Chapter Text
Chapter One
The morning after he first met Steve, Eddie gave him a custom ringtone.
It had been a cruel little joke at the time, an admission of just how fast he’d fallen, how hopelessly, humiliatingly charmed he’d been by a man he barely knew. A little personal fuck you to himself, something he could laugh about later when the whole thing inevitably went up in flames.
The ringtone stuck.
Years later, Eddie can still pick it out over anything. The roar of a packed club, the thrum of bass through a crowded venue, the chaotic shuffle of bodies and cables and shouted cues on set. Anywhere. Any time.
No matter how far he runs, he’d recognize the opening riff of Nothing Else Matters.
Now it cuts clean through the quiet of his bedroom.
Bleary eyed and aching pleasantly from last night’s show, Eddie lies there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling like the sound might fade if he ignores it long enough. His body feels heavy and slow, the good kind of tired that settles into the bones after a long night under hot lights and loud music.
The guitar riff keeps playing.
For a few seconds his brain refuses to connect the dots, the sound floating somewhere between dream and memory.
Then it clicks.
Eddie bolts upright, sheets twisting around his legs as he fumbles across the nightstand, knocking over a half empty water bottle before his fingers finally close around the phone. He squints at the screen through sleep crusted eyes, dragging a hand over his face as the light burns against them.
It takes a blink and a swipe to focus.
But there it is.
Steve Harrington is calling.
His pulse jumps so hard it makes his fingers shake.
Eddie swipes to answer before he can talk himself out of it.
“Steve Harrington, as I live and breathe,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and last night’s whiskey. He tries for casual, something breezy and unimpressed, but the words come out rough around the edges.
“I wake you?” Steve asks.
His voice is warm and faintly smug, like he already knows the answer and is enjoying the confirmation.
Eddie pushes himself back against the headboard, scrubbing a hand through his hair while his pulse skitters wildly in his ears.
“You know how it is, Stevie,” he says, forcing a lazy grin into his voice. “Sex, drugs, rock and roll.”
“Drugs?” Steve echoes.
There’s something a little too sharp in it.
Eddie exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s a joke,” he mutters.
Silence stretches between them, longer than it should be.
Eddie can practically hear the crease forming between Steve’s eyebrows, can feel the weight of his attention through the phone the way he used to across a room. Steve always had that way about him, like when he focused on you the rest of the world narrowed down to a single steady beam of light.
Eddie lets the silence hang for a beat too long before clearing his throat.
“Sooo,” he says lightly. “What’s got you calling me at–”
He squints toward the glowing red numbers on his alarm clock.
“Ten a.m.? I figured the great Steve Harrington would be too busy polishing his twelfth AVN nomination to bother with the little people.”
Steve chuckles, low and easy through the speaker.
The sound lands somewhere under Eddie’s ribs and stays there.
“What do you need, Harrington?” Eddie asks, aiming for light, but it comes out rougher than intended. Spit it out.
“Coffee,” Steve says simply. “I’m at that place you like.”
Eddie’s breath catches before he can squish it into submission.
See, he hasn’t been back there since Steve. Since all of it. Years now. He avoids the block entirely, like it might reach out and grab him by the throat if he gets too close, like stepping inside would rewind the clock and drop him right back into the version of himself who thought maybe, just maybe,this thing with Steve Harrington might not ruin him.
Fucking figures Steve can just stroll in like nothing ever happened.
There’s a beat of silence, then Eddie exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out a little hoarse. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be there in twenty.”
***
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 the smog dusted glass and scattering into drifting motes 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 once thought was immune to worship.
He’s dressed down, naturally. LA casual, that studied kind of effortless that costs a small fortune to achieve. A thin white tee clings where it counts, sleeves hugging the curve of his arms, the hem brushing dark jeans that fit a little too perfectly to be accidental. A leather jacket hangs careless over the back of his chair, his sunglasses folded beside a mug of black coffee that looks untouched.
He scrolls through his phone with slow precision, thumb deliberate, like even that carries weight.
Eddie’s gaze drops to his hand.
His fingers tap softly against the table. Once. Twice. Again. A quiet rhythm no one else would notice.
A private metronome.
Steve’s brow creases, and when he finally looks up, out the window, something shifts in his face that Eddie almost forgot.
Something quiet. A small hollow opening inside him, private and searching, like he’s looking for something he doesn’t actually believe is out there.
And still he fucking shines.
The light turns his hair 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 that impossible, infuriating mix of casual grace and buried fire that once made Eddie lose whole years to the thought of him.
And just for that, Eddie hates him.
Hates how untouched he looks. Hates the quiet audacity of it. Because Steve’s sitting here like the years between them were nothing at all, like time slid past easy and clean. Like Eddie didn’t spend half a decade trying to burn the taste of him out of his mouth with cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke, scraping him out of his lungs one drag at a time.
The doorway holds him longer than he means it to. The smell of pastry and espresso, burnt sugar and warm milk wraps around him; sunlight catches on the silver of his rings and flares bright against the glass. His pulse stutters, sharp in his chest, because this isn’t memory anymore. This isn’t some ghost dragged up by nostalgia or a bad dream.
