Chapter Text
The morning after he first met Steve, Eddie gave him a custom ringtone. It had been a cruel little joke, an admission of just how fast he’d fallen, how hopelessly, humiliatingly charmed he’d been by a man who’d barely known his name. A little personal “fuck you” to himself, gift wrapped in irony.
He’d picked Nothing Else Matters. Of course he had.
Now, bleary eyed and aching from last night’s show, the familiar riff cuts through the quiet of his bedroom. For a split second, Eddie doesn’t move, just stares at the ceiling, heart clawing its way up his throat.
Then he’s sitting bolt upright, fumbling blindly for the phone.
Steve is calling.
His fingers are shaking when he swipes to answer. “Steve Harrington, as I live and breathe,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. He tries for casual, but his pulse is thundering.
“I wake you?” Steve asks, warm and smug like he already knows the answer.
Eddie forces a grin into his voice. “You know how it is, Stevie. Sex, drugs, rock and roll.”
“Drugs?” Steve echoes, a little too sharp.
Eddie exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s a joke,” he mutters.
Silence stretches between them. Loaded. Eddie can almost hear Steve’s brow furrow, feel the weight of him on the other end of the line.
He lets it hang for a beat too long before he clears his throat. “Sooo. What’s got you calling me at-” He squints at the glowing red numbers on his alarm clock. “Ten a.m.? I figured the great Steve Harrington would be too busy charming the world to bother with washed up metalheads.”
Steve chuckles, low and easy, and Eddie’s chest tightens. That laugh still does something to him. Always has.
“What do you need, Harrington?” he asks, aiming for light, but it comes out quieter than intended.
“Coffee,” Steve says. “I’m at that place you like.”
Eddie’s breath catches.
That place. He hasn’t stepped foot in it since Steve. Since everything. The memory slices sharper than he expects.
There’s a beat of silence. Then: “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out a little hoarse. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be there in twenty.”
His thumb hovers over the screen before he ends the call. The ringtone’s still playing in his head, stubborn as ever. And nothing else matters.
***
Eddie clocks him before he even enters the building.
Steve’s in the corner window, framed like a portrait, like someone painted him there in strokes of gold and meant him to stay forever. Morning light slants through the palms and jacaranda outside, catching on smog dusted glass, scattering into motes that drift across the café’s polished floor. The space hums with low conversation, the hiss of steam, the clatter of porcelain, but all of it feels dulled at the edges. Like background noise in a dream. Because Steve Harrington is sitting dead center in it, glowing like a goddamn sunbeam in a place Eddie thought was immune to worship.
He’s dressed down, naturally. LA casual, that studied kind of effortless that costs a small fortune to achieve. Thin white tee that clings where it counts, sleeves hugging the curve of his arms, hem brushing against dark jeans that fit too perfectly to be anything but intentional. A leather jacket is slung careless over the back of his chair, his sunglasses folded beside a mug of black coffee that looks untouched. He scrolls his phone with slow precision, thumb deliberate, like even that carries weight. Like the smallest movement has meaning.
Eddie watches his fingers tap on the table, an absent rhythm no one else would catch. Once, twice, again. A private metronome. His brow creases, and when he looks up, out the window, his face shifts in a way Eddie almost forgot. Not sorrow. Not regret. Something quieter. Space opening inside him, hollow and private, like he’s searching for something he doesn’t actually believe is out there.
And still he fucking shines.
The light turns his hair to copper where it curls at his temple, softens the cut of his jaw, gilds his skin. He looks older, sure, but steadier with it, like he grew into himself without even trying. Still Steve. Still the impossible, infuriating mix of casual grace and buried fire that once made Eddie lose whole nights to the thought of him.
And just for that, Eddie hates him. Hates how untouched he looks. Hates the audacity of it. Because Steve’s sitting here like the years between them were nothing but easy. Like Eddie didn’t spend half a decade trying to exorcise the taste of him with cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke, scraping him out of his lungs one drag at a time.
The doorway holds him a moment longer than he means. The smell of pastry, espresso, burnt sugar wraps around him; the sun hits the silver on his rings and flares. His pulse stutters, sharp in his chest, because this isn’t memory anymore. This isn’t a ghost. Steve is here, solid and alive, occupying the same air, and it feels like the whole city contracted around this one point just to make it happen.
