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hier--soir · 11 months ago

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raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission? warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye. word count: 9.7k series masterlist | main masterlist to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part one of raising cain.

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.

No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.

In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.

She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.

Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.

A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.

The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.

She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.

Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.

She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.

With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.

There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.

Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.

Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.

The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.

Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.

Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.

And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.

Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.

Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.

Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.

Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.

She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.

He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.

She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.

Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.

Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.

“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.

“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"

“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”

“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.

“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”

Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.

“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?

“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.

Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.

“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.

Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her.

“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.

His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.

Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.

Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.

Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.

“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.

She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.

Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.

“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.

She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.

“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”

The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”

She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”

He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.

It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.

The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.

“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”

“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.

Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.

“Wipe your nose.”

She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.

“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.

“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”

He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.

“Alone?”

He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”

“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”

A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.

“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”

“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”

He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.

“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.

His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks.

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.

“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”

“Do tell.”

Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”

A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.

“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”

“Stop.”

Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.

“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”

She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.

“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.

“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.

“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”

He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored.

“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.

And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.

“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”

He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.

“Camille.”

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”

It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.

In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.

Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.

But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.

The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.

“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”

She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.

“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”

An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.

“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”

“That is not an option for us.”

“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.

“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”

Din Djarin says nothing.

“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”

A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”

“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”

“This is about revenge.”

“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”

He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.

“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”

“Cain—”

“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”

A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.

“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”

She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.

“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”

“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”

“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”

He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.

“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.

Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.

“Amélie?”

Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.

“Wrong.”

Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.

Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.

Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.

Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.

Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.

“Celine?”

Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.

“Wrong again.”

The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.

And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.

Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.

And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”

The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.

“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.

“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.

Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.

She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.

The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.

“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?

When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.

She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.

Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.

Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.

“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.

“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.

“Don’t wear it ou—”

His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans.

His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.

The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm.

His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.

His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground.

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.

“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”

Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.

“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”

Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”

She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.

“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”

He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.

A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.

“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.

“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.

He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.

Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.

A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.

The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.

They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.

Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.

Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.

“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”

Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.

“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”

“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.

Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.

He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.

She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.

A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.

Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.

“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.

She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.

He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.

“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.

Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.

It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.

So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.

The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.

Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.

And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.

He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.

Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.

Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.

He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.

“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.”

He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.

At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.

She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.

Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.

“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.

“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”

“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”

“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”

His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.

It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.

He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.

And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.

His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.

A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.

Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.

“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”

Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.

“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.

Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.

Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.

Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.

And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.

Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.

Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

#i know the fire brigade probably gets called when you hit the emergency stop in an elevator #but this is a fantasy land where i get to make the rules #my writing #fic: raising cain #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin au fanfic #din djarin x ofc #din djarin smut #din djarin fic

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ambrossart · 2 years ago

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DANCING WITH MYSELF

— PART TEN (FINALE)

summary: eddie crashes senior prom hoping to steal a dance with his dream girl, chrissy cunningham. instead, he spends the night stuck in the women’s restroom with you—her snarky, insecure best friend.

❖ pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader ❖ word count: 11,785 ❖ genre: fluff with some angst ❖ series status: complete ❖ warnings: no season 4 spoilers, some coarse language, body image issues, allusions to eating disorders, typical teenage insecurities, angst, jealousy, anxiety, secret crushes, childhood memories, happy ending, lots of 80s music

Stepping back into that dance hall was a lot like being jolted awake from a sweet sleep.

For a moment you were stuck, caught somewhere on the threshold between the real world and the dream world with one foot on either side: half awake, half asleep, barely there… if you were even there at all. While you were sleeping, reality had continued playing like a movie you had forgotten to turn off. It hadn’t stopped for you, hadn’t paused, and now you were struggling to comprehend the plot, fighting to find your place in a world that had left you behind. You stood outside of it, looking in, but you couldn’t muster the strength to take that final step, to wake up fully and abandon the dream forever.

Because it was such a lovely dream, wasn’t it?

And now it was over—dead and soon to be forgotten like so many dreams before it. Already, you could feel the memories fading further and further away. Sitting next to Eddie. Hearing his laughter. Seeing his smile. Feeling the warm press of his lips against yours. (You touched your finger to your lips. They felt so cold now.) These images drifted through your mind like a slowed-down piece of film; then they were just… gone. They abandoned you cruelly, slipped through your fingers like tiny grains of sand. You couldn’t get them back now even if you tried. They were floating away: back down that long hallway, back to that closed door that seemed so far from reach. You knew there was no going back, not anymore. Even if you laid your head down, even if you forced your eyes closed, you would never be able to return to that same dream. The door was shut, locked, sealed away forever.

So now here you stood on this threshold, unwilling to go but unable to stay. What choice did you have but to get up and face reality?

You walked into the hall on unsteady legs, feeling a step out of sync with everyone else. In the background, “Love My Way” by The Psychedelic Furs chimed hypnotically and made the room feel sleepy and surreal, as if the whole world was moving in slow motion and you alone were unaffected. People brushed past your elbow and seemed not to feel you. Eyes met yours and looked straight through you. Could they not see the red streaks in your eyes? The blotchiness of your makeup? Could they not tell that you were one “Are you okay?” away from a total breakdown? Did anyone even care?

Here you were, experiencing the greatest tragedy of your teenage life and—nothing, not even a ripple in the water!

You could feel your heart shattering into a million pieces, feel the shards of it tearing you up inside, but no one else could see your suffering. It was like that old philosophical thought experiment: If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

If no one else could sense your heartache, was it even real?

You placed your foot on the step below and felt your heel slip out from underneath you:

down,

down!

A gasp escaped you. Your broken heart leaped into your throat. You caught yourself on the railing, looked down, and saw that your shoe had come loose. It was lying on its side, the faux leather strap barely clinging to your ankle. You must have missed a notch when you re-buckled it, after you…

Here ya go, Cinderella.

Eddie’s voice made you jump. It came to your mind so clearly, as if he was standing right next to you. You sat down and buckled your shoe, then looked over your shoulder and wondered, Is it too late for me to turn back? Is he still there, waiting for me?

(No, probably not.)

Yeah, probably not… I wouldn’t wait for me, either.

You pushed the thought away and walked on. Down the stairs. Along the edge of the dance floor. To the table—your table—where Chrissy Cunningham was sitting alone with her back to you. She was slouching in her chair. Such a terrible habit.

You dropped down beside your best friend, molded your lips into something of a smile. “Oh my god, Chris, you would not believe the line in the ladies’ room…”

Chrissy turned at once, startled, her eyes red and glassy, bottom lip trembling. “I thought you left,” she said, her brows drawn together in a mixture of confusion and disbelief. “I thought… I thought…”

“What?” you said, and gently swept one of her loose hairs back into place. “You thought I’d miss your coronation? Come on, Chris, I’m not that self-absorbed.”

Chrissy shook her head as fresh tears filled her eyes. “I don’t care about the stupid coronation! It’s a cheap, plastic crown that I’ll just throw away in the morning.” She bent her head and sniffed, then wiped her runny nose on the back of her hand. “I didn’t come here to be named prom queen. I came here to have fun with my friends, with my best friend, and I’ve completely ruined everything! This night has been a total disaster, and it’s all my fault. All that stuff with Chance… and with Eddie…”

Your whole body stiffened with dread. No, please, no… I don’t wanna do this right now, not when I’m finally starting to…

Chrissy seized both of your hands in a desperate grip. “I’m so, so sorry! I swear I had no idea he came here for me. If I’d known, I never would’ve encouraged you like I did. Oh my god, I feel so stupid! Here I am, telling you to go for it and put your heart out there, while he…” She squeezed her mouth shut, choking back emotion. “I didn’t know he liked me. I swear I didn’t. I don’t even know why he likes me. I mean… I mean… I think I said good luck to him once at some talent show back in middle school, but that didn’t mean anything! I was saying good luck to everybody that night—everybody, even that kid with the creepy puppet, and he almost threw up all over me. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” you said, and managed a laugh. “It was hilarious.”

