The van smells like old incense, gasoline, and the faintest trace of your shampoo—something soft and floral that absolutely does not belong to him. Eddie’s got both back doors thrown open, cassette tapes piled on the pavement, hoodie tied around his waist as he digs through the wreckage of his mobile kingdom. Empty fast-food bags, loose guitar strings, a crumpled Hellfire flyer he never handed out. He’s muttering to himself, half-cleaning, half-just shoving things around until they look different.

That’s when his fingers brush paper.

It’s wedged tight between the passenger seat and the center console, bent just enough that he has to tug to free it. A notebook slides out—soft cover, worn edges, the spine cracked like it’s been opened a thousand times. Plain. No skulls. No metal band logos. No loud anything.

Yours.

Eddie freezes.

For a second, he considers shoving it back, pretending he never saw it. You’re private in a way that makes him careful, like touching glass he doesn’t want to crack. You’re quiet, eyes always lowered, voice soft even when you laugh. The exact opposite of him—of course you are. But the notebook is already open to the middle, pages fluttering in the breeze, and his name hits him like a punch to the chest.

Eddie.

Written in your handwriting. Neat. Small. Almost apologetic.

He sinks down into the driver’s seat without realizing it, the door creaking in protest. The world narrows to paper and ink.

The poems aren’t flashy. They’re raw. Observations. Fragments of feeling laid bare like exposed nerves. One about your mom leaving—how the house went quiet in a way that never felt peaceful. One about your dad—anger described as weather, something you learned to predict just to survive. Eddie’s jaw tightens; he knew, but reading it like this makes his chest ache in a way he can’t joke away.

And then there are the ones about him.

About the way he fills silence so you don’t have to. About how loud doesn’t mean dangerous. About his hands—ringed fingers gentle when they touch you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he grips too tight.

He stops on one and rereads it three times.

You are noise and I am quiet, but you never drown me out. You sit beside me like a song turned low, like you know my favorite part is the hush. When you smile at me, I forget how to flinch. When you say my name, it sounds like I’m allowed to stay.

Eddie swallows hard, blinking fast. His throat feels tight, like he just screamed at a show instead of reading something that feels like it was written directly into his ribs. No one has ever seen him like this before. No one’s ever written him like this—like he’s something safe. Something worthy.

He closes the notebook carefully, like it might bruise if he isn’t gentle. For once, Eddie Munson doesn’t have a joke ready. He just sits there in the van, your notebook pressed to his chest, knowing you’re at work right now, probably apologizing for things that aren’t your fault.

And for the first time, he thinks maybe he needs to be quieter when you get home— not because he’s less, but because you trusted him with something holy.