082

trigger warning - assault, panic attack

Slowly, you take another sip of your coffee, tiredly blinking over at Eddie sitting across from you, munching on his last bites of his cereal.

It's Sunday, almost noon.

Almost time for you to head for work.

The talk with Hopper and Wayne lies back a day now. Everything slowed down into a quiet lull afterwards, you two didn't do much, just ordered some pizza, turned on a movie, and immediately after eating and taking his meds, Eddie crashed again, knocked out by painkillers and exhaustion.

You'd stayed up, picked at the food, watched half the movie alone with Eddie's head in your lap, zoning out while stroking his hair.

Your mind refused to still.It spun and spun. Courtrooms, tapes, faces, voices. Billy's voice. Hopper's warnings. The look on Eddie's face when he said he wouldn't let anyone near you again.

You watched him sleep for hours, eventually woke him to switch to your bed, and when he fell asleep again, you just continued watching him.

Sleep came in pieces, ten minutes here, a half hour there. Mostly, you laid still, listened to him breathe beside you, the image of Billy behind your eyelids every time they fluttered shut.

He's up for half an hour now, still groggy, still in yesterday's sweats, still without a shirt. His bruises changed colors over night, but he still looks as battled as yesterday.

You two share a look over the rims of your coffee mugs. Despite his state, he winks at you, making you blush instantly. "You look good today", he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You're already showered and dressed, ready to leave for work in a few minutes. Black tights, ripped denim skirt, a band shirt two sizes too big. Three coffees deep, half your face hidden behind concealer and mascara, but the dark beneath your eyes still cuts through.

You snort softly. "You say that like you're surprised".

He smirks, but the tired doesn't leave his eyes. "You slept better last night?", he asks, knowing the answer already.

"Yeah", you lie.

His brow arches. "Yeah? You sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"Sam."

You sigh, cup gripped in both hands. "Fine. I barley slept. I don't know. My brain's being an asshole. Just won't let me sleep much. But at least no more nightmares, so I guess that's an improvement".

He frowns.n"You should've woken me".

"Why?", you ask, shrugging lightly, "So we could both lie there and stare at the ceiling? You needed rest, Eds. Look at you".

"I always need rest", he grumbles, "Doesn't mean you get to run yourself into the ground. I don't like the idea of you drowning in your thoughts at night while I'm snoring in your ear".

"It's fine, babe." You give him a small smile. "Just some insomnia. It'll pass. Maybe I'll take one of your little helpers tonight to help me unwind. Something light. Just to chill me out, find some sleep, you know."

Eddie's eyes meet yours, he looks confused, as if he's not sure he understands you right. "Little helpers? Like, pills?"

"Yeah", you shrug, emptying your cup and reaching for his empty cereal bowl while standing up. "I mean you still got a whole stash in our bedroom. Might as well take advantage of that as long as it's still there".

Eddie straightens in his seat, his eyes follow you as you walk over to the kitchenette to put the dishes into the sink. "Nope. Absolutely not. That's not happening."

You turn, blink at him while reaching for dir the milk to put back into the fridge, "What? Why not?"

"You know I'd do anything to help you sleep, Sam. I'd fucking trace your face all damn night if that's what it takes, or fuck you unconscious so you'll just pass out, even with my busted ribs. But I'm not giving you drugs. I'm not starting that."

You sigh, closing the fridge and putting the box of cereal back into the cupboard, "Yeah. You're right. I'll probably be fine tonight anyways. Forget I asked, okay?"

Your boyfriend grumbles something under his breath, crosses his arms across his naked chest and watches you.

You meet his gaze and sigh. "Eds, I won't take anything okay? It was just an idea. A bad one."

Slowly, he nods, scratching his stubbly chin and taking another sip of coffee.

You check the time, head back to him and wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind, leaning down, and starting to pepper kisses against his cheek, jaw and neck, lips brushing the bruises.

He snorts a little. "What's this now?"

"Just being annoying", you mumble, "Don't want you to be mad at me for asking".

"I'm not mad", he mumbles, "You're just exhausted, I get why you wanna sleep so badly. But once you start with that, there's no going back, and I don't wanna make you an addict."

"I know", you whisper, "Thanks for watching out for me." Your lips meet his stubby skin again, another row of kisses finding his face.

He shifts, too fast, and winces, hissing through his teeth.

You immediately pull back, guilt flashing across your face. "Shit, sorry, you okay?"

But he reaches for you, pulling you close again until you're standing next to him. His arm loops around your waist and he leans into your chest, head dropping like a magnet to your tits. "Don't pull away", he mumbles into your shirt, "Ugh, I swear to god, babe, you're magic. How do you always smell so good?"

You scratch your nails lightly through his curls, then down his back. "I gotta go in a few minutes", you mumble, chuckling at how he snuggles deeper into your chest, his hand now resting on your ass.

"I'll get ready in a sec", he murmurs into your shirt, "Then I'm coming with you".

You frown. "Mh? Coming where?"

"To work".

You laugh, softly caressing his hair. "No. You're not, Eds".

"I'm fine", he states, already pushing himself up a little straighter.

"No, you're not", you say gently, "You're gonna stay right here and rest, and I will make the money, baby".

He looks up at you, serious now. That shift behind his eyes always makes your stomach twist. "I don't like the idea of you going alone."

"He's locked up", you whisper softly, sliding some of his curls out of his face. "He's not getting out right now. He's no threat, not today. And I'm not alone. Pat's there. I'll be fine. There's no need for you to watch me for 5 hours, babe".

Eddie's jaw tenses. "Still doesn't sit right. I'll drive you, at least."

"Your van's still at the motel", you remind him, "And you're definitely not driving my car. And, you're probably not in a good condition to drive anyways. You can barely sit".

He looks frustrated, but doesn't argue.

"I'll head there myself", you continue, "Just a few hours. I'll grab groceries after and be back by six, six-thirty. Tops. How about I'll cook us some dinner tonight, mh? Maybe some pasta?"

He still doesn't like it. You reach up, brush his hair behind his ear, trail your fingers along his jaw. "You take a shower when Wayne's up, take your meds, watch a movie, chill. If anything happens, I'll call. Promise".

"Bad gut feeling", he mutters.

"Probably just your bruised kidney", you smirk, and he finally cracks a small grin. You guide his head back to your chest, letting him rest there, hearing how he inhales deeply. "Just stay here, Eds."

He mumbles something into your shirt, hands around your hips.

"What was that?"

He shifts, rubbing his face against your tits like a cat. "Happy place", he sighs, "Missed the twins".

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Jesus Christ".

Before you can even react, he lifts your shirt up and ducks underneath it. "Damn, baby, no bra?", he cackles, then buries his face right there between your tits, "Ah, yes, perfect".

You're groaning now, hands in his hair as he squishes his face between your boobs and brushes his lips over your skin.

"Oh god", he groans like he's dying, "this is heaven. I've died and gone to titty heaven."

You throw your head back, laughing, your fingers tangled in his curls, your hand resting on the back of his head, "You're such a freak."

"Mmm, freak in love", he mumbles under the cotton, snuggling in closer, "Can you blame me? These are the best goddamn pillows on Earth. Like two perfect clouds. All soft and warm and mine."

You glance into the collar hole of your shirt, catching sight of his ridiculous grin and fluttering lashes as he smooshes his cheek between your breasts, making exaggerated kissing sounds. Then, without warning, he motorboats you.

You gasp, dissolve into more giggles, lightly smacking the back of his head. "Eddie!"

"Mmmmm", he hums like he's tasting the world's finest dessert, "This is exactly what the doctor ordered. Boobie therapy."

You're laughing so hard your eyes water, trying not to spill your coffee as his warm hands grip your hips for support. "You're such a menace", you wheeze.

Then - click. The sound of a door opening.

You freeze.

Across the room, you spot Wayne stepping out of his room. He's got his cigarette already lit, wearing the same flannel and jeans from yesterday, his eyes bleary and half-awake, until they land squarely on the image of his half-naked nephew buried under your shirt. He stops. Raises his eyebrows. Silent. Just standing there.

You slap your hand over your mouth to keep from cackling, the other tapping Eddie's shoulder rapidly, "Eds. Eds. Eddie".

He doesn't hear. Still nuzzled. Still smooching. "Five more minutes", he mutters dreamily, "Just five. I'm healing here, baby".

"Eddie, Wayne's here."

"Don't care," he mumbles, "Let the man learn about priorities."

You snort, struggling to contain yourself, "Seriously. Wayne's standing right there".

That finally gets through.

Eddie groans dramatically as he pulls back, dragging his face from between your boobs like he's being ripped away from paradise. He sticks his head out from beneath your shirt, hair sticking out in every direction, eyes half-lidded, smirking like the cockiest idiot alive. He looks at Wayne and grins, totally unbothered. "Morning, old man We were just... bonding".

Wayne exhales a slow stream of smoke, shaking his head, speechless.

Eddie laughs, winks up at you, and you bury your face in your hands, still giggling.

Wayne just shakes his head, muttering something like "Lord help me", as he trudges into the kitchen to pour a coffee.

Eddie leans back in his chair, still smirking as he looks up at you, "So... same time tomorrow?"

You laugh through your blush and smack his shoulder lightly, "Would you shut up, please?"

He grins, looking far too pleased with himself, and you can't help but lean down and kiss his forehead before whispering, "I love you, idiot".

"Love you more", he whispers back, eyes twinkling as Wayne opens a cupboard loudly, probably on purpose, stirring sugar into his coffee like he's trying to erase the last five minutes from his memory. "Honestly", he mutters, not even looking up, "You got no shame, boy".