Chrissy laughed too, despite her tears. “No, it wasn’t. It was disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” you said in a teasing voice. “Look at you, Cunningham, you’re a total mess. Come here.” You grabbed a napkin and started blotting her eyes dry. “Your nose is running. Your mascara’s all over the place. If you go on stage looking like this, everyone’s gonna think you’re a lunatic.”

Another tear slipped down Chrissy’s cheek, painting a black line down her face. You wiped that away, too.

“I just don’t want you to hate me,” she said.

“What? Hate you?” Those two words didn’t even belong in the same sentence. “Chris, I could never hate you. You could go on a massive killing spree tomorrow and I still wouldn’t hate you. In fact, I’d be right there with you. Be the Bonnie to your Clyde. And then I’d take the rap for you because you’re way too soft for prison.”

Chrissy breathed out a laugh, but the misery never left her face. “I feel like I’m always taking things from you,” she said. “And you like him so much and—”

“Chris, if it wasn’t you, it was just gonna be someone else. And I’d rather it be you. I really mean that.” It hurt you deeply, but it was the truth. “Besides, I can’t say I blame him. I mean, look at you. You’re sweet and smart, and gorgeous. And yeah, your jokes are corny as shit, but hey, no one’s perfect, right?”

No, Chrissy Cunningham wasn’t perfect, but she was probably about as close as anyone was ever going to get.

“Everyone likes you, Chris, and I love you to death, so… it just makes sense, doesn’t it?” A lump formed in your throat as you said this. You tried to force it down, but…

Chrissy’s face tightened with concern. “Hey, are you okay?”

Finally. There it was, the question you’d been craving and dreading all at the same time. You felt so wonderfully vindicated—vindicated and a little relieved, and now you didn’t know whether to pump your fist in victory or fall into Chrissy’s arms, sobbing like a child.

“See, this is why you’re my best friend, Chris. You’re the only one who can see through all my bullshit. You’re like Superman with that X-ray vision.”

“What happened?” Chrissy asked. Her hands were still holding yours—a looser grip, but somehow no less strong.

You cast your eyes away, started chewing on your bottom lip. “I just… You know, tonight’s been very eye-opening for me. I’ve learned a lot about myself. Swallowed some hard truths. They certainly didn’t go down easy, but… I think I’m finally starting to get it.”

It had all snapped perfectly into place, like a bullet into a chamber.

“You know, this whole time I thought my weight was the issue. I thought that was the one thing holding me back in life, and if I could just fix that one thing, then I’d be happy like everyone else. I thought I would blossom overnight like in all those dumb movies.” Your expression darkened, wilted. “Well, that didn’t happen, did it? I lost the weight and nothing changed. I didn’t get any happier. I didn’t get any more confident. I’m exactly the same. So now what’s my excuse, huh? If it’s not my weight, then what is it? What’s wrong with me? I couldn’t figure it out before, but I see it now. In fact, it’s become pretty fucking obvious. I think I’m just a really unlikable person.”

Chrissy winced at those words. “No, you’re not…”

“Yes, I am! I’m a really, really nasty person. I know I act like I’m just joking around, but I’m not. I’m a massive bitch to everyone, especially myself. You were right, Chris. I’m the one getting in the way of my own happiness. Life gives me lemons, and I just eat them raw, like an idiot. And you know, I bet whoever’s giving me those lemons is standing there thinking, Bitch, what are you doing? Are you trying to make yourself suffer? Yeah, that’s exactly it! I think I’m determined to stay miserable. That’s why I keep eating those lemons instead of, you know, making lemonade or lemon tarts or whatever the hell else you make with lemons. I dunno, I’ve never really understood that expression. I mean, some people actually prefer sour things. And I hate lemonade. It makes my throat all scratchy whenever I drink it.”

Chrissy’s hands tightened around yours and pulled, drawing you close, forcing you to meet her determined gaze.

“What happened?” she asked once more.

Once more was all it took.

Suddenly, you felt the dam break, blurring your vision and making your dry eyes sting. “I fucked up again, Chris,” you said in a high, squeaky voice. “I tried really hard, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make that paper fortune come true.”

Chrissy raised her eyebrows quizzically. Right, she had probably forgotten about that.

“It’s that voice, man,” you went on, dragging your forearm across your tear-drenched cheek. “I know you tell me not to listen to it, but it’s so hard! It just whispers and whispers and whispers, telling you all these little half-truths. And after a while, you start to believe them because they make just enough sense, you know?”

Six years ago, that’s exactly how it got you. Yeah, Scott Sloman wasn’t the only demon trying to tempt you that day. There was a second demon—a dangerous, deceitful one—and unlike Scottie, it never broke character.

It whispered to you sweetly, sounding almost like a friend, like a good ole pal just trying to look out for your best interest (because that’s what friends are for, right?). It reminded you, so considerately, that summer was ending soon. In a few weeks, the campaign would be over. Eddie would be going off to high school and you would be left alone with nothing but this stupid journal that you clung to so tightly. A lovely little souvenir of your time together, that’s what these three months had given you. Congratulations, kiddo. Now you get to spend the next two years flipping through it while he moves on and forgets all about you. And Eddie would forget about you. That was all but guaranteed. Sure, maybe he would wait for someone else—someone prettier, someone like Chrissy, but certainly not for you. No, he would probably forget about you within a week’s time. Y/N, who? Sorry, that name’s not ringin’ a bell…

And then you began to think this was all a huge mistake. You’d waded too far into the deep end of the pool and your feet could no longer touch the bottom. Now you were left with two choices: stay in the deep end and risk drowning or reach for the life preserver that Scott Sloman had just cast into the water.

Deep down, you knew the right choice, but your survival instincts were way too strong. You accepted the demon’s bargain. Signed your name in blood.

After that, there was no going back.

Scottie’s eyes widened when he unfolded the paper and saw your answer.

“The deal is done,” he announced, and then discreetly tucked the paper behind his screen. “The demon’s offer has been accepted.”

The room went so quiet after that. All you could hear was the sound of a single pencil scratching against notebook paper. Eddie had no idea what was going on. Everyone at the table was staring at him, and he was just scribbling away like everything was fine, like you hadn’t just sharpened your dagger and plunged it straight into his back. His foot kept brushing against yours. Every once in a while, he would throw you a little smile. Meanwhile, you sank deeper and deeper into your chair, hoping the seat would collapse and suck you in like a vacuum, send you spinning through time and space and trap you in an alternate dimension. Your left arm hugged your stomach. Your right hand found its way to your mouth and hovered over it.

“Shit,” you whispered into your palm, and that’s when Eddie finally put down his pencil and looked up.

“What?” he said to everyone. “Is it my turn already?”

“Dude,” said Gareth, his face long and grim, “did you not see what just happened?”

“No,” Eddie answered slowly, with a touch of unease. “What? Did I miss something big?”

Gareth’s head bobbed. “Yeah, I’ll say… You’re dead, man. She killed you.”

Eddie’s back straightened in surprise. Then his eyes fell on you, heavy yet hopeful, like he was waiting for you to bust out laughing and tell him it was all a friendly little joke.