Eddie exhales hard through his nose, forces himself forward before he can think twice. Doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter. Just crosses the floor, pulls out the chair across from Steve, and drops into it. Palms flat to the table, sleeves shoved up, heart pounding like it wants out.
Steve doesn’t even give him a second to breathe. “Why don’t you sub anymore?”
The words land sharp, clean, no preamble, no hello. Typical.
Eddie lets out a laugh that scrapes low in his chest, bone dry. He tips the chair back just enough to balance on two legs, reckless in the way he always is when he doesn’t want to admit he’s rattled. “Hi, Eddie. Long time no see. Wild how it’s been, what, five years since you last let me rail me on camera, and I still haven’t managed to pick up any goddamn manners in all that time.”
For once, Steve doesn’t volley back. He has the grace to wince, eyes flicking down in an echo of apology. “Sorry, Eds.” His voice gentles, smooth and low, the kind of tone that always used to undo Eddie when he wasn’t paying attention. “You look good.” A beat, soft as breath. “I’ve missed you.”
The words skim across the table and catch in Eddie’s throat before he can choke them down. Heat flares, treacherous, unwanted. He swallows hard, forces his expression into something flat, unmoved. He won’t give it back. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He clears his throat, tilts his head, lets his mouth twist into a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No pleasantries required, Harrington. Save the sweet talk. Let me just grab a-”
The word coffee dies on his tongue as a server slides in, seamless, practiced, setting a cappuccino in front of him like it was always meant to be there. Rosette etched in the foam, precise and perfect. Mug warm to the touch, not scalding. He knows there's a packet of raw sugar in there, frothed with the milk. Exactly how he takes it.
Eddie blinks down at it, thrown, throat suddenly too tight. “Thanks,” he mutters, voice rougher than it should be. His fingers curl around the cup like it might sear through skin anyway.
He doesn’t need to ask whose hand is behind it. Can feel it in the exactness of the order, the particular roast, smoky and full bodied, none of that bright citrus crap LA baristas can’t shut up about. Steve written all over it. Harrington always did have a goddamn ledger in his head, neat columns of Eddie’s preferences, weak spots, tells. How he took his coffee. Which records to spin in the green room when Eddie was keyed up to lace his boots after a scene. The way his hands curled in on themselves when he needed grounding but couldn’t bring himself to ask.
It used to make Eddie feel seen. Like someone finally had his number and didn’t mind carrying it in their pocket. Later, it just made him feel flayed open. Watched. A window he couldn’t close when he’d meant to be a wall.
He takes a long swallow, hot but not scalding, because of course, and sets the cup down harder than he needs to. Ceramic cracks sharp against wood, punctuation to whatever the fuck this is.
“Alright, out with it.”
Steve leans in, forearms resting lightly on the table, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. His expression is unreadable. Controlled. “I’ve seen some of your Dom work. It’s good.”
Of course he has.
Steve Harrington has this infuriating habit of plunking himself back into Eddie’s life like a bookmark slid into place. Like he’s never left. Like the space he carved out in Eddie’s chest years ago has just been sitting there, waiting, untouched and gathering dust, perfectly preserved for his return.
It drives Eddie insane, the ease of it, the way Steve can step back into the room and tilt the air on its axis, make Eddie’s ribs ache with the memory of wanting, with the ghost of a bruise that never healed right. It’s like muscle memory, the cruelest kind, his whole body remembering exactly how to orbit Steve even when Eddie swore he’d torn that instinct out by the root.
“You admitting you’re watching my porn, Stevie?” Eddie lifts an eyebrow, lets the teasing in. Lets it coat the sharp edges with something smooth and biting.
Steve shrugs, unfazed, and takes a measured sip of his coffee. “Can’t stay on top without keeping tabs on the competition, Munson.”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth threatens a smirk. He hates how easy this feels. Hates that it still stings, too. Because unfortunately, that admission might actually be true.
Steve’s been watching. Watching him.
Steve presses on, undeterred. “I want to know why you stopped subbing.”
Eddie exhales hard, bangs shifting with the force of it. His shoulders dip just slightly, he knows Steve sees it for what it is, a crack in the armor. Yesterday, hell, an hour ago, he never would’ve imagined he’d be sitting here, letting this shit scrape against his ribs again.
“I had a bad experience.” Flat. Simple. No Eddie Munson theatrics. Just fact. “It’s not a big deal. It’s handled. But I’m not exactly eager to relive it.”
