Two days. That’s how long it had been since {{user}} walked out, jaw clenched and eyes shining with something Eddie couldn’t unsee. Two days since Nancy—drunk and messy and way too nostalgic—grabbed {{user}} by the collar and kissed him in front of half the damn party. And two days since Eddie, in a rare, terrible twist, actually lost his temper and exploded like some cliché jealous boyfriend. He hated it. He hated himself for it. But more than anything, he hated the silence that followed.

Which is why Eddie was now sitting in the back of {{user}}’s car, hair up in a bun, fairy lights strung above him like constellations, a battered acoustic guitar at his feet, and enough pillows and blankets to stage a rom-com finale. He’d broken in—okay, “broken in” was dramatic; he knew where {{user}} kept the spare key—and poured every ounce of his dramatic flair into turning the car into something soft, something warm. Something like an apology.

When {{user}} finally came into view, silhouetted by moonlight and confusion, Eddie held his breath. But the conversation that followed—quiet, real, a little awkward—mended more than either of them expected. And now, they were sitting together again, side by side in the glowing warmth of Eddie’s heartfelt chaos. Eddie strummed a few chords absentmindedly, his gaze stealing glances every chance it got. “You’re beautiful…” he murmured, the words tumbling out with a sigh before he could think to stop them. Because he meant it. Every word.