Steve is here, solid and alive, breathing the same air, and for a moment it feels like the whole city has contracted around this one point just to make it happen.
Eddie exhales hard through his nose and forces himself forward before he can think better of it. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter. He crosses the floor, pulls out the chair across from Steve, and drops into it, palms flat on the table, sleeves shoved up, heart pounding hard enough he’s sure Steve can hear it.
Steve doesn’t give him a second to breathe.
“Why don’t you sub anymore?”
The words land sharp and 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.
“Gee, hi, Eddie! Long time no see. Wild how it’s been, what, five years since you last let me rail you 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 a quiet 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 snag somewhere in Eddie’s throat before he can choke them down. Heat flares, treacherous and unwanted. He swallows hard, forcing his expression into something flat, unimpressed.
He won’t give that back.
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 and practiced, setting a cappuccino in front of him like it was always meant to be there.
A rosette etched clean in the foam. Mug warm to the touch, not scalding. Eddie knows without checking there’s a packet of raw sugar frothed into the milk. Exactly how he takes it.
He 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. It’s in the exactness of the order. The particular roast, smoky and full bodied, none of that bright citrus bullshit LA baristas can’t shut up about.
Steve written all over it.
Harrington always did keep a 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 too keyed up to lace his boots after a scene. The way his hands curled in on themselves when he needed grounding but couldn’t quite bring himself to ask.
It used to make Eddie feel seen. Like someone had finally cracked him open and didn’t mind carrying the pieces around in their pocket.
Later, it just made him feel flayed open. Observed. Like 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 necessary. Ceramic cracks sharp against the wood, a punctuation mark to whatever the hell this is.
“Alright,” Eddie says. “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,” he says. “It’s good.”
Of course he has.
Steve Harrington has this infuriating habit of dropping back into Eddie’s life like a bookmark slid neatly into place. Like he’s never left. Like the space he carved out in Eddie’s chest years ago has just been sitting there the whole time, untouched and gathering dust, perfectly preserved for his return.
It drives Eddie insane, the ease of it. The way Steve can walk back into a 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 quite right. It’s muscle memory, his body still knows exactly how to orbit Steve even after Eddie swore he’d torn that instinct out by the root.
“You admitting you’re watching my porn, Stevie?”
Eddie lifts an eyebrow, letting the teasing slip back in. Letting it coat the sharp edges with something smooth and biting.
Steve shrugs, unfazed, and takes a slow 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 is that competitive. Competitive to the point that he may watch Eddie’s porn just to take fucking notes.
But still. Steve’s been watching.
Steve sets his cup down and doesn’t break eye contact.
“I want to know why you stopped subbing.”
Eddie exhales hard, his bangs shifting with the force of it. His shoulders dip, just slightly, and 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 clean 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 change 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 settling behind his eyes like a storm rolling in, ready to level whatever might’ve touched him wrong.
“Bad how?” Steve asks, voice low and steady.
Eddie sets his cup down with care, a deliberate little click against the wood. His fingers leave faint prints on the glaze, proof of touch. He lifts his eyes and meets Steve’s gaze without blinking.
“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.
Eddie shakes his head and cuts him off sharp.
“Don’t.”
His hand drops to the table, rings striking the wood with a small, hard sound that settles into the silence between them.
He straightens, voice clipped and 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. Finally, he nods, slow and careful, like one wrong move might crack the air between them. “Alright,” he agrees. “Future only.”
Eddie leans back, a show of ease with none of the substance, his body still coiled tight. He takes another sip of his cappuccino, smaller this time, letting the silence stretch sharp between them, daring Steve to be the one who breaks it.
“Good,” he says at last when Steve doesn’t move to. He sets 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. 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 in a way they never did before.
Steve must catch the flicker of something softer behind Eddie’s eyes, because he has the good sense not to push. Instead a sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, tentative, almost hopeful. He nods once, a small gesture meant to shift the conversation forward.
“Did you hear I started a production company?”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but there’s something faintly fond behind it despite himself. 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. His heartbeat kicks up hard.
He already knows where this is going. Knows it the way you know a storm is coming, something shifting in the air, pressure building behind the eyes.
“You’re looking for talent,” he finishes, voice low and flat.
Hollow, even to his own ears.
Steve nods, his eyes flicking between Eddie’s. “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 of his ribs. His hangover pulses behind his left eye, sharp and insistent, and he lifts a hand to rub at his temple, leaning back just enough to put a little distance between them.
“Steve, this is…” Eddie trails off, shaking 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 the side of his cappuccino cup. He doesn’t look up.
“I don’t sub anymore,” he says finally, his voice tight despite the effort to keep it steady. “What if that’s a hard limit?”
Steve doesn’t flinch. He 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 straight through Eddie’s chest, something old and aching and still not finished burning. He doesn’t answer, just stares down into the dark swirl of coffee and milk 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. The touch is warm and familiar in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach tighten, dangerous precisely because it feels so easy.