Steve’s jaw tightens. Eddie watches the subtle shift ripple across his face, not anger at him, but that familiar flare of Harrington fury, the kind that always burned on Eddie’s behalf. The muscle ticking in his cheek, the steel setting behind his eyes like a storm moving in, ready to level anything that might’ve touched him wrong.
“Bad how?” Steve asks, voice low, steady.
Eddie sets his cup down with care, a deliberate little click against wood. His fingers leave faint prints on the glaze, proof of touch. He meets Steve’s gaze, unflinching.
“Steve, did you really call me out here after five fucking years just to make me exhume a trauma and buy me a cappuccino?”
Clean hit. Steve’s expression flickers, his control fraying just enough to show the bruise of it. For a heartbeat Eddie thinks he’ll finally look away. He doesn’t.
“Eddie…” Steve says, voice low, thick, gentler than Eddie wants to hear it.
Eddie shakes his head, cuts him off sharp. “Don’t.”
His rings hit the tabletop when his hand drops, the sound punctuating the silence between them.
He straightens, voice clipped, steady. “We’re not doing this. If you want to talk, we talk about now or the future. Not old shit.”
Steve’s jaw works. Protest rises, dies. He nods, slow, careful, like one wrong move could crack the air between them. “Alright. Future only.”
Eddie leans back, show of ease with none of the substance, his body still coiled tight. He takes another sip, smaller this time. Lets the silence hang sharp between them, daring Steve to be the first to break it.
“Good,” he says when Steve makes no move to, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “So. If you’ve got something to say, Harrington, now’s the time. Make it count.”
Steve’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not yet. Something smaller. Sadder. “You really do look good,” he says, and this time, there’s no smirk behind it. Just raw sincerity.
Eddie hates how much he feels it. Hates that for one stupid second, he almost believes it, like the words could smooth over years, like they mean something now that they didn’t before.
Steve seems to catch the flicker of something soft behind Eddie’s eyes and has the good sense not to press. Instead, a sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, tentative and a little hopeful. He nods, a small gesture meant to shift the conversation forward. “Did you hear I started a production company?”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but there’s a tug of something fond behind it. His mouth curves into a dry, reluctant smile. “Yeah, I heard something about that. You and Buckley, right?”
“Robin,” Steve confirms, and the smile he gives now is real, lit from somewhere deeper. “I brought a bunch of people over from Kink. Still getting it off the ground. We’ve got studio space, great benefits, full creative control. Just looking for...”
Eddie’s stomach tightens, heartbeat kicking up. He already knows where this is going. Knows it the way you know a storm’s coming, change in the air, pressure behind the eyes.
“You’re looking for talent,” he finishes, his voice low and flat. Hollow, even to his own ears.
Steve nods, expression softening. “I figured I’d come to the most talented first.”
It shouldn’t land the way it does, but Eddie feels it like a bruise blooming under the surface. His hangover pulses behind his left eye, sharp and insistent. He lifts a hand, rubs at his temple, leans back just enough to put some space between them.
“Steve, this is…” Eddie trails off, shakes his head. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“I’m hoping you’ll say yes.”
Eddie exhales hard through his nose, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against his cappuccino cup. He doesn’t look up.
“I don’t sub anymore,” he says, voice tight. “What if that’s a hard limit?”
Steve doesn’t flinch. Just nods, easy and immediate. “Then I’ll respect it,” he says, sincere as anything. “And I’ll try to be subtle about mourning the loss of the best scene partner I ever had.”
That gets him. A flicker of something punches right through Eddie’s chest, something old and aching and still not done burning. He doesn’t answer. Just stares down into his cup like maybe it’ll tell him what the fuck he’s supposed to do with all of this.
Steve’s words are earnest, his eyes wide and startlingly sincere. There’s no edge to his voice, no sales pitch, just that steady, disarming calm that always made people want to believe him.
He reaches across the table, slow and careful, his fingers brushing against Eddie’s before settling lightly over them. Warm. Familiar. Dangerous.
“I know you’ve seen shit go down at Kink,” he says. “I have too. It’s been a fucking nightmare at times. This career’s done a lot for me, but I hate how predatory the companies are. I want to change that if I can.”
Eddie’s heard this speech before.
