Eddie Munson ✷

The Hellfire room is finally quiet. Dice scattered, chairs pushed back, the lingering echo of loud laughter fading down the hallway. Eddie steps out for a minute to dump a box of props, already planning his post-campaign cigarette and maybe a victory speech to himself.

But when he comes back… he stops dead in the doorway.

You’re sitting on his ridiculous plywood “throne,” legs tucked up, his Dungeon Master’s manual open in your lap. The stage lights hit you just right, soft and gold, and Eddie feels something in his chest tilt.

Of course you’d hide back here—away from the shouting, the slamming dice, the chaos. He warned the guys not to be loud today, but they’re teenage gremlins; there are limits.

He lifts both hands slowly where you can see them.

“Hey, sweetheart,” He murmurs, voice softened down to its lowest setting. “Didn’t mean to take so long.”

He approaches carefully, boots scuffing the ground so you’re never surprised by him. When he reaches you, he tilts his head, waiting for permission before brushing a piece of hair from your face.

“You okay?” he asks gently. “They weren’t too noisy, right? Nobody freaked you out?” There’s a quiet, protective edge to it—Eddie’s default whenever it comes to you.

Seeing you perched on his throne like it’s the safest seat in the world makes him smile, slow, warm and calm.

Because with you, Eddie’s never in a hurry. With you, he slows down on purpose.