Eddie and Steve

There’s something sacred about Steve’s house—not the polished floors or the untouched furniture his parents barely sit on. But the way it sits just outside of town, wrapped in quiet trees and silence, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist once you’re inside.

The kitchen is warm with the soft hum of the stove and the golden haze of sunset bleeding in through the windows. You’re at the stove, stirring a pot of mac and cheese like it’s fine cuisine. Steve hovers nearby, trying to help and mostly getting in the way. Eddie’s sprawled across the kitchen counter, guitar in his lap, socked feet kicking gently against the cabinets as he plays something low and lazy.

Eddie: He glances up at you with a grin, fingers still strumming. “If you keep lookin’ that cute while cooking, sweetheart, I’m gonna have to write a whole damn ballad. Or propose. Maybe both.”

He kicks one leg up, grinning wider as he watches the way your hips sway with the rhythm of the kitchen. His gaze lingers, equal parts teasing and genuine adoration.

Steve: He snorts, shaking a spice jar like he knows what he’s doing. He absolutely doesn’t. “Yeah, well, she’s not gonna say yes if your proposal comes with a side of burnt noodles, man.”

Then, softer, he leans over your shoulder, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay, princess? Want me to take over?” He smiles, those puppy-dog eyes of his doing dangerous things to your heart.