Archive of Our Own ^beta

They’re in the teacher’s lounge. Eddie is correcting essays and Stevie, one of the guidance counselors, is trying to figure out how many roses to order for the highschool’s annual Valentine’s Day flower grams. “You think five hundred will be enough?”

Eddie watches Stevie chew on her pencil eraser. The habit should be gross, but it’s cute how worried Stevie gets over something as frivolous as Valentine’s Day. “Stevie. There are roughly four hundred students at school. There’s a one flower limit to buy. That’s like, one hundred too many.”

Stevie cards her fingers through her hair. “I just don’t want anyone to go without one.”

Eddie clicks his teeth. “Most people get one. We can just tally up which kids didn’t get one and give them ones from anonymous.”

“That’s a nice idea,” Stevie presses the eraser into her bottom lip. It makes her mouth look even more plush than it usually looks. (Not that Eddie makes it a habit of looking at his friend’s lips, it’s just, well Stevie is right there. So Eddie is going to look. Sue him.)

“I really think most kids will get one, though,” Eddie drops his red pen on the table and pops his knuckles. “Even I used to get a few and I was the freak of the school.”

“Really?” Stevie furrows her brows at Eddie, almost like she’s pitying him, except Eddie knows that’s just how Stevie looks when she’s thinking. Droopy puppy dog eyes and all.

“I mean, it was usually from my friends, but I appreciated them nonetheless.”

“I never got one,” Stevie flips the pencil over and erases the number 500. She writes a neat 425 down and wipes away any eraser shavings. All casual, like she didn’t just say the most devastating thing Eddie’s ever heard.

“You never got a flower gram?” Eddie knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it. There’s no way Stevie wasn’t the heartthrob of her high school. She’s objectively gorgeous, with big eyes and freckles and pretty hands that Eddie only sometimes thinks about.

“They were candy grams, for one,” Stevie snarks. “And they were more for girls. I didn’t pass very well back then. Even if I had, I doubt anyone would’ve gotten me one.”

“I find it hard to believe no one had a crush on you, Stevie Harrington,” Eddie murmurs, leaning himself just close enough to Stevie to smell her perfume. Some sort of citrus-y spice.

Stevie’s ears turn red. She refuses to look up from her paper. It’s juvenile. It’s adorable. Eddie wants to eat her, he thinks. In an innocent way and in a not-so-innocent way. “I was also kind of an idiot,” Stevie pushes, completely oblivious to Eddie’s thoughts. “Even if someone did look past the whole gender thing, no one wants to admit to having a crush on the stupidest person in school.”

“You’re not stupid, Stevie.” Eddie keeps his voice level, even though he hates to hear Stevie talk about her younger self like that.

Stevie laughs humorlessly. Her eyes flit to Eddie, that golden brown shade of them covering him in warmth. “There’s a reason I’m a guidance counselor and not an actual teacher like you.”

“Still, that doesn’t mean–”

The door swings open. Dustin, Eddie’s most inquisitive student, and next door neighbor, walks in. “Do I need to calm my mom, man? Because you’re supposed to drive me home today, remember?”

“Shit,” Eddie stands up. He bumps his thigh on the edge of the table and cusses again. He would worry about the kid in the room but he’s firmly against censorship so “Fuck. Okay, I’ll be out in a second.”

Dustin narrows his eyes at Eddie, then looks at Stevie. He hums. “Okay. I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Bye, Stevie,” Eddie calls over his shoulder. He rifles through his locker and grabs his messenger bag. “See you on Monday!”

He doesn’t even get the key in the ignition before Dustin is pestering him. “Do you like Miss Harrington?”

Eddie starts the car. He calmly connects his Bluetooth and turns on one of his favorite playlists. Then he backs out of the parking lot. When they’re finally on the road, he graces Dustin with an answer in the form of another question, “Why on earth would you ask me that?”

“Well, you never grade on Fridays, for one,” Dustin holds up a finger. Keeping count, the dickhead. “You always wait until Sunday night at the last minute. Secondly, you were sitting pretty close when I walked in–” Eddie scoffs at this “–and thirdly, you’re being weirdly defensive when I asked a simple question.”

“Do I need to remind you that you’re my student,” Eddie asks. “It’s none of your business who I like, or if I like anyone.”

“You could’ve just said no and I would’ve believed you,” Dustin reaches for Eddie’s phone and disconnects the Bluetooth. He connects his own phone and Eddie can’t do anything about it because he’s trying to be a responsible driver. The beginning of an SNL parody song fills the car and Eddie actually wants to cry. “Now I think you are deeply in love with her.”

