Chapter Text
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 for a man he barely knew, hopelessly and humiliatingly charmed, the kind of thing he figured he'd laugh about later once the whole mess inevitably went up in flames.
The ringtone stuck, though, and years later Eddie can still pick it out over anything, whether it's the roar of a packed club or the chaotic tangle of bodies and cables and shouted cues backstage. No matter how far he runs, he'd know the opening riff of Nothing Else Matters anywhere.
Now it cuts clean through the quiet of his bedroom, and Eddie lies there for a moment, bleary eyed and aching pleasantly from last night's show, staring up at the ceiling like the sound might fade if he just 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, so it takes a few seconds before his brain connects the dots, the sound floating somewhere between dream and memory until it finally clicks.
Eddie bolts upright, sheets twisting around his legs as he fumbles across the nightstand and knocks over a half empty water bottle before his fingers 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, and it takes a blink and a swipe before it finally focuses into something he can read.
Steve Harrington is calling.
His pulse jumps so hard his fingers shake, and 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 nights whiskey, reaching for something breezy and unimpressed even as the words come out rough around the edges.
"I wake you?" Steve asks, voice 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, something a little too sharp in it.
Eddie exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "It's a joke," he mutters, and the silence that follows stretches longer than it should.
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, back when Steve had that way about him, like when he focused on you the rest of the world narrowed down to a single 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, and the sound lands somewhere under Eddie's ribs and stays there.
"What do you need, Harrington?" Eddie asks, aiming for light, though 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. He hasn't been back there since Steve, since all of it, years now, avoiding 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 just work out.
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 someone painted in strokes of gold and meant to stay forever, morning light slanting through the palms outside, catching on the smog dusted glass and scattering across the café's polished floor. The space hums with low conversation, the hiss of steam, the clatter of porcelain, all of it dulled at the edges like background noise in a dream, because Steve Harrington is sitting dead center in it, glowing like a goddamn sunbeam.
He's dressed down, naturally, LA casual, that studied kind of effortless that costs a small fortune to achieve: a thin white tee clinging 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 hanging 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, where his fingers tap softly against the table, once, twice, again, a quiet rhythm no one else would notice. A private metronome. A tell, if you know Steve like Eddie knew him, once.
Steve's brow creases, and when he finally looks up and out the window his mouth pulls tight at one corner, the look of someone checking a door that isn't going to open. 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, and 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, the quiet audacity of it, the way Steve's sitting here like the years between them were nothing at all, like he didn't have to spend half a decade trying to burn the taste of him out of his mouth, the way Eddie did.
The doorway holds him longer than he means it to. The smell of pastry and espresso, burnt sugar and warm milk, wraps around him while sunlight catches on the silver of his rings and flares bright against the glass, and his pulse stutters sharp in his chest because this isn't memory anymore, 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, crossing the floor without stopping, pulling out the chair across from Steve and dropping 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, typical of him to skip straight past hello.
Eddie lets out a laugh that scrapes low in his chest, bone dry, and 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 winces, 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 flaring treacherous and unwanted, and he swallows hard, forcing his expression into something bored, 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, a rosette etched clean in the foam, the mug warm to the touch but not scalding, and Eddie knows without even 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 rough, fingers curling around the cup like it might sear through skin.
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 and weak spots and 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. 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 cracking 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, giving nothing away. "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 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, coating 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 enough 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, shoulders dipping 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. "It's not a big deal. It's handled. But I'm not exactly eager to relive it."
Steve's jaw tightens, and 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, something colder settling behind his eyes like a storm rolling in, ready to level whatever might've touched him wrong.
"Bad how?" Steve asks, low.
Eddie sets his cup down with care, a deliberate little click against the wood, his fingers leaving faint prints on the glaze, proof of touch, and lifts his eyes to meet Steve's 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, and for a heartbeat Eddie thinks he'll finally look away. He doesn't.
"Eddie…" Steve says, voice low, 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. "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 rising then dying, and 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, and 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, 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, something smaller and 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, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth instead, tentative, almost hopeful, and he nods once, a small gesture to shift the conversation forward.