“What’s going on?”

The innocence in his voice made your stomach churn with regret. You kept your hand over your mouth, muffling your words with your knuckles. “I sacrificed… the ultimate power.”

Eddie leaned closer, squinting. “What?”

You lowered your hand and cleared your throat. “I sacrificed you to a demon for the ultimate power,” you said, and saw Eddie recoil from you, his eyes widening into an expression of startled hurt. It was the same stunned look he gave you tonight, right before you walked out of the restroom.

I’m really sorry, you said with your eyes, but that apology was soon drowned out by the sound of laughter. Your laughter. It came out of nowhere and spread through you like wildfire. You laughed while Eddie yelled at Scottie and demanded he intervene. You laughed while he huffed and puffed, muttered something about you being dead to him.

(Oh, shit, there it is, you thought now with a sudden spark of clarity. Yep, now I remember that.)

You told him to quit being such a baby. “Come on, it’s just a game, Munson!”

Then he tore up the stairs with his backpack half-zipped and flopping behind him. It’s better this way, that little voice told you. I know it hurts now, kid, but just think of how bad it could’ve been. Think of the pain you would’ve suffered once summer ended. Just think of it and you’ll understand. This wasn’t an act of betrayal. No, this was an act of mercy. You just did yourself a huge favor.

You wanted to believe that, you did, but then you noticed the piece of paper lying on the floor. It was Eddie’s character sheet, the one you had made for him. It must have slipped out of his binder while he was hurrying to leave.

(Or maybe he left it behind on purpose.)

Then you remembered how hard you had worked on it, how nervous you were to show it to him. You almost chickened out and went home with it in your backpack, but you were so glad you didn’t because the smile he gave you made everything worth it. It felt like your first major breakthrough, like you were finally on the right path with him.

And now…

You snatched the paper and ran after him. Nearly tripped on the steps, you were going so fast.

Eddie must have assumed you would come after him because he was waiting for you at the top of the stairs. This made your heart flutter with such hope… until you noticed the anger smoldering in his eyes.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked in a sharp, demanding voice. The strength of it almost knocked you off balance.

“What do you mean, why did I do it?” you said. “My character’s chaotic, Munson. She’s a wild card! God, you’re acting like this is the first time I’ve ever betrayed you.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and took off again. Blew through the Slomans’ kitchen like a fierce winter storm. You went too, and turned quickly to avoid hitting the counter’s sharp corner. Meanwhile, Mrs. Sloman was at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce for dinner. She looked up as you two passed, then sighed and went back to stirring.

To Eddie’s back, you said, “Oh come on, Munson, I betray you on a weekly basis. It’s part of what makes our dynamic so special. I betray you, get us both into a lotta trouble, and then you save the day and we laugh it off and forget it ever happened. Wash, rinse, repeat.”

“Yeah, well, this is different,” Eddie said. “Yeah, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

“Seriously? It’s worse than the time I abandoned you in that sand trap? Worse than the time I stole all your money and gambled it away? Worse than the time I tripped you when we were being chased by goblins in the never-ending caves? Come on, don’t be so overdramatic.”

“I’m not being overdramatic,” he said, and cut through the living room. Mr. Sloman was napping on the couch while Sunday afternoon football played on the television. Eddie saw him and lowered his voice into a harsh whisper. “I mean, do you even realize what you just did? My character’s dead now. I can’t play as him anymore.”

“So create a new character!”

“Create a new character? Are you fucking kidding?”

You cringed at the abrupt shift in Eddie’s tone. Mr. Sloman snorted in his sleep and rolled over.

“Okay, so don’t create a new character,” you replied in a waning voice. “How ‘bout we make a brand new adventure out of it? We can call it ‘Journey into the Underworld: The Quest for Munson’s Soul.’ It’ll be kinda like the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice, but don’t worry, I promise I won’t look back.”

“I don’t know what that means!” Eddie yelled, frustration straining his throat. “God, you keep making all these weird, obscure references that nobody else understands… Besides, my soul isn’t even in the underworld. I dunno where my soul is. You sold it to a demon for some stupid, made-up power!”

“SO THEN WE’LL GO GET IT BACK!” you screamed, making Eddie stop and whip around. You staggered backward, shrinking away from him in shame. His brown eyes were hard and cold, colder than you had ever seen.

That’s when it finally hit you: This isn’t like all those other times, is it? This isn’t something we’re gonna laugh about later.

Then Eddie saw the character sheet and—“Hey, gimme that!”—ripped it right out of your hand. You flinched as the paper sliced across your skin, and flinched again as Eddie’s fist closed around it, crushing the little rectangle beyond repair.

“I was gonna give that back,” you started to say, but then you realized it didn’t matter. The paper disappeared into Eddie’s backpack, and you never saw it again. You figured he had probably thrown it away.

This is it, isn’t it? Somehow, you could just feel it. This is the end of everything.

All these heavy thoughts crept into your heart like water seeping into a cracked ship hull. Now you were sinking in these ice-cold feelings, and there was nothing you could do but try to buy yourself some time. Try to stay afloat long enough to safely reach the shore. And that’s when you felt a familiar instinct take over. Limb by limb, your body started to seal itself off, shut all the watertight doors. It began at your feet and slowly worked its way up until your whole body felt perfectly numb to everything. That little paper cut on your finger, it didn’t sting anymore. You watched it bleed with a hazy fascination and thought of the demon’s contract, of the red pen you had used to sign it.

“Why are you here?” Eddie asked, but his voice sounded so muted, so far away. It was like he was talking to you underwater.

You turned and stared at him with a queer gaze, as if perplexed. “You already asked me that.”

“Yeah, well… you never really answered.”

Because it doesn’t matter, you thought. None of it matters. I’ve already accepted that, Eddie. Why can’t you?

Your silence made him sigh. “I don’t get it,” he said under his breath. “Why can’t you answer one simple question? There’s a reason you joined, isn’t there? You didn’t just wake up one morning and decide you love roleplaying games. So what is it? Huh? Why’d you wanna join our campaign so bad?”

It was painful to think back on this moment now, knowing what you knew. Part of you wished that you had been born two years earlier. Maybe if you were a little older, a little wiser, you would have handled things differently.

But you weren’t older. You were twelve, and in way over your head. You weren’t prepared to handle situations like this. You were too young, too immature, too caught up in your own fears and feelings that you couldn’t see what now seemed so glaringly obvious.

It never occurred to you—not once, not even for a second—that maybe the reason Eddie so desperately needed your answer was the same reason you were so terrified to give it.

Maybe if you knew that, you wouldn’t have said what you said:

“My best friend’s at cheer camp. I needed something to do.”

Eddie cast his eyes up and away, as far away from you as he could. “So you were just bored, then?”

Your shoulders moved on their own, up and down. “Pretty much.”

Eddie took your answer and swallowed it down with a hard gulp. “Gotcha,” he said. “Well, that’s just… great. Yeah, that actually makes perfect sense.”

He hung his head and chuckled at that for a minute; then he started dragging his feet backward, toward the front door. His departing smile was sad and defeated.

“Well, I’m glad I was able to entertain you.” He pushed open the screen door and went out. “See ya around.”

“And do you know what the funny thing is?” you said to Chrissy now, as the memory faded away. “You know what really cracks me up? That should’ve been the end for me. Yeah, that should’ve been game over, insert a coin and try again, but for some bizarre reason, it wasn’t. Yeah, for some reason, he let me keep playing right where I left off. And I got really close this time, Chris. You would’ve been so proud of me. Victory was in sight. The grand prize was right there. All I had to do was reach out and take it.” You made a snatching motion with your hand, then curled your fingers into a fist. “And do you know what I did? I took it and threw it straight into the trash! Isn’t that hilarious? I mean, isn’t that just like me?”