Shouted over music in too loud bars, when Steve’s voice had to fight to be heard but his eyes still burned with certainty. Murmured into his collarbone on sleepless nights, steady as a heartbeat, like conviction was the only thing keeping him awake. Promises spoken into the dark, not sharp, not demanding, just sure.
Eddie’s never doubted he means it. Never doubted Robin does either. Belief has never been the problem.
But belief doesn’t make it easy.
“Why is it that headaches seem to follow you wherever you go, Harrington?” Eddie mutters, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose like it might relieve the pressure building behind his eyes.
He pulls his hand back, not fast, not abrupt, just enough to reclaim the space between them. Just enough to breathe. Because the truth is, there’s no one else he’d even consider doing this for. No one else he’d want to believe.
And that’s the problem.
Because the memory of how it all ended rears its head, uninvited and ugly, like rot breaking through fresh paint. It hadn’t been dramatic. No grand betrayal. No slammed doors or shouted accusations. Just pathetic.
One office Christmas party. Too much eggnog. One Steve Harrington, laughing under a string of mistletoe with some girl who looked like she knew exactly what she wanted, and one very drunk, very jealous Eddie Munson watching from the sidelines like a kicked dog.
They’d been sleeping together since the night they met.
Eddie had answered an ad for undiscovered talent, cocky and broke and buzzing with nerves, and walked straight into an interview with Steve Harrington. Steve, just twenty two at the time, already the golden boy of the scene. Unbelievably popular. Inescapably magnetic. A study in contradictions: midwestern warmth wrapped around a core of razor sharp control. Boyish good looks, disarming sincerity, and a sadistic streak that could level a small city.
Eddie had been doomed from the start.
Steve had smiled at him like they were already old friends, like he could see something in Eddie worth keeping. And that was it. That was all it took. Eddie never stood a chance.
He hadn’t had any right to be jealous. They weren’t exclusive. They weren’t anything, officially. But logic didn’t matter when you were half drunk on mulled wine and stupid longing.
He’d sulked. Nursed his drink like a grudge. Let the mistletoe girl corner him by the dessert table. She’d looked him up and down with glossy lips and too perfect nails and laughed, laughed, right in his face.
“Oh, honey,” she’d purred, voice thick with mockery. “You’re not in love with him, are you?” A pause, then: “Steve doesn’t do feelings. You’re just another name on a call sheet.”
The jealousy had been bad, but the embarrassment had been worse. It burned through him hotter than cheap whiskey. He’d gone home that night humiliated, red eyed and furious with himself, and marched into the office after the holidays with a simple request:
He never wanted to shoot with Steve again.
And that was that.
Five years, a dozen studios, a hundred scenes, and a whole lot of strategic avoidance later, here he was. Steve Harrington. In the flesh. Sitting across from him like no time had passed at all. Like Eddie hadn’t been trying to outrun that moment ever since.
Sure, they’d seen each other since. On sets, in passing at industry parties, across crowded rooms filled with too loud music and too fake smiles. Eddie had perfected the art of avoidance, ducking out of scenes, ghosting over text, keeping everything surface level and professional.
Steve, to his credit, had taken the hint quickly. And Eddie had told himself that was what he wanted. Clean break. No loose ends.
But now Steve was here.
Sitting in their coffee shop.
It hits like a punch to the chest. A memory with teeth.
It hurts like hell.
“Why me?” Eddie asks finally. The words come out quieter than he means them to, scraped raw, threaded with something he doesn’t want to examine too closely. “You know you could bring anybody in.”
Steve doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t blink. “I don’t want anybody else. I want you.”
He says it with that infuriating Harrington earnestness, the tone Eddie’s always claimed to hate, the one that sounds too honest, too warm, too real. The one that makes Eddie feel eighteen again, like he’s one heartbeat away from cracking open entirely.
Eddie exhales sharply through his nose, gaze darting to the window like the sidewalk might offer an escape.
But Steve doesn’t stop.
“I never really understood why things ended between us.”
The words are soft, almost too careful. A scalpel, not a hammer. And that makes it worse. Eddie feels his whole body tighten, like a wire pulled taut.
“I figured maybe I pushed too hard, too fast,” Steve continues. “You were new to the scene, and I-” He pauses, catching himself, dragging in a slow breath.
Eddie watches the shift, subtle, practiced. The way Steve reins himself in. The way that mask slides back into place, quiet and polished, the same one he wore on sets when things got too real. When control was the only thing he had left.
