in between â đđđđ
oscarâs heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. he just nods and says, âwe make it work.â short, clipped, but itâs the truth. somehow, you and him fit.
ęŽ starring: divorce attorney!oscar piastri x wedding planner!reader. ęŽ word count: 20.4k. (!!!) ęŽ includes: romance, friendship, light angst. alternate universe: non-f1. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. set in new york, pining... yearning..., idiot best friends in love, a bout of miscommunication, sunshine/grumpy trope, carmen & george name drop. title from gracie abramsâ in between. ęŽ commentary box: nobody talk to me about the word count. this is one of my favorite tropes of all time, and i always thought my pipe dream romcom novel would sing a similar tune to this. until that day comes, we see it play out in fanfiction 𩷠this fic means a lot to me, so if you ever decide to consume this behemoth: thank you in advance!!! đŚđ˛ đŚđđŹđđđŤđĽđ˘đŹđ
Oscar spots them before you do.
You have your nose in your tablet, scrolling through sample menus and floral arrangements, completely oblivious to the couple two tables over who are clearly yours. Matching mood boards, latte art going untouched, the sort of soft hand-holding that suggests theyâve already merged Spotify playlists. Youâve got that look you get when youâre planning someone elseâs Happily Ever After: focused, bright-eyed, borderline evangelical.
Oscar, on the other hand, believes in love the way he believes in Wi-Fi on the subway. Pleasant in theory, disastrous in practice. And, as your best friend, he sees it as a public service to intervene before strangers spend years in litigation over who gets the air fryer.Â
When he recognizes the telltale signs of a newly engaged pair, he leans forward, forearms on the table, voice warm but edged with professional mischief. âCongratulations,â he says. âWhenâs the big day?â
They share a look. The woman says, âOhâwe havenât set a date yet.â
âWell,â Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, âwhenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.â
The fiancĂŠeâs smile falters. The fiancĂŠ tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscarâs joking. He isnât. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. âPiastri!â you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. âWhat the hell are you doing?â
He sits back, lazy grin in place. âJust offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.â
The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. âDo you know him?â the groom-to-be asks carefully.
âUnfortunately,â you grit out. âThatâs Oscar. Heâs a divorce attorney. Which explains why heâs trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.â
âIâm not assassinating,â Oscar protests mildly. âIâm safeguarding. Big difference.â
You plant your hands on your hips. âYouâre meddling. Again.â
The bride-to-be laughs nervously, still unsure if this is a bit. Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a sleek business card, and slides it across the table toward them with the kind of flourish usually reserved for magicians revealing the queen of hearts. Oscar Jack Piastri, it says. Associate Attorney at Brown & Stella, PLLC.Â
âIn case you change your mind,â he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though heâs offering directions to the nearest subway station.
You snatch the card before it can land. He raises both hands in mock surrender, pushes back from his chair, and retreats to his own table by the window. He glances at you one last time; you look like youâre resisting the urge to throw a sugar packet at his head. Turning back to your clients, you smooth your skirt and force a professional smile. âSo,â he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, âletâs talk about the wedding.âÂ
Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one thatâs equal parts dreamy and surgical. Youâre talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar canât decide if itâs the story youâre selling or the way you sell it.
Your pen glides over your notepad as you sketch out ideas. Ivy-wrapped arches, candlelit dinners, first dances under fairy lights. You tilt your head as you listen, nodding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious confessionals. You treat their love like itâs sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe thatâs what gets him.
Itâs been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.
Not that heâs admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once.Â
Back in high school, when heâd sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasnât staring while you debated the symbolism of a green light with a ferocity that could scare lesser mortals. You were sunshine with sharp edges, a hopeless romantic who didnât mind being right about everything. He was the cynic with a dry remark always cocked and ready. You butted heads over everything. Song lyrics, cafeteria pizza, the proper ranking of Bond actors. He thought it was exhausting. He also thought it was the best part of his day. Somewhere along the way, you grew into different lives but kept orbiting the same way. Maybe thatâs why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical.Â
Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. Itâs not a sharp ache anymore. Itâs softer, settled. Thisâwhat you have nowâis the best possible result. A withstanding friendship, no messy confessions to ruin it. He can sit here and admire you without wanting more, without needing to risk what youâve built.
The couple laughs at something youâve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup.Â
Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. Heâs already got his.
Hours later, Oscarâs halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesnât look up right away. Heâs learned this is part of the performance. You standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping just enough to register as a warning sign. He lets you stew for a moment, because he knows you like to deliver your charges with maximum dramatic timing.
Finally, he glances up, all false innocence. âProblem?â
âYou ambushed my clients,â you say point blank.Â
âAmbushed is a strong word,â he says, clicking his laptop closed. âI prefer âenlightened.ââ
You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. âThey came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.â
Oscar leans back, folding his arms. âAnd yet, contingency clauses are what keep centerpieces safe in the event of an irreconcilable breakdown. No one wants a custody battle over a floral arrangement.â
You roll your eyes, but thereâs no real heat behind it. âYou owe me for that.â
âOh? Whatâs the damage?â
âDinner tonight. My pick.â
Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he canât remember the last time he said ânoâ to you. âFine,â he concedes. âBut if you pick that vegan place again, Iâm bringing a steak in a to-go box.â
You grin, victory claimed. âNoted.â
Itâs easy, this back-and-forth. Always has been. The two of you were the only ones in your friend group who stayed close after college; everyone else scattered across the map, swallowed by jobs and relationships and time zones. Youâd kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasnât even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted.Â
And now, youâve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscarâs idea of cooking is Thai takeout artfully decanted onto ceramic plates). Quarterly road trips, usually with you in charge of the playlist and him complaining about it until track five, when he inevitably starts humming along. Sunday mornings, one of you knocking on the otherâs door with a coffee and a headline to discuss. Emergency grocery runs, emergency advice, emergency laughter in the hallway when neither of you can remember why you were mad in the first place.
Thereâs the spare key thatâs changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as âspare.â Thereâs the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if itâs just leaning against opposite doorframes. And thereâs the strange comfort of knowing that no matter how messy his cases get or how stressed your wedding timelines become, the other is just a few steps away.
Oscar picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, and watches you fish your phone out of your bag, already scrolling through dinner reservations. He knows youâre thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, thereâs a part of himâsmall, quietâthat wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.
When it comes down to it, Oscar doesnât actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when youâve made an executive decision. The next, he was being ushered out of Arrow Central, corralled into the stream of foot traffic like a particularly unwilling briefcase.
âIs this my punishment?â he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. âPublic humiliation via grease stains?â
âItâs called dinner,â you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. âAlso, you like this place.â
âI like the idea of it. I like it when Iâm not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.â
âYour dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.â
Youâre an odd pair. Heâs always known it. You, with your free-flowing skirt and unshakable knack for making mismatched colors look like a deliberate choice; him, in his uniform of suit and tie, the kind that announces courtroom even when heâs just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, itâs never felt like a mismatch. Itâs only you and him. An established unit.
The pizza joint isnât fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. Itâs the kind of place where the outside world blurs out the moment you step inside. The air is noisy in that particular New York way: clatter, conversation, the hiss of the oven door. No one here cares about job titles, or what you wear, or whether you spent the day dismantling marriages or assembling them.
You claim a booth by the window with the casual entitlement of someone who has done it a hundred times. âSame order?â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?â
âItâs called a compromise.â
âItâs called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.â
âYou always eat it,â you counter, already flagging down the waiter.
Because itâs easier than arguing, he thinks, though heâd never hand you that victory. Besides, heâs learned you have a habit of leaning across the table mid-meal and swapping slices without warning, like his plate is just an extension of your own.Â
The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. Youâre already halfway into a story about a florist who nearly set her arrangement on fire with an ill-placed candle display, your hands sketching shapes in the air as if the details need choreography. Oscar props his chin in his hand, letting the words spill over him.Â
Thereâs a rhythm to thisâto you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. Itâs the kind of thing you donât notice youâre missing until itâs gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because heâll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesnât want.Â
The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesnât mind. Tonightâs detour is a bodega window that hasnât changed since the Obama administration, but you stand there studying it as if the oranges might suddenly reveal a plot twist. He lingers just behind you, watching your reflection in the glass, the curve of your mouth lit faintly by the streetlamp. Not that heâs about to say anything sentimental. Heâs not that foolish.
By the time you make it back to the apartment building, youâre rifling through the layers of your bag. Oscar leans on the wall, arms crossed. This is the dance: you muttering about receipts and lip balm, him tossing in the occasional dry remark, neither of you breaking the rhythm.
âLose them again?â he says, purely for sport.
âTheyâre in here somewhere. Donât act like youâve neverââ
âI have a system,â he interrupts.
âYou have a filing cabinet for a personality.â
âWhich is why Iâm never locked out.â
You glance up, one eyebrow raised. âExcept that one timeââ
âThat was a faulty lock,â he deapdans. âAnd slander.â
The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. âSaturday, movie night?â
âDepends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?â
âYou loved that one.â
âI tolerated it.â
âYou cried.â
âAllergies.â
You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: âFriday dinner, Saturday movie. Donât forget.â
He watches you vanish inside, the door shutting with a soft click. The hallway feels oddly warm, filled with the low hum of pipes and the faint scent of your perfume. He imagines years of thisâkey hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without askingâand a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest.Â
When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldnât mind if this were it for the rest of his life. Standing in the quiet of his apartment, he almost believes he truly will be okay with nothing more, as long as he gets nothing less.
