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Eddie slumped onto the trailer step, watching the cherry of his cigarette glow between trembling fingers. The sluggish silence of the trailer park was punctured only by the muffled drone of a distant television and a few stray barks, each sound echoing painfully against his throbbing temple.
Steve was probably making dinner, Eddie thought, taking another drag that made his split lip sting with fresh pain. The metallic tang of dried blood mingled with the tobacco on his tongue—a grim reminder of just how spectacularly his day had gone to hell.
Only months ago, after Steve’s relentless nagging, that unshakable motivation of his, and the money he’d secretly tucked away, Eddie had opened that tiny, dilapidated tattoo shop.
He remembered how his hands had shaken while inking that first piece on Steve’s arm, and the look of pure pride Steve had given him in return. Now, he dreaded the disappointment that would surely take its place.
Today, for the first time, it hadn’t felt like a sanctuary; it felt like a trap.
Three customers. Three goddamn customers who had sat in his chair, let him painstakingly work on their designs for hours, and then walked out without paying a single cent. When Eddie had tried to stop them—first politely, then with escalating desperation—they’d made it crystal clear what they thought of him. What they always thought of people like him.
Eddie’s fingers absentmindedly traced the tender skin around his left eye; it was already swollen and turning a deep, bruised plum. The bleeding from his brow had finally tapered off, but the gash was jagged and would likely leave a scar. Just another mark to add to his collection.
Steve would know. Steve always knew. The man could sense Eddie’s anxiety just by the set of his shoulders, could read his mood in the specific way he rolled his eyes. Nothing got past Steve Harrington, and Steve was far too stubborn to let anything just slide.
He flicked the cigarette to the dirt and crushed it with the toe of his boot, watching the embers die out in the soil.
Maybe he won't notice tonight, Eddie tried to tell himself. Maybe the light will be dim enough, maybe Steve will be distracted. But even as the thoughts formed, Eddie knew he was lying to himself. Tomorrow? The day after? They lived together. Steve was going to see.
He nudged the door open as quietly as possible. Inside, the trailer was wrapped in a warmth that defied the biting chill outside, scented with the aroma of freshly cooked food. Steve stood with his back to the kitchen counter, wearing that ridiculous Christmas apron Robin had bought them as a gag gift—the one covered in dancing reindeer and glittery snowflakes.
"Hey, finally!" Steve said without looking over his shoulder. His voice was bright, carrying that signature tone of a man who genuinely believed he could fix the world. "Busy day at the shop? I’m making your favorite—extra spicy noodles—and there are ice-cold beers in the fridge."
Eddie didn’t answer. He shed his leather jacket with heavy movements and hung it on the hook. His shoulders were hunched, his hair pulled forward like a curtain over his face. All he wanted was to be invisible.
"Eddie?" Steve paused, plates in hand as he turned toward the table. "I’m talking to you, you hear me? Since when do you come home without giving me a hug?"
Eddie had collapsed onto the sofa, shoulders tense, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. His hair obscured his features, but even from that short distance, Steve could see something was wrong. Eddie was holding himself with far too much caution.
"Just tired, Steve. Long day."
Steve didn’t slam the plates down, but the ease vanished from his movements instantly. His steps were heavy and deliberate as he navigated toward Eddie with a hunter’s intuition. He knelt by the couch.
"Eddie, look at me."
"Let’s just eat, come on. I’m starving."
"Eddie," Steve’s voice dropped into a more serious register. "What happened?"
Silence. Eddie kept his head bowed, continuing to fiddle with that damn thread as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Eddie." This time Steve’s voice hardened—not with anger, but with a resolve that brooked no argument. It was the tone that meant he wasn't letting this go. "Look at me."
Steve closed the gap, sitting on the edge of the sofa. Without hesitation, he reached out and, despite Eddie’s resistance, cupped his chin firmly but gently, tilting his face upward.
The damage was worse than Steve had anticipated. The bruise was fully formed, dark purple and puffed out. The cut on Eddie’s brow looked raw, and his bottom lip was split and crusted with blood. But what made Steve’s chest tighten with a searing fury was the look in Eddie’s good eye—that mixture of shame and defeat he wore whenever the world decided to remind him of his place in it.