"Not when it comes to my girl's boobs", Eddie quips proudly, flashing you a wink, "They're a gift, Wayne. You of all people should be grateful I appreciate the finer things in life."

Wayne groans, loud and exaggerated, "Christ, it's too damn early for this. Can't you two go fondle each other like normal people? Under a blanket? Behind a door?"

You snort, grabbing your jacket and bag, sliding your arms through the sleeves while watching them like it's your favorite morning sitcom.

"Oh come on, man", Eddie adds, all mock innocence, "you walked into our common area. It's practically your fault."

Wayne narrows his eyes, finally looking up, "You say one more word about tits before I've had my coffee, and I swear to god, boy, you'll regret it".

You double over laughing, and Eddie snickers, grabbing his side and groaning, "Ow, ow, damn it. Worth it though".

You walk over and lean down to kiss him, soft and lingering, one hand cupping his cheek. "Take it easy today, okay? No heroic stunts. Rest, hydrate, and don't miss me too much, okay?"

"Can't promise anything", he murmurs against your lips, "But I'll try."

You smile, brushing his curls back from his face. "I'll see you tonight. Don't burn the place down while I'm gone".

Wayne grumbles, "No promises. He'd even manage to do that when making himself a fucking sandwich".

You shoot him a grin, grab your keys, and head out the door. As you step onto the porch, your eyes instinctively flicker across the street, but you force yourself not to look directly at the Hargrove trailer. You pretend it isn't there. Like it doesn't matter. Not today.

You get in your car, your chest already heavy with missing Eddie's warmth, the way his arms felt around your waist just minutes ago. But life moves forward, so you start the engine and head downtown.

Hawkins Record Shop

Y

ou're flipping through restocks when Pat strolls over. "Guess what", he mutters while checking some tapes at the counter, "heard some crazy news this morning. That guy you used to hang around with? Hargrove?"

Your stomach drops. Hard. You keep your face carefully neutral, looking up, "Yeah?"

"Heard he got fucking arrested", Pat goes on, eyes wide, "Guy was always kind of a dick, but damn. Apparently he tried to rape and assault some girl."

You blink slowly. Your fingers tighten around the record sleeve in your hand, "Didn't hear that yet".

Pat shakes his head. "Everyone's talking about it today. Whole store's been buzzing since we opened. Guess he's being charged. Like, real charges. I'm glad you dumped him."

You look down, pretending to straighten the shelf. Your pulse is thudding in your throat. "Yeah..."

"People like that...", Pat sighs, "They always seem untouchable until something like this happens."

You nod again, quietly. "Uh-huh".

"Anyway", he adds quickly, almost trying to change the mood, "I'm just glad whoever it was got out safe. That's the important part."

Your jaw clenches. You don't say anything. Just keep moving, eyes down, heart pounding in your chest. You've got hours ahead, and all you can think about is Eddie's hand on your waist, the way he held you this morning like he never wanted to let go.

And how badly you want to be back there.

The day drags on. It crawls, basically.

Every customer that walks in brings with them a fresh wave of nausea. A new opinion. A hushed voice, a not-so-hushed whisper. A joke. A judgment.

You busy yourself pretending to alphabetize the cassette tapes, again. You're not even reading the names. Just moving them. Shuffling them. Doing anything not to listen to a group of people who don't mind gossiping in the middle of the shop.

But you hear it anyway.

"...heard it was at a party. Girl was probably drunk off her ass. These things get murky, y'know? Could've been a misunderstanding".

"I mean, the guy's always been a little intense. But rape? Come on. That's a heavy word. You sure it wasn't just regret?"

"These girls walk around in practically nothing and then cry wolf the second it doesn't go their way. Gimme a break."

You freeze, fingers clenched around a tape. The edges dig into your palm. Your skin burns hot, ears ringing.

They're talking about you.

They don't know it, but they are. Picking you apart like a tabloid story. Deciding who you are. What happened to you. What you said. Didn't say. What you wore. What you drank. Who you are.

They don't even know your name. But they think they know enough to weigh in.

Not all of the people coming in through the day are on Billy's side. Some shake their heads, call him a douchebag, say it was only a matter of time. That he was always mean, violent, scary. That it doesn't surprise them at all.

"He'll fry," one of them said confidently, "Mark my words".

But it doesn't feel any better. The split of it. Like this town is choosing sides in a game, and you're just this faceless pawn they all feel entitled to theorize about.

You can feel the sweat pooling at your lower back. Your mouth is dry. Your vision swims. It's too hot in here. Your clothes feel wrong. Too tight. Too visible.

Like they can see through you.

Like everyone knows, and no one really knows, and that makes it worse.

You disappear to the back room under the guise of grabbing a box of restock vinyls, and lean against the wall, arms wrapped tight around your middle, the breath stolen from your lungs.

You want to scream. Or throw something.Or crawl into Eddie's bed and bury yourself beneath his arms until the world forgets you exist.

But instead, you blink the tears back, splash some cold water on your face, and return to the floor like nothing happened.

Because that's what people do, right?

You nod through the chatter. Smile politely. Sell records to people speculating about your assault. And you pray, beg, for the end of your shift to come faster.

5 hours later, your shift ends with a dull finality.

No one said anything cruel to your face, but their voices still echo in your mind as you pack up your things.

Your limbs feel too heavy, your head too light.

You force a smile, wave a tired goodbye to Pat, and step out into the crisp bite of early evening. The November air hits your cheeks, sharp and cold.

You cross the street, tug your jacket tighter around you, and get into your car with numb fingers. The heater sputters to life as you start the engine, warm air slowly licking at the frost forming on your windshield.

You don't notice the truck a few feet behind you, parked crooked, engine quietly humming. You don't see the headlights switch on once you back out of your spot and pull away from the record store.

You don't see the man following you.

The roads are mostly empty.

Sunday nights in Hawkins always are. Most of the people are already curled up on couches watching cable reruns.

You drive through it like a ghost, your mind spinning with every whispered voice from today.

The grocery store glows faintly ahead.A strip of flickering neon above the door, a couple cars scattered in the lot.

You pull in, park near the middle, grab your bag from the passenger seat and slam the door close behind you.

You don't see the truck slowly rolling on the parking lot, don't notice the eyes watching you through the dirty windshield. Cold, hard, and ice blue. Just as blue as Billy's. And they're glaring at you the same way his did when he showed you what monster hid behind that pretty facade.

You're unaware, lost in your head as walking toward the doors.

Inside the van, Neil Hargrove's knuckles are white around the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. Every muscle in his face pulses with quiet, seething rage.

He saw you walk out of the shop. Watched your face. Your body.

He knows it was you.

Knew it the second he saw Billy in that cell, bloodied and bruised, barely holding himself together. He'd grabbed at the bars, shouted your name like it was a curse.

"It was that little fucking bitch! Sam! She's the one! She fucking did this! She fucking tricked me and put me in here! I didn't do anything!"

And Neil remembered you. Remembered your eyes. That mouth. That tone.

You were always a smartass.

Always mouthing off. Always in the way.

And now? Now you're threatening to destroy everything.

The Hargrove name. His boy. His control.

He can't let that happen. So he waits.Lets you go inside the store. Parks a row over. Quiet. Careful. And he plans.

Because he didn't raise his son to be a criminal. He raised him to be tough. To win.

And he'll be damned if some little bitch is going to take any of that away.

Not without a fight.

Inside the shop, you hum quietly as you walk through the nearly empty aisles, enjoying the oddly peaceful atmosphere that lingers in here this late on a Sunday.

Your fingers trail over the shelves as you slowly fill your shopping basket with a few ingredients for dinner.

Pasta, heavy cream, chicken. Reese's pieces for Eddie. Coffee, cereal, paper towels.

You're absently going through the motions, your mind back at Forest Hills. Back with him. The way he kissed your chest this morning, all silly and soft, the way his curls tickled your skin.

God, you miss him.

Checkout is quick. You pay, thank the tired teenage clerk, and step out into the cold again, your paper grocery bag crinkling softly in your arms.

Your boots echo against the cracked pavement as you cross the dark lot, heading toward your car.

You pause mid-step.

It's nothing specific at first.

Just... a shift.

A chill that has nothing to do with the wind.

You glance around, frowning, trying to pretend like it's just your nerves. Just leftover stress.

But something inside you bristles.

You keep going, eventually reach your car and force your breath to stay even while unlocking it.

The trunk opens with a groan.

You slide the bag inside and close it, your heartbeat picking up now. You turn, confused what's going on with your body, unaware that your instincts are already screaming at you -

and slam directly into the tall figure suddenly standing right behind you.

You gasp, immediately taking a step back, your back hitting your car's trunk as you stare up at Billy's father.

He's so close you can see the bloodshot lines in his pale blue eyes, the twisted curl of his lip as he sneers down at you.

The smell of whiskey hits your nose first, followed by something sour.

"Should've known it was you", he growls, voice low and tight with fury, like a dog that's about to bite. "You always thought you were better than us. Better than Billy. Better than this family."

You try to take another step back, but there's nowhere to go.

"You lied", he spits, "You lying little bitch. You think people are gonna believe your crap? You think they're gonna side with some used-up little whore?"

Your jaw tightens. Your hands won't stop shaking, your heart is pounding.

You're frozen, unable to do anything but stare up at the man that followed you on a dark parking lot and now corners you against your car.

