didi

Danielle stood barefoot in front of the windows of her hotel suite, one hand still curled around the makeup wipe she'd forgotten she was holding, watching headlights crawl down the avenue several stories below. Her hair was still done from the premiere, long dark waves falling down her back, though she'd already tugged enough pieces loose around her face to guarantee her stylist would complain when she saw pictures tomorrow. Her makeup had survived considerably better than she had. Her brown eyes were still darkened with liner, cheeks still warm with whatever had been brushed onto them hours earlier, while everything below her neck had given up entirely. The dress was gone. The jewelry was mostly gone. One heel was under the coffee table, the other had disappeared somewhere between the front door and bedroom, and Danielle had replaced everything with an oversized gray sweater and shorts.

Behind her, Timothée stole another french fry off her plate.

Danielle saw him do it in the reflection and immediately turned. “Those are mine.”

Timothée, who had taken over one end of her couch approximately four minutes after they'd gotten back from the premiere, looked down at the plate balanced across his lap as though its appearance there had nothing to do with him. “They came with my sandwich.” “They came with my sandwich.” “Then why is it in front of me?” “Because you moved the plate.” “I don't remember doing that.” He ate the fry anyway. Danielle stared at him.

He was still wearing most of what he'd had on downstairs except his jacket, which he'd abandoned over the armchair by the door, and somehow his hair looked almost exactly the same as it had when dozens of cameras were pointed at him earlier. Danielle found that deeply offensive. “You're such a liar.” “You have more.” “That isn't the point.” “What's the point?” “The point is that you ordered a salad.” “I changed my mind.” “Then order fries.” “These are already here.” Danielle stared another second before grabbing one of the decorative pillows from the chair beside her and throwing it at his head. Timothée caught it against his chest without spilling anything. “Violent.” “You deserve worse.” “You're doing great on the press tour, by the way.” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, fuck you.” He laughed, and Danielle turned back toward the window, smiling despite herself.

It had been a long day. Not a bad one, just long. The New York premiere of A Complete Unknown had swallowed most of the evening, but press had started much earlier than that, bouncing them between hotel rooms and cameras and interviewers who were all lovely and somehow still managed to ask the same six questions in six slightly different ways. Timothée had been asked about learning Dylan's voice enough times that Danielle could probably answer for him now. Monica had talked about Joan Baez. Elle had talked about Sylvie. James had been asked about Bob Dylan's involvement. Danielle had answered some variation of what it was like entering James Mangold's version of Greenwich Village so many times that somewhere around interview eight she'd started recognizing the question before the interviewer finished asking it. She understood why. The movie wouldn't release nationally until Christmas, and everyone wanted their own version of a story that had already been told somewhere else. She even liked talking about it most of the time. She liked talking in general, which Timothée claimed was why press tours had been invented specifically for her.

Her character, Evelyn Mercer, didn't exist in any biography of Bob Dylan because Evelyn Mercer didn't exist at all. James had described Evie to her during their first meeting as a composite of the young women who had floated through Greenwich Village in the early sixties without ever getting enough of the photograph to have their names written beneath it: singers, waitresses, girlfriends, writers, girls with guitars who knew everybody and were remembered properly by almost no one. Evie worked behind the counter of a coffeehouse when Dylan first arrived in the Village and gradually became part of the circle around him, occasionally performing, more often insisting she would perform eventually, always somewhere in the background watching other people become the things she wasn't sure she was brave enough to become herself. She wasn't particularly important to history. That was exactly why Danielle had wanted her. There was something about playing somebody who could have existed and simply hadn't been documented that she found more interesting than stepping into a person everyone had already decided they understood. What Danielle did not find interesting anymore was being asked whether she had learned guitar specifically for the movie. She'd begun lying around interview seven—not about learning it, just about how thrilled she remained to discuss the experience.

“You know what they're going to ask tomorrow?” Danielle said, turning from the window again. Timothée didn't glance up from the fries he'd stolen. “How long did it take me to learn guitar?” “No. They're going to switch it up. Tomorrow they're asking how long it took you to learn the harmonica.” “Nice. Variety.” “Then they'll ask me whether I was intimidated working with you.” “You were.” Danielle turned around slowly. “I was not.” “You were a little.” “I had met you before.” “You can be intimidated by someone you've met.” “You're literally sitting in my hotel room eating my dinner.” “Exactly. You've grown.” Danielle reached for the pillow again and Timothée lifted one hand. “Okay.” “Asshole.” “You love me.” “Debatable.” It wasn't. Timothée knew that, which was probably why he looked so pleased with himself.

Danielle's phone began vibrating across the coffee table before she could find something else to throw at him. She leaned over far enough to see the screen and immediately frowned.

MARA KLEIN.

Timothée followed her gaze. “Trouble?”

“Mara.” “So, yes.”

Danielle kicked his foot as she passed and grabbed the phone. Mara had managed Danielle for almost five years, which meant she had known her long enough to recognize nearly every version of Danielle's voice and decide whether she believed it before Danielle had even finished speaking. She was forty-two, terrifyingly organized, perpetually ten minutes ahead of everyone else, and had once rescheduled three international flights while getting a manicure because Danielle had accidentally agreed to two events in different countries on the same night. She had also been the person sitting beside Danielle on the floor of a bathroom at twenty when a director Danielle desperately wanted to work with had gone with somebody else, and the first person to tell her to stop apologizing when she landed the role that changed everything the following year. Mara never behaved like Danielle's mother and would probably become violent if anyone accused her of it. That didn't stop her from occasionally sounding exactly like one.

Danielle answered. “Hi.” Mara skipped hello entirely. “Where are you?” Danielle frowned. “In my room.” A small pause followed. “Why did you say that like you're hiding something?” “Because when you call me and immediately ask where I am, I assume I've done something wrong.” “You usually have.” Timothée made a quiet sound from the couch, and Danielle pointed at him without looking. “Timmy's here.” “Of course he is.” “Why does everyone say that?” “Put me on speaker.” “No.” “Danielle.” She knew from the tone alone that she'd already lost. Danielle tapped the speaker icon and set the phone on the coffee table. “You're on speaker. Behave.” Timothée leaned closer. “Hi, Mara.” “Timothée.” “Merry Christmas.” “It is December thirteenth.” “Holiday spirit.” Mara ignored him. “Danielle, I sent you something.” Danielle glanced toward the laptop she'd abandoned near the opposite end of the couch. “Like now?” “Thirty seconds ago.” “What is it?” “Open your email.” “Mara.” “Open it.”

Danielle narrowed her eyes at absolutely nothing, because Mara was back in Los Angeles and therefore couldn't appreciate it, and climbed onto the couch to reach the laptop. Timothée immediately abandoned the fries and leaned closer. “Why is this exciting?” “I don't know.” “You're making it exciting.” “I'm literally opening Gmail.” “You look excited.” “Stop watching me.” Danielle pulled the computer onto her thighs. Seventeen unread emails sat at the top of the screen, most of which she planned to continue ignoring until morning. The newest had arrived less than a minute earlier. She read the subject line once, then again.

LUCKY — MATERIALS / CONFIDENTIAL.

Her back straightened slightly. “Oh.” Timothée immediately leaned closer. “What?” Danielle shifted the laptop away. “Privacy.” “I'm not reading it.” “You're physically trying to.” “I have good eyesight.” “Mara?” Danielle asked, eyes still on the screen. “Open it.”

She did. The email unfolded into several attachments: a pilot, a series overview, character materials, production information and a digital copy of a familiar book cover. Danielle clicked through the first couple quickly before stopping. “Wait. Is this the Reese's Book Club one?” “Yes.” “I know this book.” Mara sounded suspicious. “You read it?” “No.” Timothée laughed so suddenly Danielle glared at him. “I've seen it.” “Close enough.” “What's happening?” Mara began explaining that Apple and Hello Sunshine were moving forward with the limited series adaptation, that Jonathan Tropper and Cassie Pappas were leading it, that conversations had been happening behind the scenes for the past couple of weeks and that Danielle's name had come up very early. Danielle only half listened because she'd already clicked into the character material and found the name in the center of the page.

LUCKY ARMSTRONG.

Young, clever, instinctive. A woman raised inside a life of crime who had spent years trying to outrun the person she'd learned to become. Charming when she needed to be, unreadable when she didn't. The kind of person who could walk into a room, understand what somebody wanted and become it before they realized what she'd done. Danielle's eyes moved faster as she read. She returned to the beginning and read the first paragraph again before noticing Mara was still speaking. “—and they want to speak with you before everyone disappears for the holidays.” Danielle blinked. “For Lucky?” “Yes.” “Okay. When do they want me to read?” Silence. Danielle looked away from the screen. “Mara?” “You're not reading.” “I literally have the script open.” “I mean auditioning.” Danielle's hand stopped on the trackpad. Timothée, who had been pretending not to listen too closely, looked at her. “What?” “They aren't asking you to audition, Danielle.” “I don't understand.” “They're offering it to you.”

For a few seconds, the room seemed to empty itself of everything except the sound of the heating system beneath the window. A horn went off somewhere below. Someone passed through the hallway laughing. Danielle could hear Timothée shifting beside her, could see the reflection of the city against her laptop screen, could feel her own thumb still pressed unnecessarily against the edge of the trackpad.

“They're offering me Lucky?” “Yes.” “Like... Lucky.” “That's generally how offers work.” “The lead.” “The character's name is the title.” “Mara.” Timothée was grinning now. Danielle stood without having any idea why, walked two steps toward the windows and immediately turned back. “Wait, seriously?” Mara sighed. “No, Danielle. I've developed an elaborate practical joke involving Apple Studios, Reese Witherspoon and several entertainment attorneys.”

Danielle pressed her fingers against her mouth. “Oh my God.”

Mara kept talking. Jonathan had responded strongly to Danielle's work. Hello Sunshine liked her. There would be scheduling conversations, contracts, meetings, approvals, a thousand things Mara would worry about so Danielle didn't have to yet. None of it was signed. None of it was public. Nobody was announcing anything tomorrow. Danielle needed to read before she fell in love with the idea of being offered something simply because it was flattering to be asked. Danielle knew all of that. She still lowered herself onto the arm of the chair like her knees had forgotten what they were supposed to do. Timothée's expression had softened into something genuinely pleased. “Holy shit,” she whispered. Mara laughed quietly. “That's approximately what I said.” Danielle did too, a strange little sound that caught somewhere between nerves and disbelief. She looked back down at Lucky's description.

“Are they sure?”

Timothée's smile faded.

Mara went quiet.

Danielle regretted asking almost immediately. “What?” Mara said. “Nothing.” “No. Don't do that. Are they sure? I just mean—” “I know what you mean.” Of course she did. Mara had been around long enough to know without Danielle humiliating herself by explaining it. This wasn't a supporting character she could disappear inside for twenty minutes and have critics call her a standout. It wasn't an episode of an anthology or somebody's girlfriend or somebody's daughter. She wouldn't arrive forty minutes into somebody else's story and leave before the ending. This would be hers. Her face on the poster. Her name first. If it worked, everyone would know. If it didn't, everyone would know that too. Danielle looked toward the dark window and caught a faint reflection of herself there: long brunette hair still styled from the premiere, brown eyes dark beneath what remained of her makeup, cheeks flushed enough that she could feel the heat in them. “They're sure,” Mara said finally. “The question is whether you are.”

Danielle looked at the script. “No.” Mara sighed immediately. “I mean no, I'm not sure yet. Obviously. I haven't read it.” “Thank you.” “But—” “Read it.” “I am reading it.” “You're talking to me.” “I can multitask.” “You can't.” Timothée nodded solemnly. “She can't.” Danielle threw him a look. “Why are you still here?” “Your fries.” “You're actually unbelievable.” Mara continued before either of them could start again. “Read the pilot tonight. Read the rest tomorrow. I'm talking to your agent in the morning and then we'll set something up with Jonathan and Cassie.” Danielle was already scrolling. “Okay.” “And don't email anybody.” “I wasn't going to.” “Don't text anyone involved.” “I wasn't—” “Don't post anything.” Danielle actually looked offended. “Mara.” “I have to say it.” “You have never in your life had to say that to me.” “There's a first time for everything.” “Mara.” “Read.” The call ended before Danielle could answer.

She stared at the phone for approximately three seconds before Timothée said, “So you're doing it.” Danielle looked up. “I've read zero pages.” “You're doing it.” “You don't know that.” “You're making the face.” “What face?” “The one you make when you've already decided something and you're waiting for everyone else to catch up.” “I do not have a face for that.” “You absolutely do.” Danielle looked back at the laptop, where LUCKY — EPISODE 01 waited at the top of the first page. The smile came before she could stop it. Timothée pointed at her. “That one.” Danielle shoved his shoulder. “Shut up.”

— ᨳଓ .

Timothée lasted eleven pages.

To his credit, Danielle hadn't asked him to leave. He'd started out beside her on the couch while she read with the laptop balanced across her thighs, making unnecessary comments whenever her expression changed. Eventually he'd migrated toward the television, lowered the volume until it barely existed and gone back to eating. Danielle stopped noticing him somewhere around page twenty. She read upright at first, then cross-legged, then with one knee pulled against her chest and the blanket from the back of the couch dragged over her legs. She found a pen in her bag, printed the character material and began marking it almost without realizing she was doing it.

Lucky was funny. That surprised her. Not funny because somebody needed to break tension every four pages, but because she was fast, and being fast seemed to be one of the ways she'd learned to survive. She lied easily and seemed to hate herself slightly every time she realized how naturally it still came. She could turn charm on and off like a faucet. She remembered things people told her because information was useful, watched rooms before entering them fully, knew when somebody wanted to be flattered and when somebody needed to believe they were the smartest person sitting at the table. Danielle liked her almost immediately, which was inconvenient considering Mara's entire point had been that she was supposed to think rationally before committing the next several months of her life to anything.

“You're doing the thing,” Timothée said after a while. Danielle kept reading. “What thing?” “You've stopped talking.” “I'm reading.” “Exactly.” She turned a page. “I can be quiet.” “I've known you for two years.” Danielle finally looked up. “What does that mean?” “Nothing.” “No, say it.” “I like living.” “Coward.” Timothée smiled and muted the television completely. “You like it.” “I've read thirty-six pages.” “That doesn't answer me.” “I haven't finished.” “Also doesn't answer me.” Danielle lifted one finger toward him without looking up from the script. “Don't.” “You're taking it.” “Stop saying that.” “You're literally highlighting.” “I highlight everything.” “You don't.” “Yes, I do.” “No. You underline things you think are useful. You highlight things you like.” Danielle looked down. There was, unfortunately, a considerable amount of pink across the page. “I hate that you know things about me.”

She kept reading anyway. Lucky ran, lied, changed herself whenever she needed to. There was a scene halfway through the pilot where she entered a room already knowing that the safest version of herself was not the truest one, and something in Danielle's reading slowed. It wasn't the crime that felt familiar. Danielle had never robbed anybody, unless Timothée counted the sweatshirt she'd stolen from his apartment six months ago and had no plans to return. It was everything underneath it. Reading a room. Knowing who wanted to talk and who wanted someone else to do the talking for them. Remembering names. Remembering somebody's sister was pregnant because they'd mentioned it two months ago. Catching when a person standing alone at a party wanted company without making them ask. Danielle had always been good at people. She liked people. She liked talking to them even more. There were nights she'd walk into a dinner knowing two people and leave with fifteen new numbers in her phone. Lucky did something similar for entirely different reasons. Lucky used it to survive. Danielle had always assumed she did it because she was nice.

Around page fifty, Timothée stood and started pulling on his jacket. Danielle only noticed because he walked directly across her line of sight. “You're leaving?” He stopped. “I've been saying goodbye for five minutes.” “No, you haven't.” “I said your name twice.” Danielle frowned. “Seriously?” “Yeah.” “Oh.” Timothée smiled. “Exactly.” “Sorry.” “No, it's good.” “How is me completely ignoring you good?” “Means the script's good.” Danielle looked back down. “Maybe.” “You're taking it.” “Stop.” “Tomorrow you're going to call me and act like you reached some profound decision after careful consideration.” “I could hate the ending.” “You're on episode one.” “Exactly. Lots of opportunities for disappointment.” Timothée reached toward the plate as he passed, and Danielle slapped his hand away without even looking. “Go home.” “Text me.” “I'm seeing you tomorrow.” “You text people you're going to see tomorrow every day.” “Because I have things to say.” “I know.” “Bye.”

He had almost reached the door when Danielle noticed another attachment in the folder. “Wait.” Timothée turned with his hand already on the handle. Danielle clicked it open. “Have you seen Queer?” His expression changed. “That's random.” “Have you?” “Yeah.” She barely heard him. The document was a preliminary cast sheet. Most names still had some variation of pending or confidential beside them. One immediately caught her attention.

CARY MASTERSON — DREW STARKEY

Danielle stared for half a second. “Oh.” Timothée came back over. “What?” She angled the laptop toward him. “Drew Starkey's playing Cary.” Timothée looked at the screen. “Okay.” “No, he's really good.” “I didn't say he wasn't.” “I saw Queer last week.” “And?” Danielle sat back, already frustrated because she knew what she meant and hadn't figured out how to say it without making it sound stupid. “He barely does anything.” Timothée stared. “Incredible review.” “No, I mean it in a good way.” “Strong recovery.” “Shut up. I'm serious.”

She'd known who Drew Starkey was before Queer, obviously. Outer Banks had existed loudly enough in popular culture that it would have been difficult not to, and she'd seen episodes here and there, enough to know Rafe Cameron before she'd thought particularly hard about the actor playing him. Queer had been different. Juliet had gone with her to see it the previous week, largely because they'd both unexpectedly had the same evening free and Danielle had wanted to see Daniel Craig do something strange. She'd walked out thinking about Drew. He was attractive, obviously. Danielle had eyes. That wasn't particularly interesting. Beautiful people were everywhere in her profession, usually standing under flattering lighting and pretending not to know it. What had stayed with her was how little he seemed interested in making sure the audience understood him.

“There are actors who show you everything,” Danielle said, still looking at his name. “Like every thought is right there because they want to make sure you don't miss it. He doesn't do that.” Timothée leaned against the back of the couch. “Okay.” “You're humoring me.” “A little.” “Whatever. He doesn't push. He'll barely move and you still feel like something's happening behind his eyes, and then you start watching harder because he isn't giving it to you.” Timothée looked from Danielle to the laptop. “And you think that's Cary?” “I don't know yet.” She clicked back into the script and scanned the pages she'd already read, finding the places where Cary existed more like a shadow around Lucky than a fully explained person. Her past. Somebody who knew too much about her and not enough at the same time. “But if he's who I think he is, yeah. I think it's really good casting.”

Timothée was staring at her again. Danielle noticed. “What?” “Nothing.” “Why are you looking at me like that?” “You're going to be weird when you meet him.” Danielle laughed loudly enough that he smiled. “I am not.” “You just gave me a dissertation about his eyes.” “His acting.” “Sure.” “That is completely different.” “Okay.” “Don't okay me.” “Okay.” Danielle threw one of the remaining fries. Timothée ducked, laughing as he opened the door. “See you tomorrow.” “You're annoying.” “Goodnight, Dani.” “Bye.”

The door shut. Silence settled over the suite for approximately ten seconds before Danielle immediately started reading again. She clicked back to Cary's character description once first, though. Working opposite someone she respected always made her slightly nervous. Not scared. Aware. Good actors made it impossible to coast because they were actually listening. They changed tiny things and forced you to respond instead of reciting something you'd already decided in your trailer. They made scenes dangerous in the way Danielle liked best. She stared at Drew's name for another moment, then smiled and returned to the pilot.

He was going to make her work.

Good.

— ᨳଓ .

Juliet answered on the fourth ring with approximately half of her face visible. “Why are you calling me this late?” Danielle frowned at the screen. “It's eleven.” “Some of us have normal jobs.” “You work in publishing.” “Correct.” “Yesterday you spent four hours arguing about whether a book cover should be cream or off-white.” “It mattered.” “It absolutely did not.” Juliet adjusted the phone until Danielle could see her properly. She was already in bed, glasses on, dark hair shoved into a loose bun, her comforter pulled halfway up her chest. Danielle had known Juliet long enough that there had been a time before either of them had careers worth complaining about. Before premieres. Before assistants. Before hotel suites and cars waiting downstairs and Danielle having to check a calendar to figure out when she could go home for Christmas. Juliet had known her when Danielle had still been convinced every failed audition meant she'd never work again and when the two of them could spend an entire Friday night on someone's bedroom floor talking until three in the morning. Fame had impressed Juliet for approximately three weeks when Danielle first became recognizable and then apparently never again.

Juliet narrowed her eyes. “What happened?” Danielle tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear while carrying her laptop toward the bed. “Why does something have to have happened?” “Because you FaceTimed instead of texting.” “I FaceTime you.” “You FaceTime when you have news.” “That isn't true.” “You sent me seventeen TikToks today. If you only wanted to talk, number eighteen would already be in my messages.” Danielle climbed onto the bed and pulled the laptop after her. Her suite looked considerably less glamorous than it had when she'd arrived two days ago. Clothes hung over the armchair, makeup had colonized half the bathroom counter, shoes were everywhere, scripts now covered most of the coffee table. Danielle smiled. “Okay, don't be annoying.” Juliet's eyes narrowed immediately. “You got a job.” Danielle stopped moving. “How the fuck do you do that?” “I knew it.” “No, seriously.” “You always start good news with ‘don't be annoying’ because you already know I'm going to make fun of how excited you are.” “That is absolutely not true.” “It's a little true.” “I hate you.” “You called me.”

