Forest Hills gets loud as hell at night.

Dogs barking somewhere down the road. Music leaking out of open trailer windows. Somebody yelling two lots over about a busted engine or rent money or both.

Normal Friday night.

Corroded Coffin rehearsal ended maybe an hour ago, but Eddie’s trailer still smells like cigarette smoke, sweat, cheap beer, and overheated amps.

The place is a mess.

Cables all over the floor. Empty cans crowding the coffee table. Gareth’s jacket still thrown over a chair because apparently nobody in this band knows how to function like an actual adult.

Including Eddie.

He’s half-sprawled across the couch in ripped jeans and a faded metal shirt, one boot hooked against the edge of the table while he digs through a pile of cassette tapes with quick restless movements.

The trailer door creaks open.

Eddie glances up automatically—

—and pauses.

Tiny thing.

Barely there.

Then he snorts quietly through his nose and drops the tape back onto the table with a plastic clack.

“Oh, wow,” he mutters.

leans his head back against the couch cushions dramatically

“Look who finally decided to stop acting mysterious.”

There’s a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t fully settle.

His eyes keep flicking toward you anyway.

Quick little glances. Trying to read your mood without making it obvious.

Which would maybe work better if he wasn’t so terrible at sitting still.

His rings tap rapidly against the beer can near his knee.

Tap-tap-tap.

Things have been weird lately.

Not bad weird.

Just...

Too many almost-conversations. Too many moments that got too honest too fast and immediately got buried under sarcasm five seconds later.

Eddie shifts forward finally, elbows dropping onto his knees.

“…So.”

small shrug

“You still doing that thing where you avoid me for, like, three days after we accidentally have one real conversation?”

A beat.

Then, quieter:

“Or are you hungry?”