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It’s not really possible to describe what’s going on between them in words. Few words, that is. Like a one word label. They don’t have that shit.
No, Eddie and Chrissy aren’t exactly friends—she ignores him in public and he ignores her (as long as ignoring means staring at her from afar, watching the movement of her skirts or her ponytail, the guarded, fake smile), and that’s that. But they’re not strangers, either, because strangers don’t smoke together, don’t eat lunch together, don’t secretly flick a strangers’ skirt up in the hallways, and strangers certainly aren’t on their knees, face buried in the other person’s cunt.
And dating—as in boyfriend and girlfriend, as in going out, as in being in love and holding hands publicly and all that shit—well, that’s the farthest from what they are.
So yeah, it’s complicated.
In more ways than one, because there’s also not really a routine to it. It’s more about a feeling—sometimes, when Eddie is looking at her, Chrissy is looking back, tilts her head just a bit, something deep and pleading in those big, grey eyes even from this far away, and that’s when he knows that she needs him, today.
It’s nice to be needed. Feels good, for however long it lasts—and well, if Eddie is honest, it often feels like shit right after Chrissy leaves again, ponytail bouncing, when she returns to her circles of friends and to the grip of her real, actual boyfriend. But then again, he’s always been a fool and now he’s come to think he must be a masochist, too, because he keeps doing it.
One glance out of those doleful eyes, and he’s on his knees, every single time.
Figuratively and literally. He’s never been all that good at metaphors. Not smart enough for ‘em, probably. Jeez.
It’s not like they fuck, or anything like that. Not even like they do sexual things exclusively—honestly, more often than not, all Chrissy needs is some conversation. Company. A smoke, maybe, if it’s after school. Sometimes they eat lunch together.
Other times he’s got his hands between her legs, his fingers buried inside of her, the heel of his palm rubbing against the slick skin of her clit, right how he’s learned she likes it. And she’s gasping, her head rolled back, her brows furrowed up, and Eddie thinks fuck, Goddamnit, one day I am really going to fucking die.
Or, as he’s mentioned, sometimes he’s on his knees. Right now he’s on his knees. He feels like he’s always on his knees when it comes to her.
They’re at the picnic table, of course. It’s become their trusted meet-up spot—he was right when he told her no one ever comes here. It’s just him and his clientele, and his schedule never mixes them up with… well, with whatever the hell Chrissy is.
(Perfect, beautiful, devastatingly lovely. Lonely, sad eyes and a brittle smile that’s so much prettier when she really, actually laughs. Eddie tries not to think about the fact that he’s never seen her really smile at anyone but him too much.)
The leaves on the ground and the grass around them tickle a little where they touch his skin through the ripped holes at the knees of his jeans, but he’s more concentrated on pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the front of Chrissy’s already soaked panties. On top of the table, she gasps, sways where she’s sitting, and he’s just wondering why she’s not fucking lying down as she usually does when he presses his tongue against the cotton. His piercing catches onto the fabric just a little.
Her panties will be ruined from this. Eddie hopes they will.
Sometimes, he’s mean. Chrissy gasps again anyway, her hips helplessly bucking, her fingers finding his hair, clawing into it, perfectly manicured fingernails scraping over his scalp in a way that pulsates deeply inside of him. His cock jumps in his jeans, but as usual, he ignores it. At least until she’s gone.
(He remembers the look on her face when he told her he doesn’t need anything in return. And perhaps it’s desperate of him—fuck, it’s so desperate—but he’d take anything from her. Anything, anything, just to be able to spend time with her.
“Are you sure?” she had asked, biting down on her bottom lip, chewing on it like she does when she’s nervous. He notices those things about her. He wishes he didn’t.
He also hadn’t liked the implications of that. The implication that Jason Carver only takes, only gives when he gets something in return. Later, many times later, she’d told him her boyfriend has never actually made her come, and that fact sits in Eddie’s chest like a heavy stone, between pride that makes him fly through a day and anguish that makes him pace around his living room slash kitchen to get the ache out of his rib cage.
And sometimes… sometimes Chrissy slips her hands into his jeans, even when he never asks for it. One time, she even went on her knees, herself, and really, that’s a sight Eddie will never ever forget. Crossing his heart and hoping to die over here, Jesus H. Christ.)