Itâs Saturday night, and Oscarâs already questioning his life choices before the opening credits even hit. He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Years of empirical evidence suggested that âYou pick the movieâ was never actually a giftâit was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake youâd baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.
He glances at you. Youâre tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when theyâve won a battle you didnât know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. Itâs good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. âYouâre not even trying to hide your agenda,â he says.
âWhat agenda?â you say, faking innocence so badly it should be a crime.
Two hours and several predictable plot twists later, the credits roll. You stretch, all casual, and then drop it: âSo⌠have your thoughts on marriage changed?â
Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. âWhy do I even let you pick movies?â
You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. âIâve been good. I havenât asked in, what, six months?â
He levels you with a look. âThree.â
âSix,â you insist.
He leans back into the couch, shaking his head. This is familiar territory. Uncharted for most friendships, but well-trodden for you two. He thinks about all the other times: in cafĂŠs, on road trips, once while he was battling in an IKEA bookshelf you swore you could assemble yourself. Always the same question, always the same dance. âYouâre relentless,â he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.
âAnd you love me for it,â you retort.
The thing isâwell, yes. He does. But Oscar isnât about to scream that from the rooftops.
Oscar stacks the empty cupcake plates, balancing them like evidence exhibits, and heads for the sink. His sleeves are already halfway rolled before you even follow, trailing after him with the tenacity of a lawyer smelling a weak spot in the witnessâs story. You prop yourself against the counter at just the right distance to be distracting. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to make him aware of you in his peripheral vision.
âYou canât tell me Maid of Honor didnât soften you up even a little,â you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.
âI can, and I will,â he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. âYouâre forgetting Iâve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.â
âOh, the infamous speech,â you say, shit-eating grin widening. âDo I get the deluxe edition tonight?â
He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate heâs rinsing. âCâmon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parentsâ marriage collapse in slow motion. Ten years of silences, slammed doors, and holidays you could cut with a knife. Was old enough to Google the numbers, and surprise, surprise. Half of all marriages end in divorce. The odds for second marriages? Worse.â
You grimace, as if heâs told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. âYou know thatâs depressing, right?â
âItâs realistic,â he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery.Â
Soap, rinse, stack. Facts donât break hearts. They just prevent them from getting too ambitious.
The hem of your skirt sways as you shift your weight, brushing your legs in an idle, thoughtless way thatâs absurdly distracting. âOr maybe you just like having an excuse,â you say.Â
He exhales through his nose, resisting the temptation to glance at you too long. Leaning there with your hair slipping loose around your face, you look maddeningly like you belong in his kitchen. Itâs an alternate timeline heâs already filed away in the âunwiseâ drawer. âOr maybe,â he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, âsome of us donât believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.â
You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. Itâs the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. Heâs not sure if youâre trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him.Â
Oscar slides the last plate into the drying rack, flicking suds from his hands and briefly feeling like the conversation is over. Safe. Ready for you to pivot to some other harmless hill to die on.Â
Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge heâs already certain he wonât like. âAlright,â you say, deliberate and smug. âIâll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.â
He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. âIâm sorry. One what?â
âOne wedding. Just one. To change your mind.â You say it with the same breezy cadence as a promotional offer. Limited time only! Terms and conditions apply! Cancel anytime!
The words take their sweet time sinking in. When they finally do, itâs like something snaps in his chest. He starts to laugh. Not polite, not even dignified. Full-bodied, doubled over, holding the edge of the counter because his knees apparently no longer feel trustworthy.
âYouââ He tries, fails, tries again. âYou want toââ A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. ââundo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with⌠a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?â
You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. Heâs gone. Helpless. The kind of laughter that shakes his ribs and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes blurring with the kind of tears he refuses to admit exist.
âGod, youâreââ He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. ââridiculous. So, so ridiculous.â
Youâre still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if youâd known this was exactly how heâd react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.
Oscarâs still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, âAlright, but whatâs in it for me?â
The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. Youâve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. âWhat do you mean, âwhatâs in it for youâ?â you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.
âI mean,â he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, âyouâre asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream youâve been hoarding. Thatâs a high-stakes request. I want terms.â
You cross your arms. âFine. What do you want?â
You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscarâs head. He assassinates its source immediately. âWhat do I want?â He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. âI dunno. You tell me.âÂ
âYou can choose the movies for six months,â you try, âor Iâll pay for the next roadtrip.âÂ
âWow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.âÂ
âOscar.âÂ
The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. âIf Iâm not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,â he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, âthat marriage doesnât guarantee a happily ever after.â
Your mouth falls open. âThatâsââ
âA direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,â he cuts in, feigning sympathy. âWeddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.â
The man has no shame. You stare at him for a beat too long, probably weighing the public humiliation against the joy of watching him eat cake in formalwear. His expression doesnât waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows heâs cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. âAlright. Youâve got a deal.â
He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. âNo, no. Not like this. If weâre doing this, weâre doing it my way.â
You arch a brow. âYour way beingâŚ?â
âContract,â he says, already heading for his desk. âDrafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.â
âYouâre unbelievable.â
âAnd yet,â he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, âyou still want to marry me off.â
Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isnât going to be a normal afternoon.Â
The dayâs plans are not in the city. Itâs at that suspiciously photogenic park wedding photographers swear by for its natural light and timeless atmosphere, which is code for: there will be at least three other couples here today in matching beige, posing like they invented romance. Still, Oscar doesnât expect this. To be standing ten feet away from Carmen Mundt and George Russell, whose faces he only half-remembers from yearbook spreads stuffed with pep rally candids and overwrought prom photos.
âYou didnât tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,â he says flatly, hands buried in his coat pockets. He watches George dip Carmen for the photographer, the scene so perfectly manufactured it could be the poster for a holiday rom-com. All thatâs missing is a fake snow machine.Â
Youâre crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmenâs hair over her shoulder for âbalance.â Oscar doubts âhair balanceâ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. âHm?â you murmur, not looking at him.
âThis couple. Russell. Mundt. Youâre telling me this wasnât intentional?â He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if thereâs one thing he knows about you, itâs that plausible deniability is rare currency.
You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look heâs wearingâthe one that says heâs about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and voidâand straighten. âOh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didnât even realize until they sent their headshots.â
âHeadshots.â
âPre-wedding portraits. Same thing.â You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. âAlso, you didnât go to our prom. You canât call it a reunion.â
âBecause I had the foresight to avoid things like this,â Oscar says, sweeping his hand toward the setup: the strategically rumpled picnic blanket, champagne flutes brimming with something so pale and fizzless it might as well be Sprite, and the pièce de rĂŠsistanceâa rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.
You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff thatâmuch to his irritationâmakes him feel like heâs being the difficult one here. âLook, I swear, itâs not some nostalgia trip,â you say patiently. âThey booked me months ago. And theyâre nice people. Youâll like them.â
Oscarâs about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. Sheâs laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isnât sure he likes that. Still, thereâs no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple youâve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe youâre not just playing matchmaker. Youâre playing chess.
The shoot winds down with the photographer packing up lenses in meticulous slow motion, and the rented golden retriever trotting off to its handler with the air of an exhausted professional. Carmen and George spot Oscar before he can retreat to the safety of the car. In hindsight, itâs inevitable. Oscarâs tall, and heâs been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmenâs smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.
âYouâre Piastri, right?â George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. âWe thought we recognized you.â
Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. âRight,â he says, shaking Georgeâs hand. âFrom high school.â
Carmen laughs. âI canât believe this is happening!âÂ
Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. âSo, how long have you two been together?â
Thereâs a beatâlong enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuitingâbefore you blurt, âOh, weâre notââ at the same time he says, âAbsolutely not.â
You both stop, glance at each other, and promptly talk over each other again, this time with clarifications that only make it worse. Something about being friends, something about just helping out. Oscarâs aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmenâs grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.
You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile thatâs maybe three watts too bright. âWe work together. Sort of. Different fields.â
âOpposite fields,â Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when oneâs career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.
âOh?â Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. âWhat do you do?â
âIâm a divorce attorney.âÂ
The effect lands exactly as expected: first the blink, then the snort of laughter, then the delighted realization of the irony. The wedding planner and the divorce attorney. George, grinning, throws out, âSo⌠she starts the story, and you end it?â
âSomething like that,â Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether heâs joking.Â
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression thatâs part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself itâs just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and itâs annoyingly hard to shake.
Carmenâs smile could power a small city when she says, âYou should join us for dinner. Our treat.â
Thatâs a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. Heâs already flipping through the list when you look at him. Not just look. You deploy the full arsenal: tilted head, softened grin, those eyes doing that thing that could disarm a firing squad.Â
And thatâs it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. âSure,â he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when youâre involved.