"What the fuck happened?" Steve’s voice came out harsher than intended, laced with a vibration of barely controlled rage. "Who did this to you?"
Eddie tried to avert his gaze again, but Steve tightened his grip on his chin just enough to keep him anchored.
"It’s nothing," Eddie muttered, the words slightly slurred by his swollen lip. "Just some assholes—"
"Nothing?" Steve’s voice rose, and Eddie flinched slightly. Steve immediately softened his touch, but his eyes remained electric. "Someone beat the living hell out of you and it's nothing?"
"Steve, please—"
"Tell me what happened. Now."
The words spilled out in a rush—about the customers, the hours of labor, the insults he’d heard his whole life but that still managed to sting. About being shoved against his own workbench, the fists that landed while he tried to protect his face and his livelihood.
By the time Eddie finished, Steve was pacing the cramped confines of the trailer like a caged animal. His hands were balled into white-knuckled fists, his jaw set so tight it looked painful.
"I’m going to fucking kill them," Steve growled, reaching for his jacket. "What were their names? Did you recognize them? Where—"
"No!" Eddie scrambled off the couch, ignoring the way the sudden movement made his head spin. He lunged for Steve’s arm, his fingers hooking desperately into the fabric. "No, Steve, please. Don’t do this. Don’t make things worse by getting yourself in trouble."
"Let go, Eddie! No one touches what’s mine and gets to go home!"
Steve spun around, and for a second, Eddie was struck by how dangerous he looked. This wasn't the Steve who made breakfast in ridiculous aprons or insisted on holding hands during horror movies. This was the Steve who fought monsters, who protected his kids with nothing but a spiked bat and pure grit.
"Steve, look at me!" Eddie’s voice cracked, bordering on a plea. "Please... I can’t handle worrying about you too. Everything is already going to shit. You getting in trouble would hurt me more than this did."
"How am I supposed to do nothing?" Steve’s voice broke slightly. "They hurt you. They stole from you and they put their hands on you—you want me to just act like it didn’t happen?"
"I don't want you going to jail for me," Eddie said, his own voice trembling now. "I want you to not throw your life away defending someone who—" He stopped, swallowing hard.
"Someone who what?"
Eddie looked away. "Someone who isn't worth it."
Steve was breathing hard. His chest heaved, and Eddie could see the muscle in his jaw twitching. As he took in Eddie’s glassy eyes and shaking hands, the rigid tension in his shoulders finally fractured. He let out a long, ragged exhale.
"Promise me," Eddie whispered, still clinging to Steve’s arm like a lifeline. "Promise me you won't go after them."
"Fine," Steve said, his voice still poisoned with spite, but meeting Eddie’s eyes. "Fine. I promise. For now."
The relief that washed over Eddie nearly took his legs out from under him. "Thank you."
Steve gave a curt nod, then gently steered Eddie back to the sofa. "Sit. Don't move."
Eddie watched Steve disappear into their tiny bathroom, returning with the first aid kit they’d learned to keep fully stocked after everything they’d been through. Steve settled next to him, his movements careful and calculated as he laid out antiseptic and bandages.
"This might sting a bit," Steve murmured, his anger melting into focus as he tended to the wounds.
His touch was impossibly light as he cleaned the cut on Eddie’s brow, one hand cupping Eddie’s face to steady him while the other worked. When Eddie hissed at the sting of the antiseptic, Steve stopped and pressed a soft kiss to Eddie’s uninjured cheek.
"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered against Eddie's skin. "Almost done."
Eddie closed his eyes, surrendering to the meticulous care, letting Steve’s hands map out every bruise and scrape with the reverence of someone handling something precious. When Steve pressed an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel to his swollen eye, Eddie leaned into the contact, into the quiet peace of being cherished.
"There," Steve said softly, pressing another kiss to Eddie’s forehead. "Better?"
Eddie nodded, unable to find his voice. Steve’s promise echoed in his mind; he knew it was a hollow, temporary thing. He knew Steve Harrington better than anyone, and he knew that once Steve’s protective instincts were triggered, no promise in the world would hold him back.
"When you're hurting," Steve said, taking Eddie’s face in both palms, "I can't breathe, Eddie. Get that through your thick skull."
