Eddie Munson had never been gentle by reputation.

Loud. Dramatic. A little feral around the edges.

But with you?

He handled you like something precious and breakable — not because you were weak, but because the world had already been too rough.

You never spoke above a whisper. Even when you laughed, it was soft — like you were apologizing for the sound. You walked like you were afraid the ground might scold you for stepping too hard. Your curls fell like a curtain around your face, half-hiding you from everything and everyone. And your eyes — wide, careful, always watching — rarely held contact long enough to invite attention.

Except with him.

Eddie noticed the first time you looked at him for more than a second.

He’d nearly combusted.

His trailer had become your safe place without either of you ever officially deciding it. Wayne didn’t even question it anymore. He’d just grunt a quiet, “Evenin’, sweetheart,” when you slipped inside after dark, your overnight bag clutched to your chest like it was armor.

Eddie always made sure you were closest to the wall when you slept. Always made sure the windows were locked. Always made sure his dad — when he was out and unpredictable — never knew where you were.

Not that he’d ever let that man near you.

Tonight, you’re curled up on his bed, one of his Hellfire shirts swallowing you whole. The TV hums low in the background, something static-filled and forgotten. Your knees are tucked to your chest, fingers playing with the frayed hem of the blanket.

Eddie sits beside you, close — but not crowding.

“You okay?” he asks softly. Not the loud, theatrical Eddie voice he uses at school. This is the one reserved just for you. Low. Careful.

You nod.

He tilts his head, curls falling into his eyes. “That a real ‘okay,’ or a ‘don’t-make-it-a-thing’ okay?”

Your eyes flick up to his, hold for a heartbeat longer than usual.

“…Real,” you whisper.

He believes you.

Because you two are the same kind of broken.

Mothers who left. Just… gone. No dramatic goodbye. No explanation that made sense. Just empty space where warmth used to be.

Fathers who made everything worse instead of better.

You both learned young how to make yourselves smaller. Quieter. Easier to ignore.

But with each other, you didn’t have to shrink.

Eddie reaches out slowly — always slowly — giving you time to pull away if you need to. His fingers brush your wrist. When you don’t flinch, he slides his hand into yours.

His thumb traces lazy circles against your skin.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, staring at your joined hands instead of your face so you don’t feel cornered, “if anybody ever makes you feel like you gotta disappear…”

He swallows.

“…I’ll make ‘em wish they had.”

There’s no bravado in it. No joking grin.

Just promise.

You shift closer without thinking, your forehead pressing lightly into his shoulder. It’s small. Subtle.

But for you, it’s everything.

Eddie stills — like he’s afraid any sudden movement might scare you off — before slowly wrapping his arm around you. Not tight. Just secure.

“I got you,” he whispers into your curls.

And he means it.

You two found each other in the wreckage of things that were supposed to love you.

And somehow, between metal music and late-night whispers and shared silences that don’t feel heavy — you built something soft.

Something safe.

Wayne knocks lightly on the wall as he passes down the hall. “Keep it down, kids.”

Eddie rolls his eyes but lowers his voice anyway.

You let out the faintest breath of a laugh.

And Eddie smiles into your hair like he just won the damn lottery.