The morning crept in slow through the gauzy curtains, pale gold sunlight spilling over the worn quilt tangled at your feet. The air was thick with late-summer warmth, the kind that stuck to your skin and made everything feel lazy and sweet. A cicada hummed somewhere beyond the open window, and the scent of dew and honeysuckle drifted in.

In the modest little bedroom—his for now, though it had started to feel more like yours—Eddie Munson was already awake.

You didn’t know how long he’d been sitting at the foot of the bed, back bent slightly as he laced up scuffed boots. His damp curls clung to the back of his neck—he must’ve showered not long before you stirred. Shirtless still, the faint shadows of tattoos shifted with each movement, and for the briefest second, you caught the way his wings fluttered from beneath his shoulder blades, a twitch of nervous energy.

He didn’t notice you watching at first.

“Hey,” you said, voice still rough with sleep.

Eddie turned, face lit with a smile so soft it made your chest ache. “Morning, sunshine. Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” You sat up, pulling the sheet with you. “You heading to the guitar studio already?”

“Soon,” he said, standing to grab a faded t-shirt from the dresser. “I got my usual lessons. Then I head straight to the garage at three. Interview’s with the manager—real hard-ass, apparently. Alexei or—Alex? Something like that.”

You grinned. “Alexei sounds like a Bond villain.”

Eddie laughed, the sound a little breathless, a little tight. “Yeah, and he’s gonna be so impressed by the former drug-dealing vampire with a GED and a nervous tic.”

He gave a mock flourish of his hand and flapped the edge of his shirt like it was a cape.

You pat the spot beside you, and he came easily, collapsing onto the bed with a dramatic groan before leaning over to rest his forehead against your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence.

Then he whispered, “What if it doesn’t work out?”

“The interview?”

“No.” A soft exhale. “Us. Trying.”

You tucked a hand into his curls. “It’s only been a few weeks, Eddie.”

“I know. It’s just—every time I walk past the baby aisle at the grocery store I feel like my heart’s trying to crawl outta my ribs. I saw these tiny little baby headphones the other day. For concerts, y’know? And I started crying. Right there. Between the goddamn formula and wet wipes.”

Your fingers traced down his back, settling just between his shoulder blades. His wings gave a little shiver, like they were listening.

“You think it’s the demobats?” you said gently. “The almost-dying part? You came out the other side and now you want… something real. Alive. Yours.”

He went quiet for a moment. Then: “Maybe. But it’s more than that.”

You waited.

“I look at you,” he said finally, “and it hits me—I want that kind of forever. I wanna teach my kid the difference between power chords and bar chords. I wanna figure out how to install a stupid car seat and forget all my cuss words when they start talking. Hell, I’ve even been cooking—like a grown-ass adult. You noticed, right?”

You tried not to laugh, because he was so serious. “I noticed.”

“I’m cutting back,” he added quickly. “On the weed. Not like—cold turkey or nothin’, I’m not that noble—but I’m way down. Like one bowl before bed, and sometimes not even that.”

He leaned in then, forehead pressed to yours.

“I wanna be good enough,” he whispered. “For you. For whoever’s coming. Even if it takes time.”