Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eddie shoulders the door open with the same elbow-heavy push he always uses, hands full—keys, empty coffee cup, the strap of his backpack sliding down his arm. He kicks the door shut behind him and drops his bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. The sound of it—canvas thudding against hardwood—echoes in the quiet walkway.

They bought this apartment in '09. Tiny two-bed, south side of Chicago, third floor walk up with bad insulation and the kind of radiators that clank all winter like they're haunted. The walls were uneven, the bathroom tiles cracked, and the windows never sealed quite right. But it felt real—more complicated, more alive than anything they’d known in Hawkins. It felt like a place where things could start. Steve had cried the day the signed the papers. Not because of the mortgage, but because the hallway had a built-in bookshelf and the fire-escape overlooked the entire city, and because it was totally and completely theirs.

Back then, they didn't have much. Eddie was freelancing audio work on Craigslist and Steve was working register at a bookstore that played the Amélie soundtrack on loop. They'd bring home bruised fruit and cheap wine from the corner store, fall asleep on a mattress on the floor, eat takeout cross-legged with paper plates. It was a complete mess. It was perfect.

They hadn't planned for June.

Steve had gotten quiet one night, peeled the skin completely off his lips and bit his fingernails down to the flesh. He'd been late for a few days but sometimes it'd happen when he got stressed. But then the days turned into a week and Robin forced him to take a pregnancy test. Just as a precaution, mostly a joke. Eddie remembers the look on Steve's face when he'd padded out of the bathroom—scared, but not devastated. Like maybe something else was happening, something crazy and big, but he didn't mind.

Then June was born and the world cracked open and reassembled. Smaller, softer, something Eddie had to protect in a way he's never had to before. He used to think protecting meant throwing punches if some guy in a bar said something sideways to Steve. Thought it meant bloody knuckles and shouting matches in parking lots. He'd spent most of his twenties with a chip on his shoulder and Steve pressed tight against his side—his whole body coiled for a fight, like someone was going to snatch this life right out of his hands if he didn't always have his teeth bared.

But standing in that hospital room, June held in one arm and Steve's hand in the other, he thought this is it, this is the entire world right here with me. And then he felt the shift. Felt it like a tether in his chest pulling taut. Like gravity had changed direction. He wasn't a kid anymore, couldn't be. It wasn't just them now. He wasn’t just some loudmouthed alpha in love with the prettiest boy in the room. He had a family. 

And he still loves Steve the same way, more if that's even possible. Stills falls in love over and over—watching him laugh over pancakes, watching him read bedtime stories in stupid voices, watching him drool on Eddie's chest in morning the same way he's done every morning since senior year of high school. Eddie’s love for him is stupid-big. Stubborn and starry and so deep in his ribs it’s become part of his breathing.

Now their apartment smells like crayon wax and home-cooked meals and the lavender de-tangler shampoo Steve uses on June’s hair because she has Eddie's curls. Their mattress has a real bed frame. The bookshelf in the hall is overflowing with bedtime stories and picture-books. Eddie’s doing post-production for actual clients—hell, he even has an assistant now. Steve teaches sixth grade English at a public school two neighborhoods over, reads bedtime stories in character voices, still kisses Eddie goodbye on the mouth even when he’s mad.

It’s a good life. A loud, chaotic, hard-won life. 

And yeah—things are different these days. Eddie gets home late most nights. Steve's usually half-asleep with June curled up on his chest and Bluey still playing in the background. Dinner's always left out for him, cold or packaged away in Tupperware. He eats standing up sometimes and showers only if he has the energy. 

It's not bad, it's just life. June joined preschool and they both started working more. Steve’s back in the classroom this year, and Eddie’s hours have been longer than ever. The work’s better, though. He’s off the low-budget client lists now, getting paid decently to do post on indie films and mid-tier ad campaigns. Some of it’s even cool—little documentary spots, art house trailers, weird scoring gigs where he gets to mess around with vintage pedals and eerie synths. He’s finally doing the kind of stuff he used to dream about in high school, lying on his back in Wayne’s trailer with headphones on, telling Steve he was gonna make it.

And he is. Kind of.

But it comes with a cost. Time, mostly. And presence. And dinners eaten cold at the counter with his eyes half-shut.

It’s worth it, he thinks. Or he hopes. For all of them.

But the silence hits different tonight. There's no padded feet running across the floor. No cartoons playing on full blast. No “Daddy’s home!” yelled through a mouth full of graham crackers.

He shrugs his backpack off his shoulder and plops it on the ground. There's only the steady hum of the refrigerator and the creak of the floorboards under the weight of him toeing off his boots.

He frowns, throwing his keys on the kitchen counter and chucking his empty coffee cup in the trash. "Stevie," he calls out, not loud but enough to carry. "I'm home."

No answer. Maybe he's tucking June in. Sometimes that happens. Sometimes Eddie gets home too late and June's already in bed, sound asleep, and Steve's sitting on the couch, grading papers. A weird mix of relief and guilt flood into his shoulder before he can even confirm the situation. He loves June—more than he knew he could love anything—but sometimes he’s grateful to miss bedtime. Grateful to come home to the quiet. To have a moment to exhale, to decompress after a long, exhausting day with ungrateful clients. The guilt comes just as quickly and he hates himself for thinking it, hates that he's seen his daughter more on videos from dance recitals he's missed than in real life this month. He hates it, but he's also so, so tired.

He pads into the living room, still waiting to hear the tiny giggle of June hiding under blankets or the scrape of Steve's chair as he gets up to meet him. 

But there's nothing. 

The living room's a mess in that normal, late-afternoon kind of way—crayons spilling off the coffee table, a pillow at the foot of the coffee table, June’s tiny socks balled up on the arm of the couch. The TV's on, but paused, frozen on a bright cartoon mid-jump.

And just down the hall-

She's there. 

June, curly dark-brown hair thrown up in messy pigtails, standing at the edge of the hallway, one foot bare, the other in a mismatched sock. The stuffed-bunny she carries practically everywhere dangles from one hand by the ear. Her mouth is scrunched up in a frown and her eyes are too wide, too glassy.

Eddie's heart skips a beat.

"Hey, bug," he coos, sliding down to her level as she waddles right up to him. "What's goin' on? Where's mama?" He tries to keep his voice warm even though something cold is curling in his gut.

She doesn't answer right away, just clutches the bunny tighter to her chest and looks up at him with those big, glassy eyes. She may have gotten Eddie's hair, but she sure as hell got Steve's eyes—massive golden irises and long, thick eyelashes that make her look like Bambi. Especially when she's scared like this. Especially when her bottom lip's wobbling like that.

"Mama won't wake up," she whispers.

Eddie feels his stomach drop out from under him. For a second, he doesn't move. The words hang in the air like they don’t quite make sense.

Then—his heart kicks into gear.

He straightens up too fast. His vision blurs a little at the edges.

"What?" he says sharply, voice catching on its way out of his throat. "What do you mean- What happened?"

June flinches a little, eyes watering. "I called him," she says. "I said I was hungry but he didn't come. And then I shaked him but he was still too sleepy."

Eddie feels the floor tilt under him and the seriousness of the situation sink into his spine.

But June's lip is trembling now, and she's looking up at him with those big eyes like she's done something wrong.

So he swallows his fear, forces it down like a mouthful of broken glass.

"Okay," he says, gentler this time, like everything's normal and he knows exactly what to do. Kneels a little, smoothing a hand over her hair. "Okay, bug. That’s okay. You did the right thing, alright? I’m gonna go check on Mama now. Why don’t you head to your room and hang out with your stuffies for a little, yeah?"

She hesitates. "But-he-"

And Eddie just can't have this right now. As much as he understands her fear and her pause, he needs her to get in her room, out of the way, and out of sight from whatever he has to face in his bedroom. To protect her, everything is to protect her.

"Hey," Eddie says gently, firmly. "I got it, so I need you to go to your room, okay?"

She nods slowly, understanding the shift in his tone, the way he's not asking he's telling. Then she turns and walks away.

Eddie holds his composure, watches her go, counts the three slow seconds it takes for her to reach her room. Then when he hears the door click shut, the mask drops immediately and he bolts. His feet are heavy on the hardwood as he rushes down the hall, one hand already reaching for the bedroom door.

He doesn't know what he's expecting to find, honestly. But his body is already reacting, already shutting down into that narrow tunnel vision where everything else blurs out. He feels like he's underwater, or maybe he's above water and everything else is sinking below him. Either way, all that exists in his mind right now is the door at the end of this hallway. His stomach feels completely and sickeningly empty while also all tied up in knots at the very same time. 

His fingers tremble as they reach out, brushing the cool edge of the doorframe. The world narrows further, breath shallow and rapid. For a moment, he can’t bring himself to push it open. He freezes with the doorknob firmly clasped in his hands, trying to imagine the scene he's about to walk into. But he snaps out of it quickly, reminds himself he's not a child anymore, that he swore to be the protector of this family.

Then, with a slow, trembling motion, he nudges the door ajar. The room is dark, silent, and there—curled up beneath rumpled blankets—Steve lies still. Too still. Eddie storms further into the room, making a beeline to Steve's motionless form on their shared bed.

He's pale, ghostly pale. And his usually beautiful and lively hair is flat, limp, and it sits on his forehead in a way that he would hate. The blanket’s tangled around his legs like he’d started to kick it off and given up halfway through. One arm’s tucked awkwardly under a pillow, the other limp at his side, palm up, fingers curled toward nothing. His lips are dry and slightly parted, chapped at the corners like he’s been breathing shallow and there's a sheen of sweat over his skin.

And god, even while sleeping Steve looks so incredibly exhausted. He looks like a ghost of himself, like the Steve Eddie loves but twisted, different. It makes his stomach sick to see him like this—lifeless, dimmed. He drops to his knees beside the bed before he even realizes he's moved.

"Steve?" he chokes out, voice cracking. "Steve, baby, hey—come on."

No response. No flutter of lashes. No twitch of fingers. Just that awful stillness and Eddie's own shallow breathing in the silence.

Eddie reaches out with both hands—touches his face, his neck. He’s warm, but wrong. Damp. Clammy and cool at the edges.

"Steve," he says again, louder this time, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up, sweetheart. You have to wake up."

Still nothing.

The panic spikes again, white-hot. He shakes him harder this time. Rougher. Enough to jostle Steve further up the bed. And when that doesn't work, he lightly slaps his face, the way Steve used to do all the time after all-nighters in college.

"Steve. Wake up. Actually," he urges, like that'll be the thing that'll wake him up. 

Nothing.

He grabs his wrist. Pulse—thank God—still there. Faint, but steady. "Steve," Eddie says again, louder now, panic and desperation slicing through his voice. "Please."

He doesn't wait for the silence again, his hand's already diving for his phone before he's fully decided. He unlocks it with shaking fingers, one hand still on Steve's shoulder, clumsily pulling up the keyboard. But just as his thumb hovers over the 9, he hears it, just barely. A faint hitch in Steve's breath and a shuffle under the covers.

Eddie freezes, doesn't breathe, like if he moves, Steve will fall right back into that lifeless state again.

Another sound comes out, muffled and groggy, but alive. Steve stirs, barely, head turning towards the pillow.

"Steve?" Eddie whispers, still not sure if this is real. He leans in, hand squeezing his shoulder. "Hey—hey, sweetheart, open your eyes."

Steve blinks slowly. His lashes stick together, damp with sweat. He frowns, like the act of waking up is too complicated to understand.

"What..?" His voice is sluggish and muffled, like it's wrapped in wool. "Eddie?"

"Yeah, I’m here," Eddie exhales, breathless, like he’s finally let out all the air he’d been holding in. "Jesus, Steve, you—fuck, you weren’t waking up. June said you wouldn’t wake up."

Steve doesn't answer, just pushes himself upright slowly, moving like every part of him aches. He winces when his feet hit the floor and scrubs a palm over his face. Still not looking at Eddie. Still not realizing what just happened.

"I need to..." he mumbles. Then stands up too fast and immediately sways on his feet. Eddie instinctively reaches out, steadying him with a hand at his waist.

"I'm fine," Steve mutters. "Just need a second."

He brushes past Eddie and walks out of the room in bare feet and silence, headed toward the bathroom like it's just a regular night. Like nothing is wrong. Like Eddie wasn't about to call 911 two minutes ago.

Eddie sits there for a moment, crouched on the floor beside the bed—Steve’s side, technically, though they’ve never really stuck to sides. Steve always used to crawl over in the middle of the night, clingy as hell, latching on like a koala and knocking the sheets off them both.

They haven’t slept like that in weeks. Maybe months. Eddie’s not sure when it stopped.

He sits there, stunned, skin prickling with the aftershocks of the event finally sinking in. His heartbeat finally starts to slow, the worst of the panic fading, his stomach feeling increasingly less queasy. But in its place, something else starts to rise. Hot. Sharp. Blunt-edged and aching, like the adrenaline still coursing through his veins has no idea where to go now that the threat has been dismantled. It's not fear anymore, no. Not the cooling feeling of relief, either.

Anger.

Not loud, not explosive. But steady. Cold. The kind of anger that settles in your bones after the trepidation burns out. The kind that comes from being scared shitless and then not receiving the reaction you expected, not being given that pampering feeling of someone saying 'I was scared too'. Eddie was just thrown into the emotional wringer and then thrust back out to someone looking at him like he's the crazy one for waking him up after a nap.

He walks down the hall after Steve with that anger deep in his chest. And it doesn't leave when he reaches the bathroom and stops at the doorframe.

Steve’s hunched over the sink, water still running, still dripping off his face. He hasn’t looked up yet.

Eddie doesn't yell but his voice comes out low. Sharp.

"What the hell was that?"

Steve doesn’t flinch. Just blinks water out of his eyes and drags a hand down his face. "I’m sorry," he murmurs. "I didn’t mean to—"

"No." Eddie cuts him off, steps in closer. "That’s not what I asked. What the fuck was that."

Steve exhales, slow and shaky, then pats his face dry with the hand towel by the door. "I took a little extra. From that medication. I had a splitting headache." He says it like it's not a big deal, like he's explaining a snack he ate.

Eddie blinks. Suppressants. The ones Steve started taking a few months ago after a string of brutal heats and stress-induced migraines started knocking him out in the middle of the day. He’d gone to a doctor, gotten a script. Something low-dose, not habit-forming. Just to take the edge off. Something to help regulate things when they didn't have time to manage his heats. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal, he hadn't known that Steve was taking them so often.