Dinner turns out to be⌠something. A bizarre theatre production where Carmen and George play the leads in a romance so committed it borders on parody. They feed each other, trade bites back, and laugh in perfect sync, like theyâve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation.Â
Across from them, Oscar sits beside you, playing the role of vaguely polite companion. He holds the door, pours your water, throws in the occasional wry remark that Carmen misses entirely but earns you a small laugh. George squeezes Carmenâs hand mid-story. âYou two must have so much fun being friends.â
Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, âOh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.â
You kick him lightly under the table. He pretends not to notice, but the curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. Underneath all the polite detachment, heâs hyper-aware of how close your arm brushes his, of the way your laughter curls somewhere in his chest.
Carmen and George launch into a greatest-hits reel of their history. Promposals, senior pranks, late-night drives. The nostalgia is so sweet itâs practically crystallizing in the air. You lean in to listen, smiling in all the right places, your hair brushing your cheek. Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of practiced disinterest. But when your knee bumps his again, he doesnât move it away. If anything, he leaves it there.
Later, the apartment hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of an old ceiling light that flickers like itâs paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeoutâsomeoneâs stir-fry, maybeâand thereâs a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar canât stop noticing. Youâre in front of your door, patting down your bag like the keys might have sprouted legs and made a break for it. He leans against the wall, watching you with the same patient skepticism he reserves for opposing counsel mid-argument.
âSo,â he says, drawing the word out, âthat was⌠dinner.â
You glance up briefly, distracted. âDinner was fine. You were the problem.â
He lets out a low laugh. âI was polite. Mostly.â
âPolite is a strong word,â you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you donât offer him.
âCarmen and George are intense.â He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. âLike a rom-com no one asked to sit through.â
That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, âWhat if weâd been like that? Back in high school?â
The words land heavier than you probably intended, though they sound casual enough. Oscar freezes for half a second, just long enough for the thought to lodge somewhere inconvenient.Â
What if he went to prom? No, more than that. Asked you to prom. Asked you out in between reads of The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice. Would you have stayed together throughout college, throughout his time in law school? Would you have been the annoying kind of high school sweethearts posting about about seven-year anniversaries?
Would you have been happy? (He knows he would have been.) What if, what if, what if.Â
âWhat if,â he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.
You donât elaborate. He doesnât press. Itâs not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone elseâs leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of âgood nightâ before slipping into your apartment, door clicking shut behind you.
Oscar stays where he is. His eyes linger on the door as the hum overhead grows louder, or maybe itâs just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself heâs only standing there because heâs tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.
Oscarâs commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other peopleâs happily-ever-afters.Â
The train rocks along, every stop unloading a tide of commuters in a mix of suits, sneakers, and faces wearing that blank morning mask, all moving as though on the same reluctant conveyor belt. He wears the same look, though his coffee at least pretends to help. A man two seats over is watching videos without headphones. Oscar imagines citing him for cruelty.
The cityâs already in motion by the time he hits the sidewalk. Shop shutters halfway up, buses sighing at curbs, a street vendor shouting in two languages at once. He sidesteps a puddle, considers the physics of how that much water exists on a perfectly dry street, and joins the slow drift toward the firm.
His office hums its usual chorus: phones ringing somewhere down the hall, printers coughing up paperwork, the faint scent of burnt espresso curling out of the break room. Janine at reception looks up from her desk, bright as a storefront window display. âMorning, Oscar.â
âMorning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?â
âGave it a stern talking-to,â she says. âItâs ignoring me.â
Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. âGot the Delaney file?â
âDo I look like I bring work home?â Oscar asks.
âYes,â Mick says, without hesitation.
Frederikâs in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. âYour clientâs at two,â he says.
âPerfect,â Oscar replies. âPlenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.â
His office is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked in controlled disorder, legal tomes on one side, mugs on the other that have begun to resemble a science experiment. The desk tells a quieter, stranger story if you bother to look closely.
A Post-It stuck to the monitor in your handwriting. Half a grocery list, half a doodle of a cat with questionable anatomy. A worn Polaroid from high school, the two of you barricading at an All Time Low concert. A single black hair tie looped carelessly around his pen jar, forgotten or maybe not.
He doesnât touch any of them right away. Boots up his computer. Skims his calendar. Pretends to be a man with a normal Tuesday ahead of him. But his gaze keeps catching on the hair tie, like it has its own gravitational pull. You donât put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you donât know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasnât. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its youâve left him this past month.Â
Oscarâs afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who canât even agree on the shape of the conference table, let alone custody. He sits at the head of the long, too-polished wood, flanked by Mick on one side, Frederik on the other, both of them looking like theyâre preparing for trench warfare.
Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. Theyâve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The coupleâArthur and Danaâsit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it wonât.
Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. âHeâs keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we evenââ
Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. âYours? You didnât even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.â
Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. âLetâs try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,â he says. âWeâre here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.â
Dana huffs, crossing her arms. âFine. Then I want the dog.â
âYou didnât even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.â
âBecause you were always up at five to doomscroll!âÂ
Oscar glances at Mick, whoâs taking notes on the far side of the room. âRemind me why we havenât separated visitation for the dog yet?â asks Oscar, as if itâs a matter of national concern.Â
Mick shrugs. âBecause they canât agree on who buys the treats.â
âLetâs focus.â Oscar doesnât raise his, because he doesnât need to.Â
Thereâs a rhythm to these sessions, and heâs the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone thatâs just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the otherâs spending habits, Oscar doesnât flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesnât do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isnât coldness. Itâs survival.
Heâs not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is nowâthis calm, this precisionâwas learned the hard way. Back when his parentsâ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and heâd been all shouting, all shaking hands, all wanting someone to pick a side and stick to it. He remembers the heat of that anger, the way it never helped. Now itâs gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.
The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. Heâs already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol itâs us ^^, it says.Â
Itâs a TikTok. From the thumbnail, it seems to involve two animated penguins. Oscar can feel the corner of his mouth pulling upward despite himself. Professionalism, temporarily postponed. He pockets the phone without opening it yet, saving the video you sent like a cigarette after a long day. Something small and certain to cut through the taste of other peopleâs endings.
Oscar takes the train home in that post-work daze everyone wears like a second suit. Sshoulders heavy, tie slightly askew, head still full of someone elseâs marital collapse. He tells himself itâs fine. Itâs just the job. Itâs not like he hasnât seen worse, and itâs not like he hasnât learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. Thatâs the whole problem.
Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isnât exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows heâs good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. âGoodâ doesnât make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than heâd like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.
By the time the train slows near his stop, heâs already trying to shake it off, to think about dinner, laundry, anything else. He steps out into the evening air, which smells faintly of rain on concrete, and heads down the block toward home. Thatâs when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, youâre at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. Youâre singing some song he canât hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision.Â
Youâre in your own world, and heâs the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesnât know how long heâs there. Long enough for the windows to start fogging slightly from the inside, long enough for him to realize that people probably walk by and think heâs lost.Â
You look up eventually. Your eyes land on him, widening in surprise before they light up. The change is instant, like flipping a switch. You smile so wide he almost forgets how to breathe.
He manages a tired smile in return, the kind that still somehow carries all the warmth heâs been trying to keep to himself. He lifts a hand and waves, brief and almost shy.
And in that moment, the day feels a little less heavy.
âYouâre my logistics team.â
Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. âThatâs not a real job title.â
âIt is if I say it with enough confidence,â you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. âBesides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while Iâm helping her. Youâre perfect for it.â
âAh, so Iâm a coat rack now.â
âDonât be dramatic. Youâll be a supportive friend.â
Thatâs how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time heâs told a client they âjust need to compromise.â Youâre humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that youâve roped him into the ninth circle of hell: bridal retail.
The boutique smells like roses and champagne. An aggressive kind of luxury that makes him feel like he shouldâve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, âYou must be here for Carmen!â and sweeps you both toward a back fitting room.
Carmen, radiant and rosy, is already mid-spin in a lace creation that probably costs more than Oscarâs rent. âYou made it!â she beams.
âYou look amazing,â you say, darting toward her.
Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. Heâs not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. âHow do I look, Oscar?â Carmen asks, turning toward him.
He gives a diplomatic nod. âLike youâve single-handedly funded a Parisian designerâs vacation home.â
You shoot him a look. âTranslation: gorgeous.â
âThat too,â he says, because apparently sarcasm isnât bridal-friendly.
From his perch by the wall, he listens to you and Carmen debate the merits of tulle versus organza, which sounds like a legal dispute heâs unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking âlike a dad in a mallâ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that heâs absolutely being used as a pack mule, heâs signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship. Â
Oscarâs halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, âYou should try that one.â
At first, he assumes sheâs read his mind about where he wants to nap. Then he glances up and sees you. Holding a dress against yourself, hesitant but smiling like youâve already pictured it on even if youâre pretending you havenât. You laugh, shaking your head. âIâm not the bride, Carmen.â
âSo? Humor me.â Carmen waves a manicured hand, all command and no room for argument. The kind of gesture that once made high school teachers wilt.
Oscar leans back, waiting for you to refuse, maybe stutter some excuse about time or budget or basic dignity. Instead, you grinâa grin thatâs trouble in heelsâand vanish into the dressing room without another word.
