Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eddie doesn’t know why he agreed to this. Scratch that, he does know why, and it’s even worse than not knowing. His publicist insisted it would be “good for his image,” and the record label had jumped on that idea. Never mind the fact that Eddie has never given a single shit about his “image.” Apparently, everyone else in his life does. Didn’t help that the rest of the band thought it was hilarous.

And that’s how Eddie Munson, lead guitarist of Corroded Coffin, occasional D-list metal god, ended up here: rocking nervously on his heels under the unrelenting fluorescent lights of the Worst Cooks in America television set.

He glances around at the small crowd of other “celebrities,” which is a generous term for what this is. It’s a grab bag of recognizable-but-not-quite-A-list faces. There’s a guy who used to be on a daytime soap, an influencer who Eddie’s pretty sure got famous from eating hot wings on YouTube, and someone who might’ve been a backup singer for Britney Spears. Or maybe Rihanna? Eddie doesn’t remember and honestly doesn’t care.

He shifts his weight, forcing a polite smile at people he vaguely recognizes but doesn’t actually know. It’s all fine, uncomfortable, but fine, until his eyes land on him.

Steve Harrington. Not a D-list celebrity but world-famous actor Steve fucking Harrington.

Eddie freezes.

Steve Harrington, ultimate teenage heartthrob. Former star of one of the biggest shows in television history and has gone on to star in some of the biggest blockbuster movies. The man whose face had been plastered across every magazine cover in the late ’90s and early ’00s.

And Eddie knows this because… well, Eddie had those magazines.

Okay, they weren’t technically his. He’d stolen them off the rack at the grocery store and smuggled them home, shoving them between his DnD books like a smutty secret. He didn’t dare put the posters on his bedroom wall, Wayne would’ve had a stroke, but he’d hidden one on the back of his closet door. Just Steve, staring down at him in all his glossy-haired, chiseled-jawed, photo-shoot glory.

Steve Harrington was Eddie’s very first celebrity crush. A shining beacon of hope for a confused, closeted gay kid in the middle of small-town Indiana. A face that had launched a thousand... well, let’s just say Steve played a starring role in Eddie’s teenage “explorations” and leave it at that.

And now, Eddie’s spank bank come to life, stands twenty feet away, smiling and chatting like he isn’t a walking monument to every embarrassing thing Eddie’s ever done in the privacy of his own room.

Eddie’s stomach drops, palms sweaty, when his body betrays him in the worst possible way. He feels the first stirrings of arousal, a totally involuntary Pavlovian response, and immediately clenches his fists at his sides like that’s going to stop it. No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.

He tries to redirect his thoughts. Think about something gross. Something awful. Anything. Roadkill. The smell of spoiled milk. The album cover of Cannibal Corpse’s “Butchered at Birth.” That does the trick, but barely.

“Eddie Munson, right?”

A voice yanks Eddie out of his spiraling internal meltdown, and he spins around to see Dave Coulier standing there with a hand extended.

Eddie blinks. “Huh?”

Dave laughs, like he’s used to dealing with starstruck weirdos, and gestures at Eddie’s hand. “You’re Eddie Munson, yeah?”

“Oh!” Eddie lurches forward, grabbing Dave’s hand. “Yeah! Yeah, that’s me. Eddie Munson.” He shakes a little too hard like he’s trying to compensate for the weird start, and it’s only when Dave’s eyebrows twitch upward that Eddie realizes what he’s doing. “Sorry. I just—you know who I am?”

Dave chuckles again, giving Eddie an amused look. “Yeah, man. Big fan of Corroded Coffin.”

Eddie blinks again, his brain short-circuiting for the second time in as many minutes. “Oh. Wow. Thanks. Sometimes I forget I’m famous.”

And that’s true. For the most part, Eddie lives his life in relative anonymity. He can hit the grocery store without anyone batting an eye, though stepping into a Guitar Center may be a different story.

“Sounds like you can still move through crowds,” Dave says, raising an eyebrow.

“One hundred percent,” Eddie says, grinning, but then immediately ruins it by blurting out, “Fuck, I hope doing this show doesn’t ruin that.”

Dave snorts, and Eddie feels his face go red again. He laughs awkwardly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean, not that this show is, like, bad or anything! I just—uh, you know…”

“Relax, kid,” Dave says, grinning. “You’ll be fine. It’s Food Network, not the Super Bowl.”

Eddie groans and presses his palms to his face, trying to laugh at himself but mostly dying inside. He already knows he’s not going to last long here, he’s a disaster in the kitchen, and this show is literally about how bad you are at cooking. It’ll be a miracle if he makes it past the first round.

But before he can spiral any further, something shifts in the air. A prickle at the back of his neck. Like someone’s looking at him.

Eddie drops his hands and turns, his gaze immediately snagging on him again. Steve Harrington is closer now, standing at the other end of the room, chatting with a production assistant. He laughs at something, running a hand through his perfect hair, and Eddie swears he hears a choir start singing faintly in the background.

And then, because of course this would happen, Steve looks over.

Their eyes meet.

Steve Harrington’s eyes staring directly into Eddie’s.

This is bad. This is so bad.

Eddie forces himself to look away, pretending he hasn’t just been caught staring like a complete creep. He focuses on literally anything else, the scuffed floor, the background noises, the way his hands suddenly feel way too big and awkward at his sides. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he notices movement. Steve’s movement. He’s not just standing there anymore, he’s walking. Walking directly toward Eddie. And it feels like the end of the world when time slows to a crawl and Steve Harrington, teenage heartthrob, and Eddie’s former sexual awakening, casually makes his way across the room, looking every bit like a man who knows exactly how to command attention. Eddie’s brain immediately goes into overdrive. Oh god. Oh no. Nope. This is fine. Everything is fine. Why is he coming over here? WHAT DO I DO WITH MY HANDS? By the time Steve reaches him, Eddie’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to function as a human being.

Standing in front of Eddie, in all his stupidly gorgeous, effortlessly cool glory, is the star of far too many of Eddie’s fantasies. And worse—worse—Steve is smiling. That stupidly disarming, teeth-and-pouty lips smile. So Eddie freezes, his stomach plummeting directly out of his ass without a care in the world.

“Hi,” Steve says, all smooth and friendly, and extends a hand, as if to say, Hi, I am a reasonable person making a reasonable gesture of introduction.

Eddie stares at the hand like it’s a live grenade. Because it kind of is.

The thing about being caught off guard, this off guard, is that Eddie has zero material. Nothing. His brain is a blank chalkboard with one phrase scrawled across it in panicked all-caps: YOU’RE SCREWED, DUDE.

He opens his mouth. And leaves it open. Slightly agape, like a buffering internet video from the dial-up days. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny, horrified version of himself is screaming, but it doesn’t matter because Eddie’s an utter idiot.

Steve, mercifully, keeps the ball rolling. “I’m Steve,” he offers, like Eddie might not know. Like Eddie hasn’t been moaning Steve’s name for years in the privacy of his own bedroom.

“Um.” Eddie makes a sound. A sound that is technically part of the English language but barely counts as speech.

Steve hesitates, still holding out his hand, and to his credit, he hasn’t run away yet. “And you’re Eddie, right?”

“M-Munson,” Eddie forces the word out on a shaky exhale as he finally, finally, shoves his clammy, visibly trembling hand into Steve’s. Their palms meet.

This is fine. This is normal. Shaking hands is a normal human thing to do.

Unfortunately, this is also the exact moment Eddie’s brain decides to supply him with a crystal-clear memory of how many times this hand, this very hand, has been involved in activities directly inspired by this man.

Abort. Abort. Abort.

Eddie’s face goes nuclear. He’s red from the roots of his hair down to the collar of his shirt and about to burst into flames, and yet, somehow, the handshake continues. Steve doesn’t seem to notice, however. Or maybe he’s just being polite and pretending not to notice the way Eddie’s hand is shaking like it’s about to short-circuit.

Steve smiles sweetly and then recognition floods his face. “Wait, Eddie Munson? You’re the guitarist of Corroded Coffin.”

Eddie feels his knees wobble. Is this how it feels to faint? Because he’s pretty sure he’s about to faint. Or maybe die. Honestly, at this point, dying would be easier.

“Y-yeah?” Eddie croaks, his voice breaking in a way that would make even puberty cringe. He’s still clutching Steve’s hand like it’s a life preserver, and they’re both stranded in the middle of the goddamn Pacific.

Steve doesn’t seem to notice the hand thing (thank God) because his whole face lights up. “Oh my god, Dustin is going to kill me,” Steve says, laughing as he hunches his shoulders like he’s bracing for impact.

Eddie’s brain catches on two things at once:

• Steve’s laugh is the single most beautiful sound in the known universe.
• Dustin is going to kill Steve over… what? This?

“Dus-tin? Henderson?” Eddie stammers, as though there might be some other Dustin Steve is referring to. Like there’s a second Dustin lurking out there, waiting to strike.

Steve nods, his grin widening. “Yeah! You guys are his favorite band. He was always blasting your music in his trailer when we were shooting Zero Cred. I could hear it through the walls.”

Steve chuckles again, and Eddie has to grip the back of a nearby chair to stay upright. He’s pretty sure he just heard the words “favorite band” and “your music” come out of Steve Harrington’s mouth, and now he’s having what feels suspiciously like a religious experience. Maybe God is real, or maybe Steve Harrington is the Holy Ghost.

“Oh,” Eddie says, because apparently that’s all he’s capable of now. Just a series of monosyllables punctuated by panicked blinking. “Uh… cool.”

Cool? Did he seriously just say cool? What’s next, finger guns? God, he’s so close to walking into oncoming traffic.

Meanwhile, Steve is still talking, totally oblivious to Eddie’s implosion. “Dustin’s been obsessed with you guys for years. He made me listen to, uh…” Steve squints, thinking, “What’s it called? ‘Damned Angels’? Yeah, that one. Over and over, I think I still have it stuck in my head.”

Eddie makes a sound. It’s not a laugh, not exactly, it’s more like an unholy wheeze that could only come from a man on the verge of total mental collapse. “H-heh. Yeah. That’s… uh, that’s a song. I wrote that. Yep- sure did.”

Steve tilts his head, his eyebrows raising slightly in impressed surprise. “Seriously? You wrote it? That’s awesome.”

Eddie’s brain glitches again. Steve Harrington thinks he’s awesome. This is it. This is how Eddie Munson dies. Not in some metal-as-hell blaze of glory, but here, in the middle of a Food Network set, melting into a puddle of socially incompetent goo at Steve Harrington’s feet.

He’s so busy panicking that he doesn’t notice he’s leaning in closer to Steve. Not until someone from the crew calls out, “Hey, Steve! Need to get you mic-ed up!”

Steve glances over his shoulder, then back at Eddie. He doesn’t move. Which means Eddie doesn’t move either. They’re standing there, barely a foot apart, and Eddie’s lungs are filling with Steve’s cologne. It’s unfair how good he smells. Like cedarwood and citrus and something else Eddie can’t place, but it’s intoxicating enough to make his knees weak all over again.

Steve’s gaze flickers back to Eddie, and for one heart-stopping second, Eddie thinks Steve might actually notice how close they’re standing. How Eddie’s face is practically glowing with how much blood has rushed to his cheeks. But instead, Steve just smiles.

“Guess I’d better go,” he says, finally stepping back. “It was nice meeting you, Eddie. Seriously. Dustin’s gonna freak when I tell him.”

“Y-you too,” Eddie sputters. His voice cracks again. Oh god, he’s going to be replaying that moment in his head for the rest of his life. “Nice… meeting… you. Uh- Steve.”

Steve gives him a little wave as he walks off, leaving Eddie in stunned silence, his brain playing a loop of Steve Harrington knows who I am. Steve Harrington knows who I am.

After a few agonizingly long seconds, Eddie mutters under his breath, “Well. That wasn’t horrifying at all.” Then, he promptly sits down on the nearest surface and buries his face in his hands.

Somewhere off to the side, he hears someone snort. “Smooth, Munson. Real smooth.”

Eddie peeks through his fingers to see one of the sound techs smirking at him. He groans and lets his head drop again. Maybe if he sits here long enough, the earth will finally swallow him whole.

“Okay, let’s get everyone together!” Melissa, the assistant director, calls out, clapping her hands like a camp counselor trying to herd a group of sugar-rushed kids. “We’re headed to the set!”

Eddie trails after the group, focused on not tripping over his feet and trying to keep tabs on Steve, who’s somewhere ahead, chatting easily with Dave Coulier like they’re old pals.

The group shuffles through the set doors, and when Eddie steps onto the stage, his nerves finally kick in. The room is decked out in blue and red, divided in half where the edges are lined with intimidatingly shiny cooking stations, each one gleaming with appliances Eddie doesn’t know how to use. Or name. Honestly, he’s not even sure what half of them do. And that’s growing up on canned spaghetti o’s for you.

For the first time since agreeing to this ridiculous stunt, Eddie feels a stab of panic. Oh, shit. What have I done?

“Everyone line up, come on in!” Melissa is in the middle of the stage, waving her arms like she’s directing air traffic. “Can everyone hear me? Great! So, we’re going to bring the chefs in, introduce them, and then jump into our first cook. Follow the chefs’ leads, and remember to have fun. That’s the most important thing. Any questions before we get started?”

Eddie looks around, hoping someone will ask something useful, like “Where’s the fire extinguisher?” or “What happens if I accidentally set myself on fire?” But instead, a small hand goes up near the front. Melissa nods, and a familiar high-pitched voice pipes up.

“Has anyone ever, like… lost a finger doing this?”

The group laughs, and Eddie’s stomach flips. No way. He cranes his neck, bouncing on the balls of his feet to try and see past Fortune Feimster’s shoulder. He knows that voice.

“Chrissy?” he mutters, half to himself.

It is Chrissy. He’d bet his first guitar on it. But no matter how much he ducks and bobs around the other contestants, he can’t quite catch a glimpse of her. Frustration bubbles up, and he sighs loudly, a dramatic exhale that absolutely does not go unnoticed.

“Uh… you good?”

Eddie snaps his head to the side and finds Steve Harrington giving him a curious look. Of course, Steve noticed. Of course. How did Steve get so close again that Eddie did not notice? Is he part ninja? Sexy suave ninja.

“Yep!” Eddie blurts a little too quickly. He brushes Steve off with an awkward wave of his hand, desperate to end the interaction before he says something humiliating like I’ve jerked off to your face because that’s sitting at the tip of Eddie’s tongue. “All good! Totally fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Steve raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press, and Eddie pretends not to notice the amused twitch of his lips as Steve turns back to the group. It’s not like he’s staring at the man’s mouth or anything.

Melissa claps her hands again, regaining everyone’s attention. “Alright! If there’s nothing else, let’s get everyone to their marks!”

Eddie barely registers what’s happening as he’s shuffled further down the line, further away from Steve, much to his dismay. He inhales, hoping to catch one last whiff of Steve’s stupidly perfect cologne (cedarwood, citrus, and heartbreak), but it’s already fading. Maybe it’s for the best.

The reposition, however, does come with a silver lining: Eddie spots Chrissy.

She’s standing just a few feet away, grinning and bouncing on the balls of her feet like she’s about to break into a cheer routine.

“Chris!” Eddie whisper-yells, leaning around Fortune Feimster’s back.

Chrissy’s face lights up when she spots him. “Eddie!” she squeals, waving with both hands like they’re reuniting at a high school reunion instead of about to humiliate themselves on national television.

Eddie can’t help but grin back. It’s been a while since he last saw Chrissy, but she still radiates that same bubbly energy that makes her impossible to dislike. Honestly, if anyone’s going to make this whole circus bearable, it’s her: Olympic gymnast Chrissy Cunningham. Eddie’s platonic soulmate.

Their unlikely friendship started years ago at some swanky charity event Eddie only attended because his manager begged him to “try networking for once in your life.” It was a painfully awkward night full of small talk, too-tight tuxedos, and Eddie hiding behind the buffet table, stress-eating shrimp cocktail. That’s where Chrissy found him, in all his scruffy, nervous glory, trying to balance three crab cakes on a cocktail napkin.

By sheer dumb luck, or maybe fate, they hit it off. Eddie didn’t care about gymnastics, and Chrissy didn’t care about metal music, but neither of them cared about the weirdness of their respective worlds either. They just… clicked. Like puzzle pieces that shouldn’t fit together but somehow do.

Now, she’s the Robin to his Batman, the peanut butter to his jelly, the unshakable best friend he never knew he needed. Sure, they don’t see each other as often as they’d like, she’s constantly jetting around the world for endorsement deals and motivational speaking gigs, and Eddie’s, well, Eddie. But they text all the time, swapping memes, life updates, and occasionally tips on how to survive public scrutiny without completely losing your mind.

Still, he had no idea she was going to be here. He didn’t tell her he was doing the show (because admitting he was about to crash and burn on Worst Cooks in America wasn’t exactly his proudest moment), and apparently, she didn’t tell him either.

But now that he sees her standing here, grinning like they’ve just won the lottery, he’s so stupidly grateful she’s here. With Chrissy around, maybe this whole experience won’t be the humiliating disaster he’s been bracing for. Or at least, it’ll be a humiliating disaster with someone he loves.

Soon enough, the “recruits” are being introduced to Anne Burrell and Bobby Flay, who both look like they’re already regretting signing up for this. They’re sizing everyone up. Eddie doesn’t blame them. Just standing here feels like a mistake to him. Then, before he knows it, they’re off to complete their first cook.

What follows can only be described as absolute fucking chaos. The kitchen is a war zone, a cacophony of clanging pots, frantic footsteps, and panicked voices shouting things like “Where’s the salt?!” and “Is this on fire?!” Eddie isn’t helping. Not that anyone expected him to, but even he is surprised by how bad he is at this. All he’s trying to do is make an omelet, a simple, stupid omelet, and yet, somehow, it feels like climbing Mount Everest.

The fridge is his first nemesis. He grabs the eggs but forgets the cheese. Then he’s running back for the butter. Then for some vegetables. It’s like he’s deliberately making his life harder, and the fridge door might as well have a personal vendetta against him.

At least he catches Steve looking equally lost every time Eddie passes his station. That’s something, right? Eddie thinks grimly that misery loves company, or hot guys with no clue how to cook.

“Oh my god, why is this so hard?” Eddie calls across the kitchen, flapping a hand at his pan like that will help. “What are you making, Cunningham?”

Chrissy scrunches her nose, staring down at her pan. “Well… it was supposed to be a casserole, but now it kind of looks like vomit.”

Eddie snort-laughs, nearly dropping his spatula. “But don’t all casseroles look like vomit until you cover them in cheese?”

Chrissy’s face lights up. “That’s it! Cheese! I can do that!” She spins on her heel and races to the fridge, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her.

Eddie grins to himself and turns back to his pan. The eggs are starting to bubble, so it’s almost time to flip them. But there’s a problem: he can only find a metal spatula. His Uncle Wayne’s voice echoes in his head, scolding him. “You never use metal on nonstick, boy. You’ll scratch the pan.” Well, Uncle Wayne isn’t here, and Eddie’s pretty sure the Food Network can afford a new pan if he wrecks this one.

“Oh, shit—oops, sorry,” Eddie mutters as he notices the cameraman hovering uncomfortably close to his pan. How do they expect a rockstar not to cuss? That’s like asking water not to be wet.

“What are you making?” Chef Anne’s voice cuts through the chaos, and Eddie flinches so hard he nearly sends the spatula flying. He glances up to see her standing at his station, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

“Uh, an omelet?” Eddie says, though it comes out like a question because suddenly, he’s not even sure if this qualifies as food. “I hope?”

“Are you adding anything to it?” She leans over his shoulder, inspecting his pan.

“Mushrooms and cheese,” he says, grabbing the packet of cheese by his side and holding it up.

“Oh. American cheese,” she says, her tone neutral but her eyebrows lifting just enough to make Eddie second-guess his entire existence.

“Yes?” Eddie says slowly. “Is that… bad?”

Anne shrugs and moves on without answering, leaving Eddie confused.

“Is American cheese bad?” he asks Fortune, who’s cooking beside him. She shrugs, her face scrunching up in an expression that screams probably, but I’m not saying it.

“Is American cheese bad?” he whispers to the cameraman. The guy bites his lip, trying not to laugh, but doesn’t say a word.

“Shit,” Eddie groans, throwing the cheese down and racing back to the fridge AGAIN. If American cheese is culinary heresy, then fine, he’ll find something fancier.

This time, the fridge is empty of competitors, so Eddie takes his time, pawing through the various blocks and wedges. He grabs a wedge of something white, squints at it, and shrugs. It looks like it could be Swiss, and he knows Swiss goes with mushrooms thanks to his love of Philly cheesesteaks, so he decides it’ll do. He slams the fridge shut and jogs back to his station, passing Steve on the way.

Steve is poking a sad-looking piece of chicken with a fork, his brow furrowed like he’s waiting for it to talk back. Eddie smirks and almost says something, but then Steve looks up, like he can feel Eddie’s eyes on him, and their gazes lock.

Time seems to freeze when Eddie feels his lungs choke off a breath.

Steve gives him a small smile, something soft and warm, like a secret shared between just the two of them, and Eddie’s insides promptly liquefy. Just utter goo. He can barely feel his feet on the floor while his brain screams, Did Steve Harrington just smile at me? Is this real life?

“Jesus,” Eddie sighs under his breath, snapping himself out of it. Focus, Munson. It’s eggs. Pay attention to your eggs.

Except his eggs are smoking.

“No!” Eddie yelps, grabbing the pan and yanking it off the burner. He uses the edge of his spatula to peek underneath, groaning when he sees the ugly truth. His eggs are brown on the bottom but still jiggly on top. How the hell has he managed to make eggs that are both burnt and raw at the same time?

“Five minutes!” Anne calls out from across the room.

“Crap, okay, okay, you can do this. It’s eggs, not brain surgery.”

He tries to flip them, but halfway through, the omelet breaks into two pieces. “No! Bastard. Whatever, it’s fine. The cheese will glue it back together.” Because that’s what cheese does, right?

He tosses the pan back onto the burner, turns the heat down, and starts hacking at the mushrooms. He’s never felt more out of his depth, but he presses on, slicing each mushroom with intense concentration. They’re uneven, slightly messy, but it’s done. He scatters them over his eggs and turns his attention to the cheese.