Eddie stares at him, heart thudding all over again. "You took too much," he says, slowly, like Steve might not understand. "While you were alone with June."

Steve bristles. "I didn’t mean to fall asleep like that—"

"Yeah?" Eddie’s voice rises. "Because it looked a hell of a lot like you fucking overdosed after taking too many pills, Steve. You were fucking gone."

Steve jerks his head up, eyes wide now. "It wasn’t an overdose. Jesus, Eddie—"

"What the hell else am I supposed to think? I come home and you’re unconscious and our kid thinks you’re dead, and you’re telling me it’s fine?"

Steve has the audacity to roll his eyes, to clench the porcelain rim of the sink like Eddie's being irritating for caring.

"I didn’t say it was fine—"

"You said it casually," Eddie snaps. "Like it’s just something you do now. Pop a few extra pills and check out on the couch while your four-year-old watches cartoons. Do you have any idea what you could have done?"

"I took them so I could rest," Steve bites. "Not because I'm fucking hooked. You're treating me like I'm a fucking junkie!"

"You’re treating it like it’s normal—"

"Because it is normal! Or it was, until now!"

Eddie shakes his head, too fast. He feels hot, shaky, not in control of his own voice. "You’re treating this like it’s no big deal. Like I’m being dramatic for losing my mind over the fact that you OD’d with our daughter in the house."

Steve rubs at his face again. His hands are shaking. “I’m sorry,” he says after a second. No attitude this time. No bite. Just tired. Raw. "I know I fucked up, okay? I do. I scared her."

Eddie doesn't say anything, doesn't move. He's still standing in the doorway of the bathroom, still in his work clothes, still exhausted.

"I should’ve waited ‘til you got home," Steve murmurs. "Or asked Robin to come by or—something. I was just… I was just so tired, Eds. And I didn’t think—I really didn’t think I’d fall that deep."

His voice is cracking now, eyes glassy. The faucet is still running.

"I’m not making excuses," he adds, fast. "I know it was bad. It was really bad. I get it. You’re right to be mad. I just… I'm tired. And I think we should talk about this tomorrow."

Eddie’s heart is still racing. Still caught in that awful limbo between fear and fury. The adrenaline hasn’t drained out of his system—it’s just shifted. Curled into something bitter in his throat. He looks at Steve and feels it again—that impossible moment when he walked in the room and saw nothing moving. Just stillness. Like the end of something. And what he says next, he'll regret for a long, long time.

"You should go," Eddie says, and the words don’t sound like his own. They scrape out, low and cold. He doesn’t even mean it, not exactly—not in the forever way. Just in the right now way. But it still lands like a knife in the middle of the room.

Steve just blinks, stares at him like he's grown a second head. "What?"

"Just for tonight," Eddie mutters. "I think you should go."

There's a silence, like Steve's working out what Eddie's just said, like it's finally catching up to him that this isn't one of their normal fights that ends up with one of them on the couch for the night. Then he lets out this disbelieving, breathless laugh. "You’re kicking me out?"

"I’m not—Jesus, I’m not kicking you out," Eddie says, already backpedaling but somehow pushing harder. “I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t be here right now.”

"In my house?"

"Our house," Eddie says sharply. "June’s house. The one you just scared the shit out of her in."

Steve flinches like he’s been hit. And yeah—that he regrets immediately. But he’s already past the point of no return, already saying things because his throat’s burning and his brain’s trying to justify the fear he felt less than ten minutes ago.

"I was tired," Steve says, voice small and growing sharper at the edges. "I was tired, and I made a stupid mistake. You think I wanted to scare her?"

“I think you shouldn’t have taken more than you were supposed to!”

"I didn’t plan it, Eddie!" His voice cracks. "I took them because I’ve been having fucking headaches for days and I just—I thought I could get a little rest, okay? I didn’t mean to crash."

Eddie just stares at him. The image of Steve’s limp hand on the comforter, of June’s voice saying "Mama won’t wake up," won’t leave his brain.

Steve sees it all over his face. And something inside him buckles.

"You really think I’m a danger to her," he says. No question this time.

"I didn’t say that,” Eddie says, but it’s weak. Wavering. Because right now he doesn’t know what he thinks, only that he can’t stop shaking.

“You don’t get to just kick me out like I’m not part of this family too," he says, voice cracking halfway through. "I live here, Eddie. I’m not some fucking stranger who showed up and scared your kid."

"She’s our kid," Eddie says, sharper than he means to. "But she’s scared. And I’m not taking her out into the middle of the night just because you made a bad call."

"So I have to leave because you’re not willing to leave her?" Steve’s eyes flash with hurt, not anger. "You’re the one who wants space. Why do I have to be the one who goes?"

"Because I can’t leave her," Eddie bites. "Because I need to be here in case she wakes up crying again, or asking why Mama fell asleep like that. Because you scared her and—fuck, Steve—she’s four. She doesn’t know you didn’t mean to."

Steve watches him for a moment. His expression doesn’t change. No flash of anger. No last-ditch plea. Then he looks away, past Eddie, maybe to where June's bedroom is, door still shut but with a sliver of yellow light at the bottom. He exhales in a way that sounds like surrender, and with a quiet, final whisper he says "Okay. I’ll go." And then pushes out of the bathroom before Eddie can change his mind.

Eddie follows on autopilot, heart hammering in his chest. Watches him come out of their bedroom changed in the same sleep t-shirt but with jeans instead of boxers, watches him pull on his coat in the walkway that Eddie came through no more than thirty minutes ago, wrong sleeve first. He doesn't look at Eddie the entire time, just pulls on his shoes while staring at the floor. Like he doesn’t want to be in his own skin, let alone in this house.

For a second, a part of Eddie knows this is wrong, that they're not supposed to sleep in different beds at night, that he shouldn't be sending his partner out into the biting cold of a Chicago night, that it's always supposed to be the three of them under this roof.

He opens his mouth. Doesn’t know what he means to say—I’m sorry, maybe. Stay. Let’s fix this tomorrow, just don’t go.

But nothing comes out. And it's because he's still angry, wishes he wasn't, but he is. The fear and shock and irritation is still thrumming underneath his skin and keeping his jaw clenched. So he closes his mouth shut, doesn't say a word.

Steve straightens up, zipping his coat all the way to the neck. Still doesn’t meet his eyes.

At the door, he pauses, one hand on the handle. The light from the hallway catches on his cheekbone, on the raw pink rim of his eyes. He looks small somehow. Like a shadow of himself, so different from the Steve he's familiar with, the one who never let himself get this invisible around Eddie, the one who went to him when everything else was scary and unbearable. It was always them against the world, that understanding that no matter how loud it got outside, they’d always hear each other. But maybe—maybe in between ten-hour shifts and half-eaten leftovers, missed recitals and sorry-I’m-lates—that broke when he wasn't looking.

"She'll want to plan her outfits for the next day," Steve says softly, hand still on the doorknob. "Lay it out next to her bed. She likes the socks with ruffles, they're in the top drawer."

Then he opens the door and slips out into the hallway without another word.

The door clicks shut and silence fills the apartment once again.

Steve ends up being right.

June’s already in bed when he comes in, curled up with her bunny, eyes wide in the dim glow of the nightlight, demanding that he lay out her outfit for tomorrow by her bed. Eddie does it exactly how she wants—shirt, leggings, and the socks with the ruffles from the top drawer.

Then when she's finally satisfied, she leans back in her bed, curls fanning out against her pillow.

"Is Mama okay?" She asks softly.

Eddie hesitates. “He’s okay,” he says, smoothing a hand over her hair. “He just needed some air.”

She nods, trusting him. Too easily, maybe.

"Are you and mama switching tomorrow?" she asks.

Eddie blinks. "Switching?"

"Like now you’re the one who’s here.”

It guts him, the way she says it not to hurt, not to punish him, but just with that innocent, child-like obliviousness. Like she's genuinely asking, like she's just saying what she sees.

Eddie swallows. His throat feels tight, too full of all the things he missed in the past few months.

"Yeah," he says eventually, voice barely above a whisper. "I’m here."

She hums, satisfied, eyes drooping, already halfway asleep. "G'night."

He kisses her forehead and turns off the light, ignoring the flurry of emotions sitting at the back of his eyes.

The hallway feels too long on the way back to their room. The apartment feels too quiet. Too still.

He gets into bed. Doesn’t bother changing. Just sinks into the mattress—Steve’s side, still faintly warm—and stares at the ceiling.

He thinks about calling out. About chasing after him, stopping him at the elevator, saying something—anything—before the night settles wrong between them.

But he doesn’t.

He tells himself they’ll talk in the morning.

And that's the second decision he's made tonight that he'll regret for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

The cold is the first thing that hits him.

Chicago in January. 

It's the kind of chill that makes your teeth ache and turns the fabric of your clothes cold against your skin like some sort of a betrayal. 

He was never built for this. Even in Hawkins, he was the kind of person who wore three sweaters before September even started and still complained his fingers were stiff. The cold was never for him.

Eddie used to joke about it. Used to call him dramatic while cupping Steve’s hands between his own like they were the last warm things on earth. Eddie was always warm, somehow, radiating heat even in the dead of winter. Steve used to shove his hands under Eddie's shirt, just to be annoying. Every single time, Eddie would yelp, this ridiculous high-pitched sound that didn’t match his voice at all.

"Jesus Christ!" He would shriek, squirming and twisting like he was being electrocuted. "You absolute demon!"

And Steve would just grin, all smug and unapologetic and in love. He would dig his fingers deeper under the fabric until he was practically elbow-deep in Eddie's hoodie, freezing fingertips and palms pressed to warm ribs and soft belly.

"You love it," Steve would murmur, chin hooked over Eddie's shoulder.

"I tolerate it," Eddie would grumble, arms flailing before inevitably wrapping around him anyways, pulling him close like he didn't mean a word of it.

Eddie used to call himself a space heater. Said it with a grin, lips chapped and red from windburn, snow caught in his lashes. "You're lucky you bagged me, Harrington. You'd freeze without me."

He was right.

Steve always did freeze without him.

Tonight he's freezing all over again. He's still standing on their stoop, right outside the door of their walk-up. Hasn't even made it to the sidewalk. Up until right now, he'd been moving on autopilot. The moment the apartment door shut behind him, separating June and Eddie from himself, it was like his brain turned off. He'd walked down their hallway, down three flights of stairs, and through the front door of their building. Only then, when the Chicago chill slapped him in the face, did his body really process what happened. It's like the cold stunned him still.

It hurts, the way the wind slides past his collar. It's the kind of sharp, cutting cold that burns your eyes and sits high on your cheekbones like a million needles. His hands are already stiff in his pockets, already useless.

He thinks about turning around. Walking back up those three flights and knocking on the door. God. When was the last time he knocked? On his own apartment? Eddie's never home first anymore and June doesn't have a set of keys yet, so his knuckles haven't touched the surface of their door in months. It doesn't matter now, anyways. He doesn't think Eddie would open that door even if he begged him to. Not with the way he talked to Steve just moments ago.

So instead, he steps off the stoop and starts walking. Into the cold Chicago wind and far, far away from June and Eddie.

The city feels too big tonight, too empty. Everything around him feels sharpened by winter. The sidewalk’s slick in patches, shining under the streetlights. His breath comes out in bursts, fogging the air in front of him as he shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and hunches forward like that'll make a difference. He should've put on a few more layers, something other than his sleep shirt, maybe a sweater. But he wasn't thinking when he left. He wasn't doing much of anything, really. Just reacting. Just moving. All he knows is that he couldn't stay in that apartment for another second longer. Not when Eddie's words were still bouncing around his head, not with the way the bathroom light made everything feel too bright, too loud.

He didn't want to leave June. It didn't feel right. But he also didn't feel safe in there anymore. It's like the second Eddie asked him to leave, alarms started blaring in his head, telling him this wasn't home anymore, he wasn't wanted, he was a bad omega. And Eddie's always been safe to him. Not just because he was an alpha, or because he was the father of their child. But because Eddie just was. He was always strong and steady and unshakeable and warm. Eddie was their protector. He always made sure nothing would ever harm him or June. That was just how it was. And so the second that protectiveness was turned on Steve, well his omega just couldn't handle it.

There's no one on the streets. Most people are home by now, already occupying the millions of yellow squares on the tall buildings looming over him. The silhouettes in the windows haunt him, remind him that other families are dancing in their living rooms, falling asleep watching movies, tucking their children into bed. And he's out here, on the sidewalk, alone and cold. 

Fuck, it's freezing.

He should call Robin, or Chrissy. Hell, even Gareth. But tonight's not one of those nights. It's not one of those fights, where they just need space for the night. Tonight feels terrifyingly different. Steve didn't just leave, he was kicked out. How does he explain that to Robin? He knows if he came to her she would spend the whole night shit-talking Eddie. It would feel good. But Steve knows it's not one of those nights. He fucked up bad this time and Eddie told him to leave. To leave their house, their nest, their daughter. Steve's so ashamed he wants to crawl out of his own skin, there's no chance he's explaining himself to Robin or Chrissy. He's bad. He did a bad thing and he tried to brush it off and his alpha told him to leave.

Nausea rises in his gut at the reminder. He's so fucking cold. It's already been too long walking around Chicago aimlessly and Steve's body is aching. He wonders if Eddie's asleep, if he set out June's outfit for tomorrow, if he ate dinner.

And just like that, something sharp and hot twists low in his gut.

He knows it's unfair, that Eddie's not the one who fucked up, who checked out while their daughter was in the next room. He knows he's not allowed to get angry at Eddie right now. He knows. 

But it’s infuriating, being kicked out into the cold after months of holding it together with string and spit and stubbornness. Months of keeping the house running, of showing up for June and pretending everything’s fine, of nodding along when Eddie said "Sorry, babe, this deadline’s brutal" and brushing off the ache in his chest when dinner went cold again.

Because he is proud of Eddie. God, of course he is. Eddie’s doing it, actually doing it. Building something real. Getting steady work, landing clients, making a name for himself in a field that most people never even get a foot in the door for. Steve wants that for him. He wants all of it. Eddie’s worked so hard for this, really fought for it. Spent years saying it’d all pay off someday, and now it finally is. Actual clients. Actual income. A life they carved out together from nothing.