Danielle tried to hold it for another second and failed. “They offered me something.” Juliet sat upright. “Okay.” “A series.” “Okay.” “For Apple.” “Dani.” She laughed. “What?” “Stop making me drag it out of you.” “I'm building suspense.” “You're making me angry.” “It's called Lucky.” Juliet's expression changed immediately. “Wait, the book?” Danielle blinked. “You know it?” “I work in publishing.” “You don't work on that book.” “Do you think I only know books my company publishes?” “Kind of.” “You're so stupid.” “That's mean.” Juliet pushed her glasses higher. “Who are you playing?” Danielle pointed at herself. Juliet stared at her finger and then at her face. “No.” Danielle's smile widened. “Yeah.” “Lucky?” “Yeah.” “Like the Lucky?” “How many Luckys do you think are in the show called Lucky?” Juliet disappeared briefly out of frame. Danielle burst out laughing. “Where are you going?” “Nowhere. I needed to stand up.” “Why?” “I don't know! Oh my God, Dani!”

Something about Juliet's excitement made the news land differently than Mara's call had. Mara dealt in careers and contracts; Timothée dealt in sets and press tours and understood immediately what an Apple lead meant professionally. Juliet simply looked proud of her. Danielle's grin softened. “I haven't said yes yet.” Juliet stopped moving. “You're going to.” “Why does everybody keep saying that?” “Because we know you.” “You haven't read it.” “Do you like it?” Danielle glanced at the script open beside her. “Yeah.” “How much?” “I don't know.” “Danielle.” “A lot.” Juliet smiled. “There.” “That's not a decision.” “No, but you don't call me this late about things you feel normal about.” Danielle dropped backward against the pillows, long dark hair spreading over the white sheets. “I've only read the pilot.” “And?” “She's good.” “Lucky?” “Yeah. She's kind of awful.” Juliet nodded thoughtfully. “Perfect for you.” Danielle gasped. “Fuck you.” Juliet laughed. “No, tell me.”

So Danielle did.

This was how every supposedly short conversation with Juliet went. Danielle intended to give her a five-minute explanation and twenty-five minutes disappeared. She told her about Lucky's father, the cons, the way she'd been raised, the life she'd tried to build after leaving all of it behind. She told her about Jonathan Tropper and Cassie Pappas and Hello Sunshine. She read Juliet one of the lines she'd highlighted, then another, then got distracted explaining why the second one mattered. Juliet listened through most of it without interrupting, which was one of the reasons Danielle could talk to her for hours. By the time Danielle reached the casting attachment, Juliet had gone back to lying down.

“And Drew Starkey's in it.”

Juliet blinked. “Who?”

Danielle shot upright. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

“You know who Drew Starkey is.”

“I probably do if you show me.”

“You saw Queer with me literally last week.”

Juliet stared for a second. “Oh.” Danielle waited. Juliet's expression suddenly changed. “Ohhh. The blond one.” “He is not blond.” “He was blond-ish.” “In the movie.” “That's the movie I'm talking about.” “His name was Eugene.” “He was hot.” Danielle made a face. “That is what you took away from Queer?” “I took away other things.” “Name one.” Juliet considered it. “Daniel Craig was sweaty.” Danielle laughed so hard she had to put the phone down for a second. “I'm hanging up.” “Wait, so you're working with him?” “If I take it.” “You're taking it.” “Stop saying that.” Juliet's smile became suspicious. “Do you think he's hot?” Danielle's expression flattened. “I just spent ten minutes explaining that he's a really good actor.” “That wasn't my question.” “I've never met him.” “You don't have to know somebody personally to possess eyesight.”

Danielle looked toward the laptop. She could have lied, but there was no reason to. “Obviously he's attractive.” Juliet made a noise so obnoxious that Danielle immediately regretted answering. “Oh my God, don't.” “I didn't say anything.” “You did a face.” “I'm on FaceTime. I'm going to have a face.” “You know what I mean.” “This is why I regret telling you things.” “You've never regretted telling me anything in your life.” Unfortunately true. Danielle slid lower beneath the duvet. “I just think it'll be interesting.” “Working with him.” “Yes.” “That's all.” Danielle stared. “Why are you trying to create something that isn't there? I haven't even met him.” “I'm not. I'm bothering you because it's easy.” “Well, congratulations, you're succeeding.” Juliet smiled. “You love me.” Danielle checked the time. 11:37. “I have press tomorrow.” “And you're going to stay awake reading until two.” “No, I'm not.” “Okay.” Danielle pointed at the screen. “Everyone needs to stop doing that.” “Doing what?” “Saying okay like I'm lying.” “You are lying.” Danielle opened her mouth, realized she had absolutely no defense, and closed it again.

Juliet laughed, then softened. “Call me tomorrow.” “Maybe.” “You will.” “Goodnight.” “Congratulations, Dani.” Danielle's thumb paused above the end-call button. Juliet's expression had changed. “Seriously. I'm proud of you.” There it was—the kind of sentence Danielle could never figure out how to joke away quickly enough. She swallowed, suddenly far more interested in the corner of her laptop than Juliet's face. “Thank you.” “Love you.” Danielle smiled. “Love you too.” The screen went dark.

The room became quiet again.

Danielle looked at her laptop, then at the clock, then back at Lucky.

She read until 2:14 in the morning.

— ᨳଓ .

The next morning began with somebody putting concealer beneath Danielle's eyes while she drank an iced matcha through a straw and insisted she was perfectly rested. Timothée, sitting in the chair beside hers while someone attempted to tame his hair, watched her through the mirror. “You stayed up.” Danielle didn't look at him. “No.” “You look tired.” “That's so kind.” “I didn't say bad.” “You implied it.” “I asked if you stayed up.” “You said I look tired.” “Because you do.” Danielle turned toward the makeup artist standing behind her. “Am I ugly?” The woman laughed. “No.” “Thank you.” Timothée shook his head. “You can't ask someone currently being paid to do your makeup that.” “I can ask whoever I want.” “She can't say yes.” Danielle gasped and turned back toward the mirror. “Why would she want to?” “I don't know. Honesty?” “You're obsessed with hurting me this morning.” “You look beautiful, Danielle.” “Too late.”

The hotel floor had already transformed into the temporary ecosystem Danielle had gotten used to during press: publicists walking quickly while staring at phones, garment bags disappearing through doorways, assistants carrying four coffees at once, producers asking where somebody was, stylists borrowing things from other stylists and promising to return them. They had press that morning, a few hours between commitments and then the MoMA Contenders screening that evening. Danielle liked days like this more than she complained about them. There was something comforting about everybody having somewhere to be, and she had never been particularly good at sitting still when there were people around to talk to anyway. She'd already learned the names of two new Searchlight assistants by breakfast, complimented someone's boots in the hallway and somehow ended up hearing the entire story of where she'd bought them, then gotten distracted halfway back to glam because Monica had called her from another room. By the time she actually sat down, three different people had asked where she'd been.

Someone stuck their head through the doorway. “Ten minutes, guys.” Danielle called, “Thank you!” before reaching for her phone. Three messages from Mara waited there.

Morning. Call me when you're conscious. Preferably before noon.

Timothée spotted the name in the mirror. “Lucky?” Danielle immediately locked her phone. “None of your business.” “That's a yes.” “I could be talking to Mara about a million things.” “Name three.” “My career.” “Lucky.” “Money.” “Lucky money.” “You are so irritating.” “Drew Starkey?” Danielle's head snapped toward him. Timothée smiled innocently. “What?” “Why are you saying his name?” “He's in the show.” “So are other people.” “You didn't give me a ten-minute analysis of them last night.” “It was not ten minutes.” “Nine.” Danielle turned toward the stylist working on her hair. “Can we move him?” “You'd miss me.” “I'd recover.”

When glam finally released her, Danielle stood and smoothed a hand over the dark trousers and cream knit top she'd been put into for the morning. Her hair fell in glossy brunette waves down her back, softer today than it had been at the premiere, and the brown of her eyes looked almost amber beneath the bright ring lights around the mirror. She checked herself once from habit, adjusted one earring and reached for her phone. Timothée was still watching her. “Are you taking it?” “I finished the pilot.” “That wasn't my question.” “I read episode two.” “Still not my question.” “They sent three.” His mouth twitched. “And?” Danielle put her phone into her bag. “I finished those too.” Timothée laughed. “What?” “Nothing.” “Don't.” “You're taking it.” Danielle started for the doorway. “I hate you.” “Have fun with Drew Starkey.” She stopped and turned around. “Why do you keep saying it like that?” “Like what?” “Like you're implying something.” “I'm literally standing here.” “You're fucking annoying.” He followed her into the hallway laughing while Danielle immediately started talking to someone else before they'd made it ten feet.

For the next several hours, she was entirely herself again. Loud enough that somebody shushed her jokingly before one interview started. Talking with her hands until she nearly knocked over Timothée's coffee during another. Leaning across Monica to answer something Elle had said while all three of them were supposed to be paying attention to the interviewer. Danielle knew there were people who treated press like another performance and people who found the repetition genuinely exhausting. She landed somewhere in the middle. She knew when the cameras came on. She knew which stories were safe to tell and which anecdotes her publicist would murder her for sharing. But she also genuinely liked talking to people. If an interviewer asked a good question, she forgot to give a polished answer. If somebody made her laugh, she laughed loudly enough that editors had to fix the audio. Timothée teased her after one interview because she'd turned a question about Evie's costuming into a five-minute story about an elderly background actor who'd taught her how to mend a button between takes. Danielle told him the story was interesting. He said that wasn't the point. She said there was no point. 

By her first real break, she had eighteen minutes before somebody needed her downstairs again. Mara called before Danielle could call her first. Danielle answered while taking off one earring. “I read them.” “Good morning to you too.” “I like them.” “I assumed.” Danielle dropped the earring into its case. “Can you let me say anything?” “No.” “Mara.” “Do you want to do it?” The question quieted her in a different way than sadness ever did. Danielle sat on the edge of the bed. The easiest answer was yes, which scared her slightly because she didn't usually trust decisions that came too easily. “I want to talk to Jonathan.” “Good.” Danielle narrowed her eyes. “You already scheduled it.” “Tomorrow morning.” “Why do you even ask me things?” “To preserve the illusion that you're in charge.” “I am in charge.” “Ten a.m. Jonathan, Cassie. Lauren may join.” “Okay.”

“And before you ask, Drew isn't on it.”

Danielle frowned. “I wasn't going to ask that.”

Mara went suspiciously quiet. 

“What?” “Nothing.” “Mara.”

“I didn't say anything.” “I hate when people do that.”

“Do what?” “Nothing.”

“Then we agree.”

Danielle rolled her eyes hard enough to make herself dizzy. “I just saw his name on the cast sheet.” “I know.” “Has he been attached long?” “Long enough.” “Okay.” Mara waited a beat. “Why?” “No reason.” “Danielle.” “Oh my God, I saw Queer. That's all. He's good.” “I didn't accuse you of anything.” “You were about to.” “I was about to ask why you were asking.” “Same thing.” “It really isn't.” Danielle fell backward across the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I just think he's good casting.” “Great.” “You said that weird.” “Danielle, I am eating a yogurt at my desk.” “You have tones.” “I also have a meeting in two minutes.”

“Fine. Go.”

“Read the book if you can before tomorrow.”

Danielle shot upright. “By tomorrow?”

“You stayed awake until two reading three episodes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“Avery told me you ordered room service at one thirty.”

Danielle gasped. “She's a traitor.”

“She works for you, not the CIA.”

“I expect my assistant to have loyalty.”

“I'll add it to her job description. Read.”

Mara hung up.

Danielle stared at the blank screen, smiling despite herself, before another notification arrived.

tim: you taking it yet

dani: die

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

tim: so yes

Danielle put her phone facedown and went back downstairs.

— ᨳଓ .

By five that evening, Danielle was sitting beneath the lights at MoMA trying not to think about a fictional con artist while several hundred people watched A Complete Unknown. She had seen the movie enough times by then that anticipation no longer lived in the plot itself. Instead she found herself anticipating other people's reactions: the silence before certain scenes, the scattered laughter in places none of them had realized were funny while filming, the subtle shift in a theater when an audience collectively understood something at the same time. She watched Timothée more than the screen during a couple of scenes just because she knew it annoyed him when he noticed. He eventually caught her and mouthed stop. Danielle smiled sweetly and looked forward.

Afterward came the conversation. James sat with them along with Timothée, Elle, Monica and Boyd, and Danielle settled into her chair already knowing there was almost no possibility she'd sit still for the entire thing. The moderator started with James and the beginnings of the movie, then moved through Timothée's preparation, Monica's work as Joan, Elle's approach to Sylvie. Danielle listened, occasionally leaning toward whoever was speaking, laughing when somebody remembered something differently than she did. When the moderator finally turned to her and asked about Evie being fictional inside a story filled with recognizable people, Danielle shifted forward immediately.

“That was actually why I liked her,” she said, and then laughed because she could already hear Mara somewhere in her head warning her not to turn a three-minute answer into twelve. “Sorry, I'm going to talk forever.”

Timothée leaned toward his microphone. “She is.”

The audience laughed. Danielle turned toward him with an offended expression. “Do you want to answer for me?” “No, please. This is your moment.” “Thank you so much.” She looked back at the moderator, still smiling. “No, but seriously, I think everybody else had all of this material to look at. There are interviews, photographs, recordings, obviously the music. Evie didn't have any of that because she isn't one person. And James talked to me really early about how many women existed around scenes like that whose names just don't become part of the mythology in the same way. I loved getting to build somebody out of that rather than trying to imitate a person who already existed.”

James nodded beside her and added something about the composite nature of the character, about needing figures who represented the social fabric around the clubs and coffeehouses rather than only the famous people history remembered. Danielle listened, eyes moving toward him, and when he mentioned an idea they'd discussed during filming, she immediately interrupted with, “Wait, tell them the coffeehouse thing.” James laughed. “I was getting there.” “Sorry.” Timothée muttered, “Were you?” Danielle kicked his shoe lightly beneath the chairs. The audience couldn't see it. Elle did and started laughing.

It went on like that. Danielle was comfortable enough around them now that she forgot about the room occasionally. She finished Monica's sentence once, apologized, then did it again ten minutes later. She told a story about Boyd making her break character during one of their first days on set. Timothée corrected one detail, Danielle loudly accused him of not even being present when it happened, and James had to inform both of them that Timothée actually had been there. By the end of the Q&A Danielle's cheeks hurt from smiling. This was the version of her that existed most naturally: around people she liked, surrounded by conversation, always one thought away from saying the next thing out loud.

Her phone remained in her bag the entire time.

Lucky stayed there with it.

That felt important somehow.

This movie had consumed so much of the previous year that Danielle had forgotten what it felt like to stand on the edge of something new. A Complete Unknown wasn't finished with her yet. There were interviews left, release week, awards conversations nobody was supposed to admit they cared about, more events, more dresses, more questions about guitar lessons. But sitting there at MoMA surrounded by a cast that had become familiar enough to annoy her like family, Danielle felt the strange beginning of an ending.

Something else was waiting.

The thought didn't make her sad.

It made her restless.

She liked beginnings.

— ᨳଓ .

Jonathan Tropper appeared on Danielle's laptop at ten the following morning wearing glasses and apologizing for being thirty seconds late. Cassie Pappas joined from another square, Lauren Neustadter from a third, and Mara existed as audio somewhere offscreen because apparently even when Danielle was the person being offered the job, Mara refused to let her do anything unsupervised. Danielle had been awake for two hours. She had finished the scripts. She had started the novel. She had written so many notes that one page had acquired arrows connecting things that no longer made sense to anybody but her. She had also changed sweaters twice because the first one suddenly felt too formal and the second made her feel like she was twelve. She'd finally settled on a simple black long-sleeved top, hair loose and mostly untouched from the shower, big glasses on, makeup minimal enough that the brown of her eyes looked darker than they had beneath the press lights all week.

She was nervous. Not audition nervous. Auditions at least gave nerves somewhere useful to go. You learned the sides, made decisions, walked into a room knowing everyone expected you to prove why you belonged there. An offer was stranger. They had already decided something about her. Danielle had to decide whether she trusted their decision enough to build months of her life around it.

Jonathan made that considerably easier. They talked first about the book and then about what the series would change, what they wanted to preserve, how he and Cassie saw Lucky less as a cool criminal archetype and more as somebody whose greatest survival skill had gradually become the thing preventing her from knowing who she was without it. Danielle leaned forward almost immediately. “That's what I liked. She doesn't feel like she's lying when she lies.” Jonathan nodded. “Exactly.” “It's like she believes herself for however long she needs to.” “Because she has to.” Danielle glanced down at one of her notes. “And I don't think she always knows when she's doing it anymore.” Cassie smiled. “That's the character.” Danielle smiled too, the last of her nerves beginning to loosen.

They talked for almost an hour. Lucky's father. The structure of the series. The different periods of her life they would see. How much humor she could have without turning her into someone glib. How physically demanding portions of the production would be. Danielle asked too many questions and apologized exactly once before Jonathan told her to stop apologizing for asking questions during a meeting that existed so she could ask questions. Mara said, “Thank you,” somewhere offscreen. Danielle ignored her.

Then Cary came up.

“We've got Drew Starkey attached there,” Jonathan said. “I think you probably saw that in the materials.”

Danielle's attention sharpened. “Yeah.”

“You know Drew?”

“No. I know his work.”

“What do you think?”

She laughed slightly. “Of Drew?”

“For Cary.”

Danielle glanced toward the notes she'd made. She could have given an easy answer. Great actor. Excited to work with him. Thought he'd be wonderful. All true, all useless. Instead she said, “I think it's really smart.” Jonathan's expression invited her to continue, which was dangerous because Danielle rarely needed much encouragement. “There are things about Cary on the page where I think if somebody plays them too hard, you understand him immediately. And I don't think you're supposed to understand him immediately.” “You're not,” Cassie said. Danielle nodded. “Exactly. And Drew doesn't really do that.”

Jonathan looked interested. “What do you mean?”

Danielle tucked a section of dark hair behind one ear. “I saw Queer recently. There's this thing he does where he doesn't seem afraid of making you wait for him. Some actors want you to see every thought they're having, and he doesn't. He can give you almost nothing and somehow you end up watching him more closely because of it. Like you know something's happening behind his eyes, but he's not going to help you figure out what.”

There was half a second of silence.

Danielle grimaced. “Sorry. That sounded like I wrote an essay about him.”

Jonathan laughed. “No. That's actually a large part of why we like him.”

“Okay, good.”

“Cary needs to be somebody Lucky can never completely read.”

Danielle's pen stopped. Something about the sentence lodged itself immediately in her brain. She wrote it down.

never completely read.

Jonathan continued. “The difficult part is that they also need to feel like two people who know each other better than anybody. They know where all the bodies are buried, sometimes literally. But they're still capable of surprising each other.”

Danielle circled the sentence she'd written. “I like that.”

“We'll get you and Drew together once everyone's schedules settle. Read-through, rehearsals. Van Tulleken's directing the pilot, so he'll want time with both of you before cameras are up.”

“Okay.”

Jonathan smiled slightly. “Nervous?” The question surprised her. “A little.”

“About the role?”

Danielle thought about it. “Everything, I think.”

Lauren smiled. “Good nervous?”

“Yeah.” Danielle looked down at Lucky's name printed across the script beside her. “Definitely good nervous.”

The meeting ended with more things for Mara to worry about and more people for Danielle to thank. She closed the laptop once the final square disappeared and remained sitting exactly where she was.

The suite seemed unusually quiet.

Danielle looked down at her notebook.

never completely read

She circled it again.

Her phone rang.

Mara. Danielle answered. “Hi.”

“Well?”

Danielle looked toward the window. New York was gray that morning, clouds hanging low enough over the buildings that the entire city seemed slightly desaturated. “I want it.”

Mara didn't respond immediately. Danielle smiled. “You knew that.”

“I did.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

Danielle ran her thumb along the edge of the notebook. A little knot of nerves remained beneath her ribs, but the feeling underneath it was stronger now. Excitement. The kind that made sitting still difficult. “Tell them yes.”

Mara's voice softened. “You sure?”

Danielle looked at the script on her bed. At the pages she'd covered in notes. At the cast sheet half buried beneath them.

DANIELLE SNOW — LUCKY ARMSTRONG.

Beneath it:

DREW STARKEY — CARY MASTERSON.

“Yeah,” Danielle said, smiling. “I'm sure.”

— ᨳଓ .

Juliet called her during the car ride to another evening event because Danielle had sent exactly one champagne emoji and apparently that constituted a legally binding announcement. “You said yes!” Danielle held the phone away from her ear. “Why are you yelling?” “Because you said yes.” “How do you know what the champagne meant?” “When have you ever sent me champagne for anything else?” Danielle looked through the window, Manhattan moving past in cold flashes of storefront lights and pedestrians wrapped tightly in coats. Her publicist sat across from her reviewing the night's schedule, either genuinely not listening or politely pretending not to. Danielle lowered her voice anyway. “I said yes.” Juliet made another noise. “Oh my God, stop.” “This is huge.” “I know.” “Are you freaking out?” “A little.” “Are you happy?”

Danielle looked down at her hands. That answer came easier.

“Yeah. Really happy.”

Juliet went quiet for a moment. “Good.”

Danielle smiled. Then Juliet ruined it. “So when do you meet Hot Blond Guy?”

Danielle closed her eyes. “I'm hanging up.”

“He was blond in the movie!”

“He is brunette.”

“Why do you know that so confidently?”

“I have fucking eyes, Juliet.”

“So you looked.”

“I watched an entire movie with him in it!”

Her publicist's mouth twitched across from her. Danielle pointed accusingly. “Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Everyone around me has become horrible.” Juliet was still laughing through the phone. “Tell him I loved him in Challengers.”

