Chapter Text
The garage door was half-open, the early summer air thick with the scent of cut grass and gasoline. Steve didn't knock... he never did. Just strolled in like he lived there, ducking slightly under the metal door, already mid-eye-roll at the sight before him.
Eddie, sprawled like a prince of chaos on an old couch, boots kicked up on a cracked coffee table, guitar balanced across his lap.
He was lazily picking out some riff that Steve couldn't place, brow furrowed in deep, unnecessary concentration.
"Hey," Steve said, arms crossed. "I need a favor."
Eddie didn't stop playing, but one eyebrow arched like a challenge. "That's how you're opening this? Not even a hi, Eddie, how's your deeply underappreciated music career going?"
"Hi, Eddie. How's your deeply underappreciated music career going?" Steve deadpanned.
Eddie flashed him a crooked grin. "Peachy. I sold a T-shirt at a gas station yesterday, so I'll probably be buying a mansion soon."
Steve snorted. "Was it one of the ones with the demon skull melting over the amp? Or the bat wings and blood?"
"The latter," Eddie said proudly. "Guy said it'd 'piss off his girlfriend.' Which, you know—exactly the kind of customer I aim for."
The garage was hot, air thick with motor oil, dust, and the faint must of weed someone had definitely smoked here last night. Probably Eddie and probably Gareth. The walls were cluttered with band posters, half-ripped and curling at the edges, and the overhead bulb buzzed just slightly, like it was trying to join in on the guitar.
It wasn't Eddie's place—Gareth's parents were letting him crash here while they figured out "band stuff," which mostly meant lots of loud rehearsals, lukewarm ramen, and exactly zero job interviews. His mattress was in the back corner, half-covered in flannel shirts and a beat-up comforter patterned with tiny skulls. A milk crate full of D&D manuals sat beside it, next to an overturned mug being used as a dice tray.
Eddie looked like he belonged here. Hair longer than it was in high school, pulled half-up into a messy knot. A Slayer tee with holes in the collar, fingers adorned in an ever-shifting mix of silver rings—dragons, snakes, one that looked like a mood ring but had been permanently stuck on black for years.
Steve glanced at his hands—clean, tan, ringless—and suddenly felt kind of boring.
Eddie's gaze flicked up, dark eyes sharp. "You look tense, Harrington. You're not dying, are you? Is this a 'grant a dying wish' kind of favor?"
"No," Steve said, but his voice was tight.
"'Cause I gotta say, if it is, and it's not like, 'Eddie, take my car' or 'Eddie, bury this cursed object so it doesn't destroy Hawkins'—I'm gonna be disappointed."
Steve rolled his eyes. "It's not a cursed object. It's worse."
"Oh good," Eddie said, setting his guitar aside with a dramatic sigh. "You've got my full attention. Lay it on me."
Steve stepped over a coiled amp cord and leaned against the workbench. "My parents are coming into town. Staying at my place."
Eddie stopped strumming.
Steve took a breath, like he was preparing to step off a ledge. "I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend."
Beat.
Eddie blinked. Then he sat up, slow and intrigued, like a cat catching sight of something it wasn't sure whether to chase or kill. "Oh?" he purred. "Do tell."
Steve ran a hand through his hair. "They're the worst. Judgmental, nosy, cold. They only visit to remind me I'm a disappointment and that the Harrington name deserves better. Last time they showed up, they tried to set me up with some guy from a yacht club who referred to his father as 'Father.' I panicked. I told them I was seeing someone already."
"And naturally," Eddie said, gesturing to himself with a flourish, "you thought of me. The logical choice for scaring the hell out of rich, repressed WASPs."
"You're the opposite of everything they want for me," Steve said. "Tattoos, rings, loud music, attitude—you're perfect."
Eddie placed a hand over his heart. "I'm touched. And slightly insulted."
"I'll buy you that dice set," Steve added quickly. "The one that matches your guitar. The black and red crackle ones."
Eddie's eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. "Ooooh. Now that is tempting."
But then he leaned back, fingers steepled together in mock consideration, pinky ring catching the low light like a threat. "Still, I feel like I'll need more for the trauma I'm going to endure. These people made you neurotic. Imagine what they'll do to me."