"That's what you are, ain't it?" he hisses, "Just some whore who spread her legs too many times and now wants revenge because someone said no after getting what he wanted."

You flinch, rage and fear colliding inside you.

Billy was the one who couldn't take no for an answer.

Still, his father doesn't stop.

"You think this town gives a shit about your story? About what some girl says happened in the dark?" His words are slurred, venom dripping off every syllable. "Women exist to please men. That's the natural order. But you? You want to play victim 'cause you finally met a real man who wasn't gonna play into your little games?"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

You're scared to death.

This man is so drunk, so aggressive, all you can do is stare at him with wide eyes.

He steps forward, looming over you. "I should've smacked that mouth off your face back when I had the fucking chance to", he growls, "Maybe then you would've learned some respect".

You can feel your spine locking, fury rising under your skin, but you're still trapped.

His face is twisted now, furious and red. Spit flies from his mouth. "Or maybe Billy should've fucked it out of you. You liked it rough, didn't you? Always heard your little moans and screams from his bedroom. That's why you let him back in. You wanted it."

Your hand twitches by your side. Every inch of you is vibrating.

You're cornered. Shaking. Burning.

He leans in, breath hot and foul, his face only inches away from yours.

"You're not ruining my son over nothing. You hear me? You're nothing. You think this is gonna go your way? Think you can just run your mouth, ruin a life, and walk away like it's nothing?"

Your spine straightens despite the tremor that runs through it. You try to keep your voice steady when you finally find it again.

"G-get away from me."

He laughs, dry and humorless. "Oh, no. No, pretty. You don't get to talk to me like that after what you did to my son."

You clench your fists, but your heart is racing faster now, pulse hammering in your ears as your body finally wakes up from your shock stare.

You realize no one's around.

The lot's too dark. Too quiet.

No one will help you if you don't do it yourself.

"You raised a fucking monster", you hiss, voice sharp despite your fear. "He deserves to be fucking locked up."

Hargrove's hand suddenly slams onto the car's closed trunk right beside you, the metallic sound making you flinch.

Still, you stare back up at him.

"Leave me alone", you hiss, voice cracking with the tears of fear already rising up your eyes. "Fucking get away from me!"

He laughs again, mean and loud. "Not until you go back to that station and tell 'em the truth. That Billy didn't do anything. That it was all some drunk mistake."

You have enough. You try to fight him off by lifting your hand to push him away, but he's stronger than you. So much stronger.

He catches your wrist before your hand even touches him, his grip iron-tight around it, twisting until white-hot pain shoots up your arm.

You gasp, a whimper slipping past your lips as he leans in closer, breath reeking of whiskey, voice low and venomous.

"Go back to the station," he repeats, "Tell them it was a mistake. Or I'll hurt you. Real bad". His ice blue eyes wander down your body, slow and bitter, before turning back up to your frightened eyes as he adds, "Maybe I'll do what my son didn't get the chance to."

You freeze.

His words punch the air from your lungs.

This isn't happening.

It can't be.

But the pain in your wrist, his weight, his voice - it's all real.

This isn't a nightmare. This is happening now.

Billy's father followed you, threatens you, and hurts you.

And he seems to fucking enjoy it.

No one's here to help you.

If you don't get away from him, something much worse is going to happen.

You feel it in every of your bones. In your gut. Your chest.

Your panicking, fear and realization crawling their way up your throat.

Neil Hargrove's grip on your wrist tightens. His stare drops back down to your chest. He licks his lips.

That's when Eddie's voice crashes through your mind, clear as a bell.

"If you ever have to fight someone off, go for the eyes, the throat, the balls."

Without wasting another second, you move.

Your knee jerks up. Hard.

It connects.

A sickening crunch.

Neil lets out a guttural sound and crumples forward, his grip loosening just enough for you to wrench your arm free and finally push him away from you.

You stumble back, gasping, your voice raw and cracking as you scream so loudly your lungs burn in pain.

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

You don't wait. You don't breathe. You don't get into your car, afraid he might just break your window and pull you right out again.

The second Neil stumbles back, clutching himself and snarling like a wounded animal, you bolt back to where you came from.

Your legs move before your mind catches up, stumbling back to the store, back to the lights, to help, someone, anyone, crying and gasping in panic.

Your tears run free now as you run away, run for your life, scream for help, hearing Hargrove's guttural sounds behind you.

You almost trip, but keep going, gasping, crying so hard you're almost choking on your own saliva, when finally, there's movement behind the grocery store's door.

Someone heard you.

"Hey! What the hell's going on?!"

A couple leaves the store with a paper bag of groceries, seeing you, the older man behind you, the panic in your face, how you run away from him.

The shop customer drops the bag instantly, glass shattering on the pavement as both of them run toward you.

"Help me", you choke out.

The man immediately starts running after Neil, who's already stopping, snarling through clenched teeth, but backing off. He bolts, cursing under his breath as he limps toward his truck.

The guy tries to follow.

"HEY! I'm calling the cops!"

But Neil's already peeling out of the lot, tires screeching as he drives off.

You don't notice any of that.

The woman catches you before you hit the pavement, her arms wrapping around you without hesitation. "I've got you, I've got you", she murmurs, over and over, gently rocking you as you shake in her arms.

You're sobbing, full-body sobs that rip through you, violent and panicked. Your chest is heaving like it can't find air, your hands trembling so hard you can't even hold yourself up.

She sinks to the ground with you, pulling you into her lap like she's done this before, like she knows what this kind of terror feels like.

"He hurt me", you gasp, "He hurt me-- he tried- h-he said... he said--" "

"I know", she soothes, brushing your hair from your face, her own eyes glassy, "You're safe now, okay? You're safe. He's gone."

But it doesn't feel like it. Not yet.

Her husband returns, breathless, his face pale. "He bolted. I couldn't catch him. He just- he raced off. But I saw his truck, parts of his licence plate". His eyes flick to you, and he turns fast on his heel, sprinting back inside the store. "I'm calling the cops, you stay with her!"

You're still crying, your whole body trembling like a leaf in the wind. "It was Neil", you whimper, "Neil Hargrove. It was him. He grabbed me-- he was gonna... I thought-" You choke on the words, sobbing harder, curling in on yourself.

"I know", the woman murmurs, cradling your head gently to her chest, "I know. It's okay now. You did the right thing. You screamed. We heard you."

"I just-- I just want to go home", you whisper, "Please- I... I want Eddie, I want--" You break again, shoulders convulsing as the name leaves your lips like a prayer, "Please, I want Eddie."

Her arms tighten, "We'll get you home, sweetheart. You're not alone."

Somewhere behind you, the store's lights flood out onto the lot, more voices rising.

Footsteps. People gathering.

But all you can do is hold onto this stranger and cry.

Because for one awful moment, you really believed you weren't going to make it out of this unharmed.

That he was going to do what his son hadn't finished.

The sounds around you blur. Shuffling feet, concerned murmurs, someone asking if you need a blanket, someone else saying the police are on their way.

But it all feels distant, like you're underwater. Like you're not really there.

You don't lift your head from the woman's chest. Her coat is soft, woolen and smells like the outside, wind and smoke and something faintly floral. Her arms don't move, don't shift, don't loosen. She just holds you, like she knows you might fall apart if she doesn't.

You can hear your own breath stuttering, like your lungs don't remember how to work. Every inhale is too short, every exhale shaky. Your cheeks are soaked. Your body won't stop trembling. You're vaguely aware of the sharp sting on your knees, the ache in your wrist, but none of it compares to what's still crashing around inside your chest.

"Ma'am?" A soft, cautious voice. A new one. "The police are here."

You flinch.

The woman's arms tighten instinctively. "It's okay", she says gently, "They're just here to help. No one's gonna touch you, I promise."

You don't move. You can't.

Someone approaches slowly, boots scuffing on the asphalt, a heavy coat rustling as the crowd around you parts at lets the officer through.

You don't even look up, still clutching to that poor woman, right there on the frozen ground.

"Ma'am", a voice says, somewhere above you, "I'm Officer Langley. We're gonna take care of you, alright? Can you tell me your name?"

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

The woman strokes your back slowly, grounding you.

Your voice is raw when it finally works. "I- I just want to go home".

"Ma'am, please, would you look at me and tell me your name? Does anybody here know her name?"

No one answers.

The woman strokes your back again. "Honey, what's your name, mh?", she asks gently, and that's when you finally lift your head to look at the police man standing in front of you.

Your eyes meet, and you freeze the second you recognize who it is.

It's the cop from Friday night. The one who pulled you away from Eddie, yanked your wrists behind your back too tight, threw you into the back of his car, didn't listen, not at first.

The same one who stopped halfway to the station when you couldn't breathe, when your panic caved in your chest so hard you nearly passed out in the backseat. He'd pulled over then. Opened the door. Let you out to help you breathe, told you to look up into the night sky when your panic threatened to suffocate you.

Still, he treated you like shit. Like fucking garbage. Until finally, the tables turned and he realized you weren't a threat to anybody.

Something in his face changes. He recognizes you, too.

"You?"

You don't answer. You can't.

He drops to his haunches, voice already in his radio. "This is Langley, I've got a 10-50, possible repeat assault victim, requesting Hopper on-site. Repeat: get Chief Hopper here, now. Repeat assault victim, possible suspect fleeing the scene."

The woman holding you shifts a little, like she doesn't want to let you go but knows she might have to.

Langley reaches for you.

You flinch, lifting your hand in some attempt to shield your scared body. "No--"

He freezes, sees the faint bruising still wrapped around your wrists.