So Steve didn't mind picking up the slack with June for a bit. Not really. Not when it felt like they were doing it for something bigger, for a future that meant something.

But lately it’s felt a little less like teamwork. A little more like Steve’s been running the house in the background while Eddie’s world keeps getting bigger and busier and further away. And the one night Eddie’s actually present, the one night he finally looks up and sees them, Steve fucks it all up. Of course he does.

It’s petty. Stupid. Childish. He shouldn’t be blaming this on Eddie. Eddie didn’t do anything wrong. He protected their kid. He got scared. He reacted.

But God, if it doesn't hurt just a little.

Because Steve has been running on fumes. He’s been managing bedtime tantrums and packing preschool lunches and teaching hormonal sixth graders how to write thesis statements while his body goes completely sideways. All while Eddie gets to come home and be the fun dad for June. The dad who isn't there to wrestle her into her PJ's, but makes it just in time for the creative bedtime stories she loves. It's exhausting to do all this shit behind the scenes that Eddie doesn't even know about, to make sure everything is perfect for the two hours Eddie spends with them. To smile through it, even when his whole body is screaming at him to sit the fuck down.

Because it's not just the stress.

It's his body too. It's been wrong for months now.

It started as headaches, nothing unbearable. Just a dull ache at the back of his head after a long day grading papers. But they kept coming. And then they started lasting for days on end.

Then came the waves of heat. Not the sexy kind. Not the kind that he used to crawl into Eddie's lap for. No, this kind felt more like his bones were boiling from the inside out. Like something inside him was trying to burn its way free. His skin would go clammy, his eyes would water, and then he'd end up on the floor of the bathroom—curled in on himself, sweating, shaking, and clawing at his stomach while trying to breathe through clenched teeth that only made his headaches worse. He would throw up after most of those episodes, body hunched over the toilet and breath hiccupping because he couldn't breathe through the cramps.

It scared him, at first.

Enough to call his doctor. Enough to sit in that over-lit clinic room while some tired beta poked at his glands and asked about his stress levels and handed him a pamphlet on heat regulation post-bond.

"Your cycle’s adjusting," the doctor had said, tapping his chart like it was obvious. "Totally normal, especially after a stretch of partnered heats. Your body’s used to having help. Give it time."

They’d given him a suppressant. Low-dose, nothing too heavy. Just enough to take the edge off. And for a while, it worked. The heat spikes softened. The headaches dulled. He could manage again.

But it's like the more he took, the weaker their effect got.

At first, one pill could buy him a few hours of clarity. Enough to last the school day and finish the dishes without shaking. But then things started getting harder. Longer work days. More temper tantrums and playdates to plan. So Steve started bending the rules a little bit. One pill in the morning, then another at lunch. One before parent-teacher conferences. One before grocery runs, just in case. An extra on the days where the nausea hit before noon and the smell of juice boxes in his classroom made his stomach turn.

He wasn't hooked or anything, god no. He just... needed a little more help than the doctor accounted for. That's not his fault, not really. The suppressants were the only thing keeping him upright most days. And he needed to be upright with a smile most days. So he kept taking them. Popped a couple, wiped the bile off his lips, and stepped out into the kitchen to make June blueberry pancakes like it was nothing.

Because someone has to. And if he doesn't, he'll be nothing. If he can't even pull himself together long enough to take care of his daughter, what kind of parent is he? It's embarrassing enough that he has to take these senseless little pills just to function, that sometimes he has to curl up with a sweatshirt holding Eddie's scent in its fabric during the worst of his episodes, that he can't just pull it together and manage his own shit while Eddie works long hours and sleepless nights to provide for their family. 

And Eddie is such a good dad, perfect with June in ways that makes Steve's heart melt. But as much as he loves family time, sometimes Steve wants Eddie. Not like that. Well, occasionally. But he wants Eddie for himself some nights, for movie nights that aren't Disney, for dinner dates without a third, for sleepy mornings and late-night talks and hugs while cooking. The shit they used to do. And it's selfish, Steve knows. But sometimes he gets jealous, not in the hateful resentment way. But in the tired way where sometimes he wishes Eddie would ask him how he's doing instead of 'How was June's day today?'

Tonight was supposed to be a regular night. Come home from work, pick up June, dinner, cartoons, and bedtime. Their usual. But he had this headache that wouldn't fucking quit. So he took a few extra pills and went to lay down for a nap. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes tops. Of course, that's not what happened and he had to be woken up at least an hour later by a frazzled Eddie. He just wanted two seconds, just a moment to rest his eyes. He didn't mean for any of this to happen. He didn't mean to scare June. 

But he did.

It's pathetic. He's pathetic.

Especially now, when even after he's been kicked out, he still craves Eddie's warmth, his safety.

His teeth are chattering now. So much so that it's making a noise, a loud clacking sound every time he sucks a breath in.

Jesus, it's cold.

Chicago in January, sure, but this is bone-deep. The kind of cold that makes your skin sting and your breath catch in your throat. He can’t remember the last time he felt his hands. They’re still stuffed in his pockets, but he’s not sure he could move his fingers if he tried.

And his legs, they ache. Like he's run a marathon or something. Heavy and leaden, knees locking with every step like they’ve forgotten how to bend. He glances around and realizes he doesn't recognize this block. 

Shit.

Steve's not sure how far he's gone. He just kept walking. One foot in front of the other, like he could find a way to reach the edge of the universe and would walk right off of that too. Like if stopped, everything would catch up to him and swallow him whole.

And now it's dark. Really dark. June surely asleep, dreaming already. He hopes Eddie is too. Streetlights hum overhead and light the concrete only Steve's walking on. The stores around him are shuttered and their lights are turned off. A few cars pass by, headlights glaring, but no one looks at him. He's just another bundled figure in the cold, pacing a sidewalk with no destination.

He should really decide where to go, even if it's not Robin's or Chrissy's. Maybe a diner, or a park bench, or anywhere really. But he can't. His brain won't line up the steps. He's too cold, too tired, too small.

So he keeps walking. Keeps passing buildings he doesn't recognize and streets he can't name. Eddie would never let him walk alone like this, not in this dark or this weather. He used to hover like a stormcloud, always one step behind him, one hand on Steve’s lower back. He was never subtle about it, either. Always muttering things like "Too many creeps out tonight" or "City's too weird after dark."

Steve used to roll his eyes and call him overprotective, dramatic. But secretly? He loved it. Loved being looked after. Loved being someone Eddie wanted to protect.

But Eddie's not here right now. And it's dark and cold and everything Eddie told him not to worry about because he said he would always be there. So Steve keeps walking.

Then, suddenly, he stumbles.

Just a little. A crack in the sidewalk catches his shoe, or maybe his knee just buckles weird. Either way, he wasn't expecting it. It throws him off and his head feels heavier than normal. He catches himself against the brick wall of a closed café, chest heaving like he’s just sprinted, heart thudding uncomfortably loud in his ears. 

His fingers tremble when he pulls them from his pockets. They’re red. Raw-looking. Useless. Everything feels off. Tilted, too bright at the edges. His vision goes slightly fuzzy, like the corners are being eaten away by static. The world doesn’t feel real for a second, like he’s underwater, or watching it all through a screen.

He blinks hard. Tries to shake it off. Focus.

You're just tired. You're fine. Just find a place to sit.

But when he tries to take another step, his knees buckle.

He sways again, feels the world tilt on its axis. He catches himself with one hand on a parking meter, breath catching in his throat. Everything feels too light within his body, like all the blood and oxygen and water in him is rising to the top of his head and the tops of his fingertips. Or maybe that's just throw up rising in his stomach. He tries to remember the last time he ate. Or drank water. Tries to count how many pills he took today. But the numbers blur. Everything blurs.

Sit down. Just sit down.

He lowers himself onto the curb slowly, like an old man, palms scraping cold concrete. His knees hit harder than expected, jarring up through his spine.

And now he’s shivering, full-body, teeth-rattling, violent shivers. Like his body finally noticed just how long it’s been out in the cold. Just how close it is to the edge. 

His shirt feels damp, sticky. He realizes he's been sweating, like really sweating. But it's cold like someone's dunked him in ice water. Everything is wrong. Off. Tilted. Like the sidewalk's moving underneath him, even though he knows it's not. In his mind, somewhere, he knows he just needs to take a breath, slow down. But his skin is prickling and his palms are clammy and his head feels too light yet too heavy to keep up. 

His hand slips off his knee and hits the ground hard. He feels the serrated surface of the concrete cut into his skin. It stings. Fuck.

He blinks but the world doesn't steady.

His ears are ringing now. Sharp and high, like a kettle screaming just behind his eyes. He tries to push himself upright, tries to ground himself, but his muscles won’t listen. Everything is pulsing and distant, like his body’s on delay.

He tries to breathe, he knows that's all he needs. If he could just slow everything down, shut everything up, he would stop freaking out. Just one deep inhale. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the-

Nope.

His chest tightens mid-breath. His stomach lurches.

He doubles over, coughing dryly, spit stringing from his lips. His vision goes white around the edges.

He wants to cry. He wants to lie down. He wants Eddie. Wants his strong arms and warm chest and soft words. He wants to have been a better parent and a better partner and to not have fucked up so bad tonight. He wants to be forgiven and punished and apologized to. He wants Eddie. Steve always did freeze without him.

His body makes the choice for him.

He tries to stop it, grab the edge of the curb, call out for help, anything. But it doesn't work. It all happens too fast to stop it. The pavement rushes up to meet with his cheek.

He doesn't feel anything when his head collides with the concrete, surprisingly. No searing pain, no sharp crack of bones, no discomfort.

Just the way the air seems to be knocked out of his lungs.

And the sounds of someone yelling, garbled and distant.

And the yellow from the streetlights smearing and swirling in his vision.

And the frigidness of the night.

Then-

Nothing.

Chapter Text

Eddie isn't really sleeping when the phone rings. He's been lying there for hours, tossing and turning under the sheets, listening to the radiator clank. He's thought about calling Robin maybe fifty some times now. 

Because that's where Steve is, right? Robin's couch. Wrapped up in some fluffy blanket while she pats his hair and calls Eddie a dickhead, over and over, until Steve starts to believe it. Maybe Chrissy's there too, nodding along. The whole goddamn friend group, probably, taking turns telling him what a terrible alpha Eddie is.

The thought makes something hot and defensive claw up Eddie's throat. He feels the urge to defend himself, to argue back, to say they don't get it, he's not in the wrong here, they weren't there, they didn't see the way Steve-

He cuts himself off, grinding the heels of his palm into his eyes. He's fighting with ghosts. With shadows he's made up in his own head to ease the guilt he feels. Because the truth is, Steve left. Eddie told him to go, and Steve actually did.

And now Eddie's the one lying awake, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers.

Fuck, he really needed to go to sleep.

He’s about to drag himself out of bed, maybe grab a melatonin gummy, maybe just sit at the kitchen table and stare at nothing. But his phone buzzes on his nightstand. He jolts upright, heart hammering.

Unknown Number

He stares at it for a second too long, lets phone's rhythmic buzzing send vibrations down his arm. Dread coils in his stomach. It's probably a wrong number. A telemarketer. Something stupid

But some awful part of him knows. His thumb clicks before he can talk himself out of it.

"Hello?" His voice comes out hoarse, raw from hours of silence.

The person on the other end responds immediately, calm, professional, like they were waiting for him: "Is this Edward Munson? You’re listed as the emergency contact for a Steven Munson."

The words hit him like ice water. Eddie's whole body goes cold. His mouth goes dry. "What- yes, that's me. What happened? Is he-"

The nurse keeps her tone even, practiced, like she’s done this a hundred times. "He was brought in to Northwestern Memorial about an hour ago. He was found unconscious on West Hubbard. We need you to come in."

Unconscious.

The word rattles around Eddie's skull like a bullet casing.

"Is- he’s alive, right? He’s-" Eddie's half-standing already, tripping over his own feet as he grabs for his jeans. "He’s okay?"

"He's stable," the nurse replies calmly. "But we do need you to come in. Are you able to get here tonight?"

Eddie's already shoving his legs into his pants with shaking hands "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be there. I just- fuck, I've got my daughter. I can't leave her here."

"That's fine, sir," the nurse says gently. "Bring her with you. We'll have someone from pediatrics sit with her if needed."

Eddie mumbles some kind of thank you, but he doesn't remember hanging up. His phone is quickly shoved into his pants and a hoodie is already being yanked over his head with shaking hands. 

For a second, he just stands there, half-dressed in the middle of his dark, empty bedroom. The apartment is silent.

When Eddie recounts this story—months later, when the memories don't sting anymore—he won't include this part, this quiet moment.

The moment where his throat closed up, hot and tight, and his eyes burned. Where he almost he almost cried.

The part where, for one dangerous heartbeat, he thought about crawling back into bed. Pulling the covers right over his head and letting the night swallow him whole. Pretending he hadn't answered the phone. Pretending Steve didn't need him. Pretending none of this was real. 

It was only a second. Just one second. But it was enough to feel like a sin. 

Then June shifts in the next room, soft and restless, and the moment shatters. Eddie yanks the rest of his hoodie on with shaking hands and forces himself out of the room.

The hallway feels longer than it is. Too quiet, too normal. Like, for whatever reason, Eddie expected the rest of the world to bend under the weight of his panic. Expected the walls the creak, or the pictures to be out of place. But everything is the same. Warm. Cozy. Everything they wanted it to be when they first moved in. The carpet’s still worn where June drags her toys, the nightlight still hums faintly from the crack under her door.

It feels wrong. Like the apartment should know Steve isn't here. Like it should ache with his absence.

He pushes her door open, gentle but urgent. 

She's curled up in her blankets, hair a messy halo on her pillow, one arm flung across her stuffed bunny. Safe. Untouched by any of this.

Eddie wishes he didn't have to do this.

"Bug," he whispers, crouching beside her bed, the clothes he set up just a few hours ago getting pressed down into the floor under his weight. His voice wavers, and he hopes she's too sleepy to notice. 

Her eyes blink open slow, unfocused at first. "Daddy?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. Daddy's here." His throat feels raw. "We're gonna go see Mama, okay? He's at the doctors so I need you to get up."

That wakes her more. She sits up, wipes a curl out of her eyes with her open palm clumsily. "Mama's sick?"