“Tell your mom I’m never driving you home again.”

The table is sticky with beer that no one has bothered to wipe up. It’s the only empty booth, though, and Stevie doesn’t have it in herself to complain. She scoots in, against the wall, and Robin follows her, balancing a basket of fries with a pint. “Perfect view,” she says, nodding towards the stage.

It’s empty now, save for a few people making sure all the amps are plugged in. Stevie thinks she sees Gareth, but she can’t be sure. She does see Grant, though, who peeks out from behind the stage and waves at Stevie like a child might wave at their parents during their part in a Christmas pantomime. Nevermind the fact that he’s a giant man wearing scary makeup and platform boots that make him even taller than he already is.

Stevie smiles and waves back.

She’s not sure how she managed to become friends with a rock band – she can hear Jeff’s voice in her head now: actually, we’re a glam rock slash hair metal 80s queer tribute band with grunge influence — but she’s thankful that Eddie has revealed this part of his life to Stevie. She’d never guessed that her new job in Middle of Nowhere, Indiana, would give her a coworker as strange and eclectic as Eddie.

Robin hands her a fry. “Eat. You’re shaking with nerves.”

“I’m always shaking with nerves,” Stevie retorts. God, she’s glad Robin works a remote job; that she was able to pick up and move here with her. She thinks she’d die if she had to sit in this place alone. Not that grunge-y, dark, alleyway bars aren’t her thing, but she’s not exactly schooled on this type of culture, so she doesn’t want to mess things up. Doesn’t want to be that weird preppy girl who sits in a center booth and bobs her head to songs she’s definitely never heard of before tonight.

(She remembers the first time Eddie ever invited her to one of these things. She’s never seen Eddie so nervous. He’d found Stevie in the cafeteria and stood there, twirling his rings around his finger. “You doing anything tonight?”

Stevie had, embarrassingly, thought Eddie might be asking her on a date. So she said no and braced herself for the question, ready to accept and go out with the handsomest man she’s ever seen.

“My band is playing this show,” Eddie said instead. “I could text you the address if you want to come? It’s probably not your type of music, but I wanted to ask anyway.”

So Stevie showed up wearing a cardigan, with Robin beside her, and watched Eddie play guitar while wearing a mesh cropped shirt and low rise jeans that did nothing to hide his hip piercings.

In other words, Stevie was fucked from the very beginning.)

It’s a weekly thing now. Wherever Eddie and his band go, Stevie follows. It’s not always a different set, but every once in a while they’ll switch things up, and Stevie will be pleasantly surprised.

She never drinks. One, because she’s got to drive herself and Robin home and two, because she doesn’t trust her drunk self around Eddie. Drunk Stevie would probably ask for an autograph or something equally embarrassing like confess her schoolgirl crush on the man.

Jeff introduces the band and they start to play. Jeff has this crazy voice, raspy and low, that makes all of their songs sound a bit like Nirvana covers (Eddie told Stevie to never repeat this the one time she brought it up.) Eddie does back up vocals, which brings in a higher harmony to the set.

They never fail to get the entire place hyped. They have a pretty decent following online, mostly because Gareth posts what are essentially thirst trap-esque drum covers on Tiktok. Stevie would never tell anyone that she searched Eddie’s own name on Tiktok the first night she watched them perform, hoping to find some thirst covers of her own, but no such luck.

“Eddie has not stopped looking at you,” Robin hisses in her ear.

Stevie blinks. She’d been a bit preoccupied thinking. Always thinking. She glances towards the stage, and Eddie is looking at her. He’s shredding his guitar as he does it, kohl-lined eyes focused on Stevie. When he sings, his lips press into the mic, like he’s kissing it. Stevie can see a bead of sweat run down the length of Eddie’s neck and she gets this idea, this fantasy of herself reaching out. Of herself pressing her face into Eddie’s neck, sticking her tongue out, tasting.

She grabs a fry and stuffs it in her mouth. She needs to get a hold of herself.

When the set ends, Chrissy is the first to reach their table. Corroded Coffin’s manager has quickly become a permanent part of their friend group. Stevie has an inkling that Chrissy might have a crush on Robin and vice versa, but that’s neither here nor there.

“How’d you guys like this one?” Chrissy asks. She has a martini glass in between her manicured fingers.