He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself heâs not thinking about it, about you. Heâs just killing time. Thatâs it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, âAlright. How do I look?â
Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him.Â
The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when youâre not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, andâGod help himâa certain kind of light heâs pretty sure wasnât in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.
You tilt your head, waiting. âWell?â
He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue. âYou lookâŚâ He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. â⌠sufficient.â
Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead.Â
Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, heâs watching you from under his lashes. Youâre a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. Youâre lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.
Itâs ridiculous, he tells himself, that his brain immediately starts filling in the gaps. Swapping Carmen out for a crowd, replacing the fitting room with some floral arch, and suddenly itâs a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someoneâs arm, the curve of your smile. He triesâreally triesâto slot himself into the groomâs position.Â
But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He canât make it fit. The groomâs face blurs until itâs just⌠not him.
Itâs pathetic. And worse, itâs dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, heâll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if heâs trained himself to shut down.
âHey,â you call, jolting him back. Youâre grinning at him in the mirror. âDonât look so serious. Youâre starting to scare the mannequins.â
He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. âIâm just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.â
âYouâre logistics,â you say, prim as anything. âItâs an important role.â
âRight,â he mutters, âbecause when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.â
You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. âAdmit it. Youâre having fun.â
He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, âSure. Letâs call it that.â
The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school.Â
Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someoneâs nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. Sheâs already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says sheâs come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. âHey, stranger,â she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.
âHey,â he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. âYou look lawyerly.â
She laughs. âThatâs the nicest thing anyoneâs said to me all week.â
They order wineâred for her, white for himâand the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people whoâve survived the same hellish coursework. Law school war stories, professors they loved and loathed, nights when the library coffee tasted like burnt cardboard but kept them awake long enough to memorize the finer points of civil procedure.
On paper, itâs great. Sheâs great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him heâs an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christâs sake.
But halfway through her story about a particularly messy corporate merger, he catches himself looking at the way the candlelight reflects in her wineglass rather than at her face. His mind driftsâuninvited, annoyingâto you. How youâd wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming theyâre âtoo chewy,â and then steal half of his anyway. How youâd nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.
Isabella smiles mid-story. âYouâre quiet. I didnât bore you with that, did I?â
âNo, no,â he says quickly, forcing his attention back. âI was just⌠thinking about something.â
âHopefully something good.â She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone whoâs not half-distracted by a ghost.
He tries harder. Asks about her current cases, listens to her take on the latest SCOTUS decision, even cracks a joke about how law school didnât prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he canât help thinking of how youâd do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like youâve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. Heâs not even sure if heâs comparing, or if youâre just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.
The date survives dinner, and now theyâre roaming the streets, hunting ice cream like two people who have run out of small talk but are determined to keep pretending otherwise. The summer air is heavy, and the neon of a late-night gelato place blinks as if itâs in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. Thatâs the problem. Easy means Oscar canât point to anything wrong. Easy means sheâll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and heâll smile not because he wants to but because itâs what is expected.Â
âSo,â she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, âhowâs your best friendâwhatâs her name again? Oh! Right.â
The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. âYou know her?â
Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. âI mean, yeah. When you werenât stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.â Thereâs a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. âWe all thought she was your girlfriend.â
Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. âShe wasnât,â he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story.Â
âMm.â Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. âFunny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.â
The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. âMaybe youâve just got a bad sample size.â
She arches an eyebrow, lets the joke hang between them, then changes the subject. He catches the flicker of something in her expression. A note of recognition, the kind you file away for later. Sheâs perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy.Â
As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wondersânot for the first timeâif thereâs anyone in his life you havenât already quietly colonized.
The walk to Isabellaâs apartment is pleasant in the way most well-lit, tree-lined streets are pleasant. Pretty, unthreatening, and peaceful enough to hear your own thoughts. Unfortunately, Oscarâs thoughts are not the kind you want amplified. Isabella is talking about a new case at her firm, her voice warm and animated. He listens, really listens, because sheâs truly the kind of person you can imagine parents approving of in seconds. The problem is that his brain keeps running a silent parallel commentary: not her, not you.
They reach her building faster than he expects. She pauses at the door, smiling up at him. âYou want to come in?â
Itâs said casually, but thereâs something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because sheâs no fool. âRight,â she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. âThen Iâll just do this.â
Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. Itâs competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But thereâs no spark, no pulse of something unexpected. Just the faint, sweet aftertaste of her pistachio gelato.
When she pulls away, she studies him for a beat and then says, âTake care, Oscar.â Itâs not cold, but itâs final.
âYeah, Isabella,â he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like Iâm sorry for wasting your time. âYou, too.âÂ
He watches her slip inside, the lobby light catching in her hair for a moment before the door shuts. Then he turns and starts the walk back to his own place. The night air is cooler now, brushing his skin, and his hands are sticky from where his ice cream dripped down the cone. He licks at it absently, the sugar grit catching on his tongue, wondering why something as small as this feels heavier than it should.
Oscarâs still working out how long itâll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead.Â
Youâre there. Not metaphorically. Not in some wistful, post-date replay of memory. Physically there, padding around his kitchen like you own the lease. Which, he reminds himself, you absolutely do not.
You glance over your shoulder mid-chew. âOh. Hey. Hope you donât mindââ
âWhat are you doing here?â
âI ran out of cereal.â You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. âYou had some. Problem solved.â
You hadnât even bothered to dress up in any way, shape, or form. Ratty pajamas, hair a little mussed, posture loose in that way people only get when theyâre somewhere safe. You look better like this than Isabella had tonight. Than anyone has, probably.
He drops his jacket on the back of the couch, still mentally tripping over the fact that youâre here at all. âYou couldâve just⌠I donât know, gone to the store?â
âCouldâve. Didnât.â You point your spoon at him. âHow was the date?â
Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, âDonât think anythingâs gonna come out of it.â
âBummer,â you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.
You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friendâs ill-fated attempt at baking bread. Oscar half-listens, half-watches you, wondering why it feels like the night only started making sense once you showed up.
Youâre halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. âWhy havenât you dated anyone lately?â
A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says youâve already got your answer and heâs not going to like it. âBecause Iâve always been date-to-marry.â
He shouldâve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if heâs honest. Itâs just different hearing it out loud, the words sliding into place with a kind of brutal simplicity.
Oscar leans back against the counter, nursing the chocolate milk heâd poured himself. Date to marry. Right. He thinks about your exes. Not a sprawling list, more like a curated exhibit. Each one stuck around for years, long enough to look like they might last forever, long enough for him to get used to seeing them in your orbit.Â
And then they were gone, quietly, for one reason or another. Oscar, whether or not he cared to admit it, was always a little glad to see them go. You shovel the last bite of cereal into your mouth, unfazed. âWhy? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?â
âGod, no,â he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. âTheyâre all idiots.â
You laughâeasy, unbotheredâbefore you go to rinse your bowl in his sink like you live there. When you pad over to the door, Oscar almost says something stupid. Something like, stay. Stay the night. I never want you out of my sight, and if I could keep you here forever, I would.Â
Instead, he calls out, âGood night,â and you donât even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered.Â
The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly.Â
The catererâs late, the floristâs lost in traffic, and someone apparently thought now was the time to test how much champagne a tablecloth can absorb. Oscar would feel bad for youâactually, no, he does feel bad for youâbut mostly heâs impressed. Youâre everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like youâre running a high-stakes covert op, except your comms are a phone glued to your ear and a pen stuck in your hair.
He watches from the corner, pretending not to be entirely captivated. You point at the florist when they finally arrive, then pivot to soothe the maid of honor, then somehow charm the caterer into an apology and extra dessert. When you finally pass him, breathless but smiling like youâve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, âYouâre a miracle worker.â
You glance at him, brow arched. âFlattery wonât get you out of moving chairs.â
âWasnât trying to get out of it,â he says, but itâs a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know heâs telling.
You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then youâre off again, darting back into the chaos, and Oscar follows. Partly because you told him to, partly because watching you do this is better than any dinner theater heâs ever seen.
Despite your utter salvation of the shitshow, Oscar spots the tells before anyone else does. The quick snap in your voice when someone hands you the wrong seating chart, the way your smile freezes for half a second before you glue it back on. Everyone else sees a flawless operation humming along. He sees the seams, the hairline fractures running under the polish.
Youâre spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. Heâs the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think youâve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. âWhen was the last time you ate something that wasnât pure stress?â he presses.Â
âIâm fine,â you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.
Oscar is not fine with that answer. âThatâs not a binding statement. You canât just say âfineâ and have it hold up in court,â he bites out.Â
You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, heâs in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except itâs more like evidence in a trial. âEat,â he commands.Â
âOscar, I have a millionââ
âEat.â
Your team, the same people youâve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. Thereâs a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. âIâll wrestle you,â he threatens. âDonât test me.â
You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. âYou wouldnât.â
âI would. Happily. In front of all these people.â
The absurdity hangs between you, but thereâs something else too. The way his eyes soften under the joke, the concern tucked into the stubbornness. You take the fork. One bite. Then another. Then a sigh thatâs part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.