Eddie's mouth goes dry. He can't lie, not to her. But the truth feels to big, too sharp to hand over while she's still surrounded by princess blankets and stuffed animals. So he just nods once, quick. "Yeah, bug. He's not feeling well. We gotta go be with him."

She nods back, like it's simple. Like it makes sense. And Eddie wants to crumble with relief and guilt all at once. 

He slips her coat on, clumsy with trembling hands, and she lets him. No questions. No fight. Just small and trusting as she leans into his side. 

Eddie grabs one of her books from their pile in the living room, some colorful picture book she's been trying to finish for a while. Steve always set 'goals' for her—finish two chapters before bed, sound out the tricky words without skipping. She's been stuck on this one for a while an Eddie figures if anything will keep her distracted in a hospital waiting room, it’ll be this. So he shoves it in a tote, along with a few snacks and juice boxes for the trip. It feels like something Steve would do, so he doesn't question it.

Her boots are by the door, tiny and scuffed, and he crouches to shove them on her feet with hands that won’t stop shaking. He jams her mittens into his pocket too, even though she’ll probably peel them off the second she’s buckled in the car seat. It feels important to have them. To make sure she’s warm. To make sure something is under control.

"Ready?" he asks, more to himself than to her.

She just yawns, clutching her bunny tighter under her arm, and nods.

Eddie swallows hard, grabs his keys, and opens the door into the freezing dark.

-

The hospital's too bright, too sterile. The sliding doors whoosh open and swallow them both whole. The air smells like antiseptic and over brewed coffee. June clings to his leg, still in her pajamas, as he fumbles at the reception desk, voice cracking when he says Steve's name.

"Munson. Steve- Steven Munson. I was- you guys called me."

The nurse nods briskly, typing something, then hands him a sticker with VISITOR in block letters like that means anything. Like that's all he is now, just a visitor. 

"Third floor," she says, not even looking up, like Eddie's already become another free seat in the waiting room. "Room 312. A doctor will meet you there."

Eddie swallows hard, picks June up, adjusts her on his hip when she starts to fuss, and forces his legs to move. The hallways stretch ahead, sterile and endless, and every step makes his heart pound louder, because he doesn't know what he's about to see.

He feels so small.

Hospitals do that to him. Always have. The buzzing lights, the antiseptic sting in the air, the voices that never rise above a whisper. The muffled sobs that drift down the hall and make you thank God it isn’t me, until suddenly, it is.

It all makes him feel like he's sneaking into someplace he doesn't belong, doesn't understand. Like all the nurses and doctors walking around in scrubs and white jackets are the adults suddenly, and Eddie, clutching his daughter like a stuffed animal, is the scared child that's lost.

But tonight is worse. Because it’s not him in the bed this time, not Wayne with his bad back or Gareth with a busted wrist. It’s Steve. His Steve. The man who always made hospitals feel unnecessary, because Steve took care of everything before it ever got bad enough to need one.

Eddie's hands are shaking so badly he almost drops June. He pulls her closer instead, curls around her like she's the only thing tethering him to real life and prays to God she doesn't realize he's the one who needs comforting. His brain won't stop spinning with questions he doesn't want answers to. Like what if Steve isn't breathing now? What if he took too long at home and he's gone already? What if he's cold? Steve's always cold, he needs-

"Three one two!" June enunciates proudly, her chubby little fingers making grabby hands at the door.

Eddie hadn't even realized, hadn't even seen the numbers blur past him on the wall. 308, 309, 310, 311. He almost missed it.

312. Holding his breath, Eddie pushes the door open.

And it's like time freezes. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. It wasn't supposed to be this sudden, he needed something to ease his eyes into the scene, something out of a movie, something monumental.

But no. The door swings closed behind the two of them and there Steve is.

Just... there. 

Pale against hospital sheets, wires taped to his chest, an IV line snaking into the crook of his arm. There's a monitor beeping slow and steady, cruel in its tempo when Eddie's heart is doing the opposite. His head is bandaged from where he must have hit the curb, hair messy and damp in a way he would hate. Eddie wants to brush it out of his eyes. His lips are chapped and his fingers are slightly blue. He's cold, Eddie thinks distantly. 

The scene hits him like a slap in the face.

"Why's Mama sleeping in here?" June whispers from where she's twisted in his arms, neck craned awkwardly towards Steve. 

Eddie opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He's got no words for this.

He thought Steve was with Robin, thought they were talking shit about him and watching those shitty reality TV shows all bundled up on her couch. Safe. Warm. 

But Steve wasn't with Robin, wasn't anywhere near her apartment either. What the fuck was he thinking? Why the hell was he all the way on Hubbard street?

For a second Eddie wonders if Steve was still on something, if he popped another pill after he was sent away, or if maybe he was still checked out from the pills he took before. Disgust rises in his chest before he can control it, before he can take a moment to breathe, to remember that he was the one who sent Steve away in the cold with nothing but a half-charged phone and a too-thin jacket.

He lets that disgust morph into something else, something akin to anger, something he shouldn't be feeling while looking at his husband in a hospital bed. But maybe it's easier to feel this than the guilt of being the one who caused all this, than the fear of losing the person he loves most in the world, than the grief he feels for another version of himself, a version that told Steve to stay. 

Steve's chest rises and falls shallow, mechanical. It taunts him.

The misplaced anger in his gut simmers down to a pathetic thing, something so miniscule now compared to his disquietude. 

He feels the sudden urge to cry again, to hold June the same way she holds her stupid stuffed bunny, to let his face scrunch up with unabashed emotion and allow tears to fall. Steve would hold him.

He doesn't get the chance to answer June because suddenly the door behind them is swinging open again.

"Mr. Munson?"

The voice behind him makes him startle so hard he knocks into Steve's medical bed. He spins, pulse hammering, to find a woman in a white coat standing in the doorway. Early forties, sharp dark eyes, hair pulled into a bun that looks like it's been fighting its way loose over the course of the night. 

"I'm Dr. Khanna," she says gently, tone practiced but not unkind. "I know this is a lot to take in, but your husband is stable. That’s the most important thing right now."

Eddie's still clutching June, lungs barely working. "Stable," he echoes, like he's testing the word. Like it might shatter if he says it too loud.

Dr. Khanna nods, her eyes steady on him. "He’s unconscious, but his vitals are holding. We’ve ruled out a head injury beyond a mild concussion. What we’re most concerned about are the stress responses in his system."

"Stress responses," Eddie repeats dumbly, voice cracking. "What does that even—what does that mean?"

Her gaze flicks to June, to the tote-bag Eddie packed, then back to him, lowering her tone like she's calibrating to his panic. "It means his body has been under severe strain for a while. Physical strain. Likely biological. The collapse was his body's way of forcing a stop," she pauses, then gestures towards the hallway. "Why don't we talk outside, just the adults."

Then, to June: "What's your name sweetheart?"

"Juniper Munson, but I'm called June," she replies proudly.

"Okay, well June, I have a job for you. I need you to watch over your mama while your daddy and I have a chat outside. Do you think you can do that?" Dr. Khanna offers, voice soothing.

"Yeah I can do that easy."

"Okay, I'm trusting you Juniper Munson," Dr. Khanna says solemnly, then turns. "Shall we?"

It takes a second for Eddie to realize she's talking to him, that he's still the adult in this situation and not another scared little kid. "Huh? Oh- yeah, sorry."

-

The hallway outside Steve's room has quieted down, almost like the hospital understands the gravity of this conversation, like it's also holding its breath for a moment.

Dr. Khanna stops a few feet away from the door, folds her arms loosely, and gives Eddie a look that makes his skin crawl. She's not harsh, just clinical.

"First, the obvious," she begins. "When he was brought in, your husband was hypothermic. Mild, not irreversible. His core temperature dropped and caused the loss of motor control, the confusion, and his eventual collapse. He's stable now, but hypothermia can put serious stress on the heart, especially when paired with exhaustion."

Eddie nods stiffly. Hypothermia, that word he recognizes. That word he can hold on to. "Okay. Hypothermia. Right. But he'll be okay, yeah? You can just... warm him back up?"

Dr. Khanna's gaze sharpens, Eddie shifts uncomfortably under it. "We have. But hypothermia wasn't the only factor."

The floor tilts under his feet. "What do you mean, not the only-"

"He's showing additional symptoms," she interrupts gently, voice firm but caring. "Heat dysregulation. Immune stress. These are not new, based on what we can tell from his bloodwork. This has been ongoing for months. What happened tonight was the culmination of prolonged strain on his system."

Eddie's head jerks, like she's speaking a different language. This doctor's acting like she knows their family, knows Steve, based off of only a few scans. This night was just a bump, just a shitty moment for them, it- it isn't them. "Prolonged strain? What- what kind of strain? What does that even mean? Are you sure it's not the medication he's been-"

Dr. Khanna clasps her hands together. "Mr. Munson, your partner is presenting with a condition we sometimes refer to as isolation-induced rejection illness. It mimics the biology of bond rejection: system crashes, hormone surges, metabolic collapse."

Eddie blinks at her.

Rejection sickness.

Suddenly the words process and something like hysterical relief bubbles up in his chest. Because this lady? She clearly doesn't know what she's talking about. Rejection? Steve? No way.

Steve's his mate. His bond. The whole point of bonding was to never be alone again. Eddie remembers the exact moment it happened, the rush of warmth and certainty that had slammed into him so hard he almost cried. He remembers Steve's hand gripping his. They're tied together in ways words can't touch. Steve can feel him sometimes, in the quiet moments. Eddie swears he can. He's said so. 

There's no rejection here. That's not what they are. That's not who they are.

Hell, they've always been that couple. The nauseating one. The one their friends rolled their eyes at because Eddie couldn't keep his hands to himself and Steve couldn't stop smiling at him from across the room. The ones who shared straws without thinking, who slept on top of each other, who always seemed to find their way back to each other in a crowd. Gross, stupidly in love, the kind of bond everyone teased them about but always wanted for themselves.

That's them. That's still them. Having different schedules and busy lives doesn't change that.

So whatever this doctor is talking about, it doesn't fit. It can't.

"You've got it wrong. He's not- we're bonded. Mated. Fully. It's definitely not rejection sickness." Eddie says confidently, like stating it out loud should make it undeniable.

"I understand your confusion Mr. Munson," Dr. Khanna replies gently. "Your bond is intact. This isn't about being abandoned or unloved. It's purely biological. Steven's-"

"Steve." Eddie interrupts. He's not really sure why.

"Steve," Dr. Khanna amends, giving him that small space to stand on, that little piece of control. "Steve's body is interpreting prolonged absence of partner regulation as isolation. It isn't rational, but biologically, it's very real. When a bonded omega goes long stretches without their alpha’s physical presence—meaning scent regulation, spending heats together, sharing a stress load—the body can interpret it as neglect. The body begins to react with the same symptoms as a rejected bond, even if the bond is still present. It's rare, but it happens. Especially when stressors pile up the way they have for Steven- Steve."

Her tone never sharpens, she doesn't say it to hurt, but the words still land like a blow. Eddie's alpha immediately recoils at the words, at the idea that he hasn't been enough, that Steve's body would rather collapse than believe he was cared for. His chest goes tight, his jaw aches from clenching.

"That- no. That doesn't make sense," he blurts, desperate to explain himself. "I'm here. I come home every night, I- fuck, I provide, I-" the words choke off. Because even as he says it, he can hear how hollow it sounds. 

Dr. Khanna doesn’t argue. She just looks at him, steady, professional, waiting for him to either calm down or let the silence catch up to him. "Again, Mr. Munson, I understand your confusion. These cases are unusual, but not uncommon. It'd be very helpful if you could answer some questions that will help me better understand Steve's daily life and confirm potential diagnoses."

"Okay, yeah. Yeah, I can do that." Eddie exhales because that is something he can do, something that might give him even a semblance of control tonight.

"Perfect," Dr. Khanna says, pulling a small tablet from her coat pocket. "Let's start simple. How often would you say Steve experiences these heat spikes? Once a week? Daily?"

Eddie opens his mouth, ready to answer, but nothing comes out. He blanks immediately, his brain scrambling. Heat spikes? He hadn't even- Steve never even told him. "I... I don't know," he finally admits, sighing. 

Dr. Khanna nods, unfazed, like that was the answer she was expecting. She scrolls. "Alright. What about appetite? Has he been eating regularly? Losing weight?"

Eddie stares at her. His throat bobs. He thinks about half-finished dinners, plates wrapped in tin foil left on the counter when he came home late. Then he thinks about dirty dishes in the sink, the ones that made him roll his eyes and mutter under his breath about how lazy Steve was, about how he already had so much on his plate with work and couldn't deal with cleaning up after him too.

But now, standing here, he can't remember if those dishes meant Steve had actually eaten. "I don't know," he says, quieter this time.

Dr. Khanna's face doesn't shift, but the silence afterwards feels louder. Eddie's ears burn.

"Okay, that's alright," she says gently. "What about the episodes themselves? When they happen, how long do they usually last?"

And Eddie's eyes sting because he's blank. Blank. He doesn't know. He doesn't fucking know. He wants to cry and shake her and tell her it's not his fault, he swears it's not his fault. He never saw all of this, Steve never told him, it's not his fault. But all he gives her is a useless shake of his head.

Dr. Khanna looks ready to give up.

But that's when a small voice cuts in from the doorway, steady and certain:

"Sometimes a long time. Mama throws up in the bathroom. I can hear him."

Both adults startle, Eddie's heart dropping into his shoes as he whirls around to see June standing there curled around the doorframe, bunny clutched tight, her voice calm like she's stating a fact.

Dr. Khanna straightens, but doesn't look surprised, like she's had kids step into these conversations before. "Thank you June," she says softly, voice pitched with the same seriousness she'd give any adult. "That's very helpful."

Eddie’s mouth opens, closes. He wants to tell her to stop, that June shouldn’t be dragged into this, that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but his daughter’s gaze is steady, calm, and certain in a way his isn’t.

"How often does that happen?" Dr. Khanna asks gently, keeping her attention on June.

June tilts her head like she's counting. "A lot. Sometimes after bedtime when I'm 'upposed to be sleeping I hear him."

Eddie grips the back of his neck, heat crawling all the way up his face. His four-year old daughter is answering questions about her mama better than he was able to. 

Dr. Khanna nods, types something on her tablet. "Does he eat with you?"

June frowns, bunny ears dangling to the floor. "Sometimes. But sometimes he just gives me my food and we watch TV together. He says he's not hungry but I only get stuffed like him after I eat."