The smell hits him like a freight train when the plastic comes off.

“What the hell is this?” he mutters, sniffing it, and immediately regrets his life choices. “That smells like ass.” And Eddie would know, he’s been around ass a time or two.

But if Anne thinks American cheese is bad, then fine. He’ll use this ass cheese. Maybe it tastes better than it smells, kind of like ass.

“Two minutes!”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie mutters, hacking slices off the cheese and tossing them over the mushrooms. He needs a lid. The cheese won’t melt without a lid. Where the hell are the lids? He spins around, spots them on a nearby shelf, and lunges for one. It’s too small, but it’ll have to do.

As he clamps the lid over his pan, he takes a second to look around. Chrissy is flailing, holding her hands up like she’s lost something vital. Dave Coulier is staring into a pot like it contains the secrets of the universe. And Steve… well, Steve is still poking at his chicken, looking adorably perplexed.

Then like the universe has a thing for making Eddie uncomfortable, Steve glances up, catches Eddie looking, and smiles again. Smiles. Like it’s no big deal.

Eddie feels his heart stutter and his brain fizzle out, which is probably not good for his brain. Is this going to be a normal thing that happens between them now? Making eye contact and Steve smiling??

“30 seconds! Get it on a plate!”

“Plate, plate, plate, where are the plates?” Eddie spins around, sees the plates, and goes diving for one. He brings it back and slides his tragic omelet onto it just as time runs out. It’s brown, it’s sad, and it’s barely holding itself together, kind of like Eddie.

Behind-the-Scenes Interview: Eddie

The camera lens is already focused as Eddie enters the frame, laughing like he just heard the punchline to a joke. He collapses into the chair, his grin wide and unapologetic.

“Why didn’t anyone warn me Steve Harrington was going to be here?” he asks, turning to glance just off-camera with mock indignation. He gestures wildly at whoever’s behind the lens, his rings glinting under the bright studio lights. “Seriously, not a single person was like, ‘Oh hey, just so you’re aware, the super famous hot guy is going to be on the show as well.’”

“Do you think Steve is hot?” someone behind the camera asks, their tone so casual it might as well be a grenade lobbed into the middle of the room.

Eddie freezes for half a second before throwing his head back with an exaggerated groan. He slumps down in the chair dramatically, his arms flopping to his sides. “Are you serious? Do I have eyes?” He leans forward conspiratorially and lowers his voice. “Do you know that I had the hugest crush on him when I was in high school?”

“When he was on California Summer?” the disembodied voice asks, referencing the cheesy teen drama that launched Steve Harrington into superstardom.

“Yes!” Eddie throws his hands up, his voice pitching into mock despair. “That swimsuit photo shoot? The one with the lifeguard tower and the stupid little whistle? Just stab this poor little gay boy directly in the dick, why don’t you!”

The room erupts in laughter, a chaotic mix of crew members trying, and failing, not to lose it. The camera catches Eddie’s cheeks turning a deep pink, his blush creeping up to his ears. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling like he’s trying to reset himself.

Finally, he fixes his gaze on the camera lens, his grin softening but not fading entirely. “Alright,” he says, a glint of mischief still in his eyes. “Let’s do this thing.”

The camera lingers on him for a moment longer, capturing the way he fidgets with his rings before the screen cuts to black.

Behind-the-Scenes Interview: Steve

The scene opens with Steve seated on the stool, leaning forward slightly with his elbows resting on his knees. He looks relaxed at first, confident, the way you’d expect from someone who’s spent years in front of cameras. But then he blinks, sitting up straighter as the producer’s words register.

“He said—what?” Steve asks, his voice tinged with surprise. His brow furrows slightly, his focus locked on the person just off-camera. “About me?”

A small, almost shy smile starts to creep onto his face, and for a moment, it looks like he’s trying to fight it. His hand comes up to scratch absently at his shoulder, a nervous gesture that feels out of place for someone so polished. The camera zooms in slightly, catching the way his fingers linger as if trying to give himself something to do.

“What do you think about that?” the producer presses their tone light but pointed.

“About—? About Eddie having a crush on me when we were teens?” Steve repeats, his voice faltering just slightly. He glances to the side, his lips parting like he’s about to say something, but then thinks better of it.

“Yeah,” the producer continues. “Do you think it’s sweet? Or, I don’t know—what do you think about that?”

Steve’s smile twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and something else, something harder to pin down. “I…” He shifts in his seat, his eyes darting briefly to the camera before skimming the room, avoiding the lens like it might betray him. “I don’t know. I guess?”

There’s a pause, just long enough for the camera to pick up the faint pink dusting his cheeks. “I mean, he probably wasn’t the only person in America who felt that way,” Steve adds, his voice dipping into an easy, practiced confidence. But the slight tension in his shoulders betrays him, as does how he clears his throat after he says it.

The producer doesn’t press further, letting the silence hang for a beat too long. Steve glances at the camera, like he can sense the weight of its attention, and his smile falters for just a second. Then he straightens up, smoothing his hands over his thighs and leaning back in the chair, effortlessly slipping into his practiced effortlessness.

The camera lingers, zooming in on how he bites the inside of his cheek before cutting to black.

Somehow, miraculously, Eddie didn’t give anyone food poisoning during judging. Even more shocking? Anne picked him second for her team. SECOND. The guy who called that fancy cheese "ass cheese" to her face. To. Her. Face.

Eddie isn’t sure what Anne saw in him, maybe it was the fact that his omelet didn’t actively try to kill her. Either way, he’s on Team Anne, wearing a bright red apron that makes him feel like an oversized bottle of ketchup. Sadly, however, Bobby picked Steve for his blue team, which means Eddie is stuck staring at him from across the stage for the foreseeable future. A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.

Except… lately, Eddie keeps catching Steve staring back. It’s subtle, quick glances, like Steve is checking the time on a nonexistent watch, but it’s happening. Every time their eyes meet, Steve looks away so fast you’d think he’d been caught shoplifting. And, look, Eddie’s watched enough true crime documentaries to know what that could mean. Fear twists uncomfortably in his gut. Is he going to get jumped in the back alley after filming? Would Steve Harrington even need backup to murder him? Probably not. That guy looks like he could bench-press Eddie with one arm. Hmm, there’s a thought.

Now they’re standing in their teams, lined up like prisoners awaiting execution, staring fearfully at Anne and Bobby at the opposite end of the stage.

“Recruits, today we’re going to test your palates,” Anne announces.

Palates? Eddie doesn’t think he has one of those. Is it a bone?

“These numbers,” Bobby explains, gesturing to a giant thermometer-shaped cutout beside him, “represent the Scoville scale.”

The room murmurs in confusion. Someone coughs. Eddie vaguely remembers hearing about the Scoville scale once, probably on some YouTube rabbit hole at 2 a.m. It measures heat in peppers, right? Which means whatever this challenge is, it’s going to hurt.

“What you’re going to do in your teams,” Bobby continues, “is taste these ice creams and match their symbols to the peppers. Then put the peppers in order from least spicy to spiciest. The first team to call for a chef check and have all their peppers in the correct order wins.”

The instructions barely register before Eddie hears a soft, panicked, “Oh no,” from Chrissy beside him. She was the last pick for Anne’s team, but Eddie is thrilled to have her by his side.

Eddie leans down and whispers, “You got this, Cunningham.”

She looks up at him with wide, terrified eyes, shaking her head like a kid about to flunk a pop quiz. Okay, maybe she doesn’t got this. But Eddie will just have to pick up the slack.

“Alright, ready?” Anne raises her hand like she’s holding a starting pistol. “Go!”

The second her hand drops, the room explodes into chaos. Shoes squeak, bowls clatter, and Eddie sprints to the ice cream table like it’s Black Friday at Walmart. He grabs a tasting spoon, plunges it into the closest bowl of orange-colored ice cream, and takes a big bite.

Big mistake.

“Holy shit!” Eddie chokes, slapping a hand over his mouth as his eyes start to water. His tongue feels like it’s actively combusting. “Okay, that one’s the hottest. Oh my god.” He’s coughing so hard he thinks he’s seeing stars, and Chrissy is giggling at his misery.

“Are you okay?” she asks, clearly not that concerned since she’s still laughing.

“No! No one should put the devil’s asshole in ice cream!” Eddie wheezes, grabbing the edge of the table to steady himself. His tongue feels like it’s trying to peel itself off his body.

Chrissy, to her credit, is already on it. “Put that one at the top!” she says, giving him a little shove.

Eddie stumbles to the giant thermometer, to locate the the matching pepper symbol. He finds the bowl filled with an angry-looking pepper that might as well be Satan in vegetable form. He sets it on the top ledge with a triumphant slap, already feeling like he’s done his part.

“Get the watermelon! The watermelon!” Jaxon, the YouTuber on their team, yells at Eddie.

“To where, dude?” Eddie yells back, still lightheaded from the first bite.

“Bottom! Put it at the bottom!”

Eddie shrugs and places the watermelon pepper bowl where Jaxon says, his confidence at an all-time low. Meanwhile, Fortune slams another bowl of peppers onto the board so hard it rattles, and suddenly, the whole team is crowding around, shouting over each other and shoving bowls into place like a culinary mosh pit. Eddie knows mosh pits, and this is up there in intensity.

“Chef check!” Chrissy announces, and Anne moves in front of the thermometer, holding up a card like the Oracle of Doom. She peers at their arrangement for a long, excruciating moment before cocking her head to the side. “You have four correct.”

“Crap!” Chrissy shouts, and Eddie’s heart swells with pride. She’s picking up his bad habits already.

They all rush to the table, shoving ice cream into their mouths like it’s the only thing between them and oblivion. Eddie tastes two in quick succession, the frog one burns but the umbrella one only tickles.

“The frog’s hotter!” Eddie declares, slamming the bowl down. “Move it up!”

Someone hands him the beach ball ice cream, and he dives in, wincing at the now-familiar sting of spicy regret. “Switch the umbrella and the beach ball! Do it! Do it now!”

“Chef check!” the blue team calls out, freezing the red team in their tracks.

Eddie watches as Bobby steps forward, the room holding its collective breath. Bobby checks the bowls, nodding to himself before throwing his hands up. “That’s it! You got them all!”

The blue team explodes into cheers, hugging each other like they just discovered the cure for cancer. Meanwhile, Eddie groans, clutching his stomach like it’s betraying him.

“Great,” he mutters, glaring at the blue team. “I’m going to get a stomach ache from those bastard peppers, and we don’t even win.”

“Cut!” the director calls out, and the tension in the room melts away as everyone relaxes. “Let’s reset. Recruits, don’t go too far—this’ll be a quick one.”

Eddie exhales, then plops a hand on Chrissy’s shoulder, following behind her as they make their way to the craft services table. “How can you eat anything after that?”

“I need to eat something real,” Chrissy replies, flicking her fingers across the lineup of granola bars. She finally plucks one out and tears the wrapper with a dramatic sigh.

“I need coffee,” Eddie mutters, still rubbing at his tongue like it owes him money. “Or maybe a wire brush to scrape that hell sludge off my taste buds.”

“Pretty gross, huh?”

Eddie freezes. That voice—that voice—is coming from right beside him. He glances over and, yep, there’s Steve, casually leaning over the tray of cookies like this is no big deal and Eddie’s entire body isn’t short-circuiting.

Steve Harrington, gorgeous heartthrob, eating cookies. How is this fair?

“Did you eat the orange one?” Chrissy asks, and Eddie silently blesses her for throwing herself into the line of fire. “Eddie ate that one first,” she adds, and okay e tu brute?

Steve’s eyes widen, his eyebrows shooting up as he selects what appears to be an oatmeal raisin cookie. “Ohhh, wow,” he says, breaking into a sympathetic laugh. “That one was awful.”

And just like that, Eddie’s entire body melts into a puddle of: he laughed at my pain and now I can die happy.

“Y-yeah,” Eddie stammers, trying desperately to sound normal. “Awful. Totally awful.”

“What other crazy shit do you think they’ll make us do?” Steve asks, breaking off a piece of his cookie and popping it into his mouth. Eddie has never wanted to be a cookie more than he does at this moment.

“I’m sure whatever it is, it’ll be humiliating,” Chrissy sighs, crossing her arms like she’s preparing for the worst. Then, she tilts her head, her gaze narrowing on Steve. “I’m surprised you’re even doing this. You don’t need the paycheck.”

Eddie blinks. That’s… actually a really good question.

“True,” Steve chuckles, brushing a couple of crumbs from the corner of his mouth. Eddie doesn’t know how crumbs can be charming, but somehow, Steve Harrington’s crumbs are charming. “I wanted to learn to cook.” He says simply.

Eddie’s brain stutters to a halt. “Why?” he blurts before he can stop himself. Because seriously, Steve Harrington? Learning to cook? Can’t this guy just summon a personal chef with his celebrity telepathy or whatever?

Steve lets out a small, self-conscious laugh and rubs the back of his neck. For the first time, he looks a little awkward, like he’s not sure how to explain himself. “I know it’s silly,” he says, motioning vaguely at the craft services table. “But I never learned how. Growing up on TV sets is a lot of… this. Granola bars, cookies, catering trays. Not a lot of real-life skills. I figured this would be a fun way to learn. I don’t know.”

“Why not just take a regular cooking class?” Chrissy interjects, already halfway through her granola bar.

Steve shrugs. “That sounded boring.”

And just like that, Eddie feels himself falling even harder. Is there a bottom to this? Or will he keep plummeting into the vast chasm of Steve Harrington’s charm forever?

“When I was a baby, I learned to crawl by pushing backward,” Steve says suddenly, and Eddie tilts his head, trying to follow along. “Like, plant your hands and push yourself back instead of forward. My parents said I did that until I pushed my baby butt down an entire flight of stairs.” He chuckles, shaking his head at his ridiculousness. “That’s just how I do things, I guess. Jump headfirst, figure it out later. So when someone on my team mentioned the show, I told them to get me on.”

Eddie stares at him, completely transfixed. “Wait, they didn’t call you?” he asks, baffled. He remembers getting the call from the network and immediately wondering if they’d dialed the wrong number. There’s no way they’d call him and not Steve.

“Nope,” Steve says, grinning like this is no big deal. “They thought I’d never want to do it. My agent had to convince them it wasn’t a prank.”

“That makes sense,” Eddie mutters, but Steve’s nonchalant confidence is throwing him for a loop. How is this guy so chill? He’s a celebrity. Eddie would have been too embarrassed to even suggest the idea to his team, let alone insist on it.

“Recruits! We’re ready, back on set!” someone calls out, and the magic moment shatters.

Eddie startles, glancing at the table. Shit. He forgot to get coffee.

Chapter Text

Eddie stares down at the fish in front of him like it personally owes him money. It’s just lying there on the cutting board, glassy-eyed and lifeless.

This is it. This is the moment Eddie Munson questions every life choice that led him to this exact point in time. Joining this show? Mistake. Agreeing to replicate a dish made by Anne Burrell and Bobby Flay, two professionals who clearly think he’s some kind of sponge that can absorb culinary knowledge in a single demonstration? Bigger mistake. Butchering a whole fish? The biggest mistake.

He glances up at the camera lens trained on him, its unblinking eye judging him. Eddie scrunches his nose and gestures at the fish with a dramatic flourish.

“Do you see this?” he asks, pointing accusingly at the poor dead creature. “They want me to cut this up. Like, with a knife. I’m going to have nightmares for the rest of my life. Are you going to pay for my therapy?”

The fish doesn’t react, obviously, but Eddie still feels like it’s silently mocking him. He grabs a towel, intent on covering its creepy little face, but pauses when movement catches his eye.

Chrissy.

She’s at the station next to him, her hands steady and sure as she slides her knife smoothly down the back of her fish. She looks like she’s been doing this her entire life, her movements calm and precise. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t even blink.

“Damn, babe,” Eddie mutters, his eyebrows shooting up. “How are you doing that?”

Chrissy doesn’t bother glancing up, she’s locked in, hyper-focused. “My dad took me fishing when I was a kid,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ve been doing this since I was eight years old.”

“Impressive,” Eddie says, and he means it. For a moment, he just watches her work, marveling at how confident she looks. He uses her confidence like a springboard, steeling himself with a deep breath. “Screw the towel,” he mutters. “Alright, fishie. This is between you and me.”

He picks up his knife, feels its weight in his hand, and begins.

It’s not as bad as it could’ve been. The fish doesn’t reanimate and jump up to bite him. He doesn’t stab himself with the uber-sharp knife. In fact, by some miracle, he follows the steps Anne demonstrated, and the flesh separates from the bone in one mostly intact piece. Mostly.

Eddie stares at his finished filet, patting it gently like a proud parent. “Good boy,” he whispers, smiling to himself.

His smile falters when he glances up and catches Steve Harrington watching him from across the room.

Steve, standing there in his stupidly handsome glory, looking away from his own sad little fish to check out Eddie Munson’s progress. Eddie’s stomach flips like it’s auditioning for Chrissy’s gymnastics team.

He finds himself getting used to seeing Steve’s eyes peering at him from across the room. So, he smiles at Steve, can’t help it. Just a quick, almost shy smile.

And when Steve smiles back, Eddie feels something warm and fizzy spread through his chest, like popping open a champagne bottle. He turns back to his fish, trying to focus, but his hands are buzzing, electricity of some kind running through his veins.

The rest of the cook blurs together in a whirlwind of chopping, seasoning, and trying not to look at the clock every five seconds. It’s chaotic, but somehow, Eddie isn’t as panicked as he was at the start.

Just before Anne calls time, Eddie grabs a wedge of lemon and squeezes it triumphantly over his fish. It looks… good. Not just “I didn’t burn it” good, but “you could pay money for this at a restaurant” good.

“Time!” Anne calls, and Eddie, feeling the thrill of victory coursing through his veins, tosses the spent lemon rind into the air.

“Hell yeah!” he shouts, punching the air triumphantly before breaking into an awkward little shoulder shimmy. The movement is ridiculous, but Eddie doesn’t care. He’s flying high.

He looks down at his dish, beaming. It’s not perfect, there’s a small tear in the filet, and the plating is more chaotic than artful, but he’s pretty sure he’s not getting sent home today.

For the first time, Eddie feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s not as out of his depth as he thought.

Behind-the-Scenes Interview: Eddie

Eddie slides into the chair with a loose, almost careless motion, but the camera catches the faint twitch of his fingers as he adjusts his apron. He settles back with a shrug, looking like he’s trying to relax but not quite pulling it off.

“I saw you chatting it up with Steve backstage,” the producer says, the tone conversational but light enough to make it sound harmless. “You guys talking?”

Eddie freezes for half a beat, his hands stilling mid-adjustment. His brows knit together briefly, then relax as he tilts his head, his expression hovering between confused and bemused.

“Not really?” he says slowly, drawing the words out like he’s testing them. He straightens a little, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “I mean, he talked, I listened, nearly shit myself… but, uh, no? We’re not, like, talking, talking.”

His tone is light, self-deprecating, but there’s a flicker of something else before he quickly glances away. He shifts in his seat, his gaze darting briefly to the crew behind the camera.