“I can’t believe they covered a Pussy Riot song,” Robin says with full confidence.

Stevie, who gets her music taste from jazz covers on Spotify, takes a sip of her Diet Coke and hopes she doesn’t look as stupid as she feels. “I loved it!”

Chrissy glances towards the bar, where Eddie is leaning on the stained wood, talking in a low voice to the bartender. “He’s such a fucking flirt. Watch him come over here with free drinks.”

Tonight, he’s wearing a red crop top that was definitely a t-shirt at one point, but now the sleeves are gone as well as half of the shirt itself. Stevie can see those hip piercings again. She wonders if they hurt when someone touches them, or if they feel nice, cool against his hot and sweaty skin. Sometimes Eddie’s out-of-school style intimidates Stevie. It’s the handcuff belt buckle and the sleeve of tattoos and the multiple piercings and the heavy boots that announce his arrival before anything else.

Eddie’s walking over with three beers and one coke. He sets them on the table, passes them around, sets the coke in front of Stevie with a wink, because of course he remembers that Stevie’s always the driver. He looks at Robin and Chrissy, “Hey lovers, just got you free drinks, so I expect a thank you card in the mail.”

Chrissy rolls her eyes. She gives Robin and Stevie a look that clearly says I told you.

Eddie somehow gets everyone to move around so that he can sit beside Stevie. Hip to hip. If Stevie wasn’t wearing long sleeves she’d be able to feel the hot skin of Eddie’s waist.

This is hell. A very personalized Stevie Hell that puts the person she wants right in front of her and keeps her from ever attaining him.

She’s not even sure Eddie remembers the conversation.

(Just one of those nights after school. Jonathan, the science teacher, invited them to come smoke at his house, and the weed had relaxed Eddie completely. Showed Stevie a side that she’d never really seen before, of a sleepy, pliant Eddie that was open to any question and privy to every conversation.

They had gotten on the topic of dating. Stevie’s least favorite topic, considering her first and only girlfriend cheated on her and told her — in so many words — that she was unloveable. More of a friend, she’d said. I feel nothing for you, she’d said. I don’t think I ever did.

Argyle, Jonathan’s roommate or partner or friend (Stevie actually still doesn’t know what they are,) had asked Eddie his type.

“I like smart people,” Eddie had mumbled. His shoulder had been digging into Stevie’s side but she didn’t dare say anything about it, afraid Eddie might move. “People who put others first. Just, genuine people, you know? The kind of people who are easy to love.”

Which of course had translated to: the kind of person Stevie Harrington will never be.)

Stevie pops the tab of the coke bottle with the edge of the table and takes a sip. Her chest fizzles with nerves that never seem to run out wherever Eddie is concerned.

“So, ladies,” Eddie sets his chin on his linked fingers and leans across the table, batting his lashes at the three of them, “Any Valentine’s Day plans?”

Robin flushes red. Stevie can see it even in the light of the neon moon sign the bar has strung up. “Um. Not this year, no.”

Chrissy is glaring at Eddie. She’s glaring so hard, in fact, that Stevie is afraid Eddie might spontaneously combust right here in this booth. Then, suddenly, the glare turns into a grin and– “Well, what about you Eddie?”

Eddie lays his arm casually over the back of the booth. His fingers catch in Stevie’s hair; Stevie can feel the raindrop soft touch of his fingertips, like he wants to but he’s afraid. “What about me?” He drawls.

“Do you have a Valentine this year?” Chrissy prods. Robin steals her bottle of beer and starts to take heavy gulps. God, it’s gonna be a chore to get her home tonight.

Eddie shrugs. Stevie risks the chance to look down and see those hip piercings again, and the trail of dark brown hair that starts at Eddie’s belly button and leads well below the hem of his jeans. There’s a tattoo under his rib. Some inscriptions Stevie can’t make out in the dim lighting.

“Stevie?” Robin hiccups.

She glances up. Everyone’s eyes are on her. Eddie looks really pretty when the light from the pink neon sign catches the shadows of his face. Stevie grabs for her coke. Picks at the corner of the seal. “What?”

“I’m gonna get you flowers,” Robin slurs. She reaches across the table and grabs Stevie’s hand, “I will be your Valentine!”

Stevie pulls back, offended, “You didn’t even ask if I have a Valentine! Are you just assuming I’m gonna be alone?”

“Well, are you?” Chrissy prods. She keeps looking over at Eddie, which is making Stevie nervous.