âThere,â he says, smug as anything. âMiracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.â
You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then youâre off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows youâll make it through the night without fainting.
Itâs not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. Thereâs no polite phrasing, no humble alternative. You flat-out rescue it from the jaws of chaos, and Carmen and George know it. They corner Oscar near the dessert table, beaming like proud parents. Carmen gushes about how flawlessly you handled every last hiccup, George nods so hard his tie shifts sideways, and Oscarâcool, composed Oscarâhas to bite back the urge to smirk like he had anything to do with it.
He does, however, get the tiniest satisfaction in thinking, Yeah, thatâs my girl.Â
It takes him a minute to realize youâre not in the room. Which is odd, considering youâve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where youâd vanish to if given half a second. He ducks out a side door, following instinct and maybe a little muscle memory. Sure enough, there you are in the garden, exactly where he expects. Among the flowers youâve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. Youâre not doing anything grand. Youâre standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.
He keeps his voice low. âJust checking in,â he says lightly as a way of introduction. âMaking sure youâre still breathing.â
You glance over, smile faintly. âStill breathing.â
âGood.â He takes a step back like heâs about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and heâs never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.
But then you say, âYou donât have to go. I never mind if itâs you.â
Oh. Well. Thatâs⌠unfair.
Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like itâs the most natural thing in the world. You lean into his side. Not much, just enough for him to feel the weight of you. He pretends itâs nothing. Forces himself to keep his hands in his pockets, because holding you would be a bad idea. The worst kind of good idea.
The flowers rustle in the evening breeze, and for a few beats, neither of you speaks. Oscar decides this is the sort of silence he could live in forever.
The road out of the city unspools in long, lazy stretches, all cracked asphalt and the occasional reckless squirrel. Youâve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering youâre ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like heâs running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.
âThis is the part where I remind you,â you say, glancing at him, âthat you volunteered for this.â
âI recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didnât.â
âThatâs volunteering.â
He snorts, not looking up from the screen. âThatâs coercion with frosting.â
You let the radio fill the gap for a minute. Static, pop ballads, the occasional truck blasting past. He catches you humming along and files it away for later, because apparently even your off-key is better than most peopleâs pitch-perfect.
âSo,â you say, eyes still on the road, âhowâs it feel knowing youâre basically my unpaid intern for one more week?â
âIâve had worse bosses,â he says. Then, after a beat: âThough none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.â
âThat bouquet was worth more than your rent.â
âAnd yet you trusted me with it.â
âDesperate times.â
He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. Itâs the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because youâre better company than the screen. The trees outside flicker sunlight across your face, and he has the passing thought that maybe the whole lackey thing isnât the worst gig heâs ever had.
You choose your topic with the precision of someone sliding a particularly risky track into a playlist. Light in tone, catastrophic in potential. âDivorce,â you announce, like youâre pointing out a roadside attraction.
Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. âWeâre really doing this now?â
âBetter now than during the vows,â you say, one hand drumming on the steering wheel.
He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man already exhausted by a conversation that hasnât even started. âSometimes itâs the right call,â he says simply. âTwo people know theyâre not good together anymoreâwhy drag it out?â
âBecause you can fix things,â you counter, eyes steady on the road. âPeople just donât try hard enough. They quit when itâs inconvenient.â
âThatâs not quitting, thatâs self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?â Something inside him churns. âThatâs not noble, thatâs masochism.â
You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. âWow. Remind me never to marry you.â
Damn. âDonât worry,â he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means heâs holding back sharper words. âMutual self-preservation.â
It should come off as a joke. It doesnât. The air in the car cools just enough to notice. The steady rhythm of passing fields outsides suddenly becomes riveting. He leans back, eyes on the horizon, shoulders angled away like the conversation is already several miles behind you. For a while, only the hum of tires fills the space between you, along with the faint, uneven tap of his fingers against his thigh. Heâs probably thinking he went too far. You might be thinking the same about yourself. The silence stretches, not hostile exactly, but brittle. Something that could break if either of you pressed just a little too hard.
The two of you pull up to the curb of your destination with the kind of synchronized silence that only two very stubborn people can manage. Oscar stares at the dashboard like itâs personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. Youâre already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smileâsomething shiny to hide behindâwhen he reaches across and catches your wrist.
âHey,â he says, soft but pointed, as if heâs trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. Heâs a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. âIâm sorry.â
Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. Itâs the kind of look that could be filed under âNeutralâ but is definitely under âWeapons-Grade Silence.â He swallows, tries harder. âAnybody would be lucky to marry you.â
The silence deepens. If it were a drink, itâd be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. âYouâre smart. Youâre funnyâthough you weaponize that, obviously. You make people feel taken care of without making it feel like a debt. You remember the little things, like who hates olives and who only pretends to hate olives because itâs trendy. Youâd be the kind of bride whoââ He stops, recalibrates. ââwho makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.â
âYou really think that?â you ask, voice small with disbelief.Â
Oscar nods. âIâve never lied to you,â he says delicately. âIâm not about to start now.â
You blink, slow, deliberate, and then lean in. Not to kiss him properly, but to press your lips once, briefly, against his shoulder through his shirt. Itâs the kind of gesture that says, Fine. Truce. Oscar exhales, almost a laugh, and lets you go. You push open your car door, the fake smile now replaced with something just slightly realer.Â
The front door to your house swings open before youâve even knocked. Your mum has a sixth sense for arrivals, honed over years of intercepting neighbours before they ring the bell. She pulls you into a hug so tight Oscar half-expects to hear vertebrae shift. Then she turns to him, and the smile doesnât even dip.
âOscar, love,â she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. âYouâve gotten taller.â
He hasnât. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. âAnd youâve gotten better at lying.â
She swats his arm in that way that means sheâs pleased. Your dadâs already at the door, hand outstretched, but it turns into a half-hug, half-back-pat before either of them can stop it. The kind of greeting reserved for family members you see less than youâd like but more than you can forget.
âGood to have you back, son,â your dad says, and Oscar pretends itâs dust in his eye.Â
Heâs been âsonâ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were âfor guestsâ. He never left without a Tupperware container, usually returned weeks later with something completely unrelated inside. Inside, the familiarity swallows him whole: the faint smell of laundry powder, the buzz of the fridge, the same photo frames on the wall except now with more moments crammed in. Your mumâs already fussing over both of you, asking if youâve eaten, offering tea before you can answer, and trying to herd you towards the kitchen like two sheep that have wandered into her hallway.
Oscar catches your eye as youâre divested of your coat. Itâs that lookâshared history folded neatly between youâthat says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? Heâs been part of this script for years.
âI canât believe youâre planning Russellâs wedding,â your mother says as all of you settle into the living room. Your parents, side by side; you and Oscar, crammed into the arm chairs that are a little too small. âHe was always a good fellow, that one.âÂ
âStill is,â you offer, sipping at your tea. âThe ceremonyâs going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.â
Thereâs a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscarâs limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter.Â
You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because theyâre some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. Thereâs a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades. âHowâs work, Oscar?â she asks.Â
âSame old, same old,â he responds. âLast week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.âÂ
Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them.Â
âSay, son,â your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesnât want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. Heâs still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, âDo you think we could have one of your cards?â
Oscarâs grin freezes.Â
Your parents, with their thirty-odd years of marriage, should not be asking Oscar that. Yet here they are, on their couch, watching him with a delicateness that dates back to when he was a teenager watching his parentsâ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mindâs eyeâbright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents.Â
He knows why theyâd ask him. He knows. Heâs had relatives and friends ask for his services. Divorce proceedings are a monster in their own right, and it helps to go through them with someone you trust. Your parents trust Oscar. They have since he was a lanky teenager, throwing rocks at your window because you were upset over something heâd said. Theyâve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; theyâve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life.Â
Heâs not about to take their trust for granted. âYeah,â he manages, fumbling for his wallet. âYeah, yeah. Of course. Here.â
For the first time ever, Oscarâs fingers tremble as he hands his card over.Â
Oscar spends the morning pretending he isnât in the way. Itâs not difficult; youâre preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist thatâs longer than most depositions. Heâs used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you donât tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it wonât share.
It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you donât conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last nightâs conversation with your parents presses on him like a poorly fitted suit. He had smiled and nodded and deflected, said all the right things while trying not to let the weight of implication crush him. They had praised him, teased him, looked at him with a familiarity that made his throat tight. And you had no clue. At least, he hopes you donât. You have enough to worry about without his conscience leaking into the bouquet arrangements.
He watches you. Watches the way you smooth your dress before you even sit, the way you give orders with a smile that masks the bite underneath, the way you pause every few minutes to take a breath, reset, then whirl forward again like a clock wound too tightly. And he thinks: if anyone deserves honesty, itâs you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.
You catch him staring. Heâs never as subtle as he believes himself to be. âWhat?â you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests youâll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.
He shakes his head. Lies like itâs his job, because today it is. âNothing. Iâm fine.â
Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and youâre gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. Thatâs what he said. Thatâs what heâll keep saying. Even if itâs the biggest lie of the day, and thatâs including the âfor better or worseâ someone else is about to recite.