She tugs on his hair again, but instead of tugging him between her legs, deeper, closer, like she usually does, whining about him please, please taking off her panties in that high, nasal, impossibly cute voice of hers, she tugs him away. Her nails scrape over his scalp again and Eddie’s head spins and he mouths at her again before pulling away, blinking against the fabric of her skirt.
Not the cheerleading one, today. No, this one is bubblegum pink and longer, down to her knees, as all of her other skirts are. Soft, though. Easy to push up.
He leans back a little more. His mouth is really dry, all of a sudden, the fear thudding in his chest like a heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud.
(Maybe she wants him to stop. Maybe she’s done with him. Maybe she doesn’t need this anymore, doesn’t need him, so she’ll move on and leave him behind and there will be no trace of him left in her life, because why would there?)
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently, smoothing his hands over her thighs. His voice almost cracks with how hoarse it is.
And Chrissy… well, she doesn’t look… unwilling. Doesn’t look like she’s hesitating in any way, instead, she looks off to the side, face flushing dark in the way he’s learned spreads all the way down her chest and shoulders. It tastes good on her collarbones, this blush.
She’s biting on her bottom lip again, chewing off all the lip-gloss he knows she just put on right before the last period because he saw her doing it in the hallway. Not that he was trying to look for her.
(Liar, liar, liar.)
“I—” she starts, shutting her mouth again, before her lips slowly part once more. They’re soft, he knows that much. Smooth despite how much she chews on them. Eddie has no idea how she does it, his own lips certainly are permanently chapped. “Uh, I—Today, I brought, um.”
Eddie lifts his brows, silently urging her to continue. His thumbs are rubbing soft circles into her thighs all on their own, by now.
She smells good, from here. A smell he’s familiar with, by now—earthy, beautiful, and he wants to taste her but more than that he wants to listen to her. God, he always wants to listen to everything Chrissy has to say. Every single word she’s willing to let him hear.
“Yeah?” he digs, then, after a few moments of silence, more. Her lashes—black with her mascara, the lids purple today, and purple is his favorite color and she’s his favorite girl and he has no claim over her, no right to feel like this, but he does—flutter nervously as her gaze flicks around, as she licks at her lips. They taste like strawberry, that much he knows by now by the handful kisses he’s managed to steal with his fingers buried in her cunt.
She swallows. Scratches at his scalp again, and Eddie has to bite back a groan.
“I b-brought a condom. Today.”
Eddie freezes. Blinks.
And she’s not laughing. She’s not telling him it’s a joke, isn’t swatting him over the head and telling him to get his head out of the gutter, no, Chrissy still looks aside, chewing on her bottom lip as if it was something so very embarrassing she just told him.
(She’s so… so… beautiful. Ethereal, almost, in the way her mascara clumps a little, in the way she licks her lip-gloss off her lips, in the way her front teeth are just the slightest bit crooked, in the way she brushes down the wrinkles in her clothes when they’re done.
Beautiful, like he imagines Galadriel in his head. But, well, if he’s being real, Chrissy is probably even prettier than that.)
Eddie wets his lips with his tongue. His heart is thundering in his chest still—or is it again?—and he has no idea if he’s dreaming, if he passed out, if there was something in the pot he smoked yesterday that’s now making him hallucinate. Because… because there’s no fucking way Chrissy Cunningham just told him she brought a condom to school.
For… for him? Yeah, no.
“What?” he croaks out anyway, stupidly hopeful, and he wrings and wrings with his heart, trying to squeeze it out like a wet rag to keep this stupid, awful hope out of it.
Chrissy blinks. Swallows again, fiddling with the hem of her big sweater—and her shirts are always big, always, always, always, something he thinks it’s adorable but sometimes it makes him think, think about how she rarely ever eats unless she’s high and—and Chrissy brushes her fingertips over his scalp, softer, this time, more gentle, like she means it.
“I,” she starts again, voice impossibly soft, impossibly shy, as if there could ever be anything she couldn’t ask of him. “I brought a condom today. For us. For you.”
Eddie thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. No, he’s convinced he did, because there’s no way any of this is fucking real.
And apparently he’s staring at her for too long, because Chrissy shifts—and he can hear a soft squelching noise where her panties rub against her pussy rub against her thighs and fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s losing his mind over here—looking at him before looking away again.
“Are—Are you going to say anything?”
Jesus. Right. Yeah. Fuck. Eddie nods, well, like a dumbass.
