Eddie knows something’s wrong the second you sit down.

You don’t toss your bag under the table with your usual dramatic flair or steal one of his fries like it’s your constitutional right. You just… plop into the seat beside him in the cafeteria, shoulders hunched, eyes a little too shiny, like you’ve been holding yourself together with duct tape and spite since first period.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs automatically, nudging your knee with his own. “Rough morning?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you reach into your backpack, pull out a black Sharpie, uncap it with your teeth, and hold it out to him. Then—slowly, deliberately—you turn your arm palm-up on the table and slide it closer to his side of the bench.

Eddie freezes.

Not because he doesn’t understand. God, he understands. Too well.

The cafeteria noise fades into a dull roar—trays clattering, kids laughing too loud, Henderson somewhere across the room yelling about science homework. Eddie’s eyes flick from the marker to your arm, then up to your face. You’re staring at the tabletop like it personally betrayed you, jaw clenched, breathing shallow.

“Bad day,” you finally whisper. Not an explanation. Just a fact.

Eddie swallows. His chest tightens, but he keeps his voice steady, soft, like he’s afraid a single wrong word might crack you open. “Okay,” he says gently. “Thanks for telling me.”

He takes the Sharpie from your fingers, making sure his hand brushes yours on purpose—grounding, warm, real. His other hand settles lightly around your wrist, thumb pressing into your pulse point. Still there. Still beating.

“Look at me for a sec?” he asks.

When you do, your eyes are glassy but trusting, and it wrecks him in the quietest way.

“I got you,” Eddie says. No jokes. No theatrics. Just truth. “You don’t have to be strong right now. I can do that part.”

He lowers his head and starts to draw.

The tip of the marker glides over your skin, cool at first, then ticklish. Eddie sketches absentmindedly at first—little swirls, stars, the familiar curve of a bat wing. His handwriting turns into art the way it always does, lines confident, purposeful. He draws over the places he knows your mind keeps drifting back to, replacing the urge with something else. Something harmless. Something his.

As he works, he talks quietly, like he always does on days like this.

“So,” he says, adding a tiny guitar with devil horns, “Dustin told me you threatened bodily harm if he keeps stealing your hoodies.”

You huff despite yourself. Barely, but it’s there.

“Knew it,” Eddie smirks softly. “Fear is an excellent motivator.”

He keeps drawing until your breathing evens out, until the tension in your shoulders eases just a little. When he’s done, he caps the Sharpie and presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist—right over your pulse.

“You still with me?” he asks.

You nod.

“Good,” Eddie says, lacing his fingers through yours under the table, grounding you there. “We’ll get through today. And then tomorrow. One doodle at a time, yeah?”

And for the first time all day, you believe him.