────୨ৎ────
Steve took Eddie’s trembling hands into his own and brought his knuckles to his lips, kissing each joint with a tenderness that was as soft as it was possessive, as if trying to suck the pain right out of them. "Come on," he said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register meant only for Eddie’s ears. "Let’s get the grime of this day and the marks of those jerks off you first. Let’s get you back to being my Eddie."
The cramped shower stall soon transformed into a hazy sanctuary as the hot steam rose. As Steve pushed Eddie’s sodden curls back from his face, his fingertips moved with the reverence of someone handling a sacred relic, careful not to graze the blooming bruises.
With the familiar scent of shampoo filling their senses, Eddie rested his forehead against Steve’s wet chest and closed his eyes.
Steve’s calloused but gentle fingers massaged his scalp, patiently working through every strand weighted down by the water. An involuntary, broken whimper escaped Eddie’s throat.
When Steve finally draped the towel over Eddie’s shoulders, he pulled him close, leaning his forehead against Eddie's; there, amidst the steam, they shared nothing but the steady rhythm of each other's breath.
By the time Eddie settled his head onto Steve’s lap, Steve’s fingers had already found their way through those tangled dark curls. While the noodles he’d prepared sat steaming and cooling on the coffee table, Eddie watched the flickering images on the screen without a word. Steve kept up the steady rhythm of his stroking, carefully averting his eyes from the bruise near Eddie’s temple; his thumb traced hypnotic circles against the soft skin behind Eddie’s ear. Eddie’s eyelids grew heavy under the weight of Steve’s rhythmic, soothing touch.
"You don't have to finish it," Steve whispered, noticing Eddie starting to drift off in the middle of the movie. He leaned down and pressed a long, deep kiss to Eddie’s uninjured cheek. "The movie isn't going anywhere, and neither am I. I'm right here."
But now, in the depths of the darkness, as Eddie’s bruised face remained peaceably buried in the pillow, the mask Steve had so carefully maintained finally cracked. His jaw tightened as he rose from the bed, his movements precise and silent. The promise he’d made echoed in his mind—I won’t go after them—but promises made under duress had their limits, and Steve Harrington’s patience had run dry somewhere between the moment he saw Eddie’s split lip and the moment he watched him flinch on the other side of the bed with every shift of the blankets.
He slipped into his jacket and grabbed his keys, the BMW’s engine purring to life in the cold night air. The neon sign of The Hideout flickered weakly against the dark, casting a sickly pink glow across the empty parking lot.
Steve found Gareth at a corner table, hunched over Eddie’s guitar, plucking out melancholy chords that died away in the stale air. Gareth had been trying to learn guitar alongside the drums lately, and Eddie had let him practice on the instrument he valued more than his own life.
"Harrington." Gareth looked up, unsurprised but cautious. "Figured you’d show up sooner or later."
Steve slid into the booth without being invited. "You know what happened to Eddie today."
It wasn't a question, and Gareth’s immediate shake of the head was too fast, too rehearsed. "Man, I don’t know anything—"
"Cut the shit." Steve’s voice was conversational, almost friendly, which somehow made it more unsettling. "Eddie tells you everything. Every shitty customer, every good day, every time someone looks at him sideways. You know exactly who did this."
Gareth’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. Eddie could be scary when he was angry, projecting the authority of a Dungeon Master used to looming over people and commanding his voice; but Steve Harrington was something else entirely. There was something cold in his eyes, a suggestion that he could apply violence with the same mundane efficiency most people used to tie their shoes.
"Look, I... Eddie would kill me if he knew I told you anything."
Steve tilted his head, his smile sharp enough to draw blood. "And what do you think I’m going to do if you don’t?"
Gareth’s hands shook slightly as he set the guitar down. "Jesus. Fine. There were three of them; big guys, looked like construction workers or something. The one who hit him had an ugly scar across his knuckles, kept telling Eddie..." He trailed off, swallowing again.
"Go on."
"The usual bullshit. You know what pricks like that say about people like Eddie—about people like us." Gareth’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. "They hang out at Mickey’s—that dive bar on Elm Street. But Steve, look, these guys aren't just regular assholes. They’re mean. Like, really mean."
Steve was already on his feet, straightening his jacket with the same meticulous care he’d used to dress Eddie’s wounds. The way he brushed off Gareth’s warning was somehow more terrifying than if he’d been shouting.