Danielle stared. “That's Josh O'Connor.”

“Oh.”

“They don't even look alike.”

“A little.”

“No.”

“I was testing you.”

“No, you weren't.”

“Okay, bye.”

“You're the worst.”

“Love you.”

The call ended.

Approximately ten seconds later, Danielle's phone buzzed.

jules: tell drew i loved him in challengers

Danielle laughed loudly enough that her publicist finally gave up pretending not to listen. “Juliet?” Danielle typed back while nodding.

dani: that is literally still a different man

Three dots appeared.

jules: omg

Danielle locked her phone.

The car slowed.

Outside, cameras were already visible beyond the barricades.

The familiar shift moved through her before she even thought about it—not fake, never completely fake, just practiced. Danielle checked her lipstick in her phone's reflection and ran her fingers once through the ends of her hair. The door opened. Sound rushed in.

Someone called her name. Then someone else.

Danielle smiled and stepped out.

She moved toward the photographers, turned when someone shouted from her left, laughed when another photographer immediately asked her to look back. A few minutes later she found Timothée, who took one look at her expression and said, “You said yes.” Danielle stared. “How does everyone know everything?” “Your face.” “Apparently I need Botox.” “Please don't.” “I wasn't actually going to.” “Mara would kill you.” “Mara would kill you somehow.”

Timothée smiled. “Congratulations.”

Danielle's expression softened. “Thanks.”

“You excited?”

She nodded. “Really.”

“Good.”

Someone called him toward another group before he could say anything else. Danielle watched him go, then immediately heard Monica calling her from several feet away and turned.

For the next few hours, Lucky belonged somewhere in the back of her mind.

She talked about Evie. About James. About filming in New York. She told somebody how surreal the live music had been on set and made a joke she'd made at least twice already that week but still found funny. She found Elle between interviews and ended up talking long enough that both of their publicists had to separate them. She yelled Timothée's name across a room instead of walking ten feet to get his attention. He yelled back that she was embarrassing. Danielle told him everyone already knew him.

This was her life right now.

And she loved it.

That realization mattered because something else was beginning.

Not replacing it. Just waiting behind it.

A new set. New scripts. New people. Lucky Armstrong waiting for Danielle to figure her out. And somewhere among all of that, Drew Starkey.

Danielle didn't know why that part made the anticipation sharpen slightly. Probably because he was good. Probably because Jonathan had said Cary needed to be impossible for Lucky to completely read.

Probably because Danielle had always liked a challenge.

— ᨳଓ .

Juliet called her during the car ride to another evening event because Danielle had sent exactly one champagne emoji and apparently that constituted a legally binding announcement. “You said yes!” Danielle held the phone away from her ear. “Why are you yelling?” “Because you said yes.” “How do you know what the champagne meant?” “When have you ever sent me champagne for anything else?” Danielle looked through the window, Manhattan moving past in cold flashes of storefront lights and pedestrians wrapped tightly in coats. Her publicist sat across from her reviewing the night's schedule, either genuinely not listening or politely pretending not to. Danielle lowered her voice anyway. “I said yes.” Juliet made another noise. “Oh my God, stop.” “This is huge.” “I know.” “Are you freaking out?” “A little.” “Are you happy?”

Danielle looked down at her hands. That answer came easier.

“Yeah. Really happy.”

Juliet went quiet for a moment. “Good.”

Danielle smiled. Then Juliet ruined it. “So when do you meet Hot Blond Guy?”

Danielle closed her eyes. “I'm hanging up.”

“He was blond in the movie!”

“He is brunette.”

“Why do you know that so confidently?”

“I have fucking eyes, Juliet.”

“So you looked.”

“I watched an entire movie with him in it!”

Her publicist's mouth twitched across from her. Danielle pointed accusingly. “Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Everyone around me has become horrible.” Juliet was still laughing through the phone. “Tell him I loved him in Challengers.”

Danielle stared. “That's Josh O'Connor.”

“Oh.”

“They don't even look alike.”

“A little.”

“No.”

“I was testing you.”

“No, you weren't.”

“Okay, bye.”

“You're the worst.”

“Love you.”

The call ended.

Approximately ten seconds later, Danielle's phone buzzed.

jules: tell drew i loved him in challengers

Danielle laughed loudly enough that her publicist finally gave up pretending not to listen. “Juliet?” Danielle typed back while nodding.

dani: that is literally still a different man

Three dots appeared.

jules: omg

Danielle locked her phone.

The car slowed.

Outside, cameras were already visible beyond the barricades.

The familiar shift moved through her before she even thought about it—not fake, never completely fake, just practiced. Danielle checked her lipstick in her phone's reflection and ran her fingers once through the ends of her hair. The door opened. Sound rushed in.

Someone called her name. Then someone else.

Danielle smiled and stepped out.

She moved toward the photographers, turned when someone shouted from her left, laughed when another photographer immediately asked her to look back. A few minutes later she found Timothée, who took one look at her expression and said, “You said yes.” Danielle stared. “How does everyone know everything?” “Your face.” “Apparently I need Botox.” “Please don't.” “I wasn't actually going to.” “Mara would kill you.” “Mara would kill you somehow.”

Timothée smiled. “Congratulations.”

Danielle's expression softened. “Thanks.”

“You excited?”

She nodded. “Really.”

“Good.”

Someone called him toward another group before he could say anything else. Danielle watched him go, then immediately heard Monica calling her from several feet away and turned.

For the next few hours, Lucky belonged somewhere in the back of her mind.

She talked about Evie. About James. About filming in New York. She told somebody how surreal the live music had been on set and made a joke she'd made at least twice already that week but still found funny. She found Elle between interviews and ended up talking long enough that both of their publicists had to separate them. She yelled Timothée's name across a room instead of walking ten feet to get his attention. He yelled back that she was embarrassing. Danielle told him everyone already knew him.

This was her life right now.

And she loved it.

That realization mattered because something else was beginning.

Not replacing it. Just waiting behind it.

A new set. New scripts. New people. Lucky Armstrong waiting for Danielle to figure her out. And somewhere among all of that, Drew Starkey.

Danielle didn't know why that part made the anticipation sharpen slightly. Probably because he was good. Probably because Jonathan had said Cary needed to be impossible for Lucky to completely read.

Probably because Danielle had always liked a challenge.

— ᨳଓ .

It was after midnight when Danielle finally returned to the hotel. She took her earrings out in the elevator, kicked her heels off before reaching the bedroom and washed her face until the version of Danielle Snow who'd been photographed outside an event less than an hour earlier had mostly disappeared down the drain. Her dark hair went into a loose knot at the back of her head, several strands immediately escaping around her face, and without the liner and warm lighting her brown eyes looked darker, tired enough that any reasonable person would have gone directly to sleep.

Danielle was not a reasonable person.

She put on an oversized sweatshirt, climbed into bed and opened the Lucky folder again.

The contracts weren't final. Mara would probably appear physically in New York just to strangle her if Danielle referred to herself publicly as attached before the paperwork was finished. But saying yes had changed something anyway. The scripts felt different now. Less like material somebody had sent her and more like something she was going to have to understand.

Something hers. 

She opened the updated cast document. Her name was there. Danielle stopped.

LUCKY ARMSTRONG — DANIELLE SNOW

She stared longer than she meant to. 

A strange little pressure settled behind her ribs. Pride, definitely. Fear too. The two seemed annoyingly committed to arriving together lately.

Danielle scrolled.

CARY MASTERSON — DREW STARKEY

She smiled.

Jonathan's sentence returned almost immediately.

Cary needs to be somebody Lucky can never completely read.

Danielle thought about Queer. About sitting beside Juliet in the theater the week before and finding herself watching Drew even when the scene wasn't asking her to. The restraint. The stillness. The feeling that something was happening behind his eyes that he had no interest in translating for the audience.

Actors who didn't seem afraid of silence. Actors who made you come looking.

She clicked into the pilot and found one of the scenes she'd marked between Lucky and Cary. She read it once. Then again. The second time she tried imagining somebody reading the other side. Not Drew exactly; she didn't know him well enough to know what choices he'd make. Just something quieter than what she'd initially heard in her own head. Less obvious.

She liked it better.

Her phone lit up beside her. 

avery: mara tell you yes yet

Danielle smiled.

dani: i told mara yes actually

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

avery: knew it

dani: congratulations you're psychic

avery: told you

A second later:

avery: excited?

Danielle looked back at the script.

Lucky. Cary. Her name beside his.

She thought about the months ahead. The first read-through. Rehearsals. Costumes. Finding Lucky's voice. Walking onto a completely unfamiliar set on the first morning and knowing that eventually it would become as ordinary to her as A Complete Unknown felt now. Working opposite somebody whose performance she'd admired before ever meeting him. Finding out whether Drew was the kind of actor who changed things without warning. Whether he really listened. Whether the thing she'd noticed behind his eyes existed when there wasn't a finished film deciding where she was supposed to look.

dani: really excited

avery hearted it.

Danielle put her phone facedown.

She should have gone to sleep.

Instead, she read the scene again. And then once more.

Eventually, sometime after one, Danielle finally closed the laptop and set it on the nightstand. New York still glowed beyond the curtains, casting just enough light across the hotel room that she could make out the script sitting on the chair across from her.

She was going to play Lucky Armstrong. Drew Starkey was going to play Cary Masterson.

She had never met him.

She knew absolutely nothing about what he was like when there wasn't a camera pointed toward him or somebody else's words in his mouth. For now, she knew only what she'd seen onscreen: the stillness, the restraint, that infuriating ability to make an audience wonder what was happening behind his eyes without ever promising them an answer.

Danielle smiled into the pillow. She thought working with someone like that might be fun.

She was excited to find out.

Danielle glanced toward him.

Drew was looking at his phone.

His thumb moved across the screen once.

Twice.

Danielle stopped.

He didn’t notice.

For a second, she just watched him through the mirror.

He was leaning against the counter behind her, already dressed for the interview, one shoulder against the wall and his head slightly lowered. Someone had done something to his hair that made it look like nobody had touched it at all, which Danielle found deeply annoying considering she’d been sitting in this chair for almost forty minutes.

The woman behind her was concentrating on one stubborn piece near her temple.

Danielle looked back at herself.

“Anyway.”

Nothing.

She picked at the edge of her thumbnail.

“Drew?”

“Hm?”

He looked up.

Danielle turned slightly in the chair.

“What?”

His brows drew together.

“You didn’t hear anything I just said.”

Drew glanced down at his phone like it might provide an answer.

“I was listening.”

Danielle laughed.

“You absolutely were not.”

“I was.”

“What was I talking about?”

He paused.

She smiled.

“Exactly.”

Drew slipped his phone into his pocket.

“Sorry.”

“I caught you.”

“No, I was just—”

“It’s fine ahaha.”

She looked back toward the mirror.

The makeup artist caught her eye in the reflection before quickly looking down at the compact in her hand. That somehow made it worse.

Danielle laughed again, quieter this time. “Sorry. I’m talking your ear off.”

Drew shrugged. “You do that.”

The words were casual. So casual that, for a second, Danielle wasn’t sure she’d heard them correctly. She looked at him. Drew had already looked away.

“You’re funny.”

Something in his expression shifted when he heard her.

Small.

Almost imperceptible.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I mean.” Danielle smiled. “You’re right.”

“That’s not—”

“I do.”

She turned back toward the mirror.

Too fast.

The smile disappeared almost immediately.

She knew she talked a lot. Everyone knew she talked a lot. Her mother had called her a chatterbox when she was little. Teachers had moved her seat in elementary school. Friends joked that Danielle could turn a five-minute story into twenty if nobody stopped her.

She’d never thought it was something she needed to be embarrassed about before. Not really.

“Danielle?” Someone appeared in the doorway. “We’re almost ready for you guys.”

Danielle looked over.

And just like that, the smile came back. Bright. Easy. “Perfect.”

She stood before the woman behind her could tell her she wasn’t finished, smoothing both hands down the front of her dress. “Thank you,” she told her quickly. “It looks so good.”

“You’re welcome.”

Danielle grabbed her phone from the counter. Drew was still watching her. She could feel it. She didn’t look at him.

“Ready?” she asked instead.

“Yeah.”

“Great.”

She walked out first.

— ᨳଓ .

By the time they were seated for the interview, Danielle had stopped trying to talk to him.

That was new.

Usually she could fill twenty minutes without noticing. She’d ask him what he thought of the questions they might get, complain about something that had happened on set, point out somebody’s shoes across the room, or tell him a story that had very little to do with whatever had started it.

Now, she sat with one leg crossed over the other and scrolled through her phone.

Quietly.

Drew sat beside her, low against the couch, one ankle resting over his opposite knee.

He’d looked at her a few times.

Danielle had noticed every single one.

She pretended not to.

There were enough things in the room to occupy her attention anyway—the cameras positioned beyond the lights, a producer speaking quietly into a headset near the wall, the interviewer flipping through a stack of cards while someone made a final adjustment to the microphone clipped to Danielle’s dress.

She should’ve been over it by now. It had been one stupid comment.

You do that.

He hadn’t even sounded annoyed. That was somehow the worst part.

Danielle glanced down at her phone again. Nothing had changed on the screen.

Beside her, Drew shifted.

She wondered if he noticed how quiet she was.

Then immediately hated herself for wondering. Of course he did. Apparently Drew noticed everything. He just rarely seemed interested enough to do anything with the information.

Someone walked past carrying two waters.

Drew thanked them when one was handed over.

A camera operator stopped nearby, and Drew asked him something about the faded Panthers hat he was wearing. They talked for a minute or two before the guy moved on.

Danielle listened without looking up.

That was another thing she’d noticed about Drew. 

He wasn’t unfriendly. He wasn’t even particularly quiet once he was comfortable. He could talk to practically anyone. Crew. Cast. Random people working whatever room they happened to be in. With Danielle, everything always felt slightly more difficult. Like she was constantly reaching across a space he had no interest in closing. She told herself she didn’t care.

Then Drew reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum.

Danielle looked at it. She almost asked. Almost. Instead, she looked back at her phone.

A few seconds passed. Something landed lightly against her thigh.

Danielle frowned. A mint.

She looked over. Drew was already putting the pack back into his pocket.

Her expression softened before she could stop it. He glanced at her.

“You always ask.”

There was nothing particularly affectionate about the answer. Still, Danielle picked up the tablet.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

She chewed it quietly.

And, because apparently her brain had decided to make everything difficult today, she thought about the fact that he’d noticed she wanted it without her saying anything. Then she thought about what he’d said in the dressing room. And suddenly she wasn’t sure which version of Drew she was supposed to believe.

“Alright, guys.” Danielle looked up. The interviewer settled into the chair across from them. “We good?” Someone behind the camera gave a thumbs-up. Drew put his water down. Then, almost imperceptibly, he changed.

Danielle watched it happen.

His phone disappeared into his pocket. He sat forward, his body angling toward hers as one arm stretched comfortably along the back of the couch behind her.

The distance between them disappeared. Just like that. Danielle looked at him. He looked back. Warm. Attentive. Like twenty minutes earlier she hadn’t spent several minutes talking to someone who wasn’t listening. Like he hadn’t made her suddenly conscious of every word that came out of her mouth. Like he hadn’t spent the time since giving her just enough space to wonder whether she’d annoyed him again.

Her boyfriend.

Danielle felt something sour settle beneath her ribs.

Then the red light on the camera came on. She smiled.

“Ready?” the interviewer asked.

Danielle crossed one leg over the other and leaned just slightly into Drew’s side.

“Ready.”

They started with Lucky. Filming. The cast. What it had been like working with Annette. The schedule. The physical demands of the show. Whether either of them had been prepared for how exhausting the shoot would become.

“So obviously,” the interviewer said eventually, “people are very excited to see the two of you together onscreen.”

Danielle felt Drew’s fingers graze the back of her shoulder where his arm rested behind her.

“Hopefully not too excited.”

The interviewer laughed. “Too late for that.” Drew smiled beside her.

“You two have already created a problem.”

“We have?”

“Oh, absolutely. People are very invested in you two.”

Danielle laughed, lowering her head for a second. She knew exactly what people were invested in. Photographs of them leaving restaurants. Drew’s hand at the small of her back outside a hotel in New York. A video someone had taken of Danielle fixing the collar of his jacket before an event. One blurry photograph of them kissing that had circulated for three straight days. People had built an entire relationship out of moments Danielle could remember being instructed to create. And somehow, despite knowing that, she still noticed whenever Drew touched her. That was probably pathetic.

“And I know you’ve probably been asked some version of this a million times,” the interviewer continued, “but I want to go back to the beginning. What did you actually think of each other when you first met?”

Danielle looked at Drew. He was already looking at her. That was another thing he had gotten good at. She smiled.

“You go.”

“Why me?”

“Tell them.”

Drew shook his head slightly, smiling before turning toward the interviewer.

“I was a little intimidated by her.”

Danielle laughed.

“You were not.”

“I was.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I was shy.”

His voice was quieter that time.

Convincing.

Very convincing.

The interviewer looked delighted. “Why?”

Drew took a second before answering. “She has this energy.” Danielle kept her eyes on him. “You notice her when she walks into a room.” Something in her chest gave a small, embarrassing pull. Stupid. She knew what this was. Still, there was something particularly unfair about hearing a man who barely looked at her when they were alone describe her like that. “She knew everybody’s name by, like, day two,” Drew continued. “Crew, hair and makeup, everybody. She’d walk onto set and suddenly there were ten conversations happening.” Danielle’s smile tightened. Ten conversations.

Her mind immediately supplied another sentence.

You do that.

She glanced toward the interviewer.

“So intimidating in a good way?”

“Yeah.”

Drew looked at Danielle. “In a good way.”

She smiled back. It came naturally. That was the dangerous part.

“And what did you think of him?”

Danielle exhaled.

“Oh, I thought he was an asshole.”

Drew laughed.

A real one.

His head dropped for a second, and Danielle smiled immediately because there it was. She loved getting that out of him.

The interviewer laughed too.

“Seriously?”

“No.” Danielle looked at Drew. “Not really.”

“Wow.”

“He was really Introverted.”

“What did you think it meant?”

Danielle considered the question and didn't know how to answer without being honest.

“That he didn’t like me.”

Drew’s expression shifted. Only slightly. “And now?” The question came from him.

Danielle blinked. Then smiled. “Now I know you’re just weird.”

Drew laughed again. His hand dropped from the back of the couch to her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

The interviewer was practically glowing.

“So how did we get from Danielle thinking Drew hated her to…” She gestured between them. “This?”

Danielle felt herself smile before she could stop it. Beside her, Drew shifted a little closer.

“She wore me down.” 

Danielle turned toward him. “I wore you down?”

“Pretty much.”

“That is not how I remember it.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not.”

Drew’s brows lifted. “Okay. What happened?”

Danielle looked toward the interviewer.

“He was obsessed with me.”

Drew made a quiet sound beside her. “She likes telling people that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Yea, it is.”

Danielle nudged his knee with hers. He didn’t move away. Not here.

“Who made the first move?” the interviewer asked.

Danielle and Drew looked at each other.

That answer had been decided weeks ago.

Drew. Of course Drew.

It played better that way.

Danielle’s smile softened.

“He did.”

The interviewer immediately turned toward him. “Really?”

Drew nodded once. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

His hand slid from Danielle’s shoulder, fingers trailing down her arm until they found her hand between them. He laced their fingers together. Danielle looked down. She hated how natural he made it look.

“We’d been hanging out a lot after filming,” Drew said. “Just trying to get to know each other more.” Danielle nodded. “We were friends.” “And then one night we all went out after filming,” she said. “Everybody left pretty early, and we ended up staying. We like got into an argument and he kissed me to shut me up.”

The story wasn’t entirely fabricated. There had been a night out. They had stayed later than everyone else. Mostly because Danielle had lost her phone and Drew had helped her look for it for forty minutes. They had absolutely not kissed afterward. That part had been added later.

“So romantic,” the interviewer teased.

“It was very romantic,” Danielle said. “I spent half the night convinced I’d lost my phone.”

“You did lose your phone.”

“I found it.”

“I found it.”

Danielle looked at him. “Because I told you where to look.”

“That’s not what happened.” “That’s exactly what happened.”

He shook his head. Danielle smiled. This part was easy. Because this part was almost real. Their arguments had always come easier than everything else.

The interviewer looked at Drew.

“And when did you know you wanted to kiss her?”

Danielle felt his thumb move slowly over the side of her hand. Once. She looked at him. Drew’s eyes were already on her. And suddenly there was no amusement there. Just that soft, steady expression he had somehow perfected over the past few weeks.

“The whole night, probably.”

Danielle forgot to breathe for half a second. She recovered before anyone could notice.

“You hid it well.”

Drew’s mouth curved. “I thought I was being obvious.”

“You barely spoke to me.”

“I was nervous.”

Danielle laughed. “Now you’re rewriting history.”

“Maybe.”

His thumb moved against her hand again. The cameras caught all of it. Of course they did. The interviewer glanced down at her cards.

“I have to ask one more relationship question, and then I promise we’ll go back to the show.”

“Go for it,” Danielle said.

“What surprised you most about each other once you started dating?”

That one wasn’t on the list.

Danielle felt Drew’s thumb still. She looked at him. He looked back. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Drew did.

“She takes care of everybody.”

Danielle’s smile changed. Only slightly.

The interviewer tilted her head. “Everybody?”

“Everybody.” Drew gave a quiet laugh. “Crew. Cast. People she barely knows. If somebody looks tired, she’s asking if they’ve eaten. If somebody’s having a bad day, she knows before they tell anyone.”