“I don’t know how it’s been five years,” Steve says, voice low, resigned, “and we’re sitting here like strangers. We should at least be friends.”
And there it is again, that impossible softness. Like Steve doesn’t realize he was never just a scene partner. Like he doesn’t know Eddie’s been bleeding out in slow motion ever since he walked away.
Eddie shakes his head slowly, the weight of Steve’s words sinking like a stone in his chest. “Personal or professional?”
Steve blinks, caught off guard.
“This meeting,” Eddie clarifies, tipping his head toward the half empty coffee cups between them. “Is it personal or professional?”
Steve’s lips twitch into something that might’ve been a smile in better lighting. “Professional’s always been a little too personal with us.”
Eddie huffs a laugh, low and humorless. Of course it has. He knows that line better than Steve ever could, how blurred the boundaries always were. How impossible they became.
“I had to buy a new phone,” he says, aiming for light, failing miserably. “Had to not save your number. Otherwise, I’d call you every time I got drunk.”
The smile he tacks on at the end is weak. See through. A mask slipping off its hook.
Steve doesn’t laugh. He just leans back in his chair, quiet, eyes locked on Eddie with that unnerving steadiness that always made him feel exposed. Like Steve could see straight through the snark and the swagger to the bruised thing underneath.
“Are you not over it?” Steve asks, voice soft. No accusation. Just curiosity, gentle and knife sharp all at once.
Eddie lets out a laugh, but it’s wrong, too sharp at the edges, hollow in the middle. “Over what? You’re gonna have to narrow it down, Harrington. The early call? Over how you made me fall in-”
He stops. Hard. Mouth snapping shut so fast his teeth click. He smiles instead. Wide. False. “What exactly are you fishing for here?”
Steve doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head, gaze steady. “Come on, Eddie. Over us. Whatever the hell we were.”
The breath leaves Eddie’s lungs all at once, like a punch to the gut. Steve. Always the straight shooter. No soft landings, no avoiding the jagged parts. Just truth, offered plainly, like he's too polished and golden for it to snag.
“I’m over it,” Eddie says finally. Forces it out. Wills it into something solid.
It sounds like a lie. Feels like one, too.
“I’m fine. We’re fine.”
Steve nods once, slow and disbelieving. His lips press into a thin, unreadable line. “Right.”
Eddie winces, gaze dropping. His fingers curl tight around his cup like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment, ceramic warm beneath his palms, grounding.
Across the table, Steve leans in, forearms resting against the edge. When he speaks, his voice loses its usual sharpness, softens into something gentler. Too gentle.
“Eddie, I didn’t come here to rehash the past. I came because I think you’re fucking brilliant. And, selfishly, because I miss you.”
Eddie lets out a breath that stutters on the way out. His grip tightens until the tendons in his hands pull taut. “You’re not playing fair.”
Steve huffs a quiet laugh. “Since when have I ever played fair with you?”
It’s enough to pull the corner of Eddie’s mouth into a reluctant curve. A near chuckle. Barely there.
They fall into silence again. Not quite comfortable, but not unbearable either. Just heavy. Charged with all the things neither of them has the guts to say outright.
Eddie knows he should shut it down. Draw a clean line in the sand before it gets too blurry. Before Steve weaves himself back in like he always does.
But the truth is, he doesn’t want to.
“What’s the angle, Harrington?” he asks finally, voice low and rough around the edges. “You show up in my coffee shop all the way across town, offer me this shiny new project like everything's chill. What's the catch?”
Steve’s expression shifts, softens. Something flickers behind his eyes, bare, unguarded.
“I want you in it,” he says, and the words land with more weight than they probably should. “You're fucking good, Eds. Seriously! And you make me better. Always have.”
Eddie swallows hard, throat working around the lump that’s somehow settled there.
“I’m not asking for an answer now,” Steve adds, voice steady. “Just think about it.”
Eddie stares down into his cup, watching the foam collapse into itself. Steve always did have a way of making hard things sound simple. Like maybe this isn’t years of distance and heartbreak layered between them, just one choice.
“This is a lot,” Eddie mutters.
“I know,” Steve says. No hesitation. “But I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was worth it.”
Eddie looks up, slow and wary. Searching Steve’s face for the catch, for the spin, for any sign that this is just another pitch dressed up in sincerity.