The producer doesn’t respond immediately, and Eddie blinks, his lips quirking in a faint, crooked smile that doesn’t quite mask his confusion. After a beat, he lets out a small laugh, shrugging again as if to say, Whatever, man, before slouching a little further in the chair.

~~~

Behind-the-Scenes Interview: Steve

The camera cuts to Steve sitting on the stool. His posture relaxed but just a little too perfect, like he’s spent years perfecting this pose for press junkets. His hand rests loosely on his thigh, and he gives a polite smile that’s well-practiced but not entirely insincere.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he says after the producer’s question, his voice easy. “We were talking about getting on the show.” He leans forward slightly, his expression casual but with enough focus to hint at underlying curiosity. “Why? Did he… did he say something?”

“He said you talked mostly,” the producer replies.

Steve’s face barely shifts, but there’s the smallest flicker of something, disappointment, maybe, that passes across his features before he quickly smooths it over. He licks his lips, letting out a quiet laugh that lands shy of natural.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back in the chair with a subtle posture adjustment like he’s making himself comfortable. “I probably did.”

He shifts his weight slightly, crossing one leg over the other, and his hand moves to brush absently at the fabric of his jeans. “So,” he says, glancing off-camera for a beat before turning his gaze back. “The fish? How’d he do?”

The question is casual, tossed out like an afterthought, but there’s a slight tightness in his jaw as he says it, a small tell that might slip by unnoticed if you’re not looking too closely.

The producer hums noncommittally, but Steve doesn’t let the silence linger. He lets out a soft chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “I mean, it looked like he was kind of freaking out over there,” he adds, his tone lighter now, almost teasing.

The camera lingers as he adjusts his leg again, his fingers drumming briefly on his knee before he seems to catch himself and stills. His smile flickers once more, a little forced, a little uncertain, but he holds it in place as he leans back, settling into the stool like he’s done this a thousand times.

Eddie doesn’t know why he’s doing this. Actually, that’s a lie, he does know why. It’s because he’s an idiot with no sense of self-preservation.

He spots Steve standing off to the side near the edge of the set, leaning casually against a folding chair. The guy looks impossibly polished even now, wearing a simple black T-shirt that somehow makes his shoulders look stupidly broad while scrolling on his phone. His hair is doing that effortless thing it does, like it just wakes up in perfect little swoops and waves, and Eddie has to physically force himself to stop staring before he loses his nerve completely.

“Alright,” Eddie mutters, patting his back pocket to ensure the tickets are still there. “You’re just talking to a guy. A regular, human guy. A guy who’s been on, like, one or two…hundred magazine covers. No big deal. Totally normal.”

He swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders. Be cool, he thinks. Be confident. You’re a goddamn rockstar.

And then his foot catches on an extension cord, and he has to do an awkward little stumble-step to avoid face-planting on the linoleum. Okay, maybe not cool.

Steve glances up at the commotion, and when his eyes land on Eddie, he raises an eyebrow, his phone lowering slightly. Eddie freezes like a deer in headlights and for one excruciating second, debates pretending he was walking somewhere else entirely. But then Steve offers a small, polite smile, just enough to break the tension, and Eddie forces his legs to move again.

“Hey,” Eddie says, his voice coming out a little higher-pitched than he intended. He clears his throat and tries again, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. “Uh, hey. Steve.”

“Hey,” Steve replies, tucking his phone into his back pocket. His smile softens, his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, and Eddie suddenly forgets how words work.

There’s an awkward pause, during which Eddie tries hard not to combust. He finally remembers the tickets in his back pocket and fumbles to pull them out, nearly dropping them in the process.

“So, uh,” Eddie starts, holding the tickets like a peace offering. “I, uh, I wanted to give you these.”

Steve looks down at the tickets, then back up at Eddie, clearly curious but not saying anything yet.

“They’re, uh, tickets,” Eddie continues, his words tripping over each other in his rush to get them out. “To my band’s next show. We’re playing at this place at the end of next month—it’s, uh, a relatively small, nothing fancy. Super grungy, but, y’know, good acoustics or whatever.”

Steve’s lips twitch like he’s trying to hold back a smile, and Eddie has to look away before he completely loses his train of thought.

“Anyway,” Eddie says, pushing forward, “I got these for Dustin. You know, since he’s apparently our number-one fan or whatever. But, uh, there’s two tickets, so if you don’t wanna go with him or—uh, you know, if you’re busy, no big deal.” He waves his free hand around in a vague, chaotic gesture. “Totally cool. Won’t take it personally.”

Steve takes the tickets, his fingers brushing briefly against Eddie’s, and Eddie tries not to read too much into the way Steve’s eyes flicker up to meet his.

“Thanks,” Steve says, his voice warm and easy. “I’ll be there.”

Eddie blinks, caught off guard. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, smiling now, and this time it’s one of those real, lopsided smiles that lights up his whole face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh-, uh.” Eddie feels his brain slipping out of his ear. Why wouldn’t he be? Eddie can think of about a thousand reasons, but Steve seems so casual about it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I-uh, cool,” Eddie finally offers, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat again and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide how much they’re shaking. “Well, uh, yeah. See you there, then.”

“Looking forward to it,” Steve says, his voice soft but sincere.

Eddie nods, turning to walk away before he can make things any weirder. But just as he’s about to step out of earshot, he hears Steve call out, “Hey, Eddie?”

He stops, turning back. “Yeah?”

Steve’s still smiling, but there’s something else in his expression now, something softer, harder to read. “Thanks for the tickets.”

Eddie shrugs, his cheeks burning. “Yeah, sure. Anytime.”

He walks away quickly, preventing his mouth from betraying him any further. But he can’t shake the sound of Steve’s voice or the way his smile lingered just a little too long.

The teams are lined up on opposite sides of the set, each group staring at a row of shiny scooters parked in front of them. Eddie squints at the contraptions, trying to figure out how this is supposed to be relevant to cooking.

“Recruits!” Bobby’s voice cuts through the room, commanding everyone’s attention. He and Anne stand in front of two long ingredient tables stacked with neatly organized food. “Today’s challenge is all about your ability to identify ingredients.”

“And speed,” Anne adds, grinning wickedly. “One at a time, you’ll taste an ingredient from these bowls,” she says, motioning to a covered tray on the table in front of her. “Then, you’ll hop on your scooters, race to the ingredient table, grab the correct ingredient, and bring it back to your pedestal. First team to collect all four ingredients wins.”

Eddie glances at the scooters again. They’re a bit too shiny, a bit too small, and 100% a death trap.

“And because we’re feeling generous,” Anne chimes in, her grin widening, “you’ll only get to taste the ingredient once before heading out. So you’d better pay attention.”

Eddie groans under his breath, shooting a look at Chrissy, who’s bouncing on the balls of her feet. Jaxon looks mildly panicked, while Fortune is squinting at the scooters like she’s debating whether this challenge is worth her life.

“I feel like this violates some kind of safety protocol,” Eddie mutters, earning a giggle from Chrissy.

On the other team, Steve leans over to whisper something to Dave, who laughs and nods in response. Eddie tries very hard to stop letting the swoop of Steve’s floppy hair distract him, or the way he looks like he was born to ride a scooter. Fucking gorgeous athletic men.

“Alright, recruits!” Bobby shouts, clapping his hands. “Red team, blue team, get ready to ride!”

Chrissy steps up first for the red team, while Dave steps up for the blue team. Then, on the count of three, Anne uncovers both bowls which contain celery. Chrissy narrows her eyes, grabs a piece, and pops it in her mouth, her face lights up with recognition. “Celery!”

“Go!” Anne shouts, and Chrissy launches herself onto the scooter, pushing off with surprising force.

The red team erupts into cheers as she races toward the ingredient table. Eddie can’t help but laugh when she hunches over with intense determination. She makes it to the ingredient table first, grabs a stalk of celery, and is zooming back before Dave reaches the table.

Her scooter wobbles dangerously when she takes the final turn a little too fast. “Don’t wipe out!” Eddie shouts, but Chrissy recovers and slams the celery on the pedestal with a triumphant fist pump. She easily beats out Dave, who sighs defeatedly over his scooter.

“That’s my girl!” Eddie hollers, high-fiving her when she rejoins their line.

The next players step up, Fortune for the red team and the soap opera guy for the blue. The lids are lifted from the bowls to show shredded coconut. The two take off almost simultaneously, their scooters squeaking as they race for the ingredient table.

It’s neck and neck until Fortune cuts her turn too sharp, the scooter tilting sideways. She wobbles, lets out a loud “Oh, shit!” and topples to the floor in a clattering heap, shredded coconut flying out of her hand.

Soap dude zooms past, slapping his coconut onto the blue team’s pedestal just as Fortune scrambles back to her feet. “I’m fine!” she calls, grabbing her bowl and hobbling to the red team’s pedestal.

“Shake it off, Fortune!” Eddie yells, clapping loudly. “We’ve got this!”

The third round is Jaxon versus a young D-list actor named Tony, who Eddie vaguely recognizes from a superhero show. The two of them are chaotic from the start, both shoving their ingredient, parsley, into their mouths before taking off like their asses are on fire.

Jaxon swerves wildly, almost taking out Chrissy on his way back, but somehow, he sticks the landing, slamming the parsley onto the pedestal seconds before Tony can set his down. The red team erupts in cheers, and Eddie catches Steve muttering to himself, and bouncing on his toes. It’s as intimidating as it is hot. Clearly, Steve’s preparing to take Eddie down. Scooters weren’t originally part of that fantasy but Eddie can go with the flow.

The two men approach the ingredient table, and Steve flashes Eddie a competitive grin. It’s not overtly sexy, but it’s Steve. He could make cleaning a litter box sexy. Eddie shakes his hair over his shoulders and summons his inner jock. This is war.

Anne uncovers the bowls, and Eddie stares down at diced white things. He can’t tell from sight what it is, so he scoops up a few pieces, shoving them in his mouth, and immediately recognizes jicama. A wicked smile spreads across his face when he glances up and sees Steve shrugging at his team. Clearly, he has no idea what he’s eating.

“Good luck,” Eddie calls out before sprinting to his scooter. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve stumbling forward, trying to catch up.

Eddie doesn’t make it too far before Steve's by his side. When Eddie glances over he sees laser-focused determination that’s slightly terrifying and somehow erotic at the same time. What is it with this guy?

“Come on, Munson!” Jaxon yells from behind him. “Don’t let him beat you!”

The room is deafening. Both teams are screaming and shouting encouragement as Eddie and Steve tear across the floor. Eddie’s legs pump frantically, the scooter squealing as he closes the gap to the ingredient table. This is the most exercise he’s done in ages and it’s on a tiny child-sized scooter. That’s embarrassing.

Eddie quickly grabs a jicama and jumps back on his scooter just as Steve snags something that Eddie doesn’t see. The ride back is a blur. Eddie pushes himself as hard as he can, his scooter wobbling under the force of his final push. Steve is right there, neck and neck with him, but as they approach the pedestals, Steve’s wheel tilts slightly, throwing him off balance.

“Shit!” Steve hisses, nearly toppling, but he recovers quickly. It’s just enough of a delay for Eddie to slam his jicama onto the pedestal half a second before Steve slaps down a pear.

“Red team wins!” Anne announces, throwing her hands in the air.

The red team explodes into cheers, Jaxon jumping onto Fortune’s back while Chrissy grabs Eddie in a hug. Eddie, riding the high of victory, spins toward Steve with a cocky grin. But Steve’s squinting at the pale, round vegetable on Eddie’s pedestal, his head tilting like a confused puppy.

“What the hell is that?” he asks, pointing at it.

Eddie snorts, Chrissy still glued to his side. “That’s a jicama, Harrington.”

Steve squints harder at the vegetable like it’s personally offended him. “A what? That sounds made up.” He gestures dramatically toward it, his voice dripping with exasperation. “Are we sure it’s not just… like, a sad potato? Or a potato that gave up halfway through trying to be an apple?”

Eddie bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, Steve.”

Steve throws up his hands, exasperated. “How was I supposed to know what a jicama is? You can’t tell me that thing looks like real food! It’s not even trying!”

Eddie wheezes, and his competitive high, mixing with how adorably serious Steve is, makes Eddie grin like an idiot. He can’t resist twisting the knife a little. “Sorry, not sorry, Steve-o,” Eddie teases, leaning in slightly. “Guess I’ve got the better palate.”

Steve’s eyes widen for a split second, like he’s genuinely surprised Eddie just said that, but then—oh no. Then he laughs.

It’s not just a polite laugh, either. It’s full and bright and completely genuine, and it cracks something warm and gooey inside Eddie. Steve shakes his head, still chuckling, and the sound practically crawls under Eddie’s skin, making his chest feel way too tight in the best way.

“Alright, alright, you got me,” Steve says, raising his hands in mock surrender. His grin stays in place, warm and a little crooked. “Good game, Munson.”

Eddie can’t help but feel a spark of pride. He actually got Steve to laugh and he’s so caught up in that high, he doesn’t notice the way Steve’s expression softens for a beat too long.

Chrissy cheers beside him, Fortune’s cackling, and someone mutters something about Eddie being the "jicama whisperer,” which honestly, sounds like the kind of nickname Eddie can live with. He throws himself back into the celebration, soaking in the moment, not realizing the camera crew zooms in on the way Steve’s gaze lingers on him for a moment longer than necessary.

Eddie stands at his station the next morning, grinning like an idiot. He’s surprised by how much fun he’s been having. Not only did he expect to get kicked off the show on day one, but he never expected to learn anything, but he has been. Wild. Even if Steve’s presence haunts him like a Victorian ghost child. He’s having a blast.

Now, he’s got his pan, his eggs, and a second chance at the dish that almost sent him packing on day one. Today, it’s omelet redemption day. They should make it a national holiday.

Today’s the first time he’s excited to cook, though he’s not going to say that out loud in case he jinxes himself. The chefs just finished demonstrating how to make the perfect omelet, which was much different than Eddie’s version. He’s pretty sure he retained about 50% of what they showed, so he feels surprisingly confident. He’s made a few meals now, hasn’t he? He hasn’t set anything on fire. He hasn’t poisoned anyone. I can do this, he thinks, bouncing on his toes as Anne claps her hands and shouts, “Go!”

He reaches for his eggs, trying to channel the calm, practiced movements Anne demonstrated, but his station-mate, Jaxon, has other plans.

“Wait, wait, what do I do first?” Jaxon asks frantically. He’s holding an egg away from himself like it’ll bite.

“Crack it?” Eddie answers skeptically.

“Where? Into the pan?”

“No! Into the bowl!” Eddie glances over, watching in horror as Jaxon nearly smashes the egg on the edge of his pan before switching to the counter. “Dude, did you not take notes?”

“I thought I’d just, like, feel it out,” Jaxon says, waving vaguely at the mess he’s somehow already created in the 30 seconds they’ve been cooking.

Eddie groans, “You’re gonna ‘feel it out’? It’s eggs, not jazz improv, dude.”

“Munson!” Anne’s voice cuts through the kitchen like a whip. “Focus on your station! You’re supposed to be making an omelet, not babysitting!”

“Yes, Chef!” Eddie yells back, quickly turning his attention to his eggs. He whisks them frantically, his arm moving fast enough that he knows he’ll feel the burn later. He adds a pinch of salt, like Anne showed, and heats his pan with a pad of butter.

For a moment, he feels like he’s actually in control. A surprising moment of zen, where the chaos around him fades, and he pours his eggs into the pan, tilting it just like Anne did. The golden liquid spreads evenly, and Eddie feels a surprising surge of pride. Okay, Chef Eddie.

“Hey, Eddie?”

Jaxon’s voice pulls him back into the storm.

“What?” Eddie hisses, carefully swirling the pan.

“Do I flip it now?” Jaxon asks, holding up a floppy mass of semi-cooked eggs.

“No! You should’ve paid attention, my man.” Eddie doesn’t have time for this nonsense. He’s becoming a talented chef here.

“Munson! Watch your eggs.” Anne yells again.

“Sorry, Chef! He’s stressing me out!” Eddie shouts, motioning wildly in Jaxon’s direction.

“Jaxon, focus on your own dish, please!” Anne gratefully diverts her attention to the YouTuber and off Eddie.

“Sorry, Chef!” Jaxon mutters, still clearly out of his depth.

The room is chaos, with everyone yelling, pans clattering, and Anne storming from station to station like a culinary drill sergeant. It’s surprising how loud it is for omelets. But Eddie tries to tune it back out, focusing on his dish, but then he feels it. That prickling sensation on the back of his neck.

He glances up, and sure enough, Steve’s looking his way.

He’s standing at his station, stirring something in a pan, but his eyes keep flicking toward Eddie like he’s trying not to be obvious.

Why the hell does this keep happening?

Eddie’s brain scrambles for an explanation. Any explanation. Okay, any reasonable explanation. Because being the distracted focus of Steve Harrington doesn’t make sense. Maybe he’s checking out the competition? Maybe he’s wondering what my shirt says under my apron? Maybe he’s just looking because Anne keeps yelling at me?

Steve catches his gaze but quickly looks away, his lips quirking into a faint smile when he turns back to his pan.

Eddie feels something tighten in his chest. It’s not a bad feeling exactly, it’s warm and fuzzy, like cotton candy, but it’s confusing as hell. Naw, he thinks, shaking his head. There’s no way.

He forces himself to focus, which is not the easiest thing to do, but he carefully rolls the omelet like Anne showed, his heart thudding wildly in his chest. The eggs fold neatly, no cracks, no tears, and it looks like a masterpiece. Eddie stares down, wide-eyed and proud.

“Holy shit,” he whispers to himself.

Beside him, Jaxon is still frantically trying to scrape something vaguely egg-like off his pan. “What do I do now?” He’s panicking and Eddie shouldn’t laugh. It wasn’t that long ago Eddie didn’t know his palate from his patella. But, it’s kinda funny.

When time is called soon after, Eddie throws his hand up like Judd Nelson, and this is The Breakfast Club and not cable television. “It’s not brown!” he shouts, spinning to face Chrissy, who’s giggling at his enthusiasm. “Do you see this? I made this. I know. I’m awesome.”

Behind-the-Scenes Interview: Steve

The camera opens on Steve sitting in the stool again, his posture slightly more relaxed than before. He leans back in the chair, his arms resting loosely in his lap.

“So,” the producer begins, her tone warm but teasing. “Let’s talk about the scooter challenge.”

Steve blinks, his lips twitching faintly at the corner, like he’s already bracing for the question. “What about it?” he asks, his voice easy but with a slight edge of defensiveness.

“Well, Eddie beat you in that photo finish.”

Steve tries not to smile, but it’s no use. The corner of his mouth curls upward despite himself, and he quickly ducks his head, pretending to scratch at his temple. “Yeah,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter, like he’s replaying the moment in his head. “He did.”

“Looked like you had it in the bag for a second there,” the producer prods lightly. “And then… jicama.”

Steve lets out a soft laugh, finally glancing up again. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, shaking his head, his cheeks turning faintly pink. “I’d never heard of jicama before, let alone seen one.”

“Do you think Eddie’s going to let you live that one down?”

Steve huffs a laugh, leaning forward slightly and resting his forearms on his thighs. “Oh, definitely not,” he says, his grin widening. “He’s been milking it already. Did you see how proud of himself he was?”

The camera catches the way Steve’s grin lingers, softening slightly as his gaze flicks to the side. It’s not the cocky, movie-star smile he flashes on red carpets, it’s quieter, more private. Fond.

The producer lets the silence stretch for just a beat longer. Steve shifts in his seat, clearing his throat and rubbing his palms over his thighs. “Anyway,” he says, his voice brightening as he forces a small laugh. “It’s all in good fun. He deserved the win.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of respect for him,” the producer says, her tone still casual but pointed.

Steve hesitates for half a second, his smile twitching. “Yeah,” he says, his voice quieter again. “I do.”

The camera zooms in slightly when he crosses one leg over the other, settling back into the chair. His hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that doesn’t match the words coming out of his mouth. “He’s, uh… he’s a good guy. Really talented, too. Did you know his band’s got a show coming up? He gave me tickets.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Steve says a little too quickly. “Said they’re for Dustin, but….” He lets out a small laugh, shrugging and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

The camera lingers for a moment longer, capturing the way his smile flickers again, just for a second, before he glances down, clearly trying to compose himself.

~~~

Behind-the-Scenes Interview: Eddie

Eddie is sliding into the interview chair with his usual chaotic energy, adjusting the strap of his apron, trying to get comfortable. He leans back, his knee bouncing as he shoots a quick glance off-camera.

“So,” the producer starts, “we were talking to Steve earlier about the scooter challenge.”

Eddie groans loudly, throwing his head back. “Oh my god, is he upset I beat him? He’s got to let it go. I’m just better than him.” He’s smiling, clearly teasing with zero animosity in his tone.

The crew laughs softly, but the producer stays on track. “Actually, he said you were really proud of yourself after the win.”

Eddie snorts, shaking his head. “Damn right, I was. Did you see me? I was, like, Scooter Jesus.” He pauses, then grimaces. “Wait, no, don’t air that. I get enough satan worshipping cult bs, I don’t need people thinking I believe I’m Jesus.”

There’s more laughter from the crew, but the producer presses on. “He also said you gave him tickets to your band’s show.”

Eddie freezes for a split second, just long enough for the camera to catch the way his knee stops bouncing. “Uh… yeah?” he says, his voice shifting slightly.

“Why’d you do that?”

Eddie tilts his head, squinting at the producer like he’s trying to figure out if this is a trick question. “Because Dustin’s our biggest fan, and Steve and Dustin are, like, best buds. Thought they’d have a good time. Why? What’d he say?”

The producer hums noncommittally, and Eddie’s eyes narrow just slightly.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, leaning forward now, one hand gesturing vaguely at the crew. “Are you trying to, like, make this a thing? Because, no offense, but Steve Harrington is a world-famous sex symbol and I’m just some random guy who knows how to play guitar. If you’re fishing for some kind of reality TV drama, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” He leans back again, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting a pointed look at the camera. “Not happening. Next question.”

The producer chuckles softly, but doesn’t push further, leaving Eddie with his arms crossed and a faint blush creeping up his neck.

Eddie’s not entirely sure why he’s still hanging around backstage, loitering like a lost puppy. The interview questions are still buzzing in his brain like a swarm of bees, and he can’t shake the feeling that he needs to clear the air with Steve. Just in case.

When he turns the corner and spots Steve saying goodbye to one of the crew members, he considers turning around and walking the other way. But he knows if he doesn’t do something, his nerves will eat him alive, so he’s already moving toward the man before his brain can catch up with his feet.

“Hey, Harrington,” Eddie says, his voice wavering slightly.

Steve looks up, his expression softening into a small smile. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” Eddie says quickly, waving a hand like he’s swatting a fly. “Just, uh, wandering. You know, lurking. Trying to find my way out of this labyrinth they call a set.”

Steve chuckles, capping a water bottle and leaning against the table. “It’s not that bad. You lost?” Amusement floods his voice.

“Me? Lost? Never.” Eddie grins, but his thumb starts tapping on his thigh like it’s practicing Morse code. “No, I just… I wanted to, uh…” He hesitates. “I guess I wanted to ask if, like, they were asking you weird stuff. In your interview. About me. Or whatever.”

Steve’s brow furrows slightly, though his smile doesn’t fade. “Weird stuff?”

“Yeah, like…” Eddie’s hands wave vaguely in the air, his rings clinking together as he searches for the right words. “I don’t know, it kinda felt like they were trying to make it a… thing, you know? Not that there’s a ‘thing,’ obviously, but, uh…” He stops himself, his face heating. “You know what? Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Steve blinks at him, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he tilts his head, his lips curling into a faint smile. “They did ask about the scooter thing,” he says finally.

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie says, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

Steve nods. “And the tickets. They asked about those, too.”

Eddie’s stomach flips. “The tickets?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice softening. “I told them they were for Dustin. That’s why you gave them to me, right?”

“Right! Dustin!” Eddie blurts, nodding way too enthusiastically. “Exactly. For Dustin. Obviously.”

Steve studies him for a moment, his gaze steady but unreadable; it makes Eddie itchy. “They didn’t, like, bother you, did they? With the questions?”

“What? Me? Naw,” Eddie says quickly, though his voice cracks slightly. “I mean, they were fishing for some kind of reality show storyline, but I wasn’t biting. Not my first rodeo.”

Steve chuckles softly, and the sound is warm, like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Yeah. They’re always looking for drama.”

“Right? It’s like, just let us cook our crappy food in peace,” Eddie says, gesturing wildly. “Like, is that so much to ask?”

Steve laughs again, and Eddie feels a flicker of pride at being the cause. The tension in the air eases slightly, and before Eddie knows it, they’re slipping into an easy rhythm.

The conversation continues, and they talk about the challenge that day. Eddie complains about Jaxon being a walking disaster, while Steve laughs and admits that Dave tried to cut a tomato with a ladle. For a few minutes, it’s just… easy. No cameras, no pressure, just two guys talking.

Eddie finds himself relaxing naturally, the nervous energy draining from his body as Steve leans in slightly, nodding along with one of Eddie’s stories about Chrissy accidentally flinging egg whites across the kitchen. Steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, and it’s almost enough to distract Eddie mid-sentence.

But then, as the conversation starts to wind down, Steve hesitates. The shift is subtle, his smile dimming slightly and his hand fidgeting with the water bottle he’s still holding.

“So,” Steve says, his voice a little quieter now, “what are you up to tonight?”