“Uh,” he manages to get out, before getting off his knees, awkwardly standing up. He sways a little with how his knees hurt, his fingers still on the soft skin of her thighs, and now, like this, with him standing, she has to look up to him again. “Uh, you mean, like, you want me to…?”
What the fuck is he even saying? Come on, Munson, she brought a fucking condom to school. What the fuck else d’you think she wants you to do?
But still. Still, he has to make sure, and he thinks—no, he knows—he’s staring at her like a weirdo. Well, he pretty much always does, so nothing new there. It’s just usually not… right to her face. Christ.
Chrissy giggles a little, in that high, fluttery way she does when she’s nervous, and now she’s tugging at the lapels of Eddie’s leather jacket, and oh no, oh shit, that just makes his gaze drop to her pretty pink lips, makes him want to kiss her.
“Eddie,” she breathes out, and he could die at the way she says his name alone. “Eddie, yes. If—if that’s okay with you, that’s what I want you to do.” She swallows again, looks back up to him, and she’s so desperate. She’s looking at him so fucking desperately, and he’s gone just like every single time she looks at him like that.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she adds, still breathy, and something in Eddie’s chest starts tingling. “I keep thinking about you and your—your fingers, but then I keep thinking, and I just—”
She thinks about him. Chrissy—Chrissy fucking Cunningham thinks about him even outside of their encounters, and shit, this revelation hits almost harder than the one that she wants him to fuck her, right here, right on this stupid picnic table. No, actually, it does fucking hit harder. He’s… he’s so…
(Hopeful. Stupidly fucking hopeful, and he really needs to get a fucking grip because he doesn’t want to burden her with his stupid feelings. She needs… she just needs some relaxation, and he promised her that, no strings attached, and here he is, fucking knotted in all these goddamn strings.)
“You just what, princess?” slips out of him before he can bite it back, and he’s leaning into her space, his voice as breathy as hers is. He wants to prod at her. Wants to push and push and push, wants to bury himself inside of her permanently. Live in her rib cage, perhaps.
God, he’s such a fucking freak.
Chrissy sighs, an embarrassed little sound, but there’s something glittering in her eyes. Yeah, shit, that’s what he’s gotten from all of this so far—she loves being teased. Getting pushed at, just a little bit. Just as much as she loves being told she’s good. Being showered in praise.
(“Good girl,” he’d whisper to her, over and over and over, and she’d shiver, hips twitching into his touch, eyes screwed shut. “Good girl, you’re so good, my pretty girl—”)
“I—” she starts again, swallowing, and Eddie has his hands under her skirt now, unsure how they got there. He’s playing with the waistband of her panties, anyway. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I touch myself. But it’s not enough. It’s not enough, Eddie, please—”
And now he’s the one who has to swallow, his head spinning. She… she’s not saying she thinks of him when she’s alone in her bed, touching herself, right? That can’t be what she’s saying. It’s pulsing through him hotly, regardless.
He’s too much of a coward to ask, however, so he grins instead.
“Okay, baby,” he says, and he loves the way she squirms when he calls her that. “I’m but your humble servant.”
Despite the situation, she snorts at that, and then she twists, and Eddie wants to grab her harder, wants to ask where she’s going, but she’s just grabbing into her bag on one of the benches, rummaging around until she’s found what she was looking for.
And well, what Chrissy presses into his still clothed chest is definitely a condom, that’s for sure. Seeing it like that makes him swallow—and of course he knows what they look like, he has some at home (courtesy of Wayne), but he’s never actually… used one.
Yeah, okay, Eddie Munson is a virgin. What does it matter? He’s sure as hell not going to tell her.
“Here,” Chrissy says, and there’s still a shy tone in her voice, but by now, there’s more excitement in it. She bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes twinkling, before slowly, finally, lying back onto the wood of the table. “Please.”
So well-mannered. Always please, and thank you, and it makes him want to ruin her, makes him want to make her mean.
For now, though, his heart is fluttering in his chest and he’d do anything for her, so he nods, takes the condom from her hand and starts to work on getting her panties peeled out from under her skirt with the other.
“Eddie,” she says, suddenly, so quietly that he barely even hears it, and he flicks his gaze up to her, her panties already at her knees. They’d slip and fall to the ground if he wasn’t holding them. “Are you okay?”
He furrows his brows at her, slowly. Wets his lips with his tongue, before grinning. Is she joking?
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
When Chrissy swallows, looks to the side, fiddles with her sleeves, he works her panties the rest of the way off and puts them in the back-pocket of his ripped jeans. It’s fine, he’ll give them back.
