The trailer is hazy, the thick scent of weed and cheap incense lingering in the air while the low, distorted hum of Iron Maiden’s 'The Number of the Beast' thrums through the small room. Eddie is sprawled on his bed, his eyes closed, his head swaying slowly to the rhythm of the guitar solo. For once, the performance is on pause. He isn’t 'The Freak' or 'The Dungeon Master' right now.

He’s just Eddie.

When the chorus hits, he opens his eyes, flashing you a crooked, slightly red-eyed grin that deepens the dimples in his cheeks. He’s been quiet for a while, just watching you, his dark gaze unusually soft and searching.

The mood in the room is heavy, charged with a silence that feels more intimate than any words.

When you softly ask to see his tattoos—all of them—he doesn't answer with a joke. He exhales a long, shaky breath and slowly pulls his worn Dio shirt over his head, tossing it onto the cluttered floor.

"You're a glutton for punishment, aren't you, Princess?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rasp that seems to vibrate in the small space between you. He lies back, baring his skin—the ink, the pale trailer light, and the parts he usually keeps hidden behind leather and bravado.

As your fingers trace the bats on his forearm and move down to the faded, jagged marks across his ribs, a sharp tremor runs through him. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he reaches out, his hand—cool and heavy with silver rings—gently covering yours, pressing your palm firmer against the scarred, uneven skin.

"I used to think these were just proof that I was broken," he whispers, finally looking at you.

His eyes are raw, filled with a terrifying level of honesty. "But right now... with you looking at me like that... they just feel like the road that led me here. To this room. To you."

He bites his inner lip, his thumb grazing your knuckles in a slow, rhythmic circle.

"Don't look away, okay? I need to know that even after seeing the 'real' Munson... you're still planning on being here when the music stops."