Eddie blinks, caught off guard by the question. “Uh… nothing, really. Gonna head home, maybe pull out my guitar. Why?”

Steve shrugs, his fingers toying with the cap. “Just wondering.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to feel awkward, and Eddie’s brain scrambles to figure out if he’s supposed to say something else. But before he can, Steve flashes a small, easy smile and pushes away from the table.

“Well,” Steve says, his voice light but careful, “see you tomorrow, man.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, swallowing hard. “See you tomorrow.”

Steve walks off, leaving Eddie standing there, his heart pounding and his head spinning. For a second, Eddie wonders if he should’ve said something else, but then he shakes his head, chalking it up to Steve just being friendly. It’s not weird to ask someone what they’re up to.

When Eddie makes it to the parking lot a few minutes later, he’s nearly lost in thought, replaying the conversation when Chrissy intercepts him. She practically skips to his side, her ponytail swinging when she falls into step with him.

“You were taking forever,” she teases. “What were you doing? Flirting with the craft services guy?”

“Ha,” Eddie says dryly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just bumped into Harrington backstage.”

Chrissy’s eyes light up instantly. “Ohhh. How’d that go?”

“Fine,” Eddie says quickly. “Just… small talk. You know, boring stuff.”

Chrissy gives him a look, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “Boring stuff? With Steve Harrington? Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing.”

“Yes, you are,” she pokes his shoulder teasingly.

“Shut up, Cunningham.”

She laughs, and nudges him with her elbow. “Okay, but for real. What’s going on there?”

“Nothing!” Eddie insists, though his face is burning. “He’s just… friendly. That’s all. He’s a nice guy, whatever.”

Chrissy stops walking, crossing her arms and fixing him with a pointed look. “That’s it? Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looks like he’s flirting with you.”

Eddie glares at her, his voice dropping into a low mutter. “It’s not like that.”

Chrissy raises an eyebrow. “Eddie, I’m not blind. You may be, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention.”

Eddie’s heart stutters. “The way he… what?”

“You heard me,” Chrissy says, her voice softer now. “It’s not just you, okay? There’s something there. I’m telling you. I’d put money on it.”

Eddie shakes his head, laughing nervously. “You’re imagining things. He’s Steve fucking Harrington. There’s no way.” No way.

Chrissy sighs but doesn’t push further. “Fine. But when something finally does happen, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, unlocking his van. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

Yeah, uh huh, Steve has a crush on him. That’s as believable as Eddie winning this entire competition.

Chapter Text

Eddie’s still processing the fact that Jaxon and Tony are gone as he glances down the line of contestants. It’s weird seeing such a smaller group of people. It feels like just yesterday that he was shoveling nasty-ass ice cream in his mouth, and staring down a dead fish. Now, there’s only six of them left.

It’s almost like someone forgot to tell Eddie to go home, and they’re embarrassed to bring it up. Gratefully, his inner spiral is interrupted when his gaze lands on Steve at the far end of the line. Steve, in his blue apron, flashing a soft, polite smile at one of the crew members. And then, like in predictable slow motion (or some shit) Steve turns his head, catches Eddie’s eye, and smiles.

It’s that damn smile that Eddie’s noticed Steve saves for him and him alone. He doesn’t give the audio guy this smile, or the PA who brings him a coffee, or even the director. No. Steve Harrington only gives Eddie Munson this soft, crooked, secret smile.

It’s a smile that’s starting to pop up in Eddie’s dreams. So not only is he seeing it more and more during the day, but it’s beginning to haunt him at night, too.

And if Steve’s smile is becoming something Eddie could set his watch to, then the similar shy, sweet, crooked smile Eddie returns is just as predictable. He can feel his insides melting, full-blown gooey puddle territory. Eddie will fucking miss that smile when this show is over. But before he can completely fall apart at the thought, he catches Chrissy out of the corner of his eye.

She’s staring right at him. Her lips curled into the most obnoxiously smug I told you so expression he’s ever seen. It looks good on her, but still, he doesn’t need to think about what she’s implying. Or at least what her face is implying. Or is it inferring? Whatever.

He turns his back on both Chrissy and Steve and pretends to find the nearby fake plant utterly fascinating. Wow, look at that leaf detail! Totally worth avoiding eye contact for.

Fortunately, Bobby’s booming voice saves him. “Recruits! Gather up!” He motions everyone to where he and Anne stand beside a long table. A box sits on top, its sides open but covered with a cloth, and Eddie immediately gets a bad feeling about this. These team challenges are always bonkers.

“For your next challenge,” Bobby begins, “we’re going to test your ability to identify ingredients by touch.”

Anne steps forward with that wicked grin Eddie has gotten familiar with. “Here’s how it works: one member from each team will come up at a time. You’ll both put your hands into the box, feel around, and try to figure out what ingredient is in the box. The first person to buzz in with the correct answer wins a point for their team. First team to five points wins.”

Eddie leans toward Chrissy and mutters, “If it’s spiders, I’m out. Straight-up running out the door. Or ducks. Do you think they’d put a duck in there?”

She snickers. “It’s probably, like, weird vegetables or something. You’ll live.”

The first few rounds are stupid. Chrissy kicks things off for the red team, going head-to-head against soap opera guy, and the squeal he makes when he touches okra cracks everyone up. He’s screaming how slimy and gross it is and says it has to be eyeballs. When the buzzer goes off, and Anne says it’s okra, Eddie thinks he’s going to choke; he’s laughing so hard.

Then it’s Fortune’s turn, and she’s hesitant but not freaking out, at least. Dave shoves his hand so hard into the box that he nearly knocks the entire thing over. The best part is probably watching the two opposing competitors jolt whenever they touch the other person’s hand. Fortune gets the answer right, eggplant, and the red team gets their first point.

Then, it’s Eddie’s turn. He steps up to the box for his first round, and of course he’s facing off against Steve. This show is very well produced.

They stand there, staring at each other, until Anne yells “Go!” Then they’re both sliding their hands past the cloth. There’s hesitancy from both of them. Eddie’s fingers are hovering just above the mystery ingredient, and he’s nervous for a few reasons: What if it’s alive? What if it’s slimy? What if I accidentally grab Steve’s hand and just, like, hold it? What if it’s a duck?

“You guys waiting for an invitation or what?” Bobby quips.

Steve chuckles softly, and the sound is enough to snap Eddie out of his trance. He takes a deep breath and plunges his hand forward, feeling something cold and… wet. His face scrunches up immediately. “Oh, gross. What is this?”

“Buzz in, genius!” Chrissy yells from the sidelines.

But before Eddie can process what he’s touching, Steve’s hand brushes against his, not deliberately, just a light graze as Steve shifts to feel more of the ingredient.

For a moment, all he can think about is the feel of Steve’s skin, the way it made his fingers tingle slightly. He glances at Steve, whose eyes flick briefly toward him, and… he’s smiling?

The buzzer rings, snapping Eddie out of it.

“Eggs!” Steve yells, but smirks triumphantly.

Bobby declares the blue team the winner of the round and Eddie’s hand is still inside the box. With eggs, apparently, on his fingertips.

“Munson, back up!” Anne waves him away so Chrissy can take his place.

~~~

When Eddie and Steve are called up again, Eddie feels a strange mix of nerves and anticipation. This time, the hesitance is gone as they both slide their hands into the box but there’s more excitement bubbling through Eddie’s veins.

The ingredient is cold, firm, and vaguely knobby. Eddie furrows his brow, concentrating, but then Steve’s hand brushes against his. But this time, it’s not a quick graze. It’s deliberate, a slow glide of Steve’s fingers across Eddie’s knuckles as they both feel around the box.

Eddie’s breath hitches audibly, and he nearly yanks his hand back, but he forces himself to stay still. His pulse is racing, heat blooming in his chest and spreading everywhere. His eyes dart toward Steve, and he catches it, a flicker of something in Steve’s expression. Steve licks his lips, his eyes dropping briefly to Eddie’s mouth before returning to the box.

Eddie’s world tilts sideways.

No way.

No. Way.

Before Eddie can spiral further, Steve’s hand moves like lightning, slamming the buzzer with a loud clang.

“Ginger!” Steve calls, his voice steady.

Bobby nods. “Blue team wins the round!”

The blue team erupts into cheers, but Eddie barely hears it. He’s still standing there, his hand halfway out of the box, his mind spinning in every direction at once.

Did that just happen?

Steve turns to him, flashing a grin that’s a little too casual, a little too practiced. “Nice try, Munson,” he says, his tone light and teasing.

Eddie stares at him for a beat too long before snapping out of it. “Yeah,” he mutters, pulling his hand from the box. “Next time, Harrington.”

But as Steve walks back to his team, Eddie can’t help but notice the way Steve’s shoulders seem a little tenser than usual. And for the first time, Eddie starts to wonder if maybe he’s not imagining things.

~~~

This is the last round, the last point, and it’s all sitting on Eddie’s shoulders. Technically, his hands. But this round, he’s visibly tense. Steve approaches the box, calm and casual, but Eddie’s wound up tighter than a butthole. It would take more than three fingers to get him to relax right now.

He’s been lost in his thoughts since the last round, trying to rationalize what happened, and what it might mean, so he’s not prepared when Anne calls his name.

“Ready?” Steve says with a smirk.

Eddie swallows hard before responding with a tight nod. It’s a lie, he doesn’t think he’d be able to identify an apple at this point. His mind is too consumed with Steve. They’re going to lose this round, the challenge, and it’s going to be Eddie’s fault. Nay, Eddie’s penis’s fault.

“Go!” Bobby yells, and Steve pushes his hand forward. Eddie, on the other hand, moves slowly. He feels the drag of fabric slide over his hand before he meets the tips of Steve’s fingers. The entire time, though, his focus is directly pointed at Steve’s face. Who gives a shit about the funky ass food in the box, he’s going to use the opportunity to study Steve’s reactions.

He can feel Steve touching the ingredient, trying to figure it out, but Eddie decides this is the moment to make his own move. So, with Steve distracted, glancing to his teammates, trying to figure out what he’s touching, Eddie glides his fingers over the top of Steve’s knuckles.

The reaction is immediate. Steve stills. His eyes flick over to Eddie. That charming, easy smile from two seconds ago slips into something more like surprise. And Eddie watches with rapt attention when Steve’s eyes dip. It’s brief, fast, sudden, only a blip but Eddie caught it.

Bingo.

Maybe Eddie can’t feel his legs right now, and maybe his team is screaming two feet away from him, but Steve Harrington is blushing from Eddie’s touch. That feels like a win. This is even better than the omelet challenge.

“Hurry up, you two!” Anne tugs Eddie’s attention back.

He uses the split second of Steve’s distraction to slide his hand beneath Steve’s to touch the ingredient for the first time. Sure, he’s also using the opportunity to rub Steve’s hand across his, but it’s a two-birds-one-stone situation.

He knows what it is. He knows what it is!

His free hand slams onto the buzzer. “Tomatillo!”

“Yes!” Anne cheers.

He’s rushed by his teammates, arms thrown around his neck, yelling bursting in his eardrums, but his right hand is still inside the box. And so is Steve’s. Just their two hands touching each other, and a couple of tomatillos.

Chrissy’s the first one to notice. Her eyes move from the box to Eddie’s face, and there it is again, that damn smug I told you so look. Before anyone else can notice, Eddie decides to pull his hand free. It’s slow and hesitant, but he can’t stay there forever. Can he? He makes a tiny noise in his throat when his fingers leave Steve’s touch. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Then the director yells cut and calls the team in to reset, and Eddie bolts from the set. He needs to catch his breath. Or maybe remember how to breathe entirely. His hands are shaking, and not in a cool rockstar, I-just-shredded-a-killer-solo kind of way, but in a what-the-hell-is-happening-to-me kind of way.

He finds a dark corner somewhere behind a large wooden prop, to hide. He just needs a second to calm down. His thoughts are a scrambled mess. Steve’s hand brushing his was enough to make his brain melt, but then there was the way Steve looked at him. The lip-licking. The glance at Eddie’s mouth. It’s all playing on repeat in his head, like a song he can’t turn off. A fantastic song. His new favorite song, but it’s really overwhelming.

Eddie leans against whatever wooden food decoration he’s in front of and drags a hand through his hair. “Get it together, idiot,” he mutters to himself. “He’s just being friendly. That’s all it is. He’s Steve freaking Harrington, and you’re—”

“Eddie?”

Eddie jerks upright so fast he almost knocks over the set decoration.

Steve is standing there, one hand braced on the decor. The lighting behind him casts a faint glow around his figure, and for a split second, Eddie wonders if he’s accidentally summoned him by saying his name out loud. Like Beetlejuice or Bloody Mary.

“S-Steve,” Eddie stammers, his voice cracking like a teenager’s. “What’s up?”

Steve steps closer, suddenly making the space feel ten times smaller. “I was just…” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “Looking for some—uh, somewhere quiet.”

Eddie glances around him. “Oh. Right. Makes sense.”

Steve’s eyes flick to him, and there’s something in his expression, something unreadable but intense. Eddie feels his breath hitch. For a moment, neither of them say anything. The air feels thick as if it’s holding its breath along with Eddie.

Steve takes another step closer, his hands sliding into his pockets, his posture deceptively casual. But his eyes don’t leave Eddie’s, and there’s a heat in them that makes Eddie’s pulse thrum.

“So,” Steve says, his voice lower than usual, “you okay? You seemed… distracted during the—the challenge.”

Distracted? Yeah, Eddie was distracted, all right, by the guy standing in front of him right now, looking like a walking cologne ad and acting like Eddie isn’t about to combust.

“I’m fine,” Eddie lies, his fingers digging moon-shaped indents into his palms. “Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, and his lip twitches like he’s holding back a smile. “No reason,” he says lightly. “Just… thought I should check in.”

“Oh, yeah? You checking in on me now, Harrington?” Eddie says, trying for sarcasm, but his voice comes out too shaky to land.

Steve tilts his head, his smile softening. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

The words hit Eddie like a lightning bolt, frying his senses and electrifying his insides.

Holy. Shit.

Steve takes another step forward. He’s close now, close enough that Eddie can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar above his eyebrow, the way his lips part just slightly when he inhales.

Eddie’s breath stutters. “Uh… did you—did you find that quiet spot?”

Steve’s smile widens, and this time, it’s definitely amused. “No,” he says simply, his voice dipping lower. “Guess I got distracted.”

Eddie’s stomach flips. His brain is screaming to say something, do something, but all he can do is stare like a complete dud. Steve inches ever closer, to the point their bodies are shy of touching. If Steve huffed, Eddie would feel it blow across his face.

And then it happens.

Steve’s hand reaches out, slow, deliberate, and grazes his fingers across Eddie’s wrist. It’s the barest touch, barely there, a whisper in a hurricane, but it feels like a brand to Eddie, sending a jolt of electricity up his arm and through his body.

Eddie inhales sharply, feels his knees threatening to give out. Oh my god, it’s happening.

Steve’s eyes flicker to his, and the intensity behind them is devastatingly beautiful. For a split second, Eddie swears Steve’s gaze drops to his mouth again, and maybe he should send a thank you card to everyone who told him being on this show would be a good idea.

“Eddie…” Steve’s voice is soft now, barely above a whisper.

“Y-yeah?” Eddie croaks, his throat suddenly dry.

Steve hesitates, his fingers still brushing delicate swirls across Eddie’s wrist. For a moment, it looks like he’s about to say something, do something, but then for some reason, he pulls back, his hand falling to his side. The tension snaps like a worn-out rubber band, and it leaves Eddie reeling.

“I should, uh…” Steve clears his throat, stepping back toward the door. “I should get back out there. You good?”

Eddie nods quickly, even though he feels like his brain just got fried in a microwave, and good isn’t quite the adjective he’d use. “Y-yeah. I’m good. Totally good.”

Steve lingers for half a second longer, his gaze softening again. “Okay. See you out there.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving Eddie alone with the wooden prop food and his heart hammering against his ribs.

Eddie presses his hands to his face, groaning softly. “What the fuck was that?”

Eddie finds Chrissy in the corner of the set near the craft services table, casually sipping on a bottle of water like she doesn’t have a single care in the world. Meanwhile, Eddie is dying. He’s pretty sure he left part of his soul back in that nook with Steve, and if he doesn’t word-vomit everything right now, he’s going to implode. Leaving a mass of guts and ripped denim behind.

“Chrissy,” Eddie blurts, rushing to her like a man on a mission. “I need to talk to you. Like, immediately. Like, right now immediately. Emergency immediately.”

Chrissy blinks at him, lowering her water bottle. “Okay… hi to you too?”

“No time for pleasantries,” Eddie says, waving a hand frantically. “We have a situation. A Steve-related situation. A Harrington-related situation. A—what the fuck just happened to me—situation.”

Chrissy’s eyebrows shoot up. “What happened to you?”

“Not here,” he grabs her wrist and tugs her somewhere more private. She stumbles behind but doesn’t resist his urgency. This is why she’s his best friend. “Okay. Before you say anything, just, let me talk. Okay? Just, I need to get it out.” He throws his hands in the air and paces a tight circle around her. “So, I was just minding my business, being a totally normal, well-adjusted human being, after that challenge, and Steve freaking Harrington pops up, looking like he just stepped out of a goddamn cologne ad—again, by the way, because that’s apparently just his default mode—and he’s all, like, casual and charming and, ‘Hey, Munson, you okay?’ And I’m like, no, sir, I am not okay! But do I say that? No. Of course not. Instead, I act like a lunatic and stare at him. Because he kinda sorta like touched my hand in the box and it was… I don’t know, charged? Electric? It was something. And I needed to catch my breath but then he pops up! Charming and sexy, and uuugghhhh.”

Chrissy’s lips twitch, like she’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Touched your hand?”

“Don’t. Focus.” Eddie points at her, still pacing. “And then—oh, and then—he steps closer, like close-close, like personal space close, and touches my wrist. My wrist, Chrissy. Like a normal person doesn’t just casually brush someone’s wrist! Who does that? Who is that tactile? Besides me? What does that even mean?!”

Chrissy opens her mouth, but Eddie barrels on before she can answer.

“And it wasn’t just the wrist thing,” he continues, gesturing wildly like he’s explaining an elaborate conspiracy. “He was looking at me—like, looking at me—with those stupid eyes, and then he—he licked his lips! And—oh my god—did he look at my mouth? I think he looked at my mouth. Am I imagining that? Was it, like, a trick of the light? Maybe I’m going crazy.”

Chrissy watches him with wide eyes, her water bottle dangling, forgotten in her hand.

“But what if,” Eddie says, spinning to face her, his hands flying up to grab his hair, “what if I’m not imagining it? What if that was, like… a thing? A moment? And if it was a moment, what the hell am I supposed to do about it? Do I say something? Do I just, like, let it happen again? What if he doesn’t want it to happen again? What if I misread everything, and he’s just being friendly because he’s, like, contractually obligated to be nice to his co-stars? What if—”

“EDDIE!” Chrissy shouts, finally snapping.

Eddie freezes mid-rant, his arms still flailing. “What?”

Chrissy steps forward, grabbing his shoulders firmly. She looks him dead in the eye and shakes him, gently but with enough force to make him stop pacing. “Breathe. For the love of god, breathe.”

Eddie inhales sharply, his chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon.

“Okay,” Chrissy says, her voice steady now. “First of all, you are not going crazy. Second, I’ve been telling you this: the way he looks at you? It’s not just friendly. I know you don’t believe me, but I’ve seen it. It’s there.”

Eddie stares at her, wide-eyed. “You don’t know that. Maybe he’s just… I don’t know, maybe he’s looking at me because I’m loud or something. Like, a car crash he can’t look away from.”

Chrissy rolls her eyes. “Eddie, he’s into you. I’m telling you. And I know why you’re freaking out, okay? I get it.”

Her voice softens slightly, and Eddie feels the tension in his shoulders loosen.

“I remember what happened with Travis,” Chrissy says gently, her hands squeezing his shoulders. “I know how hard that was for you. You put yourself out there, and it didn’t work out, and you’ve been terrified to let yourself do that again. But this isn’t Travis. This is Steve. And Steve…” She smiles faintly. “Steve isn’t looking at you like he’s just being polite.”

Eddie swallows hard, his throat tight. “I don’t know, Chris. What if I’m wrong? What if I mess this up?”

“You won’t,” she says firmly. “And I’m not saying you have to go professing your undying love or anything. Just… start small. See if he wants to have lunch with you. It’s not a date. It’s just lunch. On set, safe environment. Totally casual.”

“Lunch?” Eddie repeats, like she just asked him to recite the alphabet backward.

“Lunch,” Chrissy says, nodding. “Just go up to him when we break for lunch and ask if he wants to sit with you. Worst-case scenario? He says no, and you come sit with me. No harm, no foul.”

Eddie exhales shakily, his brain still spinning but the panic starts to ebb. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy,” Chrissy says, grinning. “It’s just lunch. You can do this.”

Eddie takes another deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay. Okay. Lunch. I can do lunch.”

Chrissy beams, giving him a playful shove. “That’s my boy. Now go be awkward and adorable at him.”

Eddie groans, but there’s a small, nervous smile tugging at his lips as he walks back toward the set. Just lunch, he tells himself. Totally casual. No big deal.

But his stomach twists in anticipation all the same.

Eddie steps onto the set and immediately wants to crawl out of his skin. The place looks like a Valentine’s Day disaster zone. Hearts dangle from every available surface, paper cupids grin down from the walls, and the judges’ table is drowning in fake roses and glitter. Eddie’s station even has a creepy ceramic cherub sitting on the edge, staring at him with its dead, judgmental eyes.

“Subtle,” he mutters, nudging the cherub to face away from him.

Chrissy sidles up next to him. “Cute, right?” she teases, her voice practically dripping with amusement.

“Sure, if you’re into aggressively kitschy romance.” Eddie adjusts the apron around his neck, already feeling itchy. “What’s next? A slow dance while we whip egg whites?”

Before Chrissy can respond, Eddie’s attention snags on movement across the room. Steve’s just arrived at his station, adjusting his apron around his waist. The guy looks frustratingly good. Like he’s not spiraling over what may or may not have happened between them.

Then Steve glances up, catching Eddie’s eye, and smiles. You know the one. The one Eddie may silently be calling ‘mine.’ It’s all too much for Eddie; his stomach flips violently, and he has to snap his gaze back to his counter, grabbing a nearby utensil only to give his hands something to do.

