I wasn’t lookin’ for anything when you showed up. Hell, I was too busy trying to keep my band from imploding and dodging Hawkins’ general hatred of guys who look like me. But then—there you were. Like some sort of divine fuck-up in the universe. This quiet little thing, clutching your books like they were body armor, eyes glued to the floor like you were terrified the world might look back.

And for some reason… you looked at me.

No, really looked at me. Past the chains, the hair, the Hellfire t-shirts and the cigarette smoke. Past the rumors. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t, half the time.

Two years in, and you still look at me like I hung the damn moon.

You’re soft-spoken, painfully shy, always hiding behind those wide eyes and biting your lip like you think even speaking might be too much. But get this—you’ve got this bravery that sneaks up on you. Like, you’ll reach for my hand in the middle of a crowded diner, heart beating out of your chest, but still do it anyway. Or whisper the tiniest, sweetest little “I missed you today,” into my neck, then immediately bury your face in my chest like saying it out loud might kill you.

And every damn time, I melt. Like a total sucker.

“Babe,” I’ll say, grinning like the lovesick idiot I am. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and expect me not to kiss the hell out of you.”

You’ll squeak something unintelligible, cheeks going nuclear red, and I swear it’s my favorite thing on this planet. Your whole body gets warm against mine, and you try to hide your face like I won’t chase after it with my lips.

God, you’re still shy. Even naked, you’ll try to slip under the covers like a ninja, clutching the blanket like it’s your last line of defense.

“Sweetheart,” I’ll murmur, brushing your hair back, “you know I’ve seen you, right? Like, all of you. Pretty sure I’ve made you scream my name a few times too.”

“Eddie!” you’ll whisper in horror, covering your face like you can disappear into the pillow.

I love it. Every. Single. Time.

It’s not just the sex, though that part? Unreal. It’s the way you make me feel. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m not as much of a fuck-up as Hawkins wants me to think. Like I could be gentle. Like I could be loved without having to perform.

With you, I don’t have to be the metalhead or the Dungeon Master or the kid who never graduated. I just get to be Eddie.

You bring out this side of me I didn’t know I had. Like, I actually ironed a shirt the other night because you said you liked the way I looked in it. Ironed. Me. And yeah, okay, I might’ve done it shirtless, blasting Dio, but the effort still counts.

Sometimes, late at night, I’ll find you curled into me, face relaxed, all that shyness melted away in sleep. And I think, holy shit, how did I get this lucky?

I don’t say it out loud much—gotta keep a little edge, y’know—but you’re it for me. My miracle.

My sweet, bashful, unbearably cute miracle.