You laughed out loud—a weak, strangled sound. “Fuck me, man!” you said, and wiped your hands across the dampened apples of your cheeks. “God, I need a shrink… Hey, maybe I should have your mom get me the number for hers ‘cause, lemme tell ya, that guy is doing wonders for her. Yeah, that woman’s just full of confidence now, isn’t she?” You gnashed your teeth and cursed. “God, I wanna fight your mom.”

Chrissy cracked a small smile but said nothing. Instead, she stepped forward and gently wrapped her arms around you, pulling you in for one of those perfect, put-you-back-together hugs. Except this one wasn’t so perfect. This one was Scotch Tape when you really needed Super Glue. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it was strong enough to get you through the night in one piece.

Chrissy rested her head against yours. “Look,” she whispered, “I don’t know what happened and I don’t know what you did, but I’m sure it’s not too late to fix it.”

A tear escaped your eye when you heard that. “Yeah, but I think it is,” you said. “I chose to walk out that door, Chris, and now I think it’s closed for good.”

Chrissy released a compassionate sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is the end. But you know what? Even if it is, I promise everything’s gonna be fine. Okay? No matter what happens, you’re gonna be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

You took a deep breath through your nose, exhaled through your mouth, and broke away. While drying your eyes, you said, “How am I supposed to survive college without you? I could barely make it through a single summer on my own, so I dunno how I’m gonna last four years.”

“You and me both,” Chrissy replied with a bittersweet smile. “We’ll figure it out.”

She wiped a tiny flake of mascara off your left cheek. Blushing, you quickly cleaned up the rest.

That’s when you noticed Jason Carver standing far off to the side, patiently waiting for the appropriate time to come over. Once you locked eyes, he took a tentative step toward you and said, “Is everything… okay?”

“Yeah,” Chrissy told him. “Everything’s fine now.”

“Good,” Jason said. Then he turned toward you. “Look, I’m really sorry for—”

You put up your hand. “Jason, it’s fine. I don’t like what you did, but I get why you did it, so… we’re good. Let’s just move on and try to enjoy the rest of the night, okay?”

Jason’s eyes softened with gratitude. “Sure. Thanks.”

He turned away and—

“But,” you rang out, drawing him back, “since you did kinda humiliate me in front of the entire class, I think I’m entitled to some compensation. Wouldn’t you agree? That’s why you’ll be buying me lunch every day for the rest of the year… and that includes all à la carte items, too. I do love those fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies.”

Jason pursed his lips together. “The rest of the year, huh?”

“You can afford it,” you said, and his eyes narrowed with displeasure.

Jason opened his mouth to further protest… only to close it again when he heard Chrissy giggling quietly into her hand. He drank in her laughter with a crooked little smile and said to you, “All right, fine, you’ve got a deal. But you better not take advantage of it, okay?”

“Oh, I plan to. Wholeheartedly.” You put your hands behind your back and beamed at him.

Shortly after, Ms. Kelley came over and said it was time for all the nominees to gather on stage for the announcement of prom king and queen. Chrissy gave you a guilty look and seemed hesitant to go. You nudged her along with your elbow.

“Go,” you told her. “I’m fine, really. Go get your crown, superstar.”

“I don’t care about the crown.”

“I know you don’t, but I do… because I live vicariously through you, remember? I’m like a crazy stage mom and you’re my pageant queen daughter.”

Chrissy rolled her eyes amiably. “You’re such a goof.”

“I know,” you said, and laughed. “Now, don’t forget to act surprised when you win, okay? You wanna appear gracious and humble, but not too humble. Otherwise, you’ll be like Sally Field at the Oscars and everyone will think you’re a total whack job.”

You beckoned her closer and lowered your voice. “Oh, and please don’t let Jason hog the mic for too long, okay? You know how he gets when he has a captive audience. He just goes on and on and on… I mean, we’ll be stuck here all night.”

“I heard that,” said Jason, making you smirk.

“Hey, I’m just saying… keep it under a minute, Carver, or else I’ll have the DJ play you off the stage.”

For that, Jason shot you a playful glare. “Yeah, you’re definitely feeling better. Come on, Chris, let’s go.”

He led her away by her elbow. All the while, Chrissy looked back at you with a worried frown.

You made a shooing motion with your hand. “Go! Go! I’m fine now, I promise. Watch, I’m gonna go grab a cup of punch and then take my place among the rest of the commoners. Seriously, don’t worry about me, Chris. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Maybe if you said it enough, it would become true.

And maybe you would stop looking over your shoulder, hoping Eddie would be there.

It was nine fifty-eight. Only one more hour to go.

With your cup of punch in hand, you wandered over to Jeff’s table and found him and Grant conversing quietly while Megan Mulrooney lay snoring upon a bed of clumsily arranged chairs.

“Wow, Grant, looks like your date danced herself into a coma.”

Grant put his finger to his lips, then gestured toward his sleeping prom date. “If she wakes up, she’s gonna wanna dance again, and my feet can’t handle that, so…” He swept his hand across his mouth, pretending to seal it shut.

“Got it,” you said, and zipped your lips, too. You sat down next to Jeff. “So, your date still AWOL?”

“Mhm,” said Jeff with an unbothered nod. “You know who I saw her dancing with earlier?”

“Who?”

“Patrick McKinney.”

You put your hand over your mouth, feigning surprise. “How scandalous! Well, I guess we know who she’s going home with.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.” Jeff smiled at you, his eyes glowing with sympathy. “We saw what happened earlier. Man, that was tough to watch… How you holding up?”

“Eh, I’m okay,” you said. “Honestly, I don’t really care about that anymore. I mean, what the hell was I thinking, anyway? Chance Gallagher? The guy’s a dumbass. It’s a miracle he’s even graduating.”

Chuckling, you raised the plastic cup to your mouth and

This is kinda my last shot, y’know? If I don’t get that diploma this year, I’m gonna have to get my GED like every other Munson before me, and I really don’t wanna be another cliché…

felt your lips curl against the rim. This tender smile, unbidden and unexpected, remained on your face while you sipped your drink and cradled the cup against your chest.

To Jeff, you said, “You know, I never really thanked you.”

“For what?”

“For putting up with me all these years. And for sticking your neck out for me.”

“Sticking my neck out? What, you mean back in middle school?”

You nodded, blushing.

Jeff and Grant exchanged bewildered looks. Then Jeff turned back to you with a huge grin. “What’s this?” he said. “You finally getting hit with some of that senior year nostalgia?”

You laughed. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, you don’t have to thank me. We’re friends, right? I’d stick my neck out for you any day.” Jeff’s smile faded. When it returned, it was tinged with regret. “You know, I always felt kinda bad about how things ended that summer, and… well, I dunno… I guess I just wish I could’ve done more for you.”

You shook your head doubtfully. “You already did everything you could. I mean, you gave me a shot, right? It’s not your fault I missed.”

You frowned. All this talk was making your heart throb again. With every painful pulse, you could feel the Scotch Tape losing its grip and peeling away. You quickly finished the rest of your punch and slammed your empty cup on the table.

“Wow!” you said. “Look at me making sports analogies… I think I’ve been hanging out with Jason way too much.”