"Does he sleep okay?" Dr. Khanna continues.

June lights up immediately. "Yeah! When it's my nap time he lays down with me and we sleep together. He says 'mama's tired too'."

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, wants to be anywhere in the world but here. June's voice stays steady, unknowing, like she's just listing things she's noticed.

"His head hurts too, he told me," she adds after a moment. "He rubs right here." She touches the back of her neck with her little hand. "And then sometimes he lies on the bathroom floor 'cause he said it's cold even though he's all sweaty and sticky like he's hot. He lets me sleep next to him. I like it 'cause the bathroom rug is fuzzy."

Eddie can't breathe. The image of Steve curled up on their tiny bathroom floor slices right through him.

Dr. Khanna hums in acknowledgment, typing another note. "And how often would you say these things happen, June?"

June shrugs, bunny tucked under her chin. "A lot. Almost every day I think."

Eddie feels like he's going to be sick.

It's like watching a movie, a recording of a life he missed. Or maybe it's something else, maybe it's just like opening your eyes for the first time.

Before he realizes it, the doctor has angled her entire body towards June. Every question, every nod, every soft encouragement is directed at his daughter, while Eddie stands just behind them like a little kid who's lost.

By the time Dr. Khanna thanks June for being 'such a big help', ushers her back into the room, and promises her a sticker from the nurses’ station, Eddie feels like the ground has tilted beneath him. He’s trying not to throw up from the hollow ache of be faced with everything he's missed in the last few months. How he wasn't just running late to dance recitals and family dinners, but missing entire chapters of Steve's life. Whole battles fought quietly in bathrooms, sickness behind closed doors. God, how did he miss all of this?

It sickens him how ready June was, how innocent she had been throughout the whole questioning, like she didn't even realize what she was doing, like she'd just known all along that no one else was listening.

When the doctor turns back to him in the now empty hallway, he doesn't meet her eyes. Shame sits heavy in his gut.

"Mr. Munson, none of this is blame. Sometimes children see the things us adults are too busy to notice," she offers gently. But it doesn't make him feel any better. "I'm going to give Steve some time to rest, and I'll check in again in an hour."

Then, with a few footsteps on linoleum floor, she's gone and it's only Eddie in the hallway. 

The silence presses in, heavier than the antiseptic in the air, heavier than the guilt. He drags a hand down his face, considers pacing, considers running. 

Jesus Christ, he needed to get his shit in order.

He needs to call work, tell them he won't be in tomorrow, call Steve's school, find someone to watch June. A dozen problems pile up faster than he can think through them.

He pulls his phone out, thumb hovering over his contacts, trying to figure out who the hell to burden first. He should call Robin, he knows it's the smart choice. But he can already hear her voice in his head, sharp and certain: You should’ve noticed. You’re his mate, Eddie. You should have been there. And he can’t stomach it.

His contacts blur under his thumb until one name catches his eye. The screen lights up with someone he hasn’t spoken to since Christmas.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he presses call.

Wayne picks up after only two rings, even in the middle of the night. "Well I'll be damned. Haven't gotten a call from you in ages. Finally missed your old man, huh?"

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, sinks down onto a hard plastic chair outside Steve’s room. His throat’s tight, words scratchy when they come out. "Yeah. Guess so."

There’s a pause on the line, long enough Eddie knows Wayne’s clocking the tone. "Well it's the middle of the damn night, boy. You alright?"

Eddie’s chest caves a little. He bites the inside of his cheek, tastes copper. "No. No, I’m not. Something happened."

The grogginess in Wayne's tone fades immediately. "What's wrong? Is it Stevie? Or June?"

The name almost makes Eddie smile, if smiling didn't feel impossible right now. Stevie. Wayne had called him that, from the very start, back when Eddie first dragged a nervous, too-pretty Harrington boy into the trailer during senior year. He never stopped calling him that. Even after the wedding. Even after June was born. Even now. "Steve's in the hospital. He collapsed. I don’t—fuck, I don’t even know how bad it is. June’s with me. We’re here now."

On the other end, Wayne exhales. "Jesus Christ, boy. What the hell happened?"

Eddie's head thunks against the wall behind him. "We-" he want's to say 'we fought', but the words don't feel right. "I told him to leave. And he did. And then a few hours later I get a call, and he's been found on the street. And now I'm here, and this doctor's telling me shit that doesn't make sense and-" His voice breaks completely. "Wayne, I don't know what to do."

There's another pause, a rustle of sheets. "So let me get this straight. You two got into a fight. And you send him away for the night, all alone, in the cold? What the hell were you thinking?"

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, he's fucking tired. "I don't know, okay? You didn't see him, you don't understand. I thought he'd go to Robin's, or Chrissy's, or-" His chest heaves. "I didn't think he'd end up like this."

"You didn't think." Wayne's cuts in, voice sharp, not mean, but that quiet disappointment that's somehow worse. "Boy, you're too old to to be throwing your weight around like some hotheaded teenager. You got a family now. You can’t be telling your omega to take a hike like it’s nothing."

"I know," Eddie croaks. "I know I fucked up."

There’s a silence then. Eddie can almost picture Wayne sitting on the edge of his bed back home, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he always did when Eddie came home with another detention slip.

Finally, Wayne sighs. Softer. "Alright. What's done is done. Steve's still here, yeah? What do you need me to do?"

"June. I can't keep her here, not while Steve’s like this. She’s too little to sit in a hospital all night. She’s got school tomorrow, and-" His voice cracks again, a mix of shame and desperation. "She shouldn’t have to see him like that. Not the way he looks right now."

"Alright," Wayne says immediately, like there was never any doubt. Eddie can hear him moving around, the creak of floorboards. "I'll head out now, be there by tomorrow."

Eddie almost sobs out of relief. But he doesn't, he can't. So instead, he nods even though Wayne can't see him. "Thank you," he whispers wetly, and the words don't feel big enough for what he feels.

"And Eddie?" Wayne pauses. "Don’t go crawlin’ into your own head too deep. That boy loves you. And if he loves you enough to drive himself sick over bein’ without you, then you damn sure better be here when he wakes up."

Eddie's throat works, but no words come out. He just lets out a heavy breath, until Wayne sighs like he already knows. "I'll see you soon, Ed." Then the line clicks dead.

The silence afterward is deafening. Eddie lets the phone drop into his lap, stares at the screen until it goes black. His hands are still shaking, his eyes are stinging again.

Finally, he shoves the phone into his pocket and forces his legs to move. Back through the too-bright hallway, back into the room that still smells faintly like Steve's shampoo. 

June's perched in the chair beside the bed, bunny clutched under her arm, little feet swinging. She looks up when Eddie walks in, her face all soft and innocent.

He sinks into the chair next to her, suddenly too tired to hold himself upright. His brain is completely fried but it works just enough to remember the tote bag he packed sitting at his feet. His hands fumble through the contents until they land on the book he'd grabbed for June before they'd left the apartment. He pulls it out, holds it out in front of her with a shaky little smile.

"Here bug, I brought this for you. We can read through it while we wait for Mama to wake up. I can even help you with the hard parts."

It feels like a lifeline. Something tangible, something he can do. He can't fix Steve, can't take back tonight, can't undo the past few months, but he can give June this. He can be the dad who remembers the book, who helps her sound out the tricky words, the dad who keeps her distracted, who shows up for her when it matters.

For one second, he smiles, almost believes it might save him.

But then June just tilts her head at the cover, then looks back at him. "Daddy I finished that one already. A long time ago. Mama and me picked a harder one."

And Eddie-

Eddie just stares at her, smile slowly slipping away. It all feels suddenly ridiculous. The way his face falls, the way June doesn't even realize what she's done, the stupid fucking book in his hands, the one thing he thought he did right tonight.

Of course he missed it. Of course it's not a surprise. Of course, out of all other things tonight, this is the one that breaks him.

"Oh," he says softly, the word small and flat. He forces a crooked smile, quickly snags the books back into his lap. "Guess I missed that, huh?"

June only shrugs, already yawning and curling up in the uncomfortable chair. "It's okay, Daddy. You can read the new one with us."

Eddie hums and watches her settle, the soft rise and fall of her breath already evening out, bunny tucked against her chin. 

For a second he just sits there, staring at the book like it betrayed him. Like it's proof, bright colors and worn edges, that he doesn't know his own family like he thought he did.

The room hums with the monitors, the steady beep that means Steve is still here, and Eddie sits with a useless book in his hands that just stares back up at him.

So, with nothing else left to hold onto, he flips open the bent cover, and he reads.

Chapter Text

Steve smells Eddie before any of his other senses wake up.

He's always loved Eddie's scent: woodsy, smokey, but sweet. It always felt uniquely Eddie, all warm and safe, like a hug.

Eddie gives the best hugs.

But right now, in this void of darkness where Steve can only rely on his nose, the scent is off. Not in an odd way, Steve still recognizes it. He knows all of Eddie's scents intimately, he used to wear them like perfume. 

But when he inhales again, it's distinctly wrong. It smells like a mixture of a million different memories:

When Steve went into labor and the two of them sat in the hospital room clutching each other.

Eddie kept telling him to 'just breathe, baby' and Steve kept screaming at him to 'shut the fuck up'. Every contraction, he would sob and dig his nails into Eddie's bicep, just begging this baby to pop the fuck out so he could hold her and sleep forever. He remembers Eddie's scent that day. Still warm, still safe, still like the best hug you could ever imagine. But Steve could smell the fear mixed in with the rest of those lovely notes. Anxiety and unease soured Eddie's scent no matter how hard he tried to reign it in for the sake of Steve's comfort.

When Eddie left his razor on the sink.

It hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time, but June had just reached the age where her chubby fingers could finally grip things—curious enough to "experiment." She sliced three parallel lines across her pointer finger the second Eddie turned away. She sobbed like it was a mortal wound, squeezing her finger like she wanted Steve to clean up as much blood as possible.

He remembers the horror on Eddie's face, how he immediately rushed forward, scooping their daughter into his arms like he could protect her from an evil world of razors just by holding her tighter. Within the next minute, June was sucking on a lollypop and admiring her SpongeBob band aid with rapt attention. But Eddie couldn't let it go. He got stuck in his head, replaying how it could've been worse, how it could've been his fault. Steve could smell it on him for the rest of the day: the guilt, sharp and lingering, heavier than it ever needed to be.

When Steve got invited out for drinks.

It was back in the beginning, before June, when the only form of nutrition they could afford was oily takeout. A few friends from work had invited him out, just for some drinks. But he didn't go out that night. They both know he couldn't. Not really. They'd done the math too many times; a night of "just drinks" cost more than a week's worth of groceries.

So Steve shrugged, turned off his phone, and leaned into Eddie's side on their sagging couch. He hadn't cared. He'd left behind his father's trust and his mother's expensive taste the day he chose Eddie. All he wanted was him.

But Eddie's scent that night had been heavy—smoky, edged with something sour. The same note that always crept in when things like this happened. Steve hadn’t understood it then, Eddie’s constant need to make up for something Steve never asked for. He used to think it was just rebellion against his father, Eddie’s quiet war against Mr. Harrington.

But really, it was more than that. Eddie always felt the need to prove himself—that choosing him hadn’t been a mistake, that he could provide for his omega.

It was an alpha thing. But it was also an Eddie thing.

Steve remembers every Christmas Eddie spent too much on jewelry they couldn’t afford, every dinner where the bill made his stomach twist. He’d always smelled the same on those nights—shameful, embarrassed, and still trying so hard to make it right.

Floating in the dark, Steve recognizes it distinctly, among all the other memories and scents. It's the same note in the air now, years later. The scent of a man still trying to prove he deserves the life he already built.

Steve inhales nonetheless. 

-

His sight comes next. He opens his eyes slowly and regrets it immediately.

The room is impossibly bright. White bleeds through the edges of everything. 

For a second he thinks he's underwater. The world ripples when he blinks. Shapes blur into each other: walls, machines, a curtain that might be a person.

He shuts his eyes immediately. It hurts. But the smell is still there. Still Eddie. Still a hug.

He blinks until the light steadies. The room takes shape. The sterile gleam of a hospital, tubes taped to his arm, a monitor keeping score of his heartbeat.

And there, slouched in the chair beside the bed, is Eddie.

Head tipped back against the wall, long legs twisted awkwardly under the plastic chair.

Steve misses him when he's two feet away.

He supposes that's when he starts to feel as well. The tightness of his throat, the scratchiness of the hospital blanket.

Taste and hearing come right after: the sour tackiness of a dry mouth, the soft snores from the body next to him.

It's peaceful. Steve knows it's the calm before the storm. He's always had a knack for recognizing moments like these. Like the universe picked him out especially to feel the moments of exhale before they passed.

A second later, Eddie's eyes blink open, like he knew. They were always like that, always reading each other's minds.

"Steve?"

Eddie's voice sounds like it's been scraped raw. Rough and quiet, like he's afraid to say it too loud in case it disappears.

Steve blinks again, slower this time, trying to line the sound up with the sight. Eddie, here. Eddie, real. The bags under his eyes, the stubble that's gone from charming to desperate.

"Hey," Steve manages, though it comes out more breath than word. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

Eddie jerks forward, chair legs squealing against the tile. His knees knock into the hospital bed and his hands hover over Steve's arm, like he's scared to touch him.

"You- shit. Okay, you're awake." He laughs once, shaky and too loud for the quiet. "Jesus, Stevie."

Steve swallows, throat burning and mouth tacky. "Where's June?"

"Wayne drove up and they're at the apartment. She's fine."

Steve blinks. Wayne drove up.

He licks his lips, tries to wet the dryness in his mouth. "How long was I out?"

Eddie hesitates, and that's answer enough. He looks exhausted. Steve feels it with all his five senses.

"A little more than a day I think. The doctor said your body needed to catch up on some rest," Eddie finally says, then adds, after a beat of silence, "I think she was putting it lightly."

Steve lets out a shaky breath. The monitor hums beside him, traitorously calm. He thinks about asking if June saw him like this, wires taped to his arms and dead to the world. But he knows the answer, knows Eddie wouldn't leave her at the apartment alone. 

Like Steve did.

Eddie interrupts his spiral with a breathless:

"Fuck, Steve. Why didn't you tell me any of this?" 

He sounds more wrecked than angry, but Steve can feel the edge underneath. If he had enough energy, he'd be rolling his eyes at Eddie's tone.