Steve sighed, already regretting everything. "What do you want?"
Eddie grinned like the devil himself. "First, I want front-row veto power on whatever outfit you're planning to wear when they get here. I refuse to be seen with you in some pastel country club bullshit."
Steve opened his mouth to argue—then closed it. Fair.
"Second," Eddie continued, ticking it off like a hostage negotiator, "I want a bubble bath in your fancy tub. Uninterrupted. With that overpriced lavender stuff you keep hidden under the sink like it's a state secret."
Steve blinked. "You snooped in my—?"
"I live for snooping," Eddie said cheerfully. "Don't act surprised."
Steve sighed again, deeper this time. "Is that it?"
"One more." Eddie leaned forward, suddenly serious—but with a spark in his eye that meant trouble. "A hundred bucks if I have to stay the entire week, two hundred if I have to stay over nights."
Steve stared. "Absolutely not."
Eddie didn't flinch. Just tilted his head like a bird of prey that smelled blood. "You're expecting me to willingly subject myself to seven straight days of interrogation while pretending to be emotionally fulfilled and sexually satisfied? You're gonna need to sweeten the pot."
"You're not gonna have to stay over," Steve argued. "It's not—a sleepover type relationship."
"Oh, but it is if we are fake boyfriends, Stevie," Eddie said, drawing the word out like it tasted expensive. "You really think your mother isn't going to raise an immaculately plucked eyebrow if I leave every night like some shameful hookup? No, no, no. If we're doing this, we're doing this convincingly."
Steve's jaw clenched. "A hundred."
Eddie raised a brow.
Steve sighed. "Fine. Two hundred if it's full sleepovers."
Eddie beamed. "Now we're talking."
He set the guitar aside with care, sliding it back into its stand like a priest shelving a relic. Then he stood, all long limbs and restless energy, brushing invisible dust from his jeans as he looked at Steve with something sharper than his usual smirk.
"But," Eddie said, tilting his head, "riddle me this, Harrington. Wouldn't it be easier to find someone your parents do like? Play the game. Clean-cut, country-club adjacent, nice little button-up guy with a firm handshake and a lengthy resume. Let them believe you're everything they hoped for."
Steve crossed his arms. "You offering to help with my resume now, too?"
Eddie snorted but didn't look away. "I'm serious. Why go out of your way to pick someone you know they'll hate?"
There was a beat. Steve shifted, eyes dropping to the scuffed concrete floor.
"I figure," he said slowly, "if I piss them off enough... maybe they'll finally stop trying. Stop showing up. Stop acting like I owe them a version of me that doesn't exist."
Eddie's mouth pressed into a line. The garage was quiet for a moment—just the soft buzz of the light overhead and the echo of that truth hanging in the space between them.
"You know," Eddie said, voice softer now, but not less pointed, "you can just cut them out of your life, right?"
Steve looked up. His smile was tight, like it had been pulled too far in opposite directions for too long.
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
But he didn't say anything else. Didn't argue, didn't explain.
And Eddie, for once, didn't push.
Instead, he broke the tension with a clap of his hands. "Alright, boyfriend," he said, flashing a grin that was only mostly a joke. "When do we start?"
Steve scrubbed a hand over his face, then down the back of his neck. "We start with ground rules."
Eddie perked up, like he was being offered a game. "Ooh. Sexy."
Steve shot him a look. "Not that kind of rules."
Eddie wiggled his brows. "We sure about that? This is fake dating, Stevie. There's always at least one moment where we're forced to share a bed and oh no, there's only one blanket and suddenly—"
"No," Steve said firmly, holding up a hand like he was stopping traffic. "Stop right there. Rule number one: no making it weird."
"What do you qualify as weird," Eddie said immediately.
Steve gave him a flat look. "No unnecessary touching. No over-the-top PDA. No calling me baby or sweetcheeks or anything that sounds like it came from a truck stop."
Eddie pouted. "But sweetcheeks is so evocative."
"Rule number two," Steve continued, ignoring him, "you do not talk to them alone. You don't corner my dad and ask him what his AC/DC phase was like. You don't try to bond with my mom over tarot or weed or whatever it is you think you're gonna pull."