It’s making Stevie nervous that Eddie is hearing this conversation at all— about how much no one wants Stevie. How she isn’t even worth a Valentine’s date. “Yes,” she hisses, grumpy now. “I’m always alone, for any further questioning.”

Eddie twirls a strand of Stevie’s hair. The feeling is soothing, but also embarrassing. “You’re not alone, Stevie,” he croons. He smells like Old Spice deodorant. Like he reapplied after his show. “Besides, I’m sure there will be many flowers from secret admirers on your doorstep this year, as I’m sure there are every year.”

Stevie glares at him. “Are you being mean on purpose?”

“What?” Eddie’s hand freezes. He looks at Stevie, eyes wide. “Why would I be mean?”

“I told you I’ve never gotten anything for Valentine’s Day,” Stevie says.

“In school,” Eddie says, but he seems to have caught up now. He knows he made a mistake. He scratches at his chin, averts his eyes from Stevie’s face, “I thought– I mean I just assumed by now–”

Stevie feels like there’s a spotlight on her. Like maybe the world is punishing her for some horrible thing she did in a past life. There’s sweat under her shirt. She would rather sink into this booth and be buried alive than have to admit the truth to her crush.

Turns out, she doesn’t have to. Drunk Robin will do it for her. “Stevie’s never gotten flowers for anything, and she wants them so bad.”

There it is. Her beating heart is lying in the middle of this bar. No one wants to pick it up. No one wants to comfort it. It’s beating way too loud and Stevie just wants to shove it back into her chest but she’s not sure how. “Robin’s drunk,” she says. “Making it all more dramatic than it is.”

They change the subject.

The flowergrams come in.

“They’re fake,” Stevie says. Holding up a plastic rose to Eddie.

“For me, sweetheart?” Eddie takes the rose and gives it an over dramatic whiff. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t!” Stevie’s ears are red again. “I just–” she huffs, then mumbles in a small voice, “I ordered real ones.”

“They probably changed the order to save money,” Eddie says. Unhelpfully.

Stevie nods, but she doesn’t look any less upset. “Yeah. I guess it’s not that important.”

She’s wearing a skirt today. A pleated gray thing that brushes her shins. It looks nice with her black oxfords, her scrunched socks, her pink argyle sweater. Her gold wire glasses sit pretty on her nose, which she scrunches, unaware that Eddie is staring. (Eddie’s pretty sure he’s always staring. He’s pretty sure Stevie either never notices or is just too polite to say anything. He’s not sure which is worse.)

“What’s your favorite flower, Stevie?” Eddie asks, because Stevie is still staring at the fake roses, something soft and wistful on her face.

Stevie’s cheeks redden. She shares a small smile with Eddie, and then rolls her eyes. “Is it totally cliche if I say roses?”

“A little,” Eddie says, just to hear Stevie laugh. “Anyways, there’s a reason roses are so popular. Versatile flower, ya know? You can eat them, too.”

“I’m not going to eat them.”

“But you could,” Eddie pushes.

The microwave dings. It’s Stevie’s cup noodles. “Okay,” she sighs. “I’ve got to eat my not-rose lunch, and then get these to the student council. I’ll see you later?”

“Movie at Jonathan’s, right?” Eddie asks even though he’s the one who begged Jonathan to host another night of weed and shitty movies. It’s the only time he has an excuse to cuddle Stevie (and he’s pretty sure it’s the only time Stevie will let him.)

“Yes!” Stevie says. Her skirt swishes around her calves as she walks away.

Jonathan is a film student. He’s in his last year of school, having started late, and he is currently obsessed with really tragic war movies that have Stevie sniffling into her shirt about thirty minutes in.

Robin rips the remote out of Jonathan’s hand, “We are changing this.”

“But it’s for my grade,” Jonathan argues, but he makes no move to get the remote back. He just snuggles closer to his boyfriend-but-not-boyfriend Argyle and blinks at her, slowly, like a kitten might.

“It doesn’t even pass the Bechdel test,” Robin mutters under her breath. “I know a show that passes with flying colors.”

She puts on My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic, and everyone actually watches it, because they’re all a little higher than necessary and there’s a lot of bright colors that are keeping them entertained.

Stevie is curled up in the corner of Jonathan’s couch. It smells heavily of weed and incense, heady but not unpleasant. She’s got a blanket — one of those velvet-y ones with the giant wolves — tucked over her lap. She had one hash brownie and she’s already regretting it.