He can sense Chrissy’s grin without even looking. “Don’t,” he mutters under his breath.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, her voice sugary sweet and oh so innocent.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Alright, recruits!” Anne’s sharp voice cuts through the chatter, saving Eddie from further humiliation. She stands at the front of the set, flanked by Bobby and a pristine display of desserts. “Today’s challenge is all about creativity. You’re making chocolate tarts!”

There’s murmuring by the contestants, some kind of acknowledgment, but Eddie barely processes her words. His brain is still stuck on Steve standing just a few stations away, framed by dangling hearts and smiling like he’s stepped into a rom-com.

“We’ll walk you through an example,” Bobby says, motioning to the ingredients. “But it’s up to you to amp it up. Add your own twist. Think big, bold flavors. The more creative, the better.”

“Just don’t burn anything,” Anne adds, shooting a pointed look at Eddie, who pretends not to notice. He hasn’t burnt anything in weeks.

The demonstration begins, and Eddie tries to focus, but his attention keeps drifting. Every time he glances up, he catches Steve out of the corner of his eye, watching intently, taking careful notes, looking ridiculously good doing it. And the cameras? Oh, they’re not helping. Eddie’s noticed that every time he glances at Steve, the camera operator nearby swivels just slightly to catch his reaction.

It’s like they’re waiting for something to happen.

Focus on the tart, he tells himself. Tart first, gay crisis later.

When Anne and Bobby release the teams, Eddie dives into his station, determined to focus. He’s cracking his eggs into a bowl, whisking furiously, totally in control. He can do this. It’s just a tart. Chocolate, crust, maybe some fancy spice or topping. Easy. Manageable.

Except it’s not manageable.

Because Steve keeps being there.

Every time Eddie looks up, Steve is in his peripheral vision, measuring cocoa powder, stirring chocolate, or running a hand through his hair. The cameras aren’t helping either, swiveling back and forth between their stations like they’re trying to catch a moment. Eddie’s sure it’s all in his head, but it feels like everyone’s waiting for something to happen between them.

He tries to stay in his lane, but then Steve moves behind him, carrying a tray of ingredients back from the fridge. They’re just passing each other, normal kitchen stuff, no big deal, but as Steve steps a little too close, his shoulder brushes against Eddie’s arm.

Eddie jolts, nearly knocking his mixing bowl off the counter.

“Whoa, sorry!” Steve says, stopping briefly to steady Eddie with one hand.

“It’s fine!” Eddie squeaks, clutching the bowl like it’s a life raft. His ears are burning, and he can feel every member of the crew’s eyeballs directed at him. “Totally fine. No worries.”

Steve flashes him an apologetic smile, his hand lingering on Eddie’s shoulder for a split second before he steps away. Eddie watches him go, before forcing himself back to his dessert. It wasn’t anything. Just an accident. A totally normal, platonic—

“Damn it,” he mutters, realizing he forgot to grab the cream.

He spins on his heel and makes a beeline for the fridge, yanking the door open, and nearly colliding with Steve, again. Did someone slip magnets into their pockets when they weren’t looking? How does this keep happening?

“Shit—sorry!” Eddie stumbles back, hands flying up.

Steve chuckles, stepping aside but not quite out of Eddie’s space. “You’re good. Need something?”

“Uh, cream,” Eddie says, reaching past Steve into the fridge. His arm brushes Steve’s shoulder, just a brief touch, nothing intentional, but his entire body reacts.

Steve tilts his head, studying him with that faint, unreadable smile. “What’s your twist for the tart?”

“My twist?” Eddie parrots, brain scrambling while clutching the bottle of cream tightly.

“Yeah,” Steve says, leaning casually against the fridge door like they’re having a normal conversation and not standing way too close in a kitchen filled with television cameras. “They said to make it your own. What are you doing?”

“Uh…” Eddie clears his throat, gripping the cream like it might escape. “Spices. Chili powder and, uh, maybe cardamom. You know, spicy chocolate. It’s, uh, a thing.”

Steve’s smile widens, his eyes warm. “Sounds cool. Bet it’ll taste great.”

Eddie stares at him, caught off guard by how genuine he sounds. “Thanks,” he says, his voice barely above a mumble.

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches just a little too long, and Eddie swears the air feels thicker, heavier. Steve’s eyes linger on him for a moment before he finally steps back, raspberries in hand.

“Well,” Steve says with a wink, “good luck.”

Eddie watches him go before rushing back to his station and dumping the cream into his chocolate mixture. He tries to focus, but his hands are shaking like crazy. Normally the smell of chocolate would be calming, like a sweet treat for his nose, but it may as well be farts for how un-calming it is.

He’s silently scolding his hands when he pours the filling into his tart shells. He’s making a fucking mess, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. His stupid brain will not shut up. He keeps replaying every single minuscule reaction between him and Steve when he slides his tray into the oven.

You know what would be good with this chocolate? Kahlua.

It’s only when he’s considering mixing himself a drink and attempting to make an edible whipped cream when he smells it.

Burning.

“Oh no, no, no, no!” Eddie yanks the oven door open, coughing as a cloud of smoke escapes. His tart crusts are black around the edges and practically crumbling to ash. “Shit!” He pulls them out, and immediately tosses them into the trash. There’s no salvaging them.

Thankfully, he has a couple spare shells set aside. He learned many weeks ago to be prepared for anything. He also has just enough filling left to scrape by and fill these two tarts.

“Munson, what’s going on over there?” Anne calls from her perch.

“Nothing! I’m good!” Eddie lies, his voice cracking. “Totally under control!”

When he closes the oven door on his replacement tarts, checks the temperature like he should’ve done last time, he takes a second to catch his breath. His hand still holding the handle, he lowers his head and inhales deeply. Chill out, or you’ll freak him out and scare him away before you even know if his lips are as soft as they appear.

The pep talk works, and when the time is called, there are two finished tarts sitting on Eddie’s station. They’re not amazing, but not a disaster either. The crust on one is slightly uneven, and the whipped cream on the other is a little wonky, but it’s edible.

After judging, Eddie’s relieved that Anne liked his flavor. She did point out his presentation could use some work, but let’s see her completely redo a tart with half the given time, and see if she can make it look any better. So, it wasn’t glowing praise, but enough for Eddie to relax.

Fortune, however, wasn’t so lucky. Her tart didn’t set, the filling spilling onto the plate as soon as Anne sliced into it. Eddie feels bad for her, but he can’t help being grateful that her failure saves him from elimination.

When he’s walking back to his station, holding his tart between his hands, he glances over at Steve, and at the same time, Steve looks up. Instead of feeling that pining ache that he’s grown familiar with, he lets Steve’s small, soft smile warm him from the inside out.

Lunch. You can do lunch.

Chapter Text

The director calls cut, and the set explodes into motion. People scatter like a bag of spilled Skittles, crew members carting off props, Chrissy chatting loudly about the chaos of baking desserts, and someone muttering about the chocolate explosion that happened at her station like it’ll go down in Food Network history.

Eddie lingers at his station, wiping down his counter even though the crew is telling him he doesn’t need to. He can’t help it, he’s too keyed up. He needs to build up the nerve and keeping his hands busy will help.

He sneaks a glance across the room, catches Steve talking to a crew member, smiling politely, but Eddie sees a distracted edge to him. He’s fidgeting, his eyes flicking around the room like he’s looking for someone.

Like he’s looking for…

Eddie freezes, his hand tightening on the towel he’s been using to wipe (mostly smear) the counter. No way. No freaking way.

But then Steve’s gaze sweeps past the people flooding the stage, pauses, and lands directly on Eddie.

Eddie swears he sees it, just for a moment, the faint widening of Steve’s eyes, the soft lift of his lips, like he’s surprised and relieved all at once. It sends a bolt of giddy warmth through Eddie’s chest, and he doesn’t even try to smother the goofy grin spreading across his face. What’s the point now?

Summoning the courage of every queer icon who has ever walked this earth, Eddie straightens his spine, adjusts his shirt, and steps fully into Steve’s line of sight.

Steve visibly reacts. His shoulders relax, his lips pulling into that soft, familiar smile and Eddie feels like his insides are doing cartwheels.

“Hey, Harrington,” Eddie calls out, his voice casual even though his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. “Got plans for lunch?”

Steve blinks, clearly caught off guard by the question, but his smile doesn’t falter. “Uh, not really. Why?”

Eddie shrugs, trying to channel his inner rockstar as he walks closer. “Figured we could grab some food, sit outside or something. Get away from, you know—” He waves vaguely at the set, the dangling hearts and creepy cherubs. “All this.”

For a split second, Eddie worries. Maybe Steve needs space during lunch and doesn’t want to hang out with someone during his private time. But then Steve nods, mirrors Eddie’s movements, and closes the distance between them.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice warm and easy. “I’d like that.”

“Cool,” Eddie manages, even if he feels very uncool right now. “Let’s, uh, grab some food and go.”

Eddie leads Steve outside to a picnic table tucked behind the set. The area isn’t fancy, just a few mismatched folding chairs nearby, a can that’s clearly for cigarette butts, tucked under the shade of a large tree, but it’s private. The buzzing energy of the set feels miles away, and for the first time all day, or perhaps weeks, Eddie feels like he can breathe.

Steve sets his tray down across from Eddie, sliding onto the bench with a relaxed sigh. Even he looks more at ease. “This is nice,” he says, glancing around. “Quiet.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, even if he nervously picks at the corner of his sandwich and can’t stop his knee from bouncing under the table. “Needed to get away from the fake roses and glitter bombs before I started breaking out in hives. I haven’t seen that much glitter since that one time, the band convinced me to join them at a strip club.”

Steve chuckles softly, unwrapping his sandwich. “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting the whole Valentine’s Day explosion. Thought we were making dessert, not filming a Hallmark movie.”

Eddie grins, his nerves easing slightly at the sound of Steve’s laugh. “Right? I kept waiting for someone to cue the romantic montage music. Maybe toss in a slow-motion whisking scene.”

“Don’t forget the dramatic frosting application,” Steve adds, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Obviously,” Eddie says, leaning forward like he’s sharing a scandalous secret. “That’s the emotional climax. The frosting splooge of love.”

Steve laughs again, and it’s like sunshine on a rainy day. Real, genuine, bright and unfiltered. It hits Eddie square in the chest, smoothing the remaining frayed nerves into comfortable ease.

They settle into a rhythm, flowing easily between bites of food. Steve talks about growing up on TV sets and how portraying a High School experience wasn’t quite the same thing as having one. How he never learned to cook because everything was catered or provided to him. Eddie teases him gently but confesses he only learned to boil water after moving in with his Uncle Wayne.

The banter comes easily, like they’ve been doing this for years instead of minutes. Every now and then, Steve leans forward slightly, his arms resting on the table, his attention fully on Eddie. And every time it happens, Eddie feels like he’s being drawn in, like Steve’s orbit is pulling him closer. Like the world only exists between them at this moment, right now.

It’s disarming, the way Steve looks at him, not just polite or friendly, but focused. Like Eddie’s the only person on the planet worth paying attention to.

“You okay?” Steve says suddenly, tilting his head.

Eddie blinks, realizing he’s been staring silently for who knows how long. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry. Just… zoned out, I guess.”

Steve’s lips quirk into a soft smile. “What were you thinking about?”

How unfairly pretty you are and how I’m two seconds away from climbing over this table and kissing you about it.

“Just, uh, how weird this all is,” Eddie says instead, gesturing vaguely between them. “Like, we’re on this silly cooking show, and somehow, I’m having lunch with Steve Harrington. Kind of feels like I accidentally wandered into someone else’s life.”

Steve’s smile widens, and there’s something almost shy about the way he ducks his head for a moment before looking back at Eddie. “You’re pretty easy to talk to, you know that?”

Eddie snorts, caught off guard by the compliment. “Me? Yeah, right. I’m, like, 90% nervous energy and 10% bad jokes.”

Steve leans forward just slightly, his gaze steady. “Sounds like 100% perfect.”

Eddie feels his face flush, from his neck to the top of his head. He’s not entirely sure how to respond to that. He can feel sweat gathering across his neck which can not be sexy. Then Steve’s eyes flick to Eddie’s mouth. It’s brief, just a glance, but it’s enough to send a spark down Eddie’s spine.

Eddie’s not sure how he manages to keep breathing. It feels like he’s stumbled into a fairy tale or his own personal gay-ry tale.

Steve’s the one to break the tension, pulling his eyes down and tucking his soda to his mouth. It’s stupidly adorable how he tries to sip through a smile. I’m so fucked.

And then…

Steve’s hand moves, casual, unhurried, until his fingers brush against Eddie’s wrist where it rests on the table. The touch is barely there, light and fleeting, but it sends a shock through Eddie’s entire body.

He freezes, his pulse thundering in his ears, and Steve doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand lingers, his fingers tracing lightly against Eddie’s skin, like he can’t quite help himself.

Eddie glances up, his breath catching at the expression on Steve’s face. There’s something vulnerable there, something almost hesitant, but his eyes are warm and steady like he’s waiting to see if Eddie will pull back.

Eddie doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

The moment stretches, electric and fragile, and then Steve gives a small, almost self-conscious laugh, his thumb brushing once more against Eddie’s wrist before he finally pulls away.

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs, his voice quiet.

“For what?” Eddie says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Steve doesn’t answer immediately, just smiles, that soft, devastating smile that makes Eddie feel like the earth’s off its axis. Steve looks edible in this afternoon light. The sun is peeking through the branches overhead, creating sparks of gold through Steve’s hair.

Eddie could get used to this view.

“This was nice,” Steve says, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, and for once, he doesn’t feel the need to qualify it with a joke.

As they stand to leave, Eddie feels a strange sense of hope bubbling in his chest. Steve falls into step beside him, their shoulders brushing as they walk back toward the set. Maybe Chrissy’s right. Eddie steals a glance at Steve, who’s smiling softly to himself. Maybe this could be something. And maybe, just maybe, if he lets himself lean into it, he won’t get his heart squished like a tomato this time.

Behind-the-Scenes Interview: Steve

Steve is sitting on the familiar seat, drinking from a water bottle, appearing calm, but there’s a slight flush in his cheeks and a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey, Steve,” the producer says casually, her tone light but pointed. “How was lunch?”

Steve glances at the camera and then at the person off-screen, his brows lifting slightly. “Uh… good? Yeah, it was good.”

“You sat outside, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods, his voice easy. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, like he’s replaying a memory. “It was nice. Quiet. Good to get away from all the chaos for a bit.”

The producer hums, tilting her head. “And you weren’t alone, were you?”

Steve’s lips twitch, and his gaze drops to the water bottle in his hands. He twists the cap absently, his voice softening. “No, I wasn’t alone.”

There’s a pause, like they’re waiting for him to elaborate. When he glances up, the camera catches a blush creeping up his neck.

“Eddie,” he says finally, clearing his throat. “I was with Eddie.”

“You guys seem to be getting along.” Her tone is deliberately nonchalant, with a hint of knowing teasing.

Steve blinks, his brow furrowing slightly. “Yeah, I guess we are.” His lips curl into a soft smile, and his voice dips slightly. “He’s easy to talk to. Funny, too. Like, really funny.”

“Funny?”

Steve nods, his smile growing, as he rubs the pad of his thumb against the seam of his jeans at his knee. “Yeah, he’s got this… I don’t know, this energy about him. Like he’s always moving, always thinking. It’s…” He trails off, his gaze flicking to the side briefly before turning back to the producer. “...refreshing, I guess.”

She hums again. “You looked like you were having fun out there.”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, I guess we were.” He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I mean, it was just lunch. Nothing crazy.”

The camera zooms in slightly, catching how Steve’s smile lingers, soft and unguarded, while he fidgets with the bottle cap.

“Anything else you want to say about Eddie?” the producer prompts gently.

Steve hesitates for a split second, his eyes flicking to the side again, and then he shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Nope. I think I’m good.”

—

Behind-the-Scenes Interview: Eddie

Eddie flops into the stool with his usual chaotic energy. His hair is wild, his rings clink as he drums his fingers against his knee, and there’s a flush on his face.

“So, Eddie,” the producer starts, her tone casual but pointed. “How was lunch?”

Eddie freezes, his knee bouncing to a halt. His eyes narrow slightly as he looks directly into the camera. “Okay, hold on. Is this what we’re doing now? Talking about lunch?”

The crew chuckles softly, but the producer keeps her tone steady. “It’s just a question.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sure. Just a question. Totally innocent. No ulterior motives whatsoever.”

The producer grins. “You seem suspicious.”

“I am suspicious,” Eddie says, pointing at her. “You’ve got that look in your eye. The one that says, ‘Oh, let’s see if we can stir the pot a little. Let’s ask Eddie about his lunch and see if he says something stupid.’” The laughter behind the camera grows, and Eddie smirks, clearly enjoying the attention. “Fine,” he says, throwing up his hands dramatically. “Lunch was great. Fantastic. Best damn meal of my life. You happy?”

The producer presses on, undeterred. “You sat outside, right?”

“Yes,” Eddie says slowly, dragging out the word like he’s humoring a small child. “I sat outside. With Steve. Which I’m sure you already knew because your cameras have the subtlety of a freight train.”

The crew laughs again, and Eddie continues smiling, though his cheeks appear pinker.

“Steve Harrington,” the producer muses, her tone thoughtful. “You guys seem to spend a lot of time together.”

Eddie snorts. “We’re on the same show. Spending time together is kind of the point, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

Eddie narrows his eyes again, his grin turning lopsided. “Oh, you’re good. You’re really good. I see what you’re doing. You’re fishing. Poking around. Trying to get me to say something you can edit into a clip for next week’s promo, right?” He points at the camera again. “Well, nice try, but I’m not biting.”

“You’re not?” She teases.

“Nope,” Eddie says firmly, before his knee starts bouncing again. “Not a chance. I’ve seen this game before. I know how it works. You ask one innocent question about lunch, and next thing you know, there’s a montage of me and Harrington with hearts floating around our heads.”

The producer laughs, but Eddie cuts her off, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin. “But, for the record,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, “if you’re gonna use the montage idea, I want credit for it. And royalties.”

“Duly noted,” she replies, her tone light and amused. “Anything else you want to say about Steve?”

Eddie opens his mouth, but then he hesitates. For a split second, his usual bravado falters, and something softer flickers across his face.

“He’s…” Eddie trails off, his gaze flicking to the side. He clears his throat, his knee bouncing harder. “He’s alright.”

The crew chuckles softly, and Eddie smirks, though it’s smaller this time, almost shy.

“Alright?” the producer echoes.

“Yeah.” Eddie nods, his grin growing slightly. “I mean, he’s not half bad for a guy who can’t cook.”

The camera lingers on him for a moment longer, catching the faint blush coloring his cheeks as he leans back in the chair.

“Alright,” the producer adds. “We’ll leave it there.”

“Good,” Eddie says, pointing at her one last time. “Because I’m watching you.”

Eddie stares blankly at Anne and the contraption dangling in her hands as she explains the challenge, certain he must’ve misheard her.

“Wait,” he says, holding up a finger. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m completely serious,” Anne replies, her evil wicked grin growing by the second. “Each pair will wear a harness that keeps you physically tethered together. Your stations are back-to-back, so you’ll have to figure out how to work in sync—or fight over who gets to cook when.”

Bobby steps in, gesturing to the two stations set up with their backs facing one another. “The harness will force you to stay close, so if one of you moves toward your station, the other gets pulled away from theirs. The challenge? Make your dish while staying strapped together.”

Eddie turns to Steve, who’s standing beside him. He looks way too amused by this.

“This is a terrible idea,” Eddie mutters.

“For you, maybe,” Steve says, flashing him that stupidly charming grin. “I think it sounds fun.”

Eddie groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Of course you do.”

Anne and a crew member help them into the harness, a complicated mess of straps that pull their torsos together. Eddie feels the bands tighten across his chest, locking him in place against Steve’s back.

With their backs pressed together, their hips bump as they get adjusted in the harness, and Eddie suddenly, viscerally understands how bad this will be. Steve shifts slightly, his back brushing against Eddie’s, and Eddie swears he can feel Steve’s breathing’s steady rise and fall.

"Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters under his breath.

“Comfortable back there?” Steve asks, glancing over his shoulder with that infuriating smirk.

“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles, his voice cracking.

Anne steps back, hands on her hips, and surveys them like a proud mad scientist. “Now, the key to this challenge is communication,” she says. “If you try to pull against each other, you’ll both fail. Work out a system, take turns, and you might actually survive this.”

“Great advice,” Steve says lightly.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

The timer starts, and immediately Chrissy and Dave dive into their stations, yanking each other back and forth in a chaotic tug-of-war. Chrissy, with her gymnast strength, drags Dave away from his counter with such force he stumbles backward, cursing under his breath.

Meanwhile, Eddie and Steve… don’t move.

Eddie can feel Steve’s body pressed against his, his broad shoulders, his steady breathing, the faint warmth radiating from him. How is he supposed to cook under these conditions?

“Well?” Steve asks after a moment, his voice low and teasing. “You gonna move, or do I have to drag you?”

Eddie scowls, his hands clenching into fists. “I’m thinking!”

“Don’t think too hard,” Steve quips, leaning forward slightly, and pressing his ass directly against Eddie’s hips in the process.

Eddie freezes, his entire body locking up as heat floods his face. This is fine. Everything’s fine. Totally normal. Not weird at all.

“Oh my god,” Eddie mutters under his breath, his voice shaking. “Do you mind?”

Steve glances over his shoulder, his grin widening. “What?” He asks in faux innocence.

But before Eddie can respond, Steve takes a step forward, pulling Eddie with him. Their hips bump again, and Eddie stumbles slightly, his hands flying up to steady himself.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Eddie growls. “You go first.”

“Thanks for the permission, Munson,” Steve says, his tone light and teasing.

Eddie grits his teeth as Steve bends forward to grab an ingredient from his station. The motion presses their hips together, and Eddie swears he’s going to combust on the spot.

Focus, man. Focus.

Steve starts whisking something at his counter, his movements deliberate and slow, and Eddie can feel the rhythm of it through their shared harness. He groans quietly, his face burning, and the cameras, because of course the cameras are on them, catch every second of it.

“Everything okay back there?” Steve asks, his voice teasing.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Eddie mutters.