Danielle watched him. The interviewer smiled. “That’s very sweet.”

“Yeah she is.” Drew shrugged, like he hadn’t said anything particularly important. “She puts everybody before herself.”

There was nothing negative in his voice. Danielle knew that. She did. Still, something tightened in her chest. She could hear him from earlier.

You do that.

Too much. Always talking. Always checking. Always trying.

Drew looked at her. “Sometimes I think she forgets she doesn’t have to.”

Danielle’s smile stayed exactly where it was.

The interviewer’s expression softened. “That’s a very boyfriend answer.”

Drew smiled. Danielle laughed because everyone else did. She wasn’t entirely sure what he’d meant. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he really did think she tried too hard. That she needed everyone in the room to like her. That all the things she’d spent years telling herself made her kind had somehow become evidence that she was exhausting. Her hand suddenly felt too noticeable inside his.

The interviewer turned toward her. “And Drew?”

Danielle could’ve given one of the safe answers.

That he was funny. That he was sweeter than people expected. That he was more romantic than he seemed. All perfectly acceptable. All completely useless.

Instead, she looked at him. “He likes to watch.”

Drew’s brows pulled together.

Danielle smiled. “That sounded creepy.” The interviewer laughed.

“No, not like that,” Danielle said.

She looked back at Drew.

“He just notices things when you don’t expect him to.”

His expression changed. Barely. Danielle continued.

“He’ll act like he’s not paying attention, and then two days later he’ll bring up something you said once. Or he’ll remember something nobody else did.”

Drew didn’t say anything. For once, she’d caught him without an answer. Danielle’s smile softened. “And I like that about him.”

There was a beat. Just one. But she felt it. Something in Drew’s face shifted. Not dramatically. If she hadn’t been looking directly at him, she probably would’ve missed it. Then his mouth curved into a small smile.

The interviewer laughed, but Drew’s eyes stayed on Danielle for another second.

Long enough that this time, she was the one who looked away.

— ᨳଓ .

The car was quiet.

Danielle sat against the window, watching the city slide past in pieces of light and glass.

Their publicist sat in the front seat answering emails.

Drew sat beside her. Not beside her in the way he had been an hour ago. There was a full seat between them now. Danielle kept her eyes on the window.

Normally, silence made her itch. She filled it without even thinking. Music. Questions. Stories that went nowhere. Observations nobody had asked for. She currently had nothing to say. Or maybe she did. She just didn’t feel like giving it away.

Her phone buzzed in her lap. A message from her assistant.

That was great. You guys looked amazing.

The hand holding was perfect.

Danielle locked the screen.

Her reflection stared back at her in the dark glass. She looked tired.

Drew shifted beside her. Danielle felt his eyes move toward her.

She didn’t turn. A few seconds passed. Then he looked away. That was it.

No You okay?

No What’s wrong?

Not that she wanted him to ask.

At least, that was what she told herself. She rested her forehead lightly against the window. The interviewer’s question kept replaying in her head anyway. What surprised you most about each other? She wondered if Drew had meant his answer as kindly as it had sounded. Probably. She wondered why she’d managed to make it feel like an insult anyway. Mostly, she wondered why any of it mattered once the cameras were gone.

At a red light, their publicist turned around.

“You guys killed that.” Danielle lifted her head. “Yeah?”

“Oh, absolutely. That was exactly what we needed.”

Danielle smiled. “Good.”

“We’ll probably get some clips by tomorrow morning.”

“Can’t wait.”

The light changed. Their publicist turned back around. Danielle’s smile disappeared. She looked out the window again. Drew noticed. She knew he did. He always noticed.

He still didn’t ask.

— ᨳଓ .

By dinner, Danielle still hadn’t found much to say.

The restaurant was loud in the way cast dinners usually were—too many conversations happening at once, half the table still talking about work despite everyone insisting they wouldn’t.

Someone farther down was complaining about the next morning’s call time. Timothy had Annette laughing over something Danielle hadn’t caught. Clifton and one of the producers were arguing about whether a take from earlier in the week had been better before or after they’d changed the blocking. Usually, Danielle would’ve been somewhere in the middle of all of it.

Tonight, she arrived a few minutes late and quietly took the only seat left. Beside Drew. He looked up when she approached. His eyes went briefly to the chair, then back to her. Danielle pulled it out.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

That was all. She sat. Their knees bumped beneath the table. Drew moved his leg. Danielle looked down. Then at him. He was already listening to something Clifton was saying. She reached for her water. 

Earlier, Drew had held her hand like he’d been doing it for years. Now their knees touching apparently required immediate correction. Fine.

 Danielle unfolded her napkin across her lap. Someone passed her bread. She took it with a quiet thank you and tore a piece off without eating much of it. Conversation moved around her. She listened. Smiled when she was supposed to. Answered when somebody asked her something. But she didn’t reach across the table to join conversations that had nothing to do with her. She didn’t interrupt Timothy when he got one of the details of a story wrong. She didn’t lean around Drew to ask Clifton what he’d ordered because his looked better than hers. 

Every time something came to mind, Danielle thought about it for half a second longer than usual.

And then, more often than not, kept it to herself.

You do that.

Stupid. It was stupid. Drew probably hadn’t even meant anything by it. That somehow didn’t stop her from hearing it.

“Danielle?” She looked up. Annette was watching her from across the table. “You alright, sweetheart?” Danielle blinked. The question caught her off guard. “Yeah.” She smiled. Small. “Just tired.” Annette studied her for a second, then nodded. “Long day.” “Yeah.” Danielle lowered her eyes.

Beside her, Drew went still for half a second. She noticed. Of course she did. She hated that she noticed everything he did. 

A few minutes later, Timothy said something that made the entire end of the table laugh. Drew laughed too. Danielle looked over before she could stop herself.

He looked different when he laughed. Younger, somehow. Less guarded. His shoulders loosened and his head tipped slightly toward Clifton as he added something Danielle couldn’t hear. There was nothing unusual about it.

Except Danielle didn’t think she’d ever seen him that relaxed with her.

She looked back at her plate. That was fine. She didn’t need him to like her. The thought came so quickly that she nearly laughed.

Because obviously she did. That was the embarrassing part.

Danielle had spent most of her life learning how to make herself easy to like. She remembered names. Asked questions. Filled uncomfortable silences before they had a chance to settle.

She knew when someone standing alone wanted company and when somebody telling a story needed another person to laugh. Most of the time, people liked her. Drew didn’t. Or maybe he did. A little. Sometimes. She couldn’t tell. And apparently that was enough to make her insane.

Someone was talking about a scene Danielle had to film later that week 

She inserted herself into the conversation without realizing it. “We were blocking it yesterday, and there’s this part where—”

She stopped. Three people were listening. Drew was one of them. Danielle suddenly became acutely aware of herself. Her voice. Her hands. How long the story would take.

“Sorry.” She shook her head. “It’s not interesting.”

The producer, Laurel, across from her frowned. “No, finish.”

“It’s fine.” Danielle smiled. “I was just rambling.”

Drew looked at her.She didn’t look back. The conversation moved on.

For several minutes, Drew said nothing.

Then, quietly enough that nobody else heard:

“You haven’t eaten much.”

Danielle looked up. He wasn’t looking at her. His attention was somewhere across the table, one hand curled loosely around his glass. 

She glanced at her plate. “I’m not hungry.”

“Okay.”

That was it. He didn’t ask why. Danielle wasn’t sure why she’d expected him to.

She looked down again.

A moment later, someone asked Drew something and he turned away from her completely.

— ᨳଓ .

Dinner ended sometime after eleven.

People lingered outside the restaurant in small groups while cars were pulled around, conversations continuing beneath the awning.

Danielle stood slightly apart from everyone else, arms folded against the cold.

She’d said goodnight to half the crew already. Annette had hugged her. Timothy had reminded her not to be late tomorrow. Someone from hair had promised to bring her matcha. Danielle smiled through all of it.

Then, the second each person walked away, the smile disappeared.

Her car wasn’t there yet. Of course it wasn’t.

She pulled out her phone. Nothing interesting.

She opened Instagram. Closed it.

Opened her messages. Closed those too.

“Cold?”

Danielle looked up.

Drew stood a few feet away. Hands in his pockets.

“I’m fine.” He nodded.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Danielle looked back at her phone. She could feel him standing there. That was the annoying thing about Drew. Even when he wasn’t talking to her, she was aware of him. Eventually, he said, “You’re quiet.”

Her thumb stopped against the screen.

Danielle looked up.

There was no accusation in his voice. No teasing. Just an observation. She gave him a small smile. “Just not really feeling it.”

Drew looked at her. For a second, something unreadable passed over his face. Danielle wondered if he’d remembered the interview. Probably. He remembered everything.

“Guess even you have an off switch,” he said.

“Yeah.”

The words came out softer than she intended. Drew’s brow furrowed slightly. Danielle looked away before he could study her too closely.

Someone laughed near the restaurant entrance. A car door slammed.

Drew stayed beside her. Danielle hated that some stupid part of her was waiting.

For what, she didn’t know. Maybe for him to ask. Maybe for him to say something about earlier. Maybe for him to tell her she wasn’t annoying. Which was ridiculous.

A black SUV pulled toward the curb.

Her publicist lifted a hand.

“Dani!” Saved.

Danielle slipped her phone into her purse. “That’s me.” She started toward the curb.

“Have a good night Drew” she said it so quietly he barely heard it

“Night Danielle,” Drew said.

She made it a few steps. “Dani.”

Danielle stopped. For a second, she didn’t turn around. Nobody called her that unless they knew her. Not really. Friends. Family. People who had earned the right somewhere along the way. Drew had never called her that.

She turned. He was still standing beneath the awning.

“What?”

Drew seemed to hesitate. Just enough for Danielle to notice.

“You good?”

There it was.

The question she’d spent half the night wanting him to ask. And somehow, now that he had, she didn’t know what to do with it.

Danielle looked at him. Actually looked at him. At the slight crease between his brows. At the way his hands were still buried in his pockets. At the fact that he had waited until she was halfway to the car to ask. Maybe that should’ve been enough. It wasn’t.

She smiled. “I’m fine.”

Drew didn’t look convinced. But he nodded anyway.

“Okay.”

Danielle turned toward the car. Her hand reached for the door. Then she stopped.

She almost looked back.

Almost asked whether he really thought she talked too much. Almost asked whether he actually meant all those things he’d said about her in the interview. Almost asked why he could make her feel like the most interesting person in the room while cameras were rolling and like someone he merely tolerated the second they weren’t.

Instead, she climbed inside. The door shut behind her.

Through the tinted glass, she watched Drew disappear as the car pulled away from the curb. Danielle had always believed wanting someone was supposed to begin with liking them. That there was supposed to be some obvious moment.

A spark. A look.

Something that made sense afterward. She was starting to realize that wasn’t always how it happened.

Sometimes it began much smaller.

With noticing when someone looked at you. With noticing when they didn’t. With wondering why everybody else seemed so easy for them to like.

And, eventually, with wanting to be the exception badly enough that you forgot why you cared in the first place.

It should not have taken him so long.

Topper knew after three days.

Kelce figured it out sometime during the second week, when you declined another invitation to go out on the boat and then posted a picture from the beach with people Rafe had never seen before.

Rafe took nearly four weeks.

In his defense, you still answered occasionally.

Not often. Never immediately. But enough that he could convince himself nothing had really changed.

When he texted asking where you were, you told him you were out.

When he asked if you were coming over, you said you already had plans.

When he sent you something stupid at two in the morning, you reacted to it the following afternoon with a single laughing emoji.

You hadn’t disappeared completely.

You had simply removed every part of yourself that belonged to him.

Rafe didn't know how to name the difference.

He only knew that the four of you had not been together since Midsummers.

That had never happened before.

Not for this long.

Even after arguments, someone always gave in. Kelce would send an unnecessary long text about how this is all dumb. Topper would show up at someone’s house with food. Rafe would call you and act as though the fight had never happened.

You were usually the easiest one.

Not because you forgave quickly, though you did.

Because Rafe had always known how to reach you. A hand around your wrist as you tried to walk away. A quiet, “Come on,” when you refused to look at him. A late-night drive with no apology spoken aloud.

You had never made him work this hard before.

He did not understand why you were starting now.

“You ask her?”

Kelce was stretched across one of the loungers by the Cameron pool, sunglasses hiding most of his face.

Rafe looked up from his phone. “Ask her what?”

“Why she hates us.”

“She doesn’t hate us.”

Topper gave him a look from the other side of the table.

Rafe ignored it.

Kelce lifted one shoulder. “She hasn’t hung out with us in a month.”

“She’s been busy.”

“With what?”

“I don’t know.”

Kelce sat up. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened.

You had always told him everything.

Not necessarily because he asked. Usually, he didn't have to do much to get you to open up.

You told him about annoying conversations before they were finished. Sent him pictures from fitting rooms. Complained to him when you could not sleep. Called him while driving because you hated being alone in the car at night.

Now he didn’t even know who you were spending your time with.

He had learned about them through Instagram.

A girl named Claire who seemed to be in every other photograph. Some guy called Ethan who stood too close to you. Two others Rafe vaguely recognized from the country club but had never cared enough to speak to.

You looked happy with them.

That bothered him more than it should have. You had apparently found a way to be happy without any of them. Without him.

“We text,” Rafe said.

Topper looked down at his drink.

Kelce laughed.

“Yeah? What’d she say?”

Rafe opened your messages.

The conversation looked worse when viewed all at once.

rafe: boat tomorrow you: i cant :/

rafe: what are you doing you: country club w claire!

rafe: whose house is that you: ethans, little get together

rafe: yo r u alive? you: yea iv jst been busy

He locked his phone.

“She’s just being weird.”

Topper’s mouth tightened.

Rafe noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like you know something.”

Topper leaned back in his chair.

“Maybe I do.”

Rafe stared at him. Kelce looked between them.

“Okay. This feels like something I shouldn’t be here for.”

“No one asked you to be here,” Rafe said.

“It’s your pool.”

“Exactly.”

Topper stood.

Rafe’s irritation sharpened. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing what?”

Topper turned toward him. “Watching you act confused.”

Rafe pushed away from the table. “I am confused.”

“That’s the problem.” 

Topper walked through the house before Rafe could stop him.

Kelce lowered his sunglasses. “So he definitely knows something.”

Rafe looked toward the door Topper had disappeared through.

Then he looked back at his phone. You had read his message about 12 minutes ago. He typed before he could reconsider it.

rafe: are you mad at me

The message delivered immediately.

He never got a response.

— ᨳଓ .

You slept more than you used to.

It was easier that way.

When you slept, you weren't checking your phone every few minutes. You didn’t picture the way Rafe had kissed Sofia beneath the lights. You didn’t wonder whether he had taken her home and fucked her afterward or whether they had laughed about the night during the drive home.

You didn't have to think about how quickly he acted like nothing had happened that night.

The morning after Midsummers, Rafe had sent a picture of Kelce asleep on the Cameron sofa.

No mention of the dock. No question about why you had left.

You had stared at the message until the screen dimmed. Then you put your phone facedown and cried again.

For the first week, you barely left your room.

You told everyone you were tired.

Your mother asked if you were sick. Topper came by twice, but you refused to let him upstairs. Kelce sent increasingly ridiculous messages to the group chat.

Rafe called every few days.

You let it ring.

It wasn’t supposed to become permanent.

You only needed enough time for the memory of Sofia’s hand in his to stop feeling like something lodged beneath your ribs.

Then one week became two.

Rafe continued acting like nothing had happened.

That made returning impossible.

How were you supposed to sit beside him on the boat again? How were you supposed to let him steal your drink and pull you against his side and complain that you were ignoring him?

You couldn't keep accepting pieces of him that meant nothing.

So you found other people.

Claire was easy to be around because she did not know you as half of anything.

She had met you through a friend of a friend and invited you out without questioning why you were suddenly available every weekend.

Her friends were kind.

They never asked about Rafe.

They didn’t notice when certain songs made you quiet. They didn’t know you always chose the passenger seat because you had spent years sitting beside someone else.

With them, you could pretend you had always been this way..

Someone who stayed out too late. Someone who kissed strangers at parties and forgot their names by morning. Someone who didn’t turn every time a truck sounded like Rafe’s.

You weren't particularly good at pretending.

But they didn't know any better. That helped.

Your phone buzzed on Claire’s bed.

You had been lying there for nearly an hour while she searched through her closet for something to wear.

“Your boyfriend again?” she asked.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“You say that every time.”

“Because he isn’t.”

Claire glanced at the screen. “Rafe?”

You reached over and turned it facedown before she could read the message. “See?” she said. “Boyfriend name.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me.”

You looked toward the ceiling.

Claire emerged from the closet holding two tops.

“Which one?”

“The black one.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“The black one is always better.”

She tossed the other onto the floor. “Are you coming tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said that last time, then stayed in bed all night.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

You closed your eyes.

Claire’s voice softened. “Are you okay?”

The question made your throat tighten.

You had become very good at answering it. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

Claire sat at the foot of the bed. You stared at the ceiling because looking at her would make the admission feel too real.

“I just don’t really want to be alone.”

She nodded once. “Then you’re coming.”

You finally picked up your phone.

Rafe’s message waited unopened.

are you mad at me

Your chest ached.

It would have been easier if he understood.

Easier if he knew exactly what he had done and was asking you to forgive him.

But Rafe was not apologizing.

He was genuinely asking.

You locked the screen without responding.

— ᨳଓ .

Rafe saw you for the first time in nearly a month outside the country club.

He hadn’t been looking for you.

That was what he told himself afterward.

He and Kelce had only stopped there because Kelce knew someone inside and wanted to pick something up. Rafe had remained near the truck, scrolling through his phone while he waited.

Then he heard your laugh. He looked up immediately.

You were sitting on the low stone wall near the entrance with four people he did not know.

Claire sat beside you. The blond guy from your pictures stood between your knees, leaning down while you showed him something on your phone. Ethan.

Rafe remembered the name because he had looked at the tagged photographs more than once.

You looked different. Not physically.

Your hair was the same. Your smile was the same.

But there was something loose about the way you sat, as though you had stopped waiting for someone to tell you it was time to leave. The sight made him strangely angry.

He crossed the parking lot before deciding what he intended to say.

You noticed him halfway there. Your smile disappeared.

It happened quickly enough that no one else seemed to notice.

Rafe did.

“Hey,” Claire said when he approached.

He barely looked at her. “Hey.”

Your voice was quiet.

Rafe stopped in front of you.

He had imagined seeing you again several times over the past month. In every version, you smiled. You rolled your eyes. You acted as if your disappearance had been some elaborate joke.

Instead, you looked trapped.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Your eyebrows lifted. “Sitting.”

He hated the distance in your voice.

“I can see that.”

Ethan glanced between you. “You know him?”

Before you could answer, Rafe said, “Yeah.”

The word came out sharper than necessary. 

You slid off the wall. “Rafe, this is Claire, Ethan, Maya and Luke.”

Rafe gave them a brief nod.

No one seemed particularly impressed. That irritated him too.

“You never answered me.”

You looked at him. “What?”

“My text.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”

Claire shifted beside you.

You crossed your arms.

“Iv been out Rafe.”

He stared at you.

There had been a time when that tone would have started an argument. You would snap at him, he would push until you became genuinely angry, and then somehow the fight would end with the two of you sharing food in his truck.

Now you only looked tired.

“Can we talk?”

“We are talking.”

“Alone.”

You glanced toward your friends.

Ethan took a step back, but you did not move. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

Rafe laughed once, though nothing was funny.

“We haven't hung out in like a month.”

Your expression hardened.

“Like I said, Iv been busy.”

“You’ve never been busy a day in your life and you know that.”

The moment the words left him, he knew they were wrong.

Your face changed.

Not dramatically.

It simply closed.

“Well, I am now.”

Rafe’s irritation faltered.

He looked at the people around you again. At the easy way Claire’s shoulder pressed against yours. At Ethan standing close enough to touch you.

“You coming out with us tomorrow?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what we’re doing.”

“I’m busy.”

“Again.”

“Yes.”

“With him?”

Ethan raised his eyebrows.

You stared at Rafe. “What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“You walked over here interrogating me.”

“I asked a question.”

“I don't think the way you approached it seemed like a question, it sounded more like an investigation.”

Rafe went still.

You had never spoken to him like that before.

Not seriously.

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is going on with you.”

“Nothing is going on with me.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

Your lips parted.

For one second, he thought you might finally tell him.

The anger drained from your face, leaving something far worse behind. You looked hurt. So hurt that Rafe nearly stepped forward. Then you looked away.

“I have to go.”

You turned toward Claire.

Rafe reached for your wrist. His fingers barely brushed your skin before you pulled away.

The rejection stunned him.

You had never pulled away from him. Not like that.

“Don’t,” you said.

Rafe dropped his hand. The others had gone quiet.

Your face flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment he could not tell. “I’ll see you around.”

You walked toward your car without waiting for anyone else.

Rafe watched you get in.

Wondering why it wasn't you getting into his car. 

The thought arrived instantly and made no sense.

Still, he stood there until the car disappeared from the lot.

Kelce emerged from the country club carrying a paper bag. “Oh, shit,” he said. “Was that her?”

Rafe did not answer.

Kelce followed his gaze toward the road. “How’d it go?”

“She’s lost her mind.”

Kelce looked at him. “Right.”

Rafe turned sharply. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Everyone keeps acting like I did something.”

Kelce’s expression shifted.

For once, he looked almost serious. “Did you?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s probably not a great sign.”

Rafe looked toward the empty road again.

Your face when he reached for you remained fixed in his mind.

“Who the fuck is Ethan?”

Kelce sighed.

— ᨳଓ .

