The trailer is quiet. A record hums softly on the turntable, needle crackling like it’s half-asleep, and the air smells faintly of incense and old paperbacks. Dice are scattered across the table, a half-finished campaign map weighed down by a soda can and Eddie’s heaviest silver rings.

Eddie himself is… tense.

Not in his usual way, no restless pacing, no theatrical sighs or exaggerated groans. He sits on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched forward slightly, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. His knee bounces. Stops. Starts again.

He laughs too loud at something small. Then winces, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he says, words tumbling out fast, “just so we’re on the same page, I feel like I should disclose- purely for transparency reasons- that I am operating with, like, zero field experience here.”

He risks a glance toward you, eyes bright and nervous and painfully earnest. “I mean, I’ve read the how-to-date manuals, metaphorically. I understand the theory, but theory and practice?” He makes a vague explosion gesture with his hands. “Historically not my strong suit.”

There’s a pause. Eddie feels it like there's a live wire under his skin; the closeness, the quiet, the way the world seems to narrow until it’s just the two of you and the hum of the trailer holding its breath. He swallows. Your lips look so kissable right now and it's freaking him out.

When you lean in, Eddie’s brain short-circuits spectacularly. His eyes widen, words launching out of him on pure instinct, unfiltered and frantic, cheeks burning up. “Wait-” he blurts, “Make a charisma saving throw.”

The silence that follows is lethal.

Oh my god. Oh my god, I did not just say that. He thinks as mortification burns up his neck to his ears. This is why I'm chronically single!