His cuffs. The ones he locked too tight two nights ago, convinced you were the problem. He swallows hard. "I'm not gonna hurt you", he says, voice low, rough with guilt, "Let me help you. Who did this? Who-..."

But you can't hear the rest.

Your body's shaking too hard, the adrenaline draining from your system in violent waves.

You're gasping again, each breath wet and ragged, each exhale a sob you can't stop.

The fear, the shock, it's all bleeding out now, leaving behind a hollow kind of ache.

You curl in tighter, but your limbs don't want to obey. You feel small. Broken. Cold.

Langley backs off just enough, hands raised like you're a cornered animal, talking into his radio, saying Neil's name. The woman probably told him what you gasped when she caught you. Whose name you said.

You didn't even hear them talk, drowning in yourself, your blood rushing in your ears.

She strokes your hair, whispers something soft, something motherly and protective. Her coat surrounds you like a shield.

Langley's still there, just a shadow in your periphery, still speaking low into his radio.

You can't move. You're in shock, trembling, veins filled with frozen fear. You keep sobbing Eddie's name. "Eddie... Eddie... I want Eddie."

The woman strokes your back gently, her voice low, "Sweetheart... is Eddie your boyfriend?"

You nod, barely, a twitch of your head. You can't even open your eyes.

She leans in closer, "What's his full name, honey? What's his last name?"

"M-Munson", you breathe, the word catching in your throat, "Eddie Munson."

She looks up immediately. "Dave!", she calls to her husband, who's pacing nearby, watching the lot, arms crossed like he's ready to fight anyone who gets too close, "Dave, someone has to call that boy. Get him here. Eddie Munson. She needs him".

He's already moving, rushing inside the store toward the landline phone near the counter.

You don't even hear the door swing behind him.

Because in the next second, there's the roar of another engine. Louder, heavier. Tires screeching.

A second cruiser swings into the lot like it's a goddamn movie, headlights flaring, brakes squealing as it skids to a stop just short of the curb.

The door flies open before the wheels have stopped spinning.

"Hopper!" Langley calls, standing fast, waving him over, "Over here!"

Your body tenses at the sound. Some old, deep instinct bracing for more pain, but the woman's arms stay steady around you.

Then you hear boots. Heavy ones. A presence.

"Jesus Christ", comes a familiar gruff voice, "Is that her? Samantha?"

You force your eyes open, just a crack.

Hopper's already kneeling, his huge form blocking out the world behind him. His face goes tight with concern the second he sees you curled up on the pavement in someone else's arms, shivering like a leaf, eyes swollen from crying. He sees the the terror in your face. He sees everything.

"What the hell happened?" he barks to Langley.

"Neil Hargrove. A witness said she said his name before collapsing, it looked like he assaulted her, she says. The girl doesn't talk. Keeps asking for the Munson boy".

Hopper's jaw tightens, his mouth flattening into a thin, hard line. "Of course she does", he mutters, then softens, turning back to you, "Hey. I'm here, alright? You're safe now. No one's gonna hurt you. Not ever again."

You said that before, Hopper, and look at me now.

You open your mouth, trying to speak, to say exactly that, but the only thing that comes out is a whisper. "Eddie."

Hopper nods, already reaching for his radio to tell one of his officers to drive to Forest Hills. "We'll get him. He's on his way, you hear me?" he mumbles, before turning to the woman still holding you. "Don't let go of her. Not until he's here".

She tightens her grip, nods. "I won't".

Time stops meaning anything.

It stretches and bends, swallows itself whole.

Could've been five minutes or fifty, but you're still there, folded up in this stranger's arms like you belong to her, like your body's forgotten how to do anything else but cry.

And cry you do.

Gut-wrenching sobs that come from somewhere so deep inside, you didn't even know the place existed.

Every breath is soaked in pain, every whisper of Eddie's name like a lifeline fraying in your hands.

The woman doesn't let go.

Her coat is wrapped around you like armor, her fingers a soft rhythm through your hair. She never asks you to calm down. Never tells you to breathe.

She just stays, letting you fall apart as long as you need to.

Her warmth the only thing between you and the cold black void trying to pull you under.

Around you, the lot is alive.

People have gathered, a few curious, a few concerned, some just quietly standing by as the horror unfolds around them.

Langley is off to the side, talking into his radio again, and two other officers are now walking around, taking statements.

Hopper's still there, he's never moved more than a few feet away. He's been speaking low with Dave, the woman's husband, who's got a look on his face like he's ready to hunt Hargrove down himself.

They're talking about what they saw, what they heard.

"She said his name", Dave tells Hopper. "Neil. She said it. We ran out and... and it looked bad. Real bad."

Hopper nods. His eyes flick toward you constantly, like he's just waiting for the moment you speak.

But you don't.

You're stuck somewhere between the past and the present. You're not really here.

"Chief, I think she needs a doctor", the woman calls. "She's in shock. She's freezing. Her lips are turning blue. She said that man hurt her."

Hopper crouches again, his voice soft but laced with urgency now. "We've got a paramedic unit en route", he says, "Hang on just a little longer".

Another engine.

Hopper straightens as the cruiser screeches into the lot, barely parking before the back door is ripped open.

Your head turns. Something tells you to look.

The second the car stops, the back door slams open, hard and fast. Eddie's explodes out of the car like something feral, wild-eyed and shaking, already sprinting.

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Doesn't care that Hopper's between you. Doesn't care about the people or the uniforms.

"WHERE IS SHE? SAM!"

His voice is strangled, breaking the second he sees you on the ground, "Oh my God--" and then he's crashing down to his knees in front of you, hands already reaching, already pulling you into him.

You fold against him like you were made to. Like your whole body knew the second it felt his. Your fingers twist in his jacket. You sob into his chest. Your entire frame collapses against his and you break.

"What happened? Who did this? Who the fuck did this to her?!" he yells over your shoulder, voice cracking with fury, eyes burning as he looks at Hopper, at anyone, at everyone. His voice wavers, furious and terrified, like his heart is being ripped straight out of his chest. "She was just supposed to come home! She was just supposed to fucking come home to me, what the fuck happened?!"

You can't talk. You can barely breathe, but your hands are clutching his shirt, your body clinging to his like he's the only thing keeping you alive.

And maybe he is.

"Eds", you sob, over and over.

He cradles you closer, rocking you like he can absorb the shaking out of you.

"I've got you. I'm here. You're safe now. You're okay. I'm here". His voice shatters again. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

You don't hear the murmuring crowd anymore. You don't feel the cold. You don't see Hopper watching with his jaw clenched and eyes wet.

The world shrinks to Eddie, to his breath in your ear, to the way he holds you like he'll never let anyone take you from him again.

He pulls you up with him, his hands under your arms, trembling with effort as he rises to his feet. He winces, his ribs still hurt, but he doesn't care. Doesn't feel it, not when he's looking at you.

Your lips are blue. Your body's a mess of shivers and spasms, and for a second he can't breathe. For a second he thinks he might fall apart entirely.

But then you're in his chest again, and he's folding his arms around you so tight it hurts, like he could press every broken piece of you back together with sheer force. "Fuck, fuck, baby", he breathes into your hair, kissing the crown of your head over and over, rocking you like he's trying to reset time "It's okay. I've got you. I've got you. I'm here now". His breath stutters, his body locked around yours, and you feel him start to sway again.

It's instinctual. A gentle back-and-forth, like a lullaby you used to know, like he's trying to sing you out of hell with just his heartbeat.

You cling to him, burying yourself into his warmth, his scent, the way he feels like home. You cry harder, soaking his shirt, your fists twisted tight into the fabric like you'll never let go again.

Eddie lifts his head, eyes glassy with unshed tears, and glares at Hopper like he might lunge.

"You said she was safe now," he snarls, his voice raw, cracking, low and murderous. "You said it was done. She told me she'd be fine, she said she'd just head to work, just grab some groceries, just get some fucking dinner, and this..." he looks down at you, your shaking, crumpled form against his chest, "this is what happens?! Some cop bangs at my door, making me think she's fucking dead for a second before telling me my girlfriend was assaulted at a parking lot? WHAT THE FUCK, HOPPER!"

He's shaking. Vibrating with rage.

"When is this over, huh?! When the fuck do we finally get to breathe without someone trying to rip her apart?!" His voice climbs, sharp and desperate. "Do I have to kill every last one of those Hargrove bastards myself?! Is that what it fucking takes?! Because I will. Don't test me - I fucking will."

Hopper tries to step forward, his hands half-raised in peace, but Eddie snaps.

"DON'T. Don't you fucking come near her. You think telling her it's safe makes it true? Why didn't you make her stay home if this town's still a goddamn war zone for her?! Huh?! WHY DIDN'T YOU PROTECT HER, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE?!"

The air crackles with the weight of his voice. People flinch. Officers exchange glances.

Hopper's face hardens, but he says nothing.

You sob into Eddie's chest like you'll never stop, clinging to him.

He keeps rocking you, arms tight, lips in your hair, heart in his throat. "I'm here", he whispers down at you, over and over, the words breaking against your skin, "I'm here. I've got you. Nobody's ever gonna hurt you again, I swear."

You won't let go.

They try everything. They say they just want to help, that you need a doctor, that there's a station to go to, that you need to make a statement.

But all of it might as well be smoke in the wind.

You don't move. You don't breathe without Eddie.

And he doesn't loosen his hold for even a second.

Someone tries to touch you. A medic, reaching to check your pulse, and you flinch, a choked sob rattling from your throat as you bury yourself deeper into Eddie's chest.