But he doesn't. Instead, he blinks at the ceiling, not looking at Eddie's desperate eyes. "Tell you what? That I was tired?"

"Don't do that." Eddie leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Don't make it sound small."

Steve scoffs. Fucking unbelievable.

Eddie always hated uncomfortable conversations, almost as much as he loved to preach "talking it out."

"What do you want me to say? That I knew this was coming? Because I didn't. This wasn't some desperate attempt at your attention, believe it or not."

Steve can hear Eddie's jaw clench. "I didn't say it was." His voice is tight, controlled the way it gets right before he cracks. "Why didn't you go to Robin's? I would have never done what I did if- I thought you went to Robin's."

That snaps Steve's gaze to him, finally. Eddie's eyes are glassy, rimmed red. He looks like he's been crying for hours but still hasn't gotten to the part where it helps.

The anger dissipates immediately looking at him. Not because Eddie looks cute when he's getting defensive. But because Steve is exhausted, tired of walking on eggshells that carve his feet just to make Eddie's reality less painful.

"I don't want to talk about this right now. I'm tired Eddie." He shuts his eyes again, hoping to get lost in a smoky scent and past memories.

Eddie scoffs absurdly loud.

Jesus Christ, this man is so dramatic.

"This is exactly the problem Steve. You just- you keep shit from me and then it blows up in our faces like this." He pauses, like he expects Steve to say something. "What I did was wrong, I know it was fucked. I'll regret it forever, I don't know what I was thinking- No, I wasn't thinking. And I'm sorry. So sorry, Stevie. I love you so much and what I did was unforgivable, I know. But you need to talk to me about shit like this. So it doesn't end up like this. So it doesn't touch June."

Eddie's still talking, voice trembling somewhere between pleading and lecturing, and it just- snaps. Something inside Steve snaps.

"I was embarrassed, Eddie!"

It bursts out before he even knows it's coming. "Do you not get that? I was fucking embarrassed. You told me to leave—my own house—and I did. What was I supposed to do, huh? Go to Robin’s? Go knock on her door like, 'Hey, can I crash on your couch because my alpha thinks I'm unstable?'"

He laughs once, sharp and bitchy. "So, yeah. I know it's selfish and immature, but I was embarrassed, OK? About all of it, every single day I had to pop one of those fucking pills."

Eddie's hands twitch, useless on his knees. "You should have told me Steve. I-"

"When? During the rare dinners you spend with us, where you're too tired to even speak? Or maybe when you're passed out on the couch with your shoes still on?"

Steve's voice keeps climbing. He wants to cry. "I- We don't have time to talk. I don't have time to sit you down and tell you all the shit that's been happening with my body while tiptoeing around all the gross details so you don't feel like you failed."

Eddie flinches like he's been slapped. "That's not fair. How was I supposed to know any of this was happening? You know I would never let you hurt like this. The doctor had to tell me all this shit- If you had just told me, I would have been there. You know I would."

He says it with such certainty it's almost comical. It almost convinces Steve he's the crazy one. Almost.

Steve exhales, eyes dragging open again. He’s pissed. Pissed that Eddie’s still fucking talking. Pissed that he’s lying in a hospital bed tonight—today?—while the world rearranges itself around his collapse. Pissed that there’s a migraine building behind his eyes and he doesn’t have his meds.

"Because you were just supposed to notice," he says finally, too tired to fight. "I dunno' Eddie. You were just supposed to feel it."

The words hang there—flat, final, a little pathetic. He isn’t even sure he meant them to sound cruel; they just came out that way.

For a long moment, Eddie doesn't say anything. The silence stretches, thick enough to make Steve’s stomach twist, because he’s bracing for the next wave—the argument, the defense, the something.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, Eddie exhales. It's shaky. Small. Nothing like how he's supposed to sound. When Steve risks a glance, Eddie's staring at the floor, hands clasped tight between his knees in a way that looks painful.

Steve wants to be seventeen again—wants to sit on Eddie’s bed after their first kiss, holding those same hands.

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, the door swings open.

A woman in a white coat steps inside. There are dark circles under her eyes and an exhausted set to her jaw, but she still looks put together—composed in the way only someone who’s used to chaos can be.

"Mr. Munson," she nods to Eddie.

Guess everyone got acquainted while I was out.

"Steve. My name is Dr. Khanna. I'm glad to see you're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a bus," Steve says. It's not his best, but forgive him if his brain can't think of any witty one-liners.

Dr. Khanna stills gives him a small chuckle, checking something on the tablet in her hand. "That’s actually one of the better answers I’ve gotten this week."

Eddie's still next to him, not looking at the doctor nor Steve. Like there's something both of them know and they're not telling Steve.

Dr. Khanna steps closer to the bed, eyes scanning the monitors before glancing back at him. "Do you remember what happened before you got here?"

Steve hesitates. He remembers everything—the cold, the pills, Eddie’s voice echoing in his head—but he just nods. "Enough of it."

"That’s fine," she says softly. "Your vitals have stabilized. You were severely hypothermic when you came in, but your body’s responding well to treatment." Her tone is factual, but not cold. She makes notes on her tablet, the quiet tap of the stylus filling the pause. "You’re also dehydrated and your body is exhausted, which is likely what triggered your collapse."

Eddie makes a small sound in his throat, almost a flinch. Dr. Khanna doesn’t look at him, but Steve can feel her awareness of it, like she’s cataloguing everything in the room.

"I’d like to run a few quick tests, if that’s alright?" she says.

"Sure." Steve nods, watching as she checks his pupils, adjusts the IV line, and presses a stethoscope to his chest. Her hands are steady, gentle. She moves with the kind of calm efficiency that makes Steve trust her immediately.

"Deep breath in," she says. He obeys. The hospital air tastes sterile and too cold, but it’s air, and that’s enough.

"Good," she murmurs. "And again."

When she pulls back, she gives him a small, tired smile. "You’re doing well. We’ll need to monitor you for another day or so, but I’m optimistic."

Eddie exhales a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his lungs for a week. "Thank you," he says, voice low.

Dr. Khanna nods once, eyes flicking between them. "You’re welcome. I can tell this has been a lot for both of you."

Steve doesn’t answer. He’s too busy trying not to read into that.

There’s a brief silence, heavy but not uncomfortable, before Dr. Khanna closes the tablet and looks at Eddie. "If you don’t mind, Mr. Munson, I’d like a few minutes alone with Steve. It’s just standard procedure after a patient regains consciousness."

Eddie blinks, confused, like the words don’t compute. "Oh—uh. Yeah. Sure." He glances at Steve, searching for permission.

"It’s fine," Steve says quickly. "Go get a coffee or something."

Eddie hesitates another beat before standing, joints popping, exhaustion written in every movement. He gives Steve one last look—worried, reluctant—and then slips out of the room.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Dr. Khanna exhales, quiet and deliberate, like she’s resetting the air in the room. Then she drags the plastic chair closer to the bed and sits, tablet balanced on her knee.

When she looks up at him again, her tone has changed—softer now, but more pointed. "Alright, Steve," she says. "Now that it’s just us, I need to ask you a few questions."

-

Steve had been scared of Eddie when they first met.

Not because he thought Eddie would hurt him, but because Eddie felt like standing too close to a bonfire—loud, alive, and impossible to ignore.

They'd gone to school together for years before they ever spoke. Eddie was angry back then, all sharp corners and noise, swinging at the world before it could swing at him. Steve remembers watching him in the hallway—all leather and laughter, always too much.

His kind of hurt was foreign to Steve. Steve’s unhappiness was quiet, something that simmered inward instead of spilling out. Eddie wielded his pain like a knife. So yeah, Steve had been scared then.

Eddie was taller, stronger, louder—everything an alpha was supposed to be. But even in those early days, when his temper was quicker and his pride sharper, Steve had known the difference between danger and defense. Eddie fought the world, not him. Never him.

He'd proven that a hundred times over since.

Eddie was big, loud, and hurt. But never cruel. Never toward Steve. Even when they fought, Eddie’s voice would crack before it ever sharpened. He’d back off, breathing hard, running a hand through his hair until he could meet Steve’s eyes again.

He trusts Eddie with all his five senses and in every moment the universe lets him settle in a moment of calm.

That's what makes this moment feel so strange, sitting here while a stranger in a white coat looks at him like he’s fragile glass. He’s not scared of Eddie. Not even close. But he can already feel the question coming.

"Steve?"

Dr. Khanna's gentle voice cuts through the haze of memory, soft but deliberate. 

He blinks, refocusing on the sterile white of the room. The beeping of the monitor steadies him, pulls him back. "Yeah," he says, voice low. "Sorry. Zoned out."

"That’s alright." She adjusts the tablet on her lap, folding her hands over it. "These next questions are standard procedure. I ask them of all my patients who come in under these conditions. There are no right or wrong answers, and you can tell me if you’d rather not say."

Steve nods. "Okay."

"Good." She gives him a small smile, tired but kind. "Do you feel safe at home, Steve?"

Steve almost laughs, but he thinks better of it, knows she's just doing her job.

"Yeah," he says immediately. "Yeah, I do."

He couldn't think of a universe where he didn't.

She studies him for a moment, not writing anything down. "And your partner—Eddie—does he ever make you feel unsafe? Physically or otherwise?"

"No," he says quickly, sharper than he means to. "We're not like that."

Dr. Khanna tilts her head slightly. "Like what?"

"Like..." He trails off, trying to search for a word that doesn't sound defensive. "I know how all of this looks. How we look. But it was just a bad night, that's all. He would never hurt me."

Her expression softens a little, but she doesn’t look away. "That’s good to hear. You’d be surprised how often people say the same thing right before telling me otherwise."

"I'm sure. But that's not us."

She taps her pen lightly against the tablet, then continues, voice steady. "Have there been any recent arguments that made you feel unsafe or unwanted in your home?"

Steve hesitates. He can still hear Eddie’s voice from last night, can still feel the words that sent him out into the cold. Leave, just for the night.

But she’s watching him with that gentle, clinical concern, and the truth feels like too much to hand her. Too messy. Too easily misunderstood.

"No," he replies eventually. "We fought. We both said stupid things. But that's all it was."

She nods once, slowly. "You’re sure?"

"Positive."

From there, the questions get repetitive, but less accusatory. Soon, Steve doesn't feel like he's defending his relationship.

Eventually, Dr. Khanna looks satisfied.

She straightens in her chair, smoothing a hand over her coat. "Alright," she says, gentler now. "Thank you for being patient with me. I know these aren’t easy questions."

Steve just nods, tired.

She glances at her tablet again. "I want to make sure you understand what’s happening with your body," she continues. "The collapse wasn’t only from the cold or the medication. Your system’s been under strain for a long time—stress, exhaustion, suppression imbalance. It’s what we call a mild rejection response."

Steve’s mouth goes dry. The term sits heavy even though he already knows it, or at least guesses.

Dr. Khanna goes on, matter-of-fact but kind. "It’s common in bonded pairs when an omega’s physical and emotional needs have been neglected for a while. It doesn’t mean anyone did something intentional—it just means your body started to shut down before you could."

He swallows, eyes fixed on the blanket. "Right," he murmurs. "That tracks."

"I’ll give you and your partner more details after I run a few more tests," she says, standing. "For now, rest, eat what we bring you, and don’t try to prove you’re fine. Healing takes more than being awake."

Steve lets out something between a laugh and a sigh. "I’ll try."

"I’m counting that as a promise." She smiles, then adds, almost softly, "You’re lucky it was caught in time."

Caught. More like imploded.

And then she's gone and Steve is left in the exhale before the storm again.

The silence presses in. Without her voice filling the space, the implications behind every question start to sink in.

Do you feel safe at home?

Does he make you feel afraid?

It's absurd. He knows Eddie would be disgusted by the questions, insulted by the insinuation.

Steve knows what she saw: a tired omega, hooked up to wires, an anxious alpha hovering close by. She saw data, not context. She didn't see all the years that came before, the softness, the laughter, the thousand small ways Eddie tried.

But now that the questions have been asked, they hum in his head like static.

He drags a hand over his face, throat tight. Maybe he's not ready to forgive. Maybe forgiveness isn't even the point right now.

But for the first time, the thought of Eddie walking in and pulling him into his arms doesn’t make him feel safe. It just makes him tired.

-

The door opens again a minute later, and Steve doesn't have to look up to know it's Eddie. His scent hits first—sharper now, frayed at the edges with nerves and caffeine.

"She done interrogating you?" Eddie asks quietly. He's trying for lightness, but it comes out clunky in the context.

Steve hums, eyes still on the blanket. "Guess so. I passed the test."

Eddie lets out a shaky breath that's almost a laugh. "Good. I was about to storm back in here if she kept you any longer."

"She'd probably arrest you"

"Yeah. She really hates me." Eddie drags the chair back to the bedside, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. June is really good to have around during moments like these, too young to feel uneased by the silence. Steve wishes she were here. Or maybe that he was with her.

"So you heard about all the rejection sickness stuff," Eddie says eventually. "Guess I didn't help with that."

Steve doesn't say anything to that. Wouldn't know what to say, either.

"I should've noticed," Eddie says finally. "You were right about that. I should've seen it-"

"Eddie." Steve cuts him off gently, or he thinks so at least. He's feeling tired again, his senses dwindling away. "I can't do this right now."

Eddie blinks, like he hadn't expected that answer. "Okay," he says, too fast. "Okay."

He leans back in the chair, rubbing his palms together like he’s cold. The room smells like antiseptic and a thousand memories.

Steve doesn't look at him, knows his body would betray him if he did. "She said I should rest," he mutters.

"Yeah. You should." Eddie shifts like he wants to reach out, then thinks better of it. "I'll, uh- I'll stay. If that's alright."

"What about work?"

It comes out before he can even stop it. He didn't even mean it like that, didn't mean to twist the knife deeper.

Eddie flinches, just barely. "Work can wait," he says, too quickly.

Steve hums, noncommittal. He didn’t mean it as an accusation, but the air shifts anyway—something brittle cracking under the weight of everything they’re not saying.

"I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay," Steve adds after a beat, voice low. "You’ve got enough going on."

"I want to stay," Eddie says, almost incredulous, like because of tonight Steve's supposed to automatically believe the thing that separated them for months has just disappeared in Eddie's mind. "If that’s still okay."

Steve lets the silence stretch before answering. "Yeah. It’s fine."