But there’s nothing there but truth. Raw and inconvenient.
“I’ll think about it,” Eddie says finally, the words catching a little on the way out.
Steve smiles, small, quiet, but it glows. “That’s all I’m asking.”
***
It isn’t pathetic Eddie tells himself, shoving open the studio doors. It’s not.
The place gleams. Polished concrete floors reflect the warm overhead lights, the air inside cool and faintly tinged with fresh paint and coffee. It’s the kind of space that hums with money, intention, ambition. A startup that knows exactly what it wants to be and isn't afraid to be loud about it.
He shifts his bag higher on his shoulder, jaw clenched tight. His palms are damp. He wipes one on his jeans, quick and discreet. “If it were pathetic, we wouldn’t have ended up here,” he says under his breath. The words aren’t convincing, but they buy him a few steps forward.
The reception area catches him off guard. Instead of sleek sterility, it’s warm. Lived in. The couches are deep and soft looking, the front desk cluttered with mismatched mugs and someone’s half eaten croissant. A faint hum of music filters in from deeper inside. His shoulders drop a fraction. This isn’t the kind of studio that chews people up just because it can. It feels like it might actually want you to stay.
“Munson! Finally!” Robin’s voice cuts through the air as she rounds the corner. Her grin is wide, eyes bright. “You’re late.”
He snorts. “Fashionably. Try to keep up, Buckley.”
She rolls her eyes and claps a hand to his shoulder, guiding him down the hallway. “Steve’s been pacing since he found out you were coming. He’s like a golden retriever waiting for the mailman. Might start barking if you make him wait much longer.”
Eddie huffs a laugh, but his stomach tightens.
The hallway stretches ahead, softly lit and lined with framed photos, behind the scenes shots, candid smiles, someone laughing with a boom mic on their shoulder. It feels curated, but not fake. Intentional, like everything else.
Then they reach the studio.
It’s quiet, reverent almost. The equipment is pristine, cables coiled with care, lighting rigs casting soft gold across matte black floors. The space is intimate, built for people who care about every shot, every frame, every breath between lines. Eddie exhales slowly.
Steve stands near one of the cameras, hands on his hips, back slightly tense as he murmurs something to a young tech who looks like he’s about to bolt. He's wearing that sweater, the soft, worn yellow one Eddie’s tried not to think about for days, it clings to his shoulders like it belongs there.
Eddie lingers, just for a second, before Robin bumps her shoulder against his. “Go get him, tiger,” she murmurs, then vanishes down the hall with a wink.
He clears his throat. Steve’s head snaps up, like he’s been waiting for that exact sound. The smile that breaks across his face is all sunlight and sharp edges, and it hits Eddie square in the chest.
“Eddie,” Steve says, already moving toward him. “You made it.”
Eddie cocks an eyebrow, trying to play it cool even as his pulse stutters. “Didn’t realize flaking was on the table, considering you drove through traffic to beg me over coffee.”
Steve laughs, rich and familiar, the sound curling low in Eddie’s gut. “I don't beg. I persuaded.”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but the smile pulls at his mouth anyway. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. I’m here now. Try not to make me regret it.”
“You won’t.” Steve’s voice is soft, but there’s a certainty in it that lands like a weight in Eddie’s chest. The way he’s looking at him, is too much. Like Eddie’s the missing piece he’s been searching for.
Eddie claps his hands once, too loud in the quiet space. “Alright. Show me the magic, Harrington.”
Steve grins, his excitement spilling over as he gestures for Eddie to follow. He walks a step ahead, rattling off specs like they’re secrets. Soundproofed walls, high end cameras, lights rigged to dance just right across skin. He talks with his hands, animated and bright, like he’s building something that matters.
Eddie trails behind, eyes sweeping the space. Everything gleams. Everything feels possible. He can’t help the twist in his chest, tight and hot and unwelcome. He can see himself here.
The studio hums around them, quiet and alive, a soft current running beneath the words.
Steve leans against one of the rigs, arms crossed. He watches Eddie with that same steady gaze, like he’s still waiting for something.
Eddie doesn’t look at him when he speaks. “You’re really doing this.”
Steve nods once. “Yeah. Do it with me."
Eddie turns to face him, arms folded tight across his chest. “Alright. Here’s the deal.”
Steve’s smile fades.
