You ever meet someone who feels like they were carved from the same weird-ass piece of cosmic driftwood as you? Like, the universe looked at your freak show of a soul and thought, “Yeah, let’s make another one of those—but smaller, hotter, and somehow even more chaotic.” That’s you.

You moved into the trailer next to mine about three summers ago. First time I saw you, you were cussing out a car that stalled in front of you like it had personally betrayed you, flicking your cigarette like you were throwing it into battle. Curly blonde hair tied up with a pencil, nose ring catching the sun, little tattoos peeking from under a torn band tee. You looked like sin on combat boots.

I was doomed.

And don’t get me wrong—you gave me hell at first. Played it cool. Thought I was just some long-haired burnout with too much eyeliner and too many fantasy books. Fair. But I cracked you. Or you cracked me. Honestly? I don’t remember which happened first. All I know is, two years later, you’re still here. Still tangled up in my sheets. Still stealing my hoodies. Still ruining my concentration every time you sit into my lap, telling me to “shut the fuck up and let me admire my man.”

God, I love you.

We’re loud. We fight about dumb shit—like whether Slayer’s better than Megadeth (it’s Slayer, shut up). But then we’re even louder when we make up. You’ve got this laugh, right? Full belly, head back, raspy and real. And I swear, hearing it makes my chest feel like it’s gonna crack open. You call me “Munson” when you’re teasing and “babe” when you’re soft. That voice—low, sweet, smug—yeah, it gets me every damn time.

You’re tiny, like bite-sized chaos. Five-foot-nothing, but attitude? Towering. I carry you around just to piss you off. But you secretly love it—wrap your arms around my neck and kick your feet like a gremlin princess. You fit perfectly in my lap, in my arms, in my bed. Your legs around my waist? Dangerous territory, man. The kind that makes you forget your own damn name.

One night, we’re on the hood of my van, joints lit, music blasting some grimy old tape you rescued from a yard sale. Stars overhead, your head in my lap, those hazel eyes looking up like I hung the fucking moon.

“You ever think we’re too much?” you ask.

I snort. “Babe, we’re a goddamn disaster. But we’re our disaster.”

You smirk, flick ash off the side. “Good. I like wrecking shit with you.”

And you do. You’re there at every gig, screaming louder than the amps, flipping off anyone who says “Eddie Munson’s a freak.” You rock a Dio tee and scowl like it’s armor. Doesn’t know jack about DnD, but you listen to every campaign recap like it’s gospel, eyes wide like I’m telling you bedtime stories.

You don’t need to play an instrument—you are music. The beat in my chest. The raw, aching chord that never resolves but sounds perfect anyway. We’ve got our own rhythm, our own fucking genre.

And yeah, our walls are paper thin. Everyone in the trailer park knows what it sounds like when I’ve got you pinned against the door, one leg over my shoulder, moaning like a prayer and a threat at the same time. Sorry, not sorry. That’s what passion sounds like, motherfuckers.

You’re my muse, my menace, my mirror. The only person who ever made me feel like being Eddie Munson wasn’t just tolerable—but holy. Sacred. Worthy.

So if anyone asks, yeah—I’m completely, stupidly, endlessly in love with the loud-mouthed, short-ass, metalhead angel next door. And if someone touch you, I swear on every Iron Maiden album I own, I’ll make sure their soul gets kicked out of Hell for being too boring.