Topper was the only one you still answered consistently.

Maybe because he knew what it was like being in love with a Cameron.

He never mentioned Rafe unless you did. Never told you that the group missed you, though you knew they did. He came over sometimes and sat with you in silence, letting you pretend you were not waiting for him to offer news.

You always asked eventually. “How are they?”

Topper knew who you meant. “Fine.”

“Kelce?”

“Still an idiot.” You smiled faintly.

“And Rafe?” Topper usually hesitated.

That night, he looked down at the water bottle between his hands. “Confused.”

You were curled into the corner of the sofa with a blanket pulled over your legs. “About what?”

“You.”

Your chest tightened. You hated that your body still reacted to him so easily. “What about me?”

“He thinks you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I know.”

You looked toward the television, though neither of you had been watching it. “Does he?”

“No.”

You picked at a loose thread on the blanket. Topper watched you.

“He keeps asking.”

“Then tell him I’m fine.”

“He doesn’t believe me.”

“He believes everything else.”

The bitterness slipped out before you could stop it. Topper’s expression softened. You closed your eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Okay.”

Silence settled again.

After a few minutes, you asked, “How are he and Sofia?”

Topper looked at you.

You tried to keep your expression blank.

“What?”

“Rafe and Sofia.”

“I don't know, I think he ghosted her.”

Your fingers stopped moving.

“What do you mean?”

Topper’s eyebrows pulled together.

“They went out, like, twice.”

You stared at him.

“They’re not together?”

“No.”

“But at Midsummers—”

“They kissed.”

“I know.”

The words came out too quickly.

Topper looked away.

Heat climbed your neck.

“They’re not dating,” he said carefully. “They never were.”

You tried to process that.

For a moment, relief rose inside you. Then shame followed immediately.

It changed nothing.

Rafe had still asked her.

He had still chosen her for the night.

He had still kissed her while you stood close enough to see.

Whether it lasted one evening or one year did not alter what it meant.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Topper stared at you. “You haven’t exactly been around.”

You looked down.

“Did he like her?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re his friend.”

“So are you.”

The words landed harder than he intended.

Topper sighed. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

You pulled the blanket more tightly around yourself. Part of you wanted to ask every question you had spent the month avoiding. Did Rafe fuck her? Did she sleep over? Had he spoken about her afterward?

Instead, you asked, “Has he said anything about me?”

Topper leaned back. “He says a lot of things about you.”

Your heart betrayed you again. “Like what?”

“That you’re being dramatic.”

The hope disappeared. 

You gave a quiet laugh. “Sounds like him.”

“He’s worried.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“He is. He just doesn’t know that’s what it is.”

You shook your head. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.”

You looked at Topper. “Don’t tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“Anything.”

Topper’s jaw tightened. “He’s going to keep asking.”

“Then let him.”

“You can’t avoid him forever.”

“Why not?”

“Because you love him.”

Your face crumpled before you could stop it. Topper immediately regretted saying it. You looked away.

“That’s exactly why.”

— ᨳଓ .

Rafe began showing up places.

At first, you assumed it was accidental.

Figure Eight was small. You had spent years crossing paths with the same people at the same restaurants, beaches and parties. Seeing him twice in one week should not have seemed suspicious.

Then he appeared at a bonfire he had openly complained about attending.

Kelce arrived with him, looking irritated.

Rafe looked directly at you before anyone else.

You were sitting on a blanket beside Claire, your knees tucked against your chest. Ethan was on your other side, arguing with Luke over something neither of them understood.

Rafe watched the arrangement for several seconds.

Then he walked over.

“Move.”

Ethan looked up.

“What?”

“You’re in my spot.”

Your stomach twisted.

It was such a familiar thing for Rafe to say.

In the past, Ethan would not have been there. Rafe would drop beside you without asking, stretching his legs across the blanket and stealing whatever drink was in your hand.

There had never needed to be a spot.

Everyone simply knew where he would sit.

You looked at him. “There aren’t assigned seats.”

Rafe’s mouth tightened. “There used to be.”

No one spoke.

You hated him for saying it.

You hated yourself more for understanding.

Claire glanced at you.

Ethan stood slowly. “I’m getting another drink anyway.”

“You don’t have to move,” you said.

“It’s fine.”

Rafe waited until Ethan walked away, then sat beside you.

Not close enough to touch.

Still, his presence overwhelmed everything.

His cologne. The warmth of his arm near yours. The familiar sound of him opening a beer.

You stared at the fire. “You stalking me now?”

Rafe scoffed. “Kelce wanted to come.”

From across the fire, Kelce looked over.

“I absolutely did not.”

Rafe glared at him.

You almost smiled. Almost.

Rafe caught the movement.

“There.”

“What?”

“That.”

You frowned.

“You almost smiled at me.”

The observation made you feel strangely exposed. “So?”

“So you haven’t done that in weeks.”

Claire stood. “I’m going to find Ethan.”

You knew she was giving you space.

You resented her for it.

When she left, Rafe leaned closer. “What did I do?”

You kept your eyes on the fire. “Nothing.”

“Stop saying that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Then why won’t you hang out with us?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“With these people.”

You turned toward him. “They have names.”

“I know Ethan’s.” The bitterness in his voice surprised you.

“Good for you.”

“Are you dating him?”

You stared at him. “That’s none of your business.”

Rafe laughed in disbelief. “Since when?”

“Since always.”

“Bullshit.”

“You don’t get to know everything just because you’re used to me telling you.”

He went quiet. The fire cracked between you.

For the first time, Rafe looked genuinely wounded. You hated that it made you want to apologize.

“Did Topper say something to you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then what changed?”

Everything, you thought.

Nothing, you could have said.

Instead, you looked at him.

“I did.”

Rafe shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense to you.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s us.”

The words slipped out of him with complete certainty. Your eyes burned. Rafe continued before he noticed.

“You don’t just disappear for a month and start acting like I’m some guy you barely know.”

You stood.

Rafe looked up at you.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“I just got here.”

“That wasn’t my decision.”

His face hardened. “You’re seriously leaving?”

You gathered your bag. “I’m tired.”

“You’re always fucking tired now.”

The anger in his voice carried farther than he intended.

Conversations around the fire quieted.

Your face burned. Rafe stood too.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then his expression shifted, regret appearing too late.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

That was the problem. Rafe never meant any of it.

Not the touches. Not the traditions. Not the words that sounded like they belonged to something more.

You stepped around him. He caught your arm, more carefully this time.

You froze.

Rafe loosened his grip immediately but did not let go.

“Just tell me what happened.”

You looked down at his hand.

He followed your gaze and released you. 

Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me.”

You finally looked at him.

For one dangerous moment, you wanted to.

You wanted to tear the truth out of yourself and place it in his hands. Let him carry the weight of it for once.

But you could already picture his face.

The surprise. The guilt. The awful softness when he told you he had never meant to hurt you.

You did not think you could survive being rejected gently.

“Just go back to fucking sofia or whatever the hell you two are,” you said.

Rafe stared at you.

“What?”

You walked away before he could answer.

— ᨳଓ .

Rafe followed you into the parking lot.

“Sofia?”

You kept walking.

“What the hell does Sofia have to do with anything?”

You reached your car and pulled on the locked handle.

Rafe stopped behind you.

“Are you serious?”

You pressed the button on the keys with shaking fingers.

“Go back to the party.”

“I’m not with Sofia.”

You went still.

Rafe stared at your back. “We’re not a thing.”

You opened the car door. “I don’t care.”

The answer came too quickly.

He heard it. “You do.”

You turned around.

Rafe looked almost triumphant, as though he had finally found the edge of the problem.

“What?”

“You care.”

“About whether you’re dating Sofia?”

“Yes.”

You laughed shakily. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Why else would you bring her up?”

“Because you brought her to Midsummers.”

“So?”

The word split something open. Rafe saw it happen. Your expression crumpled before you forced it back into place. He took a step closer. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

“There it is again.”

“I need to go.”

“No.” His voice softened. “No, wait.”

You climbed into the car.

Rafe placed his hand against the top of the open door, stopping you from closing it.

“What happened at Midsummers?”

You stared straight ahead. “You brought a date.”

“I told you I was bringing her.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

He stopped.

You closed your eyes.

Rafe stood outside the car, trying to piece together a puzzle whose answer had been in front of him for years.

“You left with Topper,” he said slowly.

“Yes.”

“You were upset.”

You gripped the steering wheel. “Move, Rafe.”

“Was it because of Sofia?”

Your throat tightened. He was so close.

Close enough that hope tried to rise again.

Then his eyebrows drew together in genuine confusion.

“Do you not like her?”

You looked at him. The last remaining hope inside you collapsed. A tear slipped down your cheek before you could wipe it away. Rafe’s face changed instantly.

“Hey.” 

You turned away. “Move.”

“Why are you crying?”

The panic in his voice made it worse. You covered your face with one hand.

“Please, Rafe.”

He crouched beside the open door. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t know.”

“Know what?”

You looked at him through blurred vision. Everything inside you begged to be said. Rafe waited. Confused. Concerned. Completely unaware.

You reached for the door. “Move.”

He did not at first.

Then he stood slowly and stepped back.

You pulled the door closed.

Rafe remained beside the car.

You started the engine.

He knocked lightly against the window.

You did not look at him.

As you drove away, he remained beneath the parking lot lights, watching your taillights disappear.

For the first time, Rafe understood that the thing he had missed was larger than a bad mood.

He still had no idea what it was.

— ᨳଓ .

The next morning, you woke to seven missed calls.

All from Rafe.

There were messages too.

rafe: are you home

rafe: answer me

rafe: i’m serious

rafe: did i do something at midsummers

rafe: topper won’t tell me anything

rafe: please just talk to me

The last message had arrived at three seventeen in the morning.

rafe: i miss you

You stared at it until the words blurred.

It was everything you had wanted.

And not enough.

Rafe missed you because you were his best friend. Because the group felt wrong without you. Because there was an empty seat beside him on the boat and no one answering when he called at night. He missed the shape you had taken in his life. He still did not understand the heart attached to it.

You pressed the phone against your chest and cried quietly into your pillow.

Across the island, Rafe sat on the edge of his bed with his phone in his hand. He had not slept. Your name remained at the top of the screen, unanswered. He opened the group chat, typed something and deleted it. Opened his messages with Topper. Closed them again. He thought about the tear on your cheek. The way you had said Sofia’s name. The way you had looked at him when he asked whether you disliked her.

There was something obvious buried inside it.

Something he should have understood.

Rafe ran a hand over his face and looked toward the window.

He felt stupid.

Worse, he felt afraid.

Because for the first time in his life, he could not assume you would come back.

And he was beginning to realize that missing you was not the same as knowing how to keep you.

“Sofia’s coming to Midsummers with me, by the way.”

The boat cut smoothly across the water, leaving the Figure Eight shoreline shrinking behind you. Kelce was stretched across the back bench with his sunglasses slipping down his nose, and Topper had been complaining about the playlist for the better part of twenty minutes.

It should have been another ordinary afternoon.

You looked up from where you were sitting beside Rafe.

“With us?”

Rafe glanced at you, his eyebrows pulling together slightly.

“What?”

“You said Sofia’s coming.”

“Yeah.” He pulled a beer from the cooler and cracked it open against the edge of the console. “I asked her.”

The wind caught your hair and swept it across your mouth.

For a moment, you did not understand what he meant. Or perhaps you understood perfectly and simply needed him to say it again, differently this time.

“You asked her?”

“To Midsummers,” Kelce supplied, lifting his head. “Try to keep up.”

Rafe smirked. “Thank you, Kelce.”

You looked toward the water before any of them could see your expression change.

The sun was bright enough to hurt. It scattered across the surface in sharp white pieces, forcing you to squint even behind your sunglasses.

“Oh.”

It was the only word you could manage.

Rafe took a drink. “Figured I should bring someone this year.” 

Something inside your chest folded in on itself. You had gone with him every year. Not officially. Neither of you had ever called it that.

But he picked you up. You sat beside him at dinner. You fixed his tie when he inevitably loosened it before you even reached the country club. When the dancing started, he found you in the crowd and held out his hand with a dramatic sigh, as though the entire tradition had been forced upon him.

You had never needed him to call it a date.

You had thought the fact that it was always you meant more than the word ever could.

Apparently, Rafe had been waiting to bring someone who counted.

“That’s great,” you said.

The lie came out smoothly enough that you almost believed it.

Topper did not.

You could feel him watching you from across the boat, but you refused to look at him. Topper had always noticed too much. It was one of the things you usually loved about him.

Right now, you hated it.

Kelce pushed himself upright.

“How’d you pull that off?”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious. Did you ask her, or did you just stand around staring until she felt bad for you?”

Rafe threw a bottle cap at him.

Kelce laughed, and the conversation moved forward without you.

You listened as Rafe told them he had asked Sofia the day before. She had apparently smiled. Said she would love to go. He had already made plans to pick her up.

Each detail settled somewhere beneath your ribs.

You tried not to picture it.

Rafe arriving at her house. Rafe waiting while she finished getting ready. Rafe looking at her when she opened the door. Rafe telling her she looked beautiful in the careless, almost dismissive way he gave compliments when he meant them too much.

The same way he had looked at you every year. Or maybe not the same.

Maybe that was the problem.

“You’re still coming, right?”

You turned toward him.

Rafe was watching you now, one hand loose around the wheel. The concern in his expression was so small it might have been imagined.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’ve said about three words in the last five minutes.”

“Maybe I’m enjoying the view.”

Rafe looked pointedly around at the open water. “You’ve seen it before.”

“And I’ve heard you talk before. I wanted a break.”

Kelce laughed from the back of the boat.

Rafe rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “There she is.”

The words should not have warmed you. They did anyway.

He reached over and tugged lightly on the end of your hair before turning his attention back to the water.

It was the kind of touch that had ruined you slowly.

Rafe had never been careful with his affection. He leaned against you when he was tired. Rested his arm across the back of your chair. Called you in the middle of the night because he was bored and knew you would answer. He remembered which drinks you hated and which songs you pretended not to like. He let you drive his truck even though he complained about it the entire time.

He had given you years of almosts without realizing you were collecting them.

You moved away from the console and sat beside Topper.

Rafe noticed.

His eyes followed you for half a second before Kelce distracted him with another insult.

Topper waited until the engine and music were loud enough to cover his voice.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He tilted his head. “You look fine.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

You reached for the drink beside him and took a sip. Topper let you.

Across the boat, Rafe looked back at the two of you.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. He smiled back.

It was instinctive for both of you.

That was the worst part.

— ᨳଓ .

The black dress had been hanging from the outside of your closet for nearly three weeks.

You had sent Rafe a picture of it from the fitting room, along with a second one in pale pink.

His response arrived less than a minute later.

Black.

No reasoning. No compliment. Just a single word.

You bought it anyway.

Now you stood in front of the mirror wearing a dress chosen for a boy who would be arriving with someone else.

The material skimmed your body and fell softly toward the floor. Your hair was pinned away from your face, though a few pieces had already started escaping around your temples. You had spent longer than usual on your makeup, carefully covering every trace of the sleepless night you had spent imagining the evening ahead.

You looked beautiful. It felt useless.

Your phone buzzed on the vanity.

topper: outside

A second message appeared before you could answer.

topper: don’t make me come in there

Then, almost immediately:

rafe: kelce is already drunk rafe: hurry up

You stared at his name.

Every previous year, Rafe had been the one waiting outside. He would lean against his truck and complain that you had made him late, even when he arrived twenty minutes earlier than necessary.

Last year, he had looked at you for so long that you finally asked what was wrong.

He had shaken his head and opened the passenger door.

“Nothing. You look nice.”

You had replayed it for months.

Now Topper was outside, and Rafe was somewhere across the island waiting for Sofia.

You turned your phone facedown.

For one weak second, you considered taking off the dress.

You could tell them you were sick. You could climb into bed, scrub the makeup from your face and avoid seeing Rafe’s hand on Sofia’s waist. You could preserve the version of Midsummers that existed in your memories.

Then Rafe would call.

He would ask what was wrong.

You would hear music and Sofia’s voice in the background.

And you would have to lie anyway.

You picked up your purse.

Topper was leaning against his car when you walked outside.

His mouth opened, probably to make some impatient comment, but whatever he had planned to say disappeared when he saw you.

“You look—”

“Don’t.”

He stopped.

You walked around him and opened the passenger door.

Topper watched you climb inside before joining you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he started the car.

“You don’t have to go.”

You looked out the window. “Of course I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“He told me beforehand.”

Topper’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “That isn’t what I said.”

You swallowed. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say he did.”

“So why are you acting like I’m heading toward my execution?”

Topper glanced at you.

“Because you look like you are.”

You turned the radio up.

He let you.

— ᨳଓ .

Rafe was already there when you arrived.

You saw him before he saw you.

He stood near the entrance with Sofia beside him, listening while she spoke. Her dress was a soft cream color, simple and elegant, and her dark hair fell over one shoulder.

She was beautiful.

You had hoped she would not be.

It was petty, and you knew it, but some part of you had imagined discovering something about her that made Rafe’s choice easier to understand. Maybe she would be rude. Maybe she would be painfully dull. Maybe she would look wrong standing beside him.

She did not.

Rafe leaned toward her so he could hear her over the music. His hand rested against the small of her back, casual and warm.

He looked comfortable. That hurt more than if he had looked infatuated.

Topper stepped closer to you. “We can go around.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m fine.”

Rafe looked up.

The moment he saw you, his face changed.

His smile came easily, familiar enough to make your heart betray you. He said something to Sofia and started toward you.

“You finally made it.”

Before you could answer, his arm circled your waist and he pulled you into a quick hug. His palm pressed against your side through the thin fabric of your dress.

You hated how naturally you leaned into him.

When he stepped back, his eyes moved over you.

“You wore the black one.”

You stared at him.

“You remembered?”

“Obviously.”

Hope was a cruel thing. It arrived even now, bright and immediate, because he remembered a dress.

Then Sofia joined him.

Rafe stepped back to make space for her, his hand returning to her waist as though it belonged there. “This is Sofia.”

Sofia smiled. “Hi. I’ve heard so much about you.”

You wondered what Rafe had said.

Whether he had told her about the time the two of you snuck onto the golf course at two in the morning. Whether she knew you were the only person he trusted to drive his truck. Whether he had mentioned that you knew every expression he made before he lost his temper and every joke that could pull him out of it.

You forced yourself to smile. “Hopefully nothing too bad.”

“Mostly bad,” Rafe said.

You looked at him. He grinned.

It was the same stupid exchange the two of you had shared a hundred times.

Sofia laughed politely.

Rafe looked between you. “You two will get along.”

You were not sure why that sentence hurt.

Perhaps because he wanted Sofia to fit into the group so easily. As though there had always been a place waiting for her.

As though it had not been yours first.

“I’m sure we will,” you said.

— ᨳଓ .

Nothing terrible happened.

That was what made the night unbearable.

Sofia was nice.

She listened when you spoke. She laughed at Kelce’s stories even when they were not funny. She remembered Topper’s name and asked questions about how the four of you had met.

Rafe was not cruel.

He still included you in conversations. Still looked toward you whenever Kelce said something ridiculous. Still nudged your foot beneath the table when Rose began discussing something painfully boring.

He wanted you there.

He simply wanted Sofia beside him more.

The losses came quietly.

Sofia stood beside him in the group photograph.

You stood beside Topper.

Rafe brought Sofia a drink without asking what she wanted. When he returned, you waited for him to hand you yours too.

He did not.

Topper appeared a minute later with your usual order. “Thanks,” you said.

Rafe looked at the glass in your hand. “Oh, shit. I forgot.”

“It’s fine.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“It’s really fine, Rafe.”

He studied your face for a second. Then Sofia asked him a question, and he turned toward her.

At dinner, Sofia sat beside him.

You sat across the table, directly in their line of sight.

Rafe’s hand disappeared beneath the table. Sofia smiled down at her plate. You tried not to imagine where he was touching her.

When he loosened his tie, Sofia reached over and fixed it.

Your fingers twitched uselessly in your lap.

Every year, he had arrived with it crooked.

Every year, you stood close enough to feel his breath against your forehead while you straightened it.

“Stop moving,” you would complain.

“You’re taking too long.”

“You’re welcome to do it yourself.”

“You know I can’t.”

It had never occurred to you that anyone else could.

Rafe looked across the table and caught you staring.

“What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

His eyes remained on you for another moment.

Then Sofia touched his arm, and he looked away.

Topper’s knee bumped yours beneath the table.

You did not look at him.

— ᨳଓ .

The band began playing shortly after dinner.

You recognized the song within the first few notes.

Of course you did.

It was the song Rafe always found you for.

Not because either of you particularly liked it. The first time you danced to it, you had been fifteen and making fun of the older couples around you. Rafe had bowed dramatically and nearly dropped you while trying to spin you.

The following year, he had found you again.

Then again.

Somewhere along the way, the joke had stopped feeling like one.

You stood near the edge of the dance floor, pretending to listen while Kelce talked about someone you did not know.

Rafe was across the room with Sofia.

You told yourself not to wait.

Still, when the music softened, you looked at him.

Rafe turned toward Sofia and held out his hand.

She smiled as she took it.

He led her onto the dance floor.

There was no moment of hesitation. He did not search the room for you. He did not seem to remember that the song belonged to anyone else.

Because it had never belonged to you.

You had simply been the girl available every time it played.

Rafe placed one hand on Sofia’s waist.

She rested hers on his shoulder.

He said something that made her laugh. When she stepped too close to his shoe, he shook his head, smiling down at her.

Your vision blurred.

Topper moved into your line of sight.

“Dance with me.”

“No.”

