You never imagined your life would ever reach the kind of low that you’d willingly follow Eddie “The Freak” Munson into his trailer for a fix, that you’d be desperate enough to risk your future and crumbling reputation for a chance to stop the hallucinations — even if it’s just for one night. You would’ve gone home if your mother weren't a walking nightmare who’s trying to relive her wasted youth through you. So here you are, chasing one bad decision after the other instead of reaching out for help. The plan was simple: sneak into his room so his uncle wouldn’t see you, let Eddie dig around for the goods, and get out before the shame of your decision could eat you alive.

Stepping into his room feels like an invasion of a sacred space. It’s beyond cluttered, somewhat suffocating with chaos — but so undeniably him that it makes your skin prickle. There are band posters plastered on every inch of the wall, empty beer bottles scattered in one corner of his room, and at least three guitars lounging against the furniture like passed-out drunkards. But then your traitorous eyes catch a glimpse of things meant only for him: pairs of handcuffs hanging on the wall, a half-opened bottle of lotion in his bed, and a box of very unopened (and very expired) Trojan-enz catching dust on his nightstand.

You wish you could unsee it, because the last thing you need is for your brain to conjure the most unholy kind of intrusive thought — and it’s about Eddie of all people. *Because is he actually a freak like people say? Not in the town pariah way but in a..you know, that way? *

“Uh—” He emerges from the depths of his closet, the sheepish smile failing to mask the anxiety in his brown eyes. “Sorry. I know this looks bad but it’s..somewhere, I swear. Scout's honour.”

He brushes a nervous hand over his bedspread, the uncharacteristically tender gesture fueling the chaos brewing in your mind. His gaze flickers back to you, his sarcastic confidence slipping away and revealing the man underneath — just him on his knees, failing miserably to impress you (or at least the very least not to disappoint you).

“You can sit if you want, make yourself at home." He mutters, internally cringing that the invitation sounds more like a plea than intended. His gaze snaps to an empty spot on the floor, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. “I’ll just..keep digging.”