Steve chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and Eddie feels it reverberate through their connection.

When it’s Eddie’s turn, he yanks Steve toward his station, a little harder than necessary.

“Hey!” Steve protests, stumbling slightly.

“Payback,” Eddie says smugly, stepping up to his counter.

He bends forward to reach for his knife, fully aware that the motion pulls Steve closer. He hears the slight hitch in Steve’s breath, and a wicked grin spreads across his face.

“Oh,” Eddie says softly, not bothering to look back. “Something wrong, Harrington?”

Steve doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter, a little more strained. “Nope. All good.”

Eddie glances over his shoulder, catching the faint flush creeping up Steve’s neck, and his grin widens.

For the next few minutes, they fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. Steve keeps teasing Eddie, leaning back just enough to press against him, whispering snarky comments that send Eddie’s brain spiraling. But Eddie fights back, deliberately shifting his weight, brushing against Steve in ways that make him falter.

The tension between them is thick, electric, and so obvious that even the crew members exchange knowing looks behind the cameras. But they’re spacing their timing, communicating, and not preventing each other from cooking like Chrissy and Dave.

By the time the timer runs out, Eddie’s hands are shaking, his face is flushed, and he’s breathing heavier than he should be for a cooking challenge that didn’t involve running.

Steve turns, his grin softening as their eyes meet. “Good job, Munson,” he says quietly.

Eddie swallows hard, his pulse skipping. “Yeah. You too.”

The director calls cut, and the set bursts into motion. Crew members swarm the space, producers bark directions, and Chrissy and Dave laugh breathlessly as they untangle themselves from their harness.

The harness is still tight against Eddie’s chest, pressing him firmly to Steve’s back as they stand frozen at their stations, catching their breath.

“Alright, let’s get you two out of that,” someone from the crew says, stepping forward to unclip the harness.

Eddie stumbles back the second the straps are gone, his body jolting at the sudden absence of contact. He takes a shaky step away and tries to avoid glancing at Steve. But… that’s impossible. His eyes flick over against his will, and Steve is already looking back.

Steve’s hair is mussed, his face flushed, and his lips… oh god, his lips are slightly parted, swollen just enough to make Eddie’s stomach flip. The tension between them hasn’t lessened at all; if anything, it’s worse, so much thicker, pulled taut like they’re going to snap any second now.

Eddie jerks his gaze away, clenching his fists at his sides as the crew fusses over them, removing the last of the harness and adjusting the stations for the next round. He feels like his skin is on fire, every nerve ending still keyed up, and he knows if he looks at Steve again, he’ll lose it completely. He can not pop a boner in the middle of this television set.

But then Steve laughs, like he knows Eddie’s barely holding it together, it’s a soft, breathy, low sound, and Eddie can do nothing but turn toward it like a magnet. Steve’s smirking, gorgeous, perfect mouth quirking at Eddie, and the heat behind Steve’s gaze makes Eddie’s knees weak.

So fucking weak for this man.

“Good game, Munson,” Steve murmurs, his voice low enough that only Eddie can hear it.

Eddie can’t speak; his tongue too large in his mouth, and his pulse is hammering. There’s a voice screaming in his head do not kiss him, do not kiss him. Because as aware of the tension fuzzing around them, Eddie’s even more aware of the multiple cameras nearby. They may not be rolling, but he knows if either of them make a single move in their presence, someone will catch it.

Without a word, Steve turns and heads to the edge of the set, his movements easy but deliberate. Eddie stands frozen for half a second before his legs kick into gear. Something silent, unsaid, passes between them, pushing Eddie’s feet forward to follow behind.

Eddie barely has time to register what’s happening before Steve grabs his arm.

One second, he’s trailing behind the man in a daze; the next, Steve’s hand is on his arm, yanking him around a corner with a strength that makes Eddie stumble on his feet. He doesn’t get a chance to breathe before Steve’s hands are shoving his shoulders, pushing him against the wall.

“Shi-,” Steve’s lips smother the word back into Eddie’s mouth before he can finish his exclamation.

Eddie immediately responds, not even hesitating, to kiss the man back. It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s hungry.

Steve’s mouth crashes into Eddie’s with a force that leaves Eddie gasping. Their teeth clack slightly as they fumble to find a rhythm. Eddie’s brain blanks out completely as his body takes over. His hands fly to grip Steve’s hips, tugging him closer.

Steve responds immediately with a deep groan. The sound is low and rough, and Eddie feels it vibrate through his chest. Steve pushes forward, pressing their bodies flush together and Eddie thinks his knees will give out if Steve were to let go.

When Eddie’s back presses against the wall, the contrasting surface does nothing to cool the heat building between them. He’s vibrating, and as Steve’s hands move over his body, they only intensify the sensations. They grip his shoulders, slide to his neck, and glide over his jaw. It’s as if Steve can’t decide where he wants to touch Eddie, too eager to feel everything.

Eddie’s head is spinning. He’s dizzy, breathless, wrecked, but doesn’t fucking care. All he can think about, all he can feel, is Steve, Steve’s lips, Steve’s hands, the solid weight of Steve’s body pressing him into the wall. It’s everything and nothing like he’s fantasized about.

But then Eddie’s ears pick up on the echo of footsteps closing in on them. The sound startles them both back to reality.

Steve pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against Eddie’s, their breaths mingling in the tiny space between them. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and Eddie can feel the tension radiating off him like a cloud.

“Shit,” Steve whispers, glancing toward the sound of the footsteps.

Eddie uses the excitement vibrating under his skin to grab Steve by the wrist, yanking him toward the nearest door, a small, single-stall bathroom tucked away in the corner of the hall. He shoves the door open, pulling Steve inside before slamming it shut and locking it behind them.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters, spinning around to face Steve.

Steve doesn’t give him a chance to say anything else. He’s moving forward and on Eddie in an instant. His hands grab Eddie’s cheeks as he crashes their mouths back together.

This kiss is somehow worse, and by worse, Eddie means better.

It’s hotter, messier, more desperate somehow. Steve’s lips are relentless, moving against Eddie’s like he’s trying to consume him, and Eddie can’t do anything but hold on, his hands clutch to Steve’s hips as they stumble back against the sink.

Eddie groans when Steve’s tongue brushes against his bottom lip. He opens his mouth without hesitation, groaning as the kiss deepens, turning filthy in a way that makes Eddie desperate. He has to grip the edge of the sink to keep himself upright.

Steve’s hands slide down, grabbing Eddie’s waist and pulling him closer. Their hips collide, and Eddie gasps into Steve’s mouth, the sound breaking into something embarrassingly needy when Steve presses forward, grinding against him just slightly.

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, his head falls back, and he nearly makes eye contact with himself in the mirror.

Steve chuckles, the sound low and wrecked, then he dips his head to kiss the curve of Eddie’s jaw, Steve’s stubble scraping deliciously against Eddie’s skin. “I expected you to be louder,” Steve murmurs, his voice rough and teasing.

“Oh really?” Eddie responds, but his voice wavers when Steve gently nips at his neck, hands sliding under Eddie’s apron to grip his waist.

Eddie’s hands scramble for purchase, one clutching at the fabric of Steve’s shirt while the other tangles in his hair. He tugs slightly and wants to memorize the sound Steve makes in response. It’s raw and broken and filled with so much desire that Eddie feels it go straight to his dick.

They lose themselves completely, biting, sucking, pulling, until the distant sound of voices in the hall snaps them back to reality. Right, they are still on set.

Eddie pulls back, panting heavily against Steve’s lips, his chest heaving as they try to catch their breath. Steve rests his forehead against Eddie’s again and hums. The sound is so soft and content that it warms Eddie’s soul.

“We’re so fucked,” Eddie mutters, his voice breathless and rough.

Steve grins, his lips red and swollen. “Not yet,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to Eddie’s mouth, “but maybe later.”

Eddie groans, shoving lightly at Steve’s shoulder. This man is going to ruin him in the best way possible.

Behind-the-Scenes Interview: Steve

Steve sits down a little loose-limbed. He’s disheveled and not as put together. His hair is messier than usual, sticking up in soft, wild waves, his shirt is slightly wrinkled, and his lips are pink and swollen. His gaze stares off into the distance, not focused on anyone in particular, and it’s obvious he’s lost in thought.

“So, Steve,” the producer begins, her tone light but distinctly curious. “How are you feeling after that challenge?”

Steve grins immediately, his cheeks faintly flushed. “Uh, good. Great, actually.” He chuckles softly, twisting the cap of his water bottle. “That harness thing was… intense. But fun.”

“You and Eddie seemed to have an interesting strategy,” she prods, her tone casual but deliberate.

Steve blinks, his grin faltering slightly. “Oh, yeah, I guess. We just… I don’t know, we kind of figured it out as we went.”

“You seemed pretty comfortable,” she says, her tone sharpening just enough.

Steve’s eyes flick to the camera, then back to the producer, his grin softening. “Well, yeah. I mean, you kinda have to be, right? When you’re strapped to someone like that, there’s no point in, uh, overthinking it.”

“You didn’t seem to overthink it at all,” she says, her smile widening.

Steve laughs nervously, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, I guess not.”

“You looked like you were having fun,” she adds, leaning in slightly.

Steve’s grin turns sheepish, his gaze dropping to the bottle in his hands. “Yeah, it was… fun. Eddie’s great.”

“Great how?”

Steve blinks again, his eyebrows furrowing slightly before relaxing. “Uh, I don’t know. He’s just… easy to work with. Funny. Keeps things… interesting.”

“Interesting?”

Steve chuckles and ducks his chin down shyly. “Yeah, you know. Keeps me on my toes.”

The producer doesn’t respond right away and lets the silence stretch until Steve shifts in his seat, crosses his legs, and makes a soft humming sound.

“You seem happy,” the producer finally says, her tone light and playful.

Steve shrugs, his grin widening despite clearly fighting against it. “What can I say? It’s been a good day.”

The camera zooms in slightly, catching the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, his cheeks still flushed, and a faint, dreamy smile lingers on his lips as he glances off-camera.

—

Behind-the-scenes interview: Eddie

Eddie saunters into the frame, all loose limbs and cocky swagger. His hair is a wild mess, his apron is slightly crooked, and he drops into the stool with a lazy sprawl.

He leans back, hooks his arms behind his head, and flashes the camera a sharp grin. “Alright,” he says with a raised eyebrow. “What do you got for me?”

The producer chuckles. “How are you feeling after that challenge?”

Eddie tilts his head and pretends to think it over before responding. “Oh, I feel amazing,” he says, dragging out the word with an exaggerated drawl. “Winning feels pretty damn good, you know? But, uh, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

The crew laughs softly, and Eddie’s grin widens.

“You and Steve seemed to have a unique approach to the harness,” the producer says, her tone casual but pointed.

“Oh, you noticed that, huh?” Eddie gasps, his right hand comes to his chest in mock surprise. “What gave it away? The part where we weren’t yanking each other around like toddlers on a leash?”

She chuckles and Eddie snorts in response. “You two were very close.”

Eddie hums thoughtfully, then tilts his head back. “Well, yeah. That’s kind of the point of the harness, isn’t it? Keep you close, force you to work together, create some good TV.” He gestures vaguely toward the camera, with a knowing smirk. “Gotta give the people what they want.”

“You seemed very in sync,” the producer presses, leaning in slightly.

Eddie mirrors her movement, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees as his grin turns devilish. “Oh, is that what you’re calling it?”

She and a few other crew members laugh. “What would you call it?”

Eddie shrugs dramatically, tilting his head with mock innocence. “I’d call it strategy,” he says, his voice casual but teasing. “Work smarter, not harder, right?”

“You weren’t tugging each other around like Chrissy and Dave were,” she points out.

Eddie smirks again, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah, well, Chrissy’s built like a damn tank. You think I’m gonna risk my life trying to play tug-of-war with Steve? No thanks.”

The crew laughs, and Eddie leans back in the stool, spreading his arms again like he’s basking in the attention.

“So there’s nothing else going on there? Between you two?” the producer asks, her tone staying light.

Eddie raises an eyebrow, his grin sharpening. “What, you mean between me and Harrington?”

She nods and lets the moment stretch, waiting for Eddie’s response.

He hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on his knee before responding. “I mean, I get it,” he says finally, his tone light but with a teasing edge. “He’s a good-looking guy, right? Nice hair, great smile, looks annoyingly good in an apron…” He trails off, grinning as he catches the way the crew starts to perk up. “But…” He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist, his voice dropping slightly. “If you’re hoping for some juicy behind-the-scenes drama, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

The producer’s chuckle bites bright. “No juicy drama, huh?”

“None that you’re gonna get out of me,” Eddie says, winking at the camera.

“Anything else you want to say about Steve?”

Eddie tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “Nah,” he says after a long pause, his grin turning smug. “I think I’ll keep that one to myself.”

The camera lingers on him as he leans back again, his smirk firmly in place, before cutting out.

Chapter Text

Eddie spots Steve by the coffee station the second he steps backstage. His whole body reacts instinctively, a flush rising to his cheeks, his heart doing a stupid little flip as Steve leans casually against the table, fiddling with the machine.

This man. This absolute golden-haired, impossibly hot, probably-sent-here-to-destroy-me man.

Steve doesn’t notice him at first, too focused on his coffee. Eddie takes the opportunity to glance around the space, his eyes darting toward the open entryway and then to the nearby hallway. Empty.

Perfect.

Eddie steps forward, quiet and purposeful, until he’s behind Steve, then he wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, pulling him into his chest, and presses a kiss to his neck.

Steve jumps slightly, but only for a second, before relaxing into Eddie’s hold with a soft sigh. “Oh, hello,” he murmurs, his voice a little groggy.

Eddie groans quietly, nuzzling the curve of Steve’s neck. “God, I missed you.”

Steve wiggles out of his grip, not fully, just enough to turn to give Eddie a look. It’s soft, fond, and laced with just the slightest hint of exasperation.

“It’s been 45 minutes,” Steve says, raising an eyebrow.

“I knoooow,” Eddie whines, dragging the word out like a petulant teenager. “It’s been forever. Leaving me to change and shower like anyone would notice you were wearing the same clothes.”

Steve huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous. Everyone would notice, and you know it. They’re watching us like a hawk.”

Eddie grins, leaning in to kiss the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Maybe. Could’ve been fun to fuck with them, though.”

“You’re terrible, but I missed you, too,” Steve whispers before pressing a soft kiss to Eddie’s cheek and then returning to his coffee.

Eddie bites back a giggle trying to crawl its way up his throat, to watch Steve. He enjoys getting the opportunity to soak up the sight of the man, memorizing the lines of his shoulders and how his fingers hold his spoon while stirring creamer in his cup. Eddie’s heart does that stupid little flip again, which it’s been doing since yesterday morning. He can’t stop his mind from wandering to the memories of last night.

Fuck. Last night.

Eddie blushes just thinking about it. The moment they got to Eddie’s place, Steve was all over him, soft touches, rough kisses, gasping breaths that sent shivers down Eddie’s spine. The feel of Steve’s skin beneath his hands, warm and smooth and utterly addictive. The way Steve looked up at him, flushed and wrecked and so damn beautiful. Teenage Eddie’s imagination’s got nothing on the real deal.

“Recruits, we’re ready for you on set!” someone calls out, snapping Eddie out of his daze.

“Shit,” Eddie murmurs before dragging a hand down his face.

Steve glances over his shoulder giving Eddie a quick wink. “Guess that’s us.”

“Guess so,” Eddie says, his voice a little hoarse.

They walk to the set side by side, exchanging small, knowing smiles, but trying to keep a respectable distance. For the cameras. For now. As much as Eddie wants to crowd Steve into a dark corner and leave teeth marks along his neck. He’ll behave.

When they step onto the set, it feels empty and slightly unnerving. It’s weird with only the two of them remaining. Eddie already misses Chrissy. Her stature may have been bite-sized, but her presence was 10 feet tall. It’s almost eerie how quiet it is.

But what’s even more surprising… Eddie’s in the finale! Like, who saw that coming? Not this guy. The band is going to give him so much shit and probably expect him to cook on the tour bus. He refuses to use a knife on a moving vehicle. Not after that pocket knife incident. They can suck his dick.

Actually, that’s Steve’s job now.

Anne claps her hands, pulling Eddie’s attention. “Alright, Munson, step into my office,” she says, with a sweep of her arm. Eddie gives one quick glance to Steve before following Anne to her station. “This is it. The finale. Today, we’re going to build our menu. We’ve got three courses we’re going to go over. It’s going to be a lot, but nothing you can’t handle.”

Eddie nods, trying to look serious, but he’s distracted. Steve’s mouth, soft and swollen from kissing, kind of distracted.

Anne raises an eyebrow. “Are you paying attention?”

“Yep!” Eddie says quickly, his voice pitching. “Uh huh. Let’s do this.”

Anne eyes him suspiciously but launches into her plan. An appetizer of pan-seared scallops with a citrus buerre blanc, moving onto an herb-crusted lamb with potato fondant and sautéed vegetables, and finishing with a dark chocolate souffle with a raspberry coulis. Eddie doesn’t recognize any of the words Anne is throwing out there. Maybe there’s a dictionary on set somewhere. Honestly, he’s freaking out.

“Think you can handle that?” Her tone teasing but with an edge of seriousness.

Eddie grins, giving her a finger gun. “Piece of cake.”

It’s not.

Eddie already knows he’s in trouble when he picks up the knife to start prepping for the appetizer. His mind is absolutely nowhere near the scallops in front of him, it’s still tangled up in Steve.

The warmth of Steve’s skin beneath his palms, the weight of him pressing into Eddie’s bed, the way Steve gasped his name like it was the only word he knew. Eddie can feel his face heating up as he reaches for the fennel he’s supposed to slice.

Anne is explaining something about the citrus beurre blanc. He’s nodding automatically like he’s paying attention. But in reality, he’s 100 miles away, back in bed, replaying the way Steve’s lips slid against his neck, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses that—

“Munson!”

Eddie jolts, his knife slipping dangerously close to his fingers. He looks up at Anne, who’s glaring at him, her hands on her hips.

“What is this?” she asks, gesturing to the uneven fennel slices on his cutting board.

“Uh…” Eddie blinks down at the offending vegetables. “Fennel?” Right?

Anne pinches the bridge of her nose. “Why does it look like this? These slices look like they’ve been hacked with a chainsaw.”

Eddie grimaces. “Sorry, I’ll fix it.”

“Fix it now,” Anne snaps.

Eddie nods furiously and starts chopping again, hyper-aware of Anne standing over his shoulder. He’s trying. He really is. But his hands are shaking, and he can’t keep his eyes from glancing over to Steve’s station.

And Steve. Fucking Steve.

Steve is focused, whisking something in a bowl while Bobby hovers nearby. He’s so fucking handsome it’s ridiculous. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show off those stupidly attractive forearms. Eddie’s staring when Steve glances up and catches him in the act. He smirks, just a small, private smile that sends Eddie’s heart into overdrive.

Eddie’s completely gone for this man.

His knife slips and Eddie barely avoids slicing his finger, again. It will be a miracle if he gets out of this unscathed and with all his digits.

“Munson!” Anne barks, making him jump.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Eddie fumbles, grabbing the knife with both hands.

Anne groans loudly, throwing her hands up. “Do I need to take the knife away from you? Should I just do this myself?” He can hear the annoyance bleeding through her tone.

He feels like an asshole.

“No! I’ve got it!” Eddie insists though the tremor in his voice betrays him. He feels awful. He does. He didn’t mean to spend his first night with Steve the day before they prepared for the finale. But what did she expect? For Eddie to tell Steve no?

No, Steve. I don’t want to fuck you. I haven’t imagined it for years, and I never wondered if you have any moles or beauty marks on your ass.

He does. One perfectly placed mole right above his left butt cheek. Eddie was able to get intimately familiar with it.

“Focus, Munson,” Anne growls. “If you can’t even slice fennel properly, you’re not going to make it through this menu.”

He nods, feeling a strong sense of shame and embarrassment.

By the time he moves on to the entrée, Anne’s patience is wearing thin, along with Eddie’s nerves.

The lamb is supposed to be seared to perfection before being coated in the herb crust, but Eddie is struggling to concentrate on anything. The set is too quiet, letting his mind wander, particularly to the way Steve had whispered his name last night, his voice low and wrecked and so fucking—

“Munson!” Anne barks again, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Eddie glances down at the pan in front of him and realizes too late that the lamb is smoking.

“Shit!” he mutters, scrambling to take the pan off the heat.

Anne swoops in like an avenging angel, snatching the pan out of his hands and inspecting the charred mess inside. “Are you trying to ruin this?” She glares.

“No!” Eddie says, his face burning. “I just—”

“You just what?” She interrupts. “Forgot to watch the pan? Forgot what you were doing? Forgot how to cook?”

Eddie grimaces, his shoulders hunching under the weight of her frustration. “I got distracted,” he mumbles.

“Distracted by what?” Anne snaps.

Eddie doesn’t answer. He can’t exactly tell her he’s distracted because he spent half the night with Steve Harrington pinned under him, whispering filthy things in his ear. So he shrugs and shakes his head, hoping she interprets it as finale nerves.

Anne groans, setting the pan down with a loud clatter. “Get it together, Munson. You’re not going to win this thing if you keep screwing around.”

Eddie swallows hard. “Sorry. I can do this. I can. I don’t want to let you down,” he says quietly.

That gives her pause. She stares at him for a moment, her expression softening just slightly. “Then stop letting me down,” she says, her voice calmer now but no less firm. “If that’ll get you to win. Because you’re really disappointing me today.”

Eddie nods quickly, determined to pull himself together. “Yes, chef.”

He pushes himself through the entree. It’s not perfect, but at least he knows what not to do tomorrow. But by the time he gets to dessert, he is sweating bullets. Anne is hovering nearby, watching him like a hawk, and every time he makes a mistake, she groans loud enough to echo across the set.

He’s trying, he is! But mixing egg whites with chocolate only requires so much attention that if the memory of Steve’s hands sliding down his back, nails dragging over his skin, pops into his head, what is he supposed to do? Not think about the pretty pink lines scratched down his back right now?

“Munson!” Anne snaps, and Eddie realizes maybe egg whites and chocolate require some attention because he’s nearly overmixed his souffle batter.

