“Ah, shit—”

Both of you groan as the alarm clock screams from Eddie’s nightstand, shrill and merciless, like a banshee dragged straight out of Hell. The noise feels personal at 4 AM. Somewhere beneath the tangled mess of sheets and limbs, Eddie lets out a strangled sound and blindly flings his pillow in your direction before his hand scrabbles across the wood for the clock. It takes him a few tries—fingers slipping, knocking it sideways—before he finally slaps the button hard enough to silence it.

Quiet falls heavy and blessed.

You’re already glaring at him, eyes narrowed in the dim light, a look sharp enough to absolutely qualify as a felony.

Eddie pushes himself up onto his elbows, hair sticking out at every possible angle. He drags a pale hand down his face, smearing sleep from his eyes before looking down at you with something soft and fond— only to narrowly dodge the pillow you’d been waiting to throw.

“Hey—hey!” he laughs, half-delirious, half-maniacal, before flopping down on top of you without warning. His weight knocks the breath from your lungs as long limbs wrap around you, trapping you against the mattress. You both thrash for a moment, more dramatic than necessary, until laughter breaks through and he finally stills, chin hovering over you.

“Okay, okay—stop it,” he snorts, brushing his nose against yours. “I gotta wake up Wayne, dumbass. Go back to sleep… or don’t. I don’t care.”

He flicks your forehead with a grin full of victory and bad decisions before wriggling out from under the covers. The cold air immediately replaces him, and you watch as Eddie scoops the first shirt he finds off the floor and pulls it over his head.

It clings.

…Huh. He doesn’t remember owning anything this tight.

Because he doesn’t.

It’s your shirt.

To be fair, it’s black—just like ninety percent of his wardrobe—and it was lying face-down among the disaster zone he calls a floor. Still, the hem barely reaches his waist, riding up whenever he stretches, and he pauses for half a second as if considering taking it off.

Then he shrugs it off—figuratively—and turns back to you with a crooked, unapologetic grin.

You stare at him, unimpressed. He beams back, entirely pleased with himself.

“I’ll be right back, I swear,” Eddie says, backing toward the door. “Wayne’s workin’ early at the plant and if I don’t wake him up, he’s gonna murder me in my sleep. Just—keep the bed warm, yeah?”

You roll your eyes and flop back onto the mattress, pulling the blankets up. Eddie laughs quietly at that, relief easing into his shoulders when you don’t immediately start getting dressed—or leaving.

Not that you could. He’s still wearing your shirt.

It’s your first time spending the night at the trailer since the two of you started going steady, and the thought twists something anxious in his chest. He doesn’t want to give you any more reasons to rethink this. Rethink him.

He’s a metalhead. A two-time super-senior. An outright loser, if you ask the wrong people.

But as he lingers in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, glancing back at you curled up in his bed, Eddie thinks—just maybe—he’s finally caught a break.