Steve keeps his eyes closed, pretending to drift off, but sleep doesn’t come. He can feel Eddie’s presence like static at the edge of his senses—familiar, grounding, and somehow unbearable all at once.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He hopes Eddie understands the gravity of all of this. But even for Steve, the thought of all the work they have to do is draining. 

He hopes Eddie remembers everything. Remembers when Steve went into labor and they held each other in a room similar to this one. Remembers when their daughter cut three thin lines on her pointer. Remembers when Steve was invited out for drinks but he stayed on their lumpy couch instead.

For a moment, the room is still, and Steve can feel himself drifting again. Smell, sight, feel, taste, touch all slowly fading.

Then the door slams open.

And he can feel her before she even says anything. But, of course, she has to say something:

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Chapter Text

Robin knew this was going to happen.

Somehow, she did.

She doesn't know where or why she gained this superior conscience, but staring at Eddie's text, she isn't surprised.

And isn't that a bit sad?

-

It's five thirty-eight in the morning and Robin hears her phone buzz beside her.

She's not woken up by this because she's been up all night. Those shitty melatonin gummies Chrissy recommended haven't done a thing to alleviate her 'un-sleepiness' (as Steve calls it). Ever since June was born, he's been incapable of not baby-talking. Once, he even asked Robin if she wanted to go potty.

Anyways. Her phone buzzes, and every nerve in her body jumps at the sound. But she doesn’t reach for it. Chrissy said the blue light suppresses her melatonin production. Whatever that means. So Robin doesn’t move, even though her hands twitch at her sides. If not for my sleep, then for Chrissy she tells herself.

One day, Robin will ask her out. Not today. Not anytime soon. Just… one day. Not everyone gets to be Steve and Eddie.

Chrissy’s care for other people—their sleep, their schedules, their stupid feelings—is exactly why Robin fell for her. It’s also what keeps them talking. The kindness that hooks her and holds her at arm’s length all at once.

She squeezes her eyes shut and lets the scene play out in her mind anyway:

Her, in the teacher’s lounge smiling down at her phone, typing and deleting and re-typing and deleting messages to Chrissy. Then Steve walks in—because he always does in her visions. He’s tired, she can tell, but he gives her that knowing smile and an immature waggle of his eyebrows.

It’s too vivid, too real. Flinging her eyes back open, she curses her mind and the odd ways it works.

Chrissy called it 'Hyperphantasia' once during dinner, said she had been doing her research. Eddie called it a load of crap and begged Chrissy to stop believing everything doctors on TikTok say. Steve flicked him on the ear.

Robin doesn't really care what it's called, hyperphantasia or a load of crap. She just knows it's what's kept her up at night since before she could remember. 

When she was younger, it was all hyper-realistic cockroaches or spiders crawling up her bed. Now, though, it’s always Steve.

Which- is fucking creepy.

They're best friends. Soulmates, sure. But not freaking super-cosmic lovers. It should be Eddie's job to have dreams about Steve, not hers. 

Though, these visions aren't particularly flattering for Steve. He's always deathly pale in them, all pouty and lonely and waiting. She doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but she knows it’s not her, because in the dreams she’s frozen. Just watching, also waiting, completely still without so much as a twitch of her fingers to let him know she's there.

Sleep doesn't come easy lately.

Hence, the melatonin gummies.

It’s okay though, she decides. At least her creepy Steve-dreams give her an excuse to talk to Chrissy. Silver linings she reminds herself, already composing the message in her head.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Now, realistically, Robin knows that a new text hasn’t been sent her way. It’s just that stupid thing iPhones do when you leave a notification unread for too long. That two-minute reminder.

But, ignoring this, Robin decides it’s a sign and reaches for her phone under the guise of it ‘blowing up’ with texts.

Sorry, Chrissy. She’ll find another excuse to talk—no matter how obvious or humiliating it is.

The blue light blinds her for a second. Punishment, probably. But the damage’s done, so she fumbles with the keypad until the messages app opens.

Eddie Munson 5:38 AM

Hey. I already told Blackley but Steve’s not coming to school today. Idk how the substitute teacher thing works so I just thought I should warn you.

It’s uncharacteristically formal for Eddie, who usually texts like he’s got one finger and never enabled autocorrect. Even the "idk" feels planned out—like he wrote I don’t know first, then realized how weird it sounded and threw in the abbreviation to cover his tracks.

You 5:40 AM

What’s wrong??

Eddie Munson 5:41

I can’t explain it right now it’s all fucked.

You 5:41

Just tell me wtf happened. Now you’re making me scared.

Three dots appear and disappear on Eddie’s end. But it doesn’t really matter, Robin already knew this was coming.

Steve could just be sick. Or maybe June. Maybe Wayne. But for some cosmic-soulmate-creepy reason, she knows that it’s none of that.

So Eddie’s next text isn’t really a shock. And isn’t that sad?

Eddie Munson 5:44

We’re at northwestern memorial right now

But dont come robin

Im serious.

I shouldnt have told you please dont come

Eddie says ‘we’ and it's funny because she immediately imagines the whole Munson family all cramped together in one hospital bed. But then her mind spits the image right back at her and she cringes. 

Anyways, Eddie uses ‘we’ but she knows it’s just Steve.

-

Eddie’s still texting when Robin’s tying her shoes. He’s pleading with her not to come, saying it’ll just make everything worse.

And maybe it will. She doesn’t know. But if the boy she’s been dreaming about is in a hospital bed, she’s not staying home.

Her body moves before her brain does—keys, wallet, jacket, phone. She doesn’t even check if she’s grabbed the right hoodie. Her stomach twists, buzzing with the kind of dread that’s been building for weeks, maybe months.

Chrissy would say she’s still in shock or something.

But Robin knew this was going to happen.

She just can’t figure out when she started knowing.

The street’s still dark when she steps outside, air sharp in her lungs. She’s moving fast, but her mind doesn’t keep pace—it keeps veering off, flipping through scenes like someone’s yanking open old film reels.

She wants to find when it started—the moment she knew this would happen.

Walking too fast, reality starts to smear under her eyelids.

Her brain does what it always does—rewinds, searching for the moment.

Then, when it clings onto something—every color too bright, every sound too real—the world rewrites itself before her eyes:

Robin is twenty-two, and she’s meeting Steve Munson for the first time. 

She’s relieved when she finally comes face to face with him. He’s young, probably around her age—a godsend in a school ruled by old, bitter teachers who hate their jobs.

He’s nervous, but he comes over anyway, like he’s just as relieved to see someone his age.

"Hi. I’m Steve."

He says it with way too much enthusiasm for eight a.m., and it startles a laugh out of her. His hand shoots out like he’s been rehearsing the motion.

"Robin," she answers, shaking it. "New English teacher, right? They told me to keep an eye out for the poor soul replacing Spicer."

Steve grins—wide, easy, like he’s already in on the joke. "That's me. I'm the poor soul. I wasn't going to tell anyone this, but I think I broke the copier."

Robin misses this version of him in the midst of this dream.

"Impressive. Most people take at least a week to hit rock bottom."

"Yeah, I like to set the bar early."

They’re standing in the hallway, surrounded by bulletin boards that still smell like fresh paint and coffee that’s definitely been burning since dawn.

Everything feels too bright, too close — and Robin’s back in it completely, hearing the echo of her own laugh off the linoleum, watching him run a hand through his hair when he gets nervous.

Robin finds it’s easy to talk to Steve. He’s not what she expected—young, loud, funny in a way that’s effortless.

By lunch, they’re already sharing fries and making fun of the cafeteria posters about workplace safety.

That’s when she sees it.

Steve tilts his head to the side while thinking, one of those absent little gestures people make when they’re comfortable. Robin’s eyes catch on the side of his neck before she can look away.

The mark isn't obvious, but it's there. Faded, healed, half-hidden by his collar.

She doesn't mean to stare. But still, having a mate so young is... unusual. 

Steve notices, of course. He always notices more than he lets on.

He quirks an eyebrow, lips twitching like he’s fighting back a grin. "You can ask, you know."

Robin blinks, caught. "Ask what?"

"About the mark," he says easily, taking a casual bite of his sandwich. “You’ve been trying not to look at it for the last five minutes.”

She groans. "Oh my god. I wasn’t—okay, maybe I was. I just didn’t want to be rude."

He laughs, head tipping back, and for a moment she forgets to be embarrassed.

"It’s fine," he says. "I’d stare too if I saw someone this young already mated. It’s kind of a record, apparently."

Robin raises an eyebrow. "And who’s the lucky alpha?"

"Eddie."

He says it like it’s the simplest answer in the world, like of course she knows who that is. His eyes go soft when he says the name, his whole face changing. There’s something almost stupidly romantic about it.

Robin doesn’t know him yet, but she’ll remember that look for a long time.

The cafeteria fades before she even realizes it. The sound of Steve’s laugh stretches, echoes, then cuts off.

Robin blinks, and she’s back on the street. The air’s colder than she remembers. Her fingers ache from how tightly she’s been holding her keys.

She exhales a shaky breath, rubbing her eyes like she can wipe the memory away.

Too early, she realizes. That was much too early. There was nothing wrong them, no signs, no warnings. It must be more recent, the reasons, the cracks.

The city hums around her, unbothered. She starts walking again, slower this time, waiting for the next memory to find her. Hopefully it's not too early, hopefully it'll give her the answers she needs:

Robin is sweating and she's meeting Eddie Munson for the first time.

Steve's been begging her to come over to their apartment for weeks now, says now that they're officially best friends she needs to meet his lover.

Which, ew. Who the hell calls their mate their 'lover' in this day and age.

She's chewing on the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper when the door opens.

The sight that greets her is not what she expected. Steve described Eddie, even adoringly presented unsolicited photos of Eddie to Robin. So she knows what to expect. Kind of. But even with all of that, she imagined this milquetoast, polo-shirt kind of guy. The sort of alpha who says 'let's circle back' unironically. Steve would love that shit. She expected someone safe. Boring. Manageable.

The man who steps through the door is none of those things.

He’s a storm—hair everywhere, rings on every finger, tattoos crawling up his arms. He’s holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. The cork itself is mangled beyond recognition, like it’s the first bottle he’s ever tried to open.

Steve comes up right behind him, giving Eddie's shoulders a squeeze and beaming. "Eddie, this is Robin. Robin, Eddie."

Eddie grins, wide and genuine. "The Robin? The one who took you under her wing and taught you how to steal from the staff vending machines with a ruler?"

Robin blinks. "He told you about that?"

"Are you kidding? I think it's my favorite story."

He laughs—a big, unrestrained sound that fills the tiny apartment—and Robin gets it. She gets exactly why Steve looks the way he does when he talks about him.

He's different from Steve, but in a way that adds a shine to everything Steve already is.

Jesus Christ, they really are mates.

Dinner's warm and messy and loud. Eddie's lasagna is half-burnt, Steve keeps refilling everyone's glasses, and Robin's stomach hurts from laughing.

It's easy. She thinks she's found her family.

Steve's in the middle of a story, waving his fork around, when he says, "Sorry you missed my glamorous era, Buckley. Back when I was a Harrington."

Robin snorts. "Yeah, right. The king himself."

Steve grins, eyes bright from the wine. "Hey, I was! My fucking closet was bigger than this apartment. But I'm a Munson now, so- upgrade."

Eddie's smile doesn't falter, but his laugh comes a half-second late. He looks down as he wipes his hands on a napkin that’s already shredded from fidgeting. His face is flushed from the wine—or maybe it isn’t. His gaze lingers on his plate too long, like suddenly he's embarrassed of the burnt lasagna he made.

The moment passes. The laughter keeps going. Steve is oblivious and drunk.

But Robin feels the shift in her chest, like she's seen too much of Eddie, too soon.

The sound of it—Eddie's strained laugh, Steve’s voice—echoes for a moment longer than it should. Then it’s gone.

When Robin blinks, she’s back under the streetlights. The world is now gray-blue and empty, the kind of morning that feels like it’s still deciding what it wants to be. Her breath fogs in the air. The hospital's only a few blocks away now.

Her head’s buzzing, each step syncing with the pulse in her ears. She’s walking, but her mind keeps veering off, digging through itself, hunting for the next clue, the next crack.

The last memory felt more useful somehow—more pointed. Her mind is wild and fucking vivid at the worst times, but she thinks it’s showing her what she needs to see: the bits and pieces that led up to Eddie’s text.

She’s getting closer.

And before she can stop it, another memory pulls her under:

Robin is warm and, admittedly, a bit drunk.

The bar they're all squeezed into is made up of blurred yellows and browns. It's dark, because all bars are, but in a comforting way, like a blanket's been draped upon a lamp. Eddie chose the place, which is surprising because usually his suggestions involve sticky floors and a band no one’s heard of. This one feels almost classy.

Robin's proud, though she would never tell.

They’ve claimed a table too small for the number of glasses on it. Steve’s got that soft flush on his cheeks, laughing at something Eddie said, who's halfway through a story, gesturing too big with a half-empty pint in his hand. Robin’s relaxed for the first time in weeks.

But there's a fourth with them tonight.

And no, it's not Chrissy. Present-day Robin mourns her in the visions she's absent from.

It's this omega from Eddie's work—whatever the fuck Eddie does. He tried explaining it to her once, but eventually both of them gave up.

Anyways, there's this omega. He’s easy in the way Robin envies: loose shoulders, effortless grin, the kind of person who makes everyone feel funnier than they are. He talks with his hands, jokes without thinking, laughs like everything’s going to be fine.

Him and Eddie get along real well. It's nice. They’re arguing about some band, voices overlapping, both too animated to care that nobody else can keep up. Eddie’s in his element—quick, funny, the kind of loud that fills a room without choking it.

The guy is great, he's basically a carbon copy of Eddie. It doesn't occur to Robin to look over to Steve until she notices he's been quiet for a while.

Across the booth, he’s smiling, really smiling, watching Eddie. His eyes are soft, almost shy, like he’s proud. But Robin catches the flicker when Eddie leans back, bumping shoulders with the omega. Steve looks down, just for a second, tracing the rim of his glass.

By now, she knows Steve. Knows his tells, when he's getting all insecure, when he's thinking things that are definitely wildly untrue.

They end up outside when the bar closes, the kind of humid night that smells like beer and car exhaust. Eddie’s inside paying the tab—insisting, of course—and Robin and Steve are leaning against the brick wall, sorting their stuff.