Eddie held up three fingers in a mock scout salute. "Aye aye, captain."
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Rule three—keep it believable. No dramatic declarations. No fake proposal jokes. And definitely no telling them we met thanks to you being wanted for murder and the whole upside down thing."
Eddie made a mock-wounded noise. "You take all the joy out of performance art."
"This isn't a performance," Steve snapped, a little too sharp."It's survival."
That shut Eddie up for half a second.
Then he tilted his head, voice gentler this time. "Yeah. Okay. Got it."
Steve nodded, the weight of it settling on his shoulders. He took a breath. "They get here Friday."
Eddie checked the wall calendar—actually just a ripped-out page from a Denny's waitress schedule taped beside a broken amp. "That's two days from now."
"Right. So you'll come over Thursday night. We'll go over the backstory, make it airtight."
Eddie grinned again, the trouble slipping back in. "Can't wait. I already have questions. Do I know your favorite snack? Do we have a song? Do you cry during sex?"
"Jesus, Eddie."
"I just wanna be thorough, Stevie."
Steve turned to go, already halfway to the door. "Thursday. Be at my place at six."
Eddie called after him, all mock-innocent delight. "So we're starting off with a sleepover. Nice. Didn't even have to buy me dinner first."
Steve stopped, exhaled like he was counting to ten. "It's not a sleepover. It's a briefing."
Eddie gave him a look that could only be described as deeply unconvinced. "You gonna brief me in your pajamas, Harrington?"
Steve didn't answer. Just muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Regret. So much regret," and kept walking.
But before he could fully escape, Eddie called out again, "Hey—wait. One more thing."
Steve paused in the doorway, glancing back warily. "What now?"
Eddie stepped forward, rubbing the back of his neck in that casual way that almost fooled you into thinking he was shy. He wasn't. He was just gearing up.
"Can I, like... get an allowance or something? Y'know, to buy you a few things that are more... me?"
Steve squinted. "Like what."
"Just a couple things!" Eddie said quickly. "Little stuff. One or two shirts. Maybe a bracelet. Something that screams, this man is dating Eddie Munson and barely surviving the whiplash."
Steve's eyes narrowed. "No leather."
Eddie gasped, scandalized. "That's like telling a bird not to fly, Stevie."
"No chains, no studs, and if you show up in anything with flames on it—"
"Then I'll know it's working," Eddie cut in, grinning wide. "C'mon. You want this to be convincing, right? A little wardrobe bleed is inevitable. People share."
Steve sighed, already halfway to giving in. "Fifty bucks."
Eddie looked deeply offended. "Fifty? What am I gonna do with fifty? Buy you one sock?"
"Fine," Steve said. "Seventy. Final offer."
He pulled out his wallet, placing the bills in Eddie's palm.
Eddie lit up like he'd just won a game show. "You got yourself a deal, boyfriend."
Steve shook his head, walking away before he could cave even more. "You're already annoying me."
"Can't fake date a ghost, Harrington," Eddie called after him, already mentally spending his $70 at the weirdest mall kiosk imaginable. "Stay alive 'til Thursday!"
Steve waved him off.
************************
Steve had just finished vacuuming the living room for the second time when he heard the knock.
Not the doorbell. A knock. Rhythmic, theatrical—three short, two long, like a secret code. Like Eddie thought he was showing up to a speakeasy.
Steve rolled his eyes, wiped his palms on his jeans, and opened the door.
Eddie stood on the porch, grinning like he'd just been invited to ruin someone's life. A duffel bag slung over one shoulder—black, patched, slightly overstuffed—and no fewer than four shopping bags dangling from each arm. Hot Topic, Goodwill, a suspiciously glittery boutique Steve definitely didn't want to ask about, and one from Bath & Body Works that smelled like it was trying to beat you to death with vanilla musk.
"Baaaaabe," Eddie drawled, pushing past him and into the foyer without waiting for permission. "You didn't tell me you have a chandelier. What are we, nobility?"
"It's just a light fixture," Steve muttered, closing the door behind him. "Jesus, what is all this?"
