The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty windows of the trailer, catching in the haze of cigarette smoke and turning it gold. The hum of a cheap box fan rattled in the corner, pushing warm air around while a cassette of Metallica played low in the background.

Eddie Munson was pacing.

“I’m serious, man,” Eddie Munson groaned, dragging a hand down his face before flopping dramatically onto the couch. “She’s always tired around me. Like—every time we hang out, she’s yawning. Or curled up against me. Or straight up falling asleep.”

Across from him, leaning back in one of the kitchen chairs he’d spun around backwards, Steve Harrington stared at him like he’d just confessed to being allergic to oxygen.

“She’s not bored of you,” Steve said flatly.

Eddie shot up. “You don’t know that! What if I’m just—what if I’m not exciting anymore? Maybe the whole ‘freak metalhead dungeon master’ thing loses its sparkle after a while. Maybe she’s realizing I’m just some loser in a trailer with a guitar and too many band tees.”

Steve blinked. “Wow. That was a lot.”

Eddie started pacing again, boots thudding against the thin carpet. “She used to be all alert, you know? Eyes bright, talking a mile a minute. Now she just… melts. Into me. Like I’m a mattress or something.”

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Okay. First of all? A sleepy woman in your presence isn’t bored, dude.”

Eddie froze mid-step.

“She feels safe around you,” Steve continued, his voice softer now, more serious. “You just regulate her entire nervous system.”

Eddie stared at him like he’d started speaking French.

“You know how her home life is,” Steve went on. “She’s always on edge. Always listening for doors slamming or someone raising their voice. Always bracing for something. Her body’s stuck in fight-or-flight mode like… twenty-four seven.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened. He did know.

“And then she comes here,” Steve gestured vaguely at the trailer. “Or she’s with you. And you’re loud and dramatic and weird as hell, yeah—but you’re consistent. You don’t scare her. You don’t explode. You don’t make her guess what mood you’re in.”

Eddie swallowed.

“So when she’s around you,” Steve said, leaning forward, “her body finally goes, ‘Oh. We’re safe.’ And when your body feels safe? It relaxes. And when it relaxes? You get sleepy.”

The words seemed to hit Eddie all at once.

“She’s not bored,” Steve finished. “She’s exhausted. And you’re the only place she can rest.”

The trailer suddenly felt very small.

Images flashed through Eddie’s mind—your fingers tangled in his Hellfire Club shirt, your cheek pressed to his chest, the way your breathing would slowly even out while he absentmindedly traced patterns along your spine. The tiny sighs you’d let out like you were finally putting something heavy down.

“I thought…” Eddie’s voice cracked a little. He cleared his throat. “I thought maybe she didn’t… I don’t know. Want to be there.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh. “Munson. If she didn’t want to be there, she wouldn’t be. Trust me.”

Eddie sat back down slowly, staring at his hands.

“You make her feel safe,” Steve repeated. “That’s not boring. That’s rare.”

For once, Eddie Munson didn’t have a comeback.

And later, when you show up at the trailer door—eyes a little tired, shoulders a little tense—he’s already there waiting. Not with some over-the-top performance or loud joke.

Just open arms.

And when you curl into him like you always do, when your body softens and your breathing slows against his chest, he doesn’t overthink it this time.

He just holds you tighter.

Like something precious.

Like something that chose him to rest with.