony . Maybe he was telling the truth about liking the Latin songs more, you think, a tiny smile crossing your lips as you settle into the music again.

And as you dance with Eddie, you grow used to the feeling of his body moving behind you, so that your mind starts to wander. And turned away from him, without his face to look at, your eyes drift to the people around you. To all the women in their tiny mini-dresses, their tanned legs so thin and shapely in their giant heels. To their little waists and their lithe arms, just like Chrissy. You don't want to, but you go there, back to when the club promoter's eyes flicked over you, assessing your body and finding it lacking.

Not trim enough. Not thin enough. Not pretty enough.

It's not what you want to be thinking about right now. You want to be enjoying yourself, dancing in a Miami nightclub with a treasured person. But once the thought wriggles back into your brain, there's no shaking it; you can't stop dwelling on it.

You can never help yourself when it comes to this.

Your rhythm falters; you lose the beat, and Eddie's smoky voice is quick in your ear. "What is it? What's wrong?"

You stop dancing to turn in Eddie's arms and face him. Almost as if it's automatic, his hands settle lightly on your waist, and you drape your arms over his shoulders— not holding tight, just resting there. Your mouth twists as you consider how the memory of that man's appraisal has begun to eat you up inside, devouring all the happiness you'd found here tonight. And Eddie's brown eyes are warm, and his expression is receptive. He never judges you; he's so kind. And he always tries to help you. He always does.

So you tell him what's wrong.

"I just… was thinking about the club promoter," you say quietly, speaking to Eddie's chest; you can't quite meet his eyes. "How he barely even looked at me, almost like I didn't exist to him. Well," you chuckle breathlessly, a little uncomfortable. "I obviously know why he didn't, like, ask me to go on stage. I mean—" You glance down your body before your eyes land back on Eddie's chest. "I'm not exactly… you know…" You swallow against the lump in your throat, pushing the words out, hoping that by voicing them, they'll have less power. "I'm not as small as the other girls—"

Eddie cuts you off, and your eyes snap to his face to see his brown eyes wide and incredulous. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?" He sounds utterly baffled. Utterly disbelieving. "You're… you're so beautiful. Sexy as hell, I swear to Christ." He chuckles his disbelief as you look up at him hesitantly, face still angled down. When he sees you haven’t responded, Eddie frowns; his hand leaves your waist to gently but firmly lift your chin. "Listen, sweetheart. Don't worry about that guy. That guy's probably never been with a beautiful woman in his life. Never even touched one, I bet. Probably has a shriveled little baby carrot dick."

You wrinkle your nose, half-amused, half-disgusted by the crudeness of his final remark. Eddie laughs at himself, shaking his head slightly as he ducks closer to your ear to mutter, "Sorry, but if I'm totally honest, I'm only half-checked in to what I'm saying right now 'cause I'm distracted."

You try not to think about how warm his breath is against your ear. "Distracted by what?"

"By trying not to pop a boner with you dancing on me, sweetheart."

You pull your head back to stare at him incredulously, a little awkward giggle escaping your lips. And it must be clear that you don't believe him because Eddie's eyebrows flick up, and his expression shifts slightly.

"I'm serious," Eddie argues through a chuckle. "What, you think I'm joking?" Carefully, he presses his hips closer so you can feel him. And your eyes widen slightly as you do, proving how Eddie really wasn't kidding. How he's a little stiff behind the thick black denim of his jeans.

"Oh, my God," you mutter, cheeks flushing as you purse your lips against a bashful smile.

"See?" Eddie says, lightly teasing, but quieter now. "Told you."

And now that his point has been made, it's the right time for Eddie to move away. But Eddie doesn't move away. And the press of Eddie's pelvis against you feels good. And he just told you that you're beautiful and sexy, and the smoke of those words is settling inside you, filling you rich and heady. And the song that's just begun is slower, more sensual than the ones before. Alluring, drawing you in, just like the brown of those beautiful eyes, the dark curls framing his pale quartz face.

Gradually, Eddie's black and his white draw you in until, almost by instinct, you start to sway your hips against his.

You feel Eddie's chest expand in a deep breath as you move against him. But, though he tenses for a split second, he still doesn't draw back. Instead, Eddie's leg shifts, slotting between yours as he starts to move with you.

The feeling of Eddie's warm body is even more tantalizing like this, facing him. You relish the feeling of his hands on your hips, fingers resting lightly as you sway together, hips rocking in rhythm with the music. You notice the tickle of his loose shirt against your chest, your breasts brushing against the fabric through sheer satin as you dance. You listen to the song: ‘Pasa el día con él, yo soy tu gato de noche.’ You don't know what it means, but your blood is heating, belly fluttering low as Eddie presses close to you— a novel feeling through your clothes and his, out here in public rather than in the security of your bedroom. And you can feel the other people around you, bodies moving, grazing lightly against yours as the space packs in. You release a breath and wonder if it tickled the sliver of his bare chest when you feel Eddie's fingers twitch on your hips.

His voice is hoarse as he mutters against your forehead. "Can I touch you more?"

"Please," you breathe, and the word is nearly a sigh of relief as Eddie's hands drag across the satin of your dress, smoothing over the small of your back. Your arms tighten around his shoulders as you press yourself closer, breasts now tight to his chest, skin sticking together where his shirt is open. The thought strikes you suddenly that Eddie is a little sweaty— you can see his hairline is damp, and his hands feel warmer than usual, damp as they drag up silk to find the skin of your back. And the impulse strikes you suddenly: the desire to lick up the center of Eddie’s chest, to drag your tongue along the ink of his armor and taste the salt on his skin. Your pussy pulses, moth wings fluttering low as you imagine it.