Now, why is she looking so guilty?
“I mean,” she mutters, biting down on her bottom lip in a way that makes Eddie want to press his own over it to pry it from between her teeth, soothe her bite with his tongue, “are you sure this is okay with you? I—uh, I’m always asking so much of you, and—”
“Chrissy,” he interrupts her, and he wants to laugh at how ridiculous her suggestion is, but his voice comes out way more serious than he wanted it to. “There’s nothing else I’d rather do. Really, this is—” and he stops himself, because, fuck, Munson, get a grip, you can’t be this desperate openly, “—fuck. I, uh, I really do wanna fuck you, Chrissy. Promise. I wouldn’t be doing any of this if I didn’t want you.”
She looks at him for a moment more, lashes fluttering, as if she’s trying to gauge his emotions, and Eddie feels so naked under her gaze. Feels as if she can peer deep into his soul with those pretty, big, stormy eyes, as if she can see all of his bottomless feelings for her, and his breath catches in his throat.
“Okay,” she says then, quietly, simply, and that’s that.
Eddie swallows. Nods.
“Okay.”
Slowly, he brushes his hands back up her thighs, and Chrissy’s breath hitches, and he leans over her, looks back up to her face. Her ponytail is loose by now, a few strands wild, her lip-gloss chewed off, and her eyes glittering. She’s so… disheveled, already. So perfect, and they haven’t even started yet, and he’s kissing her before he even realizes what’s happening.
Doesn’t seem like she minds, though, because she keens, grabs into his hair with both hands this time, her nails scraping over his scalp again. Eddie groans, pushes his tongue against her lips, shivering when she brushes her own against his, bumping against his piercing.
His fingers, meanwhile, have pushed her thighs apart to stand between them, and now he drags two of them up her slit. She’s so wet already that his head spins—wet, slick skin and drenched pubic hair and Eddie is losing his mind.
Chrissy pulls away, and there’s a small ache in his chest, but she gulps in a breath, begs, “Please, Eddie, don’t tease, just—”
Something hot spreads in his chest, a grin spreads on his face, and he brushes his knuckles over her clit on purpose, watches how her mouth falls open.
(He loves being able to make her say filthy things.)
“Just?” he repeats, and he’s aching in his jeans, but he’s used to ignoring it by now. “What do you want me to do, princess?”
Chrissy swallows, pouts, something almost petulant in her eyes, but she bucks her hips against his touch when he brushes her clit again, so he knows he’s got her.
“Please,” she gasps, and there it is. There it is. The one thing he can control. “Please, Eddie, fuck me—”
And God, maybe he shouldn’t have made her say that, because it lunges through his whole being so hotly that he groans, practically pouncing on her to crash his lips against hers again. Their teeth clash, but that’s okay, she only hisses a little, grabs at his face desperately as he finally starts to work on opening his belt and his pants.
It takes… an embarrassingly long amount of time to unbuckle his belt with how she’s kissing him, all lips and tongue, and with how he has to work around the condom package still clutched in one of his hands. Eddie gets there, though, eventually, and he manages to tug his cock out of his boxers, too, before he has to pull away to put the condom on.
Chrissy whines—outright whines—mouth chasing after his, and he laughs at that, giddy in a way he always is with her, when she’s like this.
“Baby,” he soothes, straightening up, before gesturing with the condom. “Patience, yeah?”
And she swallows, nods, and there’s something thrumming inside of him, something strangely nervous. And okay, fuck, maybe that isn’t all that strange considering he’s never fucked anyone before. He’s gotten decently okay with his hands and tongue—at least she seems to enjoy it, tells him she does—but he has no idea if he’ll be good at this.
Okay. Focus. Carefully, Eddie rips the package open, before moving to fumble with the condom, rolling it over his cock. And, well, he manages that.
When he looks up, Chrissy is watching, and something about that makes him swallow, his cock twitching in his hand.
(It’s not her first time. He knows that. And that’s okay—he’s actually a little glad, part of him. He has no idea how to fuck a virgin right the first time so it doesn’t hurt, and God, he’d rather die than hurt her.)
“Ready?” he teases, leaning back over, grinning a little, guiding his cock until it bumps against the wet heat of her cunt. Slowly, he drags it down until he can feel her hole, and Chrissy squirms, and he’s seriously going insane. He’s bracing himself on the picnic table next to her with one hand, the wood a little rough to the touch. They’re outside, behind school, and class is over already.