"Essentials," Eddie said proudly, hoisting one of the bags up. "I took your generous boyfriend allowance and invested. Smell this." He shoved the Bath & Body Works bag into Steve's arms.
Steve peeked inside. "Is this... cinnamon roll body spray?"
"Unironically yes," Eddie said. "Your mom is gonna think I'm harmless and adorable. Then I'll tell her we met at a cult orgy."
"Rule three," Steve reminded him. "No cult orgy jokes."
"Still feel like that was a missed opportunity."
Eddie dropped the bags on the floor and spun dramatically in a circle, surveying the house. "Okay. This is nice. Little sterile. Lotta beige. But I see the vision."
"I didn't ask for notes on my interior design."
"I'm your boyfriend now," Eddie said, kicking off his boots by the door. "You get notes. It's in the contract."
"You act like you haven't seen my place a thousand times," Steve said.
Eddie flopped backward onto the couch like a king claiming his throne. "Yeah, but this is different. I'm not just crashing. I'm your loving, committed, entirely-too-weird-for-you boyfriend now. That means I get to critique the feng shui."
Steve snorted. "You don't even know what feng shui is."
"I do, actually," Eddie said, holding up a finger. "It's Chinese for 'you have too much beige in your soul.'"
Steve rolled his eyes and started collecting the plastic bags from the floor. "You know, most fake boyfriends would show a little gratitude."
Eddie sprawled out dramatically. "This is gratitude. I'm blessing your home with character and cinnamon roll body spray. You're welcome."
Steve dropped the bags on the kitchen counter. "Okay, if we're doing this, we need to figure out our story."
Eddie sat up immediately, alert like a dog hearing the word walk. "Yes. Good. Let's get into it. What's the origin myth? Where did we fall madly, inconveniently in love?"
"I figured we'd keep it simple. We met through Robin."
Eddie wrinkled his nose. "Too simple. Too real."
"That's the point."
"No, no, no," Eddie said, standing and pacing like a playwright mid-scene. "This is theater, Stevie. You need drama. You need heart. What about... a record store?"
Steve raised an eyebrow. "You think my parents are gonna believe I was hanging out in a record store?"
"You were, though. That time I caught you looking at that Bowie cassette and pretending not to care?"
"I was not pretending."
"Sure, sure," Eddie said, waving a hand. "Anyway. Picture this: I'm working at the record store—"
"You don't work at a record store."
"Pretending, Steve. Stay with me." Eddie grinned. "I'm behind the counter, blasting Sabbath way too loud. You walk in, all golden and stressed-out, looking like someone who doesn't know the difference between Black Flag and Black Sabbath."
Steve narrowed his eyes. "Do you know the difference?"
"Of course I do," Eddie said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Anyway, we argue about music. You say something offensive about metal. I call you a poser. You storm out. And then—days later—you come back. You say you couldn't stop thinking about me."
Steve gave him a look. "That sounds like a movie."
"Exactly," Eddie said, satisfied. "Now we just need to workshop the first kiss. Kitchen? Rainstorm? Heated moment in the back of a van?"
"Jesus Christ."
Eddie threw himself back onto the couch with a loud sigh. "Fine. Be boring. Say we met at Family Video and bonded over alphabetizing. But we're at least saying we've been together... six months?"
Steve nodded slowly. "Six months is believable. Long enough to be serious. Short enough to still explain the newness."
Eddie grinned. "And passionate. Very, very passionate."
"Rule number one," Steve said, pointing at him. "Don't make it weird."
Eddie just leaned back, arms behind his head, the picture of smug contentment. "Too late. I'm already imagining our anniversary. Hope you like candlelight and bad poetry."
Steve groaned. "This was a mistake."
Eddie flashed him a lazy grin. "Nah. This is gonna be fun."
Steve disappeared into the kitchen with a muttered "I need alcohol for this," and returned a moment later with two beers, caps already popped.
He handed one off to Eddie, who accepted it with a mock bow and immediately curled his legs under him like he planned to stay forever.
"Alright," Steve said, settling into the armchair across from him. "Ground rules—continued. Let's talk pet names."