As you do, inevitably, the other emotions reemerge. Trepidation. Fear. Concern for Steve's anger. Guilt over the intentionality of breaking another rule. But Eddie's hands are so tender as they rasp over your skin, and you feel so safe in his arms. And you're in the middle of this writhing crowd, cloaked in anonymity and alcohol and neon lights and sensual music. And when you press your hands to Eddie's back, dragging them up his neck until your fingers tease at the edge of his hairline— the green reemerges from your protective mound of soil, flowers quivering, moth wings fluttering with a deep and powerful yearning. One that can no longer be suppressed.

One that surges up from the bottom of you.

Your face draws back, angling up at the same moment that Eddie's tips down. And you get only a glimpse of those brown eyes burnished to deep amber, a flash of white teeth behind full pink lips as he begins to rasp, "Can I k—?"

His words are cut off as you pull him by the back of his neck into a desperate kiss.

Eddie deepens the kiss immediately, and the brush of his tongue into your open mouth is sheer blissful relief. You moan against his lips, a little pathetic mewl that makes you rush hot with embarrassment that you'd make that sound in public. But it just spurs Eddie on; his arms haul you flush against his body as his tongue dips insistently past your lips. You taste him back, lips pressing hard as bourbon and spice fill your mouth. And somewhere in the midst of this, you've stopped dancing, and so has he, though his hands are still roving over your back, grasping at you with a desperation that matches your own.

As you lick into his mouth, the little sound Eddie makes has you shuddering, goosebumps rushing over your skin despite the heat of the dance floor. Your heart is pounding, pussy throbbing in time; and it's so utterly wanton, but Eddie's leg is still between yours, so purely by instinct, your hips twitch, dragging yourself in a little jerk against the roughness of his jeans.

Flutters burst low, mixing with arousal as Eddie bends you back, hands dragging firmly down to grab your ass and press your hips against him. And that— your hips twitching, Eddie's hands on your ass— is what brings you back to yourself. You become suddenly cognizant that you're currently in public, basically dry-humping this man who is not your boyfriend on the dance floor.

The realization douses you like ice water, and you pull your mouth from Eddie's with a little gasp, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Your chest is still heaving into his, and the breath that puffs against your lips still makes you flutter, but your face is creased with hesitance now. Eddie registers the shift immediately, pulling you out of the bend, though his arms still hold you close. He's breathing hard, cheeks lightly flushed as the warm brown of his eyes meets your gaze.

"Eddie," you whisper, voice soft and regretful. "We shouldn't. Not while we're alone."

And you half–expect a bit of Eddie's black to show, for him to guard himself in a wolfish grin and joke to break the tension.

But Eddie shudders a deep breath, almost a sigh, and you see his adam's apple bob in a thick swallow. "You're right," he says quietly. "I'm sorry."

And you hate to see how those beautiful brown eyes cloud, how those full pink lips, now swollen from your kisses, turn down at the corners. Your brow tugs up as you soothe your hand softly against Eddie's cheek. "Don't be sorry," you say softly, tenderly tucking some of the short curls that brush his jaw behind his ear.

Eddie's eyes are molten as he leans in, and your lashes flutter as he kisses your cheek, lips warm as they linger there. And though it's long been there, the growth at the bottom of you, it's the first time that you truly feel it— the unfurling of your petals, the quivering of your leaves as Eddie holds you close and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.

And you admit now that it's fruitless to try to convince yourself it doesn't matter how you feel about Eddie. Because you know it does. You know it.

–

You're on the beach. The sand is cold now, and the ocean is a black, churning mass, nearly indistinguishable from the night sky. The breeze is no longer balmy; instead, it chills you, cutting straight through your milk and honey satin. Arms cradle you from behind, partially shielding you from the sting as they hold you against a firm body. Your hands rest perfunctorily on the forearms encircling your waist, and your head is tipped back against the chest behind you. Citrus and sea salt lingers in your nose.

You're waiting for the fireworks to begin.

Chrissy's stilettos are loose. One of them tipped over when she dug her toes into the fine sand, and you stare at them to avoid looking at the couple beside you. You feel the rise and fall of Steve's chest as he breathes behind you. You feel the warmth from his body along the length of your spine.

You feel the tilt of your green as it strives, reaching, searching for smoke and ink.

Your eyes are drawn to the sky with the first whistle and pop. Big and small, circular and narrow, red, pink, and orange arches— colors burst against the darkness in a rain of sparks that fizzle toward the water. It's enchanting, a stunning display of corporeal magic.

You're no longer watching it.

Instead, your eyes are fixed on black and white.

Chrissy's arms are around his waist, clinging to him tightly, her back turned to you as she rests her cheek against his chest. Eddie's chin is on top of Chrissy's head, and his eyes are turned up to the sky. You can see the reflection of the fireworks in Eddie's eyes, and this is how you watch the show.

You can't help but notice that Eddie looks pensive. Melancholy, almost, as he watches the magic show. You think of his fingers squeezing yours gently, deliberately, as you listened to that song, walking together along the beach. You think of the tightness in his jaw when he told you Steve should have stayed with you at the club. You think of the dullness in his brown eyes when he apologized for kissing you, for breaking the first rule.

A flick and Eddie's dark eyes no longer reflect the colors in the sky. Instead, they're caught on yours, staring back as you watch him. And when you see it— the intensity of his gaze, the same intensity that your eyes had darted from earlier— you no longer look away.

The light show ends. A smooth voice behind your head asks, "Do you guys wanna head back to the hotel now?"

You are the first to speak. "Yes."

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