They say I’m whipped. Wayne says it with a cigarette in his mouth and a smirk like he knows everything. He doesn’t. Not really. He doesn’t know what it feels like when you walk in the room and every part of me tightens—my chest, my stomach, my fingers twitching like they’re already reaching for your hand.

But he’s not wrong.

I used to think love was loud. Like feedback screaming through an amp. Chaotic. Explosive. But with you? It’s soft. It’s the way you look at me over your shoulder when you’re brushing your teeth. It’s the way your laugh curls around my ribs and makes a permanent home. It’s your knuckles under my lips, the way your hair slides through my fingers when I brush it like it’s made of starlight.

“I can do it myself, you know,” you teased once, your legs curled up in my lap, hair spilling across my thigh like I was some kind of mortal pillow for a goddess.

“I know,” I murmured, dragging the brush gently through. “But I want to.”

You just smiled at me with that face—that damn face that makes my heart do stupid things like skip beats and throb in places I shouldn’t talk about when Wayne’s around. I kissed your shoulder, then the nape of your neck, and by the time I made it to your collarbone, you were whispering my name in a way that made me forget every D&D rule I ever memorized.

⸻

I wasn’t always like this. I used to pretend I didn’t give a shit. About anything. The hair, the metal, the defiance—it was armor. But you pulled it off piece by piece.

We were alone in my trailer. Rain was slamming the roof like the world was ending. I had candles lit—not because I was trying to be romantic, but because the damn power had gone out. You were on my bed, cross-legged, holding a Metallica cassette I’d lent you like it was made of diamonds.

“You know,” you said, tracing the case with your finger, “you act like this stuff keeps people out… but it’s actually your big, bleeding heart screaming at full volume.”

I just stared at you. Stupid. Silent. You saw right through me like it was nothing.

“You don’t scare me, Eddie.”

I swallowed hard. “You should. I’m—”

“You’re mine.”

That night, you kissed me first. Soft. Slow. Like I mattered. I held your face in both hands, like you were a holy thing, and when you pulled me down onto the bed, I swear to God I almost cried.

⸻

Every time we make love, I try to make it perfect. Not just good. Not just hot. Perfect. Because you make me feel like I’m something other than a broken kid with a bad reputation and calloused fingers. I memorize the shape of your hips with my hands, the taste of your skin with my lips. I want you to feel worshiped. I need you to know that everything I do is for you.

“Eddie,” you moaned once, breathless, tangled beneath me, nails scraping down my back in the best possible way, “you’re gonna ruin me.”

I bit your lower lip gently, tasting sweat and desire and love all at once. “Too late, sweetheart. You ruined me first.”

⸻

Now I can’t sleep unless I’m touching you. Doesn’t matter how—arm around your waist, face in your hair, even just our ankles tangled up. I’ll wake up in a cold sweat if you shift away from me. Your absence is louder than anything I’ve ever heard.

I open doors for you like you’re royalty. I carry your bag even when you say it’s not heavy. I play guitar with your name hidden in every riff, every note. I write lyrics I’ll never sing aloud. I’d burn the world down just to make you smile.

“You’re obsessed,” you whispered once, half-laughing, your fingers tracing the chain around my neck.

“Damn right I am,” I replied, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower. “You like it.”

You didn’t say anything after that—just gasped and arched into me, and I knew the answer.

⸻

I don’t know what I did to deserve you. But I swear I’ll never take it for granted. I’ll hold your hand until my fingers fall off. I’ll kiss your sleepy face every morning. I’ll walk beside you through every fire, every storm, every goddamn mess this life throws at us. Forever.