He snaps. "Don't fucking touch her!"His arms tighten around you. "Step the fuck back."

"Sir-"

"Don't. I'm not telling you again".

He's breathing like he's ready to throw a punch. Every inch of him is tight, coiled, done.

No one else touches you. Not now. Not ever again.

Another officer steps forward, one of Hopper's, trying to reason.

Eddie glares at him, shaking with fury, and turns his attention back to the chief himself. "You know who fucking did this", he growls, his voice dark and shaking, like something barely leashed, "You know. So go find him, Hopper. Find that sack of shit and throw him in the goddamn cage with his bastard son before I fucking find him first".

"Eddie, we.. ", Hopper starts, but your boyfriend won't even let him talk.

"No! I'm done, man. I'm done trying to be polite and reasonable and calm. Look at her!" His voice cracks, his throat closing. "She's a shadow of who she was. You see that? You see what they keep doing to her? She didn't do anything wrong. All she did was leave that psycho's fucked up son and fall in love with me. That's it. That's her whole fucking crime."

You make a sound. A small, broken hiccup of grief, and Eddie immediately softens, murmuring to you, petting your hair.

But his eyes stay locked on Hopper, venom and sorrow burning in them all at once.

The medics try again. Officers shuffle forward. Someone says you need to go with them, to the hospital, just for basic care.

But Eddie won't let you go. He shields you with his whole body, snarling like something cornered and bleeding, refusing to budge.

"No one's taking her", he snaps, "She stays with me. No one keeps her safe but me."

"Eddie", Hopper says, stepping forward, but it's too late.

Eddie shifts you gently in his arms, lowering you just enough so he can grab your keys from your jacket pocket. You cling to him, your sobs soft now, tired, but your hands still won't leave his body.

He unlocks your car, opens the door, and lifts you like glass into the passenger seat.

The second your back hits the fabric, your arms reach for him again, like your body doesn't know how to be without him anymore.

"I'm right here, my love", he whispers, brushing the hair from your wet cheeks, kissing your forehead, your jaw, anywhere he can reach. "I'm right here''. Then he buckles your belt, gives your hand a squeeze, and shuts the door gently.

He rounds the car, pain shooting up through his ribs with every step, but he doesn't care. He's already in the driver's seat, already starting the engine when Hopper puts a hand on the window.

"Eddie, what are you doing? She needs professional help. I need her statement! Look at her. She needs a doctor."

Eddie doesn't answer right away. He looks at you. How you're curled up in the seat, knees to your chest, shaking silently. Your eyes locked on him.

"No. What she needs is to get the fuck out of this hellhole. This motherfucker is still hiding somewhere. I won't risk anything."

He shifts into drive.

"I have to make sure she's safe. That's all that matters now.''

Then the wheels screech, the engine roars, and the car tears out of the lot, disappearing down the street, leaving Hopper and the rest of the town behind.

He drives like a man possessed, through the town center, up the country road leading back home.

Forest Hills blurs past your window, the trailer park dim and quiet in the late hour.

The Hargrove house sits hunched in shadow, dark and waiting.

A cruiser idles out front, one lone unit with its lights off, a quiet threat resting in the driveway. Waiting for Neil to come home.

You don't react. You don't speak. You don't cry anymore. You're frozen again. Gone somewhere deep inside yourself. Your body trembles faintly under the weight of silence.

You stare at your knees.

Eddie stops in front of the trailer.

"Stay here. I'll be back in a second."

You nod numbly.

He slips out, locking the car behind him, throwing a glance toward the cruiser across the way.

He wastes no time.

Inside, he moves on autopilot.

Two duffel bags. Clothes, meds, cash, toiletries, your notebook, all of it shoved into them. He doesn't bother folding anything. There's no time. Just grabs and stuffs and zips, breathing hard through the fire in his ribs as he grabs his backpack and turns to his drawer to open one specific drawer.

He leaves his room seconds later, dragging the bags, backpack and his guitar case. Back in the kitchen, he writes a short note to Wayne, before grabbing the blanket from the couch.

Left town. She's not safe here. I'll call.

Back outside, he throws the bags into the backseat, then opens your door just enough to wedge the blanket around you, soft and worn and smelling like home, before kissing your forehead one last time and shutting the door gently.

With a stifled grunt, he gets back in his seat, throws one last worried glance at you and starts your car again. "Let's get you out of here."

Forest Hills disappears behind you.

The trees grow denser, the air colder and the road emptier.

Every streetlight that disappears in the rearview feels like a chain snapping loose.

Eddie keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on his side, breathing through the pain. You see the tension in his jaw. The glaze in his eyes.

Eventually, he pulls off toward Lover's Lake. You blink, confused, but say nothing.He parks in front of a rundown lake house, turns off the car.

"Wait here", he mumbles again hoarsely, "Won't be long". With that, he grabs his backpack from the back and vanishes inside, leaving you alone in your car, wrapped in your blanket, big eyes pinned to the door he disappeared in, aching for him to come back.

You don't know how long he's gone, maybe five minutes, maybe ten.

He comes back empty-handed. His hoodie smells like weed and smoke as he gets back in, grabbing your keys again to twist them in the ignition. He doesn't speak when he starts the car again and turns back toward the country road, heading away from Hawkins now.

For good this time.

You won't know until much later that he sold his whole stash to Reefer Rick. All of his pills you saw inside the drawer of your bedrooms, most of his weed. Everything he had, gone in exchange for enough cash to get you two out, to keep you fed, sheltered, safe for as long as he needs to.

It wasn't a fair deal, but Eddie didn't care.

You drive on.

The world outside your window is endless. Trees, darkness, the occasional light overhead.

You don't speak. Just shake under the blanket, tears drying, body raw with the aftershock. Your hand moves without you realizing, reaching out, searching. It finds his resting on the gear shift. Your fingers are ice as they touch his. He's so warm.

The moment you touch, his eyes flick to yours.

You don't say anything. Neither does he.

He turns his eyes back to the road, and you rest your hand on his thigh, needing the anchor. Exhaustion weighs down your eyelids. The world tilts. Softens. The blanket holds your shivering body, and his leg under your hand stays warm. You don't know when it happens, but eventually, sleep swallows you whole.

Eddie drives. His grip never wavers, even as his body aches from his broken ribs and his injuries. He knows he should be taking his meds, but they make him sleepy, dizzy, and he hasn't brought you as far away as he needs to. His mouth is tight, his dark eyes narrowed on the highway in front of him. He lights a cigarette with shaky fingers and stares through the windshield.

Occasionally, his eyes flick to you. How small you look. How broken.

They wander over your sleeping face, your eyelashes, your nose, your slightly parted lips. Even in sleep, you still look scared, your body still tense and locked up.

Anger rises in his chest again. He doesn't know exactly what happened, doesn't know what Hargrove did to you. But the sight of you in that woman's arms, looking like a total stranger for a second, is enough to tell him something inside you broke on that parking lot.

He has no plan where to drive, doesn't know where to bring you. He has no destination, no place he aims for, just the goal to get you as far from Hawkins as the tank allows.

The radio is off, the only sounds filling his ears are the engine, the wind coming through the cracked window to keep him awake, to keep him focused, and the occasional gasp from your restless dreams.

His eyes keep flickering to you. To check, to make sure you're still sleeping, still resting. Still safe.

Then, after almost three hours, in the distance, he spots a sign glowing through the fog of exhaustion.

Indianapolis - 20 Miles.

His eyelids feel so heavy. His whole body is screaming to lie down, to take a pill and sleep for 12 hours, and with one last glance to you, he decides to stop there for the night.

Indy. The city that changed so much for him, where he won the Battle of the Bands a few weeks ago, where he had his first big venue gig with his band, even had a fucking radio interview.

You were part of it all.

You spent such great time here together, stayed at that fancy hotel the radio station paid for. You had a fancy dinner, got drunk, had so much sex, laughed, danced, played music.

It's the city you two were so careless at, so in love. So safe. It could be your shelter for tonight.

He sighs, signals for the right lane and waits for the exit to appear. Some motel will do, he needs to safe the money he just made. But as long as he knows you're with him, as long as you have a bed to sleep in, a shower, maybe some food if you need anything, it'll do it.

Every place is better than this fucking town.

The moment the car glides off the highway ramp, your eyes flutter open, slow and heavy, lids gummy from dried tears.

The soft rattle of the turn signal clicks like a heartbeat. The darkness outside is different now, city lights flicker through the trees, glowing soft and gold in the distance.

You blink. "Eds? Where are we?" Your voice is raspy, barely more than a breath. Your hand gropes the space between you again, finding his thigh.

Eddie glances at you, something twisting in his face the second he sees you're awake. His features are drawn tight with pain, exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, but his eyes are soft, like he's been waiting for you to open them. "Indy," he says, voice rough and low as he takes the exit, guiding the car down toward the scattered glow of the city, "Thought we'd stay here for the night."

You shift in your seat, blinking against the neon blur ahead, then back to him. The way his jaw is clenched, the way one hand clenches his ribs even as he drives. You sit up straighter, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. Your eyes trace the shadowed bruises, the barely-there wince with every bump in the road. "You're in pain," you murmur.

He laughs under his breath, broken and tired, and glances at you again. "So are you."

It doesn't take long before a cheap little motel sign flashes ahead, a flickering vacancy light hanging like a tired promise.

Eddie pulls in without a word, the tank nearly empty anyway.

He parks under a crooked streetlight, the engine cutting off with a final sigh. The silence after it dies is deafening.

