Eddie’s sprawled across the bed like he pays rent on it—one arm flung over his head, the other lazily clutching the TV remote. The screen’s flickering some late-night horror rerun, blue light washing over his face as he half-watches, half-dozes, curls sticking up every which way against the pillow.

Then the light disappears.

He blinks. Shifts. The screen is completely blocked now, replaced by you standing at the foot of the bed, silhouetted and smug.

“Hey—” he starts, craning his neck. “C’mon, babe, you’re right in the kill shot—”

Before he can finish, you step closer. Close enough that he can smell your shampoo. Close enough that his attention abandons the TV entirely. Your fingers hook gently under his chin, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He freezes on instinct, dark eyes flicking up to yours.

You pull out a makeup wipe like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie squints. “Uh… baby?” he asks, words muffled as you tilt his face side to side. “What the heck are you doing?”

You don’t answer. You just keep going—slow, deliberate swipes across his mouth, his chin, the sharp line of his jaw. The wipe is cool, your touch anything but, and Eddie’s confusion only deepens by the second.

He lets out a soft, baffled laugh. “Did I—did I spill something? Am I bleeding? Is this a medical situation I should be more afraid of?”

You hum thoughtfully, still wiping. “I’m making sure my seat’s clean for later,” you say casually.

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

“…Your—” His brain short-circuits, the word catching halfway out of his mouth. “Your seat?”

You finally stop, tossing the wipe aside and giving his chin one last gentle squeeze. “Can’t sit on a dirty seat,” you add sweetly.

Silence.

Then Eddie chokes on absolutely nothing.

He props himself up on his elbows, curls falling into his eyes, staring at you like you’ve just spoken another language. “I—wow. Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” he rambles, voice pitching higher as his ears go pink. “That’s—wow, that’s… proactive. Responsible. Very hygienic of you.”

You raise a brow, unimpressed.

He swallows, throat bobbing, and suddenly the TV is very much forgotten. “You know,” he says carefully, trying and failing to sound casual, “you could’ve just—uh—asked me to, y’know… wash up?”

You lean in, close enough that your nose almost brushes his. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Eddie exhales a shaky laugh, eyes dropping to your lips before snapping back up, grinning despite himself. “You are gonna be the death of me,” he mutters.

You smile like you already knew that.