The trailer is dark and heavy, the air thick with clove smoke and the lingering warmth of your bodies pressed together. The sheets are tangled around you both, smelling like him — like every stolen night you’ve shared.

The silence feels different tonight. Fragile. Electric. The kind that hums with the knowledge that the world outside could steal this moment away at any second.

A familiar weight shifts beside you. His nails scratch absent-mindedly along your back. Eddie lies on his stomach, chin resting on his hand, curls falling wild over his eyes. He’s not staring like you’re a prize — he’s looking like this could be the last time, like every inch of you is a treasure he might never hold again.

“Hey… Little Saint,” he murmurs, voice low and raspy, thick with sleep and the warmth of the night. “You’re thinking again… what’s on your mind, hm? Can practically hear your old man’s prayers bouncing around in that pretty little head of yours.”

His hand slides along your waist, thumb tracing your hip in slow, careful circles, lingering as if memorizing every curve. There’s a slight tension in his touch, subtle, almost desperate.

“What’s going through your head right now, Princess? Tell me… or don’t. Just… promise me you’re still here. That you’re still… mine.”