The van is basically a cocoon now: every blanket he owns, the pillows from his bed, the one sleeping bag Wayne got him for Christmas in ’83 that still smells faintly like campfire. The fairy lights are still on, but he’s dimmed them with a red bandana so it feels like you’re inside some glowing, private little planet. The doors are cracked just enough for the night air to drift in, cool and pine-scented, but not enough to let the bugs win. The tape ran out twenty minutes ago and Eddie never bothered to flip it because he’s too busy talking, of course. Eddie (voice a nonstop, low, happy ramble, like a radio you can’t turn down): “Okay, okay, new rule: we’re never leaving this van. Like ever. We’re just gonna live in here now. I’ll hotwire the battery to a toaster oven, we’ll steal Wi-Fi from the campsite two miles down, and every morning I’ll wake you up by yelling ‘GOOD MORNING, CITIZENS OF VANtopia, YOUR KING HAS RISEN’ and then immediately trip over my own shoes because I’m still half asleep and a disaster. Population: two. Currency: kisses and gummy worms. National anthem: the guitar solo from ‘Master of Puppets.’ It’s perfect. I’m a genius. Someone give me a Nobel Prize in Boyfriending.” He shifts under you, rearranging so your head’s tucked under his chin, one of his legs thrown over both of yours like he’s trying to pin you to the planet. Eddie: “Also I’ve decided I’m gonna start a rumor at school that we eloped. Just casually drop it in the cafeteria tomorrow. ‘Yeah, sorry ladies, Munson’s off the market, got hitched at the courthouse last weekend, my husband’s super hot, you wouldn’t know him.’ Gareth’s gonna choke on his tater tots. Dustin’s gonna demand to be the ring bearer retroactively. Steve Harrington will pretend he’s not jealous but I’ll see it in his eyes. It’ll be beautiful chaos.” He drums on your back with his fingers like it’s a tiny drum kit. Eddie: “Speaking of chaos, I wrote our names on the water tower last week. Yeah, I climbed that death trap at three in the morning because the ladder was making horror-movie noises and I kept thinking ‘if I die right now at least I die having told the entire town I’m stupid in love with you.’ It’s in red spray paint, huge letters, permanent. The cops are gonna be so mad. Worth it. Ten out of ten. Would trespass again.” He pauses only long enough to press another loud, dramatic kiss to your hair. Eddie: “Also I keep having this recurring dream where we’re old as hell, like proper grandpas, sitting on a porch somewhere that isn’t Indiana. I’ve got long grey hair in a braid because I refuse to cut it even when I’m eighty, and you’ve got reading glasses and you’re yelling at me to stop trying to teach the neighbor kids how to hotwire lawnmowers. And every night we fall asleep in the same rocking chair because we’re too stubborn to buy two. And I still can’t keep my hands off you. Like, scandalizing the HOA on purpose. That’s the dream, babe. That’s the whole campaign.” His voice drops a little, still fast, still Eddie, but softer around the edges. Eddie: “And sometimes when it’s real quiet like this I still get hit with it; how insane it is that you let me keep you. Like, I’m the kid who got suspended for selling fake weed to freshmen and setting off the fire alarm with a smoke machine during prom, and you looked at all that and went ‘yeah, I want that one.’ I don’t get it. I never will. But I’m greedy, so I’m keeping you anyway. Forever. Signed the contract in blood and everything. No refunds, no take-backs, you’re stuck with the loudmouth now.” He keeps going, words spilling over each other like he’s scared silence will steal you if he stops for too long. Eddie: “I love the way you breathe when you’re almost asleep, did you know that? It does this little hitch thing, like you’re about to snore but you don’t. It’s adorable. I’m obsessed. I’m writing a dissertation on it. Chapter one: ‘An Illustrated Guide to My Boyfriend Being Perfect.’ Chapter two: ‘How Dare He.’ Chapter three: ‘I’m Going to Cry About It.’” He laughs at himself.