“Sorry!” he says quickly, setting the spoon down to pour the batter into the ramekins.

“You need to move faster,” Anne says, her tone sharp but not unkind. “You won’t have this much time on the clock tomorrow.”

Eddie nods, “Okay.” His hands shake as he slides the ramekins into the oven. He’s almost done, but his nerves are completely shot, and he keeps glancing across the room at Steve, who is calmly plating his dessert like he doesn’t have a care in the world. So, Eddie’s not as much of a distracting thought as Steve is. That’s not a hit to his ego at all.

Eddie wipes the sweat off his brow as Anne leans casually against his station, her sharp eyes scanning the soufflé he’s just pulled out of the oven. It’s far from perfect, slightly uneven, with one side puffing up just a hair higher than the other, but it’s decent. And after the mess of a practice cook he just had, “decent” feels like a goddamn victory.

Bobby walks over with Steve in tow, holding a small plate of sides from Steve’s entrée: perfectly roasted baby carrots, caramelized just enough to catch the light, and an herbed potato pave so meticulously layered it looks like edible art.

“Well,” Bobby says, raising an eyebrow at Anne. “At least someone here knows how to cook.” He says before eyeing Eddie’s disastrous station.

“Oh, give it a rest, Flay,” Anne shoots back. “I don’t see Harrington attempting a soufflé over there. Too scared?”

Bobby snorts. “Please. Steve doesn’t need soufflés to win. We brought you over a taste. I’m pretty sure these carrots could knock out Eddie’s sad, deflated souffle.”

Anne glares at him, but it’s playful. “Oh, is that so?” She plucks a fork off Eddie’s station and holds it out. “Fine. We’ll swap.”

Bobby eyes the soufflé suspiciously before stabbing the fork into the warm, fluffy center. Steam rises as he scoops out a bite, and Eddie feels his stomach flip nervously. Bobby’s chewing thoughtfully before looking Anne dead in the eye. “It’s fine,” he says with a weak shrug.

She smirks. “Admit it—it’s better than fine.”

Bobby shrugs. “It’s… edible.”

Eddie lets out an offended squawk. “Edible?! That’s it?! I made a goddamn souffle!”

Steve chuckles softly, stepping up beside Bobby with his own plate. “Here,” he says, holding it out to Anne. “Try this.”

“Yeah, let’s try the carrots that are supposedly better than a chocolate souffle,” Anne says sarcastically. Then she takes Steve’s plate and stabs her fork aggressively into one of the perfect carrots. She pops it into her mouth and chews once, twice, and then her eyes narrow like she’s trying not to show how impressed she is.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters. “It’s fine.”

Bobby smirks. “Better than fine?”

Anne sets the plate down with exaggerated nonchalance. “We’ll see who’s better tomorrow.”

Anne and Bobby step aside to bicker good-naturedly, but Steve grabs another fork and nudges the plate of carrots toward Eddie. “Here,” he says, his voice warm and just a little too casual. “Want to try?”

Eddie eyes the plate like it’s a live grenade. “Uh…am I allowed?”

“You’re not going to get in trouble for eating my carrots,” Steve says with that devastatingly charming smile of his. “You know you want to.”

Eddie groans internally but takes the plate, grabs the fork and stabs it into one of Steve’s carrots. The second the bite hits his tongue, his eyes go wide.

“Holy shit,” Eddie mumbles around the food, his voice muffled. He chews slowly, savoring the perfectly roasted texture, the delicate balance of sweetness and seasoning, the… everything.

“Good, huh?” Steve says, smirking.

Eddie swallows, his face heating. Good? It’s amazing. It’s so amazing it’s doing something to him that food has never done before. His body is reacting in ways he can’t fully explain, like his brain is confused about what pleasure means.

“Steve,” Eddie says, his voice low and serious. “What the hell did you put in this? Molly?”

Steve laughs. “Just carrots, Munson.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Nah, man. This is… This is illegal. You can’t just make food this good and expect people to act normal. Like, I want to—” He cuts himself off, realizing he was about to say something wildly inappropriate about drowning in Steve’s food, and clears his throat. “Uh. Never mind.”

Steve’s smirk grows, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he reaches for the plate of Eddie’s soufflé, grabbing a fork. “My turn?”

Eddie nods, trying not to show how badly his palms are sweating as Steve dives into the soufflé and takes a bite.

The reaction is immediate. Steve’s lips part slightly, his eyelids fluttering just a fraction as he chews. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Eddie watches, transfixed, as Steve exhales like the food has physically moved him.

“Jesus, Eddie,” Steve says softly, his voice almost reverent. “This is…” He trails off, looking slightly dazed.

Eddie swallows hard, his pulse kicking up as Steve takes another bite, his lips curving into the faintest smile. It’s like watching someone have an intimate moment, and Eddie can’t tear his eyes away.

Finally, Steve glances up, catching Eddie staring, and grins. “You’re dangerous, Munson,” he says, his voice warm.

Eddie huffs a laugh, his face burning. “Right back atcha, Harrington.”

The moment stretches, charged and heavy, until the director calls “Cut!”

Oh, shit.

Eddie grabs Steve’s arm and tugs him toward the edge of the set. They don’t say a word, just exchange a look that’s all heat and urgency before ducking into the now-familiar bathroom.

The door clicks shut behind them, and for a moment, the small bathroom feels charged, humming with the tension Eddie’s been swimming in all day. Steve barely has time to breathe before Eddie’s hands are on him, gripping his hips, sliding up his sides, pulling him in close like Eddie’s been starving for this. Which he kind of has been.

Their mouths crash together in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger, their lips moving with a frantic, desperate rhythm. Steve groans into the kiss, his hands flying up to tangle in Eddie’s hair, and Eddie responds with a low, breathless sound that sends shivers down Steve’s spine. Eddie has zero complaints if this is how they’ll greet each other after every moment of distance.

Steve pushes forward, backing Eddie into the wall, their bodies colliding in a chaotic and perfect way. Eddie’s fingers dig into Steve’s waist, tugging him closer, and Steve tilts his head to deepen the kiss, swallowing the soft, wrecked noises Eddie keeps making.

Watching Steve cook is really doing it for Eddie.

They’re breathless and flushed when Steve finally pulls back, his forehead resting against Eddie’s, their noses brushing. “You coming over tonight?” he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked. “I want to show you how big my bed is.”

Eddie laughs softly, but it’s shaky, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. “Steve…” he starts, his voice trailing off as he tries to figure out how to say what he needs to say.

Steve leans back just enough to look at him, his brows furrowed slightly. “What?”

Eddie swallows hard, his hands sliding up to rest on Steve’s shoulders. “I can’t,” he says quietly, his voice almost breaking on the word.

Steve’s face falls, just slightly, but it’s enough to make Eddie’s stomach twist. “Why not?”

“It’s not because I don’t want to,” Eddie says quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “God, Steve, I do. You have no idea how much I do. It’s just…” He trails off.

“Just what?” Steve asks, his voice softer now, fragile and anxious.

Eddie takes a deep breath, forcing himself to keep eye contact. “You’re distracting,” he says finally, his lips curving into a small, self-deprecating smile. “In the best way possible. But if I come over tonight, I’m not gonna want to leave. And I need to be able to focus tomorrow. For Anne. For the finale. For… all of this. I barely made it through today’s cook because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Steve studies him for a moment. Eddie feels his heart hammering in his chest, his palms damp where they rest against Steve’s shoulders.

“I just need one night,” Eddie says softly, his voice almost pleading. “Just one. And then…” He trails off, his eyes searching Steve’s, and he swallows hard before continuing. “And then I’m yours. Forever, if you want.” He tries to play it off with a noncommittal shrug, but Eddie’s flowing with nervous energy.

Steve’s lips part slightly, his eyes wide as he stares at Eddie. For a moment, Eddie’s terrified he’s said too much, that he’s pushed too hard, but then Steve lets out a soft, shaky laugh.

“Forever, huh?” Steve says, his lips curving into a small, tentative smile.

Eddie grins, a little crooked and a lot nervous. “Yeah,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Forever. Y’know, if you want.”

Steve’s smile widens, but there’s a faint pink flush creeping up his neck, and Eddie can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the quiet, hopeful fear that comes with wanting something so badly it almost hurts. It probably mirrors how he looks right now.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Steve says softly, his voice steady but warm.

Eddie’s chest tightens, and he reaches up to cradle Steve’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently over Steve’s cheekbones. “You’d better,” he murmurs, his voice low and earnest. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not after those carrots.”

Steve chuckles before his eyes soften. Then, for a moment, they just stand there, staring at each other, the air between them heavy with something real, raw, and so big growing. Eddie never imagined he could have this, let alone with Steve, but he’s stupidly excited about the possibilities.

Finally, Steve leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Eddie’s lips, less frantic now, less hungry, but no less intense. It’s warm and sweet, a promise in its own right, and Eddie melts into it, his hands sliding down to rest on Steve’s chest.

When they pull apart, Steve’s smile is small but genuine, his fingers brushing against Eddie’s jaw. “Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “After the finale?”

Eddie nods, his grin widening. “After the finale,” he echoes. “Then I’m all yours.”

Steve smirks, his eyes glinting with something playful but still soft. “I like the sound of that.”

Eddie laughs, his heart feeling too full, and presses one last kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth before stepping back. “Go on,” he says, waving toward the door. “Before I change my mind.”

Steve huffs a laugh, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that makes Eddie’s chest ache in the best way. “See you on set,” he says, his voice light but full of meaning.

“See you on set,” Eddie replies, watching as Steve slips out of the bathroom, leaving Eddie alone with his racing heart and a stupidly giddy smile.

Eddie leans against the bathroom wall, fiddling with the ring on his middle finger as he exhales shakily. He knows it’s insane, knows they’ve only just scratched the surface of whatever this thing between them is, but… it feels solid. Real. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s found something worth holding onto.

Behind-the-Scenes interview: Eddie

Eddie slides into the stool with a quiet sigh, his movements slower than usual, his typical swagger replaced with something softer, more subdued. His hair is still wild, his apron slightly crooked, but his usual cocky smirk is nowhere to be found. Instead, he looks calm. Centered.

“You seem different today,” the producer says, her tone light but curious.

Eddie tilts his head slightly, a small, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “Quieter. More focused.”

Eddie hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Yeah, well, it’s the finale tomorrow,” he says simply. “Gotta keep my head in the game.”

“You’ve been working hard,” she says. “Anne seemed pretty pleased with your progress, despite… a few hiccups.”

Eddie snorts softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, ‘pleased’ might be a stretch, but I’ll take it.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for the producer to shift gears. “How are you feeling about going up against Steve?”

Eddie stiffens slightly. His fingers stop tapping, and his eyes flick to the side, avoiding the camera. “He’s good,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter. “Really good. It’s gonna be a tough one. But I think I can take him down”

“You two have gotten pretty close, haven’t you?”

Eddie’s lips twitch, holding back a smile. “We’ve been working together a lot,” he says, his voice light. “You kind of have to when you’re on the same show.”

“Right,” the producer says, nodding slowly. “But it seems like there’s more there. You two have a… connection?”

Eddie glances at the camera, his smile soft but distant. “I think we’re all connected, in a way,” he says, his tone careful. “You spend this much time with people, you get to know them pretty well.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re dodging the question.”

Eddie shrugs, his smile sharpening just slightly. “You’re asking the wrong question.”

“What’s the right question, then?”

Eddie hums again, leaning forward slightly. “The right question is, ‘How am I gonna pull off a soufflé tomorrow without setting myself on fire?’”

The crew laughs softly, and Eddie grins, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Anything else you want to know?” he asks, his tone light but with an edge of finality.

The producer opens her mouth, but Eddie cuts her off with a raised hand. “If it’s about Steve, save it. I’m not biting today.”