Eddie's eyes lit up. "God, yes. Finally."
Steve held up a hand. "I'm setting limits."
Eddie looked pained. "Limits?"
"No babe, no honeybun, no pookie, no weird little gremlin goblin anything."
Eddie squinted. "You're really coming for my entire brand."
Steve took a sip of beer. "You get one pet name. Something believable. Something not said with ironic jazz hands."
Eddie groaned. "Don't you dare take sweetheart away from me."
Steve gave him a look. "You've never called me sweetheart."
Eddie pointed at him with his beer. "Exactly. And it's going to hit so hard when I drop it in front of your mom. Instant melt."
Steve opened his mouth, paused, sighed. "Fine. Sweetheart. But only if you say it like a human person and not like you're quoting a bad noir movie."
Eddie smirked. "Can't make promises I can't keep, babycakes."
"Eddie."
"Fine, fine," Eddie said, hands raised in mock surrender. "Sweetheart it is."
Steve sat back, shaking his head, trying not to laugh. "Okay. Next. Affection."
Eddie immediately perked up, eyes gleaming. "Finally. Physical contact. The good stuff. Let's go." He clapped.
"I'm talking about what's appropriate," Steve said quickly. "What we can sell without making it weird."
Eddie looked personally offended. "You think I'm the liability here?"
"I know you are."
Eddie gasped dramatically and clutched at his heart. "How dare—"
"I'm serious," Steve cut in. "No surprise kisses. No—whatever you were doing with your eyebrows just now. Minimal touching."
Eddie's face fell like he'd just been told Christmas was canceled.
"No touching?" he repeated, horrified. "Steve, I can't not touch you. You have the perfect fake boyfriend ass. You've got that flop-messy hair people want to put their hands in. And don't get me started on the arm thing. The... hands on the hips, little sigh when you're tired thing."
Steve blinked. "I do not sigh."
"You absolutely sigh."
"I'm trying to make this manageable."
"You're trying to make this unbelievable." Eddie sat up, jabbing a finger at him. "We're supposed to be dating. In love. You think your mom's not gonna notice if I act like we've got a church camp purity ring pact?"
Steve opened his mouth, but Eddie was already on a roll.
"She's gonna take one look at us and go, 'They're not touching. They're lying. My son is paying this boy to be here.' And then this whole plan crashes and burns. Boom. Emotional wreckage. Ashes."
Steve dragged a hand down his face. "You just want an excuse to touch my ass."
"I don't need an excuse," Eddie said, deadly serious. "But it helps."
There was a long beat. Steve stared at him, beer halfway to his lips.
Then, finally, he muttered, "Fine. Light touching. Controlled touching."
Eddie grinned like the devil. "What's controlled."
Steve pointed at him. "If your hand goes below my waist for more than five seconds, I'm pulling the plug."
"I'm counting to five so slow," Eddie murmured.
"Eddie."
"Sweetheart."
Steve groaned, leaned his head back against the chair, and stared at the ceiling. "This is going to be the longest week of my life."
Eddie tipped his beer back, smacked his lips, and asked casually, "So, tonight—do I get to sleep in your room?"
Steve blinked. "What? No. My parents aren't even here until tomorrow. Why, in what world, would you sleep in my room tonight?"
Eddie shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Practice."
Steve stared. "Practice."
"Yeah, y'know—get a feel for the layout, the routine. The aura." He leaned back, draping his arm across the back of the couch like he was already halfway to moving in. "I need to know what side of the bed I sleep on. Do you snore? Do I get my own pillow? These are important things, Harrington."
Steve glared. "No. Absolutely not."
Eddie just raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed.
Steve pointed at him. "When my parents are here, you sleep on the floor."
Eddie clutched his chest in mock betrayal. "On the floor? Is that any way to treat your loving, supportive, entirely fake boyfriend? What if one of your parents walks in at night? Huh? You think they're gonna believe we're madly in love if I'm curled up next to your gym bag like a stray cat?"
Steve groaned, already regretting everything. "Fine. Bed—but only when they're here."
Eddie grinned, victorious. "Great." He pursed his lips. "Does that include cuddling?"