Itâs an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: Georgeâs mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk thatâs lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. âI canât find George.â
Oscarâs standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks heâs misheard. You stare at Georgeâs mother, steady but pale. âWhat do you mean you canât find him?â you grit out.Â
âHeâs not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they havenât seen him either. Heâs justâgone.â
Oscar feels the floor shift under everyoneâs feet. George, of all people. Steady, buttoned-up, mildly boring George. Hardly the type to bolt. He looks at you, waiting for you to laugh it off, except you donât. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. âOkay,â you say, voice clipped but calm. âNobody tells Carmen. Not yet.â
Georgeâs mother nods furiously, like secrecy will summon him back. You turn toward Oscar, already mid-stride, ready to take charge of yet another potential disaster. He sees it. The way your shoulders square, the muscles in your jaw working overtime, the storm gathering in you. And he decides heâs not letting that storm break.
âIâll go,â Oscar says, stepping in front of you. âYou stay here. Keep things steady. Iâll find him.â
âYou?â Your brow arches. âOscar, you donât even know where to start.â
âIâm a divorce attorney,â he counters. âMissing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.â
Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. âThis isnât funny.â
âWasnât trying to be,â he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. âYouâve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.â
Thereâs a beat where you almost argue. He can see it in the way you open your mouth, close it, open it again. But then you nod. A sharp, reluctant motion. âFine. But call me the second you find him.â
âScoutâs honor.âÂ
As he heads out of the reception hall, he feels the weight of it. Your trust, however begrudging, pressing into his back. Maybe, just maybe, heâs more rattled than heâll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, heâs not sure what the hell heâll do. He pushes open the doors and steps into the warm afternoon, beginning the search.
The church is quiet in the way only a building this old can manage. Heavy with incense, dust, and the weight of a thousand whispered prayers layered into its walls. Oscar walks the aisle as if heâs a man on a mission, though in truth he feels more like a private investigator in an overpriced suit than a wedding guest. His shoes click against the stone, each sound bouncing up to the rafters like a tattletale. When he catches the faintest shuffle from the direction of the confession booths, wellâcase closed.
He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. âYou know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: âGo away, Oscar.â
âTempting,â Oscar says, shifting his weight. âBut Carmenâs about fifteen minutes away from suspecting youâve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured Iâd head that off. So here I am.â He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the brideâs behalf. âMind letting me in on why youâre pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?â
The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesnât open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. âI love her. I do. Thatâs not the problem.â
Oscar arches a brow even though George canât see his face. âFunny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, thatâs exactly the problem.â
George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. âIâm not scared of marrying Carmen,â he reasons. âIâm scared of⌠everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and Iâve failed her? I keep thinking about what you saidâthat sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?â
Ah. And there it is. His own cynical quip coming back to haunt him, boomeranging with perfect aim. Oscar closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, the irony settling heavy in his chest. âGeorge, youâre asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yetâeven I know fear isnât a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.â
The booth goes quiet, save for Georgeâs breathing. Shallow, uneven, like heâs bracing for a blow that doesnât come.
Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. âLook. Divorce isnât proof of failure. Itâs proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,â he says. âAnd yeah, sometimes it doesnât work out. But that doesnât make the trying worthless. If you love Carmenâand I know you doâthen marry her. Not because itâs risk-free. Because sheâs the person you want to take the risk with. Thatâs the point, isnât it? Youâre not promising perfection. Youâre promising to try.â
Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: âYou actually believe that?â
Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he canât quite believe himself either. âDonât spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.â
The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone whoâs just found the floor under his feet again. Oscar claps him on the shoulder. Firm, grounding, the closest thing he can offer to reassurance without choking on sentiment. âNow. Letâs get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,â says Oscar. âDo you know how quickly sheâd kill me for that?â
George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasnât vanished but at least itâs not steering the ship anymore. âThanks, Oscar,â the older man says shakily.Â
Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of whatâs waiting. âDonât thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.â
By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then youâre there, sweeping in like a general surveying her battlefield. One glance at George, present and upright, and your shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. You brush past Oscar, fingertips grazing his arm in a quick, instinctive squeeze. It lasts less than a breath, but itâs as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didnât knock the wind out of him.
The ceremony begins. The church doors open, and Carmen steps through, radiant in a gown that makes even the stained glass look dull. The room collectively exhales, but Oscarâtraitor that he isâfinds his gaze drifting. He tells himself heâs just checking that youâre still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He canât stop looking at you, looking for you.
Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current youâre steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way youâre biting the inside of your cheek to make sure no detail slips. Ridiculous, he thinks, that the most commanding presence in the room is the one people arenât even supposed to notice.
The vows begin and the congregation leans forward, hungry for their words. Oscar leans back. His eyes find you across the nave, tucked discreetly by the side pews. You look up. Just for a second, maybe checking on him, maybe accident, maybe not. But itâs enough.
There it is: the moment heâs been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this werenât George and Carmen standing at the altar. If it were him. If it were you. The thought crashes into him with the force of a spinout. Utterly uninvited, utterly undeniable.
Oscar swallows hard, forces his attention back to the couple trading promises that arenât his. The image lingers, stubborn as tire marks on asphalt: you, a gown that would outshine every candle in this place, saying words that could undo him. To him. With him.
Thereâs nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life.Â
The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmenâs veil catching the light as if itâs made of spun sugar. Oscarâs been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when thereâs too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesnât belong to this carefully choreographed world of champagne flutes and choreographed entrances.
You appear about thirty minutes in, armed with two paper plates of whatever the caterers managed to squirrel away for the vendors. Professional efficiency, no-nonsense stride. You steer him to a peaceful corner near the kitchen door, away from the storm of speeches and flash photography.
âEat,â you say, shoving one plate into his hands. âConsider it your reward for saving the wedding.â
Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. âSaving theâwhat?âÂ
âGeorge told me.â You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if youâre not detonating small bombs in his chest. âAbout the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.â
Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. âI didnât save anything. I justââ He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. âTalked. Thatâs all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.â
You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. âDonât be modest. Admit it,â you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. âYou believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.â
âWin what?â he asks, though he already knows.Â
âOur little contract.â You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. âYou said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?â
Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like heâs buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling donât give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if youâve dragged this out of him against his will. âFine. Maybe you won. A little.â
âA little?â You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. âThatâs all I get?â
âThatâs all anyone gets.â He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. âDonât push your luck.â
You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesnât quite say is that he will always, always let you win. Thatâs long since been established.
The drive back to your place is quiet. Not awkward. Quiet, like both of you are storing the night away in some mental scrapbook, cataloging details youâll never say aloud. Oscarâs fine with silence; he usually prefers it, really. But this silence trills in the space between your elbows brushing on the shared armrest, in the way you donât reach for the radio, in the occasional flicker of the dashboard light across your face that makes him glance over longer than he should. He tells himself heâs imagining it. He tells himself a lot of things. None of them hold.
The house looks exactly as it always has, which is both comforting and mildly suffocating. Curtains drawn, porch light on, that faint scent of grass and cement heâs always associated with late nights here. The place hums with the stillness of sleeping parents, furniture resting in their well-worn grooves. Oscar trails you in, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers and his own unspoken thoughts. He toes off his shoes, careful to line them up neatly, because your mother notices when he doesnât. She never says it, but he knows.Â
Youâre bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. âOscar.â
He looks up, and there it is again. That pull heâs been batting away for years. Familiar hallway, familiar you, nothing objectively remarkable happening, except every nerve in his body seems to think it is. The faded family photos on the wall, the buzz of the old refrigerator in the backgroundâmundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. Heâs supposed to be on the couch. Heâs supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. Heâs supposed to.
Instead, the two of you just look at each other. Too long. Long enough that he can hear the slow shift of your breathing, notice the faint flush on your cheeks that might just be the heat of the day lingering. Long enough that he feels the weight of every almost over the years crowding into this very small, very ordinary space. He thinks of high school evenings when he lingered too long on your porch, of college breaks where you laughed just a little too hard at something he said. He thinks about every moment he could have leaned in, and didnât.
Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like youâve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.
Oscar kisses you the way heâs wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that itâs real.Â
The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when youâre this close. Not when your breath hitches against his. Not when every sharp edge inside him finally, blessedly, goes quiet. He thinks, with a rush of clarity heâll never admit out loud, that maybe he was always meant to end up right here. Bare feet on linoleum, parents asleep down the hall, and you, finally, leaning toward him instead of away.
Oscarâs never been one for clichĂŠs. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like heâs been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest clichĂŠ of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesnât care. Not even a little.
You laugh against his mouth, which is unfair, because the sound shivers right down his spine and makes him kiss you harder. Greedy. Thatâs the word. Heâs greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. Heâs everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. Itâs as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.
âCareful,â you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. âWe have to be quiet. My parentsââ
âAre asleep,â he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, heâs shameless. He knows it. He canât stop.
You huff out a giggle, muffled by his insistence, and press a palm to his chest like maybe you mean to hold him back, except you donât. You never do. âOscar,â you whisper, but itâs not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: heâs lost the plot entirely.
