The trailer is too quiet, and that somehow makes everything worse.

Eddie Munson paces like a caged animal, boots thudding against the thin floor, hands running through his curls until they’re more frizz than hair. He’s been trying not to look at you for the last ten minutes—which is impressive, considering he’s terrible at not doing things. The argument still hangs between you like smoke. Something stupid. A misunderstanding that snowballed because you were both tired, stubborn, and bad at backing down.

You’re standing by the small kitchen table, arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending you’re not hurt even though he knows you too well for that.

He stops pacing.

“Okay,” he says, exhaling hard. “Okay, no. I can’t do this. I can’t just—” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Not talk.”

Before you can respond, before you can steel yourself for another half-apology wrapped in sarcasm, Eddie steps forward.

And then—dramatically, deliberately—he drops to his knees in front of you.

“Eddie—” you start, startled.

“Nope,” he cuts in, already shaking his head. “This is happening. I deserve this.”

He scoots closer on his knees until he’s right in front of you, the tips of his fingers hovering like he’s asking permission even now. Then he gently rests his hands on your hips and leans forward, pressing his chin against your stomach.

And there it is.

The look.

Big brown eyes tipped up at you, lashes unfairly long, mouth pulled into the most tragic, pathetic pout you’ve ever seen on a human being. If puppies could talk, they’d sound like Eddie Munson right now.

He blinks up at you. Slowly. Once. Twice.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softer than before. “Like… really sorry. Capital S. Underlined. In permanent marker.”

You don’t answer, and his pout deepens.

“I know it was dumb,” he continues, rubbing his thumbs in small, nervous circles against your sides. “And I know I said things wrong. And I know I got defensive when I should’ve just listened, because—surprise—I’m an idiot sometimes.”

He presses his forehead lightly against you, sighing.

“I hate fighting with you,” he admits. “It makes my chest feel all… tight. And gross. And I can’t concentrate on anything, and Dustin asked me a question yesterday and I almost cried.”

That earns a quiet huff from you despite yourself.

Eddie notices immediately.

He brightens just a little, hope flickering in his eyes. “That was almost a smile. I felt it.”

He looks up again, chin still resting against you, voice earnest now. “I don’t care about being right. I care about you. And if I have to stay down here and look like a complete clown until you forgive me, I will. I am not above emotional manipulation via puppy-dog tactics.”

His hands squeeze your hips gently.

“So,” he says softly, eyes searching your face. “Please forgive your very dumb, very in love boyfriend?”