And now the DJ’s filler music was fading into silence. Principal Higgins had taken the stage and was struggling to adjust the height of the mic stand. Some of the students snickered. Principal Higgins gave them a twitchy little smile. Then he straightened his tie, cleared his throat into the mic, and jerked away from the sudden feedback whine.

“Umm, excuse me? Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”

Finally, you thought with a relieved sigh. You rose to your feet and pushed in your chair. “Well, looks like it’s time for me to head over. Enjoy the rest of your night, gentlemen. I’ll see you two on Monday.”

You waved goodbye, took a few steps and

“Hey, Y/N?”

turned back to look at Grant. “Yeah?”

“Look, this probably won’t help much, but I think it’s something you need to hear.” Grant rubbed his neck pensively for a minute. He glanced at Jeff and received an encouraging nod. “Umm, that day, I know Eddie said he was quitting the campaign and everything, but you gotta know he didn’t really mean it. He was just mad and needed to go home and blow off some steam. He came back for the next session.”

You sucked in a breath. “He did?”

“Yeah, he did,” said Grant, while Jeff looked at you with a pitying frown. “And, umm, obviously I can’t really say for sure, but… I think he was hoping you’d be there.”

“Really?” you said, and let Grant’s words sink in for a minute. “So, basically, you’re saying if I’d just sucked it up and gone to the next session, I might’ve—” You clenched your jaw tightly, fighting back the tears that threatened to rip you apart. “Wow… You’re right, Grant, that didn’t help at all.”

You spun around and shouldered your way onto the dance floor, desperate to lose yourself among the gathering crowd. On stage, Principal Higgins was rambling about the future, talking about how far you’d all come, how you were about to move on to bigger and better things…

But I’m not ready to move on, you thought. Not yet. Not without—

You looked over your shoulder, squeezed your eyes shut, and turned back around.

God dammit! Why did I have to join that stupid campaign? If I hadn’t, maybe this would’ve been just another meaningless crush. Maybe I would’ve actually moved on during those two years. Maybe I would’ve noticed someone else. Been noticed by someone else. Shit, maybe I would’ve felt something when Teddy Brubacher kissed me at Katie McDillon’s New Year’s Eve party. Maybe he would’ve been my prom date tonight and—

You whipped around and hissed: “What? What, Teddy?”

Teddy Brubacher flinched away from you, startled. “Well, you were looking at me like you wanted me to come over.”

“What? No, I wasn’t!”

“Yes, you were. I saw you. You were beckoning me with your eyes.”

Teddy’s gaze shifted as he spoke, traveling lower and lower. Disgust churned in your stomach. Anger burned through you like fire. You squirmed away and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Oh my god, I was not beckoning you with my eyes, Teddy. I was just glancing in your general direction, okay? Now, can you please go bother someone else? I’m really not in the mood to talk to you right now.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to cry.”

“Teddy, go!”

“All right, fine…” Teddy stuffed his hands into his pockets and sauntered away. “You know, maybe you should stop sending me so many mixed signals. Ever think of that?”

“What? I’m not sending you mixed signals. I’m not sending you any signals! I don’t like you, Teddy. I’ve never liked you. You’re a perverted little cretin that refuses to leave me alone. There. You happy now? Is that a clear enough signal for you?”

Teddy sneered at you. “God, you’re such a bitch.”

“Yeah, well…”

Your throat closed. For a moment, you thought you might break down and start sobbing right in the middle of the dance floor. You didn’t, but your eyes were wet and glistening like mirrors. You hid your face so no one would see and moved closer to the stage.

Keep it together, keep it together… You’re so close. Don’t fall apart now.

It was a quarter past ten, and you were unraveling.

But you put on a brave face for your best friend. Chrissy was standing off to the side with the other prom queen candidates: Sarah Twinley, Jennifer Warner, and Kara Scott. Chrissy didn’t know what to do with herself on stage. She kept shifting her weight around. Crossing her ankles. Folding and unfolding her arms. But all that fidgeting came to a stop when she spotted you in the crowd. Chrissy smiled and gave you a cute little wave. It was such a precious gesture, like a child waving at her parents during a school play. At that moment, all your problems seemed so insignificant.

Meanwhile, the rest of the students were growing restless. A boy cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted from the back row: “Come on, save the sappy shit for graduation. We wanna party!”

The crowd cheered and hollered. Principal Higgins motioned for silence.

“Quiet! Quiet, please. You can all return to your party in just a minute, but first let’s have a round of applause for this year’s prom court!” The audience applauded half-heartedly. Principal Higgins stepped away and began clapping himself. Then he drew a card from his breast pocket and returned to the mic. “All right, seniors, and now the moment you’ve all been waiting for… The votes are in. We counted them twice. Your 1986 Prom King and Queen are… drum roll, please… Jason CARVER and Chrissy CUNNINGHAM.”

Applause broke out and filled the hall, honest and proud. You were clapping from the third row, a placid smile tugging at your lips. Congratulations, Chris. No one deserves it more than you.

Jason and Chrissy stepped forward with gracious smiles. Sashes were draped over them. Crowns were brought out and placed on their heads. Chrissy’s landed a little crooked. She gently nudged it into place with her hand, then blinked as a bouquet of red roses was suddenly thrust upon her.

Principal Higgins boomed into the mic: “LET’S HEAR IT FOR YOUR KING AND QUEEN!”

Applause swelled and the crowd surged. All the basketball players were going wild. The cheerleaders were whooping and whistling with their fingers. You were still clapping, but no longer smiling. All the commotion was giving you a bit of a headache. Then an old, scratchy recording of the school fight song blared over the speakers, and you really started to get a headache.

Back on stage, Chrissy and Jason were posing for yearbook photos: flash after flash after flash. Chrissy’s smile kept slipping between shots. Her eyes darted around helplessly. She wanted to leave. She needed to leave. The lights were too bright. The music was too loud. And this stupid crown refused to stay put! It kept tipping and sliding down her head like it was trying to run away from her, like it knew she was a fraud—a false queen, who was undeserving of its majesty. Chrissy may have been able to fool her classmates, but she couldn’t fool the crown. It had weighed her, judged her, and declared her unworthy.

But still the applause came. It never stopped. The sound poured into Chrissy’s ears and made her feel dizzy, made her feel sick, made her want to pull away and…

And then she felt Jason’s gentle touch on her head, effortlessly gliding the stubborn crown back into place.

“There,” he said with a satisfied nod. “Much better… Man, that must’ve been driving you crazy, huh?”

Chrissy stared up at him, speechless.

“Thank you, by the way, for suffering through this with me. There’s no one else I’d rather be standing next to right now.”

Jason’s smile was confident and his eyes unwavering. Chrissy’s heart soared. She reached up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“What was that for?” Jason asked, bemused.

“Nothing,” Chrissy said, “I just feel the same way. Come on.”

She took his hand and led him across the stage, down the stairs, to the middle of the dance floor. The audience parted around them naturally, moving in great waves that rippled outward in every direction. You stood still, grounded like a stone. Then the applause died and the lights dimmed, covering the hall in a veil of shadow that made everything feel so painfully romantic. You sighed as it fell over you, and sighed again when the DJ played Cyndi Lauper’s famous bittersweet ballad, “Time After Time.”

It was ten twenty-three, and you were ready to leave.

You stole one last glimpse of your best friend’s smiling face and felt your chest clench with guilt. Sorry to bail on you early, Chris, but I toughed it out for as long as I could.

