The van creaks softly as it settles into the quiet of the woods, engine long since turned off, the only sounds now the distant chirp of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves in the night breeze. The air inside is warm, a little hazy, carrying the lingering scent of leather, smoke, and Eddie’s cologne.

Eddie’s hand is braced beside your head, the other resting at your waist as he leans in again, lips brushing yours like he’s testing the waters before diving back in. It doesn’t take much—just a slight tilt of your chin—and suddenly he’s kissing you properly, like he means it. Like he always does.

There’s a certain kind of intensity to him. A hunger, sure, but not rushed—never careless. His fingers press lightly into your side, grounding himself as much as you, like he’s making sure this is real, that you’re real, that you’re here with him.

You shift closer, knees brushing his, one hand curling into the front of his Hellfire shirt. He huffs out a quiet laugh against your lips at that, but it melts into something softer as he kisses you again, slower this time.

His hand slides slightly, still at your waist, thumb tracing absent patterns against your shirt.

And that’s when you pull back.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Eddie blinks at you, completely caught off guard. His lips are still parted, like he’s about to say something—but now he just looks confused, eyebrows pulling together.

“What do you mean?” he asks, voice rough, breath a little uneven.

You give him a look, pointed, expectant. “I mean your hands.”

He glances down briefly, then back up at you, confusion only deepening. “They’re on your waist.”

“I know,” you say, leaning back just enough to put space between you, arms crossing lightly. “What am I? A nun?”

That gets a reaction.

Eddie’s mouth twitches, clearly trying not to grin, though the corner of his lips gives him away. “I—uh—no? Definitely not.”

“Then,” you continue, raising a brow, “put them somewhere more useful.”

There’s a beat of silence.

And then it clicks.

“Oh.”

The word leaves him slow, realization spreading across his face like a spark catching fire. His ears turn just slightly red, but the grin that follows is pure Eddie—crooked, a little cocky, and entirely too pleased with himself.

“Right,” he mutters, like he’s recalibrating, shifting just a little closer again. “Got it. Sorry. My bad.”

But there’s nothing apologetic about the way his hands move this time.

They hesitate for only half a second before sliding more confidently, more deliberately, testing boundaries but listening, always listening. His eyes flick back up to yours, checking, asking without words.

Still okay?

When you don’t pull away—when anything, you lean into him—his grin softens into something warmer, something a little more real.

“See,” he murmurs, voice low as he leans in again, “you gotta give me clear instructions, sweetheart. I’m a hands-on learner.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips as you tug him back in by the collar of his shirt.

“Shut up, Munson.”

“Gladly.”

And this time, when he kisses you again, there’s no hesitation at all.