"Steve, seriously—"
But Steve was already gone, leaving behind a solitary Gareth and a growing certainty that he had just signed three men's death warrants.
────୨ৎ────
Steve stepped into the dim, nicotine-stained rot of Mickey’s with the casual air of a man looking for a lost umbrella, rather than a man looking for blood. The air smelled of cheap hops and bad decisions. He leaned against the sticky mahogany of the bar, signaling the bartender with a two-finger salute.
"Draft. Any kind," Steve said, his voice smooth, devoid of the jagged edges of the rage currently simmering beneath his ribs.
As the lukewarm liquid hit his glass, he let his gaze drift. Two stools down, a man with a frame built from cheap concrete and bad intentions was nursing a whiskey. He had a thick, jagged scar running across his knuckles—Gareth’s roadmap to a funeral. He was laughing with a friend, a wet, guttural sound, boasting about "teaching a lesson" to some "freak" who thought he was a real businessman.
Steve took a slow sip, set the glass down with a clinical click, and stood up. He sauntered over, moving with that fluid, athletic grace that made him look like he was walking on a red carpet rather than a dive bar floor. He placed a heavy, firm hand on the scarred man's shoulder.
"Hey. Sorry to interrupt, really," Steve began, his voice dripping with a sugary, mocking politeness. He leaned in, conspiratorial and sassy. "I couldn't help but overhear. Busy day of 'teaching lessons,' huh? Quick question: in between all that hard work, did you happen to put your hands on someone? Pretty guy, big brown eyes, wouldn't hurt a fly, minding his own damn business?"
The man stiffened, squinting at Steve through bloodshot eyes. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Steve’s lips pressed together into a thin, horizontal line—a fake, razor-sharp smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. "Let’s just say that the guy you touched is my everything. And let’s just say you’re the one who’s going to settle the debt. Do we really need names, or can we skip to the part where you regret being born?"
Before the man could even register the threat, Steve’s hand migrated from his shoulder to his collar, his grip tightening like a vice. With a sudden, explosive burst of strength, he yanked the man off the stool. He didn't punch him—that was too messy for the first act. Instead, he steered him toward the back of the bar, navigating toward the restrooms with the efficiency of a bouncer clearing trash.
He kicked the bathroom door open, shoved the man toward a stall, and used the guy's forehead to slam the door open. Crack.
Steve forced him down, his knee pinning the man’s spine until he was kneeling over the bowl. With one swift motion, Steve grabbed the back of the man's head and dunked it into the murky toilet water. The man thrashed, bubbles hissing as he struggled. Steve just leaned against the stall partition, looking bored, checking his cuticles.
"So," Steve started, his voice raised just enough to be heard over the splashing. "Today you went into my boyfriend’s shop. You let him work for hours, you insulted him, and then you and your two little buddies decided to get physical."
He hauled the man up by his hair. The guy gasped for air, water dripping from his chin, mouth opening to unleash a string of curses.
Steve let out a soft, melodic laugh. "Oh, no, no. I’m the one talking, you’re the one listening. Let’s try again."
Splash. Back down he went.
"See, the thing is," Steve continued, his tone airy, almost conversational, "if you so much as breathe on a single hair on Eddie's head, I’m prepared to burn the whole world down. But for a guy who actually closed his fist? For a guy who made him flinch in his sleep tonight?" Steve’s voice dropped an octave, turning lethal. "I’m going to be much more creative with you."
He yanked him up again. The man was coughing, his bravado replaced by sheer, watery terror.
"Here’s how this goes," Steve teased, tilting his head. "You’re going to give me the names and addresses of your two friends. And then maybe—just maybe—I’ll let you keep enough teeth to eat solid food again."
He threw the man onto the grimy tile floor. As the guy lay there wheezing, Steve stepped forward, his polished boot finding the man's right hand—the one with the scarred knuckles. He shifted his weight, pressing down until the sound of bone meeting resistance—a sickening crunch-pop—echoed in the small room.
The man let out a strangled wail. Steve leaned down, pressing his ear close to the man's mouth, his expression one of mock-patience.
"Names. Addresses. Now."
The man sobbed, the words tumbling out of him in a desperate, broken rush. Steve listened, memorizing every syllable. Once the information was out, Steve stood up, smoothing out his jacket and adjusting his hair in the cracked bathroom mirror.