Neither of you move.

Your eyes stay on him, big and hollow and raw, and his turn to you, looking at your face in the dimness. Sees how your lip trembles like you're still fighting tears. How you're trying to be small, to take up less space, like maybe if you shrink enough the pain will let go.

"I'm sorry," he says hoarsely. Like it just slips out of him. "I should've protected you better. I should've--"

You don't let him finish. Your body launches forward, hand reaching to cradle the side of his face, and you press your lips to his before he can fall apart any further.

It's not a kiss for heat or passion. It's broken and quiet and desperate, lips trembling against his, salt from both of your tears mixing on your skin.

His fingers dig into your side, pulling you as close as he can manage over the console.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads touch, breath tangled. "Don't say that", you whisper.

His eyes close, pain and love etched deep into every line of his face. He nods once. Then pulls away gently. "Come on, let's get you inside."

The next few minutes pass in a daze.

Eddie grabs the bags from the trunk with a grunt of pain, guitar case slung over one shoulder. You follow silently, still wrapped in your blanket, your legs unsteady on the pavement.

The two of you must look like survivors of a war, he bruised and limping, and you looking like something haunted. He pays cash at the front desk, speaks little, just gives the clerk a sharp look that says, don't ask.

The guy doesn't. Just hands over a key and nods toward Room 12. Eddie sees the vending machine on the way out. Drops some change in with shaking fingers. Pulls a bottle of water for you, a Coke for him, and a bag of chips. Just in case you wanna eat something.

He finds your hand again as you both walk to the room, interlacing your fingers like muscle memory, holding tight.

The room is nothing special. A double bed, a small TV, a scratched-up dresser, and a bathroom that smells vaguely like bleach.

But the door locks. The lights work. There are clean sheets and a window that doesn't face the street.

Eddie drops the bags with a grunt, immediately turning to lock the door behind him. Then the deadbolt. Then the chain.

His shoulders finally sag when it's done.

You just stand there in the middle of the room, arms still wrapped in the blanket, looking around like you're trying to convince yourself this is real.

That you're not going to wake up back in that parking lot.

Eddie steps close. Drops his Coke on the dresser, reaches for your face. His thumbs cradle your jaw, his touch feather-light. "You're safe now," he mumbles, barely louder than a breath. His forehead rests against yours again, "I promise. You're safe."

You look up at him and your heart breaks all over again.

The bruises on his face are darker now, deepening into sickly greens and purples. A raw line of stitches cuts across his brow, his lip still swollen, and under his hoodie, you know there's worse.

But it's his eyes that shatter you.

They're glassy with pain and storming with something deeper, something ruined. Something scared.

Your own eyes brim again, and he sees it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there", he whispers, voice cracked and low like he's afraid it'll snap completely, "I shouldn't have let you go alone."

The first tear slips free, trailing down your cheek.

He catches each tear as it falls, chasing them with his hands like he can erase the memory. "Oh, baby", he breathes, and then he's kissing them away. Soft, desperate kisses to your cheeks, to your temple, to your lips, trembling and salty and barely there.

Each one says I'm here. Each one says I'm sorry. Each one says I love you.

His arms fold around you, tucking you against him like you're something fragile he's terrified to lose again.

Your breath hitches, your knees wobble, and he just holds you tighter. You let yourself melt into him. Let yourself breathe.

But when you pull back, just a little, your eyes move over him again, worried. The raw wince he doesn't try to hide. The tremor in his arms.

"You need to lie down," you murmur, brushing his hoodie back, touching his ribs with barely-there fingers, "You're hurt, Eds. You need your meds. Did you pack them?"

He nods faintly, but his jaw is clenched again, "Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does--"

"No", he snaps, not at you, but at the sheer weight of it all, "No. Not right now. Not when I don't even know what he did to you."

You freeze.

His hands drop to your arms. "I need to know", he whispers, eyes searching yours like he's afraid of what he'll find, "You don't have to tell me everything. Not if you're not ready. But I need something. Please, baby. I need to know how to fight this. How to protect you. Just... just tell me what happened in that parking lot. What he did. What he said."

You can't speak at first. Then your lip wobbles. Finally, you nod. Because if you don't say it now, it'll eat you alive.

You step back just a little, just enough to sit on the edge of the bed. The blanket still wrapped around you like a shell.

And Eddie follows, lowering himself slowly beside you, wincing as his ribs protest, but never looking away from your face. His hand finds yours.

You take a deep breath, swallow thickly, and finally, in a voice so quiet you barely recognize it as your own, you whisper, "He was waiting for me. Outside the store."

You start from the end of your shift, how people kept talking about the arrest all day, wondering who the girl was Billy Hargrove allegedly molested. Wondering if she was telling the truth. How you got into your car after your shift and stopped at the store. How you didn't notice him, though he must've followed you from the moment you left work. How you walked into that grocery store thinking about Eddie, shopping a few things, just relieved to finally go home. And how, when you wer back outsidey and put your bag into your trunk, he was behind you.

You start sobbing again. Your body curls in on itself and your voice breaks over and over as you tell him how Neil Hargrove cornered you against your car.

You feel like you're back in that parking lot, like Neil's breath is still on your skin, like his voice is still whispering those filth-covered words in your ear.

Eddie's hands don't leave you, not once, not even when you stammer through the worst of it.

You don't leave anything out.

Not the things he called you. Not the threat in his voice. Not the way he grabbed your wrist. Not the way he said he'd finish what Billy didn't.

After those words leave your lips, you feel Eddie shatter beside you.

"Stop", he breathes suddenly, cutting you off for just a second, rising from the bed. He's starting to pace through the room. His hands are in his hair, yanking at the roots. He turns his back to you, shoulders heaving as he tries to pull himself together, but he can't.

You whisper his name, but he doesn't turn around.

"That's what he said to you?", he presses through clenched teeth, turning and looking at your tear-streaked face.

You nod. Just once. But it's enough to make him lose the last bit of self-control.

"Fuck!" he explodes, and with a guttural yell, he suddenly kicks the nearby chair so hard it topples and crashes into the wall. And then he slams his fist into the plaster right next to it, once, twice, until his knuckles split.

"Oh my god, Eddie, stop!"

You're stumbling on your feet and reaching for him, but he just turns away, panting, pacing again, like if he doesn't move, he'll explode. He spins back to you, eyes wild, chest heaving, blood already dripping from his hand, but he doesn't even feel it.

Doesn't care.

His entire body is buzzing, vibrating with fury, with helplessness so sharp it makes him shake.

"He followed you?" he spits, "He put his hands on you?! And then told you he'd fucking finish what his fucking son couldn't?!"

You nod again, silent tears falling again, and it's like he sees red all over again.

"I'm gonna fucking kill him", he mutters to himself, swearing under his breath, shoulders twitching with every breath.

You don't stop him. You don't say his name this time. You just stand there, watching him fall apart, because in some awful, hollow way, it feels good to see someone feel this the way you do.

Like you're not losing your mind alone.

"He's dead, Sam", Eddie growls, pointing blindly, "That sick piece of shit is fucking dead. I swear to God, I'll-- I'll find him. I'll drag his ass to the cops myself if they won't go after him. I'll- I don't give a shit if I go down for it. He hurt you."

You feel his anger, his frustration, see his chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon.

He doesn't know what to do with the fury shaking inside him. He's drowning in it. Drowning in you being hurt.

"Motherfucker!" he roars again, voice broken, desperate, "I'll fucking kill him! I'll kill him, Sam, I swear to God I'll fucking end him!"

You flinch at the volume, but it's not fear, it's... heartbreak.

Watching the person you love unravel, hurt because you were hurt. Watching him break because he couldn't protect you.

He grabs at his hair again, tugging, cursing under his breath, his whole body trembling.

"He followed you? Like some goddamn predator? And no one- no one fucking helped you?! That fucking animal, I-..."

"Eds", you finally whisper, your glance falling back down to his bloody knuckles, his split open skin.

He spins, eyes wide and wet and red. "He could've... he wanted to--"

He chokes. He looks like he's dying.

"Sam, if you hadn't...fuck. If you hadn't gotten away-- he-..."

With two steps, you're right in front of him, reaching for his face to grab it, forcing him to stand still and look at you. His skin is hot with rage, his eyes swimming, frantic and wild and filled with so much pain it nearly steals your breath. He flinches under your touch, not because he doesn't want it, but because he's afraid.

Afraid of hurting you more.

But you don't let go.

"Please stop", you whisper, "He didn't do anything. Nothing happened. Nothing bad happened, okay? Do you hear me? Yes, he got too close, he twisted my wrist when I tried to push him away, but that's it. He didn't touch me anywhere else. He didn't do anything else, because I didn't gave him the chance to".

Eddie's dark eyes finally find yours. For a second, he looks like a total stranger to you. The warmth, spark, the love in his eyes, it's all gone. Misplaced by this very ugly anger, deep fear and pure horror.

"I wasn't there", he finally rasps, his hands finding your waist, fisting the blanket still hanging around your shoulders, "I knew what was going on, I knew what Hopper said about potential risks, and I knew what Hargrove's bastard father is capable of, and still, I let you go alone. Even if it wasn't for what happened at the parking lot, but even for those fucking townspeople at the shop to stop running their fucking mouths about what happened Friday night at the motel, I should've been there for you. I should've stood next to you, fucking supported you. But no, I was at home and watched movie after movie, hand on my balls, living my best fucking life while you were suffering through your day".

His grip on you tightens.

