Eddie barely slept the night before. Not because he didn’t want to. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again.

The way your smile had faltered for just a second — like you thought he might be joking. The way your eyebrows lifted when you realized he wasn’t. The way you said yes. Soft. Certain. Like it wasn’t a gamble. Like he wasn’t some reckless long-shot you were humoring.

He’d asked you out and you’d said yes. The word has been echoing in his head ever since.

Now it’s the day of the date.

The van rattles down your street, the engine coughing in protest like it always does. The sky is melting into orange and pink, sunset catching in the cracked windshield and flashing against the metal rings on his fingers. His stomach flips harder with every house he passes.

He pulls up in front of yours and kills the engine.

Silence.

For half a second, he just sits there, staring at your front door like it might swing open and reveal this whole thing was some kind of elaborate prank.

“Okay,” he mutters, dragging both hands down his face before adjusting his rings one by one. “You’re cool. You’re calm. You’re not freaking out.”

He’s absolutely freaking out.

The door opens before he can knock.

There you are, porch light glowing behind you like some kind of unfair advantage. Whatever speech he’d practiced evaporates instantly.

“…Hi,” he says instead — softer than usual, like the word slipped out before he could armor it in sarcasm.

You grin at him, and it’s lethal. “You ready, rockstar?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, recovering just enough to swing into a dramatic bow and yank open the van’s passenger door with exaggerated flair. “After you, m’lady. Try not to be too dazzled.”

The drive to The Hideout is a blur of loud music crackling through blown speakers, teasing comments tossed back and forth, and stolen glances he absolutely pretends he isn’t making. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel at red lights, but every time you laugh — really laugh — something in his chest loosens.

By the time they pull into the cracked asphalt lot, his nerves have dulled into something warmer. The Hideout hits you the second the door swings open — stale beer, cigarette smoke soaked into carpet, the faint metallic tang of old amps overheating. Neon beer signs flicker against the walls. The place is already buzzing.

Eddie’s shoulders shift almost instinctively.

This is his territory.

Backstage is chaos in the way only band spaces are. Cables snake across the floor. Guitars lean against amps like they’re resting between battles. Jeff sits cross-legged, tuning quietly. Garth flips through a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbled lyrics. Kyle’s hunched over the drum kit, tightening something with intense focus.

They all look up when Eddie walks in. Then they see you. For half a heartbeat, it’s dead silent but Eddie doesn’t hesitate.

He steps closer to you — not possessive, not territorial — just close enough that your shoulders nearly brush. Pride spreads slowly across his face, warm and unmistakable.

“Alright, listen up, heathens,” he announces, voice loud enough to echo slightly off the concrete walls. “This is—” he says your name carefully, like it deserves to be handled right, “—my girl.”

There’s a pause. Jeff’s mouth curls into a smirk. “Damn, Munson.”

Garth elbows Kyle. “He actually did it.”

Kyle nods once, solemn like it’s a sacred achievement. “Respect.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t step away from you. If anything, he stands a little taller.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t make it weird,” he mutters, though the grin tugging at his mouth gives him away completely.

You end up perched on an amp near the stage, legs swinging slightly as the guys finish setting up. The air hums with anticipation. The crowd grows louder.

Eddie leans against a speaker, pretending not to stare while you laugh with his bandmates like you’ve always belonged here.

He pushes off and steps closer, voice dropping just for you.

“You good?” he asks quietly. “Still glad you said yes?”