"See? Look at us. Communicating like adults," Steve said with a final, biting smirk.
He looked down at the pathetic heap on the floor, spat a dismissive glob of saliva onto the man's shoulder, and walked out of the bathroom without looking back. He had two more stops to make before he could go home and climb back into bed next to the only person who mattered.
────୨ৎ────
Steve didn’t bother with the BMW for the next two stops. The adrenaline was a cold, clinical hum in his veins, turning the night into a series of tactical objectives. To anyone else, Steve Harrington was just a guy who’d traded his crown for a spatula and a babysitting gig, but they forgot one crucial thing: Steve had spent years staring down literal monsters to keep his people safe. And Eddie? Eddie wasn't just "people."
Eddie was the sun, the moon, and every messy, beautiful thing in between. Seeing him slumped on those trailer steps, tasting copper and feeling the weight of his own "unworthiness," had done something to Steve. It had snapped the last thread of his civility.
He found the second man, the one with the shaved head and the permanent scowl, in a cramped garage on the edge of town. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He simply walked in, bypassed the man’s attempt at a greeting, and used a heavy tire iron to pin the man’s throat against the workbench. The metal was freezing, but the rage in Steve’s chest was white-hot.
"Your friend at Mickey's is currently weeping into a toilet bowl," Steve whispered, his face inches from the man's terrified eyes. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, lethal purr. "He was very chatty. Told me you were the one who held Eddie’s arms back. You liked that, didn't you?"
The man tried to gargle a plea, his heels drumming uselessly against the concrete floor. Steve’s grip was absolute. He didn't just look at the man; he looked through him, with a terrifying lack of empathy. In Steve’s mind, he was back in the trailer, watching Eddie flinch. He saw the way Eddie’s hands—those beautiful, calloused hands that could coax magic out of a guitar—had shaken while trying to hold a cigarette.
To Steve, these men weren't humans; they were glitches in Eddie’s world that needed to be erased.
"You took away his peace," Steve said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he shifted his weight, pressing the tire iron just enough to make the man’s vision swim. "He finally had something of his own—that shop—and you turned it into a nightmare. Do you have any idea how hard he works to believe he deserves good things? He’s spent his whole life being told he’s nothing, and he finally, finally started to believe me when I told him he was everything."
Steve reached out with his free hand, grabbing a pair of heavy-duty pliers from the workbench. He didn't rush. He moved with the practiced ease of a man who had all the time in the world. He caught the man's pinky finger in the grip of the tool.
He leaned in even closer, his breath ghosting against the man's ear. "Do you have any idea how much I love him? It’s the only thing that keeps me human. And you... you tried to break the only thing I care about. That makes you a very special kind of target."
With a sudden, sharp twist of the pliers, Steve didn't just cause pain; he sent a message. The man’s muffled scream died in his throat as Steve tightened the tire iron against his windpipe.
"I want you to remember this feeling," Steve hissed, his eyes bright with a dangerous, protective light. "I want you to feel this terror every time you think about stepping foot near that tattoo parlor. Or I start working my way up to your thumb. What’s it gonna be, tough guy?"
Steve pulled the tire iron back just a fraction, letting the man gasp for a jagged breath. He wasn't done. Not even close.
────୨ৎ────
He left the second man sobbing in the dirt behind the shop, the sound of ragged gasps fading into the humid Indiana night as he began the walk back toward Mickey’s Bar. Every step he took on the cracked pavement felt deliberate, a rhythmic thrumming in his veins that screamed for more.
His mind was a jagged landscape of Eddie. Specifically, Eddie’s hands.
He thought about the way Eddie had looked hunched over that third man—the "boss." He thought about the precise, surgical focus in Eddie’s dark eyes, the way his long, ink-stained fingers had moved with the grace of a pianist, despite the skeletal trembling he usually hid with a joke. Eddie had poured hours into that man’s arm. He’d treated that skin like a canvas for a masterpiece, weaving lines and shadows into a story that was supposed to be a sanctuary.
And that bastard had just sat there. He’d watched his goons tear Eddie’s sanctuary apart while wearing Eddie’s soul on his sleeve, literally.
