Fine Line // Eddie Munson x Reader

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐎𝐍𝐄

Flat shoes were by far an incredible idea. You hadn't expected the long walk home tonight, and yet here you were. The war within you was a hurtling tsunami of clashing waves. One side pulled at the strings of your delicate heart, asking, pleading, shouting from the clutches of the storm -- why? 

Why did you do this? Why have you hurt yourself for such mundane and materialistic things? Sacrificing the fleeting happiness you'd had for the familiar, the easy route. 

And the other waves crash right back against them, weaving through the breaks in the tide and whispering low enough and in such a voice that it made more of an impact than the desperate, louder side. It was soft and broken yet challenging as it asks -- Why?

Why put up yourself through the pain? Why could he not make it all worth it, show you the rewards for your efforts were worth more than the anguish brought upon you for the decision? Why risk it all on a promise of love to come that might be worth it?

Your head rolls around with all of the questions as you round the block to your house, arms hugging yourself against the cold. You really should have elected to wear a jacket. Tears still fell, a mixture of guilt and sadness. You didn't want to hurt Eddie in the process, but it was inevitable. It just... It just had to be worth it. That's what you kept telling yourself. 

The old life you'd been yearning for, the ease of it all, had to be worth it.

Sluggish legs carry you through your front door and you sniffle as you wipe your coated cheeks with the chilly back of your hand as you lean against the door. It was dark enough outside that thankfully you hadn't seen anyone the entire way back, but even still it felt far more comforting to cry in the warmth and safety of your own home.

"Honey, is that you? Come here for a sec, would you? This damn TV isn't working properly and you know how bad I am with these things..." Your dad calls out to you, surprisingly spending time in the living room. 

Dad never did many things for himself. He was always working, and when he wasn't working, he was attempting to take over some of the responsibilities your mother usually took control of. He was struggling. You could see it in the dark circles around his eyes and the way his hair fell out of place more often than usual these days. Even in your sorrow, it gladdened you a little to know he was spending some time doing normal dad things and vegetating in front of the television - even if he couldn't figure out how to work the damn thing even now. 

How could you go in there, though? The tears may have been swiped away, but your cheeks puffy and stained with red, and eyes swollen from the heat of your floods - he'd know right away. Denying him wasn't an option either though, for what excuse could you give that wouldn't make him suspicious?

So you fan your hands in front of your face a moment; a futile attempt in at least trying to soften your expression and hide some of the damages. 

Futile is exactly what it is, for as soon as you enter the room and his eyes lay upon you, he's bolting up to a stand and coming closer to survey the wetness of your cheeks. "What the hell happened? Where were you? Did someone hurt you?" His barrage of questions and gentle nature knocks the sense from your mind just enough for you to start crying again. His comforting hands encircling you in a protective hug, cradling your head against his chest, seals it in and it's not long before his pressed white shirt is stained with salty tears and leaked mascara. 

He shushes you as his large hand strokes over your hair, his cheek pressed to the crown of your head. His torso was tense, carrying with it the weight of his concern for you. He wanted to know - needed to know what had upset you so.

"Talk to me. Who do I have to kill?" He attempts a jest after a continued silence and the effort itself is heartwarming enough to make you smile. You pull back to blink wetness from your eyes and glance up at him. He uses the back of his forefinger to wipe the residue away, thick and graying brows pulling together in worry. "Was it that Munson kid?"