He’s about to fuck Chrissy Cunningham.
And she… she nods, bites down on her bottom lip. “Please,” she breathes out, and that’s all he needs.
Eddie’s breath catches in his throat as he pushes his cock inside of her slowly, slowly, slowly, and he thinks he’s floating or melting or dying or all of those things. She feels so good—wet, open, pliant, and she makes such pretty little noises even as his vision blurs so bad he can’t really see her anymore.
It feels like an eternity has passed until he’s finally bottomed out inside of her. And the feeling, really, it’s… indescribable. She feels so fucking good around him.
(God, he knew Chrissy would be perfect. She always is. Always, always, always, with the ruined hair and the swollen lips and the small, broken gasps.)
“Eddie,” she gasps, and that’s all he needs to get going, to lean over, to push into her and start thrusting. And fuck, he can see her again, now—can see how her face is twisting in pleasure, her mouth falling open, can feel how her hips buck up against him.
He wants to kiss her. He wants to grab at her hair and pull, he wants to press kisses to her neck and suck at her skin, wants to leave marks all over her.
No marks, she whispers on the rare occasion he tries to mouth at her neck. You can’t leave any marks, Eddie, please, please, you can’t, and he’s groaning in frustration, burying his face at the crook of her neck, anyway.
He doesn’t bite, though. No, he just drags his tongue up her pulse, pressing his heated piercing into her skin, listening to her quiet moan, and the way she pulls at his hair makes him go insane.
“You’re so good,” slips out of him before he can stop himself. And he’s always like that—can’t stop talking, can’t shut up, keeps blabbering with his fingers in her cunt, and now it’s his cock and he’s going insane. “You’re so good, baby, feel so perfect, pretty little baby, so warm around me, so soft, so good—”
Chrissy moans again, louder this time, bucking her hips against his helplessly.
“Please,” she gets out, and by now, it sounds like a desperate sob, almost. He gets her there, sometimes—to when she’s begging and babbling and bucking her hips—but it never happens this fast. “Please, Eddie, need you to touch me, need to come, please…”
And fuck, okay, yeah, right. He almost… forgot about that, losing his mind with all the sensations, with her hands in his hair and her cunt around his cock and her gasps and moans and the bucks of her hips, her small thighs bracketing and squeezing his waist.
With a huff, a small groan, he leans back again, her hands falling out of his hair, and he laughs at her whine—because fuck, she can’t ask him to touch her without him straightening out again, Jesus, he can’t fit his hand between them like that.
“Baby,” Eddie says instead, head spinning too much for long-winded explanations. “Baby, it’s okay, it’s okay, I’ll take care of you.”
And he does—at least, he tries to. Still thrusting inside of her, though now at a slower pace (and fuck, it’s so good it makes him lose his mind), he brushes a hand up Chrissy’s thigh, settles it under the waistband of her skirt, so he can push his thumb to above where he’s inside of her, so he can rub at her clit in a way that makes her jerk on the table, that makes her roll her head back and gasp.
“Yes,” she moans, and her high, pretty voice is a little hoarse by now. A little broken by what he’s doing to her, and fuck, it’s the hottest thing in the world. “Yes, Eddie, please, please, wanna come, please—”
In the end, she always asks for permission like that. It’s cute—it’s so cute, and it’s hot, and everything is melting together. Somewhere at the back of his mind does Eddie know they’re outside, knows they’re relatively safe but probably shouldn’t be this loud, knows it’s a stupid idea to fuck Jason Carver’s girlfriend in the first place, but all of it melts and floats away, and the only thing that remains is the pretty girl underneath him on the picnic table, her sweater rumpled up a little, her skirt pushed up her thighs, her skin flushed and her lips swollen, her eyes teary and her voice high and needy.
And God, he’s wanted her for so long. Eddie has always wanted Chrissy Cunningham.
“Come for me,” he hears himself mutter, voice like gravel, and he feels like he’s watching himself from very far away as he’s feverishly rubbing at her clit, snapping his hips against hers desperately, trying to chase his own release. And fuck, fuck, she feels so fucking good, and he’s never done this before, but her face is twisting, moans spilling out of her, so he’s doing okay, right? He’s doing okay, even when he’s never fucked anyone before, and shit, shit, he’s saying this out loud, isn’t he?
(He’s so fucking stupid.)