Steve's glare could've melted steel.
Eddie held up his hands. "Just checking. Gotta know where the lines are."
"There are lines," Steve said flatly. "Many of them. Firm. Non-negotiable."
Eddie nodded solemnly, then took another sip of his beer. "Cool, cool. So. While we're talking practice..."
Steve narrowed his eyes. "No."
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"Yes, I do."
Eddie smirked. "What if we just... ran through one kiss?"
Steve choked. "Absolutely not."
"Just one!" Eddie insisted, scooting a little closer on the couch. "We need to make sure it doesn't look awkward or forced. You want it to look natural, right? What if your mom expects a goodbye kiss? Or, like, a casual peck after dinner?"
Steve held up a hand like he was warding off evil. "No kissing. Not until absolutely necessary."
Eddie pouted. "But what if I freeze up under pressure? You want me to go in blind?"
"You don't have to kiss like you're defusing a bomb," Steve snapped. "You just—ugh. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."
Eddie leaned back again, looking far too pleased with himself. "So that's a maybe."
Steve groaned, finishing the rest of his beer in one long, suffering swallow.
Eddie set his beer down with deliberate care, like he was making room for something serious.
He turned to face Steve fully, legs criss-crossed, palms open in surrender.
His face was unnervingly sincere, which, coming from Eddie, only meant trouble.
"Okay, hear me out," he said solemnly. "You think it's no big deal, you think it'll be easy. But Steve—what if you go left and I go left?"
Steve frowned. "What?"
"Our heads," Eddie said, voice grave. "The lean. It's a delicate dance. One wrong move and boom, noses collide, sparks die, romance crumbles. You want to be nose-bumping in front of your mother while she's holding a casserole dish?"
Steve opened his mouth to argue, but Eddie steamrolled right over him, eyes wide now with the momentum of a man possessed.
"And what if there's no umph in it?" Eddie continued, leaning forward, fingers steepled. "No heat, no sizzle. What if we kiss and it's all limp and cold like a wet sock and your dad just stares at us in pity? Do you want to be pitied, Steve?"
Steve rubbed his temples. "Oh my god."
Eddie kept going. "Or worse—what if someone uses tongue and the other person winces?" He shuddered dramatically. "That's unforgivable. That's relationship-ending. That's Oscar-level fake dating, and not in a good way."
He scooted closer on the couch, eyes alight with wicked amusement. "Do you want to know what a bad kiss looks like, Steve?"
"No," Steve said immediately, holding his ground. "I don't."
Too late.
Eddie turned toward him and launched into a full demonstration—first leaning in to his own hand stiffly, lips pursed like a dead fish, eyes wide open.
"This," he said between unmoving lips, "is the lifeless mouth press. I call it the middle school disaster."
Steve tried not to laugh. Failed.
Eddie switched tactics—suddenly lunging forward with exaggerated lips and wild hands, making exaggerated slurping noises like a horror show. "And this," he declared, leaning back dramatically, "is Too Much Tongue Travis. Classic mistake. Scarred me for life."
Steve was actually laughing now, despite himself, head tilted back, beer forgotten on the arm of his chair. "Jesus Christ, Eddie."
Eddie grinned, delighted. "See? You're already loosening up."
"I'm not kissing you."
Eddie gave him an overly patient look. "Not even a dry run? A little peck? No tongue. Real G-rated. Just enough to test chemistry and directional coordination."
Steve met his eyes, deadpan. "You trying to turn this into a lab experiment?"
"I'm trying to protect your honor, Harrington. You brought me into this. Let me help you shine."
Steve narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. "No tongue?"
Eddie raised his right hand. "Swear on Dio."
There was a beat. Then another.
And maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the absurdity of it all. Maybe it was the way Eddie said dry run like this was some kind of strategic military op. But Steve sighed... long, suffering, and just a little curious.
"One kiss," he muttered. "Singular. Practice only."
Eddie's grin was slow, sly, and entirely too smug. "For the mission," he said solemnly.
Steve leaned in.
So did Eddie.
It was soft.
Barely there.
Just the lightest brush of lips... quick, restrained, clean. G-rated, like Eddie had promised.
