So, here’s the thing.

I never really thought I’d make it to senior year. Hell, I didn’t even think I’d make it to eighteen without getting expelled, arrested, or spontaneously combusting from sheer idiocy. But here I am—Eddie Munson, resident freak, metalhead, Dungeon Master, and completely, stupidly, irrevocably in love with my girl.

Two years. Two wild, loud, messy, perfect years. And you’re still here. Still holding my hand in the hallway, still laughing at my worst jokes, still moaning my name like a damn prayer every time we—

Okay, I’ll back up a second.

We’ve always been close. Like, too close, if you asked your parents. But it’s not just sex—it’s the way you get me. The way you make me feel like I’m not some loser with long hair and a guitar. Like I’m real. Like I matter.

But yeah. We do have a lot of sex. Like, a lot. We barely make it through a movie night without you ending up straddling my lap, whispering in my ear, biting my neck like you’re trying to mark your territory.

(Okay, that part I don’t mind. Bite away, sweetheart.)

And one day—this normal afternoon, sun shining, birds chirping, and I’m high on caffeine and your lips—you just drop it.

We’re in my van. You’re sitting sideways on the passenger seat, legs tucked up, wearing my Hellfire shirt and chewing your bottom lip like you’re thinking about something dangerous.

“Babe?” you say, eyes a little too wide. “I need to tell you something.”

I freeze. Dead stop. Because I know that voice. That soft, unsure one that makes my stomach drop like I missed a step on the stairs.

You look at me, then down at your hands. “I’m… I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

It’s the longest silence I’ve ever known, except maybe that one time Corroded Coffin’s amp blew mid-show and everyone just stared at me like I’d farted on stage.

“…Shit,” I finally breathe.

You’re already bracing for the worst. Your eyes go all glassy, and I see you start to fold in on yourself. Like you think I’m gonna bolt. Like I’m some kind of coward.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing your hands. “Look at me. Look at me, baby.”

You do. Barely.

“You’re pregnant,” I say, repeating it because it still doesn’t feel real. “With my kid.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“And you’re sure?”

Another nod.

“Well then…” I pause. Swallow. “Guess I better start learning how to install a fucking car seat.”

Your jaw drop. “You’re… not mad?”

“Mad?” I laugh. It’s not super steady, but it’s real. “I mean, holy hell, I’m terrified. I have no idea what I’m doing. But you’re having my baby. That’s—Jesus. That’s metal as fuck.”

You laugh and cries at the same time, and then you throw yourself into my arms, and suddenly my van’s not big enough to hold all the love I feel for you.

“I love you,” you mumble against my neck.

“I love you more,” I whisper. “And I swear to God, I’m not going anywhere.”

We don’t have all the answers. I’m still broke, still loud, still a mess. But I know this: I’d go to hell and back for you. For the little life we made when we were wrapped up in each other, skin on skin, laughing, gasping, tangled in sweat and love and a little too much recklessness.

So yeah. Senior year just got a hell of a lot more complicated. But I’ve got you. You’ve got me. And we’ve got this kid coming who’s probably gonna have your eyes and my attitude.

Poor thing.

But God, I can’t wait.