the shire is burning [eddie munson x OC]

chapter twenty nine

Eddie fucked up. Royally fucked up.

It was simple before. Playing pretend with Willow came as easy as breathing to him. And it might be because he wasn't pretending - every time he held her hand, every time he hugged her, every time he called her pretty or flirted with her. He meant every single moment of it.

Which is why when Willow, in a haze of weed, suddenly asks him to teach her how to kiss, he can't do it.

He almost does. They were close, noses brushing and he could smell the mint on her breath. But then she had said the words that reminded him that to her, this wasn't real. That the delusion of the possibility of something real between them was one sided.

"Just practice."

He really couldn't go to the party. The sheeps had been far too excited for this new campaign, especially Henderson, and he didn't want to be the cause of any disappointment running down their faces.

Of course, it might have been even worse to witness the disappointment on the face of the girl that was suddenly sitting on his bed, suddenly looking so damn sad .

But he couldn't kiss her. He couldn't bring himself to do it when it was under the disguise of all the fakeness; practice , as she had called it so eloquently. And so instead, he had torn himself away from her in record speed, he had insisted that he take her home, he had avoided looking at her for as long as he possibly could. But sometime between turning onto her street and then her driveway, he'd snuck a glance at her, and he couldn't take it anymore.

The moment she was out of his car and at her front door, something snapped inside of Eddie Munson's chest.

He was setting himself up for a doomsday clock. He already knew he was gone for her, it became more apparent with each passing day to him, but the seal of his fate lied in her lips.

And just like an idiot, he ran up to her and kissed her.

He could lie and say he regretted it, he could chalk it up to nothing more than a mistake. Maybe there was still weed in his system that had fueled him. Sure, that would work as an excuse. But he knew , he fucking knew it wasn't the weed for him. It was just her - her and her ridiculously soft hands, her and her gentle looks, her and her tremendous heart that she, for some god-forsaken reason, trusted him with. It was the way the strands of her faded-crimson hair were falling against her cheeks, the way her face lit up when she'd throw her head back in genuine laughter with him. It was in the way she carried herself into every room when he was at her side, a ghost brought to life, ready to leave the sidelines. And he was selfish - God, he was so goddamn selfish - because all he cared about in that moment was her lips on his, his lips on her. He wanted her to wrap him up in her so damn tightly that no one could tell they were two entirely separate entities.

When her lips were cold against his, he'd taken it as a rejection. He had been ready to apologize, to let her cuss him out and go back home with his tail between his legs.

She didn't do that. She didn't let him peep a word. Instead, she surprised him.

Instead, she kissed him back like she meant it, and for a second, he got to pretend it was real. For a brief moment in time, Eddie Munson had the girl. He'd never felt a rush like that; not when he was on stage with Corroded Coffin, not when he was running campaigns he'd spent months writing, not when he got anything above a D in his classwork on rare occasions.

Eddie Munson had nothing to compare the experience of kissing Willow Jenkins to. He really didn't want anything to compare it to unless it was another kiss between them.