Now it was time to go home and put this night behind you. Take that long walk up your driveway. Drag your feet up those creaky porch steps. Swipe your hand along the top of the doorframe and hope with all your heart that your parents hadn’t moved the spare key like they always said they were going to, because you didn’t want to knock on the door and face your parents head-on. Have your dad look into your tear-filled eyes and say with panic in his voice, Oh my god, sweetie, what happened? Did someone hurt you? Yeah, because for him that was the worst possible thing that could have happened to you. That was his greatest fear. And then you would feel so embarrassed to admit the truth: No, Dad, nobody hurt me. Nobody wanted anything to do with me! And then you would run upstairs and spend the rest of the night crying into your pillow, just like you did back in middle school.

You weren’t going to do that tonight. You weren’t going to cry in front of your father. You weren’t going to sit through another one of your mother’s useless pep talks, listen to her blather on and on about how beautiful you were, inside and out, and how one day some lucky guy was going to see it. And when that happens, you’re gonna feel really silly for crying over some dumb school dance. Then you would smirk and say something witty and self-deprecating like, So you’re saying I’m gonna fall in love with a blind guy? And your mother would pretend to laugh and say, Yes, honey, and he’ll even think your jokes are funny.

No, you weren’t going to do any of that tonight because you weren’t that pathetic thirteen-year-old girl anymore. You were an adult and fully capable of accepting the consequences of your actions. You fucked up. You made a mistake. It happened. It’s over. Now all you wanted to do was suffer alone in silence.

So, with any luck, that spare key was going to be exactly where it was supposed to be. That way, you could unlock the door and slip inside like everything was fine.

Your mother would hear the door open and tell your father to turn down the volume on the TV. Then she would catch a glimpse of your shadow in the entryway and say, You’re home early. What happened? I thought you were going to the after-party with Chris.

Yeah, I was, but I’m just really tired. Too much dancing, I guess.

Oh… Well, did you have fun?

Yeah, I did.

Then your mother would smile, perhaps even get a little bit smug. See? I told you you’d have a good time, and that would break your heart all over again.

Yeah, you were right, Mom, you would say. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was gonna be.

And you would think, It was so, so much worse.

Then you would tell your parents good night and go upstairs. Wash all the product out of your hair; clean the makeup off your face. Put on your comfiest pajamas, turn out the lights, crawl into bed, and listen to one of your Journey albums because, one way or another, you were going to have your Journey moment tonight. You just wished it was under better circumstances.

And while you lay in bed listening to Steve Perry sing “Only the Young,” while your tears dried on your cheeks and your wet hair drenched your pillow, your thoughts would eventually start to wander; then your eyes would start to wander… over to the tiny crack in your closet door, and suddenly a strange impulse would come over you. You would get up and start rummaging through your closet. Find your old D&D journal inside a cardboard box of long-forgotten keepsakes. Dust it off, flip through a couple of pages, and think,

I could’ve gone back.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake that thought from your head. You could’ve gone back. You could’ve gone back. The door wasn’t locked that day. It wasn’t. You could’ve opened it and walked through it, but you didn’t. Instead, you ran away and avoided the problem like you always did; told Scottie you were done with the campaign and spent the rest of the summer wasting away in your bedroom, alone, waiting for Chrissy to come home and put you back together again, because you thought the door was closed, locked, sealed away forever.

You

could’ve gone back

were wrong.

And that’s when you felt a hot burst of adrenaline shoot through your veins, making your whole body buzz with nervous, excited energy.

Well, shit! If you were wrong then, maybe you were wrong now. And now that you knew this, how could you possibly move forward?

I could’ve gone back.

This single intrusive thought was going to haunt you for the rest of your life: while you returned to class on Monday and begged your teacher to let you change seats; while you studied for finals; while you stood on stage and received your diploma, had the principal move the little tassel on your graduation cap; while you packed for college; while you unpacked for college; while you wandered around campus for the first time and discovered a D&D club flyer pinned to the student activity board; while you snuck a peek into one of their meetings, got caught, and said with a furious blush, Sorry, I think I’m in the wrong room.

Then, eventually, maybe in a month, maybe in a year, maybe in (God forbid) ten years, you were going to meet someone and—yep, sure enough, that thought was still going to be in the back of your mind. Even on your wedding day, it was going to be there. You could see it now so clearly: you standing at the alter in a white gown, staring at some sorry sonofabitch in a black tux; and right before you said, I do, you would pause for half a second and think,

I could’ve gone back.

I should’ve gone back.

I should’ve

I should

I…

Boom! Another blast of adrenaline. This one knocked you backwards and sent you crashing into another student.

“Oh, shit! I’m—”

You spun around and came face to face with Brittany Wirth’s snooty little smirk.

“Jeez,” she said, “walk much?”

“No,” you replied with a wide, open-mouthed grin. “Actually, this is my very first time. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

You walked away, giggling madly as you did. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m doing this. Wait, am I really doing this? Because this could end very badly for me. Yeah, I could be heading into a real shit storm right now…

And then you felt your legs get heavy, so heavy, and your steps gradually slowed to a stop. It was back again, just like that. With one thought, the anxiety had snuck back into your heart and seized it with a cold, crushing grip. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

What if you’re wrong? that little voice said. What if Eddie wants nothing to do with you now? What if he tells you to get lost and slams the door in your face?

God, that would suck, you thought. Yeah, I’m not sure I could handle that.

But then Chrissy’s words came back to you, quieting all your fears. No matter what happens, you’re gonna be fine, and you knew she was right.

Regardless of how this night ended, you were going to be just fine.

So you took a deep breath, picked up your feet, and kept walking. Pushed through the crowd. Flew past your empty table. Raced up the stairs and saw the door. The closed door.

Closed, but not locked.

You could still open it.

You would open it.

You surged forward… and suddenly Chance Gallagher was standing in front of you, blocking your path, smiling at you with those perfectly straight, blindly white teeth.

“Hey, I—”

“Yeah, you can fuck right off,” you said to Chance, and went around him. Then, over your shoulder: “Oh, and by the way, you owe me forty-five bucks, asshole!”

Laughter exploded from your chest, full and free. You surrendered to it willingly, eagerly, let it consume you, let it fill you, let it roll off your tongue, off your lips, and float into the air as you kept walking. Nervous as you were, you kept walking towards that door. And once you finally reached it, once you felt the cool metal handle beneath your fingertips, you

stopped.

It had stopped.

Cyndi Lauper.

Music.

The music, it had stopped.

Why had it stopped?

The entire hall was dead silent for a moment; then, suddenly, it was alive with the sound of hushed voices, sighs, and stifled laughter. You looked over your shoulder and felt your breath catch in your throat.

It was ten twenty-six, and Eddie Munson was on stage with the mic in his hand.

It took Principal Higgins all of five seconds to realize what was happening. He put down his punch, slid the silver flask back into his jacket, stormed the stage, and went straight for the microphone.

“Nope. Nope, we’re not doing this tonight. Come on, hand over the mic. Yeah, give it here, son. How about showing some respect for your fellow classmates, huh?”

Principal Higgins reached for the mic. Eddie yanked it away.

“Actually, I have tons of respect for my classmates,” Eddie told him. “That’s why I waited so patiently for you guys to finish. And you… yes, you, sir… you talked for a really, really long time, and now… yeah, now it’s my turn, so…”

Eddie raised the mic to his lips and turned back to the crowd, his eyes clear and focused.

Searching…

… and not finding.

“Well, shit,” Eddie said under his breath. The mic caught it anyway and drew contemptuous laughter from the audience. Eddie covered the mic with his hand, then flashed a sheepish smile in the principal’s direction. “Sorry,” he said. “Forgot the mic was on.”