He held out his hand. “Come on.”

“I don’t want to dance.”

“I know.”

Behind him, Rafe bent his head closer to Sofia.

Topper stepped forward, blocking them completely. “You don’t have to keep watching.”

Your throat tightened. You put your hand in his.

Topper led you toward the edge of the dance floor, keeping enough distance between you that it could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was.

A rescue.

You rested your hand on his shoulder. His palm settled carefully at your waist.

“You can stop looking over there,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You looked over his shoulder anyway.

Rafe was already watching you.

For one suspended second, neither of you looked away.

His expression shifted.

It was small. Barely anything.

His gaze dropped to Topper’s hand at your waist before returning to your face. His eyebrows pulled together, confusion passing over his features like a shadow.

Your heart jumped despite everything.

Then Sofia said his name.

Rafe turned back to her.

Whatever he had felt disappeared.

Topper exhaled quietly.

You lowered your head.

“Take me outside.”

— ᨳଓ .

Rafe found you before you made it there.

You were standing near the drinks, trying to convince Topper that you needed a minute alone, when Rafe appeared beside you.

“There you are.”

You looked at him.

His tie was loose again.

Sofia was nowhere in sight.

“I’ve been here all night.”

“You’ve barely talked to me.”

“You’ve been busy.”

Rafe glanced over his shoulder toward the ballroom.

When he looked back, something guarded had entered his expression.

“Are you mad I brought Sofia?”

Your stomach dropped.

This was the moment. You could tell him.

The words had lived inside you for years, growing around every late-night phone call and shared cigarette and careless touch.

You could tell him that you had bought the black dress because he chose it. That every year you waited for his truck outside your house. That you had mistaken his habits for promises because you had wanted them to be.

You could tell him that watching Sofia beside him felt like being erased from a place you had never been allowed to claim.

But Rafe was looking at you with genuine confusion.

Not fear.

Not hope.

He had no idea why you would be upset.

“No,” you said.

His eyes narrowed. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You tried to smile. “Maybe I’m tired.”

“You’ve been weird since the boat.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

Rafe took a small step closer.

For a moment, the noise of the party seemed to disappear. He was close enough that you could smell his cologne, close enough that you could reach up and fix his tie.

His expression softened. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

You looked at him.

That was the tragedy of Rafe Cameron.

He believed you would.

He believed he knew every important thing about you because you had spent years making yourself easy for him to understand.

You swallowed. “Of course.”

Sofia called his name from across the room.

Rafe closed his eyes briefly, irritated by the interruption.

Then he looked back at you. “We’ll talk later.”

You knew you would not.

“Go.”

He hesitated.

It was not enough.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He walked away.

He looked back once.

That was not enough either.

— ᨳଓ .

You found Sofia alone on the terrace twenty minutes later.

For one terrible second, you considered turning around before she noticed you.

Then she smiled.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

She rested her arms on the railing beside you. Music floated through the open doors behind you, softened by the ocean wind.

“I was actually hoping I’d get a second alone with you.”

Your heart lurched. “Why?”

Sofia laughed nervously. “I was kind of scared to meet you.”

You turned toward her. “Me?”

“Rafe talks about you constantly.”

Hope rose so quickly it made you dizzy.

Sofia looked toward the ballroom.

“I knew if you didn’t like me, this probably wouldn’t last very long.”

The hope died just as fast.

You stared at her profile.

She was not jealous. She was not warning you away from him. She simply understood that your approval mattered to Rafe.

Not because he wanted you. Because you were his best friend. Because he trusted you. Because he loved you in the only way he ever had.

Sofia looked back at you.

“I know that probably sounds stupid.”

“No.” You forced your mouth into a smile. “It doesn’t.”

“He really cares what you think.”

You nodded.

“He cares what everyone thinks, even when he pretends he doesn’t.”

Sofia smiled. “That’s what I told him.”

You looked toward the water.

“You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The relief on her face made something inside you ache.

You had reassured her that Rafe was hers.

And she had no idea what it cost you.

— ᨳଓ .

You did not mean to see them kiss.

You had gone looking for Topper.

The ballroom had become too warm, the conversations too loud, and you needed someone who would not ask you to explain why your hands had started shaking.

You stepped outside and followed the stone path around the side of the building.

Then you heard Sofia laugh.

You stopped.

They stood beneath a string of lights near the hedges.

Rafe’s back was partially turned toward you, but you could see Sofia’s face. She was smiling up at him, her fingers curled loosely around the front of his jacket.

Rafe said something too quiet for you to hear.

Sofia’s expression softened.

Then he kissed her.

It was not rushed. That might have been easier.

His hand rose to her cheek, his thumb resting gently beneath her eye. Sofia leaned into him, and Rafe smiled against her mouth before kissing her again.

Tenderly. Like he had nowhere else to be.

You had imagined Rafe kissing you more times than you could count.

In your imagination, it was always sudden.

A confession pulled out of him by jealousy or fear or one drink too many. He would look at you as though he had finally understood something, and then his hands would be in your hair, his mouth desperate against yours.

You had never imagined him kissing someone else with such care.

Topper found you standing there.

He followed your gaze.

His expression changed.

You turned away before he could speak.

“I knew,” you whispered.

Topper said nothing.

“He told me.”

Your voice broke. You covered your mouth with one hand and started walking.

Topper followed. Behind you, the music continued.

Rafe never called your name.

— ᨳଓ .

You made it to the dock before the tears came.

Your heels caught between the wooden boards twice before you finally tore them off and carried them in one hand. The music from the country club faded with every step, replaced by the quiet movement of water against the posts.

You sat at the edge of the dock.

For several seconds, you could not breathe properly.

Topper lowered himself beside you without saying anything.

You stared at the dark water beneath your feet.

“This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s not.”

“He didn’t even do anything.”

“I know.”

“He told me he was bringing her.”

“I know.”

You laughed, but the sound came out broken. “So why does it feel like he lied to me?”

Topper looked toward the distant lights of the party. “He didn’t lie.”

The answer hurt, even though you already knew it.

“I know.”

Your first tear slipped free. You wiped it away angrily.

“He never said we were going together. He never asked me. We just always did.”

Topper remained quiet. “I thought that meant something.”

“It did.”

“Not to him.”

“You don’t know that.”

You turned toward him. “He asked her.”

Topper’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t erase everything else.”

“It doesn’t have to erase it.” Your voice shook. “It just makes it what it always was.”

“And what was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

“It wasn’t nothing to me,” you corrected. “That doesn’t mean it was something to him.”

Topper looked at you then, really looked at you.

You hated the sympathy in his face.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you feel sorry for me.”

His voice softened. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because I spent years convincing myself he just needed time.”

The admission cracked something open. You looked back toward the country club. The lights were blurred now.

“I didn’t think he already loved me,” you continued. “I’m not that stupid.”

Topper did not interrupt. “I just thought maybe one day he would.”

Your chin trembled.

“I thought eventually he’d look at me and it would be different.”

Topper swallowed.

You stared down at your reflection in the water.

“But he already looks at me exactly how he wants to.”

The first sob escaped before you could stop it.

You bent forward, pressing one hand against your mouth.

Topper moved closer.

His arm came around your shoulders carefully, giving you enough time to pull away.

You did not.

You turned into him and cried against his jacket.

Every breath hurt.

You cried for every time Rafe had held your hand without thinking. Every night he had called because he could not sleep. Every Midsummers dance you had treated like evidence.

You cried because Sofia was kind. Because Rafe had remembered the dress. Because he had almost noticed.

Almost was beginning to feel crueler than never.

Topper held you without trying to fix it.

The party continued behind you.

Every so often, footsteps sounded along the path, and your head lifted before you could stop it. A couple laughing. Someone searching for a cigarette. Kelce’s voice in the distance.

Never Rafe.

Topper noticed.

He did not say anything.

You waited anyway. Minutes passed. The music changed.

Your breathing slowly steadied, though tears continued sliding silently down your face.

“Do you think he noticed I left?”

Topper went still.

The pause lasted only a second. It was still too long. “Yeah,” he said.

You stared toward the lights. “Do you think he knows why?”

Topper looked at you.

You already knew the answer.

“No.”

Somehow, that hurt more than seeing the kiss.

Rafe was not ignoring your heartbreak.

He did not know it existed.

You lowered your head back onto Topper’s shoulder.

Across the lawn, hidden by darkness and distance, Rafe stood near the edge of the ballroom with Sofia’s hand in his.

Kelce had asked where you and Topper had disappeared to.

Rafe looked toward the dock. “She’s been weird all night,” he said.

Kelce shrugged. “Probably tired.”

Rafe kept looking toward the water.

For a moment, a faint unease settled in his chest. The strange sense that something had shifted while he was not paying attention. That there had been a conversation he was supposed to have, a moment he had somehow missed.

Sofia tugged lightly on his hand. “You coming?”

Rafe glanced at her.

Then he looked toward the dock one final time.

He could not see you from where he stood.

He let Sofia lead him back inside.

At the dock, you cried for a love Rafe Cameron had never known he was being offered.

Cameron company letterhead. Ward’s signature. The same signature written across the receipt hidden inside your purse.

You had spent most of the night sitting at your desk, comparing photographs of both documents until the lines blurred together. By sunrise, you had placed the motel receipt beneath your jewelry box and convinced yourself you would decide what to do after sleeping.

You never got the chance.

Rafe stood beside your dresser when you emerged from the bathroom.

He wore yesterday’s dress shirt with the sleeves pushed above his elbows. The collar remained open, and his hair had fallen unevenly across his forehead.

The receipt was in his hand.

Your steps stopped. Rafe looked at the paper. Then at you. “What is this?”

You tightened your grip around the towel in your hands. “Where did you find it?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It was beneath my jewelry box.”

“I know where it was.”

He looked down again. His eyes moved over Scooter’s name, the motel information, and the signature at the bottom.

“Why do you have something my dad signed?”

You placed the towel on the bed. “Rafe—”

“Where did you get it?”

You could have lied again.

The thought lasted only a second.

“It was in a room I searched.”

His expression emptied. “What?”

“John B dropped a key to this motel, you know I had to look into it.”

He stared at you. The silence that followed felt worse than shouting. “You went there.”

“Yes.”

“That night?”

You nodded.

“When you said you were buying cigarettes?”

“I knew you would try to stop me.”

Rafe laughed once. It sounded disbelieving rather than amused.

“You looked me in the face and told me you went out to clear your head.”

“I didn’t know what I would find.”

“You didn’t know anything.”

“That’s why I went.”

He looked at the receipt again. “You broke into a motel room in the middle of the night because John B dropped a key?”

“I used the key. I didn’t break anything.”

“That’s your defense?”

“I’m not defending it.”

“You should be.”

His voice rose. “You left without waking me, ignored your phone, and went across the island by yourself. Then you came back covered in dirt and lied to me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Because I found it.”

You said nothing.

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “What were you looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I knew John B took something from the Cameron dock. He dropped the key while leaving. I wanted to know why he had it.”

“And you found this.”

“Yes.”

Rafe glanced toward the signature. “My dad signs things all the time.”

“I know.”

“He owns businesses. He pays people.”

“I know.”

“Then what exactly are you suggesting?”

You held his stare. “Scooter Grubbs died during the hurricane.”

“So?”

“The deposit is dated two days before the storm.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I found a second payment record in Ward’s office last night.”

Rafe became still. “What were you doing in his office?”

“The door was open.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

“I saw Scooter’s name.”

“You went through my dad’s things?”

“I looked at one piece of paper.”

“You went into his office while he said all that shit to John B and started searching through his checkbooks?.”

“I wasn’t searching for anything. The folder was open.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

You stared at him. “That’s what happened.”

Rafe’s fingers tightened around the receipt. “You went looking for something to use against him.”

“I went looking for the truth.”

“Same thing to you.”

Your chest tightened. “Rafe, his signature was inside a motel room connected to a dead man.”

“My dad pays people all the time.”

“Most of them don’t die two days later.”

“You don’t know what happened.”

“Neither do you.”

His expression sharpened.

“Are you working with that dirty pouge?.”

“What? Rafe what the fuck what are you talking about.”

“You heard me.”

“John B doesn’t know I have the key, or the check.”

“He’s been trying to convince Sarah my dad is involved in something, and suddenly you’re doing the same thing.”

“I reached this conclusion on my own.”

That made him angrier. Without John B to blame, the accusation belonged entirely to you.

Rafe threw the receipt onto the dresser. “I thought you were the one person who wouldn’t do this to me.” Your anger faltered. “Do what?”

“Decide he’s guilty because everyone else says he is.”

“No one told me Ward was guilty.”

“You’re standing there accusing him.”

“I’m asking questions.”

“About my father.”

“Yea.”

“You know what he thinks of me. You know what it’s like every time he looks at me like I’m fucking useless, and you still decided to dig through his life looking for reasons to make him worse.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You moved closer. Rafe stepped away.

“I didn’t lie because I don’t trust you,” you said. “I lied because I knew you’d protect him.”

His eyes flashed.

“He’s my dad.”

“Scooter’s still dead.”

“You don’t know that he had anything to do with it.”

“Wouldn’t you defend him even if he did?”

Rafe said nothing.

The silence answered for him.

You swallowed. “Exactly.”

He looked at you as though you had struck him.

Then his expression hardened. “Keep your fucking receipt.”

Rafe walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” He did not answer. “Rafe.”

The bedroom door slammed behind him.

You remained beside the dresser, staring at the motel receipt. Wondering what had your relationship come to. 

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe had ghosted for the rest of the day.

By evening, anger had replaced your concern. By midnight, concern returned. 

You: Just tell me you’re okay.

No response appeared. You placed your phone facedown and attempted to sleep.

It began ringing less than an hour later. Rafe’s name illuminated the screen. You answered immediately.

“Rafe?”

Silence.

You sat up.

“Baby?”

You could hear him breathing.

It sounded uneven.

“What happened?”

Nothing.

“Where are you?”

His voice finally came through the speaker. “Can you come get me?”

Every trace of exhaustion disappeared. “Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Silence again.

You pushed the sheets aside and stood. “Look around. Tell me what you see.”

“A road.”

“That’s helpful.”

He exhaled sharply. You heard movement, followed by a quiet sound of pain. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Rafe.”

“I’m near Barry’s.”

Your stomach tightened.

“Stay there.”

You pulled on the first hoodie you found.

“Don’t move.”

He laughed weakly.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You found him twenty minutes later.

Rafe sat beside the road beneath a broken streetlight, one shoulder resting against a wooden fence post. His dress shirt hung open, and he held one arm tightly against his chest.

His motorcycle was nowhere in sight.

You stopped the car and ran toward him.

Rafe lifted his head. His face was pale.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

You crouched in front of him.

The sleeve covering his arm was dark and damaged near the elbow. The smell of burned fabric reached you before you touched him. “Your arm.”

“It’s fine.”

You reached toward it. Rafe flinched away. “Don’t.”

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“Rafe.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“And I said let me see.”

You carefully lifted the edge of his sleeve. The skin beneath it was red and blistered. Your stomach turned. “Barry did this?” Rafe looked away.

“Get in the car.”

“I can walk.”

“You can barely sit upright.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said get in.”

He laughed quietly. “You’re always bossing me around.”

“You’re always giving me reasons.”

You stood and held out your hand. Rafe stared at it.

For several seconds, you thought he might refuse. Then he placed his uninjured hand in yours. You helped him stand. His knees nearly gave out. You caught his waist. Rafe leaned against you, breathing sharply through his teeth.

“Where’s your motorcycle?”

“Barry has it.”

“What happened to Ward?” His body stiffened. You guided him toward the car.

“Rafe.”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know.”

You opened the passenger door. “What did he say?”

Rafe stared at the dark road behind you. A strange laugh left him. “He told me not to come home.” Your anger disappeared. “What?”

“He paid Barry.” Rafe’s voice sounded distant. “Then he called me a liar and a thief and told me to get my bike.” He glanced toward the empty road. “Barry kept the bike.”

“Rafe—”

“Guess he was right.”

“About what?”

“All of it.”

His breathing became uneven. Rafe turned away quickly and wiped one hand across his face. You pretended not to notice the moisture left behind. “Get in the car.”

“I don’t have anywhere else.” The words were almost too quiet to hear. You looked at him. Rafe’s eyes remained fixed on the ground. “I don’t have anywhere else,” he repeated.

“You have me.”

He finally looked up. The anger and arrogance had disappeared. For one brief moment, Rafe looked nineteen again. Like the boy who had kissed you in an upstairs bathroom and acted as though rejection would not matter.

You touched his face.

“Get in.”

This time, he listened.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe sat shirtless on your bathroom counter.

His damaged shirt lay on the floor beside him. Removing it had taken several minutes because lifting his arm caused enough pain to make his entire body tense.

You stood between his knees with medical supplies spread across the sink.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not.”

You touched the edge of the burn with a wet cloth. Rafe’s stomach tightened beneath your free hand.

“Your entire body just tensed.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I can be cold and sweat.”

“That is not how this works.”

“You studying medicine now?”

“No. I’m studying you.”

His gaze lifted.

You carefully cleaned the damaged skin. Rafe’s uninjured hand rested loosely against your hip. His thumb moved beneath the hem of your shirt without intention, tracing the same small section of skin repeatedly. You worked slowly. The bathroom remained quiet except for his breathing and the occasional sound of water running into the sink.

“What exactly happened?” you asked.

Rafe looked toward the wall. “Barry wanted the money.”

“And?”

“I didn’t have it.”

“So he burned you?”

“He wanted to make a point.”

“Where was Ward?”

“Inside.”

Your hand stopped. “At Barry’s?” Rafe nodded. “He took me there.”

“Ward watched Barry do this?”

“No. Barry did it before.” 

You continued cleaning the burn. “What happened when Ward found out?”

“He paid him.”

“And then?”

“I told you.”

“No, you told me what Ward called you.”

Rafe laughed bitterly. “He beat Barry.”

You looked up. “What?”

“Dad paid him, then beat the shit out of him.”

“And left you there?”

“He drove me away first.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Rafe stared past you. “He stopped near the road. Said he couldn’t trust me anymore.”

His voice became flatter with every word. “Said I lie. Steal. Embarrass the family.”

“Rafe.”

“He wasn’t wrong.”

“Stop helping him hurt you.”

His eyes met yours. You placed the cloth aside and reached for the bandages. Rafe’s hand tightened against your hip. “He said not to come home.”

“I heard you.”

“You said I had you.”

“You do.”

“Even after this morning?”

You looked at him. “This morning doesn’t matter right now.”

“It matters to me.”

“I’m still angry.”

Rafe’s expression shifted. You continued before he could retreat.

“I’m angry, but I’m here.”

He lowered his forehead against your shoulder. You froze briefly. Then your fingers moved into his hair. Rafe’s breathing trembled against your neck. “Don’t make me talk about it,” he whispered.

“Okay.”

“Just stay.”

“I’m here.”

His mouth brushed your shoulder. Not quite a kiss. Then again, slower. The gesture carried none of his usual hunger. He was searching for proof that you were real. You kissed his temple. Rafe’s hand slid around your waist. He pulled you closer until you stood between his thighs, his face pressed against the space beneath your jaw.

You held him there.

For once, neither of you tried pretending he did not need it.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe slept with his head against your chest.

His uninjured arm remained wrapped around your waist while the bandaged one rested carefully between you.

Every time you shifted, his hold tightened. The first time, you assumed he was asleep. The second time, you heard him whisper your name.

“I’m here,” you murmured. Rafe relaxed.

Before sunrise, you woke up again and found him staring at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

He touched your face with the tips of his fingers. “Go back to sleep.”

Rafe closed his eyes.

His hand remained against your cheek until he did.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe never officially moved into your house.

His belongings simply began appearing.

A toothbrush materialized beside yours.

Two shirts occupied the bottom drawer of your dresser. Then four. Then several pairs of pants and a stack of socks he claimed he had nowhere else to put. You cleared half the drawer without discussing it.

He waited outside the bathroom while you showered.

The first time, you opened the door and nearly walked into him.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re sitting on the floor.”

“Observant.”

“Why?”

“Was waiting.”

“For what?”

“You.”

You stared at him.

Rafe stood as though the conversation had become inconvenient. “You take forever.”

“You could have gone downstairs.”

“I didn’t want to.”

He walked away before you could ask why.

You helped him dress each morning because his burned arm made buttons difficult. Rafe stood in front of you while you fastened his shirts from the bottom upward. His eyes followed your hands.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said.

“A little.”

“You could wear a T-shirt.”

“Looks bad.”

“You’re hiding in my house.”

“Still have standards.”

You fastened the final button. Rafe caught your waist and kissed your forehead.

He began making coffee. It was terrible. He added too much sugar and never used enough coffee grounds, but brought it upstairs every morning as though he had accomplished something impressive. You drank it anyway.

He carried groceries with his uninjured arm even when you told him to stop. He cleaned the kitchen when he thought you were asleep. He folded his clothes carefully despite usually leaving everything across the floor. At first, you thought he was trying to be considerate. Then you understood. Rafe was attempting to prove Ward wrong in small, desperate ways.

He was useful. He could fix things. He could contribute. He could earn the right to stay.

One night, you found him tightening the hinge on your bedroom door.

“You know I’m not going to throw you out because something breaks, right?” Rafe’s hand stopped. “I know.”

“You don’t have to earn your place here.”

“I know.”

He continued working.

You knew he did not believe you.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The cocaine returned gradually.

At first, Rafe disappeared into the bathroom for longer than necessary.

The sink ran. The door remained locked. When he emerged, his eyes were too bright and his movements too quick.

You asked whether he was okay.

“Fine.”

Then he did not sleep.