Steve’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the tire iron, his thumb tracing the rough texture of the handle. He doesn’t get to keep it, Steve thought, the realization settling in his chest like hot lead. He doesn’t deserve to carry even a centimeter of Eddie’s light on his wretched body. A gruesome image flickered in his mind—a pot of boiling water, a chemical strip, something to erase the "masterpiece" until there was nothing left but scarred, unrecognizable flesh. The cruelty of the thought didn’t scare him; it felt like justice. It felt like the only way to balance the scales for the way Eddie had looked on that trailer step, broken and small.
The only thing—the only thing—keeping Steve from turning back and finishing the job with a permanent, lethal finality was the image of Eddie waking up in an empty bed. He could see it clearly: Eddie reaching out in his sleep, finding only cold sheets, and the sheer, paralyzing terror that would follow when he realized Steve had gone hunting. He couldn't let Eddie wake up to a phone call from the station. He couldn't let Eddie lose the only thing he had left because Steve couldn't keep his demons on a leash.
He reached the edge of the parking lot near Mickey’s, the neon sign of the bar flickering a sickly, rhythmic red. He was focused on his car, his breath hitching in his chest, when a movement in the shadows jarred him.
A figure was stumbling toward him, frantic and uneven.
"Steve!"
The voice was a jagged shard of glass, cutting through the silence. Steve froze, his heart dropping into his stomach.
Eddie was running—no, he was lunging forward, his boots skidding on the gravel. His hair was a chaotic nest around his face, and even in the dim light, Steve could see the frantic rise and fall of his chest. But it was his face that stopped Steve cold. It wasn't just fear; it was a raw, vibrating anger, the kind born from a heart that had been pushed too far.
Eddie skidded to a halt a few feet away, his hands flying up to grip his own hair, his rings clinking sharply. He looked like he was vibrating, his eyes wide and searching Steve’s face, then dropping to the tire iron, then back up.
"You absolute idiot," Eddie choked out, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of relief and fury. "You promised. You looked me in the eye and you fucking promised me, Steve!"
He took a step closer, his breath coming in sharp, hitching gasps.
"I woke up," Eddie whispered, his voice cracking as he stepped into Steve's personal space, his finger trembling as he pointed it at Steve's chest. "I woke up and the bed was cold. I thought—I thought they'd come back. Or worse. Do you have any idea what went through my head? Did you even think, Harrington?"
Steve didn't pull away. He didn’t offer a defense or a clever remark. He also stepped into Eddie’s space, closing the gap until the frantic heat radiating from Eddie’s skin began to warm his own chest.
Slowly, with a tenderness that seemed impossible for a man whose knuckles were still stained with the dust of a fight, Steve reached up. He cupped Eddie’s face, his large hands framing that sharp, beautiful jawline. His touch was feather-light, treating Eddie not like the person the world saw, but like a piece of ancient, priceless crystal that might shatter if he breathed too hard.
"Eddie," Steve whispered, his voice a low, grounding hum that vibrated with an intensity so deep it felt elemental. "Look at me. Hey, look at me."
He waited until Eddie’s frantic, dark eyes finally locked onto his. Steve’s thumb began a slow, rhythmic stroke across Eddie’s cheek, tracing the line of his cheekbone before ghosting over his bruised, split lip with a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. The violence that had possessed Steve moments ago had evaporated, replaced by a love so fierce it was almost terrifying.
Steve slid one hand down to the nape of Eddie’s neck, his fingers tangling in those wild curls, pulling him just a fraction closer until their foreheads rested against one another. His other hand moved to Eddie’s chest, palm flat against the fabric of the shirt, right over Eddie’s heart. He could feel it—the frantic, staccato rhythm of a bird trapped in a cage.
"You feel that?" Steve murmured, his breath fanning over Eddie’s lips. "That’s the only thing that matters to me. That beat. If that stops, Eddie, the whole world goes dark. There's nothing left of me without you."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a raw, broken confession. "I’m sorry I left the bed. I’m sorry I scared you. But I saw what they did to you, and I felt like the world was ending. Because you’re the only good thing I’ve ever managed to keep, Eddie. You’re my home. You’re the only reason I even want to wake up in the morning."
He squeezed Eddie’s neck gently, his thumb still tracing the curve of his jaw.