âDonât care,â he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And itâs true. He doesnât care if your dad wakes up, if your mom comes down the stairs, if the whole world finds him here in his socks and suit pants, kissing you like a man starved. The hallway could collapse around him and heâd still find your lips in the rubble.
Your laugh bubbles up again, giddy and breathless, and it tips something inside him dangerously close to joy. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw; heâs mapping a country heâs only ever seen on postcards. âYouâre ridiculous,â you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like youâd rather die than let him go.
Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.
Oscar doesnât so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. Heâs not watching where heâs going, too busy pressing into you. Which is why your back bumps squarely into the television console. The sharp clatter that follows is less romantic than heâd prefer.
You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. âWatch it, loverboy.â
âSorry, sorry,â he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.
But youâre ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. âI have to pick this up before my mom sees.â
On the floor: your motherâs purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now itâs gutted all over the carpet. Keys, receipts, lipstick, a crumpled tissue that has definitely seen better days. Oscar crouches beside you halfheartedly, though his eyes keep darting to your mouth. If youâd just stay still for two secondsâ
You freeze. Your hand is hovering over something. Not lipstick, not keys. A simple rectangle of thick cardstock. His card.
You pick it up slowly, confusion creasing your brow. âOscar,â you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, âwhy is your calling card in my momâs purse?â
For a split second, he thinks about lying. It would be easy. Say he left it there years ago, some business pretense, some polite exchange. But the words donât come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. Heâs never been able to lie to you.Â
He swallows. Youâve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. Heâs physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.
How cruel. Oscarâs had you for all of five minutes, and heâs already lost you.Â
Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasnât slept much. Landoâs couch is about as forgiving as a park bench, and Lando himself is an early riser who treats the morning like a competition. Oscar, meanwhile, feels like heâs been KOâd several rounds already.
He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadnât given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. Youâd all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadnât blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. Heâd wanted to say something, anything, before the door shut behind him. Instead, he got a midnight exile and a guilt hangover to carry onto public transport.
Oscar leans back against the rattling train wall, the city sliding past the windows in quick blurs of gray and neon. He tries to tell himself this is temporary. That once youâve cooled off, once youâre back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last nightâs orbit, youâll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if heâs lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something heâs ready to look in the eye.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Lando, probably, asking if he left his charger. He ignores it, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. Heâs tired, sure, but more than that, heâs emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, thereâs the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when youâre standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parentsâ house, maybeâjust maybeâyouâll let him explain. And maybeâjust maybeâyouâll still want to kiss him after.
Except Oscar doesnât hear from you. Not a knock, not a muffled laugh through the thin wall, not even the telltale click of your front door shutting in the evening. Nothing. The silence has weight, and it presses on him harder than any courtroom opponent ever has. He tries to tell himself youâre just busy. People are busy, people have lives.
He checks his phone again and sees the three unread messages he sent, floating there like desperate balloons. He thumbs out another one, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes that too. Thereâs a limit to how pathetic heâs willing to look in writing, even for you. The thought of using his spare key crosses his mind more than once, and every time he pictures itâhim fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doublingâhe swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. Thatâs a line even he knows not to cross.
Heâs going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldnât notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. âYouâre distracted,â he says, crisp as a verdict.
âIâm fine,â Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for Iâm not fine, but Iâll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.
Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscarâs desk with all the grace of a Labrador. âMate, you look like youâve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.â
âIâm not haunted,â Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. âIâm working.â
âSure,â Mick says, leaning back. âBy which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.â
Oscar doesnât rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isnât the loudest thing in his life right now. Later, he returns from work with a headache blooming behind his eyes and a shirt clinging to his back. An unholy combination of stress and the cityâs humidity. All he wants is a shower, a nap, maybe something fried and terrible for dinner. Instead, he sees the moving truck parked out front of the building.
He freezes at the bottom of the stoop, pulse doing something it really shouldnât. The side of the truck is stamped with a cheerful slogan about new beginnings. He hates it instantly.
Monica, his landlord, stands near the door, clipboard in hand. âEvening, Oscar,â she says like itâs any other day, like the universe isnât rearranging itself in front of him. âHot one today.â
He forces his jaw to work. âYeah. Hot.â His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. Heâs stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. âWhatâs going on?â
âOh, didnât she tell you?â Monicaâs tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isnât funny at all. âShe decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.â
Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadnât been enough, now youâve escalated to disappearing acts. Heâs not sure if itâs impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. âRight. Sure. New beginnings.â He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged.Â
Monica just smiles, unaware sheâs chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as sheâs distracted, he bolts upstairs, phone in hand. He dials again. And again. Straight to voicemail. Your voice, prerecorded and maddeningly calm, greets him like it hasnât already greeted him twenty times this week. He paces the hallway, the movers clattering past, his chest tight enough to crack ribs.
By the fifth attempt, his thumb hovers over the call button, and he thinks, so this is what going crazy feels like. Not the big cinematic breakdowns, but the humiliating repetitions. The endless, one-sided conversations with a voicemail box that never talks back.
Oscar decides heâs had enough of chasing ghosts. Enough of the unanswered calls, the locked door, the movers packing your life into cardboard while he stands useless in the hallway. Enough. He isnât a man prone to grand gesturesâhe hates the very idea of themâbut tonight, itâs either that or let the silence swallow him whole.Â
He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parentsâ, who give him puzzled looks and say they havenât seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only heâs the suspect too. Itâs not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattieâs building in the East Village, heâs half-ready to abandon the whole thing. Itâs ridiculous. Itâs invasive. Itâsâ
Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.
Oscar narrows his eyes. âEvening.â
âUh,â she says, drawing herself up. âNowâs not⌠the best time.â
He tilts his head. âNot the best time, or not the best lie?â
Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment itâs almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscarâs not in a laughing mood. âHattie,â he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. âMove.â
âMaybe you should, I donât know, call firstââ
âIâve called. Repeatedly. Voicemail loves me. Move.â
She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, âYou owe me,â before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like youâve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.
Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. âWell! Groceries donât buy themselves. You twoâhave fun.â Sheâs gone before either of you can object, leaving behind a slam of the door and an air thick with unsaid things.
Oscar stands there, still at the threshold, heart doing its best impression of a bass drum. Heâs not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit heâs terrified. But at least now, finally, thereâs no more hiding.
He doesnât even get a chance to sit down before it begins. Youâre already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. Heâs been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. âYouâre fucking crazy,â Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. âWho just⌠impulsively moves out like that?â
Your scoff is immediate, vicious. âSays the man who canât tell the truth to save his life.â
Oscarâs stomach lurches. âThatâs notââ He stops, rubs a hand over his face. âOkay, fine, I shouldâve explained. But you didnât even give me the chance.â
âOh, please.â Your voice wavers, but your glare doesnât. âWhat exactly were you going to explain, Oscar? That my mother just happened to have your card in her bag for no reason? That it just fell in there, like magic?â
âYou donât understand,â he tries again, softer this time.
âNo, you donât!â The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and thatâs what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly youâre not furiousâyouâre devastated. âI trusted you, Oscar. And to find that cardâof all thingsâin their houseââ Your throat catches. âDo you have any idea what that felt like?â
He does. He knows, because itâs written all over your face now, wet and trembling. And Oscar has always been weak to this. He could win arguments, out-stubborn you until the end of time, but the second tears arrive? Game over.
âHey,â he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattieâs rug in his rush. âDonâtâdonât do that.â His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin thatâs already too damp. âDonât cry. Not because of me.â
You close your eyes against his touch, shoulders still shaking. He swallows hard. All his practiced sarcasm, all the barbs he hides behind, dissolve like sugar in water. Right now, all he can do is hold you steady and hope you let him.
You keep going, even through your tears. Oscar doesnât think heâs ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. Youâre snapping at him like itâs an Olympic event, and heâs barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snakeâheâll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.
Heâs cornered, and lying suddenly feels impossible. He waits for you to take a breath, for the betrayal to temper just enough, so he can get out, âIt wasnât for them.â
You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. âWhat?â
âIt wasnât for your parents,â Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. âIt was for your aunt Robin. Sheâs the one going through the divorce. Not them.â
The words hang in the room. For a second, he can almost see the gears turning in your head. Then it hits, and you fold, shoulders shaking as the fight drains out of you all at once.
âAunt Robin?â Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. âSheâsâno, she canâtââ
Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until theyâre not, until heâs just holding you as tightly as he knows how. âI know,â he murmurs into your hair. âI know. I didnât want to be the one to tell you. They didnât want me to tell you.â
You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesnât have names for. âWhy wouldnât they tell me? Sheâsâsheâs family. Sheâsââ
âThey thought youâd take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.â He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. âSee, they werenât wrong.â
You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. âNot funny.â
âAt least itâs not your parents. That has to count for something, right?â
You sag against him, still crying, but your fists unclench in his shirt. Relief slips through your sobs, uneven and fragile, and Oscar holds on, helpless but steady. He doesnât know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that heâd rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.
Oscar is not a natural caretaker. Heâs many thingsâcompetitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferableâbut nurturing isnât usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattieâs scatter of throw pillows, digging through cupboards like a raccoon in search of comfort items. Blankets? Snacks? Possibly both at once? Why not. He shoves a bag of pretzels and a blanket into your lap like heâs supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.