He spent an entire night pacing between your bedroom and the kitchen, talking about Ward, Barry, the motel receipt, and John B without finishing a single thought.

You found him awake at three in the morning and found him reorganizing the kitchen cabinets.

“What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Could you explain why the glasses are next to the stove.”

“It makes more sense.”

“It absolutely does not.”

Rafe laughed and pulled you toward him. His mouth covered yours before you could ask another question. You kissed him back. For a few minutes, you allowed yourself to pretend his restlessness was only stress. Then you found the tiny bag inside his jacket.

You held it between two fingers when he entered the bedroom.

Rafe stopped. “What is this?”

His expression barely changed. “Kelce’s.”

“Kelce hasn’t been here.”

“He left it in my pocket.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t seen him since Ward kicked you out.”

“Then it’s been there.”

“You’ve worn this jacket three times.”

Rafe crossed the room. “Give it back.”

You closed your fingers around the bag. “No.”

His eyes narrowed. “You went through my things?”

“It fell out.”

“Sure.”

“You’re staying in my house Rafe.”

“So?”

“So you’re not bringing this here.”

“You don’t get to make rules for me.”

You stared at him. “Then don’t live here.”

The anger disappeared from his face. Rafe became very still. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. You hadn’t meant it as a threat. He heard one anyway.

“You want me to leave?”

“I want the drugs gone.”

“That isn’t what you said.”

“I said you can’t stay here and keep bringing cocaine into my house.”

“I’m not keeping it.”

“You just asked for it back.” Rafe looked away. You softened your voice. “You promised this wouldn’t happen again.”

“I didn’t promise anything.”

“You told me you were handling it.”

“That isn’t a promise.”

“It is when you know what I’m asking.”

His jaw tightened. You placed the bag on the dresser between you. “Choose.” Rafe stared at it. Then at you. He grabbed the bag and emptied it into the toilet. You watched him flush it. “Happy?”

“No.”

“What else do you want?”

“The truth.”

“That was Kelce’s.” You almost laughed.

Rafe knew you did not believe him. You knew he was aware of it.

Still, he kissed your forehead and promised it wouldn't happen again.

He meant it while saying it.

You wanted so badly to believe him that you pretended not to notice when the bathroom door locked the following night.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Sarah arrived without warning.

You found her standing in the kitchen while Rafe searched the refrigerator.

He wore one of your father’s old shirts because his own sleeve irritated the burn.

Sarah’s gaze moved from the shirt to the bandage covering his arm. “What happened?”

Rafe shut the refrigerator. “Nothing.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s fine.”

Sarah looked at you. “Dad said Rafe needed space.”

You folded your arms.  “Your dad left him injured beside the road.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened.

Sarah looked back at him. “You stole from him.” “Sarah,” you warned. “What? That’s what Dad said.”

“Ward paid Barry and abandoned his son afterward.”

“I’m standing right here,” Rafe said. Sarah’s attention returned to him.

His pupils were larger than they should have been in the afternoon light. His jaw moved slightly. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask.”

Rafe walked out of the kitchen. The back door shut behind him. Sarah waited several seconds. Then she lowered her voice. “He’s using again.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“You answered too fast.”

“He hasn’t slept.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“He’s dealing with a lot.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Sarah stared at you. You regretted the words immediately. She looked toward the door Rafe had exited through.

“I know what he looks like when he’s high.”

“He said he stopped.”

“And you believed him?”

You did not answer.

Sarah’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to attack him.”

“It sounds like it.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

Now it was Sarah’s turn to stare.

You looked away.

She picked up her purse. “You always say that when you’re not.”

After she left, you went upstairs.

A faint line of white powder remained along the bathroom counter near the sink. You stared at it. Rafe hadn’t even bothered to clean it properly. You dampened a cloth and wiped it away. Halfway through, your hand stopped. You looked at yourself in the mirror.

You weren’t helping Rafe get clean. You were helping him hide it.

The realization made you feel sick.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Lana Grubbs answered her door only after you knocked three times.

Her eyes moved over you, taking in the clean dress, expensive shoes, and car parked along the road.

“You’re from Figure Eight.” It was not a question.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“You have the wrong house.”

She began closing the door. 

You removed your phone from your purse. “I found something in Room 23.”

Lana stopped. You held up a photograph of the motel receipt, keeping Scooter’s name and Ward’s signature covered beneath your fingers.

Only the motel logo and room number remained visible. Lana’s face changed. You pretended not to notice. “I thought it might belong to someone you knew.”

“Where did you get that?”

“The motel.”

“That room should’ve been empty.”

“It was.”

Lana’s fingers tightened around the door. You waited. Silence made people uncomfortable. Most rushed to fill it. You lowered the phone. “Sorry. I must have the wrong person.” You turned away. “Wait.” You stopped. Lana looked past you toward the road. “Who sent you?”

“No one.”

“Does Ward know you’re here?”

You allowed confusion to cross your face. “Ward?” Lana froze. You tilted your head. “I didn’t mention Ward.” Her expression closed. “You need to leave.”

“Why would Ward care about an empty motel room?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You just asked whether he sent me.”

“I made a mistake.”

“Did he put Scooter there?”

Lana looked away. That was answer enough.

You stepped closer. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then explain it.”

“No.”

“Ward paid for the room.”

Her gaze snapped back to yours. You had shown more than you intended. Lana realized it. “You have the receipt.” You said nothing. “He said he destroyed everything.” The words escaped her. You stored them carefully. “What was he destroying?” Lana looked frightened now. Not of you. Of someone who was not there. “Go home.”

“What did Scooter do for Ward?”

“Nothing.”

“Did Ward send him out during the hurricane?”

Her eyes filled. You almost felt guilty. Almost.

“Scooter worked for him,” Lana whispered. “Private jobs. Things Ward didn’t want connected to Cameron Construction.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

Lana shook her head. “It involved John B’s father.”

The air seemed to change. “What happened to Big John?”

Lana stepped backward. “I’ve said too much.”

“Lana—”

“Stay away from the Camerons.”

You lowered your phone. The door closed.

You remained on the porch.

You thought of Rafe asleep against your chest. Rafe waiting outside the bathroom because he hated being alone. Rafe lying about the cocaine while looking directly into your eyes. You loved him. You also knew something was wrong. Both facts could exist at once.

That was becoming the problem.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe called while you were driving home.

You answered through the car speakers. “Hey.”

“Tell me you didn’t.” His voice was already raised.

You tightened your hands around the steering wheel. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t fucking do that.”

“Rafe—”

“Tell me you didn’t go into Barry’s trailer.”

Silence filled the car. “How did you—”

“Tell me!”

You ended the call. It rang again immediately. Then again. You ignored every attempt.

By the time you reached home, Rafe had sent seven messages.

Rafe: Answer me

Rafe: Where are you?

Rafe: Tell me he’s lying

Rafe: Pick up the phone

You placed your phone on the kitchen counter.

Rafe arrived nearly two hours later. The front door opened hard enough to strike the wall. You stood from the couch. He entered the living room breathing heavily.

The shouting had disappeared. He looked terrified. “You stole from Barry.”

“He wasn’t home.”

“That is not the point.”

“You needed the money.”

“I didn’t take it.”

“You were supposed to.”

Rafe stared at you.

He looked as though he had never seen you clearly before.

“You broke into a drug dealer’s trailer for me.”

“You would’ve done worse.”

“I know.” His voice dropped. “That’s the problem.” You folded your arms. “What did Barry say?”

“He said money went missing before. Before JJ robbed him.”

“So?”

“So I remembered you appearing with a stack of cash and refusing to tell me where it came from.”

Rafe moved closer. “You could’ve been there when he came back.”

“He wasn’t.”

“You didn’t know that.”

“I watched the property.”

“That does not make it better.”

“You’re angry because I was careful?”

“I’m angry because you went there at all.”

“You were going to lose your motorcycle.”

“I already lost it.”

“You owed him money.”

“That was my problem.”

“You make everything my problem when you show up injured and refuse to tell me what happened.”

“I never asked you to fix it.”

“No. You just arrive bleeding and expect me not to care.”

Rafe’s expression shifted. “You think I expect this from you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t.”

“You expect me to stand there while you risk your life, but the second I take a risk for you, suddenly I’m too fragile?”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s you.”

His voice cracked against the words. You became quiet. Rafe looked away. When he spoke again, the anger was gone. “You’re the only thing I have left.” Your chest tightened. “I can’t be the reason something happens to you.”

“You don’t get to control me because you’re scared.”

“I’m not controlling you.”

“You are trying.”

“You broke into Barry’s trailer.”

“And you went to Barry knowing you couldn’t pay him.”

“That was my choice.”

“So was this.”

Rafe rubbed one hand over his mouth. His body remained tense. “You don’t understand what he would do.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I talked to Cricket too.”

Rafe stared at you.

“You what?”

You immediately regretted saying it. 

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing directly.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I gave him a reason to question Barry.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You loved that about me when I keyed Bennett’s car.”

“That was a car.”

“And this was money.”

“This was Barry.”

Rafe looked toward the window. His breathing had become uneven again.

“You cannot do shit like this for me.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No.”

“I’m not losing you because of some debt.”

“And I’m not watching you destroy yourself because you think you deserve it.”

They were different arguments. Neither of you realized it yet. You were talking about Barry. Rafe was talking about every danger that came with loving him.

He slept beside you that night.

Neither of you touched.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The decline didn't happen all at once.

It arrived through small changes. 

Rafe began asking who you were texting. At first, he disguised it as curiosity. “Sarah?”

“Yes.”

“What does she want?”

“To talk.”

“About what?”

“Nothing important.”

He stared at the screen until you turned it facedown.

Then he started appearing whenever you spent time with her. You returned from lunch one afternoon and found him sitting on your front steps. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“You could’ve gone inside.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I was driving.”

“For forty minutes?”

“We stopped for gas.”

“With Sarah?”

“Yes.”

Rafe laughed beneath his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Say it.”

“Interesting how fast you’re fixing things with her.”

“She’s my best friend.”

“She hated you last week.”

“She was hurt.”

“She called you a liar.”

“I was one.”

His expression hardened. “You seem pretty comfortable admitting it when it isn’t about me.” You walked past him. Rafe followed.

Another night, you caught him kneeling beside the locked drawer beneath your jewelry box.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for something.”

“In my locked drawer?”

“You hide everything from me.”

“Because you search through my things.”

“You went through Ward’s office.”

“That does not give you permission to go through mine.”

“Where’s the receipt?”

“Why?”

“So I can destroy it.”

You stared at him. “No.”

“My dad’s signature is on it.”

“That’s why I’m keeping it.”

Rafe stood. “You want him to be guilty.”

“Why would I want that?”

“So you can prove you were right.”

“This is not about being right.”

“Everything changed after you decided my dad was a murderer.”

“I never said he murdered anyone.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Lana mentioned Ward without me saying his name.”

Rafe’s eyes sharpened. “You went to Lana?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.”

“She confirmed Scooter worked for him.”

“She’s grieving.”

“She was scared.”

“Of you?”

“Of Ward.”

Rafe laughed bitterly.

“You have an answer for everything.”

“No. I have questions you refuse to ask.”

He stepped closer. The argument ended with his mouth against yours.

Rafe caught your waist and pushed you back against the dresser. His kiss was rough, desperate, and immediately familiar. You kissed him back. Your body responded before your mind did. His hands moved beneath your shirt. Then you remembered the locked drawer behind him. The questions he had avoided.

You pulled away.

Rafe followed your mouth. You turned your face.

“Stop.”

He froze.

You pressed one hand against his chest. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Kissing me so we don’t have to finish the conversation.”

His hands remained at your waist.

“You were kissing me too.”

“I know.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that it works.”

Rafe stared at you. You stepped away. He looked angry. More than that, he looked afraid.

The fights became easier to start. He accused you of choosing Sarah. You accused him of choosing Ward. He promised he had stopped using. Yet all you could find was proof of his lies.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe disappeared for an entire night.

You called him six times.

He answered none of them.

By morning, fear had become rage.

He walked through the front door shortly after sunrise. His pupils were blown wide.  His shirt was wrinkled. His hair was damp with sweat, and the bandage covering his burn had partially unraveled.

You stood in the hallway. “You’re high.” Rafe shut the door. “I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Stop treating me like a child.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

He laughed. The sound was too loud for the quiet house. “Here we go.”

“Where were you?”

“Out.”

“With who?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because you disappeared.”

“You disappear constantly.”

“To investigate something connected to a dead man. Not to get high.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“Ward.”

“This is not about Ward.”

“It’s always about him.”

“No, Rafe. This is about you.”

He began pacing. “You believe Lana.”

“She had no reason to lie.”

“You believe Sarah.”

“She’s his daughter.”

“You believe John B.”

“I barely speak to John B.”

“You trust everyone except me.”

“I trust you when you tell me the truth.”

Rafe laughed again. “You lied first.”

“This isn't about the motel.”

“Everything is about the motel. You decided my dad was some murderer and suddenly every fucking thing I do proves I’m like him.”

“I never said you were like Ward.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Rafe.”

“You look at me differently.”

“I look at you differently when you’re high.”

His face hardened. “I’m not high.”

“Your pupils are huge.”

“It’s dark.”

“The sun is up.”

“Stop analyzing me.” “Stop lying.”

Rafe crossed the hallway. His hands caught your waist. Then his mouth covered yours. For one second, habit took over. You knew the taste of him. The pressure of his hands. The way he tilted his head when he wanted to pull you further into the kiss. Then you felt how quickly his heart was beating.

You pushed him away. “No.” Rafe froze. His hands released you immediately. You stepped back. “You don’t get to kiss me every time you don’t want to hear me.”

His expression changed. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.”

“I wanted to kiss you.”

“You always want to kiss me when you’re losing an argument.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It is.”

You moved toward the stairs. Rafe stepped in front of you. “We’re not done.”

“Move.”

“No.”

“Rafe.”

“Stop walking away from me.”

“Move.”

“You don’t get to start this and leave.”

“I did not start anything.”

“You’ve been waiting for this.”

“For what?”

“An excuse.”

You stared at him.

“An excuse to do what?”

“To leave.”

You attempted to step around him. Rafe moved again. He did not touch you. He still blocked the path.

“Move, Rafe.”

“We’re not done.”

“Move.”

“Stop walking away from me!” His voice echoed through the hallway.

You became completely still. Rafe’s chest rose and fell rapidly. His eyes were too bright. His hands trembled at his sides. “You’re scaring me.” The words cut through him instantly. Rafe stepped away. His face changed. “I would never hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Then why would you say that?”

“Because I don’t recognize you right now.”

He stared at you. The anger drained from his expression, leaving something wounded behind. You walked past him.

This time, he let you.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You packed Rafe’s clothes while he stood in the bedroom doorway.

Neither of you spoke at first.

You folded his shirts carefully. That somehow made it worse. Rafe watched as you placed everything inside the duffel bag he had carried into Tannyhill parties, Boneyard nights, and your bedroom window years earlier.

“What are you doing?” You continued folding. “You know what I’m doing.”

“No.”

“I can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

You stopped. You looked at him.

“I wait for you to come home. I clean your injuries. I hide your drugs. I lie to everyone who asks whether you’re okay. I spend every night wondering which version of you is going to walk through the door.”

“I never asked you to do any of that.”

“You keep saying that like it makes it better.”

“It means you made those choices.”

“Yes. Because I love you.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Then stop acting like I forced you.”

“I’m not.”

“You said our whole relationship is cleaning up my messes.”

“I said you create problems and expect me to help.”

“I think you liked needing me.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I think you liked being the only person who could handle me.”

“Rafe.”

“And now you’re tired of it.”

“I am tired.”

The words silenced him. You swallowed. “I love you.”

“Then stay.”

“I can’t keep doing this.”

His expression broke.

“You said I had you.”

“You did.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because having me cannot mean destroying me too.”

Rafe looked away. His breathing became uneven. “So that’s it?”

“No.”

“You leave when I’m at my worst.”

“I’m leaving because you keep using your worst as permission to hurt me.”

“I never touched you.”

“That isn’t the only way to hurt someone.”

“I would never put my hands on you.”

“I know.”

“Then what did I do?”

“You lied. You disappeared. You searched through my things. You accused me of betraying you every time I disagreed. You made me responsible for keeping you alive and then got angry whenever I tried.”

“I didn’t make you responsible.”

“You called me because you had nowhere else.”

Rafe flinched. You regretted the words immediately.

“That wasn’t—”

“No.” His voice became cold. “You’re right.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“You said I had you.”

“You do not get to use that promise against me every time you refuse to help yourself.”

“I need you.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t do this.”

“I need you to get sober.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are standing here high while I pack your clothes.”

“I’m not high.”

“Stop lying!”

Your voice broke. The room became silent. Tears burned behind your eyes.

“I love you, but I don’t like who you are when you’re using. And I don’t like who I become trying to keep you from falling apart.”

Rafe stared at you. You wiped your face angrily.

“Get sober. Get your shit together. Stop trying to earn love from a man who threw you away. Then maybe we can talk.” His expression hardened at the mention of Ward.

“Don’t bring him into this.”

“He is already in everything.”

“This is about us.”

“No, Rafe. This is about you choosing cocaine and Ward every time things become difficult.”

“He’s my father.”

“And I was your girlfriend.”

The words landed between you. Rafe looked toward the duffel bag. “Was?” Your chest tightened. “Yes.” He became still.

“There has to be someone else.”

You almost laughed. “There has never been anyone else.”

“Then why?”

“I already told you.”

“No. You gave me reasons. You didn’t tell me why.”

“Because loving you is killing me.”

Rafe looked as though you had struck him. 

You zipped the duffel bag. “Leave.”

He did not move.

“Rafe.”

“Do you still love me?”

You looked at him. “That’s the problem.”

His eyes closed briefly.

When they opened, the vulnerability was gone. Rafe grabbed the duffel bag. He walked past you without another word. The front door closed downstairs. You sat on the edge of the bed. His toothbrush remained beside yours. The coffee cup he had brought you that morning sat half-finished on the nightstand. For several minutes, you listened for him to return.

He did not.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe texted you that night.

Rafe: I’m fine.

You stared at the message.

You couldn’t let yourself answer.

An hour later:

Rafe: You awake?

Then:

Rafe: Can I come over?

Rafe: Just answer once.

Rafe: Wanted to hear your voice.

Rafe: Please.

You typed several responses.

Deleted every one.

The messages continued over the next few days.

Some were angry.

Rafe: Guess you meant it.

Rafe: Sarah happy now?

Rafe: Tell John B congratulations.

Others were worse.

Rafe: Can’t sleep.

Rafe: Coffee tastes like shit here.

Rafe: I miss you.

You never answered.

You stopped sleeping anyway.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The Boneyard was crowded when you arrived alone.

Music carried across the sand. Bonfires burned near the dunes while people drank, danced, and pretended the island was not collapsing around them.

You walked farther down the beach.

Away from the music. Away from the cars. Away from every place Rafe might appear.

You sat near the water and pulled your knees against your chest.

The first tears came quietly. You wiped them away. More followed. You had broken up with Rafe because staying had become impossible. That didn’t make leaving feel right.

“Wow.” Sarah’s voice came from behind you. “What are you doing this far from air-conditioning?”

You turned your face away. She approached laughing. “Did someone force you to touch sand, or—”

Sarah stopped. Her smile disappeared. “Hey.”

You quickly wiped your face. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” She sat beside you.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke. Sarah looked toward the distant party. “Did Rafe do something?”

You stared at the water. “I broke up with him.”

Sarah became completely still. “What?”

“He’s getting worse.”

Her voice softened. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not like that.”

“What does that mean?”

You wrapped your arms more tightly around your knees. “He’s using again. More than before.”

Sarah looked down. “I thought so.”

“I know.”

“He was acting strange at your house.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to be right.”

“I know.”

Sarah touched your hand. You let her. “He kept lying,” you whispered. “And every time I asked him to stop, he acted like I was attacking him.”

Sarah’s fingers closed around yours. “You don’t have to defend him to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You looked at her.

Sarah’s eyes filled slightly. “You always defend him before anyone says anything.”

You looked back toward the water. “He isn’t always like that.”

“I know.”

That surprised you. Sarah continued. “He can be awful. But I know he isn’t awful every second.”

You laughed weakly. “That’s not very comforting.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

You rested your head against her shoulder. Sarah remained beside you until the bonfires burned lower. She never said she warned you.

That made it easier to cry.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Wheezie found you in the middle of TannyHill.

Sarah had asked you to meet her near the side entrance while Ward prepared to leave for the Bahamas.

People moved crates toward the airstrip. Cameron Construction logos covered their sides. Gold hidden inside company property. Ward’s signature attached to Scooter. Everything had become connected.

Wheezie appeared beside you eating a popsicle. “Rafe was here.” Your body reacted before your mind did. “When?”

“Like ten minutes ago.”

“What did he want?”

“Money.”

Your stomach tightened. “What?”

“He asked if I had cash.”

“Did you give him any?”

“Obviously.”

“Wheezie.”

“What? He looked weird.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“He asked about Dad’s flight.”

You looked toward the road. “Which direction did he leave?” Wheezie pointed.

You were already moving before she finished.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You followed Rafe from a distance.

He never looked back. 

His car moved quickly toward the airstrip, disappearing around curves before reappearing farther ahead. You nearly lost him twice. When he turned near the private runway, you slowed and parked behind a line of trees. Rafe’s vehicle sat farther down the access road.

He was already gone.

You left your car and moved toward the runway on foot. Voices carried across the open space. Ward stood near the plane. Sarah and John B were there. Sheriff Peterkin faced Ward with her weapon drawn. You remained behind a stack of equipment, trying to understand what was happening.