Principal Higgins sighed, put his head in his hand, and started counting the days until graduation.

Meanwhile, Edith Layne was watching anxiously from the fourth row. She sank into herself like a frightened turtle and wondered if she was partly to blame for this disaster. Then she looked over at her prom co-chair and knew she was definitely going to get blamed for this. I’m just way too nice.

On the other side of the room, Brittany Wirth was clawing at her face in terror. Her prom… oh no, her picture-perfect prom! All those months she spent planning, obsessing over every little detail: picking the venue, planning the menu, buying all the decorations, folding all those little white place cards that everyone kept throwing on the floor!

This wasn’t supposed to be happening right now. She was supposed to be humming along with Cyndi Lauper and, instead, she was watching Eddie Munson light the torch and burn all her efforts to the ground!

No, this can’t be happening. This can’t be happening!

Brittany threw down her hands and growled. “Ugh, I knew it… I fucking knew it! I knew that freak was gonna pull a stunt like this.” She turned and took off like a charging bull, knocking everyone out of her path. “Outta my way. Outta my way! Move. Move!”

Brittany blew past you on the staircase and almost knocked you over.

“Jeez,” you said to her, “walk much?”

Brittany stopped and sucked in a startled gasp, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. “You’re part of the problem,” she whispered hotly, and then went scrambling up the stairs and out the door.

You watched Brittany go with a befuddled frown. “What did I do?”

Shrugging, you proceeded down the stairs and started pushing your way toward the stage.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Eddie said, staring at a wall of unamused and irritated faces, none so furious as Jason Carver in his gold sash and red velvet crown. Chrissy Cunningham was beside him, grimacing with second-hand embarrassment.

Sweat trickled down the back of Eddie’s neck. “Uhh… let’s have one more round of applause for the king and queen!” He lowered the mic and started beating his hand against his wrist, prompting half the audience to applaud in a stiff, awkward manner. “You two look great, by the way, with the sashes and the crowns. Yeah, they make you both look very… uhh… regal.”

Eddie let the mic fall to his side. It went thump, thump, thump against his thigh.

Down on the dance floor, Jason Carver had heard enough. “Man, this guy just can’t help himself, can he?” He lunged forward… only to be drawn back by Chrissy’s gentle but firm hand.

“Don’t,” she said. “Please?”

Jason gave her a confused look, but did as she asked. Then Chrissy stepped forward herself and started searching for you in the crowd. When she couldn’t find you, her heart sank with despair. Oh, no… please, no… tell me you didn’t really leave. You’ll hate yourself forever if you did.

And now Principal Higgins was trying to grab the mic again.

“All right, son, you’ve had your fun—”

Eddie thrust out his hand defensively and jumped back. “No, just wait, okay? Gimme a second, just one second. Look, I had a plan, and I know it’s kinda blowing up in my face right now, but I’m not getting off this stage until I say what I need to say, and I can’t say what I need to say until she gets here. Okay? So, with all due respect, right now I need you to back off and have a little patience, man, ‘cause she’s gonna be here soon. I know she’s gonna be here… or, uhh, at least I hope she will.” Eddie pushed his hand through his hair and frowned. “Actually, she’s probably doing this on purpose ‘cause, between you and me, she’s kinda vindictive like that. Yeah, she just loves embarrassing me and, y’know, making me look like an asshole in front of everyone…”

And then you wedged yourself between two students and forced your way into the front row. Eddie found you instantly. His chest rose and fell in a deep, shaky breath. You crossed your arms in front of you and raised your hand in a timid, apologetic wave.

“Hi,” you mouthed.

“Hi,” Eddie said back.

Maybe it was due to the lights, maybe it was due to the intense rush of relief he felt when he finally saw you, but at that moment you never looked more beautiful.

Eddie’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. He cracked a tiny smile. “It’s funny,” he said into the mic. “I had this whole speech prepared, but now… yeah, now I can’t seem to remember any of it.” He breathed out a quiet laugh, then started tracing his bottom lip with his tongue. All the while, his eyes never left yours.

In the silence, someone shouted, “Get off the stage, freak!” and pockets of laughter broke out among the audience. You winced at the sound, turned, and saw Andy Hauffman give Clay Howard a high five.

Eddie acknowledged the boy’s comment with a bitter, resigned smirk. Then he immediately turned back to you.

“Y’know, that word used to bother me a lot when I was younger, and I guess it still stings a little, but…” He slipped into a brooding silence for a moment, his expression reflecting years of loneliness and shame. “All my life, I’ve had people telling me to tone it down, telling me to stop, to ‘try to act more normal’… except you… yeah, for you, I wasn’t weird enough.” His face broke into a bright, misty-eyed smile. “And I wish I could put into words what that meant to me back then, what it still means to me now, ‘cause I think if you knew how I really felt, you’d understand why none of this makes any sense to me. You really thought I’d forget you? Man, I wish I could forget you. Yeah, I wish I could move on and, y’know, kill you off in my head, but no matter what I do, you refuse to die. I dunno, you’re like a zombie or something.”

You scrunched up your nose. Did this man seriously just compare you to an undead, flesh-eating monster?

Eddie saw your face and panicked. “Wait, hold on, that… I didn’t mean to say that. Yeah, I dunno why I…”

He closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath. “Look, you were right. I did come here for someone else… but I stayed for you. I was gonna leave. Yeah, I was getting ready to go home and forget this night ever happened, but then you came running out those doors and you blew right past me, just bawling your eyes out. And I didn’t know why you were crying or why it bothered me so much, but I just knew I couldn’t leave you alone.”

Eddie’s words wrapped around your heart and squeezed so tightly it made you want to cry. You thought back to the moment he came stumbling into the restroom. The way his eyes bulged when they met yours. You thought he was shocked to see you, but…

“Yeah… I lied,” he said. “See, I’m pretty good at thinking on my feet, too. Not nearly as good as you, of course, but I can hold my own.” Eddie chuckled a little to himself, his lips curling into that cheeky little grin that always made your brain short-circuit. “Security was never after me. I just made all that up. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t even think security knows I’m here… well, now they probably do, which means I’ve got about thirty seconds before they come and give me the hook, so I better make this quick.”

Eddie glanced at the door, saw it swing open, then his eyes raced right back to you. The corner of his mouth lifted into a tranquil, tender-heartened smile.

“You said you robbed me of my one great memory, but you didn’t… you couldn’t… because you are my great memory. You’re my greatest memory.”

Your heart swelled, overflowing with more emotions than you could process: joy, gratitude, love… most of all, love. You stared up at Eddie with tears in your eyes, wanting nothing more than for him to jump down from the stage, take you in his arms, and kiss you right in front of everyone. If this was a movie like Pretty in Pink, that might have happened, and then you would have danced the night away in a kick-ass closing credit scene.

Unfortunately, this was reality, and in reality, perfect little moments like this always got ruined by big-haired, bumptious bitches like Brittany Wirth.

She marched into the hall with two security guards in tow, pointed at the stage, and said, “There. There he is. Now can you please get that jackass out of here?”

Eddie saw them coming and his shoulders sank in defeat. “Ah, shit, here we go…” His time had officially run out. He’d sung his last song and now they were about to drop the curtain on Eddie Munson’s one-man show.

But first… first, he had one last request to fulfill.

Eddie lifted the mic once more and smiled at you. “I know you really wanted to hear me play my guitar tonight, but uhh, given the circumstances, I hope this is the next best thing.”