"I let you leave alone, again", he repeats, his voice so hoarse, so desperate, "And you got hurt again. Somebody hurt you, Sam, because you chose me. And I wasn't fucking there to fight them off for you. That's the least I can fucking do".

"Baby", you whisper, voice wrecked but steady, "Nothing of this is your fault, you know that, right? You didn't do anything wrong."

He shakes his head instantly, mouth opening to argue, but you hold him tighter.

You need him to hear it. So you hold his face firmer in your hands and press your forehead to his, your breath catching against his skin. "Eds", you murmur, your voice small but certain, "you were there. Okay?"

He tries to shake his head, to look away, but you don't let him.

"No", you whisper, "you don't get to say you weren't there. Maybe not in that parking lot. But you were with me." You press your hand to his chest, right over his heart. "It sounds so cheesy, but it's true. You were in my head. I remembered everything you ever told me about what to do when someone comes to close. I heard your voice, Eds. Telling me not to freeze. To go for the softest spots. I heard you. I heard you, Eddie. In my head. Your voice. That's how I got away."

He frowns.

"I finally reacted, and kneed him. As hard as I could. Right between the legs, right in his fucking balls, just like you said. And I ran. I screamed. And the couple who just came outside, they saw. They ran to help. The husband chased him. The wife caught me, held me. And then the cops came. The same cop who arrested me Friday night, he recognized me and immediately called for Hopper."

He's frozen in front of you, eyes wide, breath hitched.

You see the cracks in his anger slowly start to splinter. "And the only thing I could think about... was you. I kept saying your name, and Hopper immediately sent someone to get you."

His eyes flutter closed, jaw trembling as you keep going.

"I was shaking, sobbing, spiraling. I thought I was going to pass out. But I kept thinking, Eddie's coming. That's all I could focus on. That you were on your way. That I just had to hold on long enough for you to get there."

You swallow the lump in your throat, blinking back tears.

"And then you did. You showed up. And when I saw you, when I heard your voice, I knew I was gonna be okay. Because I finally felt safe. You held me. You never let go. You didn't care about anything else. You just wrapped your arms around me and kept me safe."

His lips part like he wants to say something, but you shake your head gently.

"You weren't there in the parking lot", you say softly, "but you were the reason I got out of it. You saved me before and after. You're the only person besides that woman I could bear to touch me. You were the one who got me out of there".

Tears fall freely down your cheeks now, but they don't stop you.

"I don't need you to throw punches, Eds. I don't need you to get hurt for me. I don't need you locked up in some cell because you revenged me. I need you. I need your arms around me. Your words in my head. Your voice in my ears. I need you here. Whole. With me."

His chest is rising and falling too fast again, but this time it's not rage. It's grief. It's love. It's the weight of everything he's been carrying breaking open under your words.

"You are my safe haven, Eddie Munson", you whisper, your voice cracking, "You are my safety. You're everything I have."

He exhales like he's been holding his breath for hours, and suddenly he's grabbing you, pulling you into his chest with a surprising force. His arms wrap around you with trembling desperation, and he buries his face in your neck. He doesn't speak, but his body says it all. The quake in his shoulders, the way he clutches you like he's anchoring himself to the only piece of sanity he has left.

When he finally speaks, his voice comes out rough.

"The second that cop car pulled up, I knew something was wrong. You said you'd be home by 6:30 latest. It was past seven. I was already pacing, telling myself you probably got held up at work, ran into a friend at the store, stopped to get some gas... something stupid. Something normal, y'know."

He breathes out a bitter, broken laugh.

"And then I heard the sirens. Saw the lights. And I swear to god, Sam, my heart just fucking stopped."

You can see the memory playing behind his eyes like it just happened. The fear. The panic.

"I opened that door and just... stared at that cop getting out. The first words out of my mouth were please don't tell me she's dead." His voice cracks. "The officer asked if I was Eddie Munson. I said yes. Then I asked again, what happened? Did something happen to you? What the fuck is going on?" His hands tremble slightly where they rest on your hips. "He said there was an incident at a parking lot. That you were hurt. And that you were asking for me. Only me. Hopper sent him to get me."

He pauses, blinking fast as tears well in his eyes.

"I didn't wait to hear the rest. I grabbed my keys, my shoes and ran outside, without a jacket, I didn't care. Got in that damn cop car like my life depended on it."

He swallows.

"Well. It did. And the whole way there, I kept asking, What happened? How bad is it? Is she okay? But he couldn't tell me."

Your hand finds his.

"When we got there... I saw the crowd. And you. You were on the ground, in that woman's arms, for a second, I thought someone... ran you over. I don't know. Baby, you looked so broken, I--"

His voice breaks completely, his whole chest seizing.

"I think a part of me died in that moment."

He closes his eyes, a tear rolling down his cheek.

"I didn't think. I didn't care what the cops needed. I just... you needed me. So I picked you up, put you in your car, drove away. I needed to get you out of there, to get you somewhere safe. I needed to hold you. And that's all that mattered."

You wipe the tear from his cheek with your thumb and lean in, kissing him gently. Then again. And again. Each kiss slow, aching, soft. His hand slides around the back of your neck, holding you close, like he's terrified of losing you again.

"I'm so sorry", you whisper against his lips, "I just want this to be over, Eds. I just want it all to stop."

He pulls you into his chest, burying his face in your hair, arms wrapping around you like he can shield you from the world. "I know, baby", he breathes, voice thick with emotion, "Me too. But I've got you. And I'm not letting go. Not ever."

You nod, looking up at him, hands resting on his chest. Your lips find his again, feeling how warm they are against yours, a little cracked, a little rough, tasting like tears and rage and heartbreak.

You kiss him again. Again. And again.

"I'm okay", you whisper between kisses, fingers threading through his hair, stroking the back of his neck, "You didn't fail me, Eds. You didn't. You saved me. You always save me."

He clutches you tighter like he doesn't believe it, like holding you hard enough might finally make the ache inside quiet down. But he doesn't stop kissing you either.

You both are clinging to each other, two broken pieces trying to glue the cracks with touch and warmth and everything unsaid.

"Now let me take care of you, okay?", you murmur against his lips, gently pulling back, resting your forehead to his, "You need to lie down now. Take your meds. Please. You're hurting."

He starts to shake his head. "They'll knock me out. I don't wanna sleep. I don't wanna leave you alone."

"I'll be right here", you promise, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over the edge of a new bruise, "I just need a quick shower. I just... I need to get clean first. But I'll be back before you know it. Please, baby. For me. Take them."

He holds your eyes for a long second, everything in him resisting, but finally, he nods. Small. Reluctant. But a nod.

You take his hand and guide him slowly to the bed. He hisses as he lowers himself, wincing as his ribs protest every inch. He shrugs off his jeans and jacket, left in just his shirt and boxers, then lies down carefully, exhaling through clenched teeth.

You dig through the bag he brought for himself, through shirts, boxers, toiletries, and finally find the pill bottle. You grab his Coke and bring them both to his side. He takes two pills without a word. That alone tells you how bad it must be. You crouch beside the bed, brushing the sweaty hair back from his forehead. "You need anything else?"

His eyes find your face. "You", he mumbles, "Just you".

You kiss him again. His lips taste like Coke. "I'm right here. Just a shower", you promise, "And I'll be with you the whole night."

He nods and rubs the bridge of his nose.

You hand him the remote from the nightstand. "Put something on, mh?"

He gives a tiny laugh. "Yeah. Maybe some pay-tv porn to lighten the mood."

"Jesus, Munson", you breathe, shaking your head, but you smile. And he does too. You grab your bag, stand, and quietly walk to the small bathroom. You hear the TV click on, some late-night movie or rerun already filling the silence behind you as you close the door. Lock it. Slump down against the door, and sob into your hands as quiet as possible.

The sobs come hard and fast, now that there's no one to protect, no one to hold yourself together for. You sit on the cold tile floor, curled in on yourself, arms around your knees, the sound of your own muffled cries echoing off the bathroom walls, swallowed by the TV sounds outside the thin door.

It rips out of you, everything you kept inside so Eddie wouldn't break more than he already had.

You cry for the fear. For the touch. For the way you froze. For the words. For the look in Eddie's eyes when you told him. For the pain in his voice when he said he wasn't there.

You cry for everything that was taken from you tonight, and maybe for things stolen long before, too.

And when you've cried all you can, when your body is wrung out and your throat is raw, you push yourself back up to your feet, breathing like your lungs forgot how to do it right. You wipe your face with trembling fingers and look up at the girl in the mirror.

She's a wreck.

Hair a mess, skin pale, eyes bloodshot, face red and wet.

Your knees are scraped, your palms raw, wrists ringed in angry red from handcuffs, and from where he grabbed you.

And your eyes, they look... hollow. Like someone else's. Like someone who barely made it.

You lean closer. Stare. Hold your own gaze, stare at the strange, broken woman looking back at you.

"You won't let them break you."

It comes out shattered. You say it again.

"You won't let them break you."

Over and over.

Until it stops sounding like a plea and starts sounding like a promise.

You will survive this. You always do. You've walked through hell more than once, and this is not the end of you.

You're stronger than him. Stronger than the whispers. Stronger than the past. Stronger than the part of you that wanted to collapse in that parking lot and never get up again.

You nod at your own reflection, shaky but sure. Then finally turn to your bag and unzip it. It makes you almost smile how much he thought is important to pack for you. Looks like he scooped everything from your drawer and threw it inside. Clothes, underwear, your toiletries from the bathroom. Your notebook. Everything you might need.