Peterkin shouted for Ward to get on the ground. Sarah stood several feet away. John B looked injured. Ward raised his hands. Then you saw Rafe. He emerged near the edge of the runway.

A gun shook in his hand. Your blood turned cold. You stepped forward.

“Rafe—”

The gun fired. The sound split the air. Peterkin collapsed. For one impossible second, no one moved.

Sarah screamed. Rafe stared at the gun. His mouth opened. “I saved him.”

You stepped onto the runway. Rafe turned. He had not known you were there. His face changed when he saw you. You looked at him as though he belonged to someone else. “What did you do?” Ward moved immediately. He rushed toward Peterkin, speaking quickly, demanding the gun, telling Rafe to listen. Rafe continued staring at you. His hand shook so violently that the weapon moved with it. Sarah looked toward you. Tears streaked her face. “He shot her.”

Your voice barely worked. “I know.”

“Come with me.”

You looked from Sarah to Rafe. He was pale, trembling, and clearly high. 

Ward reached for the gun. Rafe flinched away.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Ward took control of the scene.

He spoke rapidly, constructing a story before Peterkin had stopped moving. John B had done it. John B had taken the gun. John B had shot Peterkin while attempting to escape. Rafe only needed to repeat it. You watched him nod.

That obedience frightened you almost as much as the shooting.

Ward finally noticed you properly. “You need to leave.”

“He’s coming with me.” Ward looked at Rafe. “That isn’t your decision.”

“He can barely stand.”

“I’m fine,” Rafe said automatically. 

You stared at him. Blood had splattered across his shirt. His pupils were blown wide. His hand still shook. “You’re not.”

Ward stepped closer. “I’ll handle my son.”

Rafe flinched.  Ward lowered his voice. “Give me the gun.” You looked at Rafe. “Give it to him.”

Rafe’s eyes remained on you. “I saved him.”

“I heard you.”

“She was going to arrest him.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t let her.”

Your chest tightened painfully. “Give him the gun.” Rafe finally released it. Ward took the weapon. You caught Rafe’s wrist. “Come on.” Ward stepped forward. “He needs to stay.”

“No.”

“Do you understand what happened here?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand why he cannot leave.” You looked at Ward. “He’s leaving with me.” Rafe stood between you, silent.

Ward’s attention shifted toward him. “Rafe.”

The single word changed him. His shoulders straightened. You felt his wrist tense beneath your hand.

Ward continued. “I need you to listen carefully.”

You pulled Rafe toward you. “He’s done listening.”

For once, Rafe allowed you to lead him away.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe could not drive. His hands were shaking so hard he was struggling to fasten his own seat belt. You leaned across him and clicked it into place. He stared through the windshield. You started the car.

For several minutes, he said nothing. “I saved him.”

“Stop.”

“She was going to take him.”

“Stop talking.”

“He would’ve gone to prison.”

“Rafe.”

“I had to.”

“Stop.”

He turned toward you. “You think I’m a monster.” You kept your eyes on the road. “I think you shot a woman.” Rafe flinched. “You came for me.”

“I followed you because I knew something was wrong.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

At your house, Rafe stood in the bathroom wearing Peterkin’s blood. You placed clean clothes on the counter. “Take off the shirt.”

He stared at you. “Rafe.”

His fingers struggled with the buttons. You stepped forward and pushed his hands away.

“I can do it.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

You unfastened the shirt yourself. The same way you had after Barry burned him. Then, he had rested his forehead against your shoulder while you promised to stay. Now, he stood motionless while another person’s blood dried across his chest. You pulled the shirt away and dropped it into the sink. Rafe reached for you. You stepped back. “Don’t.”

His hand remained suspended between you. “Please.” “You know, this doesn't mean were back together right.”

“I know.” “Do you?”

He lowered his arm. You turned on the water and guided his hands beneath it. Pink ran into the drain. Rafe watched. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because everyone around you is incompetent.”

“That isn’t a reason.”

You stared at the blood disappearing. “Because I still love you.” Rafe stepped closer. You moved away again. “Then let me stay.”

“No.” “Just tonight.” “No.”

His face broke. “You said I had you.”

“You do not get to use that promise against me every time you refuse to help yourself.”

“I don’t have anywhere else.”

“You chose Ward.”

“He’s my father.”

“And I was begging you to choose yourself.”

Rafe looked down. You pushed the clean shirt toward him.

“You need to change.”

“What happens now?” "You leave my house."

“And go where?”

“I don’t know.”

“You always know.”

“Not anymore.”

Rafe stared at you. The silence hurt more than shouting. He changed slowly. You looked away when he removed the rest of the bloodied clothing.

When he finished, he sat on the edge of the bathtub with his elbows on his knees. You remained near the doorway.

The distance between you felt deliberate. Necessary. Cruel.

“I saved him,” Rafe whispered again.

You closed your eyes. “No. You shot Peterkin.”

“She was going to arrest him.”

“That is what happens when someone commits a crime.”

“He didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He’s my dad.”

“That doesn't make him innocent.”

Rafe looked up. “You still think he did it. You think I’m just like him.”

“I think you are becoming whatever he needs you to be.”

His eyes filled. Rafe looked away before the tears could fall.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You refused to let him stay over.

Rafe asked once. Then again. “Can I stay on the couch?”

“No.”

“I won’t bother you.”

“No.”

“Just until morning.”

“You can shower. You can change. You can sober up enough to leave safely. But you cannot stay here.”

He looked toward the hallway. His toothbrush still sat beside yours upstairs. The drawer you had cleared for him remained half-empty. This house had briefly become his home. Not anymore.

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You always know.”

“Not anymore.”

Rafe looked down at his hands. They had stopped shaking slightly. His phone began ringing.

Ward’s name appeared on the screen. Rafe answered immediately.

“Dad?”

His entire body changed. He stood straighter. His voice became focused. Ward spoke long enough that Rafe’s expression hardened into obedience. “Yes.” A pause. “I know.” Another pause. “I’ll say it.”

You watched him. Ward did not need to be in the room to control him.

Rafe ended the call.

“Did he ask if you were okay?” Silence. “Did he thank you?”

Rafe picked up his bloodied clothes. “He needed me.”

“He used you.”

“Same difference.” “No, it isn’t.”

Rafe moved toward the front door. You followed. “Your life is falling apart.” He stopped.

“You’re high. Ward threw you out, and now he’s dragging you back because he needs someone to lie for him. You shot a woman tonight.” Rafe’s hand tightened around the clothes.

“If you don’t get sober and get your shit together, there will be nothing left of you.” His expression cracked. “You still think there’s something left?” You looked at him. “I wouldn’t be this angry if I didn’t.”

Rafe swallowed. Ward called again. The phone vibrated in his hand. Your chest tightened. Rafe looked down. You opened the front door.

“Go.”

He remained there for several seconds. Waiting for you to change your mind. You did not. Rafe walked into the night. You closed the door behind him.

Only after he was gone did you notice the small plastic bag on the bathroom floor.

It must have fallen from his bloodied jacket. You picked it up. Cocaine. You stood over the sink and emptied it beneath the running water.

Outside, an engine started. You watched through the window as Rafe disappeared down the road, returning to the father who had abandoned him.

You kept watching until the lights were gone.

next

There had never been a discussion about whether you would share a room. It was simply assumed.

You and Rafe shared nearly everything else already—an apartment, food, clothes, rides home, secrets, couches after parties, and occasionally intimate moments just between the two of you. A hotel room with two queen beds hardly qualified as anything crazy.

For now, though, Caesars Palace was still nearly an hour away, the Nevada desert stretched endlessly beyond the windshield, and Rafe had decided your music privileges were becoming a threat to his sanity.

“You’re not playing that again.”

Your finger paused over the screen. The opening beat had barely made it through the speakers before Rafe reached across the center console and lowered the volume.

You stared at his hand. Then at him. He kept his eyes on the highway, one wrist resting loosely over the steering wheel as if he had not just committed an unforgivable offense.

“Turn it back up.”

“No.”

“Rafe.”

“We’ve heard it four times.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“The first one didn’t count.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “Why wouldn’t the first one count?”

“Because Topper called in the middle of it.”

“That doesn’t erase the song.”

“It ruined the experience.”

Rafe gave you a sideways glance.

You were curled into the passenger seat with your knees angled toward the center console, his gray hoodie pulled over the tiny white tank top you had left home wearing. Your sunglasses sat low on your nose, and the air-conditioning blew strands of hair across your face every few seconds.

He should probably have been watching the road.

Instead, his eyes lingered long enough for you to notice.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’ve got something on your face.”

Your hand immediately lifted toward your cheek. Rafe smiled.

“You’re lying.”

“Probably.”

You shoved his shoulder. The car shifted slightly within the lane.

“Careful,” he laughed, catching your wrist before you could do it again. “Trying to kill us before we get there?”

“I’m considering it.”

His fingers remained wrapped around your wrist for another second before he let you go.

You reached for the volume.

Rafe caught your hand again. “Behave.”

“Stop touching my music.”

“It’s my car.”

“It’s my phone.”

“My speakers.”

“My playlist.”

“Terrible playlist.”

“You saved three songs from it yesterday.”

Rafe’s mouth twitched.

“That was an accident.”

“You added them to a playlist called ‘mine.’”

“Still an accident.”

You turned the volume up yourself. Rafe allowed the song to continue this time. He even began tapping his thumb against the steering wheel halfway through it.

You noticed.

You graciously chose not to embarrass him.

The music had gotten cut off again, with your phone vibrating against your thigh.

TOPPER

You answered and put him on speaker.

“What?”

“That’s how you answer the phone?”

“You called me.”

“We’ve been here for an hour.”

“Congratulations.”

Rafe smirked without looking away from the road.

Music and voices carried behind Topper, which meant he, Ruthie, and Kelce had already started drinking.

“Where are you guys?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Rafe answered.

“You said that an hour ago,” you said.

“Because you made us stop.”

“I needed snacks.”

“You bought gummy worms and lip gloss.”

“And water.”

“You left the water in the store.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

Ruthie laughed through the speaker. “Are you wearing his hoodie again?”

You looked down at yourself.

“How would you know?”

“Because you always are.”

“She complained about being cold for forty minutes,” Rafe said.

“So you gave it to her.”

“She wouldn’t stop.”

“Aw,” Ruthie said. “That’s sweet.”

“It was self-preservation.”

You reached over and pinched Rafe’s arm. He caught your hand and placed it on his thigh, holding it there so you could not do it again.

Your fingers rested against the warm fabric of his shorts.

Neither of you seemed particularly bothered.

Kelce’s voice emerged from somewhere behind Topper.

“Did Cameron make her ride with him?”

“No,” Rafe said.

“Yes,” you said simultaneously.

Rafe glanced at you.

“He said it would be cheaper than us flying as we wouldn't need to rent one.”

“You loaded my suitcase into your trunk before I chose a car.”

“You were standing beside mine.”

“I was standing in the driveway.”

“Close enough.”

Topper sighed dramatically.

“You two are exhausting.”

“You miss us,” you said.

“Not enough to listen to this.”

Rafe reached over, took your phone, and ended the call.

You stared at him. “That was rude.”

“They’ll recover.”

“You like them.”

“Sometimes.”

“You love me, though.”

The words were easy. They always were with him. Rafe’s hand returned to the steering wheel.

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled and settled deeper into his hoodie.

A few miles later, you stretched your legs across the center console. Rafe lifted one of them and placed it over his lap so it would not interfere with the gearshift.

His hand rested naturally on your shin. Then your knee. Then, without either of you acknowledging the change, your thigh. It did not feel unusual.

Rafe was always touching you.

A hand against your back in crowded rooms. Fingers around your ankle when your legs crossed his lap. An arm draped over your shoulders whenever you sat together.

You had stopped questioning it years ago.

You watched the desert blur past the window while his thumb traced absentminded circles against your skin.

“Wake me up when we get there.”

“You slept for two hours already.”

“I’m tired.”

“You did nothing.”

“I kept you company.”

“You complained.”

“Exactly. Emotional labor.”

Rafe squeezed your thigh. “Go to sleep.” You closed your eyes. “Don’t crash.”

“Helpful.”

“And don’t change the song.”

He changed it before you finished speaking.

You smiled without opening your eyes.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The first thing you noticed about Caesars Palace was that it was enormous.

The second was that Ruthie had clearly lied when she said they were waiting patiently in the lobby.

She spotted you from beside one of the marble columns, abandoned the drink in her hand, and hurried across the polished floor.

“Finally.”

She wrapped both arms around you.

You hugged her back while Rafe set down the luggage.

“You started without us.”

“We got thirsty.”

Topper lifted his glass from several feet away.

“You took eight hours.”

“He drives slowly,” you said.

Rafe looked at you. “You made us stop four times.”

“Three.”

“The overlook counted.”

“It was pretty.”

“You took forty pictures.”

“And you offered to take twenty of them.”

“You didn’t like the first ones.”

“You cut off my shoes.”

“You were standing on rocks.”

Kelce looked between you.

“Did you guys do this the entire drive?”

You and Rafe answered together. “Yes.”

Topper raised his glass.

“Cute.”

Rafe pushed the handle of your suitcase toward the elevators.

You reached for it. He moved it away.

“I can carry my own bag.”

“I know.”

“Then give it to me.”

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Rafe smiled and continued toward the check-in desks with both suitcases.

Ruthie linked her arm through yours.

“You two seem normal.”

“We are normal.”

“Sure.”

The reservation issue appeared twenty minutes later.

The woman behind the desk typed Rafe’s name, studied the screen, and offered an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry. The two-queen room attached to this reservation is no longer available.”

You looked at Rafe. He leaned one forearm against the counter.

“Do you have another one?”

“We are fully booked in that category. We can move you to an upgraded Augustus Tower room.”

“That works,” you said.

The woman hesitated. “It has one king bed.” There was a short silence.

Then Topper made a noise behind you that sounded suspiciously like a laugh being strangled.

Rafe turned his head. Topper lifted both hands.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Ruthie moved closer to the desk. “One bed?”

The employee nodded.

Ruthie looked at you. You shrugged. “That’s fine.” Rafe glanced down at you. “Yeah?”

“We’ve shared beds before.”

“Couches,” Kelce corrected.

You looked over your shoulder. “Why are you involved?”

“I’m clarifying.”

Rafe took the keycards from the desk.

“It’s a king. We’ll survive.”

Topper smiled. “I’m sure you will.”

Rafe tossed one of the cards toward him.

Topper barely caught it.

“Your room is on the other side of the building,” Rafe said.

“That’s not our key.”

“I know.”

Topper looked at the card.

Then at Rafe.

Rafe held out his hand.

“Give it back.”

You laughed as Topper reluctantly returned it.

Nobody made a serious issue out of the bed. Why would they?

You and Rafe had been best friends for years.

One mattress was not going to change that.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The upgraded room was beautiful.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Strip. Pale afternoon light spilled over a sitting area near the glass, and the marble bathroom was larger than some apartments you had seen.

Rafe rolled both suitcases inside.

You walked directly toward the windows.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Come look.”

“I can see it.”

“You’re looking at the luggage.”

“I saw buildings on the way in.”

You turned toward him. “Come here.”

Rafe sighed as if you were asking him to cross an ocean rather than ten feet of carpet.

He joined you anyway. You leaned against the glass and pointed toward the pool complex below.

“We’re going there first.”

“Topper already texted.”

“What did he say?”

“Pool in twenty.”

“That’s exactly enough time.”

“For you?”

“Be nice.”

“I am nice.”

“You complain about everything I do.”

“And then do whatever you ask anyway.”

You smiled.

“That’s because you love me.”

Rafe looked down at you. His expression softened briefly. “Yeah.”

The sincerity of it made you pause.

Then he reached over and tugged lightly at the sleeve of the hoodie you still wore. “Give me this.” You stepped away. “No.”

“It’s mine.”

“You gave it to me.”

“For the car.”

“You didn’t specify a return time.”

Rafe caught the hem and tried pulling it over your head. You laughed, grabbing his wrists. “Stop.”

“You’re going to the pool.”

“I know.”

“You don’t need a hoodie.”

“I might.”

“It’s a hundred degrees outside.”

“The casino was cold.”

Rafe finally released the fabric. “Keep it.”

“I was going to.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’ve known that for years.”

He smiled despite himself. The bed sat behind you.

One large mattress. Crisp white sheets. Enough space that neither of you would need to touch unless you chose to.

You barely gave it a second glance. “I’m taking the bathroom.”

“You take forever.”

“You can change out here.”

“Was planning on it.”

You opened your suitcase and pulled out a warm-pink bikini. Rafe saw it. His eyes moved over the small pieces of fabric.

Then back toward you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You made a face.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Rafe sat on the edge of the bed. “Go change.”

You studied him for another moment.

Then smiled. “Yes, sir.” His expression shifted. Only slightly.

You disappeared into the bathroom before you could think too much about it.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

When you emerged, Rafe was standing near the window in black swim trunks.

He turned at the sound of the door.

Then stopped.

The bikini was tiny.

Pink with patterns against your skin, tied around your neck and hips with narrow strings. You had thrown an oversized white button-down over it, but the shirt was open and did almost nothing to conceal what was beneath.

Rafe stared. You checked your appearance in the mirror.

“Ready?”

He did not answer. You looked over.

“What?”

“That’s what you’re wearing?”

You looked down at yourself. “It’s a swimsuit.”

“It’s three strings.”

“There’s fabric too.”

“Barely.”

You laughed.

“Are you going to spend the whole weekend reviewing my clothes?”

“Depends what else you packed.”

You walked toward the door.

Rafe caught your hand. “Wait.”

“What?”

He stepped behind you.

“The knot’s loose.”

“It’s fine.”

“You want it coming undone downstairs?”

Before you could answer, his fingers brushed the back of your neck.

Rafe untied the knot and secured it again, tighter this time.

The touch should not have felt intimate.

He had fixed necklaces for you before. Zipped dresses. Removed tags from shirts. Held your hair while you were throwing up.

Still, you became unusually aware of the warmth of his hands and the way his knuckles brushed the top of your spine.

“There.”

You turned. Rafe stood closer than expected.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t blame me when you lose it in the pool.”

“You’d save it.”

“I’d let you learn a lesson.”

“You absolutely would not.”

His mouth curved.

“No. Probably not.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The pool was crowded enough that Rafe kept a hand at your back while the group moved through the rows of lounge chairs.

It was practical.

That was what you told yourself, anyway.

His palm rested low against your exposed skin, thumb moving along your waist whenever someone stepped too close.

Ruthie had reserved several chairs near the water.

You removed your white shirt and placed it over your bag.

Ruthie’s eyes widened.

“That bikini is perfect.”

“Thank you.”

Topper looked at Rafe.

Rafe was still staring at you.

“Cameron?”

Rafe’s attention snapped toward him. “What?”

“You good?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kelce smirked. “No reason.”

You stretched across one of the lounge chairs and pushed your sunglasses over your eyes. Rafe chose the chair beside yours. He sat for approximately thirty seconds before standing again. “Drink?” You smiled. “Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“Something pink and strong.”

“That isn’t a drink.”

“Surprise me.”

Rafe returned with two frozen cocktails, one pale pink and the other almost orange. He handed you the pink one without asking which you preferred. You took a sip. It was sweet, cold, and much stronger than it tasted.

“This is good.”

“I know.”

“You tried mine?”

“I asked what was in it.”

“That isn’t the same.” 

Rafe lowered himself onto the edge of your lounge chair. His hip pressed against your thigh. You shifted to make room. He rested one hand against your bare leg. The touch was casual enough that no one commented.

At least, not verbally. Ruthie looked at Topper. Topper looked at Kelce. Kelce shook his head. You ignored all three of them. Rafe’s thumb moved slowly against your skin as he talked to Topper about dinner reservations.

Every few minutes, you held your drink toward him. He took a sip without interrupting the conversation.

When his own glass was closer, you drank from that instead.

It had always been like this between you. There was no concept of yours and his unless one of you was deliberately being annoying.

By the time you reached the water, you were warm from the sun and pleasantly lightheaded.

Rafe followed. You descended the pool steps. He caught your hand when your foot slipped slightly against the tile. “I’m fine.”

“I know.”

He did not let go. He guided you deeper until the water reached your chest. Then his hands settled at your waist. You looped your arms around his shoulders.

“Why are you holding me?”

“You’re short.”

“I can touch the ground.”

“Barely.”

You bounced once to prove him wrong. Rafe lifted you before your feet returned to the floor. You laughed. “Put me down.”

“You said you couldn’t touch.”

“I said I could.”

“Changed my mind.”

Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. Rafe held you securely beneath the thighs. Nothing about the position appeared unusual to him. Your body disagreed. You were suddenly aware of his chest against yours and the water moving between you.

Rafe smiled at your expression.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re making a face.”

“You’re holding me like a child.”

“You’re about the same size.” You splashed him. Rafe turned his face away, laughing. “Okay.”

“Don’t.”

“You started it.”

He dropped you into the water. You resurfaced and immediately launched yourself toward him. Rafe caught you around the waist. Topper shouted from several feet away. “Can you two flirt somewhere else?” “We aren’t flirting,” you called. Rafe rested his chin against your shoulder. “No,” he agreed. “She’s attacking me.”

“You deserved it.”

“Usually do.”

The afternoon passed in drinks, swimming, and a game Ruthie invented that required you to sit on Rafe’s shoulders.

His hands remained wrapped around your thighs while you attempted to shove Ruthie from Topper’s.

When you lost your balance, Rafe caught you against his chest beneath the water.

Your arms closed around his neck. For one quiet second, his expression changed. His gaze dropped to your mouth. You felt yourself lean closer before Kelce sent a wave of water crashing over both of you.