She gets sort of… ultra aware when she’s high. It’s like… she can feel and see everything. Any emotion in her head is magnified doubly and she can’t do anything to stop it.

Which is a problem when Stevie has been struggling with her own loneliness for awhile now.

Her hyper-independence started early, back in middle school when her parents made it pretty obvious that they weren’t really interested in anything she had going on. It’d be up to her to take care of herself — she’d have no one else to call on in times of trouble. So she just… figured shit out. Learned how to measure out her own cold medicine and cook her favorite foods. Her father stayed in their second condo in Chicago and her mother often followed him. And if they ever did come back, it was often to fight, and criticize Stevie, and then pack up and leave again. This toxic cycle of distrust that Stevie grew up in, well, it’s hard to break. Mentally, that is.

Sometimes it’s like a younger Stevie is reaching out to her, reminding her that she needs someone, but then the older Stevie is always yelling back no one is going to come.

“Are you okay?” Eddie’s voice is pitched low, his breath hot as it passes over Stevie’s neck. “You haven’t been weighing in on the unicorn versus pegasus debate.”

Stevie blinks. She shoves the younger Stevie far into the back of her mind. She tries to remind herself that Eddie doesn’t like her like that. Eddie likes smart people. People who aren’t so complicated. People who wouldn’t need reassurance every day like a fucking child.

“Stevie,” Eddie sets his hand on Stevie’s knee, over the blanket. It’s grounding, his touch. “You keep zoning out. Did you take too much?”

“Yeah,” Stevie whispers back. Her throat is dry. She wants to say more, like how much she needs a hug. Or a fucking head pat. She wants to say that she feels like an empty shell sometimes — like maybe everyone else is full of love and she never even got a drop.

She wants to say that her parents never call anymore and her ex-girlfriend thinks she’s unlovable and all her high school friends betrayed her when she came out as herself. She wants to say that deep down she’s afraid that everyone has been right all along… that there’s a reason no one wants her. That she’s broken and messed up and stupid and everything her father’s ever said in a drunken rage. That she’s hard to love; that it’s her fault. That everything is her fault.

“Let’s go get some fresh air,” Eddie says. He grabs Stevie’s hand and helps her up and out of the seat. Stevie vaguely registers him telling everyone where they’re going before she’s pushed out onto the front stoop, under the orange glow of a street lamp, and she can hear someone’s dog barking but she can’t see it.

“You’re shivering, sweetheart.” Eddie wraps the blanket around Stevie’s shoulders and pulls her in, like it’s something they do all the time. (They don’t. They never hug. Stevie is too touch starved. Just sitting beside Eddie makes her skin buzz with excitement. With want.)

Eddie’s chest is warm. Stevie sucks in a breath and shudders, because she’s not cold, she’s just so fucking lonely. And tired. And Eddie smells like the vetiver he smokes on school nights. He smells like someone Stevie wants to come home to.

Stevie wraps her arms around Eddie and tries not to cry.

Valentine’s Day comes and goes.

The flower grams get passed out and Stevie only gets one crying girl in her office as opposed to three last year, so she’s taking it as a win.

She used to count down the days. She grew up in a home cold from lack of love, except on Valentine’s Day, when at least a dozen different bouquets would be delivered to her home. It was always something corporate. Something of business, her father had once offhandedly mentioned. Customers and potential investors and employers send out gifts to remind Mr. Harrington of their loyalty to him. And Stevie’s father always grumbled, always dumped more than half of the bouquets in the trash, but usually, if Stevie got home early enough, she could sneak a rose from one of the bouquets and no one would know the wiser. Her parents would come home and they’d ignore her as they always did, but the house would smell a little sweeter — it’d feel a little less empty.

Stevie doesn’t know what to do with herself when she sees the small bouquet on her doorstep. There’s no card, it’s just the flowers, but they’re in a pretty red tinted vase. Red roses and white baby’s breath. She picks up the arrangement, takes a deep inhale of the floral smell, and walks inside.

She just… stares at it. Until Robin gets home, and then she’s staring at it too, after snooping for the nonexistent card. “Who is it from?”

“I don’t know,” Stevie says. “I think it might’ve been sent to the wrong apartment.”

Robin furrows her brows, then takes her phone out of her pocket. She types up something super quick, and Stevie can hear it because she keeps the keyboard sounds on (“It scratches my brain so nice, Stevie!”) The sound of a text coming in has her nodding to herself. “Nope. They’re definitely for you.”