You grab clean underwear, your sleep shirt, your shampoo. Just when you're about to pull out your shampoo, your fingers brush against something small and thin. You frown and pull it out. Hopper's card.

Your stomach dips. You stare at it, then lay it gently on the counter beside the sink.

Slowly, you undress, avoid looking at your bruised knees or wrists, then step into the shower and turn on the water. The pressure is barely there, the drain's a little slow, the very crusty curtain sticks to your leg every time you move. It takes ages for the water to heat up, but when it finally does, it's all you need.

You scrub yourself until your skin stings, the water almost boiling, steam filling the tiny motel bathroom as you scrub his touch off. His breath. His threat. His ghost.

You scrub the dust from the parking lot, the smell of the night air, the panic out of your pores.

You stay under the stream until your tears finally stop mixing with the water. Until you finally feel clean. Then you step out. Dry off. Dress. Brush your teeth, your hair. You towel it dry and run your fingers through it a few more times. Your eyes find Hopper's card again. And that voice comes back, clearer now.

I'm stronger than them.

You take the card in one hand and step out into the motel room.

The TV is still playing some old western movie, the lights washing over the room, over Eddie's sleeping body. He's out cold. Shirt half-riding up, hand splayed over his stomach, mouth just slightly open. One leg bent awkwardly over the comforter.

The pills worked. Thank God.

You smile just a little. You don't turn the TV off, just lower the volume a little. Low enough not to wake him, loud enough to keep the silence from swallowing you whole. Your eyes find the landline on the nightstand. You glance at the clock.

11:58.

Almost midnight.

But Hopper said you can call anytime.

You sigh, grab Eddie's jacket and pat it down until you find his cigarettes and lighter. Then take the phone and quietly cross the room to the wobbly chair by the window, dragging the cord as far as it'll stretch. You open the window a crack, light the cigarette with shaking fingers. Smoke curls up into the night as you hold Hopper's card and finally dial the number.

It rings once. Twice.

You close your eyes, inhale the smoke of your cigarette.

The line clicks.

"Chief Hopper"

Your voice comes small at first.

"It's me. Sam. Carter... Samantha Carter".

There's a pause.

You can almost hear the way he straightens up, concern crackling through the static.

"Jesus, kid. Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I'm... in a motel, out of town. Eddie took me away. I... needed that."

"Yeah", Hopper hums, "You okay?"

"No. But I will be, I guess."

It sounds a little like a lie. But it's the truth you want. And maybe that's enough for now.

Hopper clears his throat, sounding like he's trying not to rush you. "Look, Sam, I do need your statement. I know it's a lot, but-"

"Can I give it over the phone? For now?I just... I can't come in. Not yet."

"You can tell me what happened. But I'll still need you to give it in person. You gotta sign it, someone's gotta check your ID, make it official. But you can still tell me, just for me to know your side to the story."

You nod, take another deep drag and close your eyes, the cold night air on your damp hair and skin. "Okay."

Hopper stays silent, waiting for you to start.

But before you do, you have to ask."What happened after we left? Did you find him? Is he in custody?"

Hopper sighs. "Unfortunately, no. We... haven't found him. Yet."

Your heart stumbles in your chest. Your eyes immediately dart over to the door, checking the deadbolt.

"We talked to the couple who helped you", Hopper continues. "Nice folks, real worried. They gave us everything they had. Woman said you told her it was him. Kept askin' for Eddie. Everyone who saw you said the same. Real shook up. The husband said he saw your attacker. Gave us a partial plate. Said it was a black Ford pickup, older model. Sound familiar?"

You nod slowly. You know his truck from where it's parked just up the street at Forest Hills. "That's his."

"Yeah. Part of the plate matches the truck registered to him", Hopper confirms. "So we've got a direction. Got officers out there watching his house, got patrols looking for the vehicle. But... right now, he seems to be gone. Hiding somewhere. Hasn't been seen since he drove off."

You press your fingers into your temple. ",I can't believe he's still out there."

"We're doing everything we can. We'll find him, Sam. But I really need your statement. Sooner's better. We can move faster with it. Especially when we arrested him."

"I know", you whisper, feeling your heart racing in your chest just at the thought of going back to Hawkins. "But I don't think I wanna come back until you found him, Hopper. Until both of them are inside a fucking cell, I... can't. After what happened at that parking lot, I..."

You take a shaky breath.

"I don't feel safe anymore. I'm scared of him. Both of them.''

Hopper sighs as if he wants to say something, but you don't let him.

"He knows where I live, where I work, where I go to school. The things he said to me, I... I can't come back unless he's locked up. I'm sorry."

"I get it. I mean, the police could ensure you safety in this, you're clearly a victim in danger here, and he's your suspected assaulter who has a motive to hurt you, we--"

"I can't, Hopper. I appreciate your offer, but I feel safer with Eddie somewhere further away until you found that bastard.''

"You don't have to come back yet. You could give your official statement at any station in the state. Tell 'em it's for me, Hawkins PD. They'll forward it. If that's easier for you, wherever you are now, that would work, too. For now."

"Then I'll do that. Tomorrow. I want you to have it, Hopper, I just don't wanna come back yet."

"I understand. How's is he? The Munson boy? He okay?"

You glance back toward the bed. "No. He's not. He's hurt from Friday night. Billy really did a number on him. He shouldn't be here with me. He should be home, resting. But... he's here.''

Hopper sighs, a deep gruff sound. "Yeah. That boy seems to really wanna protect you."

"He does."

"Probably better that way, bet he'd be out here searching the woods for Hargrove himself if he wasn't with you".

"He'd hunt him down, yes.''

There's a silence between you for a moment.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" Hopper asks quietly. "Just for me. Not official. Just so I know."

You do.

You tell him. Not all of it, not the moments that are still too raw to speak aloud again, but the bones of it.

The lot. The fear. The threats. How you tried to get away. How you screamed, fought him off.

You get through it. And he listens. Doesn't interrupt. Doesn't ask for more. Just listens.

"I believe you, Sam", he eventually says.

You close your eyes, biting your lip hard, because those three words feel like a damn lifeline.

"We'll find him", Hopper continues, "And I'll let you know the second it's safe for you to come back home, kid. If you don't know where you'll be, you can just call me at this number. Every evening, alright? I'll update you."

"Okay", you breathe, "Thank you. For... making me feel heard."

"You need anything, Sam, you call me. Any time. Stay safe, okay?"

"I will", you whisper, eyes darting back to Eddie, who's still sleeping safe and sound.

"We'll find him. I promise."

Okay", you mumble softly, nodding your head again even though he can't see you, "I'll call tomorrow. Goodnight.''

You hang up with your heart pounding, the cigarette burned almost all the way down between your fingers. You crush it out on the windowsill, sit there in the night air a while longer. Letting the quiet, the steady hum of the TV, and Eddie's breathing behind you be the only sounds, the landline cradled loosely in your lap, your eyes fixed on the stretch of highway beyond the trees.

Cars blur past in the distance, headlights streaking across the dark, and you wonder, just for a second, where he is.

Where Neil Hargrove went.

If he's still running. If he's hiding close. If he followed you.

Your gaze flickers to the motel door once again. Locked. Bolted.

Still, your heart skips.

Then your eyes find Eddie again. His face finally relaxed, the pain dulled by the meds, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

Your muscles unclench just a little.

You're with him. Nothing will happen to you, as long as he's with you.

No.

Neil doesn't know you're here. He can't find you.

Not now. Not tonight.

You exhale slowly, rising from the creaky motel chair, closing the window and curtain, before padding across the room to check the door again just to be sure.

Finally, you crawl into bed, gently lifting the blanket and slipping beneath it.

The TV chatters quietly in the background. You leave it on to keep away the pressing silence of the night.

Eddie doesn't wake, not fully, but he stirs, as if your absence had been noticed even in sleep. He turns toward you, eyes still closed, and his lips brush your cheek. A soft, instinctual kiss.

You kiss his shoulder in return. Then his neck. Then his jaw. A trail of soft, grounding touches.

He lets out a slow, sleepy breath as his arm snakes around you, pulling you in.

You bury your face into his chest, feel the thump of his heart beneath your palm, steady and warm and so very alive. Your fingers tangle into the hem of his shirt as you pull yourself closer, closer, needing all of him, his breath, his skin, his heartbeat. The scent of him, even dulled by pain meds and motel air, is comfort enough to let you breathe again. Your body melts into him, into the way he instinctively tucks you close, even in sleep. Like his body knows you're there before his mind fully catches up.

His breath is warm against your hair, uneven and tired but steady. His palm rests flat on your lower back, fingers twitching just slightly as they settle. You kiss his jaw again, soft and slow, your lips lingering there.

You feel him respond again, just a little.

A sleepy murmur, a sound that might've been your name. His thumb strokes your back. His other hand curls the blanket tighter around you both.

He's safe. You're safe.

You let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding, nuzzling into his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek. Somehow, even with the storm you both just lived through still fresh in your bones, this space becomes a small sanctuary.

You whisper a soft "I love you", not sure if he can hear you, but feeling the need to say it anyway.

His arm tightens. Maybe he heard.

You swallow hard, push away the fearful thoughts of Neil Hargrove waiting somewhere in the dark to finish what he started, what his son couldn't do in the first place.

Not here.

There's no space for panic in this bed, not while Eddie holds you like that. Not while his warmth wraps around your whole world.

Eventually, you fall asleep like that.

Exhausted, broken in pieces, far away from home, but wrapped in something that feels like hope.