“I’ll work with you,” Eddie says, steady and deliberate. “I’ll dom for whoever you bring in. I’ll help train them if that’s what you want.” He meets Steve’s eyes, gaze flat and unflinching. “But I’m not subbing. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
The silence that follows lands harder than Eddie expected. Steve pushes off the rig, brows drawing in. “Eddie.”
“It’s not up for debate,” Eddie cuts in. There’s heat behind it, sharp and fast. “I’ve got my reasons. I don’t owe you the story.”
Steve stays quiet. His eyes drop, then lift again. Eddie watches him as he looks for his tells, crossed arms, pinched face.
“I’m not asking for the story,” Steve says. His voice is even, low. “And I'm really not asking you to cross any boundaries. But I need to know this isn’t coming from a place that’s going to hurt you.”
“Don’t,” Eddie says. It’s immediate. A warning. “Don’t start psychoanalyzing me.”
Steve crosses his arms. “Eddie.”
Eddie cuts him off again. “Stop. I'm serious Steve. I've still been doing this after I stopped subbing, I'm fine. I don't want you to force me to dredge all this shit up when I've already handled it."
Steve's lips press together. "You're okay to do this, you promise?"
Eddie rolls his eyes. "I'm not dignifying that with an answer."
The tension lingers as they move through the studio, but Steve doesn’t press. He falls into tour guide mode, pointing out the custom lighting rigs, the movable sets, the editing bays tucked behind tinted glass.
Eddie listens, half focused, taking in the space with careful eyes. It’s all sharp lines and quiet money, sleek in a way that should feel soulless but doesn’t. The pride in Steve’s voice colors everything. Makes it feel personal.
By the time they reach the editing suite, some of the tightness in Eddie’s chest loosens. Not all of it. Just enough to breathe.
“That’s the tour,” Steve says, stopping in front of a massive screen frozen on a still from a recent shoot. “What do you think?”
Eddie rocks back on his heels, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Eh. I’ve seen worse.”
Robin snorts from behind them. “He’s lying. He’s obsessed.”
Eddie grins. “You got me.”
Steve smiles too, softer than usual. Like Eddie being here means something more than just another name on the roster.
“Come by my office before you head out,” Steve says. The words sound casual, but the way he says them isn’t.
Eddie shrugs it off. Probably just Steve being Steve, one last pitch, a contract, some overthought logistical thing.
But now, sitting across from him in that annoyingly clean office, with a folder on the desk labeled MUNSON in Steve’s handwriting, Eddie’s starting to get the sense that it’s more than that.
“What’s this?” he asks, tapping the folder without opening it.
“An offer,” Steve says. No preamble.
Eddie lifts the cover. The first page is a contract. His name. His rate. His percentage.
He freezes. “I'm sorry, there's a typo here. This says 80%?”
Steve nods.
Eddie laughs, incredulous. “That’s not a real number. You don’t offer that. Not unless you’re trying to sleep with them.”
Steve’s mouth twitches. “I’m serious.”
“Clearly.” Eddie flips the page, scans the breakdown. “Okay. So what’s the angle? Am I the poster boy now? Am I filming seven days a week until I pass out on set?”
“No angle,” Steve says. “I've seen your stats. You bring in money. I'd like this to be mutually beneficial.”
Eddie studies him. Steve's not smiling anymore. Just watching, calm, steady.
“You think I’m worth that much?” he asks, quieter now. He doesn’t mean the money.
Steve nods again. “Yeah. I do.”
Eddie closes the folder, fingers tapping against the cover. He’s not sure what to do with the knot forming in his throat.
“This is a lot,” he says finally. “I don’t exactly have people lining up to invest in me like this.”
Steve leans forward, elbows on the desk. “You should.”
Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He stands, still holding the folder like it might disappear if he lets go.
“You really believe in me?” he asks, not quite looking at him.
“I always have.”
The words land too hard, settle too deep. Eddie nods once and walks out before they can stretch into something harder to walk away from.
He stops at the elevator, folder still clutched in one hand, and stares at the call button like it might offer an answer. The echo of Steve’s voice lingers, low and certain. I always have.
It’s not the deal that scares him. It’s what happens if Steve’s right.
The elevator dings. He steps inside, exhales slow, then mutters to himself, voice steadying as the doors begin to close.
“Alright, Harrington. Let’s see what you’ve got.”