No tongue.
No dramatics.
Just warm breath and the faintest catch of hesitation between them, like the moment didn't know what it was becoming until it already had.
When they pulled back... almost at the exact same time... Steve blinked like someone had turned a light on too fast.
He shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and immediately reached for his beer like it had answers in it.
Eddie, on the other hand, looked like he'd just discovered a new planet.
"Whoa," he said, quiet and wide-eyed.
Steve stared straight ahead. "It was fine."
Eddie turned toward him, grinning now, practically glowing. "Steve. Come on."
"What?" Steve took a long sip. Too long. "We said dry run. That's all it was."
Eddie let out a delighted little laugh and leaned back into the couch, stretching out like a man who'd just won a game no one told Steve they were playing. "That was a really really good fake kiss."
Steve shook his head. "Rule one. Don't make it weird." He reminded again.
"Too late," Eddie said, beaming. "You felt it, right? There was spark. A little razzle dazzle."
"It was a logistical check," Steve said, too quickly. "It's not that deep."
Eddie kept grinning, but now there was something softer under it... something that almost looked like satisfaction. "Sure. Okay. Not deep."
Steve refused to look at him.
Eddie reached for his beer again, humming to himself like someone who knew exactly what he was doing. "Man," he said. "Imagine what the second kiss is gonna feel like."
"I am ten seconds away from swapping you with Gareth as my fake boyfriend," Steve muttered, still refusing to look at him.
Eddie choked on his beer, coughing out a laugh. "Gareth? Oh yeah, that'll sell. Your parents'll take one look at that nervous little ferret and call the church."
Steve finally looked over, deadpan. "He's less chaotic."
"He's also terrified of eye contact and would cry if your mom asked him to pass the salt." Eddie wiggled his brows. "Whereas I am charming, disarming, and devilishly committed to the craft."
"You're an ass," Steve said.
"I'm a gift," Eddie corrected, raising his bottle in a lazy toast. "And you're lucky to have me—fake or otherwise."
Steve took another long pull from his beer, mostly to avoid responding.
He wasn't sure what annoyed him more: the smirking, the teasing, or the fact that he had felt something in that kiss—just for a second, just enough to notice. And that Eddie had noticed, too.
He stood abruptly, grabbing both their empty bottles. "We should go over more stuff."
Eddie tilted his head. "What kind of stuff?"
"Basic couple shit," Steve said, walking into the kitchen and rinsing the bottles with a little more force than necessary. "Like... who cooks."
"You don't," Eddie called after him.
Steve came back, scowling. "You don't know that."
Eddie grinned. "Steve. You once burned soup."
Steve flopped back down into his chair. "It was one time."
"Once is enough when it's soup."
Steve groaned. "Okay, fine. You cook. We'll say you've been helping me learn or something."
Eddie beamed. "Aww. My sweet dumb boyfriend, struggling to boil water."
Steve gave him a withering look. "Call me dumb one more time and I'm faking a breakup before breakfast."
Eddie grinned, completely unbothered. "You gonna write me a note and slide it under my door? Real high school of you."
"I'll do it in glitter pen, Munson. Don't tempt me."
Steve headed back into the kitchen to rinse out the bottles and avoid eye contact, again. He could feel Eddie trailing behind him without looking—like a shadow that talked too much.
Eddie leaned on the counter, chin propped on his hand like a kid watching his favorite cartoon. "Hey—wait. Does Robin know about this?"
Steve paused, water running over his fingers. "No."
Eddie straightened. "What?"
"I didn't tell her."
"You didn't tell Robin?" Eddie's voice pitched up, somewhere between scandalized and gleeful. "Steve. She's your platonic soul mate. The one person who knows all your weird little coffee rituals and your shampoo brand. She's gonna murder you."
Steve shut the tap and grabbed a towel. "Yeah, well, I figured it was better if she didn't know. She's a terrible liar."
Eddie squinted. "She's not that bad."
"She once tried to cover for me skipping a shift and told Keith I fell from five stories high and somehow survived with only a few scratches."
"...Okay, yeah, that's fair."