"I’m right here," Steve promised, his voice thick with a love that bordered on worship. "I’m not going anywhere. I'm not getting arrested, and I'm not leaving you. I am yours, Eddie Munson. Until there’s nothing left of this world but dust. Do you hear me?"
Eddie began to move, his hands hovering over Steve like they were searching for a pulse in a storm. His fingers danced frantically over Steve’s shoulders, his chest, and then moved down to his ribs, pressing light enough to be a ghost but firm enough to check for any hidden flinch. His eyes were wide, dilated with a terror so profound it eclipsed the night around them. He looked like a man who was one scrape, one bruise away from completely coming apart at the seams.
"Are you okay? Steve," Eddie’s voice was a frantic, broken staccato. His hands moved to Steve’s bicep, squeezing, checking for fractures. "Did they—did they lay a hand on you? Tell me they didn't touch you. Did they hurt you, Steve? Please, tell me you’re not bleeding somewhere I can’t see."
He was vibrating, his breathing so shallow it was almost a whistle. Every time his hands found a part of Steve that was intact, he moved to the next with an even more desperate hunger for reassurance. It was a frantic scan, a physical prayer that the man standing before him wasn't broken by the violence he’d just chased.
Steve didn't hesitate. He let his own hands, still warm from the adrenaline, slide down from Eddie’s neck to capture those frantic, roving hands. He caught Eddie’s wrists, bringing them together and pressing them firmly against his own chest, right over his beating heart, forcing Eddie to feel the steady, living rhythm of him.
"Eddie, stop. Stop, sweetheart. Look at me," Steve said, his voice dropping into that deep, velvet frequency that only ever came out for Eddie. It was the sound of a lighthouse in a gale.
He stepped even closer, rolling his shoulders back to show he was unharmed, his gaze never leaving Eddie’s. "I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. Not a scratch, Eddie. Look at me—I’m whole. They didn't touch me. They couldn't even get close enough."
Steve took one of Eddie's hands and pressed it against his own cheek, leaning into the palm, letting Eddie feel the warmth of his skin. He began to rub soothing circles into Eddie's wrists with his thumbs, a slow, hypnotic movement designed to pull him back from the edge of a panic attack.
"What happened to them?" Eddie asked, his voice barely a tremor now, but laced with a dark, heavy curiosity. "What did you do?"
Steve didn't blink. He reached out, tucking a stray, sweat-dampened curl behind Eddie’s ear with a touch so light it was almost a caress.
"They won't be bothering you again," Steve said, his tone flat and final, like a judge delivering a verdict. "I just made sure they understood that you’re off-limits. Permanently."
Eddie knew Steve was holding back the details to keep him safe from the ugliness of it. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead dropping onto Steve’s shoulder for a brief, exhausting second.
"You're insane, Harrington," Eddie managed a weak, lopsided smile as he pulled back just enough to look at him. "A total, Grade-A lunatic."
"Maybe," Steve murmured, a soft, tired grin finally breaking through. "But I’m your lunatic. And I’d do anything for you, Eddie. Anything at all."
His eyebrows arched "Anything?" Eddie challenged, his voice dropping an octave, a smirk tugging at the corner of his bruised mouth.
"Anything," Steve repeated, his gaze unwavering and dead serious.
Eddie shrugged his shoulders, "Well, in that case... I think I’m actually starving," he admitted.
Steve let out a short, breathless laugh, the sound filled with a relief so profound it made his knees weak. He leaned in, capturing Eddie’s lips in a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted of salt and absolute devotion.
"Fine," Steve whispered against his lips, his hand sliding down to catch Eddie’s. "Let’s go find somewhere that’s still open. But don't you dare complain that the food is cold and stale."
Eddie let out a dramatic gasp, allowing Steve to lead him toward the car. "You know I wouldn't do that, Stevie. I’m a man of very refined, very humble tastes."
"Oh, I know you will complain," Steve shot back, opening the passenger door for him with a mock-regal flourish. "I know you'll have a twenty-minute monologue ready about the texture of the fries."
Eddie paused at the door, leaning his hip against the car and looking up at Steve through his eyelashes, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Well... at least you know how to shut me up."
Steve paused, his hand on the top of the door, a slow, dangerous smirk spreading across his face as he crowded into Eddie’s space one last time.
"I know more than one way to do that, Munson," Steve murmured.