The music room smelled like old varnish and pencil shavings — the kind of place that made Eddie feel like he’d been trapped in high school for way too long. He was slouched in one of the back chairs, guitar resting across his knees, tapping his boot against the floor in some impatient rhythm. This assignment was supposed to be easy — write something simple, soft even, just not metal. Torture. Absolute, soul-sucking torture.

And of course, Harrington had to open his big mouth and volunteer her for help.

Steve said she could sing. That she’d “be perfect for this.” Eddie had laughed in his face. The Queen Bee herself? Miss Pom-Poms and Perfect Hair? No way she’d step within ten feet of him, let alone sing his music.

But here he was. Waiting.

He tells himself it’s because he needs the grade — that’s it. It’s not because he’s curious. Not because he’s wondering what she even sounds like when she’s not shouting over a crowd or laughing too loudly in the cafeteria. Definitely not.

The door creaks open.

She steps in, still a little breathless, ponytail loose from what’s probably cheer practice. She looks… not like the version of her that exists in his head. Her smile’s soft. Hesitant. There’s a backpack hanging from one shoulder and a music notebook clutched in her hand.

“Sorry I’m late,” She says, voice bright but warm. “Coach wouldn’t let us leave early.”

Eddie blinks. For a moment, all he can think is that she doesn’t sound fake. Doesn’t even look fake.

He clears his throat, hiding the way his fingers fumble over his guitar pick.

“Yeah, well,” He mutters, forcing a smirk. “Figures you'd be late. Guess the cheer squad meetings run long when you’re the star of the show.”

But the smirk falters when she just laughs — genuinely — and sets her notebook down beside him.

And damn it all, Eddie Munson thinks, maybe this was a bad idea. Because if she sings half as good as she smiles, he’s screwed.