Youâre quiet now, no longer snapping, no longer crying quite as hard. Just curled on the couch, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. Still beautiful, because of course youâd manage that. Oscar spreads the blanket over you with the finesse of someone trying to fold a fitted sheet. Badly, unevenly, one corner hanging off. Still, it earns him the tiniest sound from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.
âDonât say anything,â he warns, settling beside you.
âI wasnât going to,â you murmur, which is a lie. The smile tugging at your mouth gives you away.
He sighs, lets himself lean back, and then he tentatively slides an arm around you. For one terrifying second, he expects you to shove him off. Instead, you sink into his side with a long, shaky exhale. Relief shoots through him so fast itâs dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.
âI may have overreacted,â you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.
âOh, you definitely did,â Oscar replies before his brain can catch up with his mouth.
Your head tips up, glare sharp even through swollen eyes. He deserves it. He really does. Still, the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile he doesnât bother fighting. Absentmindedly, almost without thought, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You freeze for half a beat, then relax, settling more firmly against him. Oscar doesnât move, doesnât risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattieâs TV screen like it might explain how he got here.
âWeâll figure it out,â he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back.Â
âPromise?â you say in a small voice.Â
Oscar doesnât make promises. Regardless, he says, âPromise.âÂ
âAlready? You rented it already?â
Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if sheâs grading papers. You and Oscar are seated across from her, twinning in the way your jaws are unhinged. You were her tenant for three years; did loyalty count for nothing in this damn city? âThe waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who donât read their lease agreements,â says Monica. âThe minute she canceled, it was gone.â
Youâre frozen, eyes wide and breath hitching, and Oscar can see it. The start of a full-blown panic winding its way up your spine. He recognizes the signs; heâs catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, âYou should just move in with me.â
Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.
You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. âWhat?â
âYouâuhââ He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice thatâs led him here. âYou should move in. With me. Temporarily.â
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. âThatâs⌠we canât do that.â
âIs it?â he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. âYou need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, soâperfect opportunity to do it daily.â
Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now itâs just the two of you, stranded in the echo of his impulsive offer. You stare at him, clearly weighing whether to strangle him on the spot or admit he has a point. Oscar holds his breath, heart thudding so hard it feels like itâs trying to make a break for it.
Finally, you manage, âItâs not a bad idea.â
âIt isnât,â he says, relief slipping in, âitâs just until you work things out.â
See, Oscar has always been good at compartmentalizing. Work here, groceries there, feelings in one box, whatever-this-is with you shoved into another. But apparently boxes donât mean much when youâre dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.
You barely look around because this isnât new to you. Your shoes already know where to live in his hallway, your hoodie has been camped out on the back of his chair for months, and the couch still carries the faint indentation from all the times youâve claimed it as yours. In a way, youâve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now itâs just⌠official.
Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. âIâll take that,â he says.
âYou donât have to,â you protest, but let him anyway, because some things are inevitable: death, taxes, and Oscar carrying your things.
By the time evening swallows the apartment, youâre cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesnât squeak every time he breathes too deeply. He also pretends not to notice the way your snores drift out from the bedroom and makes the place feel smaller and bigger all at once.
The adjustments sneak up on him in tiny, ridiculous ways. The extra toothbrush next to hisâpink, leaning precariously close like itâs trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isnât looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still havenât talked about.
Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parentsâ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at youâwhen youâre rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingleâyou glance back, and for half a second, it feels like youâre remembering too. Then you blink, and itâs gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word âkissâ out loud.
He doesnât bring it up. You donât bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing thatâs not silence at all. He lies there on the too-short sofa bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that if this is what going crazy looks like, he can probably live with it. Day in, day out. Being good to you, being your best friend. He can take it. He can do normal. Heâs a grown man. Sort of.
Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isnât the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. Itâs the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.
Youâre wearing his favorite dress. The one that makes him stupid, though technically most dresses you wear qualify. Earrings catching the light, lips glossed. The whole nine yards. âWow,â he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. âBig night?â
You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. âYeah. Bumble date.â
Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. âBumble,â he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. âNice. Sounds efficient.â
You arch a brow at his reflection. âYouâre not allowed to make fun.â
âWouldnât dream of it.â He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when heâs two seconds from combusting. âSo whatâs this guyâs deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?â
You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. âDonât wait up.â
Thatâs when Oscar cracks. He doesnât mean to. Blocking the door isnât in the plan. Hell, he didnât even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom heâs pretended not to watch.
You look up at him, visibly surprised. âOscar?â
He swallows. His heartâs going way too fast for a conversation that hasnât technically started. âYouâre not⌠really gonna go, are you?â
A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.
âI mean,â he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, âyou donât even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.â
âWhy do you care?â
âBecauseââ He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once itâs out, nothingâs going back to normal. Maybe thatâs the point.Â
Oscar doesnât mean to start yelling. Technically not yelling, but the Oscar version of yelling, which is a slightly louder monotone with too much hand motion. It bursts out anyway, like pressure behind a dam finally giving way.
âYouâre kidding me, right?â he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. âYouâre dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? Afterâafter what happened?â
Your brow furrows. âWhat happened?â
âOh, come on.â His laugh is hollow, sharp. âWe kissed at your parentsâ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?â
You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. âThat wasââ
âThat was what?â He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. âA glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, youâre doing a great job pretending it never happened.â He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. âDo you know what itâs like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didnât nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parentsâ console?â
Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you donât have a comeback.
He pushes on, reckless now. âI walk in here every day, and itâsâyouâre here. Youâre brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead ofâof this,â he gestures wildly between you, âyouâre getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like Iâm the insane one!â
Instead of answering, you grab him by the shirt and kiss him. Hard.
Everything folds in on itself and then sparks, like someone hit the emergency power switch. He stumbles a step back but doesnât let go, doesnât even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then heâs kissing you back like itâs the only thing heâs ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what heâs made for.Â
The taste of your lip gloss, the stutter of your breath. It all hits at once, dizzying, disarming. He had a whole speech queued up, righteous fury and all. Gone now. Vaporized. Turns out thereâs no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.
Oscar doesnât even realize heâs moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then youâre on himâliterally on himâstraddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment heâd like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist.Â
You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. âI didnât have a date.â
Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. âWhat?â
âThere was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.â
He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laughâhalf disbelief, half affectionâescapes him. âYouâre actually insane.â
He doesnât give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, youâre flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravityâs a law he finally understands. Thereâs nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. Itâs all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.
You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. âOscar, what is this?â you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens.Â
What is this? What is this? Itâs holy ground. Itâs his undoing. Itâs him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. Itâs vindication for his high school self who pined over you; itâs a promise fulfilled. Itâs his past, his future, and everything in between.Â
âEverything,â is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me.Â
Itâs not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, itâs the only answer he has, and apparently itâs enough. You smile, deem it sufficient, and pull him back down to kiss you again.
Oscar should know better than to let you out of his sight for thirty seconds.Â
Thirty. Thatâs all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (âoat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless itâs exactly two fingers thickâ) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos youâve conjured.
There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clientsâmiddle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people heâs been carefully courting for weeksâare nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. Youâre charming when you want to be, and dangerous when you are.
Oscar narrows his eyes, closing the distance in quick strides. He catches the tail end of your sentence: â... and honestly, if you havenât tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.â
Perfect. Just perfect.
âAre you serious?â Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. âSorry, folks. She gets⌠enthusiastic.â
You blink innocently up at him. âWhat? I was just trying to help.â
âBy implying my clients need therapy?â His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.
âThey mentioned arguing a lot,â you counter, batting your lashes as if you havenât just torpedoed weeks of his work. âI thought Iâd save them some time.â
Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, whatâs the point of lecturing you? Youâll only twist it into something he canât refute. Still, he tries. âTheyâre here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, notââ He waves a vague hand. ââtheir communication issues.â
The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. âSheâs not wrong, though.â
Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. âPlease ignore her,â he manages, tone bordering on pleading.Â
You grin, triumphant. âSee? They like me.â
âEverybody does,â he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperationâbecause he canât help it, he never canâbut still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. âIf you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, Iâm swapping your oat milk with regular.â
Your scandalized gasp almost makes him laugh. Almost. Oscar shoos you back with a look that could double as a cease-and-desist order. One hand makes a subtle little off you go motion while the other slides into his pocket like he has infinite patience. He doesnât, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.
âApologies,â he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that heâs ready to throttle you. âThat was my girlfriend.âÂ
And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? Heâs practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as heâs concerned.
The clients exchange a look, then laugh. âThatâs funny,â the wife says. âA divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.â
Oscar smiles thinly. Heâs heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, âWe make it work.â Short, clipped, but itâs the truth. Somehow, you and him fit.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you leaning against the counter, watching him. His glare finds you instantly, sharp as a spotlight. You, of course, donât wilt under it. No, you grin, cock your head, and send him a dramatic flying kiss.
Oscar sighs internally, but his hand twitches up before he can stop it.Â
He catches the damn thing midair and begrudgingly presses it to his chest. â
oh my god yes
















