The TV crackled in the corner of Eddie’s trailer, its screen washed out in sickly blues and greens, the credits of The Stuff rolling on and forgotten. The volume had been turned way down after they’d lost interest halfway through, but neither had bothered to get up and shut it off.

A pool of half-eaten snacks sprawled across the carpet, along with three greasy burger wrappers, two cans of orange Crush, one beer bottle (his), and a lopsided bag of popcorn that had spilled after she chucked it at him an hour ago.

“Okay, I’m just saying,” she was breathless now, “if you had to fight The Blob—like, the actual blob—what would your weapon of choice be?”

Eddie leaned over her from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, elbow on one knee, eyes glassy with warmth and amusement. “Easy,” he said, voice low and conspiratorial. “A flamethrower. Or a really pissed-off raccoon. Maybe both. You need unpredictability on your side.”

She laughed so hard she choked on her soda. “What? No! That’s—you think a raccoon is gonna beat a blob?”

“Hey,” Eddie shrugged, pushing his hair behind one ear, “never underestimate a trash panda in a tight spot.”

They’d gotten like this the past few months—talking too fast, grinning too wide, sitting closer than they used to without either of them pulling away. Four years of movie nights, of platonic teasing and late-night drives and shared nachos at Benny’s, and now everything felt... louder. Sharper. Like someone had tuned up the signal between them, and she couldn’t quite unhear it.

Her elbow nudged his. “Okay, Mr. Tough Guy. Bet you I could take you down.”

He turned toward her, one brow raising, eyes alight. “In a fight?”

“Wrestling,” she clarified. “I grew up with two brothers. I know dirty moves.”

“Ohh,” he said, grinning. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Shut up,” she said through a laugh, lunging at him before she could second-guess it. “Come here, Munson—!”

He let out a yelp as she tackled him, and for a few chaotic seconds they were just a mess of limbs and laughter on the mattress. She climbed onto him, trying to get his wrists, straddling his waist in a way she hadn’t even thought about until his breath hitched underneath her. Still, she pressed on, determined to win.

“Stay down!” she ordered, struggling to hold him. “Admit defeat!”

“You’re insane,” he wheezed, squirming, laughing. “You’ve lost your mind!”

But even as he said it, there was something new in his voice—something thinner, more uncertain.

She had him pinned, for a second. Her knees on either side of his hips, palms on his shoulders, her hoodie hanging loose and her cheeks hot from all the movement. He looked up at her, hair fanned out against the pillow, pupils wide and dark.

Then, with a quiet grunt and zero effort, he shifted his weight, curled an arm around her lower back, and flipped her.

Her back hit the mattress with a muffled thud, and the world tilted. Now it was Eddie above her, holding her wrists down against the blanket, breathing fast but not laughing anymore. His thighs braced either side of hers, and the air between them went very still.

She stared up at him, trying to blink away whatever this was, whatever was knotting itself low in her stomach. His curls fell forward, brushing her temple, and she could feel the weight of him everywhere—his legs, his hips, his chest not quite touching hers but close enough to feel the warmth.

Eddie’s mouth twitched like he was about to say something, but it faded. He was looking at her differently now. Like he’d never really looked before.

“You done?” he asked quietly, his voice rougher than before.

Her heart was racing. “Maybe.”

He didn’t move.

His gaze dropped, just for a second—to her mouth, then her collarbone, then back up again.

“Y’know,” he said, trying for levity but failing to find his usual rhythm, “for someone who grew up wrestling brothers, you kinda suck at it.”