He lowered the mic and let it drop to the floor. Over the speakers, a piano began softly, playing a simple but beautiful chord progression that made you clasp your hands over your mouth in surprise. It was “Open Arms.” You were finally getting your Journey moment. It took all your strength to keep from squealing like an idiot. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to cry. You wanted to smack the person next to you and say, See? The perfect prom song. Those bitches should’ve listened to me.

But you didn’t have time to do any of that because Eddie had climbed down from the stage and was about to be taken away by security.

A burly man in a blue suit said to him, “Come on, kid, it’s late. I’m really not in the mood to get physical with you. So how ‘bout you just leave quietly on your own and make my life a little easier, okay? There’s no need to cause a big scene.”

“I think it’s a little late for that,” said Brittany Wirth with an uppity little smirk.

The other guard turned to her. “Miss, please, let us handle this.”

Brittany’s face flushed a deep, rosy pink. She huffed and walked away.

“God, she’s such a bitch,” Eddie mumbled under his breath. Then to the guards, he said, “Look, I’m not here to argue with you guys, okay? I know I’m not supposed to be here, and I know it’s your job to keep guys like me out. It’s cool, I get it. We’re all on the same page. All I’m asking for is a little time to say goodbye to someone. That’s it. Just a quick goodbye and you guys can drag me on outta here. You can even cuff me, if you want.”

“Do we need to cuff you?”

“Well, no, I’m just…” Eddie dragged his eyes away, saw you, and grew restless, desperate to get to you. He clenched his jaw, clenched his fists, and let out a frustrated groan. “Look, you see that really pretty girl over there? She and I were having a very romantic moment, and you guys, uhh… yeah, you kinda ruined it, so the least you can do is let me go say bye to her.”

The guard heaved an exasperated sigh. “Kid, come on…”

“Hey, man, I’ve already been here for like three hours. What’s another three minutes, right?”

“You can’t stay here. You don’t have a ticket.”

That’s when your hand flew to your chest, and you gasped. “Yes, he does,” you said. “He has a ticket. I… I have his ticket.”

You dove into the bodice of your dress, causing the guards to avert their eyes.

“Uhh, miss—”

“Oh, what?” you said to them. “You think I’m gonna flash you or something? Relax, okay? I just didn’t feel like carrying around a purse all night.” You pulled out the ticket, walked over, and handed it to the blue suit. “There. See?”

The guard casually examined the ticket, front and back, then looked at you. “He’s your date?”

“Yep,” you said. “He’s my date.”

Eddie gestured toward you and said with a boastful grin, “I’m her date.”

The guard rolled his eyes and grumbled in response. He flipped the ticket back and forth one more time, glanced at his co-worker, and they both shrugged. “Whatever,” he said, “I don’t really care,” and they both left.

Eddie turned to you with grateful eyes. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“Well, I figured it’s the least I could do…” You smiled up at him, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “That was quite the performance you gave back there. Highly entertaining.”

“Yeah, I thought you might enjoy it…”

“Oh, I did,” you said. “Yeah, it’s definitely in my top three.”

“Your top three, huh?” Eddie fought back a smile. “And what, dare I ask, is number one?”

Your smile grew into a mischievous grin. “The speech you always give right before finals—you know, the one where you talk about flipping off the principal at graduation?” You bit your lip to keep from laughing but ended up giggling anyway. “I swear, that speech gets funnier and funnier every year you don’t graduate. Turns out ’84 wasn’t your year, Munson. Neither was ’85.”

“Yeah, I guess they weren’t,” Eddie said while staring at you. “I’ve got a good feeling about this year, though.”

His soft, dreamy gaze made you blush.

Then he pointed toward the overhead speaker. “See, I got you Journey,” he said. “Wait, this is Journey, right?”

You laughed. “Yes, this is Journey.”

“Okay, good, ‘cause the DJ gave me a really weird look, probably ‘cause I don’t look like the kinda guy who would ever request Journey, which is fair… Anyway, since we’re on the topic of uhh, Journey, I think you might be a little too obsessed with Steve Perry, which is cool and all, but uhh… yeah, we’re definitely gonna have to set some ground rules, y’know, once we actually start dating.”

Your heart jumped. “Dating?”

“Wait, I didn’t tell you? Shit, sorry, I’m getting a little ahead of myself.” Eddie folded his arms over his chest and gave a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, way I see it, I’ve gotta squeeze about four years of dating into like four months, so… yeah, I’ve definitely got my work cut out for me.”

“Four years, huh?” Inside, you were screaming. “You really think we would’ve been dating for that long?”

“You don’t think so? Well, I think so… Yeah, I definitely would’ve swooped in during your freshman year. No doubt in my mind. I mean, I would’ve given you a couple weeks to settle in. Then, when you least expected it…”

You made a motion with your hand. “Swoop.”

“Mhm,” Eddie said, and you both laughed. “So, I dunno what your plans are for the summer, but sorry, they’re all going out the window ‘cause I intend to monopolize all of your time.”

A giddy feeling rose within you. You had to sneak in a quick breath to calm yourself down. “Well, I’ve been warned.”

That made him smirk. “I love how you’re trying really hard to act like you’re not happy right now, but I can easily tell you are, so…”

Eddie went quiet for a second, his eyes shifting back and forth in thought. Then, out of nowhere, he leaned toward you and said in a low voice, “Hey, you wanna get outta here?”

His deep brown eyes pulled you in like a magnet. “Yes,” you said, “definitely.”

“Good, ‘cause… honestly, I’ve been wanting to leave since I got here.”

“Yeah, me too,” you said breathlessly, unable to break his gaze. “I just, umm, I need to say goodbye to someone first.”

“Sure,” he replied with a nod. “Take your time. I’ll just be, uhh, waiting for you by the door.”

Eddie backed away from you slowly, giving you a lingering look that made you feel dizzy and light-headed. Once he was gone, you pressed your hands against your burning cheeks and thought, Oh my god! Oh my god!

You spun around and spotted Chrissy across the dance floor, watching you with the biggest, brightest smile. You rushed up to her and grabbed both her hands, squeezing them tightly with excitement.

“Hey, I’m—”

“Leaving, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I am…”

Chrissy’s eyes sparkled with unrestrained joy. She pulled you in for a tight hug and said to you, “See? I told you you’re the lottery.”

You pulled away and pecked her cheek. “You’re a goddess.”

“Oh, I like that…” Chrissy touched her face and grinned. “Yeah, let’s keep that one.”

You both giggled, hugged one last time, and broke away.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, you better!” Chrissy yelled, and then she watched you leave with a warm, tender feeling in her heart.

Once you were out of earshot, Jason Carver leaned over and said to her, “You’re not seriously letting her leave with that guy, are you?”

And Chrissy said, “Yes. Yes, I am.” She smiled up at him. “This was a good night.”

“You had fun?”

“Yeah… Yeah, I did.”

Jason nodded, looked away, and smiled a little to himself. “Good.”

_________________________

PREV // CURRENT // EPILOGUE

*cries happy tears* It’s finally over!

Okay, I realize some of you may be disappointed that there was no big kiss at the end, but I left it out for two reasons: 1) they already had their kiss 2) it’s incredibly cliched, and I didn’t want to go that route. Don’t worry, though, because there will be plenty of kissing (and then some) in the epilogue “Post Prom,” which will be the first of many, many side stories I have planned for this fic.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤︎

#eddie munson #stranger things #fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson imagine #chrissy cunningham #jason carver #chrissy x jason #stranger things 4 #st4 #dancing with myself #dwm #finale #ambrossart #it’s finally over!#I’m happy but also sad

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