Steve threw the towel over his shoulder and turned to face him. "I'll tell her eventually. Just—after they leave."
Eddie crossed his arms. "You really think we're gonna get through this whole week without Robin picking up on the weird energy between us?"
Steve raised an eyebrow. "There's weird energy?"
Eddie smiled wide. "There will be."
Steve opened his mouth to respond but didn't. Because somewhere deep down, he already knew: Robin was going to figure it out. She'd know. She always knew.
And worse—he wasn't totally sure what she'd be wrong about.
Eddie nudged him with an elbow. "Better hope she doesn't show up mid-scene, man. You think your mom's hard to fool?"
Steve exhaled through his nose. "I hate that you're right."
"I live to be right."
"You live to cause problems."
Eddie grinned, bumping his shoulder again. "Same thing."
Eddie reached past Steve and grabbed a paper towel, casually wiping a nonexistent crumb from the counter like he belonged there. Like this was already his house.
"You know what would really blow this whole plan wide open?" he said, far too cheerfully.
Steve narrowed his eyes. "What now."
"Dustin."
Steve froze.
Eddie grinned, catching it. "Exactly. Imagine it—he stops by, all wide-eyed and seventeen going on thirty. Sees me in your house, in your clothes, calls you out in five seconds flat."
Steve groaned. "Unbelievable."
Eddie shrugged, leaning against the fridge like a man at peace with chaos. "You know he'll sniff this out instantly. The kid has like, fake-dar. Built-in lie detector. It's horrifying."
"He's out of town this week," Steve muttered, trying to reassure himself more than Eddie. "Science camp. I checked."
Eddie raised both brows. "You checked?"
"I have to be thorough. You think I'd risk Dustin Henderson throwing a wrench in all of this on day two?"
Eddie let out a low whistle. "Wow. You've really thought this through."
Steve gave him a sharp look. "Of course I have. You think I want to spend a week with my parents and explain to Dustin why I'm pretending to date a guy who once did a keg stand off the roof of a moving van?"
"That was one time," Eddie said, mock-offended. "And I stuck the landing."
"Only because you landed in a bush."
"I lived... didn't I?" Eddie said, lifting both hands like he was being unfairly targeted.
Steve crossed his arms and leveled Eddie with a look. "Just... don't mess this up."
Eddie gasped. "Mess this up? Stevie, please. All I have to do is exist in front of them. Be everything they hate. That's me naturally."
He held up a finger. "Long hair."
Another. "Tattoos."
A third. "Poor."
He pointed to himself with both hands now, grinning like the devil. "And for the grand finale—bonus points—I'm a guy. I may actually send one of them into an early grave. You're welcome."
Steve sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Because this is definitely what I need. Assisted homicide."
"Look at it this way," Eddie said, sliding up onto the counter like he owned the place. "If one of them strokes out from the shock, the visit's cut short and you get peace. You're the winner here."
"Oh—" Eddie held up a finger like he'd just remembered something vital, "and if one of them does happen to die early, I'm getting some of your share of the inheritance."
Steve snapped his head around, scandalized. "You are not putting yourself in my parents will."
Eddie shrugged, totally unfazed, legs swinging off the counter. "You invited me into this emotional nightmare. I deserve hazard pay. Or at least a little posthumous compensation. Think of it as—grief insurance."
"Grief insurance," Steve repeated flatly.
"Exactly." Eddie pointed a lazy finger at him. "Trauma tax. You're rich. You'll be fine."
"I'm not rich," Steve grumbled.
Eddie gestured broadly to the kitchen, the house, the tastefully bland furniture. "Okay, but you have matching hand towels and three kinds of sea salt, so you're not not rich."
Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, because—he wasn't wrong.
Eddie leaned back on his hands, smirking like he'd won something. "Anyway. You should be grateful. Most guys wouldn't fake date you for only two hundred dollars and plan your parent's premature death and help you finally come to terms with your deep-rooted need for emotional validation."
"I swear to God," Steve muttered, turning and heading for the hallway.
"You're gonna miss me when this is over!"
Steve didn't even look back. "We'll see."
But he was smiling—just barely—as he disappeared down the hall.