The camera lingers on him for a moment, catching the softness in his eyes as he leans back in the stool, before cutting away.

~~~

Behind-the-Scenes interview: Steve

Steve is already sitting when the camera turns on, but he’s not paying attention. His eyes are distant, his lips curved into a faint, dreamy smile. He looks distracted.

“Steve?” the producer prompts, her voice pulling his attention.

“Hm?” Steve blinks, his head snapping up, and his cheeks flush slightly. “Sorry, what was the question?”

The producer chuckles softly. “You seem distracted.”

Steve laughs, a little nervous but warm. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Something on your mind?”

Steve’s lips twitch, and he ducks his head slightly, like he’s trying to hide the smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe.”

“Does it have anything to do with Eddie?”

Steve freezes for half a second before letting out a soft laugh, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You guys don’t let up, do you?”

She grins. “Not when there’s something interesting going on.”

Steve shakes his head, but his smile doesn’t falter. “Eddie’s… great,” he says, his voice softening. “He’s funny, and smart, and… just great.”

“You two seem to work well together.”

“Yeah,” Steve says immediately, his tone a little brighter. “We do. He’s easy to work with, you know? He makes everything… easier.”

“Easier how?”

Steve pauses briefly. “He just… I don’t know. He makes me feel like I don’t have to try so hard,” he says quietly. “Like I can just… be.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and full, and Steve shifts slightly in his seat, his cheeks flushing deeper.

“Is that important to you?” the producer asks, her voice gentle.

Steve nods, his smile turning a little shy. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”

She watches him for a moment, then leans in slightly. “You seem happy.”

Steve’s head snaps up, and his smile widens, bright, genuine, and a little dazed. “I am,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. The camera lingers on him, catching the softness in his expression, the faint pink flush still coloring his cheeks.

“Anything else you want to share?” the producer asks finally, her tone light but hopeful.

Steve laughs softly, shaking his head. “Not yet,” he says, his voice teasing but warm. “But maybe soon.”

The camera cuts out as Steve leans back in his chair, still smiling that soft happy smile.

Eddie is a goddamn mess.

He barely slept last night. Every time he closed his eyes, his brain decided it was a perfect time to spiral: thoughts of Steve, thoughts of the competition, thoughts of what the hell he was going to do if he actually won this thing (or lost it). And then, of course, there was the upcoming touring schedule. How was he supposed to balance all of this? The potential of something real with Steve while bouncing from city to city with his band? Or maybe Steve doesn’t want something real, and Eddie will never see him again after the competition.

He’s chugging his third cup of coffee for the day when Steve walks in, and like a hit of a muscle relaxer, the sight melts all the tension from Eddie’s shoulders. Steve is smiling, soft and warm, and so goddamn beautiful Eddie feels like his knees might give out. His hair is perfectly tousled, his cheeks faintly pink from the morning chill, and his sweater, because of course Steve Harrington looks cozy as hell in a sweater, makes him look like he belongs in a winter holiday rom-com.

It takes every sense of self-control to prevent Eddie from pulling Steve into a hug, wrapping his arms around him, and breathing him in. Later. Later, he reminds himself. Right now, they’re in a restaurant kitchen, surrounded by cameras and crew, but after one of them wins this, Eddie will put his hands on the man and never let go.

Steve catches Eddie hiding in the corner with his caffeine addiction and smiles, that soft, devastating smile that makes Eddie’s heart feel like it’s trying to punch its way out of his chest. He lifts his coffee cup in a mock salute, trying to play it cool, but Steve chuckles, shaking his head like Eddie is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen. Why is that hot?

It’s not long after that Bobby and Anne show up. They both appear calm, cool, and collected, as if this isn’t the finale or the entire point of this television show. It strangely calms some of Eddie’s nerves. When Anne finds him by their side of the kitchen, her eyes narrow as if she’s scrutinizing him, and she approaches him slowly.

“You ready for this, Munson?” she asks, crossing her arms.

Eddie snorts softly, setting down his coffee cup. “Does it matter? I don’t think they’re gonna cancel the finale if I say no.”

Anne rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’ll be fine,” she says firmly. “Just stick to the plan. Remember, I’m here to keep you on track, but I can’t touch anything, can’t taste anything. You’re on your own when it comes to execution.”

“Great,” Eddie mutters, his stomach twisting. “No pressure or anything.”

Anne grabs his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “Listen to me,” she says, her voice low but steady. “You’ve come this far, and you’ve worked your ass off to get here. Don’t start psyching yourself out now. You know what you’re doing. Just stay focused, stay calm, and cook the damn food. This is your stadium show. Get on stage and show them what you got.”

Eddie blinks at her, surprised by the intensity in her tone. For all her gruffness, Anne actually believes in him, and that means something. Means everything. She’s right, he’s done crazier shit. This is just food.

He nods, swallowing hard. “You’re right. I got this. I’m going to do my best, chef.”

“That’s all I’m asking for,” she says, her hand dropping from his shoulder.

Then she walks him through the kitchen, pointing out where everything is. He nods along and tries to take it all in, but his mind is a spaghetti bowl of nervousness. Then the crew walks them through how the shoot will go and how everything is timed out. They finish up by announcing the judges have arrived.

Show time.

“Take a minute,” Anne says, bringing Eddie back to his station. “Breathe. Collect yourself. And for the love of God, don’t overthink it.”

Eddie grips the edge of the counter to keep himself steady and gives her a tight nod. Then she steps away, giving him a moment. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, using his pre-concert routine to settle the chaos in his brain.

You’ve got this. Focus. One dish at a time. Don’t think about Steve. Don’t think about tomorrow. Just cook.

“You ready, chef?” Anne asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Let’s fucking do this.”

When the timer buzzes for the appetizer round, it’s like everything comes into focus just enough to push the nerves aside. His hands move automatically, reaching for the ingredients he’s prepped in his head a dozen times since last night. The dish may seem simple, pan-seared scallops, but it takes 30 seconds to completely ruin it.

Eddie’s hands are trembling as he heats the pan, adding a slick of oil and waiting for it to shimmer. He glances at Anne, who hasn’t stopped keeping a sharp eye on him since the round started.

“Don’t rush the scallops,” she says sharply. “Let the pan do the work.”

“Got it,” Eddie mutters.

The scallops hit the oil with a satisfying sizzle, and Eddie’s shoulders relax slightly. He glances at the clock, counting the seconds in his head as he watches the edges of the scallops turn golden. He knows it’s 45 seconds, that’s all it takes, but each second counts. He tucks his spatula under the first scallop and flips it. The sear is perfect, golden, crisp, and exactly what it’s supposed to be.

“Nice,” Anne says. “Keep going.”

Eddie grins, he can feel his confidence building, and he’s starting to have fun. After finishing up the other scallops, he plates them immediately. Spooning the beurre blanc around the scallops, then adding his fennel salad and orange segments, he’s wiping the edge of his last plate just as the timer buzzes. He throws his hands in the air, breathing hard like he ran around the block instead of plated fancy food.

He steps back as Anne leans over to inspect his plates.

“Not bad, Munson,” she says.

Eddie lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his shoulders sagging slightly. “One down,” he mutters to himself. “Two to go.”

The scallops are gone, carried away by fancy-dressed waitstaff into the dining room. And holy shit. How is Eddie supposed to breathe when actual culinary experts are about to eat his food? These are fancy-food people. They know how scallops are supposed to taste.

He shakes his head sharply. He can’t think about that right now. He can’t think about anything but the next dish, the herb-crusted lamb… and maybe wonder how Steve’s doing.

“This is the big one,” Anne says, her voice steady and sharp beside him. “The entrée. It’s gotta be perfect, Munson. No burned potatoes, no uneven cuts, no missed seasoning. You hear me?”

Eddie nods, his jaw tight. “Got it. No distractions today.” So, no wondering how Steve’s doing.

“Good, now get moving.”

The clock starts, and he grabs the lamb rack setting it down on the cutting board to trim. His brain is buzzing, a cacophony of nerves and adrenaline, but his hands are finally steady moving on muscle memory. He’s unsure what kind of muscle memory, though, maybe some deep-rooted Neanderthal instincts of butchering.

The pan on the burner is heating up while he moves on to seasoning. He’s sprinkling salt over the meat when he glances at Anne, watching him like a hawk, her arms crossed and expression unreadable.

“Hurry up,” she says, her tone sharp.

“I know, I know,” he mutters while lowering the lamb into the pan. A satisfying sizzle hits his ears as the meat hits the pan. Brown food tastes good.

When it’s time, he grabs a spoon to baste the lamb with a heaping amount of butter. Anne hovers beside him, her eyes flicking between the lamb and the other ingredients on his station.

“What’s next?” she asks, her tone almost testing him.

“Uh— uh…” Eddie fumbles for a second before he blurts out, “Herb crust! Gotta mix the, uh, the stuff.”

Anne raises an eyebrow but nods. “Yes, the stuff. Go.”

Eddie sets the lamb aside to rest and grabs a bowl to start making his crust. He stirs it together quickly, his hands moving with the kind of speed that screams panic, but the mixture comes together perfectly.

“Coat it evenly,” Anne yells.

“I know!” Eddie snaps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. I know. I’ve got it.”

Anne doesn’t say anything, just watches as he brushes the lamb with mustard, presses the herb crust onto the surface, and then gets it back into the oven.

He glances at the clock and realizes he needs to kick it up a gear.

Potatoes. Potatoes. Where the fuck are…there you are.

He grabs the potatoes he prepped earlier, perfect little cylinders cut with a ring mold, and drops them into a hot pan. They sizzle and spit, splashing him briefly with hot oil. He winces, but pushes through. No crying in the kitchen.

“You okay?” Anne leans over, checking on him.

He doesn’t bother to look up. “I’m good.”

“Good. Even color now,” Anne says. “Watch the edges.”

“Yep,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, his eyes glued to the pan.

Please don’t burn. Please don’t burn. Please don’t—

The potatoes turn golden, and Eddie lets out a breath of relief. He’s starting to feel that chaotic calm. When all those nerves and buzzing energy come together to focus him, it’s what he feels about midway through every show. His adrenaline is now helping, not hindering.

The lamb comes out of the oven to rest so he starts plating everything else. He feels a little invincible arranging the vegetables in neat little piles on each plate.

“Hurry up,” Anne says. “Only two more minutes.”

He adds his potatoes, tucking them neatly next to the vegetables, then grabs the lamb. His heart rate picks up as he slices in.

Please be perfect. Please be perfect.

“How’s it look?” Anne asks nervously.

“Fuck, it’s perfect.” He breathes out.

“Good, now get moving!”

He slices the meat into perfect chops, stands two up on each plate, then spoons the jus carefully around each plate.

“30 seconds. Clean your plates, clean your plates!” Anne’s clapping her hands at Eddie aggressively.

He wishes his hands would stop shaking as he carefully wipes around the edges of each plate. He’s swiping across the last plate just as the timer buzzes. Throwing his hands in the air, he steps back and stares down at his plates.

They look incredible. He feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He made this food. He’s not sure if he’s hallucinating or not.

“What do you think?”

Anne studies the plate for a moment, then nods. “Not bad,” she says, her voice calm but impressed.

“Right?” He smiles, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is nuts. How did I do that?”

“Don’t lose your focus now, okay?” Anne says, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips. “One more to go.”

He exhales slowly and rolls his shoulders to release some tension. His hands are steady now, his nerves replaced by a strange mix of confidence and exhaustion he’s familiar with. He feels good. Better than good. Flying high.

And then, like a dumbass, he risks a glance at Steve.

It’s supposed to be quick, just a tiny peek to see how the man is doing, but the second Eddie’s eyes land on him, forget it.

Steve looks ridiculous. Not in a bad way, oh, no, not even close. Steve looks ridiculous in the way that makes Eddie’s insides feel like molten lava, hot and heavy and bubbling over.

His hair is a little wild, shaken loose from the sweat beading on his brow. His sweater sleeves are pushed up over his forearms, showing off veins and muscles that have no business being that attractive. His jaw is tight with focus, and the intensity in his eyes, sharp, determined, goddamn lethal, hits Eddie right in the chest.

Oh no. Nope. Bad idea. Abort mission. Too hot. Too hot.

Eddie’s heart stumbles in his chest, his stomach doing a stupid little flip as his eyes linger for half a second too long. Steve shifts slightly, reaching for something on his station, and Eddie catches a glimpse of the sheen of sweat on the back of his neck, the way his muscles shift under the fabric of his sweater, and—

“Munson!”

Eddie snaps his head around, blinking rapidly as Anne’s voice cuts through the fog. She’s standing in front of him, her hands on her hips, her expression between exasperated and amused.

“You with me?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep!” Eddie says quickly, his voice slightly high-pitched. “Totally. Absolutely. 100% with you.”

Anne narrows her eyes, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. Looked like your brain left the building.”

Eddie swallows hard, his face heating. “Just… you know. Thinking about soufflés.”

“Right,” Anne says dryly. “Soufflés.” She stares at him for a moment longer, then sighs, her expression softening. “Listen,” her voice quieter now. “I know this is a lot. I know you’re tired, and your brain is probably screaming at you to quit, but you’ve got this. You hear me? You’re doing great. Better than I expected.”

Eddie blinks at her, startled. “You think so?” He’s been feeling good but it means so much more to hear it from Anne. She’s been his toughest critic from day one.

Anne’s lips twitch into a small, rare smile. “Yeah. I do. And I’m not just saying that because I want to beat Bobby. You’ve earned your spot here. You’ve worked your ass off to get to this moment. Don’t let your head screw it up.”

Eddie swallows hard, his throat tight. “Thanks, Anne,” he mutters.

She nods firmly, patting his shoulder. “Alright. Deep breath. Focus up. Pour everything you’ve got into this dessert.”

Eddie nods, inhaling deep as he straightens up. He glances at the clock, the empty ramekins waiting on his station, and the row of eggs, chocolate, and sugar lined up like soldiers in formation.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself. “Let’s do this.”

The timer starts, and he jumps in head first. He’s moving with a confidence he hasn’t felt before, not just today but throughout the entire competition. The chocolate is melting in a double boiler, his fruit is breaking down in sugar on the stove, and he’s preparing his eggs. He’s determined to knock this out of the park.

“You’re doing great,” Anne says beside him, her voice calm and firm. “Keep it steady. Don’t rush.”

The egg whites go in, folding gently into the chocolate mixture. He’s taking his time, working slowly until the batter is smooth and light. This time, he keeps his focus and doesn’t over mix.

The clock is ticking down, but he doesn’t rush to fill the ramekins. He can’t screw this up, not now, not when he’s this close. He slides the tray into the oven and sets the timer.

It feels like seconds have passed when his timer buzzes. This is the moment he finds out if he has a shot at winning this or not. He opens his oven door to find perfect soufflés. Absolutely perfect.

Perfectly risen, perfectly fluffy, perfectly beautiful. He’s overwhelmed with a sense of pride and relief.

“Nice work, now get them plated,” Anne pushes.

The ramekins are still hot, the heat biting at his fingertips even through the kitchen towel. His hands move slowly, deliberately, as he sets each one down on its plate precisely, holding his breath like even the slightest jostle might ruin them. Once they’re in place, he drizzles the coulis over the top and finishes them with a fine dusting of powdered sugar.

The buzzer goes off, and Eddie’s entire body slumps. He immediately crouches down, knees going weak, and tries to catch his breath. Like puppet strings being cut, all his focused energy evaporating. Anne immediately moves to him, tugging him to his feet and throwing her arms around him.

“You did it!”

Tears of relief are welling in his eyes. He wipes the back of his hand across his face. “I’m so glad this is over.”

Anne chuckles, a sound Eddie hasn’t heard, and it’s the last straw to his sanity. He starts laughing, the adrenaline draining out through the motion. He’s losing his mind as he watches the waitstaff whisk his dessert away.

He’s never doing this again and greatly appreciates what happens behind the scenes at a restaurant now. He’s never sending anything back again. Raw meat? That’s fine. He’ll eat it. Incorrect dish? It’s probably a better choice anyway. Zero complaints coming from him in the future.

This is it. Judging.

Eddie shifts nervously on his feet, hands clenched in front of him. The judges are calm and composed. Even though there are only three of them, they’re more terrifying than the thousands of faces Eddie’s played to at sold-out shows. It’s intimidating.

The one in the middle, a stern-looking woman with sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes, stares intently at him and Steve. To her left is a man with a neatly trimmed beard and a soft, thoughtful expression. To her right is a younger woman with vibrant red lipstick and a piercing gaze that seems to see straight through Eddie.

Jesus Christ, why is this so scary?

He risks a glance at Steve, who’s standing beside him. No surprise, but Steve looks stupidly good, still a little flushed from the heat of the kitchen, his hair messily perfect, and Eddie should not be this knocked off kilter by the sight of this man. But he is.

Steve catches him looking and offers a small smile, his eyes warm and reassuring. Steve reaches out and gives his shoulder a quick squeeze, just enough to ground him, just enough to remind him to breathe, just enough to make him melt.

Okay. You’ve got this. Maybe. Probably. Or you’re about to be roasted alive. Either way, it’s fine.

“Judges,” Anne starts. “We want to introduce you to our two cooks today. Meal Y was prepared by Steve Harrington.” She motions to Steve, and Eddie watches the judges’ eyes flick over. The judge in the middle drags her eyes quickly down Steve’s body, and Eddie gets it. You have to check him out when he’s in your presence. “And meal X was prepared by Eddie Munson.” All judges’ eyes land on him, and he gives them a nervous, dorky finger wave. “Over the last several weeks, they have gone through culinary boot camp to go from being two of the worst cooks in America to cooking restaurant-quality dishes.”

“Well, before we jump in, we want to tell both of you how impressed we were.” The judge in the middle says. “To think that you were a couple of the worst cooks in America only a few weeks ago is surprising. Both of these meals were excellent, and you should be proud.” Her gaze is still piercing, but with the slight positive reinforcement, Eddie’s able to relax slightly.

“Steve, your appetizer was very well-balanced,” the bearded judge says, his voice warm. “The flavors were clean, bright. The vinaigrette on the salad complemented the shrimp beautifully.”

The woman in the middle nods. “I agree. The shrimp were cooked perfectly. A very strong start.”

Eddie clenches his hands tighter, his palms sweating as he waits for them to finish.

“There was just one small issue,” the judge with the red lipstick says. “The salad was slightly overdressed. It didn’t ruin the dish but was enough to distract from the shrimp.”

Steve nods politely, his face calm, but Eddie knows him well enough now to see the faint tension in his jaw. He wants to lean over and kiss it away.

“And now, Eddie’s appetizer.”

Shit. Eddie holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable.

“Your scallops were good,” the bearded judge says.

Good? Good? What the hell does that mean?

“The crust was golden and crisp, but the interior was just a touch under,” he continues. “It was edible, but it’s not quite where it should be.”

Eddie feels his stomach drop, his confidence wobbling. You never want to hear your food described as “edible”; that’s the bare minimum.

“The fennel salad was nice,” the lipstick judge adds. “Bright, fresh, well-seasoned. It helped elevate the dish.”

The middle judge nods, her expression unreadable. “It was a solid effort,” she says. “A few small missteps, but overall, it was a good plate.”

Eddie exhales slowly, his hands unclenching slightly. Okay. Not great. But not a total disaster.

“Next, your entrees. Steve, your chicken was cooked perfectly. Juicy, tender, and beautifully seasoned. The risotto was creamy and well-balanced.”

“The vegetables were a little uneven,” the bearded judge notes. “Some were roasted perfectly, but a few were slightly overdone.”

Eddie glances at Steve, who’s standing so still he might as well be carved from stone. The man isn’t giving a single emotion away.

“And now, Eddie,” the bearded judge says.

“Your lamb was excellent,” the lipstick judge says, her voice warm. “Perfectly cooked, beautifully crusted. The herb mixture added a lovely depth of flavor.”

“The potatoes were golden and crisp on the outside, soft on the inside,” the bearded judge adds. “Very well-executed.”

No one’s ever said these things about his food before, and he’s getting slightly emotional over the praise. It’s weird.

“The vegetables were fine,” the middle judge says, her tone more measured. “They were cooked well, but they seemed to lack the same level of finesse as the rest of your plate.”

Eddie nods tightly, swallowing hard. Vegetables are stupid anyway.

“Now, your dessert. Eddie, your soufflé was impressive,” the middle judge says. “Beautifully risen, light, airy. The raspberry coulis was bright and well-balanced.”

Eddie’s knees feel weak.

“There was a slight bitterness in the chocolate,” the bearded judge notes. “It wasn’t unpleasant, but it might not appeal to everyone.”

The lipstick judge nods. “It was a strong finish,” she says. “Very impressive.”

Steve’s dessert, a delicate lemon tart with fresh berries, gets equally glowing reviews. Eddie tries not to grind his teeth as they gush over the balance of sweet and tart, the flaky crust, the precise presentation.

Steve deserves the win. Of course, he does. But…

But now that Eddie’s here, standing in front of these judges with his heart on his plates, he realizes something he wasn’t expecting. He wants to win.

Not just for Anne, to prove he can do it, but for himself. For the kid who spent his teenage years eating boxed mac and cheese. For the man who poured everything he had into this meal. For the possibility of walking away from this with more than just Steve’s heart, but also a victory he didn’t even know he wanted.

The air in the dining room feels heavy, and anticipation runs off not only Steve and Eddie but also Anne and Bobby.

“So, after eating two delicious meals, choosing our favorite was a very close decision. Both of you presented exceptional food today, and it’s clear how far you’ve come. But in the end, there can only be one winner.”

Eddie’s heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might burst out of his chest. He can feel sweat running down his back. The buzz of the electrical equipment hums in his ears as he unconsciously holds his breath. He turns his head to glance at Steve. No matter what happens, he’s grateful Steve’s the one by his side. Steve glances back, and then, without hesitation, his hand shifts, and Eddie feels the soft, slow brush of fingers against his. It’s so subtle, so delicate, that for a second, Eddie wonders if he’s imagining it. But then Steve’s fingers slide further, tangling with his, until their hands are fully laced together, warm, firm, and steady.

Eddie swallows hard, glancing down at their joined hands. To anyone else, it might look like two contestants nervously holding hands for comfort, but Eddie knows it’s more than that. It’s Steve saying, I’m here. I’m with you. No matter what happens.

And he doesn’t know how to keep it together when Steve Harrington is being this sweet.

Eddie catches the camera crew out of the corner of his eye. They know. Of course they know. A boom operator is grinning behind his mic. A cameraman adjusts his lens, most likely fully zoomed in on their linked hands. Fuck it. Eddie’s too happy to give a shit now. He squeezes his fingers reassuringly and smiles when he receives the same motion back.

“The winner of this season of Worst Cooks in America is…”

Please say my name. Please say my name.

“Eddie Munson.”

For a moment, Eddie freezes. That sounded like his name, but his brain refuses to process the words.

“Wait—what?” he blurts, his voice cracking.

“You won!” Anne shrieks, her voice high and gleeful.

And then it hits him like a freight train. He won. He actually won.

“Oh my god,” Eddie whispers, his voice shaky. “I won?”

Steve’s hand slips out of his, but before Eddie can miss it, Anne barrels toward him, throwing her arms around his shoulders.

Eddie doesn’t even think, he scoops her into a tight hug, spinning her in a circle as she laughs in delight. “Holy shit, Anne!” he says, grinning like a maniac. “We did it!”

“You did it,” Anne says, her tone softer now but no less proud. “I’m so damn proud of you.”

Eddie sets her down, his cheeks burning, but before he can say anything else, he hears Steve’s voice, warm and low, just behind him.

“Congrats, man.”

Eddie turns to find Steve shaking Bobby’s hand, his face glowing with that soft, genuine smile that makes Eddie’s heart do stupid things.

And Eddie doesn’t think. He just moves.

In two quick strides, he’s wrapping his arms around Steve, pulling him into a tight hug. Steve makes a soft, surprised sound but melts into it instantly, his hands gripping Eddie’s back.

“Thanks,” Eddie whispers, his voice low and a little breathless.

Steve pulls back just slightly, his eyes locking on Eddie’s, and in that moment, Eddie knows there’s no point in holding back. Before he can overthink it, he leans in, pressing his lips to Steve’s in a soft, gentle kiss.

The world goes silent.

For a second, Eddie forgets where they are, forgets the cameras, the crew, the judges, everything. It’s just him and Steve, the warmth of Steve’s lips, the way Steve’s hands tighten on his back, pulling him closer. Steve leans into the kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Eddie feels his heart swell so big it might actually burst.

When they finally pull apart, Steve’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes wide and soft and so goddamn beautiful. Eddie feels his own face burning, but he can’t bring himself to care. The dining room is buzzing, crew members murmuring, the faint sound of applause, and somewhere behind him, a loud, joyful whoop.

“Holy shit,” Bobby mutters his voice somewhere between amused and surprised. “Did not see that coming.”

Anne is standing off to the side, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide, but then she grins, shaking her head like she should’ve known all along.

The judges look stunned, but the lipstick judge lets out a low chuckle, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Well, that’s a first.”

Eddie doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about any of it because Steve is still looking at him, still smiling that soft, heart-melting smile. Eddie feels like he’s floating. The world around him is a blur of noise and motion, Anne laughing, Bobby muttering something sarcastic, the crew buzzing with energy, but none of it matters. None of it feels real.

What’s real is Steve.

Steve, who is still standing right in front of him, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted, looking at Eddie like he’s the only thing in the room that exists. Eddie feels his heart pounding, his chest tight and full, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at Steve, his hands still resting lightly on his hips.

“Hi,” Eddie breathes, the word coming out soft and shaky.

Steve blinks, like he’s trying to shake himself out of a daze, and then he smiles. That small, sweet, stupidly beautiful smile.

“Hi,” Steve says, his voice just as soft.

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, his thumbs brushing unconsciously against the fabric of Steve’s sweater. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching. “You mean kissing me in front of everyone? Or winning the competition?”

“Both,” Eddie admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

Steve’s smile widens, and he leans in slightly, his voice dropping low. “You deserve both.”

Eddie blinks rapidly, his throat tight as a wave of emotion crashes over him. He nods, his voice too thick to trust, and Steve smiles again, reaching up to cup Eddie’s face.

“I’m so proud of you,” Steve says, his voice steady and warm.

Eddie feels the words hit him right in the chest, so full of sincerity it almost knocks the wind out of him. “You’re proud of me?” he asks, his voice a little disbelieving.

Steve’s thumb brushes gently over Eddie’s cheekbone. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I am.”

Eddie exhales shakily, his hands sliding up to rest on Steve’s shoulders. “God, Harrington,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion. “I feel like the luckiest guy on the planet right now.”

Steve’s smile softens, turning a little shy. “Pretty sure that’s supposed to be my line,” he says quietly.

Eddie laughs, the sound bubbling out of him before he can stop it. “No way. You’re Steve freakin’ Harrington. I’m just a guy who accidentally made some decent food and kissed you in front of, like, three cameras.”

Steve’s eyes glint with something warm and teasing. “Five cameras, actually,” he says.

Eddie groans, burying his face in Steve’s shoulder for a moment. “Oh my god. I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

Steve chuckles softly, his hands sliding down to rest lightly on Eddie’s waist. “Probably not,” he says, his voice light but full of affection.

Eddie pulls back just enough to look at him again, his eyes searching Steve’s face. “Worth it,” he says softly.

Steve’s breath hitches, and for a moment, everyone around them fades. They’re just standing there in the middle of the dining room, surrounded by cameras and crew and chaos, but it feels like they’re in their own little bubble.

“I mean it,” Eddie says, his voice low but steady. “This? You? Us? It’s worth everything.”

Steve’s cheeks flush a deeper pink, and his lips curve into a small, shy smile. “You’re such a sap,” he murmurs, but his voice is thick, his hands tightening slightly on Eddie’s waist.

“Yeah, well, you bring it out in me,” Eddie says, grinning crookedly.

Steve laughs softly, and it’s the sweetest sound Eddie’s ever heard.

Behind them, Anne clears her throat loudly. “Hate to interrupt whatever… this is,” she says, her tone somewhere between amused and exasperated, “but there’s still a competition to wrap up.”

Eddie turns to look at her, his face burning, but he can’t stop smiling. “Right. Sorry. Got a little… distracted.”

Anne rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Eddie grins, his heart so full it feels like it might burst. Okay, maybe agreeing to do this show wasn’t a terrible idea after all.

The crowd is deafening.

Eddie stands at the edge of the stage, his guitar slung low across his hips, sweat dripping down his face, his hair sticking to his neck. The roar of thousands of voices fills the air, a tidal wave of energy crashing over him in waves, and for the first time in weeks, Eddie feels like he can breathe.

This is his home. His place. The stage, the lights, the music, it’s where he belongs.

But tonight, something’s different.

Eddie’s heart is pounding harder than usual, and it’s not from the music or the adrenaline or the sheer force of the crowd. No, it’s because of the man standing just a few feet away in the front row, right by the edge of the stage.

Steve Harrington.

Steve looks so out of place in this world of leather jackets and ripped jeans, but somehow, he fits. He’s wearing a Corroded Coffin t-shirt, one that Eddie gave him just a week ago, and it’s tucked into his stupidly well-fitted jeans, his hair perfectly tousled in a way that makes Eddie’s chest ache.

And beside him, grinning ear to ear, is Dustin Henderson.

The band finishes their last song of the set, the final chord reverberating through the venue, and the crowd explodes into cheers. Eddie steps back, catching his bandmates’ eyes as they move to grab water and towels. It’s break time, time for the obligatory speech before the encore, but Eddie’s not thinking about the band or the crowd or the next song.

He’s thinking about Steve.

He steps back up to the mic, his fingers gripping the stand as the cheers die down. The lights dim slightly, a spotlight catching Eddie as he gazes over the sea of faces.

“Alright,” he says, his voice crackling slightly through the speakers. “First of all, thank you. Seriously, you all are fucking amazing. We wouldn’t be here without you, so give yourselves a round of applause, huh?”

The crowd erupts again, and Eddie laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, I love you too. But listen—I gotta do something a little different tonight.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, the energy shifting slightly as everyone leans in, waiting.

Eddie’s eyes flick to the front row, to Steve, and his chest tightens. “There’s someone here tonight who’s… really fucking special to me,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “Someone who’s been through hell and back with me, who’s been patient and kind and everything I didn’t know I needed.”

The crowd cheers, a wave of noise rolling over him, and Eddie grins, his heart hammering.

“I met him doing something I never thought I’d do—trying to learn how to cook. And, uh… turns out I was pretty bad at it.” He pauses, smirking as the crowd laughs. “But seriously, this guy… he’s everything. And I don’t wanna wait another second to let the world know just how much I fucking love him.”

Eddie steps to the edge of the stage, his eyes locking on Steve’s. The crowd is screaming now, cameras flashing, but all Eddie can see is Steve, his wide, soft eyes staring back at him like Eddie hung the goddamn moon.

“So, Steve Harrington,” Eddie says, his voice cracking slightly. “Get your ass over here.”

Steve blinks, startled, but Dustin is already shoving him forward, grinning like a maniac. Steve stumbles slightly, laughing as he moves to the edge of the stage, his cheeks bright pink.

Eddie grins, dropping to his knees at the edge, leaning down as far as he can without toppling over. Steve steps up onto the edge of the barrier, their faces inches apart, and the crowd goes wild.

For a second, they just stare at each other, the noise around them fading into a dull roar. Steve’s eyes are wide and soft, his lips curving into that small, shy smile that makes Eddie’s heart feel like it’s about to burst.

“You sure about this?” Steve asks, his voice barely audible over the noise.

Eddie grins. “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

And then he leans in, his hands bracing against the edge of the stage as he kisses Steve in front of thousands of people and a million flashing cameras. It’s not a quick kiss, not a peck or a brush of lips. It’s slow, lingering, real, the kind of kiss that says everything Eddie can’t put into words. Steve kisses him back, his hands gripping the edge of the stage for balance, and Eddie swears he can feel the ground shift beneath him.

The crowd is a screaming, chaotic mess when they finally pull apart, but Eddie doesn’t care. All he cares about is how Steve looks at him like he’s the only person in the room.

“I love you,” Eddie says softly, his voice cracking slightly.

Steve’s smile widens, his eyes shining. “I love you, too.”

Dustin’s voice cuts through the noise, loud and triumphant. “FINALLY!”

The crowd bursts into laughter and cheers, and Eddie throws his head back, laughing so hard he almost topples over.

“Alright, alright,” he says into the mic, standing back up and grinning down at Steve. “You guys ready for one more song?”

The crowd roars, and Eddie glances at his bandmates, who are already smirking like they knew this was coming. He turns to Steve, winks, and says, “This one’s for you, baby.”

And as the band launches into their encore, Eddie feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, on stage, in his element, with the love of his life standing just a few feet away.

Forever.