Something warm and heavy filled Stevie’s chest. It’s unfamiliar, but it sits against her ribs like maybe it’s supposed to be there. Like maybe this is the emotion that eats up loneliness. This acknowledgement. “They’re from Eddie,” she realizes, aloud. She knows it, because no one else has heard so many tragic tales of Stevie’s desperation for flowers. No one else has seen her at her worst. And she’s thankful, she is, her heart is going to burst with affection, but…

Well, she knows Eddie doesn’t mean it like that.

If anything, this is a pity bouquet. This is a “my friend trauma dumped way too much about their lack of floral arrangements and childhood affection so I felt obligated to buy her some flowers just so she’d shut up” bouquet.

She feels a bit sick at the thought. She thinks of the bartender Eddie flirted with just a week ago. She thinks of Eddie’s constant stream of dates and one night stands. How he talks like he’s waiting for “the one” but Stevie sees him with a new person on his arm almost every week. And she’s not judging, she just doesn’t understand. Can't make sense of it. She’s imagining Eddie buying this as a last minute purchase, maybe while he was waiting for his actual bouquet to be arranged. The one for his actual partner, or partner of the week, or whatever.

She just keeps thinking about that conversation. About an intoxicated Eddie listing his wants in a relationship. About how, no matter how much he likes Stevie as a friend, she’ll never come close to checking off that list for him.

And it’s fine! It’s fine! She loves being Eddie’s friend. But this weird pity-thing that has been going on since she brought up her lack of flowers in the past… well, she can’t deal with that.

Robin calls them Dog Days. It’s when the two of them lounge around all day, listening to the Sad Girl Starter Pack playlist on Spotify and eating whatever their comfort food of the week is.

Robin’s been obsessed with pork dumplings from this hole-in-the-wall place a few blocks down. She’s upset because Chrissy didn’t ask her to be her Valentine.

Stevie’s been ingesting fries by the basketful. Is it her fault that the cool vegan cafe that just opened happens to season their fries to perfection?

“I think he did it because he likes you,” Robin says.

“You’re delusional,” Stevie retorts.

Robin rolls her eyes. “Why is that so hard to believe? I mean, Eddie is with you all the time, and when he’s not with you, he’s talking about you.”

Stevie feels her cheeks warm. It’s true that Eddie pays her a lot of close attention, but honestly, all of her friends do. She’s dumb, clueless little Stevie who needs her friends to look out for her. That’s all it is. “He is always flirting at the bar.”

“To get you free drinks,” Robin says. She takes a bite out of a dumpling. “He literally does not give a shit about anyone but you, Stevie. And yeah, he flirts, but he’s an aquarius rising so that can’t really be helped. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right, that’s my point,” Stevie says. She avoids eye contact and chooses to stare at the old coffee ring neither of them have cleaned up. “If it doesn’t mean anything with anyone else, why would it suddenly mean something with me?”

“Oh, Stevie,” Robin frowns. She reaches over their greasy dinner and grabs Stevie’s wrist. “You really can’t see how much he likes you?”

Stevie shakes her head. Goes for another fry.

They change the subject.

Monday comes with a bucket load of nerves.

Stevie sits in her office for the better part of the day, hesitant to run into Eddie in the halls. She eats her sandwich at her desk, watches a video on Youtube, and ignores the pile of reference letters she’s supposed to be mailing out by this weekend.

She’s so focused on the video that she doesn’t notice someone standing in the doorway, until they knock.

She looks up. Eddie is standing there in slacks and a white button down. They’re rolled up to his elbows (damn him) so Stevie can see the tattoos that chord along with his veins. “Come in,” she mutters. She places her sandwich down and pauses her phone, then pumps some hand sanitizer into her palm. “What’s up?” There. Casual.

Eddie sits on the arm of one of the leather chairs, his legs slightly spread, his hands clasped together. He pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth. “I just wanted to know if you liked the flowers.”

Stevie reaches up to fiddle with her earrings. “They were nice, Eddie, but…”

“But?” Eddie presses, raising his brows. He’s twirling one of his rings around, a clear sign of his nervousness.

Stevie scratches the back of her neck. “I don’t want pity flowers, Eddie.”

There. She said it. Pulled the bandaid off.

Eddie looks confused. “Pity flowers? Stevie, I bought you flowers because I wanted to. Not because I pity you.”

