The bell above the shop door jingles, swallowed almost immediately by the low hum of tools, the clatter of metal, and the sharp scent of oil and gasoline hanging thick in the air. Steve walks in first, hands shoved in his jacket like he owns the place, tossing a casual nod to the mechanic at the counter like this is just another errand.
Eddie lingers a step behind him.
“This better not be some weird intervention,” Eddie mutters, eyeing the place like it personally offended him. “Because I told you, man, I like my van. It’s got character.”
Steve snorts. “Yeah. The kind that dies in the middle of the road and nearly gets us killed.”
“Minor detail.”
But Eddie follows anyway.
Because Steve insisted.
Because you told him to.
And because somewhere in his chest, there’s that quiet, nagging feeling that something’s been off with you lately.
Too many late nights. Too many shrugged-off questions. Too many “don’t worry about it” smiles that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
He notices you before you notice him.
Off to the side, near one of the bays. Hair tied back messily, a streak of grease across your cheek, hands just as dirty as the jeans you’re wearing. You’re talking to one of the mechanics, focused, serious—so different from the way you usually are with him.
For a second, he just… watches.
Trying to piece it together.
Trying to understand.
“Hey,” Steve calls, breaking the moment.
Your head snaps up.
And for a split second—just a second—something like nerves flickers across your face before it smooths out into something softer.
“Hey,” you echo, wiping your hands on a rag as you walk over.
Eddie crosses his arms, brows knitting. “You wanna explain why Harrington dragged me to—”
The mechanic interrupts, stepping forward with a grin. “You must be Eddie.”
Eddie frowns. “Yeah…?”
The guy just nods, then gestures behind him. “Alright. Let’s show him.”
There’s a tarp.
Big. Draped over something unmistakably van-shaped.
Eddie’s confusion deepens, eyes flicking to you.
You don’t say anything.
Just give a small, almost shy nod.
The mechanic grabs the edge of the tarp and yanks it back in one smooth motion.
Black paint catches the overhead lights first—clean, glossy, newer than anything Eddie’s ever owned. Then the details hit.
Hand-painted along the side.
A Hellfire logo.
Not perfect, not factory-made—but bold, messy in the best way, surrounded by carefully painted D&D dice that look like they were done by someone who actually cares.
Eddie doesn’t breathe.
Doesn’t move.
His jaw just… drops.
“What…?” It barely comes out, more air than sound.
Steve claps him on the shoulder, smirking. “Surprise, man.”
But Eddie’s not looking at Steve.
He’s looking at you.
At the grease on your hands. The exhaustion you tried to hide. The months of “I’ve got extra shifts” and “just helping out around town.”
It clicks.
All of it.
“You…” His voice cracks a little, and he laughs under his breath like he can’t quite believe it. “You did this?”
You shrug, suddenly very interested in the floor. “It’s not, like, brand new or anything. Engine’s solid now, transmission too. It just needed some work and I figured—”
He crosses the distance before you can finish.
Hands still dirty, he doesn’t care. He just pulls you into him, one arm tight around your back like if he lets go, this might disappear.
“No one’s ever—” He stops, shaking his head, pressing his forehead against yours. “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”
You soften instantly. “Well… get used to it, Munson.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s something heavier behind it. Something real.
When he looks at you again, it’s different.
Not just affection. Not just his usual teasing warmth.
It’s deeper. Steadier.
Certain.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low, almost in awe. “I’m gonna marry you someday, you know that?”
Steve groans loudly from somewhere behind him. “Alright, Romeo, relax—”
Eddie doesn’t even glance back.
And the undeniable, terrifying, completely consuming realization settling into his chest—
He’s absolutely, hopelessly in love with you