Robin nudges him with her shoulder. "You know Eddie's completely gone for you right?"

It's obvious. It's like, a fact in the universe that Steve and Eddie are in love. Robin almost feels ridiculous saying it, but it's what comes out at the moment she supposes.

Steve huffs a laugh. "Yeah, I know." He says it easily, like he really does and Robin becomes acutely aware that this isn't about another omega touching Eddie. "I just—" He stops, shrugs. "Sometimes I feel like I need to… turn the volume down a little, you know? I get in my own head. I talk too much. Worry too much. I don’t wanna be the guy who needs reassurance every five seconds."

Robin tilts her head. "You’re not."

Steve levels her a look. "We both know I'm high maintenance."

"A queen deserves queen treatment."

God, she's so stupid. Why did she say shit like that? Why isn't she looking at Steve? Robin wishes she could slap herself in the face. But alas — her visions only come with visual realism in hindsight, once she’s already made the dumb choice. So she just sits there, forced to rewatch her own mistakes in real time, years later:

Steve’s still smiling, but it’s gone softer now, quieter. "I just wish I could be easier sometimes," he says finally. "Like- inside. Like I just want to make Eddie laugh forever. I want to be all carefree and easy for Eddie to come home to. He’s already got a lot to carry. I don’t wanna be another thing on the list. I think I just need to be quieter about my problems."

Robin rolls her eyes affectionately. "Jesus, you two are exhausting. You realize he’d lose his mind without you, right?"

Steve chuckles, low. "Maybe." He picks at the brick behind them. "Still. I wanna be someone he can come home to and just… breathe."

Robin’s about to tell him that love doesn’t work like that, that maybe breathing’s supposed to be shared—but then Eddie pushes through the door, all grin and chaos, waving the receipt like victory, and the moment evaporates.

When she opens her eyes again, she's back in the present. Back on the street at five-something in the morning. Back in the after-Eddie's-text.

Robin figures she’ll think of her life in those terms for a while—before-Eddie’s-text and after-Eddie’s-text. Probably only for a month or two; she’s got her own life to fuck up eventually. But for now, it’s enough to split the timeline in two: a time when she could’ve noticed, and a time when all that’s left is watching.

The hospital’s closer now. She doesn’t even have to check her phone. She knows every street by heart.

Her shoes slap the pavement in uneven rhythm. The city’s starting to wake up around her—delivery trucks humming, lights flicking on in apartment windows, someone somewhere starting a pot of coffee. It’s all too normal for the kind of morning this is.

She keeps thinking she should’ve called someone—Chrissy, maybe—but she can already hear how that conversation would go. "What happened?" "I don’t know yet." "Are you okay?" "No."

And she doesn’t have the energy to explain to anyone that she’s not the one who needs help.

The wind’s sharp enough to sting her eyes, but that’s fine; she deserves it. Each gust feels like it’s pushing her toward the building at the end of the street. She can almost see the reflection of fluorescent light in the glass doors.

Her mind keeps tugging, restless, trying to dig up the next breadcrumb. If she could just trace it back far enough, maybe she’d find the exact moment things tipped.

Her stomach twists, and the air shifts.

Before she can stop it, the present starts to blur at the edges again.

The streetlight melts into something warmer, golden, and when she blinks, it’s not morning anymore.

It’s June’s third birthday:

Robin is too old to be wearing a glittery party hat.

But for the The Bug, she'll do anything.

June’s birthday falls on one of those muggy July afternoons where the air feels like honey. The apartment smells like store-bought frosting and too many people in too little space. Robin’s holding a paper plate that’s bending under the weight of cake when Eddie disappears down the hall with a grin that says he’s been waiting for this moment all week.

"Alright, Junebug," he calls, voice already soft with pride. "Close your eyes."

She does, or tries to, her little hands splayed dramatically over her face, peeking between her fingers. Steve laughs, wiping frosting off her chin with a napkin. He looks tired but happy in that way that makes Robin melt.

Then Eddie comes back, and the whole room shifts. He’s pushing this tiny, cherry-red drum kit—real metal, real cymbals, real everything. It gleams under the weak apartment light like something out of a toy commercial.

June gasps so loud everyone laughs. "It’s mine?"

"All yours, sweetheart," Eddie says, getting tackled in a definitely suffocating hug. "You're gonna be the next Ringo Starr." 

She starts banging on it immediately, shrieking with laughter. Robin can’t help but grin. It’s infectious, she loves this girl, who the hell wouldn't?

It’s scary, sometimes, to think she might want what they have. A little creature she’d die for, in a house that smells like burnt coffee and safety.

For all the things her mind can do, it can’t quite picture herself there. Not like them. But she figures Steve and Eddie probably couldn’t, either—not in the beginning. Robin would know; she’d been the number one witness to their chaotic, bumpy-as-hell path to parenthood.

Steve had been the most hormonal, dramatic person she’d ever met. Robin still doesn’t understand how Eddie handled it—how he could sit on the couch with Steve practically in his lap one minute and then listen to him sob about how "you don’t even touch me anymore" the next.

Not that Eddie was much better. He’d refused to let Steve lift a grocery bag, baby-proofed the entire house before Steve even started showing. He’d turn every minor symptom into a medical emergency, every craving into a mission.

They were ridiculous. They were perfect.

And now so is June, who's giggling in Eddie's lap and creating the most god-awful noises on the drums to ever grace Robin's ears. The moment is perfect, something out of a commercial.

But glancing over at Steve, she can tell something's off. 

He’s smiling—of course he is, because June’s laughing and Eddie looks like the sun—but there’s a tightness around his eyes that doesn’t belong there. His hands stay folded in his lap, thumbs worrying at each other.

Robin’s seen that look before. The don’t make a scene look. The keep it together, this is a nice moment look.

Eddie doesn’t notice. He’s too busy showing June how to hold the sticks, his grin big and unguarded. "Look at you, rockstar!" he says, and June shrieks again, delighted by her father’s excitement.

Steve laughs, but it comes out thin.

And Robin, sitting at the edge of their couch with a paper plate of cake, suddenly understands why. She doesn’t know what the drum set cost, but she knows it was too much. She can tell by the way Steve’s knuckles go white when Eddie says, "Only the best for our girl."

She’s not supposed to hear the argument later, when June’s asleep. But she does.

"That was fucked, Eddie." It's Steve's voice. "You know that was fucked, not talking to me about it first."

She can practically hear the eye-roll in Eddie's voice: "Because I knew you were going to get all- all like this."

"All like what, Eddie? All like an adult?" Steve's voice rises higher with each question. "And don't even act like this was for June, because it wasn't for her. You did this for yourself Eddie, to prove something. I don't know what."

"Excuse me?"

Steve exhales hard, like he’s holding himself together by threads. "She’s three, Eddie. She doesn’t care what you get her. And honestly, she'll get bored of that junk in a month. You did this for yourself Eddie, some grand-fucking gesture to satisfy the part of yourself that always thinks everyone's looking at how well you provide. Guess what, no one cares about it as much as you."

Robin winces. She should probably stop listening.

Eddie’s voice drops low, almost too quiet for her to hear through the wall. "That’s real nice, Steve. Glad to know you think I’m that shallow."

"Don’t twist it," Steve fires back. "You’re not shallow. You’re just trying to prove something that no one's asking you to."

A pause. Heavy. Wet. Robin can picture the way Eddie probably looks right now—chin tucked down, jaw tight, hands fidgeting with something just to keep from shaking.

Then, softly, he says, "You don’t get it. You had enough growing up. I just want to give you guys the shit I never had."

"I'm not asking you for that Eddie," Steve says, and his voice cracks. “You keep trying to fix what isn’t broken. She doesn't need any more toys. Just- Just be here.”

There’s a sound—movement, maybe Eddie sitting down, maybe Steve turning away. Robin doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to.

Before the edges of the memory start drifting away, floating off at the ends, Robin hears one last thing.

"You're returning the set tomorrow. Figure out how you wanna explain it to June."

And then it's gone. And she's back on the street, a block away from Steve in a hospital bed.

Her hands are cold. Her mind’s still running hot, filled with echoes of voices that aren’t hers, moments that aren’t now. Each one’s another step closer to whatever truth she’s chasing, though she doesn’t know what she’ll do once she finds it.

These fragments—these scenes her brain insists on replaying—aren’t random. They’re a timeline. A map. A warning she’s trying to understand.

And as her feet carry her toward the hospital doors, the world flickers again.

The next memory is already pulling her under:

Robin is living in the before-Eddie's-text. She doesn't know it yet, but one week from now Eddie will text her at 5:38, and Robin's life will split into two fragments.

Right now, it’s a sunny afternoon, the kind of sharp, brittle brightness that doesn’t match the bite of a Chicago winter. She’s waiting outside their school, bundled in her jacket, fingers tucked into her sleeves. Steve texted ten minutes ago—'on my way, got tea and the best gossip ever'—and Robin’s been smiling about it since.

She spots him before he spots her. Normally, Steve’s easy to pick out in a crowd, all movement and warmth, his hair catching the light like it’s got its own ego. But today—

Something’s off.

He’s walking slower than usual, one hand clutched around a paper cup, the other gripping the strap of his bag like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His smile still flashes when he sees her, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His skin’s got that waxy undertone that sets off alarm bells in Robin’s head.

She tells herself it’s just the winter lighting. That he’s fine. She’s seen him run himself ragged before—late nights, double shifts, the works—but this feels heavier.

When he gets closer, she catches it: the faint tremor in his hands, the way his pupils are too tight, the tell-tale chemical tang under his cologne. He’s on the suppressants again. Too many of them.

"Hey," he says, breathless, still trying for lighthearted. "You will not believe what Mia told me about your favorite sixth-grader—"

"Steve," she interrupts, and her voice comes out sharper than she means. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, just—tired. You know how it is." He waves her off with the hand not holding the cup.

Robin watches him for a beat. She could call him out right now. She could say, 'you’re pale as hell, your scent’s off, you need to go home'. But he’s smiling like he needs her to pretend. Like that’s what friendship means right now—letting him keep the illusion a little longer.

So she smiles back, even though her chest feels sick. "Alright, spill the gossip before you collapse on me."

Steve grins, but it's weak. "You're so dramatic," he says, and takes a sip of his tea. His hand shakes just enough that some of it sloshes onto his wrist.

Robin laughs. "Yeah, yeah, I'm the dramatic one."

They start walking toward the staff lot, Steve rambling about some stupid middle-school love triangle. He keeps talking, but his sentences keep breaking off. He’s out of breath by the second block, voice thinning to a whisper.

"Okay, pause," Robin says, stopping short. "You sound like you ran a marathon."

"I’m fine," he insists again, but there’s no bite behind it. Just exhaustion.

Then, he sways.

It happens so fast she barely catches him before he hits the ground. The cup falls, tea spilling across the sidewalk, steam ghosting up into the cold air.

"Steve?!" Her voice cracks. "Hey, hey—look at me."

He groans, eyes half-lidded, skin gone gray. "Just dizzy," he mumbles, but his body is shaking. Sweat beads at his temple, despite the freezing air.

Robin now, knows what happens next. It's been engrained in her mind, probably will be forever. 

She loves Steve, they're best friends, soulmates, maybe even super-cosmic lovers. But that day—this memory she’s trapped in—was the first time she’d ever looked at him and been scared.

Not scared of him. Scared for him.

Because even now, watching it replay behind her eyelids, she can still feel how cold his skin was under her hands. How his pulse fluttered, too quick and shallow, against her fingers, how she didn't fucking do anything.

She fumbles with her phone, trying to keep Steve up with the press of her body. "I'm calling Eddie."

Steve's eyes snap open, glass-clear and wild and no sign of the comfort she thought that sentence would provide him with, and he catches her wrist before she can dial.

"Robin," he gasps, and it’s not just panic, it’s terror. "If you call him right now, I’ll never forgive you."

"What? What the actual fuck Steve, you're insane, I'm calling Eddie."

He shakes his head so hard it looks painful. "Don’t," he says, voice breaking. "Please, Robs. You can’t. I just need a second, okay? Just—don’t."

She’s kneeling in front of him now, the cold seeping through her jeans, her phone still clutched tight in her hand. Steve’s breathing is ragged, every inhale a near-sob, every exhale too shallow. His pulse is racing under her fingers.

"Steve, you’re not fine," she says, voice trembling. "You’re shaking, you can’t even—"

"Please," he whispers, desperate now. "Please don't ruin everything."

And Robin makes her choice. She doesn't call. 

Instead, she helps him into the teacher's lounge, locks the door, and holds a trash can while he throws up everything he's got left. His hands shake so badly he can't even hold his own cup of water afterward.

Present Robin knows what happens next—how Steve insists he’s fine, how she helps him into a cab, how he texts later that night saying he’s "resting up."

But here, in the loop of memory, she’s still on that curb, her phone glowing useless in her hand, watching her best friend shake apart in front of her and doing nothing to stop it.

The wetness on her cheeks stings in the cold, and she thinks maybe a part of her will always be trapped in that last memory—watching another version of herself with no way to reach her, no more than a twitch of her finger and scared tears that should’ve pooled at her knees by now, with how many times she’s replayed the moment.

-

In the hospital, Robin is selfish. She thinks about asking one of the doctors if they have a name for the way her brain works.

Hyperphantasia or load of crap.

It matters to her now.

Steve's room is at the end of the hall. Eddie's there too. 

"We" are at the hospital. 

She figures she got her answer, solved her pseudo-investigation on the walk here.

There was never one moment to pinpoint. No single memory where she should’ve stepped in, no frame she could pause and fix. It was all of them—woven together, impossible to separate.

Realistically it makes sense. Love is weird. Steve and Eddie are weird. Their love story is a culmination of insecurities and birthday parties, arguments and different childhoods, cherished memories and soft nights, everything messy and ordinary and precious all at once. Something that Robin's odd mind couldn't ever organize respectfully.

So when Robin steps into the hospital room, she says something witty, something to cut through the tension she knows is there. It's kind of what she does.

But quietly, to herself of course, she hopes that this timeline isn't simple either. That there's no clean before-Eddie's-text or after-Eddie's-text. That this isn't something that will stain the rest of their lives.

That maybe, in this room, there exists a version of Eddie and Steve's story that is made up of a million tiny befores and afters she never got to witness, and that this will just be one of them she happened to stumble into.