“I know you’ve seen shit go down at Kink,” Steve says quietly. “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 bars too loud to think, when Steve’s voice had to fight to be heard but his eyes still burned with certainty. Murmured into Eddie’s collarbone on sleepless nights, steady as a heartbeat, like conviction was the only thing keeping him awake. Promises spoken into the dark, never sharp or demanding, just sure.
Eddie’s never doubted he means it. Never doubted Robin does either.
Belief has never been the problem.
“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 ease the pressure building behind his eyes. “What, you couldn’t settle for all of this,” he waves a hand up and down at Steve’s general hotness, “had to be the fucking porno fairy godmother too?”
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 fucking chance.
He hadn’t had any right to be jealous. They weren’t exclusive. They weren’t anything, officially. But logic doesn’t mean much when you’re half drunk on mulled wine and stupid longing.
So 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, her voice thick with mockery. “You’re not in love with him, are you?”
A pause. Then, softer and crueler:
“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 full of too loud music and too many fake smiles. Eddie had perfected the art of avoidance, ducking out of scenes, ghosting over text, keeping everything surface level and strictly professional.
Steve, to his credit, had taken the hint quickly. And Eddie had told himself that was exactly what he wanted. A clean break. No loose ends.
But now Steve was here.
Sitting in their coffee shop.
The realization hits Eddie like a punch to the chest, sharp and sudden, a memory with teeth.
“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. Too honest. Too warm. Too real. The kind that makes him feel eighteen again, like he’s one heartbeat away from cracking open entirely.
Eddie exhales sharply through his nose, his gaze darting toward 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 somehow 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, drawing in a slow breath.
Eddie watches the shift, subtle and practiced. The way Steve reins himself in. The way that mask slides back into place, quiet and polished, the same one he wore on set whenever 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 finally, voice low and almost 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 settling heavy 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 and missing by a mile. “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 fixed on Eddie with the same 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 softly.
No accusation. Just curiosity, gentle and knife sharp all at once.
Eddie lets out a laugh, but it comes out wrong, too sharp at the edges, hollow in the middle.
“Over what?” he says. “You’re gonna have to narrow it down, Harrington. The early call? Or how you made me fall in-”
He stops. Hard. His mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth click together. He smiles instead, wide and false.
“What exactly are you fishing for here?”
Steve doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head slightly, gaze steady.
“Come on, Eddie,” he says. “Over us. Whatever the hell we were.”
The breath leaves Eddie’s lungs all at once, like a punch to the gut.
Ugh, Steve. Always the straight shooter. No soft landings, no avoiding the jagged parts. Just the truth, laid out plain, like he’s too polished and golden to believe it might snag.
“I’m over it,” Eddie says finally. He forces the words out, willing them into something solid.
It sounds like a lie. Feels like one, too.
“I’m fine. We’re fine.”
Steve nods once, slow and openly disbelieving. His lips press into a thin, unreadable line. “Right.”
Eddie winces, his gaze dropping. His fingers curl tight around his cup like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment, the ceramic warm beneath his palms, grounding.
Across the table, Steve leans forward, forearms resting lightly against the edge of the table. When he speaks, his voice loses some of its usual sharpness, softening into something gentler.
“Eddie, I didn’t come here to rehash the past. I came because I think you’re fucking brilliant. “And, yeah. Selfishly. I miss you.”
Eddie lets out a breath that stutters halfway through, his grip tightening on the mug until the tendons in his hands stand out beneath the skin.
“You’re not playing fair.”
Steve huffs a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost fond.
“Since when have I ever played fair with you?”
It’s enough to pull the corner of Eddie’s mouth into a reluctant curve, something that might have been a chuckle if he’d let it breathe.
Silence settles between them again. Not comfortable exactly, but no longer unbearable either, just heavy with all the things neither of them seems brave enough to say outright.
Eddie knows he should shut it down. Draw a clean line in the sand before it gets any blurrier than it already is, before Steve finds his way back into the spaces Eddie spent years trying to close off.
“What’s the angle, Harrington?” he asks finally, his 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 perfectly chill. What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one.”
Eddie snorts. “Bullshit.”
Steve just watches him for a moment. “I want you in it,” he says finally. “You’re fucking good, Eds. And you make me better. Always have.”
Eddie swallows hard, his throat working around the lump that’s somehow settled there.
“I’m not asking for an answer right now,” Steve adds, his voice steady again. “Just think about it.”
Eddie drops his gaze to the cup in his hands, watching the foam slowly collapse in on itself. Steve always did have a way of making complicated things sound deceptively simple, as though the years between them weren’t full of sharp edges and unfinished business.
“This is a lot,” Eddie mutters.
“I know,” Steve says quietly. “But I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was worth it.”
Eddie lifts his head slowly, studying Steve’s face for the catch, the angle, the spin, some hint that this is just another pitch wrapped in charm and sincerity.
But there’s nothing there except the truth of it, inconvenient and impossible to ignore.
“I’ll think about it,” Eddie says finally, the words catching slightly on the way out.
Steve’s smile is small and quiet, but it lights up his whole face.
“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 tells himself. 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.”