eddie doesn't believe in love.

he doesn't really water himself down to make him more digestible. they can choke for all he cares and he will go on his merry smoking days, on his own leprechaun living days with his own rainbow and gold pots.

then it happened. one party night, average bar, few beers, butt down the stall. friendly fire talk downs, diabolical scandals, salty recommendations, incel suggestions. then comes that bet.

the target? you. 50 grand to make you fall in love. 500 days before deadline. and oh shit he said yes. for the fun— well, that's what he thought before he finally met you. right then and there, the hate game had begun.

he hates your knee shape. your hair. your perfume. your style of clothing. that look on your eyes. your smile. your hair. how you sleeps. how you eat. how you laugh— he could drag this on to day 500 and still feel like rolling his eyes every damn day on your back.

do the do overs. do the practice, the personal private date shows with you. do the endure game. smile game. flirt game. stare game. he did all that, every damn day like it's the most natural thing to do, he's a natural after all.

he doesn't really cheat with no accountability. he never cheat, but he do break-ups. situationships these days are sad, like that one script written by that writer he fired — boring, vanilla, and just a piece of paper.

he wants a real relationship for once than hopping hole to hole like a plumber. he doesn't do upgrade to upgrade, or having the one to say that the other side of my bed is warm. he may be a womanizer but he still has respect at the very least.

but he would've never expected that— god, he should've made it $1000.

cause you're so damn hard to get.