“Please,” Steve rolls her eyes. Insecurity is nipping at her heels like a rabid dog. She’s desperate for an explanation. For a reason. Because there’s no way Eddie likes her. She’s not his type. She’s not anyone’s type. “I’ve been practically begging for them. Telling you over and over that I never got any. You got sick of my whining and bought me them to shut me up. I know how this works–” I know that’s what my father used to do. Used to buy my mother new jewelry to keep her silent. Used to get tired of her talking. Because girls aren’t really supposed to talk, and I’ve always been a little too stupid to recognize that. I never know when to shut up. Maybe I’m just not good at being a girl. Maybe I–

“Stevie, baby,” Eddie’s voice is low. Grounding. “Breathe. You’re freaking out on me.”

Stevie focuses on the bowl of mints sitting at the corner of her desk. She focuses on the swirling patterns. The green and red and white; thinks of the sound the crinkly wrapper makes. A shaky breath escapes her. She presses a palm to her chest, and hopes that feeling the breath will make it easier. “I’m–” Another shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

The bell rings. Lunch is over.

“Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart.” Eddie sounds sad now. He twists his ring again. “I’ve got to get back to class, or I would stay. Text me if you need me, okay?”

“Yeah,” Stevie nods. She thinks she ruins everything. “Okay.”

There’s this noodle place that Grant swears by. It’s run out of this old couple’s home, on the bottom floor. There’s this fat cat that slinks under tables and weaves between people’s legs.

Eddie can always tell when someone is new to the area, because they’ll let out a frightened scream when the furry beast brushes against their leg.

Right now, the cat — Miso, her collar says — is sitting on the windowsill, squished beside the table. She’s watching Eddie eat with beady, unblinking eyes, like she’s going to dive for his bowl as soon as he looks away. He pulls a noodle off of his fork and sets it in front of her, watches her eat it like a man starving, even though there’s a sign on the window that says Do Not Feed Miso Or He Will Pass Gas.

Grant is the only one between the four of them who has mastered eating noodles with chopsticks. He shows off this skill while Gareth struggles to get his straw out of its wrapper. Corroded Coffin has different skill sets all across the board.

“So she thought they were pity flowers?”

“Yeah,” Eddie stares into his bowl. “I tried to explain that they weren’t but she just sort of… I don’t know. She just wouldn’t accept it when I told her I did it because I wanted to, not because I pitied her.”

Jeff scratches Miso between the ears. He has a cat allergy but it’s never really stopped him. “Well, what did she say when you told her you liked her?”

Eddie twirls a strand of hair in front of his mouth and shrinks down into his chair, almost as if he can disappear out of sight. “I… Um… didn’t…?”

Gareth groans. “You’re a dumbass.”

“I thought it was pretty obvious!” Eddie says, over-defensive. “If you give someone flowers, you like them!”

“But Stevie has never been wooed,” Gareth says. He clears his throat, “And look, I hate to be the trans guy in the room here, but it’s a lot harder to gauge attraction as a trans person. One mistake and you could get in a lot of trouble, you know? Stevie isn’t going to assume anything because she doesn’t want to lose you as a friend. She also probably genuinely thinks you don’t like her.”

“But I do,” Eddie pouts. “I really, really like her and I want her to be my girlfriend.”

“Then go say that, man,” Grant says. Like it’s easy to just lay all of his emotions out on the table like that.

“Next time I see her,” Eddie mutters. “I’ll confess so clearly, she won’t be able to misinterpret it.”

Stevie is expecting to spend her Wednesday night alone.

Robin is going to some concert with Chrissy. It’s a band Stevie doesn’t listen to so she doesn’t mind them going without her. Maybe it’ll give the two of them time to actually confess to each other and Robin could stop complaining about her lack of girlfriend-itis.

She is listening to a perfectly curated Sad Girl playlist she’s made for this specific type of afternoon. Time alone means time to pine, and Stevie is left to scroll through Eddie’s Instagram. His personal one is private so that his students can’t follow him. This is mostly because he posts videos of him in scantily clad clothes, playing a guitar. Stevie then reads through the comments, and everyone seems to be more attractive than Stevie will ever be, so she switches off her phone and goes back to staring at the ceiling.

The doorbell rings.

After ten minutes, curiosity wins out, and Steve walks to the door.

There’s a little box on her doormat. It’s pink, with the logo of a nearby bakery plastered onto the top. Stevie opens it at the kitchen counter and finds scones wrapped in red parchment paper. There’s a note taped to the inside of the lid:

Stevie gawks at the note. It’s not Valentine’s Day anymore. Why is Eddie still sending her stuff? And why the note? Why the inside joke? Why sign with love?

