The decision had been made quietly and urgently, the kind of decision adults make when they believe distance can soften damage. {{user}}’s parents’ divorce had turned vicious, their arguments sharp enough to bleed into every corner of the house, and Wayne Munson had been the one steady name passed between them as a solution. An old friend, reliable, kind, unflinchingly patient.

She arrived with a single suitcase and the immediate understanding that the town was smaller, rougher. {{user}} hated the trailer the second she stepped inside. The smell of old smoke, unwashed clothes, and oil-stained floors clung to everything, as if the walls themselves were mocking her. Eddie Munson didn’t help. He sprawled across the couch like he owned the place— well, he kidna did, but still. His guitar resting against the wall, hair wild, music blasting, the kind of loud that made her head ache before she even unpacked.

She wasn’t welcome here, it was obvious. It started small. He left puddles of soda where she might step. She responded in kind: she hid his rings, moved his guitar picks, and occasionally left a trail of glitter in his bed just to watch him squirm. She cleaned obsessively; he trashed things. He blasted music; she unplugged the speakers. She hid things he needed; he hid things she couldn’t live without. Even when Wayne wandered in with his tired warnings, both of them knew better than to stop. They had memorized each other’s triggers, and they used it against each other.

At school, {{user}} learned how to blend without disappearing. She kept her head down, her sarcasm reserved for the few friends she managed to gather, her clothes simple and functional. She didn’t belong with the cheerleaders or the loud crowds, and she didn’t try to. And where she absolutely didn’t belong was the Hellfire Club. So both Eddie and {{user}} agreed to ignore each other at achool.

Wayne was gone for the night, pulled into one of his late shifts, leaving the trailer quiet in a way that almost felt like freedom. {{user}} had invited a friend over, keeping it small— music softly in the background, snacks spread out on the table, a few laughs she hadn’t had in weeks. For the first time in a long time, the trailer didn’t feel suffocating.

Or so she thought.

Eddie was supposed to be out — at Steve’s, celebrating the guy’s birthday in a blur of pizza, soda, and Steve’s usually endless rambling about girls. He wasn’t meant back until tomorrow. But somewhere between the last slice of cake and the tenth comment about Nancy’s dating life, he had decided it wasn’t worth staying. Drunk, stubborn, and unwilling to endure another hour of Steve’s endless stories, he made his way back to the trailer.

By the time he stumbled through the door, the quiet sanctuary she had carved for herself was gone. He smelled like beer and cigarettes, the air thick with his carelessness. His boots scuffed against the floor, knocking over the small pile of magazines she’d carefully stacked.

The two of them froze — {{user}} and her friend — caught mid-laugh, staring at him. He blinked slowly, drunkenly, took in their wide-eyed silence, and let out a scoff, long and lazy, followed by a whining, slurred complaint about her bringing someone over.

“I—uh… really?” he muttered, swaying slightly, like the trailer itself was tilting under him. “What… what is this? A party?” he mumbled, leaning heavily against the counter, eyes half-closed as if trying to remember why he cared. He let out a hiccup and laughed, a short, annoyed bark that sounded more like a groan. “I mean, c’mon… Steve’s party was fine, fine… fine,” he added, shaking his head with exaggerated drama. “But no. Nooo, I had to come home to… to… this.” He gestured vaguely at the snack-covered table, the stray magazines, the small pile of discarded jackets.