"Did you hear I started a production company?"
Eddie rolls his eyes, though something faintly fond lingers behind it despite himself, his mouth curving 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 kicking 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, 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, not looking up. "I don't sub anymore," he says finally, 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, old and aching and still not finished burning, and 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, no edge to his voice, no sales pitch, just that disarming calm that always made people want to believe him. He reaches across the table, slow and careful, fingers brushing against Eddie's before settling lightly over them, the touch 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, 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, 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. 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, twenty two and 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 and disarming sincerity shot through with 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. One fucking smile and Eddie never stood a chance.
He thinks about it more than he'd ever admit, that smile, the way it felt like being handed something he hadn't earned and couldn't give back. The way Steve made a room feel smaller and warmer just by being in it, made Eddie feel like the only person worth looking at even when he knew better, even when he knew Steve looked at everyone that way and it still didn't stop the wanting.
He hadn't had any right to be jealous. They weren't exclusive. They weren't anything, officially, just two bodies that kept finding their way back to each other between takes and after hours and on nights neither of them meant to stay. But logic never meant much when Eddie was half drunk on mulled wine and stupid, aching longing.
So he'd sulked, nursing his drink like a grudge, and let the mistletoe girl corner him by the dessert table. She'd looked him up and down with glossy lips and perfect hair and 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 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 was worse, burning through him hotter than cheap whiskey, and he'd gone home that night humiliated, red eyed and furious with himself, marching 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 spent every single one of those years trying to outrun that moment.
Sure, they'd seen each other since, on sets, in passing at industry parties, across crowded rooms full of loud music and fake smiles, and Eddie had perfected the art of avoidance in the meantime, ducking out of scenes early, letting texts go unanswered, keeping everything surface level and strictly professional, a wall built one small evasion at a time. Steve, to his credit, had taken the hint quickly, backing off with a grace that somehow stung worse than if he'd pushed, and Eddie had told himself that was exactly what he wanted. A clean break. No loose ends. Nothing left of him lodged under Eddie's skin.
But now Steve was here, sitting in their coffee shop, and every mile Eddie had put between them was suddenly worth nothing at all.
"Why me?" Eddie asks finally, the words quieter than he means them to be, scraped raw. "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 and too warm and too real, the kind that makes him feel eighteen again, one heartbeat away from cracking open entirely.
Eddie exhales sharply through his nose, 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 come soft, almost too careful, a scalpel rather than a hammer, and somehow that makes it worse, Eddie's whole body tightening 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 catches himself, drawing in a slow breath, and Eddie watches the mask slide 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 to hold onto.
"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, Steve saying it like he doesn't realize he was never just a scene partner, like he has no idea Eddie's been bleeding out in slow motion ever since he walked away, some part of him still reaching for a version of Steve he never let himself have, even now, even after everything he told himself he'd stopped wanting.
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, because of course it has, he knows that line better than Steve ever could, knows exactly how blurred the boundaries always were and 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 in that unnerving way that always made him feel 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 in it, just curiosity, gentle and knife sharp all at once.
Eddie lets out a laugh that 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, mouth snapping shut so fast his teeth click together, and smiles instead, wide and false. "What exactly are you fishing for here?"
Steve doesn't flinch, just tilts his head slightly, gaze even. "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. 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 on anything at all.
"I'm over it," Eddie says finally, forcing 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, lips pressing into a thin line. "Right."
Eddie winces, his gaze dropping, fingers curling tight around his cup like it's the only thing tethering him to the moment, the ceramic warm beneath his palms and grounding in a way he badly needs right now.
Across the table, Steve leans forward, forearms resting lightly against the edge of the table, and 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, 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 everything 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, 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, 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, because 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 silly photos from set, people pulling faces and laughing. A faint hum of music filters in from deeper inside, and 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 here.
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 years, and 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, watching Eddie with the same look he'd had at the window that morning, like he's still waiting for something he doesn't quite believe is coming.
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, 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 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, 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, and Eddie watches him hunt for the tells, the crossed arms, the pinched face.
"I'm not asking for the story," Steve says, 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 his 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.
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."