She shares the scones with Robin that night to celebrate her finally asking Chrissy to be her girlfriend.

When Robin asks where she got them from, Stevie changes the subject.

When Stevie arrives at her office on Thursday, there’s a small box on her desk. She picks up the dusty pink thing, looks around like someone might pop out at her at any moment (old habits die hard.)

She’s never gotten gifts before. Not romantic. And there was once a time in high school when giving her gifts or asking her out was the funniest joke the boys could make.

So Stevie is flattered, but most of those old feelings come up, get caught in her throat. It triggers her fight or flight response; it makes her want to drive home and hide under her covers. This attention is more than she can handle. She is about to just leave; schedule all of her appointments for another day, but someone knocks on the doorframe.

Someone Stevie really doesn’t want to see right now. “Eddie…”

“Have you opened it?” Eddie walks in. He looks so lovely. He always does. Thin sweater and black jeans and his hair in a ponytail. Stevie likes him so much, she really does. Something about his warm eyes that twinkle whenever she enters the room. The way he always keeps a seat open for her during lunchtime. The way he brings her an extra apple or a coffee in the morning. The way he texts her if he sees something he thinks she would like. The way he’s never made her feel like less than a woman.

Stevie looks away from him and opens the box. It’s a necklace, with a red rose pendant. The gold chain is delicate.

“Can I help you put it on?” There’s a timidness to Eddie’s voice that usually isn’t there. Reminiscent of a child on a playground; hesitant, nervous. He’s twirling one of his rings around his finger. God, Stevie likes him so much.

“Yes, please,” she breathes.

Eddie’s calloused fingertips on her neck make her feel like a fairytale princess. She waits for the clasp of the metal, waits for Eddie to whisper a soft “There,” against the nape of her neck. She twists around, breath hitching at the mere proximity between them. “Beautiful.” The too-bright lights above them reflect in his whiskey brown eyes. He smiles, “You’re beautiful, Stevie Harrington.”

Stevie swallows. She can feel heat in her chest like a heavy blanket. Her eyes drift to Eddie’s lips, “You are too.”

“You believe me now? That I actually like you?” Eddie grins. There’s a telltale pink in his cheeks that doesn’t spell out pity, but love.

“When we went to Jonathan’s,” Stevie says, “The first time, you described the person you wanted. And they were nothing like me. What changed?”

“I’m pretty sure I said I wanted someone who was smart, generous, and lovable,” Eddie says, eyebrows furrowed. His fingers trail up and over Stevie’s cheeks, “What part of any of that doesn’t describe you?”

Stevie opens her mouth to argue, but Eddie leans in closer, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, whispers softly, “Can I kiss you, pretty girl?”

Stevie thinks briefly that this is probably something that could get them both fired, but she also knows she’s never wanted something so much in her entire life.

Eddie’s mouth is warm, sure against her own. Stevie can taste her own cherry lip gloss and it feels like they’re sharing something entirely holy. Entirely theirs. Eddie grips her waist and pulls her into him, inhaling sharply through his nose, opening his mouth against hers, licking into her mouth slowly, like he’s savoring the taste–

“I knew it!” Dustin fucking Henderson barges in, the essay Stevie told him to bring in to look over held high in his hands. “Eddie said you guys weren’t dating!”

“We weren’t,” Eddie says, almost growling as he’s forced to move out of Stevie’s space. “Now, can you leave? Please?”

“You want extra time with your girlfriend, you gotta make an appointment like the rest of us,” Dustin smarts, pointing to the appointment sheet on the wall.

“I’m not giving you a ride today,” Eddie says. His hands are still on Stevie’s waist. Hot and heavy and squeezing ever-so-gently as he talks.

“Go,” Stevie murmurs. She leans in, kisses Eddie’s cheek with a cherry-wet smack. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

Eddie, cheeks red from the lip stain and the returned feelings, nods. Leaves Stevie to deal with Dustin’s college essays alone.

Saturday night, Stevie is sitting at that same sticky booth, watching Eddie play the guitar with the same deft hands he used to lift her onto the kitchen counter that very morning.

“This next song–” Eddie huffs into the mic in between songs, raising one hand so the crowd knows where to look, “–is dedicated to my beautiful girlfriend who is right over there!” He points to Stevie, and she knows she’s blushing, knows she’s failing to hide herself behind her bottle of coke.

Eddie looks at no one else for the entire night.