“Eddie!” Chrissy cries out, and there’s something swirling in her eyes, but she’s coming already, squeezing her eyes shut, throwing her head back with a loud groan. And shit, Eddie has felt the clench of her before—around his tongue, around his fingers—and she’s a fucking vice when she comes, but this is something else entirely.
Because now she clenches down on his cock, walls fluttering around him, and it squeezes him so tightly he thinks she’s going to snap his dick off. His whole body flushes with heat, and he moans, his vision whiting out, white hot pleasure racing through him. It pushes him off the edge immediately, and he thinks he’s still jack-hammering inside of her, fucking them both through their orgasms when he’s coming, but he can’t be sure.
It takes quite a while until he comes off his high again. Or at least, he thinks so—it feels like it, and Eddie blinks against the light of the sun, blinks until he can see her again, his chest heaving.
Chrissy is panting, too, twitching, her lips parting and closing and parting again, her lashes fluttering so prettily he thinks he’ll die.
He’s just crashed back into reality, just wets his lips with his tongue to say something, anything (though he doesn’t know what), when she turns to look at him, blinking, her face flushed.
“Eddie,” she gasps out, still catching her breath. “Eddie, that—that was your first time?”
And despite everything, her question and the disbelieving tone in her voice makes him snort.
He can… he can breathe again, can think sort of clearly, and his face burns in embarrassment as he pulls out of her carefully, peeling the condom off and tying it off (seems like the easiest solution), before throwing it in one of the bushes (there’s enough trash out here, anyway). Chrissy follows its descent through the air with her eyes, before looking back at him, and her thighs are still spread open to accommodate his hips. He doesn’t want to step back, even when she starts worrying at her bottom lip.
“Uh,” he finally gets out, clearing his throat, before tucking his cock back into his boxers. It’s a little messy with the bit of cum still on his skin, his boxers a little wet from her, he thinks, but it’s fine, he’ll deal with it in a bit. Eddie is still avoiding her eyes when he zips his pants back up, before buckling his belt again. “Yeah. Sort of. Yes.”
Finally, once he’s done getting dressed, he looks back up to Chrissy—and he thinks his gaze is horribly pleading. What is he so afraid of? That she’ll think he’s a loser? Awkward? Who knows. Shit, he thinks he’s shaking a little.
And Chrissy, she’s… she’s furrowing her brows a little, shrinking in on herself, and fuck, that’s the worst outcome.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes out, and Eddie swallows, leaning over her to press a kiss to her nose.
“I’m not,” he says back, simply, and nothing about this is simple, but he can pretend it is. Has to, to stay whole, and he grabs his bandana from his back pocket, crouching down a little to clean her up.
This is part of the routine, too, usually, so Chrissy huffs out a breath and lets him rub at her skin gently, cleaning her up as best as he can. God, sometimes he wishes he could read her mind, just so he knew what she was thinking about. What she’s thinking about him, about this, in general, because there’s nothing he wouldn’t want to know about Chrissy Cunningham.
Eddie puts the bandana back into his pocket before grabbing her panties from the other, slowly rolling them up her legs until they’re at the top of her thighs, then he steps away to let her fix it herself. And she does—sits up and hops off the table, grimacing a little as she adjusts her panties, brushing her skirt and her sweater down.
It still smells like her in the air. Like… well, sex. It will be gone in a moment, though. They’re outside after all. Gone with the breeze. Gone, gone, gone.
And shit, she’s still fiddling with her fingers. Without being able to stop himself, he leans over and presses a kiss to her forehead, before grabbing her hands with his.
“Chrissy,” he says, quietly. “Chrissy, it’s okay. I promise. It, uh, it was good. It was really good. I liked it.”
And fuck, his heart is back to hammering against his clavicle, because now he’s scared she’s never going to let him do this again. And that’s stupid, because he has no claim over her, absolutely none, and now she’s looking back up to him with big grey eyes, swallowing, her brows furrowed up, before finally, finally, a small smile spreads on her face.
“Okay,” she whispers back, and she’s so close that Eddie wants to kiss her again.
He doesn’t. Instead, he lets go and takes a step back. And he should leave—should thank her for her time and go back to his own life, because the more he lingers, the deeper he falls. But he’s always been an idiot, and he’s always been unable to quit.
“Care to let me drive you home?” he says instead, and something on Chrissy’s face lights up, and that makes all of it worth it. Every single fucking time.